Death Gets a Time-Out (37 page)

At that moment the front doorbell rang. Rochelle ran to open it. She let in three burly men in plain blue suits. One was older, in his forties or even fifties. The other two were young men, probably no older than twenty-five. They all had identical cropped haircuts and expressionless faces.

“Thanks so much for getting here so fast, Dror,” Rochelle said. “Juliet, this is Dror Amitav. He’s the owner of the bodyguard agency.”

“Personal protection,” he corrected her in a thick Israeli accent, while looking me up and down suspiciously. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Juliet Applebaum,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m glad to see you here.” I pulled him aside and asked him to make sure that he let no one into the house, not even Beverly. Especially not Beverly. He didn’t even blink, just nodded his head.

Dror sent one of the young men with me up to Lilly’s
room. I peeked in and made sure she was still asleep. The bodyguard propped the door open about a foot and stood out in the hall in front of the open door, his feet planted hip distance apart, his hands hanging at his sides. He looked as if he was prepared to stand like that for the next ten or twenty hours.

I walked down the stairs and sat down in the living room, going over it all again in my mind. Was I too quickly dismissing the gun-for-hire scenario? At that moment, my purse, which I’d forgotten in the inglenook, began to beep. I scooped it out and pulled out my cell phone. I hit the “missed calls” button and my mother’s number flashed on my screen. I resisted the urge to call her and get her advice or maybe just cry on her shoulder. Then I had a sudden epiphany.

I yelled Rochelle’s name, and she ran into the hallway from the living room.

“Were you in the room when Raymond got the phone call at breakfast? The one right before he went out?”

She nodded.

“Did the call come in on one of Lilly’s lines?”

She shook her head. “On Raymond’s cell phone.”

“Damn it!” I said, bringing my fist down on my thigh. I winced at the blow.

“Why?”

“Caller ID. I wanted to check the caller ID.”

“Do you want to see his phone?” she asked.

“What? It’s here? He didn’t take it with him?”

“No. The battery ran out right after he got that call. I offered to charge it for him. We all use that same kind of Nokia phone.”

I hustled her into the office. There, along a high shelf, was an entire row of telephone chargers, some empty, some holding cell phones. I snatched up the phone she pointed out to me and hit the “call history” button. I pushed the “incoming calls” button. There, at 9:11
A.M.
, was a call from a ten-digit number. I pressed the “callback” button and waited, holding my breath, while the connection was made. A moment later,
the phone rang once. Then twice. Then someone picked it up.

“Hello?” a small voice said. It was a child. A very young child.

“Hello?” I replied tentatively. I didn’t want this little person to hang up the phone. “Who is this?” I said in a gentle, friendly voice.

“Araceli,” the little girl replied.

“Araceli, is your mommy there?”

“No. She’s at home. But my daddy’s inside.”

“Inside where?”

“Inside the big store.”

The big store? I listened closely and thought I could detect the sound of traffic. Was this a cell phone?

“Araceli, my name is Juliet,” I said in Spanish.

“Hola!”
she said brightly.

“Araceli, are you talking to me on your daddy’s cell phone?”

“No. On the big store phone,” she said. “It’s a very, very big phone, and it rang!”

A pay phone!

“Are you standing outside a big store? Talking on the pay phone?”

“We’re at Target!” she said. “And I’m waiting for my My Little Pony. Daddy’s buying me a My Little Pony if I just sit here and wait.”

“That’s so neat! My daughter Ruby really wants a My Little Pony.”

The voice on the other end suddenly grew doubtful and suspicious. “That’s my toy. I’m not sharing it,” she said.

“No! Of course you’re not. Araceli, tell me, what is the name of the town you live in, do you know that?”

“Um . . . California?” she said.

“Right!” I answered. “But do you know the name of the place
in
California?”

“Um . . . Lincoln Street?”

I was beginning to lose hope. “Can you remember the name of the city, sweetie? Or the town?”

“Ventura!” she said.

“That’s right!” I said. “Do you live in Ventura?”

“Yup!” she said.

“Who is this?” a gruff voice with a Mexican accent said suddenly.

“I’m so sorry,” I said quickly. “Your daughter picked up the telephone. I’m just trying to figure out where this number is. I’m assuming it’s a pay phone. Right?”

