She leaned down and cuffed Snake-boots’s wrists. “You all right, Chief?” Lighthall asked. She pressed the baton lightly on Snake-boots’s cheek to remind him to stay still.
Quinn touched his lip. It was already starting to swell. “I’m OK,” he said, then caught sight of his bloodstained shirt and ash-crusted slacks. “Dammit,” he said, “I just had these cleaned.”
“How about you?” Lighthall tilted her head toward Aloa.
“Fine.”
She leaned over the suspect. “And I don’t care how you are.”
“Let’s get him up,” Quinn said.
Lighthall hauled Snake-boots to his feet.
Quinn slapped the ash off his slacks and shook his head. “I thought I told you to stay at the car,” he said to Aloa.
“I was afraid you might get lost. I couldn’t just sit there.”
A frightened voice came from inside the sliced tent. “Who’s out there?”
“It’s me, Aloa, the one you called. The police are here too.” Aloa walked the few yards to Keisha’s shelter. “You can come out. It’s safe.”
Aloa knelt and looked through the slices in the fabric. Keisha was huddled against the back wall of the tent with Destiny squeezed in her arms.
“I don’t want cops,” Keisha said. “Tell them to go away.”
“It’s OK, Keisha.” Aloa glanced at Quinn. “Nobody’s going to take Destiny.”
He shook his head.
“Listen, there’s a program I read about,” Aloa said. “It’s a new place. For moms with kids. Maybe you could get in.”
“Is that true?” Keisha asked.
“I’ll help with the paperwork if you want. We’ll see what we can do.”
Behind her came the sound of Lighthall’s voice. “I’m going to get this scumbag into a car.”
“Patrol’s going to have to clear the camp for a few hours,” Quinn answered. “We’ll need to talk to people, look for evidence.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Lighthall said.
Aloa leaned even closer to the tent. “It’s OK to come out, Keisha,” she said.
The young mother hugged her daughter tighter. “I don’t want to.”
“You’re a good mom, Keisha,” said Aloa. “I’ve seen it. But you need to get clean. This isn’t a place to raise a smart girl like Destiny.”
Destiny reached out with chubby fingers and touched Keisha’s lips. “Mama?” she said.
“I know, baby,” Keisha murmured.
“She needs a bed and a safe place to play and a school to go to,” Aloa said. “She needs to have a chance.”
Silence. Then: “You promise you’ll help?”
Aloa could only imagine the number of promises that had been made to Keisha and then broken.
“I’ll do whatever I can.”
“I don’t want to live this way anymore.”
“I know you don’t,” Aloa said.
“Will you make sure she gets in a good place?”
“I’ll find you a lawyer. He or she will make sure.”
“Promise?”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
A few moments later, the tent door zipped open and Keisha and Destiny crawled out.
Aloa sat in the homicide detail office, waiting to give her statement. She’d ridden over on the big motorcycle, growing ever more appreciative of its smooth ride and excellent brakes. She wondered what it would be like to take it down Highway 1 at seventy miles an hour, maybe get something to eat at that café in Pescadero and listen to the fine guitarist.
She’d heard there was a goat farm outside town where you could get up close and personal with the animals and buy some good cheese. Add a nice ride back up the coast, a good bottle of wine, and someone to share it, and it would be an exceptional day. Except adding someone to the mix was the kind of thing that brought complications.
She looked at her hands. They were scratched and scraped, with half-moons of dirt under her fingernails. She thought of how close she’d come to dying, both on the cliff and in the camp, and considered what Michael had told her. How would her life have played out if Michael’s sister hadn’t found a secret lover? Or if Michael hadn’t gone off to find her killer? And what if she hadn’t made an assumption about why Michael had left?
It was no good going down that path. What was done was done. She picked a bit of mud from under her thumbnail and looked up.
Quinn was walking toward her. He’d changed shirts but his slacks were still streaked with mud. He looked tired. His top lip sported a grape-size lump.
