Page 38 of Water's Edge

“I’m Detective Carpenter. This is Deputy Marsh.” I hold up my credential case again. He doesn’t look at it, but he does ogle Ronnie’s badge—or her breasts. “I’m looking for Mr. Jim Truitt.”

His smile changes to something more akin to a cat spotting a bird.

“Really? To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the, uh”—he checks out Ronnie’s badge/breasts again—“Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office?”

“I’m here about your daughter,” I say.

The smile recedes but isn’t replaced with concern. It’s more like I said something distasteful. “What’s she done now?”

“Can we come in?”

He thinks a beat, then steps aside and leads us in to a room the size of my apartment and then some. One entire wall is floor-to-ceiling glass that takes in a sailboat with a candy-striped spinnaker that skims the bay’s lead-gray surface. The furniture is expensive and has that unused look of a showroom display. There are framed photos everywhere of Jim Truitt: on the deck of a yacht; with a trophy catch; at the wheel in the cabin of what I figure is his classic mahogany-deck speedboat. Dozens more of sailing vessels, fishing catches, underwater shots; Truitt in diving gear, Truitt in Bermuda shorts, Truitt fly-fishing.

The tableau of photos is a testimonial to him.

None of his daughter, a wife, or any other living being if one didn’t include the gasping fish he was dragging from the water. In none of the images, however, was he smiling.

And here I thought money made you happy.

“Is Mrs. Truitt home?”

A shake of the head. “The ex-Mrs. Truitt is living on St. Lucia in the house I bought as a divorce gift.”

He doesn’t ask about his daughter. That’s very strange. I bring her up.

“When is the last time you saw or spoke to Leann?”

“I haven’t seen or spoken to my daughter in two years.”

A man of few words and lots of toys.

“Do you have other children?”

“What’s this about, Detective?”

I open the file folder. “I’m going to show you a picture. It’s not pleasant.”

I hand him the five-by-seven face shot of his murdered daughter. He lets out a little gasp as he looks at it, but he pulls back whatever emotion he’s just exhibited. He passes back the photograph.

He doesn’t say, “That’s my daughter. That’s Leann” or “What happened to her?” The only emotion I detect is a slight change in his voice.

I try to hand the photo back to him. “Can you take another look. I need a yes or no.”

He refuses to take it.

“That’s her.”

I realize that I am being a bit cruel, but I am determined to get some kind of human response from him.

“That’s your daughter. Leann Truitt?”

He nods.

I know people process grief in different ways. This isn’t one of those. This is almost relief. I want to smack him.

But I don’t.

“Can you tell me where she works?” I ask.

---