Anna and Harper used the pencils to probe the paper on the desk, and go through the Rolodex, while Norden explored the file cabinets. At one point, she said, ‘‘Hmm,’’ looked around, found a box with a half-dozen reams of laser paper still in it, dumped the paper on the floor and carried the box to the file.
‘‘What’re you doing?’’ Harper asked.
‘‘All kinds of correspondence,’’ Norden said, dumping paper into the box. ‘‘Interesting stuff. I might be able to use it . . .’’
Anna said, ‘‘Look at this.’’ She’d gone back to the closet as Harper continued working through the desk with the pencils, and pulled out the two suitcases. They were empty, but they both had trip labels on them. ‘‘Home addresses,’’ she said. ‘‘Even phone numbers.’’
As Anna copied the address, Norden opened a file cabinet full of videotapes, and another one stacked with skin magazines and a few old reels of 16mm film. ‘‘Look at all this shit,’’ Norden said. ‘‘Think how many women are in this.’’
‘‘Let’s go,’’ Anna said. ‘‘We got what we need.’’
‘‘Been here too long,’’ Harper said.
‘‘I’m taking the Rolodex, too,’’ Norden said. ‘‘What a jerk.’’ She threw the Rolodex into the box full of correspondence and followed Harper to the door. Anna stopped, then turned around.
‘‘C’mon,’’ Harper said.
‘‘One minute.’’
Anna went back, picked up a sheet of paper from the laser printer, went to the cabinet full of videotapes and started dumping piles of them on the floor. Then she chose a tape with one of the more elaborate labels, stuck it into the tape player, used Harnett’s remote control to turn on the TV and the player.
‘‘What’re you doing?’’
‘‘Shhh . . .’’
The tape started with a woman—a porn consumer’s idea of a classy businesswoman, in a suit, with long, shoulderlength hair, and a skirt that ended a quarter-inch below her hips—approaching the stoop of a New York brownstone. From the look of it, the plot would be thin. Anna fastforwarded for ten seconds or so, getting the woman on her knees, giving head to a man with what appeared to be a hair transplant on his chest.
‘‘All right,’’ she said. ‘‘Just checking.’’ She ran the tape back to the start, let it run, and said, ‘‘Let’s go—and leave the lights on and the door open. And let’s leave the door open downstairs.’’
‘‘What was that all about?’’ Harper asked, when they were back in the car.
‘‘Well, we wanted a look at Harnett,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Now we’ll get a look.’’
She punched a number into her cell phone and said, ‘‘I want to report a burglary in progress, in Burbank, yes, right now . . .’’
When she finished, she hung up and said, ‘‘Okay, so now the cops’ll come. They’ll find the break-in, and the tape going, so they’ll stay a while.’’
‘‘And now we call Harnett,’’ Harper said.
‘‘Exactly.’’
‘‘Better let me,’’ Harper said. ‘‘If he’s the guy, he’ll know your voice.’’
Harnett answered on the third ring, sounding sleepy. Harper said, ‘‘Mr. Harnett, this is James T. Peterson with the cleaning company. Mr. Harnett, there’s been a big break-in at your office, we called the police, but I think you better get up here.’’
Harnett arrived in a year-old Buick, the back end of the car making a t-shirt frowny face at them as it bounced over the curb into the parking lot. Norden said, ‘‘Here we go.’’
A cop was standing by a squad car, talking on a radio. When Harnett got out of his car, the cop held a hand up to slow him down.
Anna, Harper and Norden were sitting on a concrete picnic table at the Foster’s Freeze down the street, licking chocolate-dipped soft vanilla cones. Harnett caught Anna halfway through a lick and she almost choked: ‘‘I know him, I’ve seen him,’’ she said, excited. Harnett’s white hair stood up in a mane, as though he’d been running his hands through it; he was a heavy-set man with a rounded chin that once might have been square, wearing rumpled khaki chinos and a nylon windbreaker. ‘‘That club on Sunset, the topless Polynesian one where they had the harp player who was shot by her girlfriend . . .’’
‘‘Yeah, the LoBall,’’ Norden said. ‘‘It’s closed.’’
‘‘Yeah, but we were there to look at the shooting. He did an interview with somebody else, and I grabbed him and we did a couple of minutes. He was pretty good. He wouldn’t give us his name, that’s why it didn’t ring a bell, I remember him saying he’d rather not give his name. I thought he might have done TV . . .’’
‘‘White hair,’’ said Harper.
‘‘Yeah, but he’s kind of fat. That guy in the parking lot— he was soft, but he wasn’t fat, exactly . . .’’
The cop slammed his car door and led Harnett into the building and out of sight.
‘‘How long ago?’’
Anna looked at Norden: ‘‘Must’ve been, what, a year? Since the shooting?’’
