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  “If it wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t suicide, that leaves foul play.”

  “I don’t have any answers.” He swung his tasseled loafer off his knee and got to his feet. “I’m just the errand boy. Dave and Mel wanted me to ask if you’d come to the funeral tomorrow. Ten o’clock at Muller’s.”

  “I don’t want to sound cold.” I stood too, facing him. “But why would they want me there?”

  “To just—I don’t know. Come and observe.”

  “Your father paid me, Mr. Steinbach. My part’s done.”

  “Your part is done as far as he’s concerned, maybe. Look, it’s not for me to say, but I think Dave and Melanie want to hire you.”

  “Hire me? To do what?”

  “To find out what really happened.” There it was again, that quick automatic frown. “You saw the—the body. Already, you know things.”

  “I’m not sure I—” Then the image of Skye, wrapped in those punishing arms, flashed in my brain.

  “All right. I’ll come to the funeral, for his parents’ sake. But I can’t help them, Mr. Steinbach. Please let them know. This matter rests with the police.”

  “You tell that to my sister. It needs to come from you.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve been here for nearly a week now. After the funeral, I’m going home.”

  “You live out of town?”

  “San Francisco. I came down for Melanie’s birthday party, her fortieth. Since my parents moved back here to Santa Barbara, I don’t come down much anymore.”

  “Do you mean Skye died on her birthday?”

  “Yes. She’ll never celebrate it again.”

  When Steven Steinbach had gone, I nudged open the door to the kitchen. “Gabi, you can come out now.”

  Gabi peeped around the door like a bright-eyed squirrel. “What did he say?”

  “He asked me to go to his nephew’s funeral. But I know you heard every word.”

  “Yes, you would know. ’Cause you’re the one that sits in here and listens all the time.”

  I ignored that. “What did you think of him?”

  Gabi walked into the room, shook her head at the location of the desk chair, and pushed it back into place. “I don’t think nothing about him. You are the investigator, not me. But I saw his hands were too clean, they don’t do no work. I like a man who gets his hands dirty. And then washes them,” she added.

  “Mm-hm. Somebody like Angel.”

  “An-hel, you mean. Yes, that’s what I like.”

  I gazed out the front window. A single giant bird-of-paradise leaf shaded the pane like an awning. The green leaf glowed like stained glass. “The service is tomorrow. I said I’d go.”

  Gabi looked over the top of her new rhinestone cheaters. “Miss Jaymie? Are you one hundred percent sure about this?”

  “About twenty percent sure. Maybe not even that.”

  * * *

  It would have to be Muller’s Funeral Home, I thought as I chained my bike to a stucco pillar the following morning. Muller’s had received my brother’s body from the coroner, and so this was where I’d held the memorial service I’d put together for Brodie. Our parents hadn’t wanted that burden.

  I brushed off my best black jeans and tightened the band on my ponytail, then stepped into the vestibule. I could see through the double glass doors into the large chapel. The service was about to begin, and the room was packed to the rafters.

  As I headed toward the chapel, I noticed the visitors’ book lying open on a podium.

  One thing I’m sure of: a detective is a voyeur. Maybe that’s why I prefer to think of myself as an investigator.

  Anyway, who’s kidding herself? I picked up the book without a qualm and walked down a short hall and around the corner, to where I remembered there was a ladies’ room.

  When I pushed through the door, I discovered I wasn’t alone. A young woman of about seventeen was huddled in a corner of the bathroom, weeping. Her curly dark hair was tied back with a purple ribbon, but a frizzy halo stood up around her pretty round face. She looked up at me, and I saw the grief in her eyes.

  “Hi,” I said. “The service is about to start.”

  “I—I can’t go in.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe you can, even if you just stand at the back. Believe me, it will be better in the long run if you do. Better for you later on, I mean.”

  I’d told the girl the truth, but my comments were also self-serving. I wanted to open the guest book right away, so I could return it to the podium before it was missed. I needed her to leave.

  She nodded, and dabbed at her cheeks with the paper towel I offered. Then she glanced at the book I held clutched against my chest. “Is that—the guest book?”