“Yeah,” he said suspiciously.

“And are you in Ventura?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” I said, my voice not much more than a whisper. I hung up the phone and leaned back in my chair. Ventura, California. Nice enough town, I suppose, but not somewhere you’d ever bother to go. Unless, of course, you were on your way to Ojai. Thank God for neglectful fathers, and little girls who pick up pay phones when they ring. Otherwise I would never have been able to figure out who it was that had used a pay phone to place the call that lured Raymond to his death.

Dr. Reese Blackmore had worked a miracle cure on Lilly Green. He’d helped her recover her memory. He’d healed her. And he’d written article after article about his success. He had built his entire professional identity upon Little Girl Q’s cure. If the truth became known, if the world discovered not that Lilly Green
was
a murderer, but that she
wasn’t
, he would be ruined.

I looked at the phone again. The voice mail indicator was flashing. I punched the key and put the phone to my ear. Raymond had two new messages. They were from Beverly, asking him, in a voice so cold that it made me wish for a sweater, just where the hell he’d gone. I supposed it could have been a careful plant, but I tended to think it evidence of her innocence—of
his
murder, at least.

I clicked back over to the “call history” screen and pressed the “outgoing calls” button. There, at 7:42
A.M.
, was a call to the Ojai center. Raymond had called Blackmore. Blackmore had returned the call, careful to do so from a pay phone.
He’d somehow convinced Raymond to meet him, and then he’d shot him. Something Raymond said must have convinced Blackmore that he was too dangerous to let live. It couldn’t have been difficult to persuade Raymond to meet him. He was running scared by then—scared he’d be implicated in the murder. Perhaps Raymond had gone to convince Blackmore that it was in both their interests to protect each other’s confidences. I didn’t know. We’d never know exactly how Blackmore had lured Raymond to his death, but I knew that he had.

I turned off the cell phone. Ignoring Rochelle’s insistent questions, I picked up the office phone and called Al. Still out of range. Then I tried Valerie at Wasserman’s office, nearly screaming in frustration when I found myself forced to leave a voice mail message. I told her that Jupiter Jones was innocent and that I knew who had murdered Chloe. At the sound of Blackmore’s name, Rochelle gasped.

“Go tell the bodyguards not to let him into the house,” I said to her.

“Are you going to call the police?”

Right. The police.

“Do you have that detective’s card?” I asked her.

“No,” she said.

I remembered that Beverly’s aide had taken it. I dialed Information and got the general number for the Los Angeles Police Department. It took three different operators to be put through to someone who could take a message for Detective Staynor. I left my name and Lilly’s number. I hung up the phone and only then realized that I hadn’t called home in hours. I dialed my number and nearly threw the phone across the room when the answering machine picked up. I felt like I was having one of those dreams where you keep dialing and dialing but can’t get through. I didn’t bother to leave a message. Instead, I dialed my access code and listened to the messages on the machine. There was one from Al asking me where the hell I’d disappeared to. My jaw clenched in frustration. Then I heard Wanda’s voice.

“Hi, Juliet. I got this number from the card you left me.
I hope it’s okay that I’m calling you at home. I’m not sure why I’m calling, really. It’s just that you said to call if anything came up. Anyway, I just got a call from the Ojai rehab center. Apparently there was some stuff of Chloe’s that they want to return to me. They’re sending someone down here to give me her things, and I thought there might be something you’d be interested in. For your case. For Jupiter. I mean, we all want to make sure he’s really the one, right? Maybe there’ll be something here to help you find out for sure . . .” There was a beep, and whatever else Wanda said was cut off. I stared at the phone in horror and then called Detective Staynor again. This time, I told the operator that it was an emergency and gave her my cell phone number. I hung up the phone and turned to Rochelle.

“If that cop calls, you tell him to call me immediately, okay?”

“Where are you going?” she said.

“Laguna Beach.”

B
LACKMORE
was on his way to Laguna Beach, and I had to get there first. I didn’t buy that story about Chloe’s personal belongings for a second. He’d killed Raymond, and he was on the way to do the same to Wanda. I snaked down Benedict Canyon with one eye on the road and one on my cell phone. Finally, Al answered his phone.

“Where are you?” I said.

“San Diego.”

