Stephanie’s fists beat against his chest. She might as well be hitting him with flowers.
“You’re a good mama. I could see that the moment I walked into the house.”
Stephanie was sobbing now.
“I’ll make sure I leave the doors locked. I won’t let your little girl walk in and see you. There’s someplace she can go if she can’t get in, isn’t there? Some friend down the street?” Sugar felt her nod. “It won’t be so bad. You just lay your head down on the pillow, take a few deep breaths. You’ll just go to sleep and dream forever.”
“What did I ever do to you?”
“Not a darned thing.” Sugar rocked her and felt her heart fluttering against him as the oven hissed away. The room was heavy with gas. “Not a blessed thing.”
“Please—”
“You want to blame someone, blame Jimmy Gage.
He’s
the one responsible.”
“Jimmy? I—I hardly talked to him. A half-hour, that’s all.”
Sugar lifted her off her feet. Stephanie lay limply in his outstretched arms as he carried her toward the stove. “Lady, once upon a time it took just five minutes to turn my life upside down. Five minutes.” He flipped open the oven with a fingertip. “A half-hour is
forever
in my book.”
“I’m just tired,” said Jimmy. “No, I’m fine, Jane, I’ll see you tonight.” He snapped the phone shut and tucked it away. The breeze shifted, and he wrinkled his nose, catching a whiff of the koi pond. He finished the beer, hefted the long neck, and considered standing up to make the throw, see if he could bounce it off the little piggy fifty or sixty yards below. Then he remembered Walsh’s body floating in the same spot, swollen like a zeppelin, the skin blistered and split, pecked by crows. Katz had needed dental records to make a positive ID, but Jimmy had known it was Walsh as soon as he saw the devil tattoo on the corpse’s shoulder.
Jimmy riffed through the phone records on his lap. He ran a finger down a column of Walsh’s phone calls, wanting to remind himself of the last call that Walsh had made. Vacaville. Of course. Phoning home. He stopped and checked the notes he had written earlier after talking with the professor. He stared at the phone log again, not believing it.
The last two calls had both been to Vacaville, the state spa where Walsh and Harlen Shafer had done time together. Jimmy hadn’t thought much of it when he and Rollo first went over the records; Walsh had called the prison every few weeks since he first got out, short calls to the main switchboard, forwarded to some paid-off guard probably. No way to trace that. Walsh was just contacting his cellies, leaving word that he had kept the promises that most cons made when they got kicked: checking up on wives and girlfriends, maybe taking a kid to the zoo in place of his three-strikes daddy. That’s what Jimmy had thought at the time. Not anymore.
If the professor was right about the time of death, those last two calls had been placed
after
Walsh was already dead. Somebody else had called Vacaville while the fishes were fighting over Walsh’s soft parts. Jimmy considered the possibility that Boone’s time-of-death estimate was the right one, but he didn’t consider it for long.
Flies floated over the koi pond, a dark cloud in the distance. Jimmy sipped his beer, thinking, glad that he couldn’t hear the buzzing from where he sat. He had enough noise in his head.
Walsh had been murdered. Jimmy had been right about that, but the good wife’s husband wasn’t behind it. Those regular calls Walsh had made to Vacaville weren’t to his bunkies—he was playing for time, tap-dancing for some O. G. with a grudge, somebody who could reach out through the bars and touch him. Touch him dead. It wasn’t love or jealousy that did Walsh in. He had gotten whacked over an unpaid carton of smokes, or for talking during
Baywatch,
or maybe just for looking at the wrong guy the wrong way. With Walsh’s mouth it was a wonder he had lasted seven years inside without getting shanked.
The last two calls made from Walsh’s phone had been placed by his killer, the first one passing on the news that Walsh was dead, the second one—it had lasted barely a minute—confirming that the message had been received. This prison honcho had probably used Harlen Shafer to set up the hit, used him as a stalking horse, getting Walsh so stoned he couldn’t fight back. Shafer himself had probably been killed for his trouble.
Jimmy wanted to be wrong, because if he was right, all his efforts trying to find the good wife and the husband—none of it mattered. Walsh had been in a panic that night in the trailer, full of tales of love and vengeance, his bravado collapsing with every noise outside. There was a jealous husband all right, there was
always
a jealous husband with a guy like Walsh. Whether it was Danziger he was afraid of, or his prison karma catching up with him, at the end all Walsh had left was his fear. Leave it to Walsh to think that a screenplay would save him. To be white hot once again. Untouchable. The return of the golden boy.
Jimmy tipped the bottle to his lips. The beer was warm and bitter now. Why did the killer wait around so long afterward? Do it and go, run away, that’s what Jimmy would have done. But the man who had killed Walsh had been in no hurry to leave. Probably took a shower afterward, went through Walsh’s refrigerator. He owned the place. He had waited two days to make that second call, searching the trailer, seeing if there was anything he wanted, cleaning out the rest of the dope and booze. Showing his yard cool.
