Authors: Faye Kellerman
It seemed to
Rina that Hollywood got uglier and dirtier with each passing year, that the gentrification that was always being touted was just a word in the dictionary. And now with the Metro rail…all the construction and soot and dust and microorganisms being thrown into the air. Not to mention the bizarre parade of human flesh. Hard to believe this place was still a major tourist spot. But there they all were, all nationalities, wearing short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts even in the winter, toting cameras around their necks. And the local inhabitants. Unisexual sleaze with greasy hair, torn jeans, vests, and tattoos. What wasn’t covered in ink was studded with pierces. They must never fly commercial airlines, Rina thought. Because they’d never make it through the metal detectors.
She found the address with no problem, parked her twelve-year-old Volvo in a pay parking lot. Sweaty hands. A pounding heartbeat. She hoped he wasn’t home, but feared he was. He didn’t get out much.
She had dressed simply. Black sweater over a denim skirt. Her hair was braided and covered with a kerchief. She knocked on the door, heard the uneven clomp of his compromised walk on the other side. It took a while for him to answer. His face registered instant surprise.
He leaned on his cane and grinned. “I b’lieve I know you.”
“Believe you do.” Rina smiled. “You were at my weding.”
“Ah…I remember the wedding…the food. Right fine Peking duck, ma’am. Think I ate enough to last me a year.”
“Then we’ll have to throw another wedding. Because it appears you haven’t been eating much since then.”
He patted his thin stomach. “I get by.”
She glanced at him, then looked away. Abel Atwater. Peter’s war buddy over in Vietnam. Hard to fathom that this man was ever fit for combat. Unbearably thin. A gaunt face given the illusion of fullness by a gray beard. His hair had turned silver, still fashioned in a long braid. His sweats hung on his emaciated body. Only giveaway of life was his eyes…clear…aware. She said, “Your clothes are literally falling off.”
“You don’t like the sagging look.” He hiked up his pants. “Old person’s move. The pants hike.”
“Can I come in, Abel?”
“Absolutely.” He swept his cane over the threshold, bidding her enter.
Rina walked into a room stuffy with heat. Small. The place overlooked the pay parking lot, had a kitchen the size of a closet. Thin gauzy curtains, a threadbare brown carpet. Furnished with junk. Faded, lumpy pieces. Formica table with two plastic orange chairs. But the place was clean. Spotless.
“Offer you a beer, Mrs. Decker?”
“It’s Rina.”
Abel smiled. “Rina…a pretty name. For a pretty lady. Would you like a beer, Rina?”
“No, thank you.”
“I don’t got much else beyond beer.” Abel opened an ancient icebox, stuck his head inside. “Would you b’ lieve I’ve got orange juice? Want some orange juice?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
Abel straightened up, closed the door. “An easy customer,” Again, the cane pointed, to the couch covered in something that might have originally been red and gold. Rina sat. Abel plunked down on the opposite side. “You
showin’ up like this. I’d be a mite concerned about the big man. But you’re actin” too calm for there to be serious trouble.”
“Peter’s fine.”
“Glad to hear it. Should we continue with the chitchat? Or do you want to tell me why you’re here?”
“Actually, it has to do with the big man.”
“You throwin’ a party for his birthday or somethin’ like that?”
“No. Peter hates surprises.”
“Don’t we all,” Abel said to himself. “What’s up, then?”
“I need help, Abel.”
The thin man smiled, then grinned, then laughed. A spindly finger pointed into his sunken chest. “You want help from
me
?”
Rina sighed. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea coming. When I first met you…I didn’t treat you very nice. Perhaps I was jealous of your relationship with Peter. So it’s really hypocritical of me to ask you for help.”
“I put a gun to your head, Mrs. Decker,” Abel said. “It made you cautious around me.”
Rina lowered her eyes, remembering the incident. The “big get-even” Peter had called it. “I suppose I did have my reasons for being reserved.”
Abel laughed, hobbled over to the window, and opened it. “Sorry about the stuffiness. I wasn’t expecting company. Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
Rina said, “It’s about one of Peter’s cases. The mass murder at Estelle’s—”
“I read about it, read his quote ’bout the shootup being your worst nightmare.” He looked upward. “Guess he don’t have any more Nam dreams.”
“Oh, he’s had his fair share lately. All the carnage…it evoked terrible memories for him.”
Abel nodded.
Rina said, “He’s obsessed with the case, Abel. One of the victims in the shooting…actually the daughter of two
of the victims…Peter feels she had something to do with it.”
“With the shooting?”
