“Uh-huh. And did they ask you questions about anything or anyone in particular?”

Mrs. Repko squinted and grew even more strained, like a violin string tightened to the breaking point.

She said, “They told us about her murderer with those sick, twisted pictures. They wanted to warn us because it was going to be on TV. They wouldn’t show us the pictures, but they warned us. I asked to see her. I wanted to see the picture he took, but they wouldn’t let me-”

Her eyes reddened and blinked. Gordon touched her arm and whispered, “Mom.”

She blinked harder, but Gordon’s touch settled her. I wanted to ask more about Bastilla and Munson, but changed the subject to Darcy and Maddux.

Mr. Repko explained that Darcy and Maddox had come to Pasadena on the morning Debra’s body was found. At that time, the detectives believed Debra resided in Pasadena because her parents’ address was still on her driver’s license. When they were told Debra had taken an apartment, Darcy and Maddux asked to see it, so Dennis and Mr. Repko drove into the city to let the detectives into her apartment. Michael and Gordon had stayed with their mother.

I said, “I’d like to talk to her neighbors about visitors she might have had, or if men had come around. That type of thing. I’m sure the police did the same, but I want to hear it for myself.”

Mr. Repko nodded.

“All right.”

“Was she seeing anyone?”

Dennis said, “Not since Berkeley. She dated a few guys at grad school, but they were more like friends, not boyfriend-girlfriend.”

“How about the men at work? Did she mention anyone she might have liked at work?”

Mrs. Repko had relaxed when her husband was doing the talking, but now she visibly tensed again.

“Once she went to work she didn’t have time to date. They work them like slaves at that place.”

“Leverage Associates?”

Michael nodded.

“Yeah. Debra worked hard, but she loved it. She was a politics wonk. It was her dream job.”

Mrs. Repko pulled her arms into her sides.

“It was an awful job, the hours she worked.”

Gordon said, “Mom, she loved it.”

“I don’t care.”

I cleared my throat to bring their focus back to me.

“Did she see someone on the night it happened?”

Mrs. Repko said, “We have no idea. She worked that night. All she did was work.”

“The medical examiner’s report indicates she had a drink earlier that evening.”

Mrs. Repko leaned forward, her face softening for the first time since I entered the room.

“It did?”

“Yes, ma’am. A drink or a glass of wine. The level was very low.”

Mrs. Repko blinked. The blinking grew faster, and her eyes turned red.

“Well, I just don’t know. How could we know? When she was here, we knew, but not after. I never saw why she had to have that apartment, working right downtown like she did. If she hadn’t taken that damned place none of this would have happened.”

Gordon spoke softly.

“She was twenty-six years old, Mom.”

“Oh, you shut up. Just…please.”

She squinched her eyes and waved her hand as if trying to brush away something that could not be brushed. It was easy to see her making that same move a hundred times a day in a terrible endless loop. Her daughter’s death came down to the apartment, to growing up and moving away because if she had stayed home her parents could have protected her.

Mr. Repko suddenly blurted out Debra’s apartment address and the name of the manager, a man named Toler Agazzi, but Mrs. Repko’s pain filled the room and everyone in it like radiant heat. The sons all stared at the floor. Mr. Repko couldn’t look at his wife. I stared at Debra’s portrait. The picture had probably been taken when she was a senior in high school. She was an attractive girl with clean features and smart eyes.

I cleared my throat and shifted. I wanted Mrs. Repko to see me looking at her daughter. I wanted her to know that her daughter was real to me. When I knew she was staring at me, I looked at her.

“What about her girlfriends, Mrs. Repko? I’ll bet Debra had a lot of close friends. She probably has friends she’s been friends with all the way back to grade school.”

Mrs. Repko glanced at the picture, then me. She wet her lips, then we were both looking at the picture. Here they were, the Repkos, upscale and educated, as close as you could come to a Norman Rockwell family portrait except that one of them had been murdered. Scratch Debra from the painting. Draw Xs over her eyes.

Her mother said, “Yes. Yes, she did. The sweetest girls.”

“Could you give me their names and numbers? I might like to talk to them.”

“All right. Of course I could.”

And this time Mrs. Repko didn’t tense in that horrible way when she answered.

I said, “When it first happened, did Darcy and Maddux take anything from her apartment?”

Mr. Repko adjusted his pants again, thinking, then nodded.

“They took her computer and her phone, I think, and a few other things.”

“They took her hard line or a cell?”

“Well, the cell was in her purse, so they already had it. She wasn’t robbed, you know; everything was still in her purse, even her money. But she had a cordless in the apartment. They gave me a receipt. I have it, if you want.”

“That would help. Also, if you have Debra’s phone bills I’d like to see them.”

“We have them. I kept everything in a file.”

Mr. Repko left to get the file, so I turned back to Mrs. Repko.

“Did the police return the items they took from her apartment?”

Mrs. Repko nodded.

“Detective Maddux brought back some things.”

“He bring back her phone, too?”

Mrs. Repko suddenly stood, with her sons straightening as if she might suddenly tip over.

“Here, I’ll show you,” she said. “You probably want to see, so let me show you. I want you to see what you’ve done.”

Michael glanced at Gordon, then lowered his voice again.

“Go get Dad.”

18

MRS. REPKO didn’t wait for her sons or her husband. She pulled me through the house to a girly room with frills and collages Debra had probably made during high school. I went in with her, but Michael and Dennis stopped at the door.

The room was immaculate; the bed tightly made, the pillows fluffed, the desk neat and waiting to be used. The room was small, but neatly decorated with a teenage girl’s furniture and bright curtains. The only items that seemed out of place were a large cardboard box against the wall and an overstuffed chair covered with a zebra fabric.

Mrs. Repko went to the chair.

“Most of the furniture at her apartment was rented, so it went back to the company. But she bought this chair, god knows why, this ugly thing, so we kept it.”

Mrs. Repko ran her hand over the fabric, then gripped it hard, digging her fingers in as if she was hanging on for her life. She heaved once as her eyes filled, and Michael and Dennis almost knocked me over as they went to her. They took her arms as she shuddered, and gently led her from the room, Michael’s soft voice in her ear.

“C’mon, Mama. You have to make that list for Mr. Cole. Let’s make his list.”

Mr. Repko appeared with an envelope as they helped her away. He said something after them I didn’t hear, then gave me the envelope.

“The last month, like you wanted. Got the cell in here and the one from the apartment. This is what I gave the police. The receipt they gave me when they took her things is in here, too.”

He had made copies of the bills for the police. He had gone through the numbers, noting those he recognized and which were personal or job related, and then he had called each number to ask who it was and how they knew his daughter. He had made handwritten notes in the margins. The police had asked him to do this, and I would have asked the same. The receipt showed that the police had taken-