"Me too," he said. "Least that's what my third-grade teacher said. But screw goals. I need to connect the dots, and right now I don't even have a pencil."
At White Oak he said, "The thing that bothers me is maybe I narrowed my focus too quickly. I'm not saying the Duke thing or Lyle is wrong, but there's always the danger of tunnel vision."
"What do you mean?"
"I know Lauren . . . meant something to you, but the hard truth is she sold her body for a living, and women who do that live dangerously. Thewhole thing could trace back to some other John. Hell, I haven't even followed up on her supposed modeling—the garment industry connections. There's a real clean business for you—sweatshops and kickbacks."
"What about Shawna and Duke>" I said.
He rotated his head, winced, rubbed his face. "I don't know, Alex. My gut still tells me Shawna isn't related to the rest of it."
"Your gut's worth listening to."
"Thanks, Doc—see you next session."
We traveled in silence all the way to Beverly Glen and Valley Vista, where Milo began the trip back to the city.
He let out a long, raspy sigh. "I respect your intuition also, Alex, but even an O-C pit bull takes a breather between bouts. Let's both step back for a while. Maybe try to relax."
24
ROBIN SAID, "First the daughter, now the mother?"
We were on the big couch in the living room. She was sitting at the far end, just out of reach, still wearing her work overalls and her red T-shirt. I'd come home determined to put everything aside, had ended up talking about all of it: Lauren's aborted therapy, Phil Harnsberger's party, Mi-chelle, Shawna, Jane Abbot, Mel Abbot's senescent terror.
Death kills confidentiality.
"You're making it sound like a confession," she said.
"Whose?"
"Yours. The whole sordid tale. As if you've done something wrong. As if you're a main player in all of it and not just an extra." She looked away. "It's almost as if she's seduced you—Lauren. Not sexually—you know what I mean. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Seduction's how she made a living."
"I don't see that at all."
She got up, went into the kitchen, returned with two bottles of water, and handed me one. Sitting just as far.
"What's wrong?" I said.
"You saw this girl, what—twice, ten years ago?—yet you've convinced yourself that you're obligated to clarify every detail of her life. People like that don't lend themselves to solutions. For them it's always problems."
"People like that."
"Outcasts, troubled souls—patients, call them what you will. Didn't you tell me one thing you had to learn so as not to become a toxic sponge was how to let go?"
"It's not a matter of letting go—"
"What, then, Alex?" Her voice was low, but there was no mistaking the edge.
"Is there anything else that's bothering you?" I said.
"That," she said, "was very shrinky."
"Sorry—"
"Your mind's a fine piece of machinery, Alex. I've never encountered anything like it. You're like a precisely tuned watch, always ticking— relentless. But sometimes I think you use what God gave you to dig ditches. Lowering yourself. . . these people ..."
I reached for her, and she allowed me to touch her fingertips. But she exerted no stretch that would have allowed me to hold her.
"The thing is," she said, "you get yourself on a track and you just keep running. People around this girl tend to die, Alex, and you haven't even considered the possibility that you might be in danger."
"The people who've died knew her well—"
She sighed and got up. "Listen, I've got work to catch up on—catch you later."
"What about dinner?"
"Not hungry."
"You are wot happy with me."
"On the contrary," she said. "I'm very happy with you. With us. That's why I'd like us both to keep breathing for a while."
"There's no danger. I wouldn't do that to you again."
"To me? Why don't you start thinking of yourself? Check out your own boundaries—what you'll allow in and what you won't."
She bent and kissed my forehead. "I don't mean to be cruel, baby, but I'm weary of all this surmising and ugliness. You did what you could. Keep telling yourself that."
I spent the night alone, listening to music but ingesting no harmony, trying to read—anything but psychology—waiting for Robin to come back in the house. By eleven she hadn't, and I went to bed—early for me—and woke at 4:30 A.M., fighting the urge to bolt, exhausted yetcharged, using every relaxation trick in my repertoire to fall back asleep. I endured the tension for two more hours until Robin's eyes opened and I pretended to be ready to greet the day.
She smiled at me, tousled my hair, showered alone but made coffee for both of us, and sat down with the first section of the paper. If Jane Abbot's murder had made the edition, she didn't say. I took the Metro pages. Nothing there.
