Inherit the Dead

true, even if he knew she loved him.
    “Detective.”
    Julia Drusilla didn’t walk; she glided. It was as if there wasn’t enough weight to her so that she actually had to touch the earth. She had that delicate, brittle look. He’d taken a minute to surf the Internet on his phone, found pictures of her as a younger woman, at this gala or that one, on the social scene from the time she was a girl; and of course, she’d always possessed that patrician thinness that was inherited and not simply “achieved.” But age and illness had robbed her of any of the lushness youth had once bestowed. Once again, Perry took in her collarbone, which seemed to strain against her skin, and the knobs on her wrists that were as round and hard as marbles.
    “What news?” She looked at him eagerly, wringing her bejeweled hands. She drifted over to the window, her dove-gray silk robe trailing behind her like a cloud.
    He had waited this long to tell her in person in order to judge her reaction, so he wasn’t going to soften his delivery. “We’ve found Angel’s car. But no Angel. You told me not to lie. This isn’t good news.”
    She bowed her head into her hands and released a strangledsound. He almost moved to comfort her. But she had too many hard edges. He found himself remembering what Luke had said. She bites.
    “Mrs. Drusilla,” he said carefully, “I think it’s time to call in the cops. This is a real missing-persons case, and now we have evidence of foul play.”
    She looked up at him. Though her face was a mask of sadness and fear, he couldn’t help noticing that her eyes were dry.
    “No,” she said vehemently. “No.”
    “Mrs. Drusilla—” he began. But she raised her hand.
    “I’m begging you,” she said. She moved over toward him, took his hand in hers. “No police.”
    “The police have resources that will be helpful in finding Angel,” he said. “It’s the right thing to do.”
    “It will be a media circus,” she said. Here she issued a little cough and seemed to swoon. He led her by one spindly elbow to a low couch, where she sank, leaning back. But was it an act? He wasn’t sure. The white silk pajamas beneath her robe—it all seemed to coordinate perfectly with the room around her. The ivory walls, the plush slate-colored area rug, the glossy gray and white tables. Above the fireplace, that gigantic Jackson Pollock painting dominated—a rage of black and white and gray splatters, with some angry slashes of red.
    The coughing started lightly and seemed to pick up pitch and intensity. She pointed off behind the fireplace, and he assumed she was indicating where he could find water. He found his way to the granite and stainless steel kitchen, which was enormous and so spotlessly clean that it looked never to have been used to prepare food. He rummaged through the cabinets for a glass, ran some water from the faucet, then rushed back.
    She took some tentative sips, and Perry looked on helplessly. He felt guilty now for doubting her. Finally, the hacking subsided. Then she found her voice again.
    “I’m dying, Detective. You know that.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    She took a shuddering breath. “Spare me your pity,” she said. He thought he detected a flash of nastiness, but it passed quickly. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and pleading. “I need you to find Angel before I die. I want her to know what belongs to her. But more than that, I want her to know that even though I wasn’t the mother I should have been, I loved her. I need her to know that.”
    It was a variation on the same speech she’d given before.
    He wanted to say something to convince her that the police could help her better than he could, but she went on.
    “I can’t afford red tape, bureaucratic delays, institutionalized incompetence. I don’t have that kind of time. I need you to find her, Perry.”
    Her face was slack, and she stared out through the glass doors that led to the wide terrace spanning the length of the apartment. Outside millions of lights glittered like jewels on a blanket of velvet.
    Every light is a life, a story, his wife used to say. The Manhattan skyline is a little bit of everything isn’t it? Life, death, joy, misery, love, hate, murder, rescue—it’s all playing out right there.
    “Do you know what it is to fail your child?” She asked the question as if she already knew the answer. Maybe one failure could recognize another. It was a mark they wore, visible only to other bad