“Yes. He questioned her. The next day she charged Peter with sexual harassment—”
“Doc?” Abel made a face. “It’s a lie, ma’am.”
“I know. The suit was frivolous and was eventually dropped. But the charges made it hard for him to do his job. He had to tiptoe around her. Eventually it got very complicated. His captain pulled him off the case entirely.”
Abel limped back to the couch, lowered himself slowly, using his walking stick for support. “I thought the mass murderer committed suicide at the scene.”
“That’s the official story.”
Then Rina told him all she knew. Abel listened, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, hands buried in the folds of his sweatshirt. When she was done, he sat up, drew his right leg upward so it folded at the knee. His left leg followed without help. He waited a moment before speaking.
Abel said, “A woman manipulatin’ two men to shoot up a restaurant. Gettin’ one of ’em to blow the other’s brains out—”
Rina said, “That’s the wild card. The second shooter. One of the victims remembers a man leaving Estelle’s right after the shooting stopped. Just walked right out of the door. A very strange behavior unless he was involved, don’t you think?”
“Don’t matter what I think.” He cocked his head. “And Doc thinks this second shooter is a seventeen-year-old Scrabble player?”
“I know…it sounds ridiculous.”
Abel scratched his beard. “The ice Pete’s skating on is thinner than Saran Wrap.” He hoisted himself up. Went over to the window. “Still, Doc is an intuitive sort. I don’t discount that. Woman gives him a hinky feelin’, she’s hinky.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.” Rina fidgeted with her kerchief, then dropped her hands in her lap. “He was stone
walled, Abel. She’s been using her connections to obstruct him. He needs someone to get around her.” A pause. “This is where you come in.”
Abel waited a moment. “I’m not what you’d call ‘high society.’ Exactly what did you have in mind?”
Rina blushed, blurted out, “Peter seems to feel that if he had someone on the inside, the could maybe get information.”
“Inside of what?”
“This wheelchair tennis tournament she’s hosting.” Again, Rina turned red. Her speech faltered. “It’s filled with handicapped people. If Peter could place someone…you know…someone on the inside…someone Jeanine would never expect…he felt that maybe she’d let something slip up about the case…and Peter could learn something that way…about Jeanine…and about the case. Am I making sense?”
“Indeed you are. You’re sayin’ you need a gimp—”
“Abel—”
“Because you think that all us gimps have this Masonic brotherly bond with one another—”
“Abel, please don’t make this even more nauseatingly hard on me.”
No one spoke.
Abel said, “I’m sorry. That was rude.”
Rina said, “I was thinking of people I knew who could maybe pull this off. You’re the only one who could do it
and
the only one I could
trust
. Because you love Peter almost as much as I do.”
Abel’s eyes misted. “I take exception to the word almost, lady.” He scratched his face, furrowed his brow.
“Rina, these tournaments are ritzy things. You don’t just walk in…or hobble in…and announce your availability for a job based on the fact that you’re handicapped. I mean, even if I wanted to do it, they ain’t gonna hire me…even for manual labour. They got their own crew.”
Rina considered his words. “You’re right.”
“Besides, the paraplegics don’t consider amputees among the real physically challenged. Because we can
walk. There’s an unspoken hierarchy among us gimps. All the quadriplegics want to be paras, the paras want to be amputees, and we amps want to be able-bodied. And I’m not even a bad amputee-only half of one of my legs. To them, I’m barely crippled…the lowest gimp on the totem pole.”
“Of course. Forget the whole things.” She got up. “Abel, don’t be a stranger, please.
“Invite me for dinner if it’ll ease your conscience.”
“How about Sunday night?”
“You don’t think Doc’ll find that a mite suspicious?”
“I can say I ran into you.”
“I don’t run into anything.” Again, Abel scratched his beard. “I’ll take a rain check, Mrs. Decker.” He started to talk, then stopped, then said, “You’re right ’bout one thing, ma’am. I do love that son of a bitch.” He sighed. “He’s a good man. I owe him big and I suppose it
is
payback time.”
“Abel, it’s not necessary—”
“Even so, give me a couple of days to think. I know a few people in the network. Find out if any of them is working for this tournament. Ask them to throw some scut work my way.”
Rina bit her lip. “Thank you for hearing me out. It’s hard to see someone you love so frustrated. I’m trying to help, which is probably a mistake—”
“Most likely a very big mistake. Your devotion, although overwrought, is touching.”
Rina smiled. “Thank you for the backhanded compliment.”
Abel looked her over. “You’re a very pretty woman. Doc’s one lucky guy.”
