It's Not a Pretty Sight (13 page)

“Of course.”

She was still escorting him into the house.

They had buzzed him in right away, fully expecting his visit. The building was a huge, two-story French Colonial affair that time had dealt an unfair hand; what once had been majestic was now only unwieldy. Like many of the homes that populated this mile-and-a-half segment of Adams Boulevard, once but no longer commonly referred to as Fremont Park, it was a palatial shadow of greatness past, a monument to money that had long ago departed the premises. The wealthy white men who had once lived here had fled the scene generations ago, seeking the higher ground of Bel Air and Beverly Hills, leaving no trace of their power and influence but the giant walls behind which they had exercised them. Today, those walls housed mostly black people, and for the most part, they were as clean and freshly painted as they had been at birth. But they were the walls of ghosts all the same.

Tall, proud, circular, carported
ghosts.

Singer, on the other hand, was very much among the living. She seemed to be aging gracefully, even if the house in which she worked was not. Were it not for the liberal sprinkling of gray in her sandy brown hair, and a fullness to her hips that was almost imperceptibly excessive, she could have easily passed for a woman in her late twenties or early thirties. She had the smooth, cherubic face of a Girl Scout troop leader, and bright blue eyes that shone and flickered like candles on a birthday cake. Unlike the formal black attire Gunner now remembered seeing her in at Nina’s funeral three days ago, her dress today was casual—khaki pants, tennis shoes, and a large, green pullover sweater—but her manner was strictly professional. Mimi had said she was no one to mess with, and Gunner could see now what she’d meant. The Sisterhood House director was hospitable enough, as her story about the House’s origins clearly indicated, but she was about as warm and charming as a parole officer.

Gunner was still waiting for her to show him a real smile.

He had parked his prized Cobra under the shade of a giant avocado tree out front, once the perimeter gate had closed behind him and Singer had come out to greet him personally. Now they were entering the building, beyond two immense doors that led onto one of the most intimidating foyers the investigator had ever seen. Polished wood was everywhere; dark, red, glistening. The arms and legs of chairs and tables, the flooring beneath his feet, all the bookcases and armoires lining the walls—and the railing along both sides of the central staircase around which the entire room revolved. Only in the movies had Gunner seen a staircase like it. Halfway up to the second floor, its carpeted steps stopped at a wide landing and split in two, becoming a snake with two heads coiling east and west, respectively. It was a staircase made for grand entrances.

“Yes, I know,” Singer said, watching Gunner drink in the room with open amazement. “It is special, isn’t it?”

Gunner grinned, caught off guard. “I was staring, wasn’t I?”

“Of course. Everyone does, the first time they visit us. How can you not?”

Finally. A real smile.

A young woman entered the room from somewhere off to the left, but only glanced at them briefly before disappearing again through an open archway on the right. Gunner could hear the voices of other women echoing throughout the house, but he couldn’t tell which direction or floor they came from. He could also hear a piano being played somewhere; a light, classical riff, almost childlike in execution, like wind chimes singing on a seaside porch.

Singer led him up the stairs to the second floor.

Her office was at the west end of the house, past a small solarium with window seats all around, the woman playing the pianos—an older, heavyset white woman in a floral dress—and a room filled with office equipment. Passing by, Gunner spotted a middle-aged black woman standing before a copying machine and a younger, short-haired blonde tapping away on a computer keyboard. Neither woman saw him.

The pale-skinned, twentyish brunette he and Singer met in the hallway upon their arrival at the latter’s open office door was not so unobservant, however. She noticed Gunner right away. She was a ponytailed beauty wearing black denim pants and a burgundy sweatshirt with the USC logo emblazoned across the front, and the sight of Gunner had stopped her in her tracks like the horn of an onrushing semi.

“Hello, Alex,” Singer said, with considerable trepidation in her voice.

Gunner was not surprised, then, when the girl reached out and slapped him hard across the right side of his face, filling his eyes instantly with tears. He was stunned, but not surprised.

“Alex! Oh, my God, Mr. Gunner, I’m so sorry,” Singer said, belatedly stepping forward to restrain the younger woman.

