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Lucia pinches her lips, folding her hands primly atop her planner.
“That’s hardly necessary—and neither is your language,” she clips, suddenly all business. “You’ll have to pardon me for trying to protect the man’s dignity. I had no idea what condition he was in.”
“You wanna explain what you mean about protecting his dignity?”
“Mason Law was fired,” Lucia informs me crisply. “Some time ago. He continued living in his servants’ quarters up until recently. We gave him a good deal of time to remove his possessions and find a new residence and employment elsewhere, considering he had nowhere else to go. However, we told the whole truth and nothing but when we said he didn’t work for us, Captain Faircross. It’s sad, really. He was a loyal, hardworking employee for many years. I chose not to humiliate him by spreading his disgrace around so callously.”
“Yeah, that’s your reason.” I arch a brow. “Why’d you fire him then?”
“Oh, he simply wasn’t able to keep up with the rigors of the job in his advancing age,” she replies, almost before I finish asking the question. A little too eager. “Frankly, I believe he may have been suffering from a touch of dementia, possibly substance abuse. He started behaving erratically, sometimes turning hostile with the other staff. He was only a few years away from retiring with a pension. It was a shame to let him go, really.” She clucks her tongue. Dutiful sympathy. “I never thought being fired would push him over the edge, though, the poor man. Suicide? God. If only he’d taken our advice and gotten professional help.”
There’s that psych degree at work, making her a magnificent storyteller.
I just stare at her for several long seconds before I say, “I never said it was a suicide.”
She freezes, but her eyes betray nothing.
“Well, yes, but what else could it be?” she asks, almost impatiently. “You tell me he’s been poisoned—there’s no one who would hurt a dear old man. And with how he was behaving, it seems entirely in character.”
“Sure it does.” I lean forward, propping my elbows on my knees, watching her intently. “So that’s your story? You fired him and it drove him to suicide by poison, and now you’ve got no earthly idea why he’s been running around town acting all weird and scaring people?”
“Scaring people?”
I nod. “Just a few encounters. Always startling and unpleasant.”
“How terrible. My, I’d have to say it’s the dementia,” she says glibly. “I do hope now that he’s in the right custody, he can get the help he needs.”
Dementia.
Right.
Guess that’s her story and she’s sticking to it.
I also don’t think I’m gonna get anything else out of her tonight, though.
Not without telling her things that might get her and Montero and possibly that sleazy fucking son of theirs sniffing around.
Trouble is, they hold too much weight around here.
If they tried to get in at the medical center no one would stop them, not even after overhearing what me and Ophelia said to him about the Arrendells.
So when Lucia asks, “Is there anything else I can help you with, Captain Faircross?” in an expectant tone, I shrug.
“Not right now.” I heft myself up from the chair. “I’ll be in touch, though.”
“Come now, Captain,” she says, and dimples at me with girlish innocence, so out of place in her razor of a face. “I hope that won’t be necessary, will it?”
I storm off without answering.
* * *
Yeah,I really don’t know how I’m gonna tell Ophelia I haven’t gotten much of anything.
Though it’s kind of implied.
TV likes to show you these genius cops who crack hard cases from sunrise to sundown, wrapping things up quick and easy. That’s not how it is.
Real police work is slow and plodding, chasing every tiny detail, one long waiting game that might not have a payoff at the end.