“You like pretty women, you’ll love Jeanine.”
“She’s pretty?”
“A knockout.”
“But a real Jezebel, huh?”
“Jezebel…” Rina waited a beat. “You went to Bible school, Abel?”
“Kentucky Appalachian poor, ma’am. We lived on dust and God. Bible was the only book in the house. That and
the Sears catalog. Learned how to read using the both of them. Then when I got hold of some
real
books, I couldn’t figure out why people didn’t use words like hast and doth and makest…”
Rina smiled softly.
Abel said, “Yes, I know who Jezebel was. She was a very evil woman.”
“Yes, she was.”
“So be it.” Abel stroked his beard. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of evil women. Reckon one more cain’t do me much harm.”
The Scrabble tournament
was set up on the second floor of the bookstore, all the way in the back, sandwiched between the video/audio section and the game department. Lots of board games. Old standards such as Monopoly, Life, Clue, Scrabble, chess, checkers, backgammon, and go. But there were also lots of the exotic and/or erotic adult games. Lots of “Host Your Owns.” Host Your Own Murder Party, Host Your Own Stock Market Party, Host Your Own Baseball League Party, Host Your Own Strip Party. Host Your Own Sex
Party?
Cindy wondered what
that
was all about.
Sam tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around. He said, “He’s the one wearing the knitted cap and the orange jacket.”
Cindy’s eyes moved to the boy. Tall and thin. A pale but clear complexion with freckles thrown across the forehead and the nose. Patches of brown fuzz above his upper lip and under his chin. Dark eyes that skittered across the room, sizing up the crowd. Long, delicate fingers. Tapered nails. He wore an oversized white T under a tangerine cotton zip-up jacket, and old jeans. On his feet were Docs or facsimiles thereof.
“Doesn’t look like a hit man to me,” Cindy said.
“Yeah, he does seem pretty ordinary.” Sam waited a beat. “Whole idea seems so stupid now.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“You sign up yet?”
“Nope.”
“Come on. I’ll show you where.”
“You know, Sam, if we’re gonna make headway, we can’t be hanging around each other.”
Sam didn’t move. “I don’t know about this. What if you talk to him afterward? What if he gets you alone and wham—”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Cindy said. “Anyway, now’s not the time for cold feet. I’ll go sign up and you make yourself scarce. We’ll meet up later.”
Sam paused, then nodded. “Take care.”
“Bye.” Cindy walked away, studied the surroundings.
Folding chairs and card tables were scattered throughout the aisles, bordered by bookshelves on Games Strategy—Chess, Bridge, Whist, Go, Backgammon, Poker, Craps. Not to mention the tomes on Game Theory, Logic, and Probability. Math subjects that Cindy had assiduously avoided at Columbia.
About sixteen tables in all. Most held playing boards and timers. One table had been designated for snacks—bowls of pretzels, popcorn, potato chips, several water pitchers as well as paper cups and napkins. Another held the sign-up sheets for the tournament. Divided into three categories—two players, three players, and four players. Prizes and points were awarded to the highest score in each category. Ambitious ones signed up for all three. Joachim was ambitious.
Cindy did the same. That way she knew she’d get to meet him at least once during the one-on-one. With any luck, she’d be assigned a three- or four-person match with him, too.
She poured herself a cup of water, felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned around. Tried not to act surprised.
Face-to-face. Eyes that bored into her. She bit her lip, sipped water. She cocked her hip in his direction. “Yes?”
“Are you the Cindy on the sign-up sheet?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“No, not at all.” He spoke in a soft voice. “Just need to know if you have an ISN?”
“A
what?
”
“An International Scrabble Number.”
Cindy said, “How about a Social Security number—”
He smiled. “Sorry—”
“Driver’s license?”
Joachim said, “This is an ISN tournament. You have to have an ISN number to play.”
Cindy said, “And where would I get one?”
“I can give you one. But it’s five bucks—”
“
What!
”
“Sorry. Their rules, not mine.”
“The man leaves me no choice.” Slowly, Cindy locked eyes with him. His cheeks turned a shade of pale pink. She smiled pointedly, pulled out her wallet from her jeans, ruffled through its contents. “I’ve only got two…no, three dollars—”
“I’ll give you the two bucks.” Joachim held out his hand.
Cindy slapped three ones into his palm. “If you give me your address, I’ll pay you back.”
“Forget it.” Joachim pocketed the money. “Wait here. I’ll get you your number.”
