Spiral

almost-son.
    Our host raised a glass that appeared to be just water. ”A second toast, to the success of Spiral in its public appearance tonight.”
    Which explained why the band members were there. The meal might have been intended as a banquet but the pace and conversation resembled more a wake. Any small talk was forced, the only exceptions being Justo asking polite, softball questions of Spi Held, Mitch Eisen answering most of them too elaborately in what seemed an effort to fill the voids of air and time. Cassandra Helides drank wine as though it were Gatorade during the third set under a blazing sun. Delgis Reyes served the courses; each time she got to me, Veronica Held’s former au pair wouldn’t meet my eyes.
    As the last dessert forks clattered against empty dishes that had held slices of rum cake, the Skipper turned to his right and said to the band, ”Well, I believe you all need to go. Can’t be late for your big evening.”
    It was painful to hear, maybe because he sounded like an emotionally distant man speaking to a twelve-year-old son home for the weekend from boarding school.
    Spi Held stared at his father, his eyes milky. ”Thanks.” He stood. ”Dad.”
    Buford Biggs, Gordo Lazar, and Ricky Queen all got up like a drill team, mumbling softly in appreciation as well. Mitch Eisen took the trouble to approach the Colonel and shake hands. After the five of them trooped out, the table seemed unbalanced, and not just because there were four empty chairs along the far side of it.
    Nicolas Helides looked at his wife. ”Cassandra, I’ll be needing to speak with these gentlemen for a while.”
    ”You’re excused,” she said, slurring the last syllable. Then the Skipper’s eyes went past mine to Tranh. ”Duy, we’ll be in the library, should you need me.”
    I didn’t turn, but the air leaving the lungs of the man to my left sounded like a death rattle.

    ”Brandy, Lieutenant?”
    Justo said, ”No, thank you.”
    Nicolas Helides looked at me, inclining his head toward the decanter on the sideboard between two tall shelves of books. I shook my head in return.
    The Skipper settled deeper in his chair. ”Could I have your report?”
    I told him about Malinda Dujong and what I’d learned of Sundy Moran from her mother and Mitch Eisen. I didn’t mention how Cassandra Helides had described Veronica’s behavior on their last drive to the tennis club or what Ricky Queen had implied outside Dicey Riley’s regarding Veronica’s ”experimental” attitude. I finished with the incident involving Luke and Hack at the trailer park.
    A glimmer came into Helides’s eyes. The same one I’d seen after describing the bar brawl of the day before.
    Which is when it hit me. The man was living vicariously, feeling capable again through hearing about an investigation involving violence. And a part of me—deep inside—withered a little.
    Justo said, ”John, you have not yet spoken with the police about the disappearance of the Dujong woman?”
    ”I’m supposed to meet with one of the homicide investigators tonight at ten.”
    The Skipper frowned. ”Pity.”
    ”I’m sorry, sir?”
    ”You’ll miss the band’s re-debut.”
    A smile that for a moment made me think Helides had become senile.
    Justo filled the gap. ”Anything else, John?”
    I refocused. ”Colonel, it seems pretty clear to me that you’ve cut Duy Tranh out of the loop.”
    No smile now. ”I imagine it’s pretty clear to him as well.”
    ”Can I ask what made you change your mind?”
    The Skipper’s left hand went to the brace leaning against his chair, the fingers almost caressing its metal. ”Since my stroke, I have relied on Duy to be my effective... self. Financially, administratively, totally.”
    Helides stopped. I waited.
    The Skipper’s hand came back into his lap. ”However, he was the person who found Veronica’s body. And what I’ve heard from you so far about this Sundy Moran seems a remarkable coincidence, but not tied by evidence to anything approaching a motive—even an irrational explanation—of why anyone else would want to kill my grandchild.” Very quietly, I said, ”Colonel, could Veronica’s death have been related to the way she acted at your party?”
    The face flushed, the eyes squeezed shut, and for a moment Helides’s features could have been an older version of his son David’s. Then the moment passed, and the eyes of the man I’d served under in Saigon were piercing me again across thirty