“Can you hang for another hour? Lighthall is talking to your friend, Keisha, and I’m still in there with the guy we arrested, whose real name is Theodore Laske, by the way. One of us should be able to get your statement when we’re finished. I could order a pizza if you want.”
“I’m good.”
“You could sit in my office. It’s a little more comfortable.”
“Nah. I like it here. Reminds me of the newsroom.”
“Because of the smell or because only journalists and cops are stupid enough to work in a crappy office for low pay?”
“Both, I guess.” Aloa gave a faint smile.
“You know what you did was dumb?”
She didn’t say anything.
“But if you hadn’t gotten there when you did, I’m not sure what would have happened. Lighthall said your friend got a long look at Laske when he dragged Elvis out of the Jungle. She’ll be a good witness.”
“Is that a thank-you?”
“I guess.”
“Miss Manners would roll over in her grave.”
He smiled, then grimaced, touching the lump on his lip. “You know, I’ll be working late tonight, but what would you think about having dinner tomorrow?” He named a quiet bistro near Union Square, the kind of place with candlelight and waiters in long black aprons.
She thought of her empty bed and weighed his invitation against the trouble it might bring. Would he want some kind of commitment? Would he need more than she wanted to give?
“Can I let you know later?”
“Sure,” he said and seemed to hesitate. Then: “Well, hang tight. Somebody will be with you soon.”
Aloa watched him walk off and thought of his estranged wife.
She didn’t need complications, she told herself.
Aloa had just swallowed two more ibuprofen to get rid of the headache that was either the product of her concussion or her tiredness when Lighthall showed up a little after 7:30 p.m. to take her statement.
The detective threw herself into her chair and gave Aloa a long stare. “So what’s the deal?” she said. “You sleeping with Quinn?”
Every part of Aloa’s body was beginning to ache. “Are you asking because you’re jealous that you’re not?” she said.
Aloa had come across officers like Lighthall. They were good people who’d just seen too much evil: young men with gunshot wounds to their bellies, wives with broken jawbones and black eyes, fifteen-year-olds dead of overdoses. These cops’ defense against the darkness was to distrust everyone who didn’t wear a shield.
“I don’t like smart-asses,” Lighthall said.
“And I don’t like people who automatically assume women have to sleep with someone in order to get where they are.” Aloa folded her arms across her chest. “I also don’t think Quinn would like it if he knew you asked that question, so how about I pretend you didn’t?”
Lighthall eyed her for a few long seconds. “Fair enough,” she said finally and rocked forward in her chair. “Shall we get started?”
It was a small crack in the detective’s armor, but it was a start.
“Let’s get to it,” Aloa said.
Over the next ninety minutes, Lighthall led Aloa methodically through her visit to the drug recovery meetinghouse, her encounters with Keisha and Elvis, the baggie of pills under Elvis’s cot, and Aloa’s first glimpse of Laske, a.k.a. Snake-boots.
Lighthall was good.
Aloa told the
detective about the Sacrificial Lamb ceremony and how Snake-boots had chased her, along with how she’d figured out where Ruiz’s body was located. She finished with her story of confronting Laske in the Jungle.
“Next time, you might not want to take a ski pole to a knife fight,” Lighthall said.
“I’ll remember that,” Aloa said.
Lighthall tapped a finger on the business card Aloa had given her. “Is this a good number if I have more questions?”
“Yes. It’s my cell.”
“You need a lift home?”
Lighthall was offering her a ride. Apparently, she’d passed the test.
“I’m fine,” Aloa said, although she didn’t mention that, technically, she would be leaving on a stolen vehicle.
Aloa stood, her headache diminished enough to be tolerable. “What happened to Keisha?”
“Patrol found a little H on her so we booked her for possession—mostly so we could keep track of her,” Lighthall said. “We’re checking her into a locked detox facility, which she said she was OK with. The little girl’s in emergency foster care. But we found an aunt in Sacramento and it looks like she might be able to take the kid for a while.”