Norden nodded: ‘‘About that. The guys who ran the place were always in trouble with the cops, and the shooting was the last straw. I think they were open for a couple more months, and then they were out. There’s another place there now.’’
Anna said: ‘‘Well. When he comes out, I’m gonna let him see me. See how he reacts.’’
Harper frowned: ‘‘If he’s the guy, he’s nuts.’’
‘‘But there’re cops all over the place. What’s he gonna do?’’ The phone rang in her pocket, and she fumbled it out. ‘‘And if he’s the guy, it’ll freak him out. He’ll show us something.’’
She pushed the button on the phone and a woman’s voice squeaked, ‘‘Anna Batory?’’
‘‘Yes?’’
‘‘I’m dying.’’
‘‘What?’’ She looked at the phone. ‘‘Who is this?’’
‘‘China Lake.’’ The voice seemed distant, weak. ‘‘I’m dying.’’
‘‘What . . .’’ She was sputtering, and Harper and Norden were looking at her curiously.
Then a man’s voice, rougher, familiar: ‘‘She’s dying, Anna. And it’s your fault.’’
Anna closed her eyes and squeezed the phone. ‘‘No—no.’’
Harper, alarmed, said, ‘‘What?’’
‘‘It’s him . . .’’
twenty-one
‘‘Listen to her.’’ The man’s voice was like a snake’s, a hiss of pleasure.
Jake had bolted from the car, was running down the street toward the cop car at Harnett’s building.
Then the woman in Anna’s ear: ‘‘Anna, he stabbed me,’’ and, less certainly, ‘‘It doesn’t hurt much, but I can’t move . . .’’
‘‘Where are you?’’
‘‘She’s around, that’s where,’’ the man said. ‘‘I saw you tonight. What are you doing—are you looking for me? If you’re looking for me, I’ll tell you what, that’s not a good idea. I’ll cut the top of your goddamn head off and eat your brains.’’
The voice was right: the voice was the man in the parking lot, the man who’d shot Creek. Anna listened so hard it hurt, listened for anything in the background that might help her, other voices. Nothing but the hiss of the phone.
‘‘Anna, are you there?’’
‘‘I’m here,’’ she said.
‘‘You’re not very talkative.’’
‘‘I
am
looking for you, you asshole; and this better be a rotten joke . . .’’
‘‘Or what?’’ He laughed. ‘‘What’re you going to do?’’
‘‘I’ll kill you,’’ Anna said.
‘‘Oh, you’ll kill me? You hear that, China? She’s going to kill me. Here, you wanna talk?’’
China’s voice was a whisper. ‘‘I can’t see; I’m getting really cold.’’
‘‘Let her go,’’ Anna screamed. ‘‘Let her go.’’
‘‘No. She’s gonna die,’’ the man said, casually. ‘‘You know why? Because I needed a woman, especially after what you did the other night. You cut the shit out of me, Anna. I’m all fucked up.’’ And just off the phone, ‘‘You’re gonna die, aren’t you, China? Look at the blood already.’’ And back to the phone: ‘‘She’s dying; it’s draining right out of her. I cut her legs. It’s really purple, the blood, you’d think it’d be redder.’’
‘‘You fucker,’’ Anna shouted, and without thinking, she threw the phone like a baseball, and it bounced across the blacktop, shedding its battery, flipping and bouncing along. Norden said, ‘‘What, Anna, what’d he say . . . ?’’
But Anna was already running after the phone. She scooped it up, and the battery, jammed the battery back in, said, ‘‘Hello?’’ Pushed the send button, said, ‘‘Hello, hello, oh, Jesus . . .’’
Nobody there. She stood there with the phone in her hand, looked at Norden, then turned around to look down the street at Harnett’s building. A cop hurried out of the building, followed by Harper. As they scrambled to the cop car, Harper turned to look toward her. Anna spread her hands, a gesture that said,
Gone
.
‘‘Can’t be right,’’ Anna moaned. She was kneeling on the front seat of the BMW while Harper cranked it back down
toward Sunset. Wyatt would meet them, way out of his jurisdiction, bringing along a couple of L.A. homicide cops. BJ’s was still open, people in black climbing the stairs toward the party room. Anna tore through the main floor, peering at the tables; eyes followed as she checked each one, and a bartender said, ‘‘Hey . . .’’ and finally she caught a waitress and asked, ‘‘Have you seen China Lake?’’
‘‘If she’s here, she’s probably back in one of the bathrooms, that’s where she usually is,’’ the woman smirked.
Anna burst into the women’s restroom, and two women standing by the counter spun to look at her, one still with a touch of powder cocaine at her nose. ‘‘Christ . . .’’ One of the stalls was closed, and Anna banged on the door, ‘‘China, is that you?’’
‘‘No, go away,’’ a woman’s voice, shrill, not China.
