Burying Ariel Read Online Free

there will never be justice.” Solange returned the photograph to the counter, but her fingers lingered, caressing the curve of the frame. “When I was young,” she said, “I was prepared for confirmation by a Spanish priest – a fat, useless old man, peddling cruel patriarchal dogma, but one of his lessons stayed with me. He told me there was a Spanish proverb I should remember whenever I had to make a choice in life.” Her voice deepened into a parody of the old priest, and she wagged her finger theatrically. “God says, ‘Take what you want. Take it, and pay for it .’ ” She turned to face me. “The man who killed Ariel took the best, Joanne, and if God won’t make him pay for it, I will.”

CHAPTER
2
    After her diatribe, Solange seemed on the verge of shock. The carapace of the warrior had shattered. She was hugging herself, but as strong as her arms were, they seemed incapable of holding the pieces together, and her tawny green-flecked eyes were unblinking and wary. I reached out to her, but Livia stepped between us and slid her arm around Solange’s waist. “She needs to be alone for a while. She has to find the place inside herself that will enable her to accept this.”
    Robert Hallam raised an eyebrow. “When she finds that place I’ll want to talk to her. Meanwhile,” he said, turning to Livia, “I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.”
    “Of course,” Livia said. “Just let me get Solange settled.”
    Rosalie removed her pale yellow jacket, hung it carefully on the back of her chair, filled a glass at the water cooler, picked up a box of tissues, and followed Livia and Solange into the inner office. Too exhausted to move, I stared at the closed door, hoping against hope that somewhere in Livia’s endless store of New Age baloney, there was a mantra that could fix everything. I wasn’t optimistic.
    Rosalie was back almost immediately, but Livia stayed with Solange for several minutes. By the time she emerged, Robert had his notebook and pencil at the ready, and his foot was tapping. “Let’s get to the questions, Dr. Brook,” he said. “I haven’t got all day, and there are a lot of people to see.” I took that as my cue to leave.
    When I got back to my office, Howard was waiting for me. He was standing at the window, looking out at the campus. The early-afternoon sun poured in on him, softening his angular features, changing him from a wary old eagle into someone kindly and avuncular. The metamorphosis was more apparent than real. He gazed at me through hooded eyes.
    “Is it my imagination or is the number of dumb fucks in the world increasing?”
    “I take it your question isn’t rhetorical,” I said.
    “You tell me.” Howard ran a gnarled hand over his head. “The young cop they sent to interview me had a pronunciation problem. Every time he said the word ‘deceased,’ it came out ‘diseased.’ ”
    I bit my lip to keep from smiling. “As in ‘How well did you know the diseased?’ ” I said.
    “Exactly. Jesus, Jo. That kid must use the word ‘deceased’ a hundred times a week. You’d think somebody would have told him, wouldn’t you? Then, after he left, I tried Charlie’s house. No answer, so I called the radio station. They’ve got the Queen of the Coneheads answering the phones there. She refused to put me through to Charlie directly. Told me it was station policy to screen all calls. I told her my call was important. She said every phone call CVOX gets is important. I told her it was an emergency. She said if I considered myself suicidal, she’d redirect my call to a crisis line; if not, I could leave my name and number like everybody else.”
    “Did you tell her you were Charlie’s father?”
    Howard looked abashed. “It didn’t occur to me,” he said quietly. “Talk about dumb fucks. I’m going to call a cab and go over there.”
    “Forget the cab,” I said. “I’ll take you.”
    “Have the police talked to you yet?”
    “Nope, but