Part 12 (1/2)

”My father's not there. Nana Mama's ex-husband, my grandfather, is, and his parents. I must have been named for my great-grandfather Alexander, who was a blacksmith.”

”You never knew that?”

I shook my head.

”Maybe there's another Cross plot up here,” Bree said.

”Maybe,” I said, and I put the car in gear.

Nine rows up I spotted the pale white monument that said parks below a carved American flag. It was closer to the cemetery lane, four graves in, and well tended, with fresh flowers in a vase. Like the Cross plot lower on the hill, there were smaller stones, two of them, separated by a gap of several feet. They were inscribed B.W.P. and C.P.C.

Brock William Parks and Christina Parks Cross.

The grief swept over me like a chill fog thick with regret and loss. Tears began to dribble down my cheeks as I whispered, ”I'm sorry I've never been here before, Mom. I'm sorry about ... everything.”

I stood there trying to remember the last time I'd seen my mother, and I couldn't. She'd been dying in the house. I was sure of that because my aunts were there a lot, caring for her. But I couldn't conjure her up.

Disturbed by that, I wiped at my tears, walked around the back, and looked at the inscriptions.

BROCK WILLIAM PARKS.

GREEN BERET.

HERO TO HIS NATION.

CHRISTINA PARKS CROSS.

LOVING MOTHER.

I was flooded with emotions and images of my mother on her best days, when she was loving, caring, and so much fun to be around. I could have sworn I heard her singing then, and it took everything I had to make it back to the car.

Bree watched me with tear-filled eyes. ”She's there?”

I nodded, and then broke down sobbing. ”She's been there for all these years, Bree. And I've ... never ... been here. Not once. In all this time, I never even wondered where she was buried. I mean, my G.o.d, who does that? What kind of son am I?”

CHAPTER 26.

Palm Beach, Florida

AT NOON THAT same Sat.u.r.day, Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office Detectives Peter Drummond and Richard S. Johnson were dispatched to a mansion on North Ocean Boulevard.

Detective Johnson was in his early thirties, a big athletic guy, ex-Marine, and a recent hire from Dade County. Detective Sergeant Drummond was in his sixties, a big, robust black man with a face almost devoid of expression due to nerve damage a.s.sociated with a large burn scar that began beneath his right eye and spread over much of his cheek to his jaw.

Johnson knew he was lucky to have Drummond as his partner. The sergeant was a legend in the department, one of those men who had a knack for figuring out how criminals, especially murderers, thought.

Sergeant Drummond took a left off North Ocean Boulevard and pulled through open gates into an Italianate manor's courtyard where two cruisers, a medical examiner's van, and a midnight-blue Rolls-Royce were parked.

”Who the h.e.l.l can afford to live like this?” Johnson asked.

”Around here,” Drummond said, ”lots of folks. And definitely Dr. Stanley Abrams. He owns a big plastic-surgery clinic. They call him the b.o.o.b King.”

They climbed out of the unmarked cruiser into heat that was unG.o.dly despite the proximity to the ocean.

”I thought most of the super-rich along Ocean Boulevard headed north for the summer,” the younger detective said.

”Most do,” the sergeant replied. ”But guys like Abrams stay around no matter how hot it gets.”

One of the uniformed deputies showed them into the house-a castle, really, with so many hallways and rooms that Detective Johnson was soon lost. They climbed a grand staircase, pa.s.sing an oil painting of a pretty woman in a ball gown, and heard the sound of a man crying.

They entered a bedroom suite and found a slight man in a hall off the bedroom sitting on a padded bench, head down.

”Dr. Abrams?” Drummond said.

The plastic surgeon looked up, revealing a smooth-featured face and a full head of hair that spoke to Johnson of multiple procedures, including hair plugs.

Drummond identified himself, told Abrams he was sorry for his loss.

”I don't get it,” Abrams said, composing himself. ”Ruth was the happiest person I know. Why would she do this to herself?”

”No inkling that she might have been thinking of suicide?” Drummond asked.

”None,” the doctor said.

”Nothing that had upset her lately?” Johnson asked.

The plastic surgeon started to shake his head, but then stopped. ”Well, Lisa Martin's death last week. They were close, ran in the same circles.”

Both detectives nodded. They'd caught that case too. But the death of Lisa Martin, another Ocean Boulevard resident, had been ruled accidental. She'd knocked a plugged-in Bose radio into the tub while she was taking a bath.

”So your wife was sad about Mrs. Martin's death?” Drummond said.

”Yes, sad and upset,” Abrams said. ”But not enough to ... Ruth had everything to live for, and she loved life. My G.o.d, she's the only person in this town, including me, who's never been on antidepressants!”

”You found her, sir?” Johnson asked.

The surgeon's eyes watered, and he nodded. ”Ruth had given the staff the weekend off. I flew in overnight from Zurich.”

”We're going to take a look,” Drummond said. ”You touch anything?”