Anna went back out, saw Harper striding toward her, Norden in his wake. She went on down the hall and pushed into the men’s room. A guy was standing at a urinal and Anna said, ‘‘Have you seen China Lake?’’
The guy tried to shrug, then said, ‘‘What’s that?’’
‘‘Damn it . . .’’ She went back into the hall and Harper caught her and said, ‘‘Nothing?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘She’s not upstairs,’’ Harper said. He put both hands on his head, trying to think, and a bouncer came up behind him and said, ‘‘You guys got a problem?’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Have you seen China Lake? Or seen her with anybody?’’
‘‘What’s the problem?’’
‘‘We think a fruitcake grabbed her. She could be in serious trouble,’’ Harper said. He was using his cop voice, and the bouncer said, ‘‘You know, she was here an hour ago. I think I saw her going out, she was alone. Let’s go ask Larry.’’
He led them back through the club, to the front, and the
stairs leading up to the party room. The doorman at the top looked down, and the bouncer yelled, ‘‘Hey, Larry, you seen China?’’
‘‘She left.’’
‘‘Did she leave with anyone? You see anyone?’’
‘‘She was by herself, far as I know.’’
Anna asked, ‘‘Did you see a guy in here with a bandage on his face? Right by his eye? Or maybe a big bruise?’’
He shook his head: ‘‘Nobody here like that.’’
‘‘You think you could have missed it?’’
‘‘No way. Thing like that, a guy’s probably a troublemaker. We keep our eye out for troublemakers.’’
The outside door opened behind them, and Wyatt came through, followed by two men in suits. The bouncer spotted them and said, ‘‘Shit,’’ and looked up the stairs at Larry and made a quick throat-cutting sign. Larry stepped out of sight.
‘‘She’s not here?’’ Wyatt asked, coming up.
Anna shook her head: ‘‘No. She’s gone.’’
‘‘Could be a joke,’’ Harper said. ‘‘Louis wouldn’t . . .’’
Anna looked at him as though he were crazy, and said, ‘‘No, Louis wouldn’t. Jesus, Jake, this is the guy.’’
‘‘You’re sure?’’ Wyatt asked.
‘‘I’m sure: I knew the voice,’’ Anna said.
‘‘Had you heard it before—other than the parking lot, when he jumped you?’’ Wyatt asked.
Anna held her hands to her temples, as Harper had: so hard to think, so little time. Or no time at all. ‘‘I think . . . I don’t know, I’m getting confused. But when he was talking to me in the parking lot, God, it seemed familiar. Not like everyday familiar, but I knew the voice.’’
‘‘Face to face, or on the phone?’’ asked one of the L.A. cops. The phone? She hadn’t thought of that.
‘‘God, I don’t know. I talk to a hundred people every night, running around . . . I don’t know.’’
Harper chipped in: ‘‘The guy on the door didn’t see anyone with a bite on his face. Says he would have seen it.’’
‘‘All right,’’ Wyatt said. He seemed weary, almost too tired to deal with it. ‘‘Let’s see if anybody here saw China leave with someone. We got a couple of cars coming.’’
‘‘That’s all?’’ Anna asked. ‘‘That’s all we can do?’’
‘‘Can you think of anything else?’’ Wyatt asked.
‘‘I’m outa here.’’ She stepped toward the door, but Wyatt caught her arm.
‘‘Look, we finally got something going on this thing— we’re pulling together a multi-department task force to track this guy,’’ he said. ‘‘We’re gonna need you. We need to set you up where we can watch you.’’
‘‘I think it’s too late for that,’’ Anna said. ‘‘He turned some kind of corner with that phone call. He’s gotta know you’ll be all over him now.’’
‘‘We still need to talk with you.’’
‘‘I’ll call you; I’d really appreciate it if you’d tell me if you shake anything out of these people,’’ she said, gesturing up the stairs. ‘‘And China: if you hear anything . . .’’
Wyatt looked at Harper. ‘‘Jake, can you control her a little? She’s gonna wind up dead.’’
Jake said, ‘‘I’ll try.’’
‘‘You wouldn’t hold anything back on us?’’
Jake shook his head: ‘‘No. We’re not playing games: we just want somebody to get him. I don’t think there’s anything. Well, we thought for a while that he might be a little older, white-haired, but that’s gone up in smoke. Anna thinks he’s young.’’
Wyatt turned to Anna, whose eyes seemed to have unfocused, staring at a spot on the other side of Wyatt’s face. Wyatt said, ‘‘Anna? Anna?’’
Her eyes snapped back and a small, uncertain smile crinkled her face. ‘‘Yeah. I heard you. He’s young, I’m sure of
it. Forget white hair. That was a wild-goose chase.’’ And to Jake: ‘‘Let’s go.’’
Jake’s eyebrows went up, but he nodded and said to Wyatt, ‘‘Talk to you tomorrow.’’
