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  “Who are you, Mr. Tanner?” she asked after a moment.

  “I’m a detective.”

  “A policeman, you mean?”

  “A private detective. I’m investigating your husband’s death.”

  “Why?”

  I opted to remain obscure. “I have a client who’s hired me to look into it.”

  She thought it over. “One of the lawyers, I imagine. They’re the only ones who would think of such a thing as a private detective.”

  I shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t reveal the name of my principal, Mrs. Wints.”

  “Call me Catherine.”

  “Only if you call me Marsh.”

  She nodded to confirm the deal, then pushed with her foot to keep us going. “This is nice,” she said after a while.

  “Yes, it is. This is a lovely home. I always wanted one just like it.”

  “What kept you from it?”

  I laughed. “Money, mostly.”

  “We paid seventy thousand for this back in 1974. My first husband and I, that is.”

  “It must be worth ten times that now.”

  “Much more, I’m told. Several realtors called once the obituary appeared.”

  “They tend to do that.”

  “Human behavior is so frequently disappointing, don’t you find?” she said. I didn’t know if she was talking about the realtors, or me, or her dead husband, or Charley, or herself. Maybe all of us. “It’s quite like a cave back here, isn’t it?” she went on. “I used to explore caves when I was a child in Kentucky. When something like this happens, that’s what I think of doing—finding a cave to hide in. Away from the peekers and poachers and gossips. Away from the ones who claim to love you but enjoy your humiliation nonetheless and hope to turn it to profit.” Her eyes traveled briefly to the house.

  “Are you talking about your stepdaughter’s lawsuit, Mrs. Wints?”

  “Among other phenomena.”

  “The lawsuit isn’t really my concern. We don’t have to talk about it if you’d rather not.”

  “Talking about it isn’t the problem. Thinking about it is the problem.”

  “I assume you believe Leonard was innocent of the charges.”

  She hesitated. “Not necessarily.”

  I recrossed my legs and angled my torso so I could look at her. “Are you saying he did it, Mrs. Wints?”

  She stared at the street as though bad wrecks and terrible riots had occurred out there. “I don’t know if he did or didn’t. How could I? It’s not the kind of thing that takes place at the dinner table, after all.”

  “You could know if he told you about it.”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t. He denied it, in fact.”

  “Or if he’d done something similar to others.”

  “I know of no such behavior.”

  “Then what makes you equivocal?”

  She shoved the glider several times before she answered. “Leonard wasn’t a believable man. He lied about many things over the years; big things and little things. He wasn’t a bad man but he was a man who was very afraid of being criticized. Of being considered ignorant. Of being found to be wrong. Almost invariably, he said what he thought people wanted to hear, rather than what he truly believed. It made him look ridiculous, at times, trying to bluff his way out of sticky situations, and even those that weren’t so sticky.” She looked at me defiantly. “Men are so very vain, don’t you think?”

  “Some men,” I amended. “The lawsuit must have been devastating for both of you.”

  “More me than him, somehow. Leonard seemed to be energized by it, actually. His anger made him more dynamic than he’d been since before he sold the business. His friends rallied around him, too, whereas most women saw me as this pathetic little creature who was too stupid to know that she’d married a pervert.”

  A car rumbled by, its driver glancing briefly at the porch, then quickly looking away. Catherine Wints laughed, lowly and cynically, as though she knew a secret about him.

  “What do you think of Jillian?” I asked after a moment.

  “Have you met her?”

  “No.”

  “I think she’s stark raving mad.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what she did. Even if Leonard did what she claimed he did, why would she make it public? What possible good will it do for her to parade this filth through the courts? Doesn’t she know she’ll never be the same again? Doesn’t she know they’ll never let her live it down?”

  I tended to agree with her and told her so. “I’m looking for the connection between Charley Sleet, the man who shot him, and your husband, or your stepdaughter, or you, or anyone else involved in the case. Can you provide one?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Think about it, please. Mr. Sleet is a policeman. He lives on Upper Market. His wife’s name was Flora. He’s active in community action programs, particularly down in the Tenderloin. Does any of that ring a bell?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  It was the answer that I’d expected her to give. What I didn’t expect was the hesitation that came before she delivered it.

  “I’m an experienced investigator,” I said after we’d rocked a moment more.

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “I’ve developed a pretty good instinct for when someone is lying to me.”

  “I imagine you have.”

  “My instinct just poked me in the ribs.”

  Her tone became blasé. “Did it?”

  “So now I’m wondering what you and Charley Sleet had in common.”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Did your husband ever tell you that Jillian was adopted?”

  The glider screeched to a halt. “Adopted? No. She wasn’t, was she?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But I think it’s possible.”

  She thought it over. “If she was, it might explain some things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Her behavior, for one. She was very unlike Leonard.”

  “How so?”

  “Jillian was so very extreme. Leonard was so very … normal.”

  “Except for the lies.”

  “I think lies by men are quite normal, don’t you, Mr. Tanner?”

  “I don’t think men have a monopoly on them.”