Aloa hoped things would turn out well for the little family, but knew addiction was never simple.
“You know the way out?” Lighthall asked.
“I do. See you around?”
“I’m still not a fan of reporters,” Lighthall said.
“Gotcha.” Aloa smiled.
She pulled on her jacket, hoisted her pack onto her shoulders, and walked out of the building into the night air. A patchwork of lights shined from the city’s skyscrapers. A jetliner passed overhead. She thought she would drop off the bike, then walk home and make herself a simple dinner. It would do her good to get fresh air, to let her mind unwind before tomorrow.
She climbed astride the motorcycle, fired up the engine, and pulled into traffic. It might take a little time, but she thought she’d probably get another bike one of these days, although the BMW had spoiled her and she didn’t know if could afford a more modern bike. The little Honda had been a workhorse and had opened a whole new world for her, but its brakes weren’t that great and it really wasn’t the kind of bike you’d want to take on a long trip.
Maybe someday.
It was a little before 9:30 p.m. when she pulled up in front of the mansion, pushed the door opener, and pulled the bike into the garage. Lights snapped on automatically and after she returned the helmet, she walked around the bike inspecting it for scratches or dings. Everything looked good.
She went outside and waited for the garage door to close. The neighborhood was so quiet it almost seemed like another world. She looked up and down the street and started walking. A few yards out, a text alert chimed and she pulled out her phone.
Something’s up. Can’t wait. C. Davenport.
What was he doing? Texting meant he was dictating and dictating meant Kyle might be able to hear. She swore under her breath.
Be there 20 minutes. No more texting. A. Snow.
She shoved the phone into her jacket pocket and headed back for the big bike. But before she left, she ran upstairs into the house and printed out a couple of images from the Brain Farm’s video of Kyle’s truck.
Just in case.
Aloa worried about parking the heavy BMW on the steep street. When something weighed almost five times what you did, it wasn’t like you could muscle it around or easily maneuver at a slow speed. Just to be on the safe side, she parked it at the bottom of the hill and jogged up to Christian Davenport’s house. Light shined from high windows into the small front yard. She touched the phone in her jacket pocket.
Should she have alerted Quinn?
She knew his trust in her had risen a notch with the arrest of the Sacrificial Lamb suspect, but right now, both he and Lighthall were up to their necks in the investigation. It would take hours before either one could, or would, answer their phones. She would just have to persuade Davenport to wait until tomorrow to confront Kyle. And if she couldn’t, she would use the recording app both to document the interview and to use it as a weapon by threatening to send it to Quinn if Kyle got physical.
If that didn’t work, there was always pepper spray. She touched the small canister she had in her pocket.
She could see the blue haze of television sets shining from windows as she hurried past. A black-and-white cat wandered among parked cars. Aloa set her phone to record, knocked, and waited. She knocked again.
Kyle’s face was flushed when he finally opened the door.
“Go away,” he said.
So Davenport had told him she wasn’t dead.
“I’m here to see Christian.”
“It’s not a good time.”
“He asked me to come.”
“I doubt it. He’s having one of his attacks. His blood pressure is up and his heart is racing. I need to take care of him or things could get bad.”
Aloa wondered if he was telling the truth. It had only been twenty minutes since Davenport texted.
“Let me just talk to him for a minute,” Aloa said.
The intercom crackled to life. “Let her in, Kyle.”
The voice was hard-edged and filled with something.
Anger? Anxiety? Or was it fear?
Aloa stepped through the door and Kyle swore. “I’m warning you. I have to redo his catheter, and if that’s not the problem, then I have to check for fecal impaction. It’s what causes this to happen. I don’t want you in the way.”
For a moment, Aloa wondered if she should turn around.
“Kyle,” Davenport roared.