  “Ah—yes. Yes, it is.” I couldn’t think of a single plausible explanation as to why I’d carried the book into the restroom. But she didn’t seem to care about that.

  “I’d like to sign.” She fumbled in her purse and came up with a pen. “I wasn’t brave enough to do it before, with all the people out in the hall.”

  I placed the book on the counter and watched as she slowly turned the pages, scanning the signatures. Then she signed at the end, and stared for a moment at the page.

  “I’m glad I did that,” she said in a small voice. “Thanks.”

  The instant the door swung shut behind her, I flipped back to the first page. I grabbed my cell, aimed and shot. Each page held a dozen names. Many people had signed in as couples, or families. Skye Rasmussen had been well liked: I estimated nearly three hundred people were in attendance.

  But why in God’s name was I doing this, I asked myself as I slipped back down the hall to the foyer. I’d no intention of taking the case. Then that image of Skye, wrapped forever in his agony, silenced my thoughts.

  I laid the book down on the podium, opening it to the last page.

  Only a few people turned to look as I eased into the back of the chapel. It was standing room only, and it took me a minute to spot an empty niche, halfway down the side of the room. An opening hymn struck up, and I was able to move to the location without attracting attention.

  I studied the crowded chapel. All ages were present, from babies in arms to the elderly. Most of the mourners, though, were young men and women, high-school kids. The mood was heavy in the room. When the organ stopped, I heard sobbing.

  The open coffin stood at the front. Behind it was the altar, and behind the altar the soaring glass windows looking out to the steep terra-cotta mountains sheltering the city. You could make out a faint haze of green on the live oaks which had survived the Stonecroft Fire.

  The family sat in the front pews. On the right hand, closest to me, were Skye’s distraught parents. Steven Steinbach sat beside them. Across the aisle was Rod Steinbach and an attractive Asian woman with silver-white hair. She must be Rod’s wife, I realized. Skye’s grandmother.

  The service dragged on like a wounded animal, tormented. At last the parents approached the coffin.

  And then we heard it, what we knew was coming: the most anguished cry on earth, the sound of a mother mourning the death of her child.

  Melanie’s cry tore through the room, split open the air.

  * * *

  I was unlocking my bike from the pillar when Skye’s father approached me.

  “Miss Zarlin? I’m Dave Rasmussen.”

  He was well into middle age, an ordinary-looking guy who’d married into a handsome family. His light brown hair was receding, and he carried a small paunch. Dark circles hung under his eyes.

  “Mr. Rasmussen. I’m sorry about Skye. So very sorry for your loss.” Useless words, but I uttered them anyway. I knew there were no words to comfort a parent who was mourning the death of a child. My words only functioned as sounds, really, sounds that I trusted would somehow convey sympathy.

  “Thank you.” He nodded once. “I can’t—can’t talk now. But thank you for coming. I wanted to meet you before we decided.…” He shrugged, gave up. “Tomorrow. Will
you come and talk to Mel and me?”

  “Mr. Rasmussen, I’m not sure that I—”

  “Please, don’t say no.” He looked away. “We’ll come to your office. Yes, maybe that’s better. We’ll come to you.”

  I gave in. How could I say no at that moment? “All right. That would be fine.” I pulled a card from my pocket and handed it to him.

  “We’ll be there after the … cremation. At eleven.”

  I bowed my head. “Yes,” I repeated, “that would be fine.”

  * * *

  I argued with myself as I pedaled down Anacapa. Should I take the case on the Rasmussens’ behalf? Part of me said no, I needed to stay away from murder, and stick with what I saw as my calling: investigating the disappearances of the living, finding those who were lost.

  But another part of me, my ego, I suppose, muttered something else. Take the case, solve it, show what you can do. Once and for all, prove you’re no flash in the pan.

  I could do with advice, and not just any advice. I needed the therapeutic advice that only my old mentor and pal Charlie could give.