  “I suppose not. But men’s lies do far more damage.”

  We rocked a while longer. “I’m going to have to talk to Jillian,” I said after a minute.

  “That’s of no interest to me one way or another. But I’d be surprised if she proves to be helpful.”

  “Why?”

  “She seems to be impaled on fantasy. She’s been mesmerized by this Derwinski person. Nothing she says is remotely trustworthy.”

  “Ms. Derwinski is the therapist.”

  She nodded. “Although she seems to deal more in torment than therapy.”

  “I’ll be talking to her as well, of course, but I’m sure she won’t help me get to Jillian.”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  “I haven’t been able to find her. I’ve tried her apartment and her job but there’s no trace. Plus, her phone’s been disconnected.”

  She crossed her arms. “I don’t know if I should say anything.”

  “I just want to talk to her. Not about sexual abuse—it’s going to take a skilled counselor to get to the bottom of that. Just about why Charley Sleet would want to kill her father. I promise that’s all I’ll go into. Give me some background, some leverage, something.”

  Catherine Wints kept rocking.

  “If you don’t talk to me, I’m going to start digging into the whole Wints story,” I said heavily.

  “You’re already digging, aren’t you?”

  “I haven’t dug around you. Until now.”

  She didn’t say anything but she was worried.

  “If you think you’ve been under a microscope before, let me assure you you haven’t seen anything yet
. You could end up a witness in a murder trial.”

  She closed her eyes. “It would be unfortunate if that came to pass.”

  “So what do you have to tell me?”

  She stopped the glider with her foot. “Nothing, I’m afraid. I have secrets, matters I pray will remain private, but they have nothing to do with this.”

  “A week from now you’ll wish you’d talked to me.”

  She stood up and strolled toward the door, toward whoever was waiting for her in the house, leaving me swinging on the glider.

  “I’ve wished for many things in my life, Mr. Tanner,” she said softly when she’d grasped the knob with her elegant hand. “Very few of my wishes have been granted and the ones that have tended to create disillusion.” She gestured at her surroundings. “It might not seem like it, but I’ve endured a great deal of suffering over the years. I am looking desperately for signs that it’s come to an end.”

  She opened the door and looked back a final time. “Jillian used to spend hours sitting on the Marina Green, watching the boats go by. I imagine she still does.”

  “Do you have a photo of her I could borrow?”

  “I do but I won’t be able to give it to you. Once I go back in that house, I will not be allowed to return. My family is easily scandalized.”

  I discovered I was sad that she was leaving me and taking her secrets with her. I wondered what they were. I wondered if it was smart or foolish of me to take her word that they didn’t have anything to do with Charley.

  CHAPTER

  12

  I HAD NO IDEA WHAT SOMEONE IN JILLIAN WINTS’S POSITION would do in her circumstances—mourn and withdraw or party till the cows came home because her tormentor had been dispatched to his doom. I must have been hoping for the latter reaction, though, because a half hour after Catherine Wints went back to her house and her family, I was loitering on the fringe of the Marina Green, keeping an eye on the benches and walkways and playing fields on the chance that Jillian would show up for another tonic from a look at the bay and the boats.

  An hour later, I was beginning to think I’d have to look elsewhere, except I’d already tried the only elsewheres I knew of. I looked at the boats myself for a while, remembering the last time I’d been on one, courtesy of my friend Russell Jorgensen, thinking with pleasure about the child who had been a by-product of my involvement in that case and was now the shiniest badge on my life.

  When Jillian finally showed, what I recognized was less her physiology than her psychology—Andy Potter had said Jillian Wints was the unhappiest person he’d ever seen, and the woman trudging across the grass of the Green in my direction fit that description to an unfortunate T.

  Her gray leotard was overlaid with men’s boxer shorts and a plaid flannel vest that didn’t disguise the fact that she was rope-thin, with stumps and bumps of bone protruding to a disturbing degree from chest, shoulders, elbows, and knees—Jillian made her mother look portly. Her eyes were countersunk into her skull, so far removed as to seem diseased. Her skin was pocked and bruised and decorated with an unattractive combination of makeup and tattoos. Her hair was tangled and bristly and forbidding. The shorts and vest were formless and outsized, glen plaid clouds within which she hoped she could hide from the world. A tattoo of a black rose climbed the side of her arm, complete with stem and thorns, and one of a narrow chain circled her neck like a noose. As I moved to intercept her, I could see the line of black drops that fell off the rosebud. I wasn’t sure if they were blood or tears or dewdrops. I don’t suppose it mattered.

  Her gaze was down, her focal point barely in front of her feet. As she heard me approach, she raised a furtive glance and seemed to flinch, as though she expected me to strike her or be critical of her conduct in some way. When she saw I wasn’t menacing, she edged by as if I were a maharajah and she were an untouchable, scraping against an adjacent light post to put maximum distance between us.

  I waited for her to pass, then turned and watched her go. The sag in her shoulders and the slump in her posture suggested she hadn’t slept for days. The scuff of her heels through the grass was indicative of self-loathing and despair. Andy Potter was right; Jillian Wints was a mess.

