figure hunched over a desk piled high with papers, folders, and mug books. Broad shouldered, mid-thirties, he looked like the kind of man who could quell a barroom brawl without spilling a drop of his own beer.
He lifted his head and smiled. “Mrs. Henderson?” He stood, extending a large callused hand. “Detective Jake Madison.” Despite his linebacker appearance, his baritone was warm and soothing. “I really appreciate you coming.”
“I didn’t really have a choice.” Pat sat down, unwrapping her purse strap from her arm. “I’m the only relative Helen has left.” That wasn’t exactly true, but she had no desire to dredge up family secrets as a conversation starter.
“Coffee?” he asked, moving toward a small break room. “Something to eat? We have doughnuts. Cliché, I know.”
“Just coffee, thanks. Can you tell me what’s going on? Is Helen under arrest? Do I need to hire an attorney?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. Cream? Sugar?”
“Both, thank you.”
He returned with two Styrofoam cups, placing one on her side of the desk before sinking back into his chair. “How was your trip?”
Pat shrugged, realizing Detective Madison wasn’t the type to be hurried. “We were on the road by midnight and drove straight in. I went by Helen’s to pick up some clothes before coming here.”
Madison edged forward in his chair, a spark of interest. “So you’ve been to the house?”
Pat rolled her eyes. “We had to run a gauntlet of neighbors and reporters. What exactly happened?”
“A real nasty murder. Helen’s neighbor was dismembered. Pieces everywhere.”
“How awful! Who was it?”
“Bebe Small, a part-time prostitute and phone-sex chat girl. So far, Helen’s the only witness. She was only thirty feet from the scene, and we found a body part only a few feet from where she was sitting. We’ve been trying to get a statement, but—” He shook his head, an expression of frustration.
“I’m sorry. Helen wasn’t always like that.” As soon as the words came out, she wanted to kick herself. Only two hours back and she was already playing apologist for her sister’s crazy behavior. “She was valedictorian of her high school class and graduated summa cum laude from Berkeley. She’s always been quirky, but didn’t get this bad until Bobby died.” Damn, why did she sound so defensive?
“Let’s talk about him.” Madison pulled a notepad from his pocket. “She seems to be very attached to”—he hesitated, as if searching for the right words—“his memory.” He rifled the pages of the pad. “Takes him everywhere apparently.”
“She was never able to accept Bobby’s death. The first few months after he died, I thought we were going to lose her too. Then one day she just decided he wasn’t dead. She started talking to him, referring questions to him, even introducing him to people. It was as if she found him and lost part of herself.”
“So, they were together a long time?”
“They met in graduate school. When they started dating, I was sure it wouldn’t last. Helen was such a bookworm—Bobby the outdoors type. He constantly took her hiking in the mountains. They’d park their truck and wander around for weeks, camping and climbing.” She sipped her coffee, the memories cascading over her in a bittersweet rush. “They had dozens of hair-raising stories . . . narrow escapes from mountain lions and crazy survivalists. They seemed to get a high off each other, always excited and ready to embark on the next big adventure.”
Madison scribbled something on his pad. “How did he die?”
Pat took another sip of coffee, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat. “They were rock climbing in the Ruby Mountains when the ledge beneath Bobby’s feet gave way. By the time Helen got to him, he was barely alive. He had multiple fractures in both legs . . . broken ribs all along one side . . . internal bleeding—but no head injury. Unfortunately he was awake and aware through the whole ordeal.”
“Sounds gruesome.”
“You have no idea. It took Helen two days to haul him out of the canyon. He must have been in excruciating pain. The state patrol found her dragging him down the highway. No one could believe she managed to get him so far on her own. They rushed them both to the hospital, but Bobby died on the operating table.” She took a gulp of coffee, struggling to face the memory. “Helen was hospitalized for dehydration and exposure. Kept asking about Bobby . . . I just couldn’t tell her he was dead.”
Madison nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe I should try asking Bobby a few questions.”
“Are you kidding?”
“A psychiatrist who interviewed Helen says Bobby manifests whenever she feels insecure or out of her depth. Judging from their conversations, he seems to be a fairly congenial guy. I might be able to use him as a conduit into Helen’s mind.”
Clever, Pat thought. Bobby had always been a pipeline to her sister. No reason Madison shouldn’t put him to work. “You could certainly try. And if that doesn’t work . . . ?”
“We’re concerned for her safety,” he answered. “We’ll need to keep her in protective custody.”
Pat shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She held up a hand before he could launch a protest. “She might even like it, but unless she can go to the swap meet she’ll just retreat deeper into her mind. If you think she’s uncooperative now, let her sit in a corner rocking and singing for a few days. You’ll be lucky if she comes out for meals.”
Madison grimaced. “We can’t just kick her loose. Nobody noticed a car, so we’re thinking the killer was on foot. That he lives in the neighborhood.”
“I wouldn’t take her back to the house.” Just the thought made Pat’s skin crawl. “I’ve booked a suite at Caesars Palace.”
Madison leaned back in his chair, clicking his pen as he considered the idea. “That might work. If you don’t register her name and don’t let her wander off.”
“I won’t.” For too long she had been afraid that Helen would destroy her family, but she realized the time had come to deal with that fear. “I plan to stay a few weeks.” She hadn’t planned any such thing, but she could no longer turn a blind eye to her sister’s condition. “Or until it’s safe for Helen to go home.”
“Good.” The detective pulled a business card from his desk drawer. “Dr. Urbane, the psychiatrist who interviewed Helen yesterday, expressed concern about her ability to care for herself. You might want to give her a call.”
“Helen’s that bad?” Stupid question. No sane person would live in that rat hole of a house.
Madison nodded, his eyes sympathetic. “She seems fairly sharp at times, but”—he shook his head and let his voice trail off—“I’m sure she was really something in her day,” he said at last.
No, Pat thought, Helen is still something. Maybe not what she used to be, but still worthwhile and special. Still family. How could I have avoided the truth for so long? A letter every couple of months wasn’t caring, it was avoiding responsibility.
