Maddy had always imagined it was only she who had sexual secrets, who had made countless bad choices. She had always assumed that Abigail was as wholesome as Quincy was straitlaced. But maybe she was wrong. And how to explain the high-end clothing she had seen in the closet, each item far beyond the reach of an elementary school teacher’s budget?
Her phone vibrated. She glanced down: Detective Jeff Howe again. High probability that he was merely ‘checking in’ – his phrase – making sure she was OK, even though next to no time had passed since he had last been here. But there was a chance he was calling for the reason she had asked: to convey information. She pressed the green button.
‘Hi Madison. You OK?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, hoping her terseness sounded sad rather than impatient, even though the latter was the truth.
‘I’ve seen the coroner’s report.’
‘Right. Can you—’
‘Not the whole thing. Only a summary, by the looks of things. But I’ve got the concluding section.’
‘And?’
‘There were signs of pressure on the neck, suggestive of a chokehold. And indications that she was held, with some force, by her head, around the temples. Probably from behind.’
The thought of it, the picture of it that materialized instantly, made her unsteady. A kind of queasiness rose through her, as if she were dizzy. To visualize with great clarity her sister grabbed and held by a stranger, the fear that she knew would have consumed Abigail at that moment, the word chokehold – all of it made Madison nauseous. The sensation was physical.
But she forced the sickness away, as if she were pushing bile back down her throat. She would force herself to think, not to feel, to process what she had just heard the way she imagined Barbara Miller and Howe’s fellow cops would: as information. As data: nothing more, nothing less. Judged like that, as the detectives would judge it, she told herself these latest findings were interesting and useful, but hardly destructive of the police’s rough sex hypothesis. That Abigail had been nearly strangled did not mean she had been nearly strangled by a stranger. If anything, this evidence could be held to strengthen the LAPD’s working theory of the case, confirming that the rough sex was really rough. Madison said nothing of this. Only, ‘What else?’
‘No needle retrieved from the scene.’
‘Are there pictures?’
‘None I’ve seen.’
‘Jeff, don’t spare me because you think I can’t handle it. I can—’
‘I’m not sparing you. I told you, I haven’t seen the complete report.’
‘All right, I’m sorry. Please. Go on.’
‘No needle. And just one needle mark. No others.’
‘Which confirms Abigail was no junkie,’ Madison said, irritated by the betraying quaver of her voice.
‘Actually,’ Jeff replied, ‘there’s a note on that. Saying needle marks can often close up within weeks.’
‘For God’s sake, Jeff, Abigail was not a drug user.’
‘I didn’t write this report, Madison. I’m just the jerk risking his job to tell you what it says.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ She swallowed, girding herself for the next and obvious question. ‘Jeff, I have to ask.’
‘Yes?’ he said, though he knew.
She closed her eyes, bracing herself for what she would have to say as much as for what she might have to hear. She sought to smother her inquiry in the language of forensics, as if that might take the edge off. ‘Was there any sign of sexual contact? Any … exchange of bodily fluids? Anything like that?’ Her voice petered out.
The policeman answered quickly. ‘No sign at all, Madison. None.’
Madison thanked Jeff again – aware of the obligation that was building between them – and hung up. Only then did she let out a long, deep exhalation, one she had not wanted him to hear. Thank God for that. For that small mercy at least, thank God. Whatever hell Abigail had endured, she had not been raped. In that instant when Jeff first told her Abigail had been found dead, that had been Madison’s starting assumption.
But that only made the horror more baffling. At least a sex crime had an obvious, if grotesque, motive. But how was she to make sense of Abigail’s death now? Perhaps the LAPD would cling to its sex-game theory all the same, but it struck Madison as a strange kind of sex that involved no contact. No, she was certain. This was no accident. It was murder. But the question remained, sharper now than ever: why would anyone want to kill her sister?
The crowd was glowing in dawn sunshine, the faces turned upward. They were happy, some clutching flags bearing the stars and stripes. The faces at the centre made up the standard LA crowd: black woman, Hispanic man, Korean children, younger white woman and finally, because you had to have a white male somewhere, a white-haired, seventy-plus man, smiling a benign, grandfatherly smile. But dotted among them was a departure from the usual formula: a noticeable number of Chinese, including several young men. They were smiling too. Not wide grins, but gentle, summer-evening smiles – relaxed, content, as if marvelling at the good fortune of it all.
The music swelled, an informal, slightly ragged choir of voices that climaxed on the phrase, ‘California, You’re My Home’.
Leo Harris reached for the remote and watched it again, this time on half-speed. He wanted to examine the faces at the margins, those the viewer would not notice on the first or second airing but would process all the same, if only subliminally. He was glad to see a couple more Latinos and what he guessed was a Jewish man. An older white woman: good. More Chinese. Seated, he turned to the young woman standing by his right shoulder and said only: ‘Blacks.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘African-Americans. You’ve only got one.’ He paused the video, frozen now on the image of a beautiful black woman, her long hair in tight spirals, clutching a miniature flag. ‘She’s great, but we need more. That’s ten per cent of our vote, remember.’
‘But I thought you said—’
‘That’s true. So use a child or an older man. No one’s frightened of them. Doesn’t have to be real old. Just not young. Bit of grey in the sideburns, that’ll do it.’
He turned back to the screen, playing the rest at normal speed. He sang along to the line: ‘California, You’re My Home’. Then, as the last word faded, he intoned in a voice not quite his own, ‘“I’m Richard Berger – and I approved this message.”’
He stood up. ‘OK, where’s Susan?’
A nervous flutter passed through the room as the heads of those people relieved not to be Susan turned and looked for her. She was at the back, her head down, every few seconds swiping the page on her tablet. Leo guessed she was absorbed in poll numbers.
‘Hey, Susan. Can we talk slogan?’
She glanced up, then returned to the illuminated page before her. ‘Sure.’
‘Can you remind me what we agreed would be the theme of this spot?’ He was speaking across the room.
‘Unity, harmony, all that.’ She didn’t look up.
‘Er, yeah. That’s the theme of the campaign. I mean this particular spot.’
Now at last she lifted her head slowly, as if to say, I am a senior figure in this operation. I will not jump at your command like the rest of these candy girls in their skinny jeans and fitted tops. I will take my time if I want to. The words she spoke out