Part 22 (1/2)

”There were other cousins,” I said. ”My father's aunts and uncles and cousins. But we were never close. People died, they married, they moved away. The picnic was the last time I ever saw most of them.”

”Sad,” Vida intoned. ”So sad. No wonder you-” She bit off the words and I eyed her with curiosity.

But Vida shook her head. ”Nothing. Here we are,” she added, striding out of the elevator.

Somewhat to my surprise, Vida had decided not to see Ronnie. Her mind had been made up by my conversation with Uncle Gary and Aunt Marlene.

”This is strictly family business,” she a.s.serted in uncharacteristic fas.h.i.+on. ”I can't possibly insert myself into this matter.”

As Ronnie entered on his side of the table, I noticed that not only was his bandage smaller, but he also seemed to have shrunk. In fact, the pale blue walls of the visiting area appeared as if they were encroaching on him, destined to squeeze out whatever life was left in Ronnie Mallet.

His first question was about Budweiser. I related my visit with Mrs. Chan and how her husband had found the dog at the door to the apartment the morning after the murder. It was some news, if not the bad news that Buddy was still missing.

”Good ol' Buddy,” Ronnie said with the hint of a smile. ”He never goes far. I wonder how he got loose?”

”I don't know,” I said, then stared at my cousin. ”You had him tied up?”

Ronnie nodded. ”Out back. He never liked that, but I was kinda bushed that night. I didn't feel like takin' him for his usual run.”

According to Maybeth, Buddy had stopped barking after the fight between Ronnie and Carol was over. ”Did you let Buddy loose after you left the apartment to go drinking?”

”Naw.” Ronnie's expression was rueful. ”I was mad, so I just took off. Anyways, I don't like lettin' him run. There's too much traffic on Greenwood. He might get hit. And I sure couldn't let him into the apartment with Carol. She'd have kicked him out, just to get even with me.”

”What started the fight, Ronnie?”

”I thought I told you,” he said with a frown. ”Carol wanted me to pitch in more.”

”With money?” I asked, aware of a painful reunion next to us, apparently between mother and son. Both were crying.

”Money 'n' other stuff,” Ronnie said, now mumbling. ”You know, stuff around the apartment.”

”You didn't want to contribute more?”

”I was already payin' most of the rent,” Ronnie said, his voice now helpless. ”She bought most of the groceries, but I gave her money for them, too. I did lots of stuff around the apartment, like takin' out garbage and doin' dishes. And so what? She always said I did it all wrong.”

”You loved her despite all that?” My voice had grown very soft.

Ronnie shut his eyes. ”Yeah, I guess. She could be real sweet when she wanted to.”

”But she hit you, didn't she, Ronnie?”

He lowered his gaze. ”Sometimes.”

”Did you hit back?”

”No.” He paused, still avoiding my gaze. ”I'd push her sometimes. You know, to keep her from whalin' on me.”

”Why did you put up with that kind of treatment?”

”Well... maybe I deserved it.”

”Maybe you didn't,” I said.

The pale blue eyes flickered up at me, then turned away. ”I'm a screwup.”

”Who said so?”

Ronnie raised his eyes again, this time with a befuddled expression. ”Everybody. I always screw up.”

”n.o.body screws up all the time, Ronnie. And everybody screws up some of the time.”

”Not like me.” Ronnie gave an impotent little shrug.

Sadly, I shook my head. I could sit here arguing for a week with Ronnie and not be able to convince him he wasn't a loser. It hadn't taken a homicide to put Ronnie where he was now. The steel bars and high walls weren't his real prison. For thirty-five years he had let his parents, his sisters, his so-called friends and girlfriends tell him he was worthless.

”G.o.d, Ronnie,” I said, feeling as powerless as he was, ”I wish I could make you believe otherwise. What if I told you I thought you were a good-hearted, decent human being?”

Ronnie chuckled. ”I guess I'd wonder why you said that.”

I guess I wondered why I'd tried.

The mother and son next to us were still crying.

”SUCH A CRUEL pattern.” Vda sighed after I'd described my visit with Ronnie. ”When it comes to grown men and women, I understand-and it's usually the man, of course-that it's a matter of manipulation. The pattern is established from the onset, with the abuser not keeping a date or showing up three hours late, and then apologizing in such a humble, extravagant way that the other person actually feels even luckier in love. It grows from there, like a cancer, with other, more vicious kinds of abuse, but always the penitence and the promises. I know, I've seen it.”

”It has something to do with domination when it comes to men,” I said as we reached the parking garage to claim the Lexus. ”I suspect that Carol-and Maybeth and some of his other girlfriends-had some sort of s.e.xual hold over Ronnie.”

Vida eyed me from under the ostrich plumes. ”If you're going to start talking about whips and leather, I'm not getting into the car with you. Really, Emma, sometimes you shock me.”

I didn't, of course. On the other hand, I had to stifle a sudden image of Vida in long black boots, silver studs, and a corset that- ”I'm talking about psychology,” I said, interrupting myself lest I become overwhelmed with mirth. ”Anyway, it has more to do with control and self-esteem. Of which my cousin has none. Where do we go from here?” I asked, slipping into the driver's seat.

”I don't know,” Vida admitted. ”If only there was a way I could meet Darryl.”

”I can't think of any,” I said, ”unless you get Bill Gates's permission to tackle him at work.”

”Do you think I might?” Vida asked as we wound our way out of the garage.

I told Vida I knew next to nothing about the work culture at Microsoft, except that it involved long hours and complete dedication. ”Not a kind of drop-in environment,” I added.

”Drat.” Vida was silent until after we'd paid an exorbitant parking fee and were going down Sixth Avenue. As we pa.s.sed the Sheraton Hotel, she suddenly said, ”Roy.”

”Roy Sprague?” I said. ”He's probably at work, too. And what could he tell us that Maybeth hasn't already?”

”His version may be different from hers,” Vida pointed out. ”I realize he wasn't at the apartment house- supposedly-when Carol was killed, but that doesn't mean he hasn't got some sort of information we haven't yet heard. Where does he work?”

”I don't know. I don't think we asked.” I kept driving north, past the Westin Hotel and the Sixth Avenue Motor Inn.

”Maybeth,” Vida said. ”We must find out about that letter to the Addisons. Where does she work?”

Once again, I had to confess ignorance. ”I think it was a hair salon, but I forget the name.”