A Stranger Lies There (6 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

I could go for days on that smile.

So I kept my mouth shut; words would only diminish the feeling I had inside. We drove for a few minutes in peaceful silence.

“I was wrong this morning,” Deirdre said suddenly.

I looked at her looking out the window. The sky was purpling in the east, the wind out of the west a bellows for the emerging stars. “No you weren't. I was just being selfish. Wanted you all to myself.”

We passed an old mobile home park, then a salvage yard, its odd-shaped cast-offs just shadows in the dusk.

“I'm the one that was being selfish,” Deirdre said. “I can get so wrapped up in my clients' problems I forget I have someone more important to me at home. Guess you need to remind me of that sometimes.” She turned to me and smiled. “Maybe not in the way that you did. But…”

I smiled back. “Not one of my prouder moments.”

We reached the barren outlie north of Palm Springs, where the streetlights were few and far between. Here, the desert reclaimed the night, a reminder that we were just visitors on this ancient land. Made me feel small and fragile, and put me back in the emergency room the night I met Deirdre. I'd sliced my hand open on a table saw, and the meat of my palm pumped out blood into a towel. As I sat there alone, holding a towel that was getting heavier by the minute, everything seemed brighter, but less real at the same time. Until Deirdre sat down a few chairs away, waiting, I came to find out, for word on one of her clients who'd just OD'd. Tonight, I looked down at that scar on my palm and knew it was my real lifeline.

“Wasn't much good at work today anyway,” Deirdre said. “Couldn't seem to concentrate. Or bring myself to give much of a shit about everyone else's problems.”

“You're entitled. I was in a fog all day myself,” I admitted, as we crossed over the interstate into North Palm Springs. A large traveler's complex squatted next to the highway under bright white floodlights.

“I did have a new client, though,” Deirdre continued. “A walk-in at the end of the day. I think he could sense my distraction. Didn't stay too long.”

“Will he come back?”

“I think so. Set him up for something later this week.”

I made a few turns to get to our street. It looked like it always did when the heat of the day lingered past sunset: lonesome and empty, but filled with movement. Tree branches waved to no one, stirred by the wind snaking through the pass. Living room windows closed to the heat, TV-light flickering in the curtains. Air conditioners hummed steadily in the animated dark, imparting a static charge to the night I could feel as we pulled up in front of the house. Faintly outlined by the mountains in the distance, it looked forlorn and unsettled, still not recovered from yesterday's chaos.

It was close to nine as we approached the front door. The porch light was a hot yellow glow that attracted fluttering moths. It also illuminated a man slumped against the door. He was sitting on the dust mat, head down on his knees.

Just as Deirdre and I noticed him he looked up, rousing himself quickly. “Mr. Ryder? Are you Tim Ryder?”

Something in his hand glinted in the shadows as he moved. Instinctively, I sprang forward and threw him back against the door before he had a chance to get up. I trapped his wrist against the doorframe, pinned his neck with my other forearm, and pressed my knee against his chest so he couldn't move. Whatever it was dropped from his hand, hit the pavement and broke apart. Not a gun, I saw, looking down at a small handheld tape recorder with the battery cover and batteries scattered around it.

The man struggled against me, legs scissoring. His free hand clutched at my arm on his throat as he tried to breathe.

I gave him a little air. “Who the hell are you?”

When he didn't answer, Deirdre came up and roughly turned him sideways, then reached around his backside.

He took his hand off me and grabbed her hair, jerking her head forward sharply, but let her go when I drove my arm back into his throat. She kicked him once in the ribs, angry, and he grunted in pain. Deirdre reached behind him again to pull out his wallet.

She opened it, squinted at the ID displayed inside.

“He's a reporter,” she said, tossing the wallet at him as I grabbed his collar and picked him up.

I let him go once he was on his feet. He staggered a few steps away and leaned face-first against the wall, one arm pillowing his forehead, the other hand massaging his neck. He was panting pretty hard.