By eight she'd headed back to the studio and I was running up in the hills, harder than usual, punishing my joints, trying to sweat off adrenaline. I'd promised myself to avoid the paper, but when I got back I thumbed quickly and found the summary of Jane Abbot's death on page 25. Worded nearly exactly as I'd predicted: senile husband, shocked neighbors, domestic tragedy, investigation pending.
I finished up some court reports—a couple of personal injury cases where kids had experienced psychological sequelae and a custody battle with wealthy protagonists that might never end unless the principals died. Printing, signing, sealing, and addressing my findings to various judges, I reviewed my ledger books and tried to figure out if I'd owe taxes in April. By eleven I still hadn't figured it out. By eleven-thirty Robin bopped in, Spike in tow, and informed me she had to deliver two repaired D'Angelico archtops to the Los Feliz home of a movie star who was considering playing Elvis in an upcoming flick.
"Elvis never played D'Angelicos," I said.
"That should be the worst of it. This guy's got a tin ear." A peck on the cheek—hard, maybe dismissive—and she was off.
By noon I was jumping out of my skin.
At twelve-eighteen I gave up and drove away.
West. Toward Santa Monica. The ocean. Figuring I'd just cruise by Ben Bugger's high-rise, then take a nice, relaxed drive north on Ocean Front, down the ramp to Pacific Coast Highway.
Malibu. Day at the beach. Nothing to do with Lauren, because Lauren had left no clues in Malibu, and why should I avoid an entire coastline?
I could be as Californian as anyone.
But when I passed the building, Dugger was standing out in front, and I reduced my speed to a crawl. Standing alone. Checking his watch. Looking rumpled and tense in a tan corduroy sport coat, white shirt, gray slacks. Flicking his wrist again. Glancing at the ramp of the underground parking garage.
Circling the block, I returned, cruising as slowly as I could without drawing the ire of other motorists. That left me mere seconds to stare, but it was enough to catch a glimpse of a green-jacketed figure— the diminutive Gerald—pulling up in Bugger's old white Volvo, getting out, saluting, opening the door for Bugger.
Bugger gave him a tip and got in.
I drove fifty feet, veered to the curb, parked in front of a hydrant, waited until the Volvo chugged by. Allowing three cars to get between us, I began the tail, knowing this time I couldn't risk discovery. Figuring I could pull it off. No reason for him to suspect.
He turned right onto Wilshire, headed east to Lincoln, picked up the 10 east freeway and transferred to the 405 south. The route to Newport Beach. Probably just checking out the office; soon the Seville and I would be several dozen miles older with nothing to show.
It beat sitting around the house working at mellow.
But instead of continuing to Orange County, he exited at Century Boulevard and continued west.
LAX signs all over. Flying somewhere? I hadn't seen luggage, but perhaps the car was already packed.
He headed into the airport. Maintaining the three-car shield, I stayed with him as he entered a parking lot opposite Terminal 4. Several airlines shared the lot, most prominently American. The driver in front of me had trouble figuring out how to take the ticket from the machine, and by the time I got inside the Volvo was nowhere in sight.
No parking spaces on ground level, and I took the ramp down, hoping Bugger had done the same. Sure enough, I spotted the Volvo's square back just as Bugger nosed into a corner space between two SUVs. He got out and alarm-locked the car, carried no luggage as he headed for the elevators. I chanced parking the Seville in an illegal space and hurried after him.
I hid behind a concrete pylon as he stepped into the lift. Ran over in time to read the illuminated numbers. Two flights up. The footbridge to American Airlines. Vaulting up the stairs, I cracked the stairwell door andsaw him lope past. But he didn't take the right turn toward the escalator that led down to the ticket gates. Continuing straight toward the army of phony nuns and preachers hawking for nonexistent charities, he dropped a coin in a cup and walked hurriedly to the metal detectors.
Long queue of travelers at the single device in service and one sleepy-looking security attendant, so no problem putting space between us there. I watched Dugger place his wallet and keys in a plastic dish and keep his eyes on them as he sailed through. But the two people in front of me set off the machine, and I was forced to cool my heels as Dugger disappeared around a bend.
Finally, I got through and walked briskly through hordes of travelers and loved ones, flight attendants and pilots. No sign of Dugger. During the moments I'd lost sight of him he could've gone anywhere—the men's room, a shop, any of the gates.