  So instead of riding straight to the office, I decided to cruise the beachfront parking lots in search of Charlie’s VW van. I turned on Carrillo, circled TV Hill, then glided down through City College to Leadbetter Beach, Charlie’s customary daytime location.

  A big black Explorer filled Charlie’s usual parking spot, the spot he’d occupied for decades. I wove up and down the aisles, just in case he’d parked somewhere else. But there was no white van inscribed from fender to fender with Charlie’s version of the Great American Novel.

  I worked my way east along the waterfront, checking more lots plus the vehicles lining Cabrillo Boulevard. The marina, West Beach, the wharf, East Beach: nada. Charlie’s van always stuck out like a sore thumb. If I wasn’t seeing it, it wasn’t around.

  What the hell had happened to the guy? The old varmint had never vanished like this. As I pedaled back up Cabrillo, I wondered if I should mount a serious search. Problem was, I knew Charlie wouldn’t appreciate me prying into his business.

  Anyway, for the time being I’d just have to devise my own therapy. I chained my bike to a post at the yacht club, rolled up my jeans and removed my sneakers, then jogged across the hot sand.

  The seawater was deliciously cool on my feet. Wavelets tickled my ankles like soft little tongues. Damn, I needed to keep a swimsuit in my messenger bag. I was dying for a swim.

  I really shouldn’t be here, I reminded myself. I needed to go to the office, get some work done. If you weren’t watchful, Santa Barbara could lure you away from what mattered.

  Of course, one could argue that this was what mattered: hot sand, cool surf, brisk breezes teasing your hair. I shut my eyes and wiggled my toes in sheer pleasure.

  I’m no masochist. In the end, I decided to forget about the fact that I was fully dressed. I waded farther out and dove into a translucent green wave.

  The water, colder than I anticipated, sent a shock wave through my body. My hair swirled about my head in a flowing corona. I stayed down, held my breath till my lungs ached, then shot to the surface. For a moment I thought, Life is beautiful, and good.

  * * *

  The following morning I watched the Rasmussens make their way up the walk to the office. Moving as a single unit of grief, they clung together. It was difficult to tell if Melanie and Dave were supporting each other, or weighing each other down.

  I opened the door and stepped to one side. “Please, come in.”

  Today I was on my own. Gabi was out operating her other business, Sparkleberry Cleaning Service, of which she was, once again, both owner and sole employee. Good help—the kind that would do precisely what Gabi spelled out and never complain—was tough to find.

  The Rasmussens entered and stood side by side in the small room, gazing at me. They had just witnessed their son’s cremation, and they looked empty, drained.

  “Miss Zarlin, this is my wife, Melanie.”

  Melanie Rasmussen was every bit as good-looking as her brother. She’d inherited their father’s height, and in her plain black pumps, she was taller than her husband. She was more attractive than Dave, too, and some might have said she could’ve done better. But as I watched her cling to his arm, I saw how she needed him.

  I motioned to the Craigslist couch against the wall and pulled the hot seat around for myself, facing the couch. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” Dave said automatically. But Melanie answered, “Maybe … a glass of water?”

  I wasn’t sure she really wanted water. I guessed she only wanted what she couldn’t have: her son.

  “Sure. Be right back.” I was glad of the moment alone. I turned on the tap, let it run, and took the best glass from the cupboard. Then I filled the glass and stood there staring at it.

  I was wrong, I thought: Melanie did want something from me. And so did Dave. They wanted me to tell them what had happened to Skye.

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have ice,” I said as I handed the glass to Melanie. I perched on the edge of the chair. As she sipped at the water a silence unraveled, fuzzy, confused.

  Dave cleared his throat. “We—we—” Then he stopped midsentence and waved his hand in the air.

  It was Melanie who filled the gap. “We want you to find out what happened. The truth.”

  “I understand. But the police are the ones to talk to. They have the resources, the expertise—”

  “No.” Melanie shook her head, from side to side. “Dad took control. He told the police what to think. He’s always doing something like that. But this time he’s not going to get away with it.” Her dark eyes burned. “Skye is our son.”