“Shit!” he got out between breaths. “What the fuck … is your … problem?”

I picked up his wallet and had a look for myself. One slot held his driver's license. John Sheehan. 4-23-64. The other had a press ID for the
Desert Sun
.

Sheehan turned around to face me, muttering angrily under his breath as he dusted himself off. “I'm just a reporter, for Chrissake!” he finally said, then looked down. “Where's my gear?”

He saw the tape recorder lying in pieces by the door and took a step toward it.

“Not so fast,” I cautioned, stopping him with a firm hand on his chest. I handed him back his wallet. “What do you want?”

“Take a wild guess,” he answered, stuffing the wallet in his pocket. I pushed him hard against the wall, and the back of his head cracked against the concrete. He put his hands up in a “stop” gesture, a scared look in his eyes replacing the hostility he'd shown moments earlier. Again my hand was clamped under his chin, holding his face high.

“Listen asshole, we just had a murder go down on our property, maybe you heard about it. So we're a little nervous about strangers waiting in the dark on our front doorstep. Now cut the bullshit and tell us what you want.” I loosened my grip on his neck. “Okay?”

He nodded as well as he could, eyes bouncing nervously between me and Deirdre. I let him go.

Sheehan cleared his throat and rubbed the front of his neck, as if he were checking the closeness of a shave. He straightened the collar of his polo shirt and jerked his shoulders forward to readjust the fit. He reminded me of someone trying to save face after losing a bar fight.

“I'm a reporter for the
Sun
,” Sheehan finally said. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened yesterday.” He turned to Deirdre and asked if we could talk inside. Maybe he thought she'd be more hospitable, despite the kick in the ribs.

He was wrong. “I don't think this conversation is going to be long enough to bother,” Deirdre told him.

“We don't know anything more than you do,” I said. “And we've got enough problems without talking to a reporter about it.”

“Well then perhaps I can enlighten you with some information I've run across,” he offered hopefully, seeing an opening. “Then you can give me your comments, maybe shed some light on a few things.”

“Who have you been talking to?” I asked. “Do the cops know who that boy was?”

Deirdre took a step toward Sheehan.

“Who was he?” she demanded, her eyes big and dark in the faint porchlight.

Sheehan nodded toward our front door. “You have something cold to drink?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. “It's hot out here.”

“It's going to get hotter if you don't start talking,” I said through clenched teeth. “You're beginning to piss me off.”

“Tell us what you know or leave,” Deirdre said. “We're not gonna play any games with you.”

Sheehan finally relented, shaking his head with frustration. “Fine. Whatever.” He turned his attention toward me, suddenly all business. “I plugged your name into Lexis and got a hit. You had quite a little escapade thirty-odd years ago, didn't you?”

“So what?” I replied. “It's never been a secret. You think you're Woodward and Bernstein, coming up with that?”

“Well how 'bout this, then? Your old bunk-buddy and his unfortunate demise.”

“What are you two talking about?” Deirdre demanded.

“Oh, you didn't know about that?” he asked Deirdre, then addressed me. “Keeping secrets from the old lady, huh?”

Silence for a moment, Sheehan and I regarding each other coolly, before Deirdre cut in. “You don't know what the hell you're talking about,” she told him with a kind of desperation, then turned to me. “This is getting old. Maybe he should leave.”

“Look, I'm sorry,” Sheehan said. “I guess I went about this the wrong way—”

“You sure did,” I interrupted, picking up the tape recorder and returning it in pieces. “You heard my wife. Scram.”

Fuming, Sheehan backpedaled toward the street. “You want me to dredge your whole story up again in the newspaper? I will, you know.”

“And if you didn't, somebody else would,” I replied. “Unless you're the only reporter with access to a computer archive.”

“But wouldn't it be better if the first story to come out with this angle put you in a positive light?” Sheehan responded, stopping on the lawn. “I can slant it any way I want. And I
will
be first with it.”