  “Miss Wints?” I called out.

  I might as well have taken a shot at her—she spasmed so badly she almost fell down. When she recovered her balance, she kept moving at a faster pace.

  I followed her at a distance. “Jillian? May I talk to you a minute? About what happened in court on Tuesday?”

  She didn’t stop and didn’t look back but she did shake her head in refusal.

  “Please. It won’t take long. I just need some information.”

  Her arms pumped for more speed. Her gait became awkward and ludicrous, a gangly new giraffe scampering across the veld in Doc Martens and baggy black tights.

  Her destination seemed to be a portable plastic rest room plopped on the northeast edge of the Green. I hurried to catch her before she reached it. I didn’t doubt that once inside, she would stay there till I left the area, even if it took a month.

  This time I opted for truth. “The man who shot your father was my best friend. I need to know why he did it. I need to know why he gave you that gift.”

  That stopped her flight so fast she staggered from the shift in momentum. She was paralyzed with uncertainty for a moment, hands fiddling with her shorts, eyes glancing up and down the greenbelt at the joggers and skaters and bikers who were ignoring imperfects like us.

  “You call that a gift? Sabotage is more like it.” Her voice was raw and disparaging, as though we’d been arguing for hours. Her eyes had turned wild and peremptory, her body was tensed against an anticipated assault.

  Jolted by her own outburst, she backed against a car fender to reassemble her mood. Her confusion gave me time to join her.

  I stuck out my hand when I reached her. “My name is Tanner. Can I buy you some coffee? Or lunch? I’d like to talk for a few minutes.”

  She blinked and panted and looked everywhere but at me. “I can’t. I have to be somewhere.”

  “Are you still at the bookstore?”

  She inhaled as though I’d broached a deep secret. “Who have you been talking to about me? No one’s supposed to talk about me.” She was about to run but I made sure she knew that I would do what it took to stop her.

  I smiled as warmly as I can manage; it’s not my best trick. “I’ve been talking to anyone who would listen.”

  “Are you police? Are you going to arrest me for something?”

  “Do you deserve to be arrested for something?”

  She shook her head. “But that’s what they do. They do everything in their power to silence us.”

  “Silence who?”

  She dropped her arms and thrust her jaw, which was pointed enough to draw blood. “The survivors.”

  “Survivors of what?”

  “Of childhood sexual abuse.” Her chest swelled; her fist clenched. She seemed proud of her precision.

  When I didn’t dispute her, she decided to elaborate. The words were as rehearsed as the Pledge of Allegiance. “No one dares hear the truth; no one wants to see our anger dance. White male America cannot stand for its crimes against children to become known. Each truth teller is in jeopardy.”

  “From whom?”

  “From assassins like you and that policeman.”

  She started to walk away, then stopped. “Anyway, my lawyer said I didn’t have to talk to anyone if I didn’t want to.”

  “Why wouldn’t you want to talk about the man who went to jail for you? The man who removed the biggest obstacle in your life.”

  She was nonplussed by my rhetoric, but only momentarily. “You can’t fool me. He is as much my enemy as you are.”

  Her hostility was puzzling. “But he must have believed what you said about your father. Why else would he have killed him?”

  She shook her head with impatience. “To keep the case from proceeding, of course. Don’t you see? Now I am
silenced. My enemy is destroyed, so no one will hear my story. The forces of perversion have won once more. The woman cowers alone with her torment.”

  I felt like I was talking to an oracle, one with a single song. I examined her face more closely, looking for Charley or Flora or a combination of the two of them in there, but emaciation had reduced her features to the nub. It was like trying to find a family resemblance in a skeleton.

  “Who was the policeman working for if he wasn’t helping you?” I asked when my inspection was unavailing.

  “The CMI, of course.”

  “The what?”

  “The Corrected Memory Institute.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The deniers, the excusers, the aiders and abetters.”

  “How do they go about the aiding and abetting?”

  “They call us liars or fantasists; they call our guides manipulators and exploiters; they call our pasts hysterical and unreal. They will not rest till we are silenced; they will not be satisfied unless our pain goes unrelieved and our life remains unbearable.”

  “And you think Mr. Sleet was working for them.”

  “Of course he was. My guide says that he was probably one of my ritual abusers himself.”

  “Charley?”

  “If that is the man in the courtroom.”

  Her easy accusation made me furious. “If he wanted silence, why didn’t he shoot you?”

  I expected her to be frightened or insulted but instead she seemed delighted. “That would be too obvious. Don’t you see the scheme? They pretend to love us. They pretend they want to help us; they pretend they seek the truth. They can’t attack directly or their charade will be exposed, so to achieve their goals they block all means to relief. Mindy said it was happening already, that the deck was stacked against us.”

  “By relief you mean money? From the lawsuit?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “It’s not about money; it’s never about money. But in this society money is the only way you can make yourself heard. The only way the system will let you use its power to heal and not destroy is if you want money from someone. Then they will listen. Then they will provide a forum.”