Jimmy smacked the beer bottle on the ground, angry at himself.
That’s
what had happened to Walsh’s screenplay. Jimmy had been convinced that the missing screenplay proved that the husband had been behind the killing, but the killer had taken it. Grabbed it as a souvenir. Or maybe, knowing Walsh had once been famous, he thought it
had
to have value. Helen Katz was going to laugh her ass off when he told her. He could hear her now, telling him to leave the police work to the police, that amateurs always made crime more complicated than it really was.
Jimmy stood up and hurled the beer bottle at the koi pond, putting everything he had into the throw, but it landed short.
Chapter 43
“Thanks for coming tonight.” Holt cracked the window of Jimmy’s Saab. The evening was cool, but it was steamy inside the car. She sat in the passenger seat, shaking her hair out, checking the sideview mirror. “I didn’t give you much notice.”
“No big deal. I was just sitting around a crime scene drinking beer and beating up on myself.” Jimmy felt Jane’s gun bump his knee as she leaned over to kiss him. “Besides, it’s these romantic moments that make it all worthwhile.”
Holt nipped at his earlobe, her hand with the gun resting on his thigh now, tap-tap-tapping. “I thought you liked dangerous women.”
“I don’t like them with a nine-millimeter near my dick. You have the safety on, right?”
Holt kissed him again, not answering.
They were parked in an isolated lovers’ lane, on a ridge overlooking the lights of downtown Laguna Beach, a cul-de-sac where a plat of luxury houses lay uncompleted, the contractor bankrupt, the property involved in lengthy litigation. The skeletal homes shimmered in the darkness. Most had their roofs up, but their sides were just barely framed out. The half-built houses offered more hiding places than refuge.
“What crime scene?” asked Holt.
Jimmy was still thinking about Walsh, wondering how much of what he had told Jimmy was a lie.
“Were you back at Walsh’s trailer again?”
Jimmy looked over her head. He thought he had seen a shadow move in the nearest house, darkness among the darkness.
Holt moved closer. “I thought you had finished with the Walsh case.”
“I think it’s finished with me.” He felt the automatic graze his knee. “You know, I’d feel better if I had a gun too.”
“I wouldn’t.” Holt changed position, still keeping watch. Waves of curly blond hair covered half her face. “You don’t have a permit, and I’ve seen you on the firing range. You close your eyes when you shoot.”
Jimmy caressed her breasts. “I think the blond wig is a little much, by the way. You sure you’re just not trying to get me hot? Add a little variety—”
“Shut up.” Holt leaned back, enjoying his touch, her eyes checking the side mirrors for signs of movement. “I’m going to get this son of a bitch.”
“I believe you.”
“I am going to get him,” Holt said quietly. “Maybe not tonight, but soon, and when I do, I hope he resists arrest.” She was breathing hard, and Jimmy couldn’t take any credit.
“You sure this isn’t entrapment?”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Last week the grand jury had failed to indict Henry Strickland for multiple sexual assaults. Holt had been the arresting officer, nailing Strickland for a series of lovers’ lane attacks. The assailant’s MO was to charge the parked car from the underbrush, smash in the man’s window with a baseball bat, then beat him senseless before raping the woman. He preferred blondes. The assailant was careful, wearing a ski mask, surgical gloves, and a condom. But Holt had pulled out all the stops and finally found a jogger who remembered a partial license plate on a car parked near one of the assaults. Holt had made the arrest with a single female uniform as backup and forced him to his knees with wristlock when he argued with her, tightening the handcuffs until Strickland howled.
The arrest had been the high point of the case. The female victims were ineffective on the stand, unsure, unable to make eye contact, still terrified. The men were either hospitalized or unable to make a clear identification. After the grand jury gave their findings, Strickland had passed Holt in the courthouse hallway and told her he was going to sue her and the city. He undressed her with his eyes as he spoke.
The day Strickland walked, Holt got a call from another woman. She wouldn’t give her name, but she said she had been raped by him too, months earlier, at an isolated spot overlooking the city, a cul-de-sac filled with half-built homes. Her boyfriend had dodged the baseball bat and run off, leaving her alone with the rapist. They had never reported the crime. Strickland’s usual hunting grounds were too dangerous for him now, but Holt knew that sooner or later he would hit the cul-de-sac again, thinking it was safe. The Laguna PD wasn’t interested in staking out the site, wasn’t interested in paying overtime; they accepted the grand jury’s decision. Holt didn’t care about overtime. She had Jimmy, her sense of outrage, and her 9-millimeter.
