They were interrupted by a towering bald man in medical scrubs. Rogan squinted at Ellie, a sign that he recognized the new arrival’s cue ball but had forgotten his name.
“Ginger,” she called out with a smile. Cue ball had called her “Blondie” during a tense moment when they’d first met. Instead of making an obvious bald comment in response, she’d called him Ginger. Since then, he always returned her calls in record time.
“It’s Blondie and her stoic partner.”
Apparently Rogan wasn’t the only one in the room who struggled with names. “Bob King, you probably remember J. J. Rogan.”
“I’m told there’s a tearstained note,” King said.
“Our guys or the Emergency Medical Technicians?” she asked.
“Your guys. Two of them cowering on the front porch like bitch babies. I take it they’re a-scared of the mama grizzly out in the living room. Or the parlor. Whatever you call that big useless room down there.”
So much for telling Katherine Whitmire to wait outside.
“Yeah, there’s a note,” she verified. “Body’s in the tub.”
She noticed that he stooped slightly beneath the doorway as he crossed the bathroom threshold, a habit of the tall, she supposed.
While he was inspecting the body, Ellie rifled through the bright-orange Hermès handbag on the kitchen counter until she found an unlabeled vial of pills. She unscrewed the cap and held an orange-and-white capsule up to the light. “Bingo.”
When King stepped from the bathroom, she threw the capsule in his direction. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but Adderall’s prescribed for depression?”
“Nah, more for ADHD—attention deficit hyperactivity disorder—but, yeah, it’s a stimulant. Your extra-special law-enforcing eyes seeing anything that my awesome medical training is missing?”
They shook their heads.
“Haven’t seen slit wrists in a while,” he noted.
Despite the well-worn paradigm, Ellie knew that a cut wrist was a surprisingly ineffective method of death. The vessels in a wrist just aren’t that big. And bodies fight to survive. The vessels usually close before death occurs. That’s why cut wrists are often followed by cut chests or necks. But, in this case, Julia had the bathwater to help keep the blood flowing. The empty bottle of Barolo on the marble floor indicated some alcohol-related assistance as well.
Ginger placed his hands on his hips. “Well, I don’t know about you two, but I get paid the same whether I’m here or back at Twenty-sixth Street. If this were a subsidized studio at the Patterson Projects, I’d be heading back to the office. But for Mama Grizzly out there? I plan on doing everything I’d do if you told me this was fishy. Better the taxpayers’ dollars than my ass.”
“Then it’s unanimous,” Rogan declared. “Let’s do it.”
“Yoo-hoo.” Ellie waved a hand. “Not unanimous yet.”
“What’s the big deal? We’ll get CSU to work the place up. Talk to a few of the girl’s friends. Canvass the neighborhood. Make sure we’re not missing anything.”
“Or we could get the hell out of here and eat lunch.”
“Again: Sensitivity and what not?”
“I don’t know. A hamburger sounds pretty good right now. Or does your girlfriend still have you watching your cholesterol, old man?”
Rogan shook his head. “I never should have mentioned that shit to you. Like riding with my moms. A whiter, blonder, more freakily intuitive version of my mother. It’s not like you to walk away from something so quickly, Hatcher.”
“I walk away when I know my time’s being wasted. You two stay up here if you want, but I’ve got a court appearance to make. I’m going to talk with the mother, then I’m out of here.”
Ellie found Katherine Whitmire perched on an upholstered banquette at the bottom of the stairs, a cordless phone to one ear. The officer who was supposed to have accompanied her outside stood by. “I’ve been with her the whole time,” he offered as a consolation.
Ellie was beginning to wish she possessed whatever power this woman seemed to exert over others.
Katherine used her free hand to wipe away smears of black mascara when she noticed Ellie approaching.
“I have to go, Bill,” she said into her phone. “One of the detectives just finished up in the bedroom. She might have some news. But you’re heading back into the city, right? Immediately?” She muttered a soft thank-you before clicking off the line.
“My husband,” she explained. “He’s getting a helicopter back from East Hampton. He was talking about a meeting out there. I think he’s in a bit of shock.”
“It’s not unusual.”
“Right. I guess you’re used to dealing with these sorts of things, aren’t you?”
“You never get used to it. Tell me about your daughter.”
“She would never do something like this to herself.”
Everyone thought they could spot suicidal tendencies. Ellie knew better. Some people advertised their misery with unshowered days spent self-medicated in bed, but just as many kept up appearances as workers, students, neighbors—fathers. It had taken Ellie nearly twenty years, but she’d come to the truth the hard way.
“So tell me about her.”
“I don’t understand, Detective. What is it that you want to know?”
She wanted to know how this woman saw her daughter. Mostly she wanted this woman to feel like she had been given the opportunity to speak before Ellie left her to deal with the long and messy aftermath of a suicide. “I know you overheard a couple of the police officers talking to the Emergency Medical Technicians. Obviously you believe they jumped to the wrong conclusions. So tell me what you want us to know about Julia, so we can have the whole picture.”
Ellie followed the woman to the living room, where she removed a framed photograph from the mantel. “This was two Christmases ago.” Katherine Whitmire had not changed since the family portrait, but her daughter looked much younger with no makeup, plump cheeks, and pink lips struggling to cover her metal braces through a smile.
“Is that your son?” Ellie pointed to the preppy-looking boy seated next to Julia.
“Billy. Bill Jr., yes. He’s a freshman at Colby now. And that’s my husband, Bill. I haven’t called Billy yet. I—I don’t know how to. He doesn’t handle change well. He’s very regimented, very planned—like his father. Not like Julia at all.” She smiled sadly. “Julia’s more like me. Or was. Independent. Free-spirited. Stubborn as all hell, but so tolerant and accepting and loving of every person she ever met. She had the kind of heart that wanted to save us all.”
“Did you need saving?”
Her wistful expression was replaced by an intense stare. “I didn’t mean myself personally, Detective. I meant—you know—society, the world. She wanted to save the world. I warned her. I told her that some people just couldn’t be saved. They might have been decent people under other circumstances, but that kind of poverty, living on the streets—it makes people desperate. It makes them dangerous. That’s what happened here. One of those—animals—killed