He wanted to see her smile again. “What do you think of our pre-honeymoon so far?”
“I understand sleep deprivation is a common side effect of a pre-honeymoon. If you don’t leave, we’re going to qualify for that.” She looked him up and down. “You might be an arrogant skirt-chaser, but again, you might not, so I’ll ask it. Tell me, Coop, would you marry me if I had a kid whose father was Ted Bundy?”
“Not in a million years.”
“Me, either.”
“Good night, Lucy. I really do like your palm tree,” he said as she closed the door. “See you in the coffee shop at eight a.m. sharp.”
CHAPTER 18
Richmond District, San Francisco
Saturday morning
“It’s the duplex on the right,” Delion said, pointing, and pulled his Crown Vic into the only free spot on Clinton Street, a good half block away. “We’re only a few blocks from the Golden Gate. If you guys like, I’ll drive you through the park when we’re done here. We can commune with the buffalo.”
Delion had called ahead, and so he wasn’t surprised when the door was opened immediately by a slight man with a receding hairline, stooped shoulders, and bright red sneakers on his feet.
“Mr. Carpenter? Roy Carpenter?”
The man nodded. “Inspector Delion?”
After introductions, Mr. Carpenter showed them into a long, narrow living room, the front window looking out over the cars on the other side of the street. Toys were scattered everywhere on small, colorful rugs. Lucy felt a lick of sadness. She hadn’t known he had a child.
Mr. Carpenter said, “Forgive the mess. My sister and my nephew Kyle are living with me at the moment. She, ah, left her abusive husband last week, finally. She’s staying with me until—well, I don’t know how long. Please sit down. Coffee?”
Since the three of them were floating in Starbucks coffee, they turned it down. When they were all seated side by side on a nubby gold sofa, Mr. Carpenter said, “You’re here about Arnette.” He tried to keep his voice flat, devoid of hope, to prevent disappointment, Coop knew. It was hard, so very hard, since he knew, all of them knew, that even after three-plus years, a victim’s family still held out hope that the missing loved one would once again, somehow, walk through the door and explain it all.
Delion pulled a small recorder from his jacket pocket. “Do you mind if we record this?”
“No, not at all.”
“We believe we know what happened to your wife, Mr. Carpenter.”
He jerked forward on his chair, and the naked hope in his voice was enough to break your heart. “You’ve found her? You know who took Arnette, what they did to her? Is she alive?”
“Mr. Carpenter, I’m sorry, sir, but we believe your wife was murdered. We also believe the person who killed her was named Kirsten Bolger. Do you know anyone by that name?”
Mr. Carpenter looked blank but only for a moment. Then he looked shell-shocked. “Kirsten Bolger? You think she murdered my wife? But why?”
Here was the link. Delion said, “We hope you’ll be able to tell us that, Mr. Carpenter.”
“But I didn’t even meet Kirsten Bolger until maybe six months after Arnette went missing. She called me, said she modeled with my wife and did I want to get together to talk about her? I was wallowing in grief and questions, and so I said yes. I remember it clearly, because I wanted to hear someone talk about Arnette like she was somehow here, alive.
“I met her at McDuff’s—that’s a bar down in the financial district on Sansome Street. You really believe Kirsten Bolger murdered my wife?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But that makes no sense, Inspector Delion. Why would you believe that?”
“We’ll get to that in a moment, sir.” Delion sat forward on the sofa. “I know it’s been a long time, Mr. Carpenter, but do you remember any of your conversation with Kirsten Bolger?”
They heard a toddler scream out, “Mama, Cool Whip!”
“Oh, that’s Kyle. He likes Cool Whip on his Cheerios. He’s got a good set of lungs on him. Missy said she’d keep him out of our hair.” He cleared his throat. “I remember Kirsten was glowing in her praise of Arnette. She never said she had a problem with her or anything bad, just told me how wonderful Arnette was.”
Lucy said, “Can you describe Kirsten Bolger?”
“I remember she was something to behold. She was wearing black, nothing but black, all the way down to a small black pearl in her nose. She had really long straight black hair, parted in the middle, like Cher when she was young, and she looked like a model, so thin you knew she had to be starving, bony arms sticking out of a sleeveless black T-shirt. Arnette was never that thin, thank heaven; she always said she couldn’t live without her peanut butter.” His voice caught, and he looked down at his red sneakers. After a moment, he cleared his throat, met Delion’s eyes.