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Collette hesitated, fiddled with her earring, then sighed as she shook her head. “I guess you’d call it anger management. When he was younger he’d fight with his brother, put a fist through a door, kick a dent in a car, whatever, when he got mad.”
“He’s violent,” Tanaka suggested.
“I don’t think he’d hurt anyone, not seriously.... There’s never been any, you know, animals who were abused, or bullying complaints or restraining orders or anything that I can remember, other than with his brother, but Paul always insisted it was just ‘boys being boys.’” Collette lifted a brow.
“You didn’t think so?” Tanaka said as Regan took another swallow. It seemed as if Collette was going to put all the cards on the table and air the family’s dirty laundry, which was a surprise. She was usually so careful and uptight. Except of course Collette was one to always want to get the job done. Move on with life. Not get too wrapped up in sentimentality, or nostalgia. Collette was a doer. Had worked her way up in an accounting firm and now owned her own practice while on the side she planned events, or had in the past. Her oldest daughter, Elise, was grown and living somewhere south of Seattle. Sarina was an artist, who sold her work on some websites on the Internet, wore rose-colored glasses, and as a result was often disappointed or hurt, and now was going through her second divorce. And Brindel? Well, she’d been Brindel, always out for numero uno.
Collette said, “That ‘boys being boys’ thing is so old school, and if you ask me, an excuse for bad behavior. I raised three kids. Granted, they were girls and I grew up surrounded by sisters.” She indicated Regan and Sarina. “We had our problems and snits and even got physical a time or two, as did my kids, but it’s different with boys. They’re so reactive, and don’t worry about getting hurt, you know. The reason they become soldiers.”
Sarina cut in, “Macon’s a good kid.”
Collette said, “It depends upon what you mean by ‘good.’ Yeah, he’s never been arrested that I know of.” She glared pointedly at Sarina. “However, the police need to know what’s going on. All of it.”
“I wasn’t trying to hide anything!” Sarina bristled and blushed, her face infusing with color. “It’s just personal. Private.”
“It’s a damned murder investigation, Sarina. You’re the one who keeps reminding me of that.”
Pescoli moved uneasily in her chair.
“I guess . . . yes, yes, Collette’s right,” Sarina finally acquiesced.
“Macon is . . .”
“A screwup.” Collette met Regan’s gaze. “Macon’s had issues with Paul and never liked Brindel. He’s a hothead. Certainly gets in his share of trouble. A bit of a violent streak, but”—she added, holding up a finger—“I wouldn’t say he was their enemy and certainly not capable of murder.”
Again Sarina shook her head, her hand over her chest. “No, no. Not at all.”
Regan filed the info away, as did, she was certain, Tanaka and Paterno. The truth was Regan could barely remember them, having seen them only a couple of times, once being at Paul and Brindel’s wedding. The boys had been young at the time, four and five maybe. Hardly old enough to realize what was going on. Ivy, Brindel’s daughter, had been barely two, the same age as Bianca. The second time Pescoli had seen them had been much later. At her mother’s funeral. The boys, then in their early teens, had each carried with them that attitude particular to boys of that age—sullen, defiant, angry. They’d sat glumly in the pews of the church throughout the funeral, then stared at their feet throughout the burial service and barely responded when spoken to at the gathering afterward. Ivy had been more outgoing, a gawky preteen with long limbs, braces on her teeth that she tried to hide. She’d seemed uncomfortable in her own body, but Regan could relate. Her own kids had been difficult. Angry. Rebellious.
And now they’ve both killed, haven’t they? For the right reasons—Bianca in self-defense, Jeremy to protect Regan herself.
“So the older boy didn’t get along with his dad. What about the younger one who went to Las Vegas?” Tanaka asked, breaking into Regan’s thoughts.
“Seth,” Collette clarified.
“Yes. Seth.” Tanaka was taking notes. Regan felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Checking the screen, she saw that Bianca had texted back that everything was under control.
We’re good. He’s asleep. Stop worrying. I’ve got this. LOL. Three laughing/crying emojis were included in the text.
Regan didn’t think there was anything worth laughing out loud about, but she did respond with a quick OK, then caught up with the interview as Tanaka asked, “How did Seth fit in with the family? Did he get along with his father?”
Collette said, “No one got along with Paul. That’s because he’s Paul. I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but if you ask me, which you are, I’d say Paul Latham Junior is, er, was a supercilious prick. And he came by it naturally. His father, who lives in Arizona—retired doc, by the way—he’s cut from the same cloth. A real jerk. Married four times. Oh—sorry, Regan.” She cast her sister a quick somewhat abashed look as Regan was currently on her third marriage. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Regan said, lying. They both knew it was BS. Collette was needling her and she was bugged by it, but neither let on. Same old, same old.
Biting her lip, Sarina looked at the investigators. “I have to ask. Has anyone heard from Ivy? Have you located her?”
“Not yet.” Paterno leaned over the table. “But we’re working on it. Amber Alert’s in place. We’re contacting friends and neighbors, her father, of course, and checking local cameras and social media. We have both of the victims’ cell phones—that’s how we contacted Paul’s sons, but so far Ivy Wilde hasn’t responded. If you have any more information that might be helpful, have an idea where she might be or whom she might contact, please let us know.”
Sarina’s face fell. “I was afraid of that. What if she’s been kidnapped?” Her voice sounded strangled as her thoughts ran wild. “She could be being held against her will and . . . oh, Lord, I hope not.” She was starting to cry again.
“I assure you we’re doing everything we can,” Paterno said.
Collette put a hand over Sarina’s arm. “We don’t know anything. No reason to borrow trouble.”
“Mom used to say that,” Sarina said with a squeak as she tried and failed to staunch her tears. “I’ve tried to call or text Ivy, but nothing.”
“Have your boys try,” Collette suggested, mentioning Sarina’s sons. “They’ve always been close to their cousins.”
