What had happened to David?
Laura still did not know. Her visit to Australia had given rise to more questions than it had answered. Maybe some of these uncertainties would be resolved when they finally located the guest list or the phone bills from the Pacific International, but then what would she do? What was she searching for, anyway? David was dead. What was the point in going through all of this?
She went through customs, found a taxi, and settled into the backseat. Her mind was still in Australia, still trying to figure out what David’s last few hours had been like. Nothing made sense anymore. If someone had been after David’s money, why had the bastards killed him?
Why hadn’t they just held him for ransom? Laura would have given them all the money they wanted and not said a word to anyone. But no, they chose to go through this elaborate scheme and kill David when the alternatives would have been much more profitable.
Why go to all that trouble? Unless . . .
Unless David wasn’t killed for the money.
Laura sat up. Could that be? But why else would someone want to get rid of David? If his money was not the motive, what was? Laura’s mind clawed around for the answer, but nothing came to her. Sure, there were people whom David had alienated. But enough to kill him? Not likely. How about someone who wanted him out of basketball? How about some big-time bookie who had bet against the Celtics once too often and thought David had double-crossed him? Highly unlikely. Besides, that was hardly the mob’s style. If the mob had wanted David dead, they just would have sent some guy with a bent nose and a stiletto to do the job. There would have been no need for all this fancy cover-up.
The taxi reached the heart of the city, passing all the familiar landmarks Laura thought of as old friends. Had David really been murdered? When Laura mentally stepped back and viewed the evidence unbiased, she could see that most of it was circumstantial at best. So David visited someone in a hotel and made a few phone calls back home—big deal. It was a long stretch from those flimsy facts to concrete proof of a murder.
Laura glanced out the window. Reaching deeper into her mind, Laura wondered what she was really trying to find in all of this. Suppose David had been murdered. What would she do then? Would she hunt down the killers, demanding their blood like some character in a Charles Bronson film? Was she seeking vengeance, or was she just using this “investigation” as an excuse to keep reality at bay for a little while?
Revenge had never been her game in the past. Laura’s mind traveled back to Gloria’s terrifying phone call from California the previous year. The two sisters spoke about nothing in particular, just catching up on what was going on in each other’s lives. When Gloria finally said goodbye, Laura felt baseless panic. It was nothing her sister had said, nothing in the words they exchanged, and yet the conversation kept gnawing at Laura. Something was wrong—not just the routine problems of life but seriously wrong. Deadly wrong. She decided to charter a plane and fly out to see her sister.
“Charter a plane?” David had said. “Why the rush?”
“I can’t explain it, David. You should have heard her voice. So lifeless. Like I was talking to someone who knew they were reaching the end.”
T.C. met them in the airport. They flew out to San Francisco and stormed in on a group of men gang-raping Gloria. After chasing the Colombians out of the house, David wanted to beat the shit out of Gloria’s scuzzy boyfriend, Tony, and leave him for near-dead. T.C. concurred. But even though Tony had inflicted unimaginable horror onto her sister, Laura felt no need to strike back. She only wanted to save her sister. Revenge did not interest her.
So why the change now? Why was she all of a sudden demanding her pound of flesh? She had no answer to that query. Maybe it was because David would have done the same if Laura had been the one killed. He had always fought those who harmed his loved ones with an intensity that sometimes frightened Laura. But maybe her motives were much simpler. Maybe she hoped this created conspiracy would distract her from the basic issue: David’s death. Be it murder or accident, David was dead. Nothing could change that simple fact. David was dead. Laura could say those three words easily enough, could think them, but they never truly sank in.
“Here we are, ma’am.”
Laura grabbed her suitcase from the trunk and paid the driver. A gust of cold wind ripped through her skin until it struck bone. By the time she reached the apartment door, the key was already in her hand. She put down her suitcase, opened the door, felt around for the light switch, found it, and flicked it up.
Nothing happened.
Laura moved the switch up and down a few times, but the light still did not come on. Strange. Maybe it was just a burned-out bulb. She shook her head. No way. This particular switch turned on the overhead light and two lamps. Slim chance all those bulbs blew out at the same time. It was more likely a blown fuse or a loose wire. With a sigh, she dragged her suitcase into the dark apartment. There was no light at all except for the light from the hallway and—and the glow of light peeking out from under the bedroom door.
Laura’s body went rigid. Sounds. Sounds were coming from behind the bedroom door.
Get out, Laura. Call the police.
But she did not do that. Instead, she felt her foot step forward. A strange thought propelled her toward the bedroom: whoever was behind the door had something to do with David’s death. Behind that door could lurk what she had been seeking in Australia. If she ran away and called the police, the clue might have time to elude her and slip away forever. Now it was trapped in the bedroom. There was no way for it to escape without being seen.
She moved silently now, creeping slowly toward the door. The sounds became louder. Voices. Voices and a sound she couldn’t quite place. The crack of light under the bedroom door flickered a few times but remained on. She slunk against the wall, sliding one foot forward at a time until she reached the door.
Laura held her breath. She could feel her heart beat wildly in her chest. She leaned her ear against the door. Voices. Unmistakable now. But what were they saying? And what the hell was she going to do now? Rush in like some kind of a superhero? Who did she think she was? Wonder Woman? What would she do—
The voices. Two of them. She looked down and saw the light sneaking under the door reflect against her foot. And then she heard that other noise again. Softly now. So like—
—cheering?
She closed her eyes and felt the relief wash through her. The glow of light. The sounds. It was the television. It was only the goddamn television. She shook her head and scolded her overactive imagination. David used to tease her about it all the time. “You see conspiracy in everything, woman,” he would say whenever she came up with some harebrained scheme.