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She said, “Killed with a lover. She was the main target, not him?”
“Yes.”
“Poor guy, guess he just happened to be cheating with the wrong person.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
She looked at me, as if expecting some sort of psychological supplement. I said nothing and she turned back to Milo.
“So. You drove all the way out here. What do you think I can tell you that’ll justify the trip?”
Before he could answer, the drinks arrived. Kathy Bookbinder let hers sit there and maintained unwavering eye contact.
He said, “We’d appreciate anything you think might be relevant.”
“To a murder that occurred, what…twenty-five years later? How about you start by filling in what happened to Persephone as an adult. Because after she ran away, I never heard from or saw her again.”
“Away from a foster home?”
“No, she spent one night in a county facility for adolescents with lax security and just walked away. Most of the kids there had committed crimes but a few, like Peri—that’s what she called herself—were wards of the court. I made her one—made all three of them wards— because some idiot judge lethimout on bail. We were worried about their safety so we separated them and sent them to three different cities. Peri ended up in Pensacola because she was the victim of record and deemed the most vulnerable and that was far north. Barlett—the older brother—him we felt comfortable keeping closer so we placed him in—don’t hold me to this, it’s been ages—I want to say Tampa. The little one was vulnerable for other reasons, clearly a kid with issues, so he went to a psych facility clear across the state near Fort Lauderdale.”
She smiled and sipped. “I had no idea my memory was that good.”
I said, “Relevance will do that to you.”
“I’m relevant?”
I smiled back. “What was Barlett like?”
Dual emeralds glinted, then nearly vanished as she squinted straight at me. Through me. “You thinkhedid it?”
“We definitely don’t.”
Milo said, “A man named Richard Barlett, two years younger than Meagin—Peri—was murdered a couple of days after she was. Can’t get into details, but we have reason to believe the killings were related.”
Kathy Bookbinder’s shoulders rounded and she seemed to compress. “Richard Barlett. Well, that’s no stretch, his given name was Barlett Richard Gilmore. Both of them killed? My God, what else haven’t you told me?”
Milo said, “Nothing substantive.”
Two pairs of green eyes faced their mates. “You can honestly say there are no other victims?”
I thought of New Orleans. If Milo did, he kept it to himself.
He said, “I can, Doctor. What kind of kid was Barlett?”
“Nice, quiet, didn’t make much of an impression. What kind of adult did he turn out to be? For that matter, you still haven’t answered my question about Peri.”
“We know very little about him, other than he lived alone and didn’t have much in the way of physical possessions.”
“Homeless?”
“No, he worked as a clerk at a church and lived in a shack in an orange grove.”
“Hmm,” said Kathy Bookbinder. “Guess that makes sense.” She scooted closer to us, hand tight around the stem of her margarita glass. “And Peri? Was her life hellish clear up to her death?”
“Not at all,” said Milo. “She ended up marrying a rich man and living in Bel Air.”
“Bel Air? Wow. And you’re sure the husband didn’t do it—seeing as she was having an affair?”
