Sidney Sheldon’s The Silent Widow. Тилли Бэгшоу

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СКАЧАТЬ flesh under Lisa’s fingernails, an unlikely scenario, however Goodman looked at it.

      Goodman hit the call button on the enormous front gates. Two stone lions gazed impassively down at him from marble pillars to his right and left.

      ‘Yes?’ a woman’s voice crackled over the speaker.

      ‘Good afternoon.’ Goodman cleared his throat. ‘I’m Detective Louis Goodman from the LA Police Department. I’m here concerning Brandon Grolsch.’

      ‘Jus’ a moment please.’ The woman had a Mexican accent. Probably the housekeeper. Goodman heard a crackle of static, then a long silence. He was about to ring again when the gates suddenly whirred into life, swinging open to reveal the house and gardens in all their glory.

      Making his way up the bluestone driveway, past a lavish marble fountain, Goodman climbed the formal steps up to the front door. Potted olive trees flanked the entrance, and an antique bronze lamp gleamed above the portico. The place looked more like a fancy hotel than a private residence, a small Ritz Carlton perhaps, or a Four Seasons.

      ‘Come in, please.’

      The housekeeper, indeed Mexican, led him through a light-filled foyer into a small sitting room. Goodman took in his surroundings. The furnishings were overtly feminine – white sofas, pale pink drapes, floral cushions and cream, fringed cashmere throws. A large vase of fresh peonies graced an otherwise bare coffee table, and a candle had been lit that smelled of something cloying and sweet. Maybe figs?

      ‘Mrs Grolsch will be coming in a minute. Can I get you some tea?’

      ‘No, gracias.’ Goodman smiled. He was about to arrest this family’s son on suspicion of murder. It didn’t seem right to be drinking their tea at the same time. ‘Is Brandon at home?’

      The housekeeper looked down nervously. ‘Mrs Grolsch is coming,’ she mumbled, leaving the room before Goodman could ask her anything else. A few minutes later, the door opened again.

      ‘Detective? Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Fran Grolsch.’

      The woman in front of him was not at all what Goodman had expected. Chubby and out of shape, with the bloated face and puffy eyes typical of pain-pill addicts, Frances Grolsch was unrecognizable as the attractive former beauty queen from her Google Image pictures. This afternoon she was wearing a stained pink Juicy Couture tracksuit that sagged around her backside, and wore her thinning, greasy hair tied up in a cheap elastic. If Goodman had to use one word to describe her, that word would be defeated. Even her voice sounded exhausted, each word elongated – ‘I’m Fraaaaan’ – as if the effort of moving on to the next one was too much to bear.

      ‘You’re here about Braaaaandon?’ She slumped down onto one of the couches.

      ‘That’s right. Is your son at home, Mrs Grolsch?’ Goodman asked.

      ‘Nooooo.’ Frances Grolsch closed her eyes, offering no more information. This woman needs help, Goodman thought.

      ‘Do you know when you expect him back?’

      The eyes opened, but she didn’t respond.

      ‘Ma’am?’

      To Goodman’s embarrassment, Frances Grolsch opened her mouth and let out a long, low howl, an awful, animal moan of distress that went on and on, getting louder and louder. Goodman heard a door slam in the hallway, and heavy footsteps approaching. Seconds later the door swung open and a tall, elderly man in a dark suit stormed in.

      ‘What the hell, Franny? Shut up! You sound like a goddamn air-raid siren. I’m trying to work.’ Turning on Goodman, the old man barked, ‘Why is she crying? And who the hell are you?’

      Goodman produced his badge. The old man inspected it, unimpressed.

      ‘Homicide?’ he scowled. ‘Who died? Franny, I said shut UP!’ he roared at his wife, who ran whimpering from the room.

      ‘Nathan Grolsch, I assume?’ Goodman countered, doing his best to take control of the situation. Not easy with such a bullying, forceful man.

      ‘Of course I’m Nathan Grolsch,’ the old man grunted. ‘The question is, who the hell are you?’

      Goodman held up his badge again.

      ‘So? Why are you here?’ Grolsch asked, unimpressed. ‘I’m a busy man, you know.’

      ‘I need to speak to your son, Brandon.’

      Grolsch rolled his eyes. ‘Is that why she was bawling?’ He nodded towards the door through which his wife had bolted. ‘You asked her about Brandon?’

      ‘Mr Grolsch, do you know where your son is?’ Goodman asked pointedly. He was beginning to get irritated by the old man’s attitude. ‘A young woman has been brutally murdered and we need to eliminate your son from our inquiries.’

      ‘Well, that shouldn’t be hard,’ Brandon’s father said bluntly. ‘Brandon’s dead.’

      Goodman did a double take. ‘Excuse me?’

      There was no record of Brandon Grolsch’s death, or even of his being missing.

      ‘He took an overdose,’ Nathan Grolsch announced matter-of-factly. ‘His mother got a letter around eight months ago, from a “friend” who saw it happen. Some friend, right? Fran’s still in denial about it. Thinks Brandon’s gonna walk back through that door some day like the prodigal son.’ He snorted derisively.

      ‘You received word eight months ago that your son died of an overdose, but you never thought to notify anyone?’ Goodman asked, incredulous.

      ‘What’s to notify?’ Nathan Grolsch shrugged. ‘There was no body, no proof. Look, my son was an addict, OK? A useless, lying, no-good scumbag who threw his life away for drugs. That is the beginning and the end of the story. Brandon was dead to me long before that letter.’

      Wow, Goodman thought. What a prince of a guy. With a dad like that, no wonder the kid went off the rails.

      ‘Does Mrs Grolsch still have the letter?’

      ‘Nope. I burned it.’ The old man’s pale, rheumy eyes glistened with spite. ‘That meddlesome bitch Valentina Baden should never have shown it to Fran in the first place. She must have known it would screw her up. Better for everyone to get rid of the thing. Close the door on the whole sorry chapter.’

      Goodman’s mind raced. ‘Valentina Baden? You mean Willie Baden’s wife?’

      ‘Right,’ Grolsch grunted. ‘She runs some charity for missing kids. I guess at one point Fran decided Brandon was “missing” and Valentina must’ve gotten involved. In any case, she passed on the letter. So you can go ahead and “eliminate” Brandon from your inquiries.’

      ‘I’m afraid it’s not quite that easy, Mr Grolsch,’ Goodman said, pleased to have provoked a look of deep irritation on the old man’s face. ‘We have DNA evidence directly linking Brandon to the murder victim. And as you say, you have no proof your son is dead. No body. And, now that you’ve burned the letter, no hard evidence either. Other than your word.’

      Goodman’s СКАЧАТЬ