Cindy watched him, studied him. Nothing to suggest that he was anything other than a typical gawky teenager. He returned a moment later. “Here.”
The slip was made out to Cynthia Cohen. As a precaution, Cindy had used her mother’s maiden name. She said, “Four-seven-eight-two. My lucky number.”
Again he smiled. “Have fun.”
He walked away. Cindy turned, exaled forcefully. To herself, she said, “That was cool.”
It took three uneventful matches before she hooked up with him. A two-person game. He smiled when he saw her, sat down across the table, and checked the timers.
“How’re you doing?”
“Not too good.”
“You play a lot?”
“I played in college,” Cindy said. “But nothing like this. It’s a no-brainer to bowl over a bunch of stoners bummed out on William Burroughs and weed grown from their windowsills.”
“I like William Burroughs,” Joachim said.
“That’s because you’re still young and impressionable.”
“As opposed to you, Grandma?”
“Give me a rocker, I’m a happy woman.”
He smiled. “You can go first.”
Cindy looked at him. “That’s not playing by official rules, bud.”
“Yeah, I know. But I’ll beat you anyway. Wind up with…oh, let’s say, twice your score. For William Burroughs’s sake.”
“Arrogant little sucker, aren’t you?”
“I just know my strong points. Go.”
Cindy picked her letters. And suddenly the push of competition made her fierce. No way she could ever win him fairly. Go for the groin, she thought. She punched her clock, put down her first word, punched it again.
Punch, it was her turn again.
She let her shoe drop off. Made her word, punched the clock, then brushed her bare foot against his calf.
He looked up, looked back down. Said nothing and made his word.
Punch, it was her turn again.
Punch his.
Punch hers.
Punch his.
Again, she brushed his calf with her foot. Did it twice.
“You’re kicking me,” he said, red-faced.
Her voice was light. “Sorry.”
Punch her turn.
Punch his turn.
Another brush. He turned red but said nothing, played his tiles, blinking back embarrassment.
The game was over in eighteen minutes. Cindy grinned. “You won. But not exactly twice my score, bud.”
“That’s because I played like an amateur.” Joachim stood, his eyes shot with anger. “See you.”
“You’re mad,” Cindy said.
Joachim said, “You
did
that on purpose.”
“So?”
“So?” He glared at her. “It
distracted
me.”
“It was
supposed
to distract you.” Cindy grinned. “How else could I get a fair shot?”
Joachim continued to stare, then broke into laughter. “I don’t believe…” He turned red. “Next round. Gotta go.”
Cindy went through the rest of the evening without another chance to play him face-to-face. Joachim came in first in all three categories, graciously declined the gifts, which went to the next three highest scorers.
Trying to catch Joachim’s attention. When she got it, she looked away. He waited a while. But eventually he walked up to her. He said, “You seem bored.”
“This is true.”
“You want to get a cup of coffee or something?”
“That’s your answer to alleviating my boredom?”
He blushed, rocked on his feet, started to back away. Cindy took his arm. “I’m just funnin’ with you, guy. Now the proper comeback would have been something like…‘So
this
is what I have to look forward to in college?’”
He let out a soft laugh. It matched his voice.
Still holding his arm, she said, “I’d love a cup of coffee except some gremlin took away my last three bucks—”
“I’ll pay.”
“If you pay, I’ll come.”
“I have to close up a few things first,” Joachim said.
“That’s okay. Meet you at the bookstore café in…ten minutes?”
“That would work.”
“Good,” Cindy said. “I’m glad it would work.” She dropped his arm. “See you.”
When she was downstairs, away from him, she made a fist and whispered, “Yes!”
Sammy appeared a minute later. “What’d he say?”
“He admitted he did the murders—”
“Cindy—”
“He didn’t say anything!” Cindy said. “We’re going to get some coffee in a few minutes. Go home. I’ll call you later—”
“Nuh-uh, no way,” Sam said. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”
“What wasn’t?”
“You being alone with him.”
“Sam, how can I find out information if I can’t
talk
to him.”
“The evening was supposed to be purely observational—”
“So it turned into something more—”
“This isn’t what we talked about.”
“I’m improvising. Now go home before he sees us talking to each other.”
“I’m not leaving you alone—”
“Sam, did you get a good look at the kid? Could they make them any more harmless?” She patted her stepbrother’s yarmulke. “Look, bro. No way we can ever prove Joachim’s a hit man. But maybe I can prove his
innocence
. Find out where he was the night of the shootings. At least that way, if Strapp ever loosens the screws, Dad won’t be spinning his wheels, wasting time on someone useless.”
