14

Hood introduced himself to Owens Finnegan through the security screen door of her El Centro home. He held up his shield wallet and said her father had asked him to look in on her. He couldn’t see her through the small perforations in the steel. Her voice was pleasant and soft.

“Dad’s okay?”

“He’s in the hospital in Buenavista.”

“Please come in.”

She was on the tall side and slender, just as her father had said. Her hair was brown and wavy and cut above the shoulders, with bangs almost to her eyebrows. Her eyes were light gray and calm. She wore a crisp blue pin-striped dress shirt over a pair of jeans and she was barefoot, with a silver or stainless steel chain around one ankle. There was a pearl on each ear. Her skin was pale. She was beautiful and she had neither the air nor the appearance of joy.

The living room was small and had two director’s chairs with blue canvas seats and backs facing the door. There was no other furniture and no pictures hung or plants growing. There were half a dozen cardboard boxes against one wall. The carpet was dark green and old.

“Just moving in?” asked Hood.

“I’ve been here two weeks. I don’t have a lot.”

“Do you move around?”

“When it’s time. I’d offer you coffee, but I don’t have any. There is water.”

“Please.”

Hood looked around the barren room and listened to the water running in the kitchen. She came back with two cups, and when she handed him one, he saw inside her shirt cuff the end of a scar that wrapped out of sight beneath her wrist. The cups were foam and the water was room temperature.

She regarded the room. “I dislike confined spaces. There’s a picnic table in the backyard and it’s in the shade this time of day. We can sit out there.”

The lawn was a stubble of tan crabgrass, but a peppertree shaded the table and benches. Hood sat across from her and told her what had happened to her father, and how he was doing now at Imperial Mercy, and how they had found ninety thousand dollars in cash in a tool chest in his truck.

She nodded as if she had heard all this before. “Did he tell you the bathroom products story or the wealthy family from Napa County story?”

“Bathroom products.”

“There are other stories, too.”

“Any of them true?”

“Everything he says is partially true. You haven’t really seen him, have you-his face as he speaks to you, I mean.”

“No. His whole head is wrapped up.”

“Well, to understand my father, you have to see him. I learned to watch his face as he talked to me. When you do that, something about him slowly becomes evident. It can take quite a while to realize it.”

“And what’s that?”

“He’s insane.”

Hood considered. He had once browsed the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders and been impressed by the sheer number of them, and the way they were classified and differentiated. He thought again of his sister, whose sanity seemed to be dwindling until her brain tumor was discovered, and how quickly her sanity was salvaged when the tumor was removed. He thought of the bullet taken from behind Mike Finnegan’s cheek and wondered if it could have caused mental disturbances.

“What’s his diagnosis?”

“Paranoid schizophrenia. He’s been treated for it most of his adult life.”

“In institutions?”

“Occasionally. He’s not a danger to himself or others. No violence.”

“Does he take medications?”

“I truly don’t know. He’s always been sensitive and secretive about his condition.”

“What can you tell me about the bullet in his head?”

In the outdoor sunlight, the gray of her eyes looked like polished nickel, and Hood had never seen eyes of this color.

“You said he was hit by a car,” said Owens.

“They found a bullet lodged behind his cheekbone, below his left eye. They said it looked like it had been there quite a while.”

“He never told me he was shot. That’s Dad for you.”

“That’s just a little hard to believe, Ms. Finnegan.”

“You don’t know how many things about my father are hard to believe, Deputy Hood.”

“He must have a facial scar.”

“There is a small scar below his cheek. But he always said it was caused by a boyhood injury in the vineyard in Napa.”

“Did your father and mother get along?”

“She died of a heart attack not long after I was born. My father remembers her fondly. He loved her.”

“Did he ever take you to her grave?”

“She was cremated and scattered in the Pacific.”

“What was her name?”

“Bernice.”

She looked away and Hood found her scar, a raised and jagged thing lying in wait inside the buttoned cuff.

“Where did they get the name Owens?”

“Family. Way back.”

“Where’d the ninety grand come from?”

“I don’t know. I would ask him, then believe ten percent of what he says. As a starting point. I don’t mean to be facetious or dismissive of him. But I do find it necessary to keep some distance between us. Madness is contagious. Truly it can be.”

Hood looked out at the small backyard. There was a concrete-block wall on three sides, and the tree was the only living thing in the yard. Far overhead, three vultures circled perfectly like a baby’s mobile hung high in the blue.

“So you pack up and leave when you need to,” said Hood. “That’s the distance you’re talking about?”

She nodded.

“Then I can tell him that you’re all right and that you will be in contact with him when you’re ready?”

“Yes.”

“He asked me to tell you that you are loved beyond-”

“My wildest dreams. Beyond them. He’s been telling me that since I was a little girl.”

Hood’s turn to nod now and he saw the faint lines of a smile at the edges of Owens Finnegan’s mouth, then they were gone.

“Can you give me the name of his doctor?”

“He doesn’t refer to them by name. He rarely refers to them at all. He’s ashamed of his illness.”

“How does he support himself?”

“He does have the bathroom products business, which he works at only part-time. When he’s clearheaded. He has family money, though his father was not a wealthy Napa County viticulturist. It appears that he grew up in San Bernardino County and that his father sold new General Motors cars.”

“Appears?”

“Dad’s history is vague and subject to Dad. He was adopted, an only child. His father and mother died before I was born. As for his birth mother, Dad never knew her. He never cared to know her. He loved the parents who raised him and that was enough.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“None.”

Hood looked up and saw the vultures gliding in synchronized orbits, orderly as the works of a wristwatch. When he looked back to Owens Finnegan, she was watching him with nickel eyes.

“Why don’t you just go see him?”

“I might. You ask lots of questions.”

“It’s part of the job.”

“I’ll bet you always did, even as a boy.”

“Yes. Asking questions was a way to avoid answering them.”

“A personality flaw?”

Hood nodded. “Luckily, in my line of work, it can be a plus. Are you going back to college in the fall?”

“Oh, that’s another one of Dad’s beliefs that is independent of the facts. I’ve never set foot on a college campus except for the theaters. I’m an actor. Sometimes I do various work to support myself.”

“What kind of work?”

“Cocktails. Pet sitting. Personal shopper.”

“Not much acting work here in El Centro.”

“I always wanted to live in a desert. I can still make auditions in L.A. I like driving.”

Hood stood and she walked him back inside. In the kitchen, Hood noted the emptiness of the place, not a dish or a dish towel or a bowl of fruit or a toaster or a coffeemaker.

“Look at this,” she said. She led him down a hallway to the door at the end. She swung it open and Hood looked in. The shades were drawn, but a lamp with a pale orange shade cast a warm glow over the room. The dresser and mirror looked expensive. So did the area rug. The sleigh bed was blond maple and high, with a rich leather-and-fabric spread and matching pillows piled against the sloping headboard. The air coming at him smelled sweet.