Sidney Sheldon’s The Silent Widow. Тилли Бэгшоу
Even her voice sounded exhausted, each word elongated – ‘I’m Fraaaaan’ – as if the effort of moving on to the next one was too much to bear.
‘You’re here about Braaaaandon?’ She slumped down onto one of the couches.
‘That’s right. Is your son at home, Mrs Grolsch?’ Goodman asked.
‘Nooooo.’ Frances Grolsch closed her eyes, offering no more information. This woman needs help, Goodman thought.
‘Do you know when you expect him back?’
The eyes opened, but she didn’t respond.
‘Ma’am?’
To Goodman’s embarrassment, Frances Grolsch opened her mouth and let out a long, low howl, an awful, animal moan of distress that went on and on, getting louder and louder. Goodman heard a door slam in the hallway, and heavy footsteps approaching. Seconds later the door swung open and a tall, elderly man in a dark suit stormed in.
‘What the hell, Franny? Shut up! You sound like a goddamn air-raid siren. I’m trying to work.’ Turning on Goodman, the old man barked, ‘Why is she crying? And who the hell are you?’
Goodman produced his badge. The old man inspected it, unimpressed.
‘Homicide?’ he scowled. ‘Who died? Franny, I said shut UP!’ he roared at his wife, who ran whimpering from the room.
‘Nathan Grolsch, I assume?’ Goodman countered, doing his best to take control of the situation. Not easy with such a bullying, forceful man.
‘Of course I’m Nathan Grolsch,’ the old man grunted. ‘The question is, who the hell are you?’
Goodman held up his badge again.
‘So? Why are you here?’ Grolsch asked, unimpressed. ‘I’m a busy man, you know.’
‘I need to speak to your son, Brandon.’
Grolsch rolled his eyes. ‘Is that why she was bawling?’ He nodded towards the door through which his wife had bolted. ‘You asked her about Brandon?’
‘Mr Grolsch, do you know where your son is?’ Goodman asked pointedly. He was beginning to get irritated by the old man’s attitude. ‘A young woman has been brutally murdered and we need to eliminate your son from our inquiries.’
‘Well, that shouldn’t be hard,’ Brandon’s father said bluntly. ‘Brandon’s dead.’
Goodman did a double take. ‘Excuse me?’
There was no record of Brandon Grolsch’s death, or even of his being missing.
‘He took an overdose,’ Nathan Grolsch announced matter-of-factly. ‘His mother got a letter around eight months ago, from a “friend” who saw it happen. Some friend, right? Fran’s still in denial about it. Thinks Brandon’s gonna walk back through that door some day like the prodigal son.’ He snorted derisively.
‘You received word eight months ago that your son died of an overdose, but you never thought to notify anyone?’ Goodman asked, incredulous.
‘What’s to notify?’ Nathan Grolsch shrugged. ‘There was no body, no proof. Look, my son was an addict, OK? A useless, lying, no-good scumbag who threw his life away for drugs. That is the beginning and the end of the story. Brandon was dead to me long before that letter.’
Wow, Goodman thought. What a prince of a guy. With a dad like that, no wonder the kid went off the rails.
‘Does Mrs Grolsch still have the letter?’
‘Nope. I burned it.’ The old man’s pale, rheumy eyes glistened with spite. ‘That meddlesome bitch Valentina Baden should never have shown it to Fran in the first place. She must have known it would screw her up. Better for everyone to get rid of the thing. Close the door on the whole sorry chapter.’
Goodman’s mind raced. ‘Valentina Baden? You mean Willie Baden’s wife?’
‘Right,’ Grolsch grunted. ‘She runs some charity for missing kids. I guess at one point Fran decided Brandon was “missing” and Valentina must’ve gotten involved. In any case, she passed on the letter. So you can go ahead and “eliminate” Brandon from your inquiries.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not quite that easy, Mr Grolsch,’ Goodman said, pleased to have provoked a look of deep irritation on the old man’s face. ‘We have DNA evidence directly linking Brandon to the murder victim. And as you say, you have no proof your son is dead. No body. And, now that you’ve burned the letter, no hard evidence either. Other than your word.’
Goodman’s tone made it plain how little store he set by Nathan Grolsch’s word.
‘What’s the dead girl’s name?’ Nathan Grolsch sighed deeply.
‘Lisa Flannagan.’
‘Never heard of her.’ Grolsch shrugged.
‘She was Willie Baden’s mistress,’ Goodman shot back. ‘Among other things. Small world, isn’t it?’
A momentary flash of surprise registered on Nathan Grolsch’s face, but he swiftly recovered. ‘Not that small. From what I’ve heard, Baden’s slept with half the pretty girls in LA. Probably why his wife needs charity work to distract her. Look I’m sorry, Detective, but I really can’t help you. My son is dead, whether you choose to believe it or not.’
‘Be that as it may, I’m going to need to know when, exactly, you last saw him,’ Goodman insisted. ‘Who his friends were. His dealers. Where he hung out.’
‘I don’t know any of that,’ Nathan Grolsch snapped. ‘I dare say his mother remembers some of the low-life scum he hung around with,’ he offered grudgingly. ‘You could ask her, although as you can see, Detective, Frances is not exactly at her best by this stage in the day. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get changed. My racquetball coach should be here any minute.’
And with that, Nathan Grolsch left the room, without so much as a handshake.
Goodman wisely took a couple of moments to regain his composure before walking back into the hallway and accosting the housekeeper.
‘Take me to Brandon’s room.’
He could see the housekeeper’s panic, her eyes darting around the foyer in search of Mr Grolsch, afraid to comply without his approval. Goodman flashed his badge and repeated the instruction, his tone making it plain this was not a request. Reluctantly she escorted him upstairs and nodded towards the relevant door, then scuttled away as fast as she could.
The room Goodman walked into was a large, brightly decorated boy’s bedroom. He felt a pang of real sadness. There was so much warmth here, so much innocence and hope, traces of the happy child Brandon Grolsch must once have been, before drugs robbed him of his future. The desk chair shaped like a football. The Lamborghini posters on the walls. The trophies, for swimming and karate, wedged between books about NFL heroes and space exploration. The giant ‘B’ cushion, propped up against the Pottery Barn teen bed.
Where did it all go wrong?
A noise behind him made Goodman turn. Brandon’s mother, her eyes still puffy from crying, hovered anxiously in the doorway.
‘Did Brandon have a computer? Or a phone?’ Goodman asked.
She nodded. ‘Both. Once. But he sold ’em, long before he left. You know how it is, when kids have problems.’
Goodman nodded. He knew how it was.
Frances Grolsch gazed vacantly around her son’s room.
‘Maybe he got another phone … I guess he must have.’
‘Mrs Grolsch, your husband believes that Brandon is dead. He said you received a letter—’
‘We don’t know!’ Frances insisted, twisting