She was making sense. Still, Sam wasn’t completely convinced. “I don’t like it.”
Cindy tried a different approach. “Didn’t you tell your mom that you’d be home by eleven?”
“Oh sh—!” The boy stamped his foot in exasperation. “Look, Cin, you’ve got to call me. Let me know you’re okay.”
“You don’t have your own line. What do I say when your mother picks up the phone?”
“You press two and then the pound sign. That makes the phone ring in my room and nowhere else. Deal?”
“Fine, fine. I’ll call.”
“When?”
“I’ll call by…twelve,” Cindy said. “Will you still be up? It’s a school night.”
“Yeah, I’m a night owl.” Sammy rubbed his hands together. “So by twelve.”
“Yeah. Twelve. And if I’m a little late, don’t panic. I’m not going to turn into a pumpkin, all right?”
A pumpkin would be fine, he thought. Just so long as it wasn’t a corpse. He kept his thoughts to himself. His hands had turned icy. He was spookin’ himself. Stupid. Because Joachim did look harmless. Trying to calm himself down, Sam told himself to go home. Go home and pray. At least talk to Someone who could do some good.
“I went through like this voices of American literature phase. You know, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Faulkner, Eudora Welty, Steinbeck…” Joachim dipped a chocolate-covered biscotti into a cup of espresso. “I was doing fine until I got to
Light in August
. Like I knew it was some kind of allegory for the expulsion from Eden and original sin. But man, it was so heavy with the prose—”
“That’s his style,” Cindy said.
“Yeah, but there’s nothing wrong with making it readable. I mean I’ve waded through
The Magus
and
Clockwork Orange
and
Beowulf
. I’m not averse to experimenting with word origins and syntax. I’m talking about the actual phrases. I guess Faulkner’s theory is why use one adjective when you can use twenty.”
“He’s a Southern writer, Joachim. They drip atmosphere. Something to do with all the humidity near the Gulf Coast.”
“Could be.” Again Joachim took a bite of his biscotti. “You ever read it?”
“Way back when.”
“How old are you anyway?”
“Twenty-one,” Cindy lied.
“So you’re a senior then?”
“Just graduated.”
“Ah. And now what?”
“Loose ends.”
“Grad school isn’t in the picture?”
“Nope.”
Joachim said nothing.
Cindy said, “I’m sick of school. You’ll understand when you get to where I’m at.”
“You’re too young to be patronizing,” Joachim said.
“Four years of college puts us worlds apart,” Cindy said. “Not in intellect, Joachim. I’m just saying you get tired of all the academic pettiness. All the profspeak and the braggadocio and the tired lines they use to get you horizontal—”
“Did they work?”
“Not on me.”
Joachim blushed. “Sorry. That was rude.”
“S’right.” Cindy studied him. “You turn red a lot, you know that?”
Again he blushed. “I don’t get around girls much. Or should I say women? What’s the proper nomenclature anyway?”
“Females will always do in a pinch.” Cindy sipped her caffe latte. “Yeah, you seem a little—”
“You can use the N word.”
“Naive?”
“That was nice.” He smiled. “You wanted to say nerdy, but didn’t. It’s true. I’m a little nerdy. But I’m not bothered by it.” His face darkened. “Rather be nerdy than be like my snot-nosed, drugged-out, weak-willed, spineless, brainless, rich-kid classmates.”
“So how do you really feel about your school?”
Joachim remained grave. “School’s fine. Just the inhabitants whom I loathe.”
“They give you a hard time?”
“I can handle them now. Brains do have their lucrative compensations. But there was a time…” He gobbled his biscotti, gnashed his teeth. “Not entirely their fault. I don’t fit in…never did. You think I’m weird, you should meet my parents.”
Cindy said, “I don’t find you weird. You’re just ill-suited for high school because you’re bright.”
The boy looked down, his face a primary color. And at that moment, Cindy saw how easy it was to manipulate
teenage boys. And she wasn’t exactly a femme fatale. Not like Jeanine Garrison. Man, she must have them dropping like flies.
The boy checked his watch. “It’s getting late.”
Cindy looked at her wrist. Eleven-fifteen. “Go ahead. I’m gonna stick around here for a while.”
Joachim licked his lips. “You don’t have to be home or anything?”
“I’m twenty-one, Joachim,” Cindy said. “I don’t
have
to be anything.”
“You live by yourself?” he asked, shyly.
“With my mom. I’ll find my own place as soon as I’m gainfully employed.”
He drummed on the table. “You…want to come over my house? Watch a late movie or something?”