The crescent moon didn’t shed much light on the cul-de-sac—it merely lit the edges of the houses. The wind rustled in the surrounding trees. Jimmy found himself checking the side mirrors and the rearview every few seconds, listening for the crunch of footsteps on the gravel. Jane straddled him, grinding slowly against him. He wasn’t sure how much her actions were for his benefit and how much to make Strickland buy the scenario. He felt the heat of her pelvis, and he didn’t care, working back against her, making her eyes flutter.
Holt changed position and pulled away slightly, trying to clear her head. “Don’t
do
that.”
“Don’t
you
do that.”
Holt rested against him, listening. Crickets sawed away in the moonlight. Both of their doors were unlatched—Jimmy had unscrewed the interior lights so they wouldn’t give it away. Now they just needed Strickland to hit the bait. They sat there tangled up for another ten minutes, sometimes pretending to kiss, sometimes not pretending, waiting for the sound of footsteps.
“How much . . .” Jimmy shifted his erection. Amazing the situations that turned him on. Forget Viagra, just sit around making out with the woman you love while expecting to have to fight for your life. A real Discovery Channel moment, the mating instinct kicking into high gear under stress conditions. “How much longer do you want to stay here?”
“Until he shows up.”
“What if he doesn’t show up?”
Holt checked her watch. “If he’s going to hit, it will be soon. He likes to be back in his own bed by midnight. Bastard thinks he’s Cinderella. Kiss me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jimmy kissed her neck, pushing aside the blond hair. “We can always come back tomorrow.”
“Just keep your eyes open.”
They sat there, lightly touching, on full alert. A twig cracked, and the two of them jerked, listening so hard their heads hurt.
“I think I know who the good wife is. Her and her husband.”
“Uh-huh.” Holt checked the mirrors.
“I put it together today. Woman named Stephanie gave it to me on a silver platter.” Jimmy shook his head. “She didn’t even know what she knew.”
Holt shifted slightly, not really paying attention to him.
Jimmy didn’t blame her.
Holt cocked the automatic. “I saw something in the house, the second one. Just a shadow, but it’s getting closer.”
Jimmy forced himself not to look. He moved one foot against his door, ready to kick it open as soon as Strickland got close, needing to time it so he caught the man just before he smacked the glass with the baseball bat.
A piece of wood clattered nearby, and Holt laughed. “False alarm.”
Jimmy turned and saw a raccoon atop one of the bare rafters of the nearest house, peering at them. Its black-circled eyes made it look like one of the Beagle Boys from the
Uncle Scrooge
comics. Jimmy exhaled. He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath.
Holt backed off the hammer of the 9-millimeter, still laughing at herself. She wiped sweat off her forehead, took off the blond wig, and tossed it onto the seat between them.
“That’s probably what the raccoon was after. I think he was in love with your wig.”
“He’s welcome to it. That thing was too hot.” Holt raked a hand through her own dark hair and shook it out. “I forgot to tell you, I got a copy of SLAP today. That was a wonderful article you wrote on Luis Cortez. Made me want to cry.”
“Thanks.”
“So sad. We don’t get too many drive-bys in Laguna, but I’ve seen the names in the crime stats from Anaheim and Santa Ana and just passed over them. I don’t think I’ll be so quick to turn the page in the future.” Holt put the wig back on and was on watch again. She couldn’t help herself. “Did you see the layout of the article? It was striking.”
“No, not yet.” Jimmy kept thinking about Danziger and the smug look on his face when Jimmy had interviewed him. The man who knew the secrets. Jimmy still didn’t know if the secret was setting Walsh up for a statutory rape charge or for murder. Walsh hadn’t known either.
“The art director must have had all these gangbangers come into the studio to be photographed. You couldn’t see their faces, just their tattooed arms. Their right arms bordered the whole article. It was really powerful. You got the sense of Luis being encircled, both in love and danger by the gang, unable to break free.”
“Yeah, Robert Newman, the art director, he’s brilliant.” Jimmy shook his head. Even at the end Walsh still wasn’t sure he hadn’t killed Heather Grimm. It had bothered him, genuinely bothered him.
“The
vatos
must have all been in the same gang.” Holt watched the woods. “Their arms all had a tattoo of an Aztec warrior, same spot too, right across their biceps. Very unsettling, but strong.”
“Yeah, that’s the idea. You want to sport your colors, not just as an individual.” Jimmy could feel the world start to shift. “You want— you want to be part of something bigger, so you get a measure of protection.” Jimmy stopped. The poles had reversed, and suddenly there were monarch butterflies in the Antarctic, caribou grazing in the Amazon, and all the loose ends, every one of them, slid smoothly into place.
“What’s the matter?”
Jimmy kissed her, and it wasn’t a decoy, some phony kiss, the two of them distracted, pretending to be lovers. He kissed her, and she went with it, all the way.
“What’s—what’s going on?” said Holt. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Nothing. I’m just happy to be here.” He held her close so she couldn’t see his eyes. He knew now what had really happened at the koi pond.