I took a deep breath, let it out slowly and went on. “I don’t have much family left, Travis. You’re my cousin. That’s true whether or not you’ve done something wrong. But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything you can about anything that has a bearing on the DeMont case.”

He stopped walking, studied me again, and said, “All right, Irene Kelly. I’ll tell you the truth.” He held up his bandaged right hand, and at first I thought he was going to mimic a courtroom oath. But he said, “I saved my father with this hand. That wasn’t my idea at the time. In fact, I was enraged with him.”

“I don’t understand-”

“On the night of Gwendolyn’s murder, when he came to our house, my father touched the pane of glass, the one I broke with my fist. He touched it before I broke it. He left a bloody handprint on it.”

“A bloody… was he hurt?”

He smiled and dropped his hand to his side. “Kind of you to ask that first. No. He wasn’t hurt.”

“Gwendolyn’s blood.”

“Yes. For years, I thought perhaps he had murdered her, despite his denials. But one day, he got me to listen to him long enough to ask me a question. And that question made me change my mind.”

I waited.

“Let me back up a little-that night, I was watching my father through a window before he tried to come in the house. I watched him for some time. I saw him close up, and after I was hurt-when he came into the house-he held me in his arms.” Again he looked out over the water. “My father’s question was, ”Before I touched you, did you see blood on me anywhere other than the palm of that one hand?“”

Travis looked back at me. “The answer was no.”

Before I could respond, he said, “Just think about it for a while. I’m not saying it proves anything, and it may raise as many questions as it answers. When I started thinking about it, I realized I had to set aside a lot of assumptions I had been holding on to for a long time.”

We had reached the foot of the stairway leading up to the street. I turned to him and said, “Everything I’ve learned about Harold Richmond makes me believe he has a copy of the DeMont murder file. I’m going to try to get a look at it this afternoon. With what you’ve had to deal with lately, are you sure you want to come along?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he said.

“There are some other people we need to talk to as soon as we can. This ‘W’ guy and your lawyer, for starters.”

“Mr. Ulkins and Mr. Brennan,” he said.

“Yes. Can you get in touch with them?”

“Sure. Mr. Brennan often spends time away from the city on weekends, but I can leave a message on his service. W-Ulkins-should be in the office today.”

“But with your father’s death-”

“He works for me as well. If he’s gone for the day, I’d still like to stop by the office and check for messages. The office is downtown.”

“You have a key?”

“Yes, so that’s no problem.”

The dogs were getting impatient, starting to stray back down the beach, so I called to them and we began climbing the stairs.

“Who else will we be trying to see?” Travis asked.

We. That was what I wanted, right? “I want to talk to Dr. Curtis and a priest at St. Anthony’s.”

“Which priest?”

“The one who said your father’s funeral Mass.”

He stopped climbing. “How could you possibly be sure his funeral Mass was at St. Anthony’s?”

“Your mother went to it.”

“And how could you possibly know that?” a voice called from above us.

We looked up to see Jim McCain leaning over the railing near the top of the stairs.

“Shit,” I said. How long had he been listening?

Travis looked between us.

“Travis Maguire,” I said, “meet Detective Jim McCain, LAPD Homicide. He’s investigating your mother’s death.”

McCain smiled and said, “Glad to see you’re all right, Mr. Maguire.” He looked at the bandaged hand and added, “Or are you?”

“Have you found the driver of the car?” Travis asked.

“No, I’m sorry, not yet. We’re working on it, though,” he said. “Even on the weekend.”

“At the beach?” Travis replied.

McCain stopped smiling. “Wherever it takes me. Perhaps Ms. Kelly would be so kind as to let us continue this discussion in a more private place?”

“Sure,” I said. “You never know who might be eavesdropping around here.”

“People with nothing to hide-” McCain began.

“-still enjoy their constitutional rights,” I finished.

We walked in silence most of the way to the house, but just before we got to the front door, Jack came roaring down the street on his Harley, back from whatever errand he had taken care of for Travis. He stopped in front of the house and called, “Everything okay?”

I nodded, and he watched as we went inside.

The first few minutes were spent with McCain telling Travis almost as little about the accident as he had told me; when Travis complained, McCain looked over at me and said, “Perhaps some other time.”

“You suspect Irene?” Travis asked in disbelief.

“This investigation is still in its early stages,” he said, and before Travis could say more, asked him if he was aware that his mother had willed her entire estate to me.

Travis stared at him, then laughed. “Of course I know!”

“What?” McCain said.

“My mother made sure I knew all about it.” He glanced over at me. “You know the Maguire temper, Irene.”

“But…” McCain began.

“The date on that will, Detective McCain, will be just before my mother moved to her last apartment.” He paused, all the amusement of a moment before gone. “I’m ashamed to say that we parted in anger.”

“And why would that be?” McCain said.

“Travis,” I said, “maybe you should call your attorney.”

He ignored me, and answered, “You know about my parents’ bigamous marriage?”

“Yes,” McCain said.

“Because my mother never forgave my father for that, she forbade me to have contact with him. When I grew past the age when she could forbid it, she simply resented it. She tolerated it, though, until I told her I was accepting money from my father. At that point she said she would no longer live with me, and told me, quite dramatically, that if I was taking anything from him, I’d get nothing from her. That was when she produced a handwritten will leaving everything she owned to Irene, and waved it under my nose.”

“So the last time you saw your mother alive was when?” Detective McCain asked.

Eyes downcast, he said softly, “I helped her to move into her apartment. She didn’t speak to me.”

Whatever else he might have told McCain was interrupted by my barking dogs, up on their feet and scrambling before I heard an imperious knock at the door.

Rachel came striding in before I could warn her-but apparently she already knew McCain was here. “What the hell is going on here, Mac?”

“Hello, Rachel. I was wondering if I’d get to see you today.”

“What’s going on?” she repeated.

“A murder investigation. You have a problem with that?”

She made a show of looking around. “I don’t see a lawyer.”

“Don’t need to read the card to anybody at this point-or have you forgotten all about how law enforcement works?”

“I remember exactly how it works. Which is why I’m asking you to get out. Now.”

“I was invited in,” he said.

Her hands were on her hips. “I don’t care who invited you in, I’m inviting you to get out.”

“You don’t live here.”

“Okay,” I said, “then I’m the one who’s asking you to go.”

He started to say something, looked back at Rachel, then shook his head. He stood up, which didn’t give him too much height on her, and said softly, “You turning your back on your old friends, Rach?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

He turned to Travis. “Mr. Maguire, did Ms. Kelly ever tell you how it was possible for her to know that your mother was at your father’s funeral?”