It was in his phone.The partner had said it before Morasco could stop him.
Dr. Bloom’s?
Yeah. He typed your number in, but never hit send.
Quentin spotted his rental car and made for it, trying not to think about how he’d never know what Dr. Bloom might have wanted to tell him, how that was the true source of this disquiet, this powerless feeling. And how, on many levels, it upset him more than the man’s death. “What kind of a person am I?” he said as he reached his car. He said it aloud and without thinking, as though he were recording one of his journal entries.
And the answer came from deep within.Your mother’s son. Your grandfather’s grandson. That’s what kind of a person you are.
He put his key to the lock, but it didn’t work. He turned it around, tried again, then took a look at it to make sure he wasn’t going insane from lack of sleep, mistaking his real car keys for his rental car ones.
“Excuse me,” said a voice behind him. An older, female voice, honeyed and soothing.
Quentin turned. He didn’t know her, though he had noticed her earlier. He’d seen her hugging Robin—a gray-haired woman with perfect posture and tanned, weathered skin, dressed all in black. She’d stood out because she’d seemed sadder than most of the other guests, and up close her sorrow was all the more evident, her drawn, lined face stained with tears, her laser-blue eyes wet and glowing. But her voice was calm. Most everyone has something surprising about them, and in this woman’s case, that was it: the sunshine-sweet sound of her, coming out of that rugged exterior. “That’s my car.”
“Oh...” Quentin stepped back. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
The woman smiled, her face softening and becoming something different. Something familiar.Where do I know her from?Quentin didn’t have an answer.
“Rental cars,” she said. “They all look alike.”
“Do you mind my asking,” he said. “How do you know the family?”
“Oh, I’m an old, old friend.”
“Of Dr. Bloom’s?”
“Actually, it’s Renee and I who go back.”
“How far?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry.” Quentin cleared his throat. “My name is Quentin Garrison. I’m from an NPR affiliate in Los Angeles.”
“Okay...”
“I’ve been out here working on a podcast. It concerns the Blooms, and I thought maybe I could get some insight from you.”
“I don’t think I can give you very much insight, Quentin.”
“Were you close to Renee?”
“Present tense.”
“What?”
“Renee is still alive. Iamclose to Renee. Present tense.”
Quentin smiled. “That’s the insight I’m looking for. I’d love to talk to you, ma’am.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because you didn’t know Mitchell or Renee. You’re only here to cover the home invasion. I’m not going to fault you for doing your job, but honestly, Quentin, I think you’ll get a far better response from the police, the coroner... People like you.”
“Like me?”