Kyle shoved past her and hurried to the bedroom, where Davenport lay in the huge hospital bed, only half covered with a sheet. “I may need to redo your catheter, sir.” Kyle’s voice had taken on a new quality, one of submission instead of arrogance.
“The hell with my catheter,” Davenport said.
“You could have a stroke or a heart attack, sir.”
“Good. I hope I do.”
This wasn’t what Aloa had expected. “Maybe I should come back.”
“No. Stay right here,” Davenport barked.
Was this all to throw Kyle off-balance or was it something else?
Kyle bent and was running his fingers along the clear tubing that ran from the bag to Davenport’s catheter. “Urine output is within range,” he muttered. “No kinks. No constrictions.”
Davenport’s eyes met Aloa’s. His pupils were slightly dilated, his breathing ragged and shallow.
“This isn’t the time,” Aloa said quietly. “Let’s wait until tomorrow.”
“No,” said Davenport. “You need to ask him now.”
Kyle rose. “Ask me what?”
“Ask where you were when Corrine died,” Davenport said.
What was he doing?
Confusion washed over Kyle’s face. “You know where I was.”
“Do I? Because Aloa here has an interesting theory.”
“Sir?” Kyle said.
“Tell him,” Davenport demanded.
Aloa looked at Kyle across Davenport’s bed. A tremble had started in the young man’s fingers.
Start from the beginning. Try to slow this down. “Let me ask you this first,” Aloa said. “Would you mind telling me about what happened to Aat’s son?”
“You talked to Aat?” Kyle said.
“I did.”
“He’s a liar.” Kyle’s gaze darted to the door and back. “I don’t know exactly what he told you but Sam got that cookie by himself. He’d done it once before but I caught him before he ate any of it.”
“Why would Aat say you did it?”
“Because the guy always needs someone to blame for his mistakes. He blamed me for our business failing but he was the one who pushed us to get out there before we were ready. Then he needed an excuse for not moving the cookies or locking them up after I told him what happened. I would never hurt a kid. I’d never do that.�
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“Do you know if he told Corrine what he told me? That you tried to poison Sam?”
“Did he call her or something?” Kyle said.
“He said he came here.”
“That prick,” Kyle said.
“Did you get into an argument with Corrine on the night she died?”
He frowned. “No.”
“Did you come back here that night? After your shift?” Aloa asked.
Kyle shook his head.
“Come on, tell her the answer,” Davenport said.
“I wasn’t here.”
“You didn’t come here around ten forty-five that night?” Aloa asked.
“No.” Kyle turned. “I need to get your medication, sir.”
He threw open the doors to a large cabinet to reveal shelves filled with prescription bottles, tubing, gauze, syringes, and latex gloves. “Your blood pressure is way too high.”
He ticked his fingers through the supplies, finding a box and pulling a sleeve of pills from it.
“Why did you hit Ms. Snow with your truck, Kyle?” Davenport demanded.
Aloa repressed a groan. So much for slowing things down.
“What are you talking about?” Kyle said. He punched a pill out of the foil sleeve and carefully put the packet of medication back into its box.
He was trying too hard to look calm.
“Two days ago,” Aloa said. “I was riding my motorcycle downtown and you came up behind me and hit me with your truck. You took off.”
“Two days ago? I was here that afternoon,” Kyle said.
“I didn’t say it was in the afternoon,” Aloa said.
Kyle filled a glass with water from a pitcher and came back to Davenport’s side. “I just assumed, I guess.” His voice shook.
Aloa slid her pack from her shoulder and pulled out the photographs.
“My friends followed you to the store and spent a little time under your truck.”
Kyle ignored her and held the pill up to Davenport’s mouth. “Open,” he said.
“They found a piece of leather from the jacket I was wearing when you hit me,” Aloa said and held up the two photos. “It was wedged under the back bumper.”
“Look at what she has, Kyle,” Davenport ordered.
Kyle licked his lips and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
The Thin Edge Page 21