Not that any restraint was necessary, now. One blow was all the girl had ever intended to strike; that much was clear from the satisfied expression she now wore on her face.

Gunner imagined one blow was all she
ever
hit a man with.

As she continued to glare at him, wholly unrepentant, he rubbed the sting from his cheek and said, “Nice right hand.”

“Thanks,” Alex said. She seemed to genuinely appreciate the compliment.

“But I’d like to make a suggestion.”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t ever use it on you again. That’s what they all say.” She turned to Singer. “I’m going to my room now, Wendy. We can talk in there whenever you’re ready. Okay?”

Without waiting for Singer to answer, she walked off, leaving them to watch her vanish down the hall.

“Are you all right?” Singer asked, after a short but uncomfortable silence had passed between them.

Gunner shrugged and tried to smile. “I think so. Forget about it.”

“Are you sure? Would you like a cold towel, or something?”

“No. Really. I’m okay.”

“I really am very sorry. I saw that coming, but … well, it’s been a long time since Alex has done something like that, and I guess I just wasn’t prepared for it.”

“Like I said. Forget about it.”

They finally entered Singer’s office and sat down. There was a wide-angle window to the left of her desk that afforded her a fine view of the backyard, where an elevated cement patio and an empty swimming pool were the only things worthy of her own or anyone else’s attention. Her desk was solid oak, topped with a sheet of glass and laden with paperwork, and her chair was a high-backed wing chair in red, well-worn leather. Gunner’s was identical.

Singer asked him if he’d like something to drink, he said no, then they got down to business.

“I know you’re probably anxious to drop the subject, Mr. Gunner, but I’d just like to say one thing before we do,” Singer said. “And that is that Alex is not representative of the women we have staying here at Sisterhood House. She’s a special case.”

“I’ll bet she is.”

“If you knew something about her background—”

“Please. No explanation is necessary. If the young lady likes to slap strange men around, I’m sure she has her reasons.”

“She does. Believe me.”

“Then there’s really no need to discuss the incident any further. Is there?”

He was being polite, but direct:
Let’s move on.

“So Mimi says you were a friend of Nina’s,” Singer said.

“Yeah. I was.”

“A very good friend, from what I understand.”

“We were engaged once. A long, long time ago. I hadn’t seen very much of her in recent years, but I still considered her a close friend. Nina and Mimi both.”

“Of course. I remember seeing you with Mimi at the funeral.”

“You do? I’m surprised.”

“Surprised? Why?”

“Because I wouldn’t think you could make the connection. Between the man you saw then, and the one you see now, I mean. I was in pretty bad shape last Saturday.”

“Were you? I didn’t notice.”

“I think you’re being kind.”

They smiled at each other for a moment then Singer turned serious and said, “Mimi also said you’re a private investigator.”

Gunner nodded.

“Would you mind very much if I asked to see some identification? It’s not that I don’t believe you, but … I’d just feel more comfortable talking to you if I could see something in writing. I hope you understand.”

“Sure. No problem.” Gunner pulled out his wallet, opened it to his PI license, and passed it over for her inspection.

When she had passed it back to him, she said, “You’re looking into the circumstances of Nina’s murder?”

“That’s right.”

“But not for Mimi.”

“No. Not for Mimi.”

“Then …?”

“I’m doing this on my own, Ms. Singer. Nobody’s paying me to be here. I want to find out for myself how Nina died, rather than take someone else’s word for it. Call it force of habit.”

“By ‘someone else,’ you’re talking about the police?”

“I’m talking about whomever.”

Singer fell quiet for a moment, then said, “I wasn’t aware there was any question about how Nina died.”

“There is for those of us who weren’t there. You weren’t, were you?”

“At Nina’s when she was killed, you mean? No, I wasn’t.”

“Then—”

“I didn’t have to be there to know how or why Nina was killed, Mr. Gunner. None of us here at Sisterhood House did.”

“No?”

