Melancholy Baby

“Detective Kelly’s over there,” the uniform said.

I smiled and said thank you. I decided not to tell him that I had slept with Detective Kelly and would have recognized him anywhere. What the plainclothes group was looking at was the late George Markham. When I joined them, Brian put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze.

“Frank,” he said to one of the other cops. “Sunny Randall. Sunny, Frank Belson.”

Belson was very lean, midsized, and clean-shaven, though he showed what must have been an eternal five-o’clock shadow.

“Phil Randall’s kid,” he said.

I nodded. We shook hands.

“Liked your old man,” Belson said, and squatted on his heels next to the body.

“What have we got?” I said.

“So far, looks like he took one in the chest, and one in the middle of the forehead.”

“The one in the head to make sure?” I said.

“Reasonable guess,” Belson said. “There’s powder burns around the head wound. Haven’t dug out a slug yet but it looks like standard-issue. A nine, or a thirty-eight, maybe.”

Belson stood and began to walk through the crime.

“Vic’s walking along here,” Belson said. “Shooter appears about here, shoots him in the chest. Vic falls over backwards. Shooter walks over, puts the gun against his forehead, and makes sure.”

“Don’t sound like a robbery gone bad,” Brian said.

“No,” Belson said. “It don’t.”

He stood, looking at the crime scene, as if he were taking slow-exposure pictures.

“Sunny,” Belson said, “whyn’t you tell Brian what you know about the vic.”

“Sure,” I said.

“And when you see your old man,” Belson said, “give him my best.”

I said I would, and turned and followed Brian into the Castle, where they had set up temporarily for business.

40

Three days after the funeral, Brian went with me to see Mrs. Markham in her silent Andover living room. Sarah wasn’t there.

“Is your daughter home, Mrs. Markham?” Brian asked.

“No.”

“We’ll need to talk with her as well,” Brian said.

“I don’t know where she is.”

“Could she be at school?” I said.

“I don’t know.”

“Is she okay?” I said.

“I hope not,” Mrs. Markham said. “She killed her father and you helped her.”

“Tell me about that,” Brian said.

“If the two of them hadn’t harassed the poor man to death about who was whose parent, he’d be alive today.”

“His death was connected to Sarah’s parentage?” Brian said.

“You think it’s a coincidence?”

“Who might have killed him?” Brian said.

“I can’t imagine,” Mrs. Markham said. “He was a fine man.”

“And Sarah’s father?” Brian said.

“Of course.”

“So how is his death connected?” Brian asked.

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence. They’ll probably get me, too.”

“ ‘They’?” Brian said.

“Whoever killed my George.”

“Could you make a guess who that is?” Brian asked.

“How would I know. But if the little bitch hadn’t started asking all these questions, her father would be alive.”

“The little bitch being your daughter,” Brian said.

“And her friend here.”

Brian nodded. “Before his death,” Brian said, “Mr. Markham told people that he was going to get a DNA test to prove he was Sarah’s father.”

I was the people Markham told, as far as Brian knew. He was obviously trying to keep me out of it.

“That’s nonsense,” Mrs. Markham said.

“So he didn’t get DNA testing?”

“No, of course not.”

Brian nodded and wrote in his notebook.

“Why wouldn’t he,” Brian said, “or you?”

“If our word isn’t sufficient to our own daughter, then we will not further humiliate ourselves and submit to a dehumanizing pseudoscience test.”

Brian nodded and wrote.

“And you haven’t any other thoughts on who might have killed your husband.”

Mrs. Markham glared at me.

“I don’t know who pulled the trigger,” Mrs. Markham said. “But I know who killed him.”

“Do you have a family doctor?” Brian said.

“No. Neither George nor I have ever been sickly.”

“If you had to go to the hospital,” Brian said, “where would you go?”

“I don’t need a hospital,” Mrs. Markham said.

“Do you have medical insurance?” Brian said.

“Of course.”

“HMO?”

She nodded. “Merrimack Health,” she said.

Brian wrote for a little while. Then he put his notebook away and took out his card.

“Anything that you might think of,” he said, “or anything that happens that might tell us something, please, give me a call. Or, if you prefer, call the Andover police. They’ll know how to get me.”

Brian gave her his card. We stood.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said to Mrs. Markham.

She looked at me in poisonous silence for a moment. “I don’t wish to speak with you,” she said.

In the car, driving, Brian turned and smiled at me.

“Bitch,” he said.

“I see,” I said. “You believe her.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Brian said. “She knows you and the kid were responsible because you pushed the question of parentage. But she has no idea who killed him, nor how that connects with you and the kid. Did I miss anything?”

“Not unless I missed it, too,” I said. “Do you think she got to be fifty years old and has neither a family doctor nor a hospital to which she would go?”

“No.”

“You have the name of her HMO,” I said. “That was smart.”

“I do, and it was,” Brian said. “We can see if the Markhams submitted any claims for treatment.”