  “The police have decided your son died in an accident, Mrs. Rasmussen. Your father thinks the same thing. But that doesn’t mean they’re following his orders.” My heart ached for her. I’d been there with Brodie: I knew how she felt.

  Her head drooped. She raised her hands to her face and began to weep softly.

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be—”

  “It’s all right,” Dave said heavily. “It’s not you. It’s just all so—so unbelievable to us.” He pressed his handkerchief into his wife’s hands.

  Melanie dabbed at her eyes, then looked up at me. “Our son is an athlete. A graceful, beautiful boy … do you really think he fell into that tank?”

  She had me there. Because I didn’t believe he’d fallen in. In fact, I suspected Skye Rasmussen had had an assist. But this business about the truth—I needed to be certain they meant it. Because as I knew from experience, the truth was often ugly—and cruel.

  “Mrs. Rasmussen, forgive me. But I’m not the only private investigator in town. I have to be frank: this isn’t the sort of case I normally do. I guess what I’m asking is, why me?”

  “You found out who killed that poor girl, Lili Molina, and the Armenta boy. Everybody else gave up, and you didn’t.” Melanie twisted the handkerchief into a tight ball. “We know you’ll get at the truth, Ms. Zarlin. That’s all we want.”

  “But are you sure that’s what you want? Because it might be terribly painful.”

  “Melanie, she’s not going to help us.” Dave stood. “Honey, we need to—”

  “No. Wait.” Melanie leaned forward. Her eyes bored into mine. “Do you think the truth could be any more painful than what we’re going through right now? Skye was our son. Our son! I will not let this go.”

  “Mrs. Rasmussen—”

  “Stop. Just stop.” She lifted a shaky finger and pointed at me. “You don’t believe what the police are saying, I can tell you don’t.” Her voice rose. “So why won’t you help us? Why!”

  The outburst clanged like a bell in the room. Even after the woman had finished, the air seemed to ring with her words.

  And abruptly I was angry, deeply angry with myself. This was my job, after all: to help those in distress.

  “You’re right. I don’t believe it. I think some
one else was up on that platform with Skye. I don’t know if your son was pushed. But I don’t think he was alone.”

  Melanie moaned as she fell back against the couch. “Skye, Skye—”

  Then I heard myself say exactly what I’d tried to avoid: “I’ll take the case. And I promise, I’ll find out what happened to your son.”

  Chapter Four

  The Sea Horse Snack Bar was located on the second level of the Santa Barbara Aquarium. I sat at the counter and watched Delia Foley as she rearranged a snack display, then snatched up a dishcloth and wiped down the stainless counter. The attractive woman was somewhere in her early forties, but her thin, youthful figure made her look younger.

  “Gabi Gutierrez said to say hi,” I began again. My first attempt to connect with Delia had met with a quick scowl. “She’s my office manager.” Of course, Gabi insisted on “personal assistant,” but she wasn’t here to object.

  “Gabi?” Delia Foley halted, cloth poised. “Is that somebody I should know?”

  “She’s your cousin.”

  Delia tipped up her chin imperiously. “My mother’s side, probably. I’ve got so many cousins on that side, I don’t bother to keep track of them all.”

  Whoa. That was something I would not be passing on to my office manager. “Well, Gabi knows who you are.”

  Delia shrugged. “Maybe I do know her. Is she the kinda fat one with the big mouth, the one that never got married?”

  Now I really was not liking this woman. “No. I’m talking about the kindhearted one, the one who would probably give you the shirt off her back if you asked.”

  Delia tossed the rag onto the counter. “Just what do you want from me? I’ve got work to do.”

  I thought of Melanie and Dave. And decided to try again, a third time. “Look, Delia. I’m not here to harass you. I’m only here because of the Rasmussens. They’ve asked for my help. You’re the one who found their son’s body, and that’s the only reason I want to talk.”

  Behind all the makeup, in spite of her sharp features, Delia Foley seemed to soften. “Let’s go outside. I’ve got a few minutes before I have to open.”

  She had forty-five minutes, but I didn’t press the point. “Thanks.”