“Did that seem unusual to you?”

“I could understand it, really, especially with an installation of that nature.”

“So this artist. What’s his name?”

“Avram Sigismund.” Deirdre spelled it for Martinez.

“He’s well known?”

“He’s Israeli. Up and coming.” Deirdre avoided Martinez’s gaze. In fact, she’d never worked with Avi (as he asked them to call him) before. Never even heard of him until just a week and a half ago when they’d agreed to clear their front gallery space and show his work. She could tell herself that it was Stefan who’d pressured her to break their long-standing policy and accept payment to mount a show, but that wouldn’t have been fair. The gallery was struggling and they needed to pay their rent. It seemed like a gift when, out of the blue, Avi contacted Stefan with a proposal. He was desperate for gallery space for just two weeks to accommodate a curator from a major American museum who wanted to see his work firsthand. His work was represented by the prestigious (even she’d heard of it) Rosenfeld Gallery in Tel Aviv, but he’d never been shown in the United States. Stefan had gotten the strong sense that the museum interested in acquiring his work was the MOCA in L.A.

The whole deal had sounded slightly sketchy to Deirdre, because why couldn’t he have found a gallery in the Los Angeles area to show his work? But what was there to lose when Avi was offering to pay expenses and then some, up front, in addition to a 40 percent commission when (not if) the museum purchased the work? Both she and Stefan held their noses and signed on. It was only for a few weeks, she’d told herself. Besides, they’d clear enough to bankroll shows for a half-dozen artists whose works they were eager to exhibit.

“So you were in the gallery until—”

“After midnight.” How many times did he need for her to say it?

“And then?”

“I went home.”

“Home?”

“To my house. I live in Imperial Beach. It’s near—”

“I know where it is. Was anyone with you? Anyone drop by? Anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts?”

Vincent Price. By the time she got home, even Johnny Carson had gone to bed. The only thing on was the ending of House of Wax.

“No,” Deirdre said, her tone sharper than she’d intended. She wasn’t sure if she was annoyed because he kept asking the same thing, or because she was always alone in bed at night.

“Did you receive any telephone calls after you got home?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“What would you say if I told you that phone records show that calls were made to your home phone late that night?”

“Excuse me,” Sy said. “You need a subpoena to examine my client’s phone records.”

“We haven’t examined her phone records.” Martinez placed a computer printout in front of her. Several lines were highlighted. “These calls were made to you from your father’s phone.”

Deirdre looked at the highlighted calls. She pointed to the first one, Friday at 3:12 P.M. “I was at the gallery then.”

“Looks like you didn’t answer this call, either,” Martinez said, pointing to a call at 1:41 A.M. “You said you were home by then.”

Deirdre swallowed and shifted in her seat. “I’d turned off the ringer.”

“Why did you do that?”

Martinez just sat there waiting. “I was tired. It was late.”

“Who would have called you so late?”

My father. Even though that was perfectly innocent, Deirdre felt beads of sweat prick from her upper lip.

“What is the relevance of this?” Sy said, saving her from having to answer. “Just because Miss Unger didn’t answer her phone doesn’t mean she was not at home.”

Martinez leaned forward. “The coroner estimates the time of death at between midnight and three A.M. This”—he put his finger on the list—“would have been the last phone call your father made before he died. Unless”—he paused for a moment, like this thought was just now occurring to him—“unless it was someone else, calling you from your father’s house.”

Sy’s warning came back to her. Do not offer. Do not speculate. Deirdre didn’t say anything.

Martinez sat back. “So your story is that you left the gallery, drove home, turned off the ringer on your phone, and went to sleep?”

Close enough. Deirdre nodded.

Martinez pointed to the cassette recorder.

“That’s right,” Deirdre said.

“Alone?”

“Alone.” She said it calmly but she wanted to scream Yes! Alone! I live alone!

“And you left the house again when?”

“The next morning. Saturday. Maybe at about nine.”

“And you drove—”

“Straight to my father’s house.”

“Without stopping?”

“Without—” Then she remembered. “I stopped for gas and something to eat at a McDonald’s somewhere around Mission Viejo.”

“You used a credit card?”

Of course it would be nice if she had some evidence to support her claim. “Paid cash. But I think the cup and the wrapper are still in my car.”

Martinez looked unimpressed.

“I probably kept the receipts,” Deirdre added. She sounded confident but she wondered if she had in fact bothered to keep them. She saved every receipt, even small ones, when the expense was business related. But this trip had been personal. “I’ll look.”

“So you got to your father’s house when?”

She’d answered that question already. Several times. “At about noon. But no one answered the door and I couldn’t get in. That’s why I went around to the backyard.”

“Who has keys to your father’s house?”

“Henry, of course. He lives there. My mom, though she’d never go there. The woman who comes in once a week and cleans for my dad.” Deirdre looked over at Sy to see if he had anything to add.

“Not you?” Martinez asked.

“Not me.”

“Was that a problem? Not having a set of keys.”

“No. I don’t visit very often.”

“The last time was—?”

Was this a test? Because she’d already answered that question at the house. “January.”

“Months ago. Sounds as if you and your father weren’t that close.”

“We got along. We just didn’t spend time together.”

“But you drove up to help him move.”

“He asked me to. He needed help. Of course I came.”

Martinez nodded and rubbed his chin. “Okay. Just a few more questions. Was your father having financial problems?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t talk to me about his finances and I’d never have hit him up for money.”

Sy put a finger to his lips: Just answer the question.

“But he was putting the house up for sale.”

“Right.”

“Did your father have any enemies? Any ongoing disagreements with business associates or neighbors?”

“Not that I know of.”

“He and your mother—?”

“Got along fine since their divorce.”

He leaned forward, as if he were about to ask another question, then thought better of it. “All right. I guess that’s all.”

Deirdre breathed a sigh of relief. When she started to get up from her chair, the backs of her pants were stuck to her thighs.

Martinez shook Sy’s hand. He offered his hand to Deirdre and held it. “Just one more thing. There was a shovel near your father’s pool. Did you notice it?” He released her hand.

“A shovel?” At first Deirdre didn’t remember seeing one. And then she did, lying where Henry would have backed his car right over it. “Yes. It was in the driveway. I picked it up and moved it out of the way.”

“Ah. Well, that explains why we found your fingerprints on the shaft. In fact, yours are the only prints on that shovel. And there are no traces of dirt at all. Just traces of blood. Hair. Chlorine. Like it was never actually used for gardening.”

Deirdre’s stomach turned over and she closed her eyes.

“The blood on the blade?” Martinez continued. “It’s not a particularly common blood type. AB positive. Your father is AB positive. Shall I tell you how I think the blood got there?”