Sudden Exposure (8 page)

On Wednesday, our 10
A.M.
to 8
P.M.
day, I left for work, knowing Howard would be gone when I got home.

The first thing waiting for me at the station was a message from Herman Ott, Telegraph Avenue detective. A message from Ott is never a plus. I tossed it. The second was a note from Brucker: “Need to go over your cases. I’ll be here until noon.” There were no open homicides and I had left him notes on all the felony assaults that required explanation. Still, his wasn’t an unreasonable request. I would answer his questions, after we were eye to eye about sticking my belongings on the squad room table. And after I’d dealt with Bryn Wiley.

I didn’t know how serious Bryn Wiley had been about her threat to force Johnson’s hand at her press conference Saturday. She’d expect me to be on Johnson’s tail, not “wasting time” reminding her how unpredictable the man was and objecting to her plans. She wasn’t going to be pleased to see me at her own door.

Which is why, when I got there, I was surprised to be greeted with a look of panic followed by a smile. And more surprised that the woman at Bryn Wiley’s door was not Bryn Wiley but Ellen Waller. “Come on in,” she said. In the daylight she looked less like Bryn’s deflated ghost. I could see now that the resemblance was more general than it had seemed last Saturday—two thin, tallish women with short, full, chestnut brown hair. But Ellen Waller’s face was softer than Bryn’s. Her eyes were brown, not blue. And she was older than Bryn. Forty-five or so to Bryn’s thirty-three.

“Can I get you some coffee? It’s decaf,” she said, in that wary tone we police officers hear so often we begin to think of it as normal.

I pulled out a line that always puts female witnesses at ease. “I wish I could take you up on that coffee. But not in the middle of a ten-hour shift driving around.”

She smiled. “The dangers of police work they don’t tell you about, huh? Well, sit then. Oh, I guess that’s not really possible with all that stuff hanging off your belt? How about a stool? I’ll get the one from the kitchen. It’s not real comfortable, but—”

“Thanks.” I was impressed at how quickly she’d sized up the situation. Bryn hadn’t noticed it at all. Still I followed Ellen to the kitchen door and held it open as she carried the stool in. I didn’t think she’d make a break for it, but I wasn’t about to take the chance.

She put the stool in the middle of the living room, moved toward one of the sofas, and then, reconsidering, she moved the lusting Shiva to an end table and sat in its place on the end of the confessional bench. She curled her feet under her and rested her right arm familiarly on the penitent’s shelf, next to the priest’s seat. It was a remarkably uncomfortable-looking pose; one, I thought, that merited whatever forgiveness she might request. A clever hostess puts her guest in her debt by offering her the best of the food, the most comfortable chair. It’s not easy with a police officer, but Ellen Waller was managing better than average.

“Where is Bryn?”

“At a planning meeting. She should be back anytime.”

“Planning for the press conference?”

“No. For the fall’s lecture schedule at The Team.”

I nodded. I considered asking Ellen about her sudden departure last week, but the level of potential cooperation was four hundred times what I had expected and I wasn’t about to undermine it—yet. “What can you tell me about the attacks?”

She was wearing a gray sweatshirt and those loose sweat shorts. Now she rearranged her bare legs on the bench, using the time to prepare her answer. I wondered if Bryn had cautioned her about me, or if Ellen herself knew something she hadn’t decided whether to say. Or if she just had more sense than her cousin about pushing Sam Johnson too far. “First off,” she said slowly, “Bryn’s really undone by them. She’s unnerved, but more than that she’s shaken to find out that she is unnerved. She thinks she should be able to handle this, like she did the handstand on the ten-meter platform.”

A meter is 39.37 inches. Upside down, 33 feet above the water? My stomach lurched. I’m better about heights than I used to be, much better. Hardly anyone knows I had a problem. But standing at the edge of a cement block 33 feet above the water … I’d cut off my foot before …“In a handstand?” I must have sounded more horrified than I’d intended.

She reached out automatically and almost patted my arm before she caught herself. “Yeah, and they don’t cancel competition just because it’s windy. Of course, Bryn wasn’t afraid. Fear isn’t something she deals in. For her it’s all challenges to be mastered. Like life’s a finite number of trophies waiting to be moved into her room. There’s no question whether she’ll get one, it’s only a matter of when. If she makes a mistake, she learns her lesson and moves on. Athletes are trained to block out the thoughts of their mistakes, and concentrate, over and over, on the way the thing should be done.” Ellen paused, noting my reaction. “I’m hoping some of that rubs off on me.”

