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I made the rounds, sold a few drinks, and was back about five minutes later. “All right, shoot.”
“How were the interviews?”
“I’m going to write them up on Tuesday.”
“In general.”
“In general, Detective Wellesley coached the victims on their IDs. Selma and Joanne will very likely confirm that in a deposition.”
“That’s great.”
“Maybe not. Camille is your strongest witness, but she’s firmly in Wellesley’s corner. Joanne… I don’t think she leaves her house. Ever. That could a problem if you go back to court or if the district attorney insists on deposing her anywhere but her living room. And as for Selma, she’s gotten religion and wants to forgive everyone. Which probably doesn’t help her credibility.”
Lydia nodded and sipped her drink.
“One thing about Selma though. She said she picked out a photo of Alan Dinkler from a photo array, but we don’t have that.”
She nodded. “A possible Brady violation. Good work.”
“I didn’t mention this the other day, but Camille seemed to think I was questioning Wellesley’s work because I’m a man.”
“Chip on her shoulder. Always helpful. Since you’re going up to Corcoran on Monday, I had Karen set up meetings with Alan Dinkler and Stu Whatley for you.”
“What about Peter Linder?”
“He’s at Solano.” Sensing that I might not know where that was, she added, “Near San Francisco. If it gets too late and you want to stay over, go ahead. Just bring a receipt—”
And then Dwayne was standing at her shoulder. “Oh hello,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. To me she asked, “Do you have a decent red open?”
“I have red open. I don’t know that I’d call it decent.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll wait until we get to the restaurant.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I can manage a seat for you.” All it would cost me was a Ketel One and tonic.
He shook his head, which was Lydia’s cue to swallow the rest of her drink and stand up.
“See you Tuesday,” she said, with a wry smile.
8
April 7, 1996
Sunday evening
Sunday was Easter. I worked at The Hawk until seven, having given half my shift to Robbie, the bartender who worked peak hours on Friday and Saturday. Since I was driving up to Corcoran on Monday, I didn’t think it was a good idea to work until three in the morning. I also wanted to be home with Ronnie for at least some of the day.
Easter wasn’t a big holiday. It wasn’t Christmas or New Year’s or Valentine’s Day or even Halloween. But it was a holiday we—or more often he—typically spent with his mother. I thought it was a good idea to spend the evening with him.
I walked into the house around seven-thirty and found him sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen watching Junior turning our kitchen into a battleground.
“What’s going on?”
“Junior offered to make Easter dinner.”
“Was that before he demoed the kitchen?”
“Oh, you—” Junior said. “It’s all going to be fine. Just you wait and see.”
