"Who's the daddy?" Vince said, feeling a whiplash coming on. "Who's the baby?"

59.

"When is my mommy going to stop being dead?"

Anne brought a bowl of tomato soup to the kitchen table and sat down next to Haley on the banquette. Haley had tossed the question out like she was asking the time of day. Matter-of-fact in the way of small children whose lives drift in and out of fantasy. Death was unreal, but a unicorn might live in the bushes outside the house.

"People don't stop being dead, sweetheart," Anne said quietly.

Engrossed in her coloring, Haley didn't even look up. "Yes, they do. They turn into angels."

"Oh. Well, yes," Anne said, once again feeling out of her depth. She had no way of knowing what belief system Marissa Fordham had subscribed to or what she had instilled in her daughter. "Then what happens?"

"They go to heaven and fly around, and they come for Christmas, and whenever we need them." She looked up at Anne then. Some of the blood had left the whites of her eyes, but the effect was still startling. "How come you don't know that?"

"I do," Anne said. "I was just testing you. Have some of your soup, sweetie. It'll feel good on your throat."

Haley knelt on the cushion of the banquette and leaned over her bowl, blowing on the soup to cool it.

Anne glanced at the paper she had been drawing on. Oddly shaped cats and kittens of all colors ran along the bottom third of the page. She wondered how Vince would feel about having a kitten in the house. Or two.

She reached over and brushed Haley's hair back to keep the ends from dipping in the soup, and revealed the dark bruises that ringed her throat. They had faded to a mix of blue and yellow. She could almost feel Peter Crane's hands close around her throat and had to swallow hard a couple of times to push the feeling away. She hadn't been able to wear anything tight around her neck since, no turtlenecks, no scarves, no short necklaces.

"Where's your mommy?" Haley asked. She scooped up a spoonful of soup and sipped at it, giving herself an instant tomato-soup mustache.

"She's an angel in heaven," Anne said.

"That's good. Does she know my mommy?"

"Maybe."

"Where's your daddy?"

"He lives in a house in another part of town."

"Why?"

"Because that's his house."

"How come you don't live in his house?"

"Because this is my house. Vince and I are married and this is our house."

Haley thought about that and ate some more soup. "I would live in my daddy's house."

"Would you?" Anne asked. "Where is your daddy's house?"

"I don't know."

"What does your daddy look like?"

"I don't know."

"Is he a big guy like Vince?"

"No."

"Does he have a mustache?"

"No."

"Does he have orange hair?"

Haley laughed. "No! That's silly!"

"Does he have blue hair like a Smurf?"

"No!"

"Does he have no hair at all?"

The little girl fell into a fit of giggles, flopping down onto the cushion. Anne scooped her back up.

"Come on, silly, eat your lunch before it gets cold."

Haley took a few more spoons of soup. Anne knew her well enough by now to see the little wheels of her mind turning as she thought hard about something.

"Anne?" she said at last.

"What?"

"Would you be my mommy until my mommy stops being an angel?"

Tears stung her eyes as Anne hugged Haley tight and kissed the top of head. "I'll be your mommy for as long as I can be," she whispered. "How about that?"

Haley nodded and squirmed around onto Anne's lap, and stuck her thumb in her mouth, suddenly tired.

"Are you ready for a nap, sweetie?" Anne asked softly.

"No."

"No? You look pretty sleepy."

"No!" she whined.

"Why not?"

"Bad Daddy will come!"

"What if I stay right with you so Bad Daddy can't get you?"

The tears started with two big drops. "No! Bad Daddy will get you too!"

"No, baby, that won't happen. We're safe here. Remember?"

Haley was unconvinced, sniffling and crying a little, all around her thumb.

"You know what?" Anne said. "We're not going to think about Bad Daddy now. We're going to play a game. Do you want to play a game?"

"W-w-w-hat game?"

"We're going to play Imagine That. Do you know that game?"

Haley shook her head.

"You know what Bad Daddy looks like," Anne said. "What color are his clothes?"

"B-b-b-black."

"Not anymore," Anne said. "We're going to make them white. White with big pink polka dots. Can you imagine that?"

Haley hiccupped and nodded.

"And he has big huge floppy clown shoes on. Can you imagine that?"

She nodded a little quicker this time.

"And does he have a big round red nose?"

Another nod.

"And it honks like a horn when you pinch it. Can you imagine that?"

"Uh-huh."

"It's not Bad Daddy anymore. He's just a silly clown. Can you imagine that?"

No answer this time. Anne peeked down. Sound asleep.

She scooted back on the banquette to a more comfortable position with Haley sleeping against her. It was almost one o'clock. Sara Morgan had called and asked if she could bring Wendy over, a visit that would be good for both Haley and Wendy.

Anne knew Wendy was struggling, and Sara sounded stressed down to her last nerve. She and Steve probably weren't going to make it. That was going to be especially tough on Wendy. Anne wanted her to feel like she had a safe haven if she needed it in the future.

d.a.m.n. She wasn't going to have time to get to Dennis today. She would have to call and let the nurse supervisor know. And she would call Dr. Falk as well.

Guilt swept over her in a cold wave. She hated missing a session with him, especially when she had made a promise. She had stopped at the bookstore and picked out a couple of comic books for him for his reward. Of course, the odds that he had done the a.s.signment she had given him were long. Still, she hated not being able to keep a promise to him. He had had too many people let him down in his short life.

You can't save everybody every day, Anne, she told herself.

60.

"What do you mean Marissa Fordham isn't the little girl's mother?" Dixon asked.

Most of the detectives had come into the war room for lunch, to have a little ham and cheese with their homicide. Eight-by-tens of the Marissa Fordham crime-scene photos were plastered all over one wall.

Vince showed Dixon the photograph of Gina and Marissa in Cabo San Lucas in March 1982, and explained about the significance of the dates.

At the end of the story, Dixon just stared at him, dumbfounded.

"I'm confused," he said at last. "If Haley isn't Marissa's child, then whose child is she?"

"I don't know," Vince said. "I don't know what to say."

"You think Marissa was blackmailing the supposed father, but the kid's a ringer?" Dixon said. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I thought I'd heard everything."

"Haley was an infant when Marissa moved here," Mendez pointed out. "No one here ever saw her pregnant."

"And yet everyone would a.s.sume the child was her child," Dixon said. "Huh. So ... where did she get the baby?"

"That's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question," Vince said. "You can't just walk into a store and buy a baby."

"But you can always steal one," Mendez suggested. "Or she could have adopted."

"The murder might not have anything to do with blackmail at all," Hamilton said, flicking pickles off his tuna salad. "We haven't really come up with any solid evidence to support the theory. There's nothing fishy in her bank records. She could have been stashing money elsewhere, but everything looks legit so far."

"Besides," Trammell said, "in this day and age, who would pay blackmail without proof the kid was really his kid? A paternity test is a lot cheaper than paying someone to keep their mouth shut."

"Blackmail is a poker game," Vince said. "If you really didn't want a big scandal attached to your name, would you call the woman's bluff? Maybe she's got pictures of you and her together in a compromising position or two. She can for sure prove to G.o.d and everybody you were having s.e.x with her. If you don't pay, the majority of the s.h.i.t hits the fan whether the kid is yours or not."

"Then everyone a.s.sumes the kid is yours anyway," Mendez said.

"By the time the paternity test is done, who gives a s.h.i.t?" Vince said. "All the damage to your reputation, your marriage, your career, whatever, has been done."

"Maybe Bruce Bordain has a point," Dixon said. "If you're the kind of guy who's so inclined, pay up front."

He heaved a sigh and let his shoulders sag for a moment while he thought.