Norden was waiting out on the sidewalk: she didn’t like cops, and now she was leaning against a fire hydrant, smoking, watching the light bars on the cop cars.
‘‘We all done?’’ she asked.
‘‘Yeah, for tonight,’’ Anna said.
‘‘Drop me at my place; I want to get Harnett’s files out of the car,’’ Norden said.
They dropped her at an apartment off La Brea, waited until she was inside, then Jake turned to Anna and said, ‘‘What was that about the white-haired guy and the wild-goose chase? Harnett was a pretty hot possibility an hour ago. He might not be the killer, but he’s involved somewhere.’’
Anna shook her head and said, ‘‘Aw, he might have known Jason or something, just a coincidence, but he’s not the white-haired man. I know who the white-haired man is.’’
Jake did a comic double-take: ‘‘Yeah? Well, speak up.’’
‘‘It’s Wyatt.’’
‘‘What?’’ He grinned, expecting a punchline.
‘‘Yeah, an older guy with white hair. You were talking about it and I was looking at him, and all of a sudden, I realized it
was
him. We were thinking the white-haired guy was after Creek or me, but really—it was Wyatt checking up on Pam Glass, and what was happening with her and Creek, and he didn’t want us to know it. That’s why he took off. He’s hung up on Pam, and he didn’t want Pam to know he was hanging around.’’
Harper thought it over for a few seconds, then sighed: ‘‘Are you positive?’’
‘‘Ninety-nine percent. Next time we see Wyatt, take a good look at him. He’s the guy.’’
Harper nodded. ‘‘All right. Christ, we commit a felony, we break into somebody’s office and fuck him up and he’s an innocent bystander.’’
‘‘Not especially innocent,’’ Anna said. ‘‘But we do have a few felonies behind us.’’
Harper said, ‘‘Yeah, we do. And if we’re not very careful, they’re gonna start catching up with us.’’ He fed the car into a U-turn, and started back toward the hills.
Anna sat up that night; took her gun out of her pocket and spun the cylinder, dumped the shells, dry-fired it at the TV, when the TV was on. Reloaded, looked at it. Waited, for something, not knowing what.
Jake sat up with her for an hour or two, then went to bed. ‘‘You’ve got to get some sleep,’’ he said.
‘‘How?’’
He looked at her, shrugged. ‘‘If you decide to go out, wake me up. I want to come along. If he’s identified me, he could know we’re out here. So we’ve got to take it easy.’’
‘‘Okay.’’
He pointed a finger at her: ‘‘I swear to God, if you leave without waking me up, I’ll kick your ass.’’
The dawn came slowly, first a false lightening, then a darkness again, then the real dawn, a great, unhappy light, like an old piece of newsprint being pushed over the mountains to the east.
Anna was sitting in an easy chair, maybe asleep, the gun in her lap, when Jake came out and called her: ‘‘Anna?’’
Her eyes either opened, or were already open—she didn’t know, it didn’t seem like her mind had ever stopped. ‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘Jesus, did you get any sleep at all?’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ she said. She felt wooden. She pushed herself out of the chair, went out to the kitchen, with Harper trailing behind. ‘‘Coffee?’’
‘‘I’m gonna try to get a couple more hours. Why don’t you come in and lay down?’’
‘‘Jake, jeez.’’
‘‘Give me ten minutes to put you to sleep. Just come on in . . .’’
She followed him back to the bedroom, pulled off her shirt and jeans and bra, pulled on one of his t-shirts and lay down. He snuggled behind her, said, ‘‘Close your eyes.’’
‘‘Jake . . .’’
‘‘Just close them, okay? Ten minutes.’’
She could feel his arm around her waist, the tops of his thighs on the bottoms of hers. She opened her eyes briefly, with difficulty, to look at the clock, and saw the glint of the gun on the nightstand; and closed her eyes again.
The phone woke her.
She startled upright, felt Jake’s arm come off her, looked at the clock: She’d been down for four hours. Her mouth tasted like old features taken off a tar road.
Jake was saying, ‘‘Yeah . . . Aw, man, where . . . all right.’’
When he hung up, she rolled over on her back and looked for him, caught his eyes trying to look away. ‘‘China?’’
‘‘Yeah. She’s dead. They found her body out in Glendale. That was Wyatt, and . . .’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘She’s pretty cut up.’’
Anna jumped out of bed: ‘‘Let’s get over there.’’
‘‘Anna.’’
‘‘I need to see this,’’ she insisted.
‘‘Why?’’ he asked, exasperated.
‘‘Because. So get dressed.’’ Because she was storing it up. Because she was holding on to these crimes, all these insults, squeezing them into herself.
She drove: Jake was so reluctant that she finally got the keys and climbed into the front seat, and he caught up and piled into the passenger side, and she took them over the hills and east into Glendale. On the way, she called Wyatt, got switched around, and was finally left with a promise that he’d call her. He did, five minutes later: