Lost Light

Marty Gessler and the bad luck she had. Left to molder for more than three years in that place. She had simply made a phone call to a cop, and that had brought about her own destruction. Good intentions. Trust. What a way to go. What a wonderful world.
    This time I rented a car at McCarran and I fought my own way through the traffic. The address Lindell had gotten for me off the license plate number I had given him was located on the northwest side of the city. It was out near the end of the sprawl. For now, at least. It belonged to a house that was newly built and large. It had a French Provincial style to it. I think it did, at least. I’m not that good at that sort of thing.
    The two-car garage was closed but off to the side of the circular driveway was a car that wasn’t the one I had been in with Eleanor. It was a Toyota, maybe five years old with a lot of miles on it. I could tell. I am good at that sort of thing.
    I parked the rental at the edge of the circle and slowly got out. I don’t know, maybe I thought if I took my time somebody would open the door and invite me in and all my qualms would be eased.
    But it didn’t happen. I got to the door and had to push the button and knew I would probably have to push my way in. Figuratively. I heard a chime sound from inside and I waited. Before I needed to ring again the door was answered by a woman, a Latina who looked to be in her sixties. She was small and had a kind but worn face. She looked like she felt bad about the shotgun burns on my face. She didn’t wear a uniform of any type but I was guessing she was the maid. Eleanor with a maid. I had a hard time picturing that.
    “Is Eleanor Wish here?”
    “Can I say who it is, please?”
    Her English was good and carried only a slight accent.
    “Tell her it’s her husband.”
    I saw the alarm go off in her eyes and I realized that I had been stupid.
    “Former husband,” I said quickly. “Just tell her it’s Harry.”
    “Please wait.”
    I nodded and she closed the door. I heard her lock it. As I waited I could feel the heat working through my clothes, penetrating my scalp. All around me the sun was reflecting brightly. It was almost five minutes before the door was opened again and Eleanor stood there.
    “Harry, are you all right?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “I saw everything on TV. CNN.”
    I just nodded to that.
    “It’s so sad about Marty Gessler.”
    “Yeah.”
    And then nothing for a long moment before she finally spoke.
    “What are you doing here, Harry?”
    “I don’t know. I just wanted to see you.”
    “How did you find this place?”
    I shrugged.
    “I’m a detective. Was, at least.”
    “You should have called me first.”
    “I know. I should have done a lot of things but I didn’t, Eleanor. I’m sorry, okay? Sorry for everything. Are you going to let me in or should I just melt out here in the sun?”
    “Before you come in I have to tell you, this is not how I wanted to do this.”
    I felt a deep downward tug in my chest as she stepped back and opened the door. She raised her hand in a welcoming gesture and I stepped into a foyer area that had arched doorways leading in three different directions.
    “It’s not how you wanted to do what?” I asked.
    “Let’s go into the living room,” she said.
    We took the middle arch and stepped into a large room that was neat and nicely furnished. In one corner was a baby grand piano that caught my eye. Eleanor didn’t play, unless she had taken it up since she’d left me.
    “You want something to drink, Harry?”
    “Um, water would be good. It’s hot out there.”
    “It usually is. Stay here and I’ll be right back.”
    I nodded and she left me there. I looked around the room. I recognized none of the furniture from the apartment where I had once visited her. Everything was different, everything was new. The rear wall of the room was comprised of sliding glass doors that looked upon a screened-in pool area. I noticed that surrounding the pool was a white plastic safety fence that people with children put up as a precaution.
    Something suddenly began to click about all of Eleanor’s mysteries. The obtuse answers, the car trunk that couldn’t be opened. People carry fold-up strollers in their trunks. People with children.
    “Harry?”
    I turned. Eleanor was there. And standing next to her was a little girl with dark hair and eyes. They held hands. I looked from Eleanor to the girl and then back and forth again. The girl had