Damn. He was a full half hour farther from Laguna than I was. “What are you doing down there?”

“Followed one of the workers’ comp slackers to a gun show,” he said almost defensively. “Why? What’s going on?”

I didn’t bother to explain. I just told him to meet me at Wanda’s in Laguna Beach. It tells you everything you need to know about Al that he didn’t ask me a bunch of questions or badger me for more information. He just took down the address.

“Bring whatever you bought today with you,” I said.

There was a beat before he replied. “Don’t you go in there without me.”

Before I could reply, the phone went dead. It flashed “out of range” the entire way down the 405.

By the time I got to Laguna Beach, it was dark. I pulled into Wanda’s street and debated whether to cut my lights and engine and coast silently into her driveway. I could take Blackmore by surprise; ensure that he didn’t run. On the other hand, what if he pulled the trigger during the few moments it took me to creep up to the house? I slammed my palm down on my car horn and squealed into Wanda’s driveway. I ran up to the front door, tore it open, and then stopped, confused. Molly Weston, Blackmore’s assistant, stood in the middle of the living room, partially obscured behind a large, plastic bag. Dr. Reese Blackmore was nowhere to be seen.

“Ms. Applebaum?” she said pleasantly. “It’s so nice to see you. I’m just here to bring Wanda some of poor Chloe’s clothes and things.” She hefted the bag, but did not put it down.

I looked over at Wanda. She sat on the couch, her hands in her lap. She didn’t rise to her feet, and neither did she greet me with the same friendly expression I’d been treated to the last time I’d visited her. She smiled, but it was a tight, nervous smile.

“Did Dr. Blackmore come down with you?” I asked Molly.

“Reese? No, of course not. He’s too busy for this kind of errand, I’m afraid.” She turned to Wanda. “He did say to tell you how very sorry he is.”

I looked back at Wanda. Suddenly, I noticed her feet. They were bare, like they were the other time I’d been to the house, and she’d clamped her toes around the leg of the couch. I’d never seen white knuckles on toes before, but I knew what they meant. Wanda was terrified.

“Hey, Molly, why don’t I help you with that bag?” I said, crossing quickly toward the young woman, my hands outstretched.

“No!” she said sharply, backing up. “No, no. I’m fine.”

I noticed for the first time that one of her arms held the bag in place in front of her. The other hand was obscured from sight, tucked behind the bag.

“Juliet, I’m so sorry. It’s really not a good time for me right now,” Wanda said softly but firmly. “I need to . . . to have some private time with Molly. To . . . to go through Chloe’s things.” I wrinkled my brow and looked at her. What was she doing? “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’ll get together another time. You go and give those babies a kiss for me, okay?”

She was trying to save me. My children’s faces flashed through my mind. I thought for a brief second about the one in my belly. I’d already been shot once while I was pregnant, and lived to give birth to my wonderful baby boy. Would I be so lucky again? I wondered how far away Al was. I wondered whether Detective Staynor had taken my message seriously. I considered leaving the house and calling the police. But you don’t leave someone alone with a murderer. You just don’t.

“I’m so sorry. I really should have called first. Of course you need time alone for this,” I said brightly. “I’m just going to make myself a little cup of tea for the road, okay? Can I borrow a travel mug? Do you have one of those, Wanda?”

“In the cupboard by the sink.” She began to rise, but I held out my hand. “No, no. I’ll be fine. It’ll just take a sec. Hope you don’t mind, Molly. I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

Molly shrugged. I walked behind her toward the kitchen, and she swung her shoulders around so that she was facing me. In that instant, I caught a glimpse of it. She’d shoved her hand deep into the soft bulk of the full plastic bag, almost entirely obscuring the gun. I saw only the butt, peeping from the bottom of her fist, but it was enough. She was pointing a gun at Wanda, and I knew what I needed to do.

I bustled around the kitchen, filling the tea kettle noisily, and lighting the burner. I smiled through the open door at Molly, who returned my grin with one equally false.

I dug around the cupboard. “Ooh, peppermint,” I sang out. “I just love peppermint tea. No honey for me, though. I lose my taste for it when I’m knocked up.” I wanted to make sure Molly knew about my condition, if she hadn’t noticed it already. Nothing seems as benign as a pregnant woman.