U Is for Undertow

that much in a secret account—money he used to establish his new life after we separated. For all I know, that was always his intention, saving up so he could leave. I reached a point where I didn’t care one way or the other. I suppose if Mary Claire had been saved . . . if she’d come back to us alive . . . we might have smoothed things over and gone on as we had before.”
    “Is he still in town?”
    “He moved to Maine. I think he wanted a location as unlike California as he could find. He remarried and started another family. So much for us.”
    “Do you have any idea why you were targeted?”
    “Barry owns a wealth-management firm. It’s a company he started years ago and he’s always done well. He felt that’s what put us in the line of fire. That and because Mary Claire was an only child.”
    “How long were you married?”
    “Eight and a half years.” She hesitated. “I’ll admit when he left me, I took revenge, spiteful little thing that I am. According to our prenuptial agreement, if we divorced, he’d have paid me a pittance in alimony for the next ten years. He was older. He’d been married twice before. I knew the risk I was taking and I did what I could to protect myself, though it didn’t amount to much. When our relationship collapsed, he was hoping for a quick divorce so he’d be off the hook. My attorney argued the prenup should be set aside because I’d signed under duress. By the time the divorce became final, he’d been forced to settle for six million, plus a million in legal fees. So here we are. He’s stuck with me for life, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health.”
    “Do you work?”
    “I don’t have a job, if that’s what you’re referring to. I’m a part-time docent at the art museum, and I volunteer two mornings a week at Santa Teresa Hospital in the newborn nursery.”
    “Is there any chance your daughter had medical problems? Allergies, asthma, anything like that? I’m trying to understand what might have happened to her.”
    “She’d had the occasional seizure since infancy and the pediatrician had her on Dilantin. I take it you ask because you think something might have gone wrong.”
    “Exactly. I don’t believe those guys were hardened criminals. Rain tells me she was treated well. She believes they mixed sleeping pills in her lemonade, but instead of going down for the count, she got hyper and slept less and less. Suppose they upped the dose, trying to induce sleep? If Mary Claire was already on an anticonvulsant, the combination of medications might have been fatal.”
    “I see what you’re saying, and it makes sense. My poor little one,” she said. She covered her eyes for a moment as though she might block out the very idea. I watched her work to compose herself and she finally sighed. “What now? Is this as far as it goes?”
    “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m fresh out of leads. On the other hand, I can’t quite let go. I don’t like feeling I haven’t done my job right.”
    She leaned forward and put her hands over mine. “Please don’t give up. One of the reasons I came here was to tell you how much I appreciate your efforts. Even if you’re facing a blank wall, don’t concede. Please.”
    “I’ll do my best. I can’t promise you anything beyond that.”

29

    WALKER MCNALLY

    Wednesday afternoon, April 20, 1988

    Walker pushed his cuff back discreetly and checked the time. He’d stopped wearing the sling and he was happy to have his right arm free. Seven minutes to go in yet another interminable AA meeting, this one sparsely attended, which made his unwillingness to share all the more conspicuous. Some of the regulars were there: an old geezer named Fritz, who was missing half his teeth; a woman who called herself Phoebe though he could have sworn he’d been introduced to her at the club by another name. The only person in the room under forty was a young dark-haired girl, thin as a snake, her eyes lined in kohl. Her nails were clipped short and painted dark red. She smoked and said nothing, which he personally applauded as he intended to do the same. She looked like she was barely old enough to drink and he wondered what had brought her to this sorry place. No sign of Avis Jent, which was a relief. He was nine days sober, a miracle in itself. In the past, when he’d claimed he’d quit drinking, he’d never actually gone more than two days without alcohol of some kind.
    When the meeting ended he