“I don't really give a damn,” I said, raising my voice. “I hope you win the fucking Pulitzer for it. You can take your story and shove it up your ass. Just do it off my property.”

By this time Deirdre had unlocked the front door and was pulling me inside.

“You know Turret's out don't you?” And when that didn't get a response: “I should have you two arrested for assault! See how you like jail again after all this time.”

Deirdre slammed the door, turned on the living room lights, and looked me up and down. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I'm all right. That was a pretty good kick you gave him, though.”

“I had a feeling he was a reporter even before I saw his ID,” she said, moving into the kitchen.

It was stiflingly hot in the house. Deirdre opened the sliding glass door and stood a few moments in front of the screen, breathing in the night air. Our backyard was dusted with a silvery light from our neighbor's security lamp. It outlined Deirdre in a faint aurora, as though she was lit from within.

The illusion lasted only half a moment in her stillness, then she spoke.

“I knew he'd dug up your past. I don't think I would have kicked him if he hadn't grabbed me. But I might have.”

I didn't respond.

“So. Your cell-mate,” Deirdre said without turning around.

No reason not to tell her. “He was a Hell's Angel. Don't remember his name. I found him dead one morning. My first year, when I was on laundry detail.” Deirdre turned to face me. “They had those big, industrial, stainless steel machines. He was floating in one. Just him and all that soapy water.” I paused. “That wasn't what killed him, though.” Deirdre raised an eyebrow. “Sticky fingers are a no-no when you're part of a prison drug ring. Got him a bleach cocktail. Followed by the hot bath.”

“And you?” Deirdre asked.

“I just shared a box with him.”

I switched on the overhead fluorescents. They flickered to life, bathing the room in a blue-white glow. Deirdre went to the cabinet and took down two glasses, then got a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. She sat down at the table, which had a slight wobble that I hadn't gotten around to fixing yet, and poured us both a glass.

When I sat down across from her, she took a sip of her tea and said, “So I guess your story will be all over the newspaper tomorrow.”

Just then the telephone rang, startling us. It seemed blaring and strident in our small kitchen and I hesitated before getting up to answer it. Deirdre looked at me expectantly as I picked up on the third ring, just before the answering machine would have taken it. I wished I'd let it.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Ryder?”

“Who wants to know?” I asked, shaking my head with disgust. It had to be another reporter, I thought. They'd be coming out of the woodwork now. Deirdre got up from her chair and approached inquisitively. Our eyes locked as the man on the other end continued.

“I'm James Parker from the
Pilot
, hoping to get some comments about the murder that happened out there yesterday.” Out there. Like North Palm Springs was alien territory from where this guy was calling from.

“This
is
Tim Ryder, isn't it?”

“How did you get this number? It's supposed to be unlisted. And don't you guys go home at night?”

“I'm just a working man trying to get ahead, sir. Putting in a few extra hours to get some background, some human interest on the story.”

“The fact that he was murdered in cold blood isn't human interest enough for you? You gotta bother me at home, use a kid's death to get ahead?” I asked, getting irritated.

Who is it?
Deirdre mouthed.

“I understand how you feel sir. You've probably been getting calls from reporters all day.”

I looked at the answering machine. Its single red digit blinked a flashing “9,” signifying the number of messages went into the double digits.

“But if you'll just answer a few brief questions about the crime I won't bother you again,” Parker continued. “Promise.” He paused in my silence. Then: “Only about what happened. Nothing personal.” Which sounded like Sheehan's threat to expose my past.

“Look, we just had one of your competitors from the other paper show up unannounced. Kinda ticked us off, so we're a little press-shy right now. We don't know anything anyway.”

“Who was it? Sheehan, I bet. What did he have to say?”

“Same thing as you, Parker. Sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. We got nothing beyond what we told the police. Talk to them.”

“I did. Which reminds me. Did you and Branson have some sort of run-in? I don't think he likes you much.”

“Why? What did he tell you?”

“Nothing specific. But there was something there. Care to talk about it?”