J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

Juliet was huddled at the head of the bed, looking tense and small in a tank top and cutoffs. Her feet were bare, legs drawn up, her arms wrapped around her knees. She was keeping herself out of the way, letting the drama play out as it would. The only illumination in the room was a table lamp, something imported from Juliet’s childhood bedroom at home. The shade was ruffled and hot pink. At the base there was a doll with a stiff pink skirt, her body wired to the fixture, her arms extended. She had a rosebud for a mouth, and her lashes formed a thick fringe above eyes that would open and shut mechanically. The light bulb couldn’t have been more than forty watts, but the room seemed warm with its ambient glow.

Juliet’s features were etched in sharp contrasts, one cheek hot pink, the other cast in shadow. Wendell’s face looked craggy and wooden in the light, his high cheekbones carved. He seemed haggard, and the sides of his nose were shiny from cosmetic surgery. Michael, on the other hand, had the face of a stone angel, cold and sensual. His dark eyes seemed luminous, his tall, lanky frame easily the equal to his father’s, though Wendell was heavier and he lacked Michael’s grace. The three of them were caught in a curious tableau, the kind of picture a psychiatrist might ask you to explain to gain insight into your mind-set.

“Hello, Wendell. Sorry to interrupt. Remember me?”

Wendell’s gaze shifted to Michael’s face. He cocked his head in my direction. “Who’s this?”

Michael stared at the floor. “Private investigator,” he said. “She talked to Mom about you a couple nights ago.”

I gave Wendell a little wave. “She works for the insurance company you cheated out of a half a million bucks,” I inserted.

“I did?”

“Yes, Wendell,” I said facetiously. “As odd as it sounds, that’s what life insurance is about. Being dead. So far, you’re not holding up your end of the bargain.”

He was looking at me with a mixture of caution and confusion. “Don’t I know you?”

“We crossed paths at the hotel in Viento Negro.”

His eyes locked on mine in a moment of recognition. “Were you the one who broke into our room?”

I shook my head, inventing lies on the spot. “Uhnuhn, not me. That was an ex-cop named Harris Brown.”

He shook his head at the name.

“He’s a police lieutenant, or he was,” I went on.

“Never heard of him.”

“Well, he’s heard of you. He was assigned to the case when you first disappeared. Then he was taken off for reasons unknown. I thought you might explain.”

“Are you sure he was looking for me?”

“I don’t think his being there was a coincidence,” I said. “He stayed in three fourteen. I was in three sixteen.”

“Hey, Dad? Could we finish this?”

Brendan began to fuss, and Wendell patted at him without much effect. He picked up a small stuffed puppy dog and waggled it in Brendan’s face while he continued his conversation. Brendan grabbed the animal by the ears and pulled it in close. He must have been teething because he gnawed on its rubber face with all the raw enthusiasm I reserve for fried chicken. Somehow his antics became an odd counterpoint to Wendell’s conversation with Michael.

He apparently picked up from a point he’d been making prior to my arrival. “I had to get out, Michael. It had nothing to do with you. It was my life. It was me. I’d just screwed up so bad there wasn’t any other way to handle it. I hope you’ll understand someday. There’s no such thing as justice in the current legal system.”

“Oh, come on. Spare me the speech. What is this, a political science class? Just cut the shit and don’t talk to me about fucking justice, okay? You didn’t hang around long enough to find out.”

“Please. Michael. Let’s stop this. I don’t want to fight. There isn’t time for that. I don’t expect you to agree with my decision.”

“It isn’t just me, Dad. What about Brian? He’s the one suffered all the damage.”

“I’m aware he’s off course, and I’m doing what I can,” Wendell said.

“Brian needed you when he was twelve. It’s too late now.”

“I don’t think so. Not at all. You’re wrong about that, trust me.”

Michael seemed to wince, and his eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Trust you? Dad, you are so full of shit! Why should I trust you? I’m never going to trust you.”

Wendell seemed disconcerted at the harshness of Michael’s tone. He didn’t like being contradicted. He wasn’t accustomed to having his judgment questioned, especially by a kid who was seventeen when he left. Michael had become an adult in his absence, had in fact stepped in to fill the very gap that Wendell had left. Maybe he pictured himself coming back to mend the breach, cleaning up old business, setting everything to rights. Maybe he’d thought an impassioned explanation might somehow compensate for his abandonment and neglect. “I guess there’s no way we can agree,” he said.