Night Film(187)

“What are they, exactly?”

She narrowed her eyes. “He was never a murderer. He loves life. But believe what you want. You’ll never find any evidence.”

You’ll never find any evidence. It was an odd thing to say. It sounded almost like an admission—almost. I thought back to the boy’s tiny shriveled shirt, caked not in blood but corn syrup, according to Falcone. What Gallo was saying certainly backed up the results Sharon had given me, whether I wanted to accept it or not.

“Why has everyone I’ve talked to about Ashley disappeared?”

“I took care of them,” Inez said with a hint of pride.

“What does that mean? They’re all lying in an unmarked grave?”

She ignored this, sitting up stiffly. “I also took care of the coroner’s photos of Ashley’s body, and then the body itself—before she was cut open in front of strangers like a lab rat. I’ve paid everyone off handsomely and sent them on their merry way.”

“How did you know who I talked to?”

She looked surprised. “Why, your own notes, Mr. McGrath. Surely you remember the breakin at your apartment. They were very helpful for tying up loose ends.”

Of course: the breakin.

“We were desperate,” she went on. “We didn’t know where Ashley had gone, what had happened to her in the time she’d vanished from Briarwood and ended up in that warehouse dead. The only thing we did know was that she came here one night, broke in, took money from a safe. I suspected you’d know more. Briarwood, after all, informed us that you’d showed up there, snooping. We broke in to find out what you knew.”

“Any chance I can have my laptop back?”

“It’s been a costly enterprise, in the wake of her death, getting rid of each witness. But it’s all in keeping our promise to her, never letting anyone know the truth. It’s what he wanted. Ashley’s history will now forever remain where she wished it, where she believed in her heart it always was—beyond reason, between heaven and earth, land and sky, suspended much closer to legend than ordinary life—ordinary life where the rest of us, including you, Mr. McGrath, must remain.”

“Where the mermaids sing,” I added quietly, reminded of the Prufrock poem. As Hopper had explained it, the mermaids were the one thing the family was always seeking out, always fighting for—life’s most stunning and precarious razor edge. Where there was danger and beauty and light. Only the now. Ashley said it was the only way to live.

Inez Gallo, I noticed, was staring at me, her mouth open in shock—seemingly surprised I knew such an intimate detail about the family. She decided not to delve further into it, however, taking a long sip of her drink.

“Marlowe Hughes suffered an overdose,” I said. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

“I asked her drug dealer to scare her a little. I didn’t expect him to nearly bump her off.”

“Your compassion is very moving.”

She glared at me. “It was the best thing that could happen. It got her out of that apartment. Right now she’s sitting in an oceanview suite at Promises in Malibu, climbing up onto that first, very high, very worn-out step of all twelve-step sobriety programs.”

“And what did you say to Olivia Endicott?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. She’s out of the country. But I did speak to her secretary. I paid the girl a small fortune to avoid you like the plague and not to pass along any of your messages to her employer.”

“And Morgan Devold? Why did his house burn down?”

“He needed the insurance money. He was in dire financial straits, two kids, no job. When I explained who I was, that I was there to offer a helping hand, he was quite receptive. If you ever approach him again, he’ll swear he’s never seen you or Ashley before in his life.” She lifted her chin, satisfied. “Everyone in this world has a price, Mr. McGrath. Even you.”

“You’re wrong. Some of us aren’t for sale. Who set the house on fire?”

“Theo and Boris. Boris is a longtime friend of the family.”

“Who smokes Murad cigarettes?”

She was visibly irritated by the question. “Theo. It was his father’s favorite brand.”

Again, she deliberately said his father, rather than simply Cordova. She was taking the long way to avoid a certain hazardous stretch of road.

“Years ago,” she went on, “he cleaned out the world’s supply. Murad. The brand’s been discontinued since the mid-thirties. It’s very rare. But he bought up every last pack from every obscure tobacco collector across the globe. He liked the caramel smell, the gorgeous packaging, and the fact that it was the only detail he remembered about his natural born father, a Spaniard, whom he’d last seen when he was three. But he especially liked the way they burned. It’s like nothing else. There are hundreds of shots of it in the films. The smoke spirals through the air like it’s alive. ‘Like a swarm of white snakes were struggling to be free,’ he once said to me.”

She’d gone on with strange, unchecked fervor, her eyes bright and raised to the ceiling, her mouth twitching in excitement. But then, remembering me, she stopped herself.

“I don’t see why it’s so important to you, these details,” she muttered in annoyance.