“No. Sad as it is to say, what happened to Nina was not entirely unexpected. At least, not to those of us who were familiar with her history of abuse. Her husband had come close to killing her on a number of occasions before, you know.”

“Did he?”

“Oh, yes. Michael had put Nina in the hospital at least twice before over the last three years. Once with a concussion, and once with three broken ribs and a punctured lung. Have you ever had a broken rib, Mr. Gunner?”

His mind immediately turning to his recent sparring match with Russell Dartmouth, Gunner said, “I’m sorry to say that I have, yes. It’s not much fun.”

“No. It isn’t. Nothing about being married to a man like Michael ever is.”

“Which is to say, there’s no doubt in your mind that Michael killed her.”

“That is correct. Why is there a doubt in yours?”

Despite himself, Gunner hesitated before answering. “Because I have reason to believe he may have been elsewhere at the time of Nina’s murder. I can’t prove that yet, but—”

“But you’d
like
to prove it.”

“No, I—”

“What is it about some people that they can never believe the inevitable when it finally occurs, Mr. Gunner? Can you tell me that? Why must there always be some answer to a question other than the most obvious one?

“A man tortures a woman for years, his treatment of her is documented throughout, but when she turns up dead, no one can accept the fact that he killed her. That would make too much sense.”

“I think you misunderstand my purpose here, Ms. Singer. I’m not out to vindicate Michael Pearson, I’m out to find out who killed Nina, and why. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Absolutely.”

“And that difference is …?”

“The difference is, Pearson wasn’t my friend. Nina was. I thought I’d made that clear.”

Singer stared at him, cognizant of the fact that he was essentially demanding an apology from her.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gunner, but you pushed a button of mine. By even daring to suggest that Nina might have been killed by someone other than the man who’d been
trying
to kill her for almost a decade, I mean. Because I hear such suggestions all too often around here, I’m afraid. Especially from the authorities. And it just drives me up the wall after a while, it really does.”

“I understand,” Gunner said.

“No. No, you don’t. You couldn’t. You’d have to work here for a year or so to even
begin
to understand what I’m talking about.”

Gunner shrugged, having no desire to argue the point with her. “Okay.”

“The men who drive women to homes like this one do not deserve the skepticism with which people so often view their brutality, Mr. Gunner. Their records should be allowed to speak for themselves. When someone acts surprised that a man who’s been beating women all his life has finally gotten around to killing one, as if he were no more inclined to do such a thing than you or I, I can’t believe it. I
can’t.
The writing is there on the wall for everyone to see, why can’t anyone ever
see
it?
Why
?”

“I can’t answer that,” Gunner said. “Except to say that this is a country that bends over backward to give people the benefit of the doubt. Even those who don’t particularly de serve the courtesy.”

“Like Michael, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“You really believe he might be innocent?”

“With the emphasis on the word ‘might,’ yes, I do.”

“Why? Have you talked to him? Did
he
tell you he was innocent?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, yes. He did. But that’s not—”

“You’ve seen him? You know where he is?”

Gunner told her about Pearson’s little accident, and where it had landed him. She was just as broken up to hear it as Mimi Hillman had been earlier.

“Good for him,” she said.

“Yeah. That’s the reaction I’ve been getting from everybody,” Gunner said.

“Still—”

“Look. Let’s not beat this thing into the ground, all right? I believe there’s an outside chance Nina’s husband didn’t kill her, and I have my reasons for feeling that way. None of which I’d care to go into here. Now, if that somehow makes me circumspect—”

“Have you ever abused a woman, Mr. Gunner?” Singer asked abruptly.

“Excuse me?”

“Have you ever abused a woman? Ever slapped one around because she gave you some lip, or twisted her arm to make her turn down the radio? Ever done anything like that?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“But you’ve felt like it, I’ll bet.” Singer smiled. Gunner shouldn’t have found much solace in the gesture, but he did.

“Tell me how I can help you,” she said.

“Mimi says Nina had been living and working here for the last five months, up until about three weeks ago. Is that right?”

“Yes.” Singer nodded.

“Mimi described her as your aide.”

“She was my aide, yes. My assistant, my aide …”