She was observing me as carefully as I was her, as if assessing whether I was adequate to protect Bryn. Or maybe take her on. I’d heard the “past behind you” theory of athletic trainers: that thinking about the road to the mistake wears that sequence of thoughts into the brain and into the body and then, under performance stress, the athlete is likely to veer onto Mistake Road. So block out the errors, mentally rehearse how the performance should be, and create the freeway to Success. Useful in sports, and in life? If all-for-my-goal were a sign of character, Brucker would be up for Role Model of the Year! “How about social things? Relations? Does Bryn handle those as well?”

“If she did, she’d be too perfect to tolerate. Surely you know that.” Ellen’s wide mouth pulled into an ironic smile—it looked like that was the kind of smile for which it had been created. “She’s tolerable, socially, but it’s not her medal sport. Really she’s had to focus too much on her performance to … or maybe it’s just that she’s never
had
to fit in.” She jerked toward me. “I don’t mean that as a criticism. You can’t be everything; what she does is important. For instance, she
handles
problems when someone else, a
lesser
person, would fall apart.”

“Such as?”

“Well, right before she had to dive at the very last Nationals meet, she heard that one of the other Cal divers had been seriously injured in a dive. It unnerved everyone, but she had to block it out and climb up on the same kind of diving platform and dive. Then at the Olympic Trials every time a reporter asked about her dives, her making the Olympic Team, overcoming her scoliosis and that year off, it was always coupled with questions about Tiff. You know the type: ‘Your problems are gone and your friend is in the hospital, how does that make you feel?’ Bryn couldn’t let it get to her.” She shook her head. “It would only have taken one look at a newspaper to make me a basket case; but of course, Bryn didn’t—couldn’t—let herself read those papers, let Tiff’s error taint her.” Ellen must have read my expression; she added quickly, “She’s not callous. Look at how hard she worked, and all the people she’s helped since then. There’s no benefit to wallowing. What’s done is done; she knows that.”

“But do you—does Bryn—think the attacker could be someone from her diving days?”

“She thinks it’s Sam Johnson.”

I leaned toward her, matching her movement, trying to slip into her mental motion. “May be, but it may not be. Either way, I’ve got to have some leads. You’ve been thinking about this, Ellen, and I can see you’re concerned about Bryn. Who do you think might possibly, in the widest range of consideration, be angry enough, hurt enough, crazy enough …”

Ellen shook her head.

I didn’t break the silence.

In Ellen, there was none of Bryn’s smooth, controlled movement so characteristic of the athletic. Her nods and headshakes, the abrupt reach of a hand gave her the semblance of Bryn with the top layer scraped off. Like she’d thought so much about Bryn, observed and pondered her, tried on her skin, that her own effect was evident only in reaction to her brave, demanding cousin. She drew back again, quivering softly in the gray sweats in the beige room. “I haven’t been here that long. And, well, we weren’t close before. So even though we’re family, she’s got friends who know lots more than I do.”

“Who? The friends?”

That threw her back farther. “I don’t know. I guess I mean she should have friends like that.”

“What about a lover, present or past?”

“No one now; no one she’s mentioned. She’s so busy and her schedule’s so peculiar. She’s so focused on her work …”

“How long have you been here?”

“Why do you ask?”

I laughed. “Because I’m a police officer, Ellen.”

“Lest I forget, huh?” She smiled but the movement looked forced. “It’s been about two months since I started here. Before that Bryn wouldn’t even admit she needed a secretary. Everyone else knew it. It took me three weeks just to deal with her unanswered correspondence!” Ellen laughed.

The blue Volvo wagon pulled into the dirt space in front.

The laugh was gone. She glanced from the window to me and back, and said in a quick near-whisper. “The thing I want you to know is that no one’s as perfect as Bryn seems. She’s got devils she can’t face. So when she snaps at you, it’s not because of you, it’s her. She can’t deal with being undone by this. You do understand?”