I strolled up the corridor trying to look casual, searching for a flash of tan jacket. Then I came to an elevator that led to the private lounge—the Admirals Club. Members Only. A woman sat behind a counter to the right, busy at her computer.
Dugger was a rich kid—why not? Affluence could also explain no luggage: He might have turnkey access to hideouts in Aspen, the Hamptons, Jackson Hole, Santa Fe.
As I approached the elevator the woman behind the counter smiled. "May I please see your membership card, sir?"
I smiled back and walked away. The elevator was in open view of the terminal's main artery. If Dugger was in there, I had no way to observe his comings and goings without being spotted myself. . . . No, there he was, twenty feet in front of me, stepping out of a men's room.
I ducked behind an automated insurance machine and pretended to estimate actuarial odds as Dugger whipped out a handkerchief and blew his nose. A nice, heavy rush of newly arrived travelers added further cover. Dugger stashed the hankie and consulted his watch again. Paused at a bank of TV monitors set into the wall, resumed walking. Checking arrivals.
Not going anywhere. Meeting someone.
I stayed behind Dugger as he entered the main reception area—a wide, circular, noisy space around which the big-bodied jets docked. Hebought a pretzel at a kiosk, took a nibble, frowned, tossed what was left into a trash basket.
Yet another consultation of his watch.
Nervous.
A newsstand-sourdough bread outlet occupied the center of the terminal, and I stationed myself at the paperback rack, pulled out a Stephen King, and stuck my nose between the covers. I had a good clear view of Dugger as he made his way to Gate 49A, walked up to the glass wall that offered a view of the landing strip, and peered through. A big, fat 767 sat in the bay.
He walked over to the desk, asked the ground clerk something, remained expressionless as she nodded. Plenty of empty seats in the arrival lounge, but he stayed on his feet. Paid further homage to his watch. Took another gander at the plane.
Very nervous.
I was too far away to read the flight information at 49A. Placing the book back on the rack, I edged closer. The flight numbers remained blurry, but I was able to make out "New York."
Dugger remained near the glass wall for a while before pacing some more. Tugging at his collar. Rubbing the crown of his scalp where the hair had deserted it. When the door to 49A finally opened, he gave a small start and hurried forward.
He edged to the front of the greeting crowd, standing with three uniformed livery drivers holding signs and a young, shapely woman rocking two-year-old twins in a dual stroller.
The limo drivers' clients emerged first—a white-haired couple, a bespectacled black giant in a five-button cream-colored suit, and a bedraggled, sallow, unshaven wraith in his twenties, wearing dark shades and a food-stained T-shirt, whom I recognized as an actor on a cheesy TV comedy.
Then Dugger's quarry.
Thickset, swarthy man in his mid-forties, wearing a well-cut black suit and glossy black silk shirt, buttoned to the neck. Black hair in a dense, dark crew cut. Beetle brows, simian hairline—only inches from the shelf of his brow.
Not tall—five-eight or nine—but at least one ninety, maybe more. A dense, cubic mixture of muscle and fat. His brown neck bulged over the collar of the silk shirt. Suggestions of upper-body bulk and massive strength were enhanced by good tailoring. Flat, prizefighter's nose. Huge hands. Squinty eyes, thin lips.
He toted a single piece of carry-on: a sleek black-leather bag that Dug-ger offered to take.
Black Suit refused, scarcely nodded at Dugger. Barely touched Dugger's hand as they shook. No smiles exchanged, just a curt nod from Black Suit and the two of them were off, Black Suit running a palm over his bristly head.
Dugger hurried to keep pace as the stocky man pressed toward the GROUND TRANSPORTATION/BAGGAGE CLAIM sign. Then Black Suit pointed to the newsstand. Looked right in my direction. Said something. Changed direction and headed toward me.
How could he have seen me— No, there was no alarm in his eyes, just that same solid . . . flatness.
I backed away just in time to find an observation point behind a support column as the two of them reached the newsstand. They didn't enter, remained near the register—in front of the candy rack, where Black Suit stopped and considered chewing gum options. Lifting packs, reading ingredients. Finally, he settled on a double-decker Juicy Fruit, popped two sticks in his mouth, pocketed the wrappers, chewed energetically as Dugger paid the cashier.