It was Ellen I didn’t understand. Or what she really thought of Bryn, or of me. “Ellen, I appreciate your concern.” I did. Most subsidiary interviewees paid as much attention to my feelings as I do to those of the clerk who sells me my Snickers. I waited till she flashed a nervous smile. “Why did you go out the door when you saw me last night?”

“Last night?” she repeated, looking beyond me at the car outside. “Bryn wouldn’t …”

The car door slammed.

“Bryn wouldn’t what?”

Bryn got out and took the steps to the door in two bounds.

Ellen jumped up and pulled open the door, ready for Bryn.

“Ellen,” I said, “the question still stands.”

Bryn strode in, chestnut hair gleaming, bright blue eyes glowing, shoulder muscles peeking out of a sleeveless Girls’ Team T-shirt that just matched her eyes. But when she spotted me her face hardened. It might as well have been a marquee flashing: I let you see me emotionally naked. Now I’m going to wrap myself in so much anger, blanket you with so many demands and accusations, I’ll entirely cover over that shameful incident. She flopped on the couch and glared up at me. “Have you interrogated Johnson?”

“We question. They only interrogate in the movies. And yes, I’ve questioned some of your neighbors, including him.” I didn’t allude to the humiliated anger; she’d take that as poking her wound. “Has the guard started yet?”

“No.”

“When—”

“He doesn’t. I’m not spending hundreds of dollars on a rent-a-cop because you real cops can’t do your jobs.”

“Your choice. For yourself, your employees, and your customers.” I paused just long enough to air the implication of irresponsibility. “Then let’s talk to other suspects. I know you’re convinced Johnson is our guy, but believe me, an assailant can be someone so unimportant to you you don’t remember a name. But let’s start out easy. Ex-lovers.”

“No.”

“Think. Who have you dated in the past year? Make me a list. You can drop it by the station for me.”

Bryn’s face tightened, but before she could retort, Ellen said, “I’ll get the calendar and your address book for you later.”

Bryn nodded dismissively.

“Girls’ Team customers—”

“
Members
.”

“Or employees? Is there anyone who feels he or she has been pushed aside?”

“I don’t push people aside!”

“Should she add them to the list?” Ellen asked. I glanced at her just in time to see the smallest of grins fade from her lips.

“Ellen!” Bryn snapped. “Get me some tea.”

Ellen blanched, jumped up, and pushed the kitchen door to swing closed behind her.

Glancing after her, Bryn sighed. I had the sense that she wanted to say something ameliorating but had no idea just what was appropriate. And she wasn’t about to wimp out in front of me, not again. My
guess
was that she was as unnerved by Ellen’s jab and dance as Ellen was frightened of her knockout punches.

Bryn had said she was so strapped for money she couldn’t afford to hire anyone but a relative. That explained her half of the bargain. But Ellen? Surely she could do better than be at the beck and call of a tetchy, self-absorbed cousin …

“Bryn, just what does Ellen know about this?”

She started to protest, but I held out a palm. “No. Ellen knows something. The two of you are bouncing it back and forth out of my reach. It’s key to this investigation, right? What is it?” I gave her a moment to respond, then demanded, “What about diving competitors?”

“You can’t cheat in diving, for Chrissakes! Can’t hide anything. You’re up there on the platform like a pimple on the end of a tongue. Only thing you can do is kiss up to the judges. And
I
damned well didn’t do that!”

It was a big defensive burst for a series of incidents that she’d been living off ever since. If she had done anything amiss in the Olympics, the media would have jumped on it. “If it’s not that, what is it?”

“Either arrest Johnson, or stop pretending you’re doing anything but wasting my time.”

With anyone else I would have walked out of there, and written a report loaded with “refused cooperation.” “I won’t tell people how to exercise if you won’t run the police department.”

“I don’t need—”

Taking a deep breath, I translated
grow up
: “Ellen told me one of your strengths was putting problems behind you and focusing on the issue at hand. I’d appreciate your doing that now.”

She hesitated, then shouted, “Ellen, the tea! It doesn’t have to be dead black.”

Ellen hurried in, cup in one hand, pot in the other. She moved to the far side of Bryn, put the cup on the end table next to the Shiva, and bent over to pour. The bitter smell of green tea cut the air. Her movements had the same deadpan quality of her earlier comments. She didn’t look at Bryn at all. It was to me she gave the smallest of smiles before she settled on the penitent’s seat.