A Dead Daughter (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery Book 3)

by Anna Burke

  “Hello.”

  “Uh, Jessica, it’s Peter. We’ve got a situation on our hands. A bogey on your tail, about three cars back.”

  “Three cars back? What are you talking about? There’s one almost in our back seat, and another in the lane next to us.” In that instant, a third SUV appeared out of nowhere. This one swerved across two lanes of traffic to get in front of them. Cars honked as it cut them off. That third car hemmed them in. Bernadette honked and sped up, getting as close as she could to the bumper of the SUV in front of her.

  “We’re surrounded, Jessica. Do you think these are kidnappers? Should I run the light if I can get around the guy in front of us?”

  “Run the light? What are you talking about?” Jessica asked.

  “I didn’t say anything about running the light,” Peter said.

  “Not you, Peter. Bernadette’s lost her mind, she’s talking crazy.”

  “The Mission Hills gate’s just up ahead beyond that light. Let’s see these guys go up against the guard house. They will have some ‘splainin’ to do if they follow us in there. This guy wants to cut me off. I'll show him that’s not polite.” With that, Bernadette sped up again and almost tapped the bumper of the SUV in front of them. The driver ahead sped up, and the others did too.

  “You got that gun handy?” As she spoke, Bernadette leaned on the horn. The SUVs around them honked too.

  “Yeah, I’ve got the gun.”

  “Gun, what gun?” Peter shouted into the phone.

  “Me, Peter, I’ve got the gun.”

  “Jessica, you don’t need it. Don’t shoot. Stay with my guys. I’ve got to go get that bogey.”

  “Stay with ‘your guys’... ‘bogey’... what are you saying?” Jessica asked.

  In her side mirror, about three cars back, Jessica saw a pizza delivery car cut to the right, across two lanes of traffic, and make a right turn. Not far behind was Peter’s SUV. Behind him, another SUV did the same. As she strained to watch what was going on behind them, Bernadette honked again. They had all reached that intersection and went barreling on through it, honking like a flock of geese. Jessica prayed not to clobber or be clobbered, as they ran the light just as it changed. Peter’s words finally registered in Jessica’s mind.

  “Bernadette, it’s okay. These are Peter’s guys. We’re safe, you can slow down. But not too suddenly, mind you. We must all be doing eighty.” The SUV in front of them tapped the brakes; taillights flashed, and a left turn signal started. Bernadette eased back on the pedal, and tapped her brakes, too, as the entrance to Mission Hills Country Club came into view two hundred yards ahead.

  “That’s what I figured, Jessica, after you said ‘your guys’.” They slowed down even more as they reached the turn into Mission Hills. The SUV on their right continued on in traffic, tooting its horn as it sped off. With the two remaining SUVs, front and back, they all turned into the gates together. The driver of the SUV in front spoke to a guard, who let all three pass right away.

  When they were through the gates, the SUV in front of them used the turnaround and headed back out to the road. The escort in the SUV behind them tracked them all the way back to the house. Bernadette hit the garage door opener and pulled in. By the time they shut off the engine, their escort in the SUV had vanished. The security guard already at the house joined them in the garage, speaking to Bernadette through the passenger window.

  “Message from Peter,” he said in a gruff, no nonsense voice. “Got the bogey, asking him questions.”

  Jessica’s phone pinged. A text message from Peter appeared, saying the same thing.

  “Thanks, Doug,” Bernadette said, with a sweet smile on her face. Doug’s gruffness evaporated.

  “No problem, heard you had a little trouble. Glad you’re both okay. Stay put until Peter contacts you again, please,” he added, returning Bernadette’s smile. A smile sat no better on Doug’s face than it did on Peter’s.

  “Am I allowed to bring you a cold drink or something, Doug?” Bernadette asked, as she hopped out of the SUV, to the floor of the garage. Doug, another of Peter’s men recruited from the land of giants, held the door for her. She looked up at the well-muscled, black man with a buzz cut. He had to be at least twice Bernadette's size, unless the adrenalin still surging through Jessica’s mind and body was altering her perceptions. Bernadette was as cool as a cucumber and had already shifted from getaway driver into hostess mode.

  “That would be nice, Bernadette, thanks,” Doug said, backing up a little.

  “Doug, go give Jessica a hand getting down out of the car. The doctor says she’s doing better, but she’s still got some injuries. Bring her inside, will you, and I’ll fix us a cold drink, okay?” Doug shut Bernadette’s door and headed around to the passenger side of the car.

  Jessica realized she was still holding that gun. She shoved it into her handbag before tackling what seemed to be a monumental task of moving out of the Escalade and into the house. Doug was a big help once she scooted to the edge of her seat. He lifted her out of the car and placed her on the ground. As he escorted her into the house, Jessica stewed. What a frigging stupid, scary day. How close was I to having my head blown off by a sniper, or getting ripped apart by a rowdy crowd of autograph-seekers? Argh! This all has to stop—even if I have to go get that damn blue bag myself.

  18 Malibu Blues

  Alexis paced from one side of her bedroom to the other. Accommodations at the clinic were elegant and comfortable. The crisp, clean decor captured the spectacle of the white-tipped waves of the blue Pacific Ocean. A wall of sliders opened to a patio and a view of the ocean that pounded against the cliffs. Her lavish bath, slathered in marble, offered a steam shower and a Jacuzzi tub. The bed and bath were part of a suite that included a living room with a fireplace. The patio could be accessed from the living room, too. A small kitchen area allowed you to stash yogurt and other items for snacks. Five star dining was steps away, though, featuring healthy haute cuisine. Other accouterments you might expect to find at a high end resort included a large pool, hot tubs, tennis courts, a spa and a fitness center with an assortment of workout classes.

  Tall stone fences surrounding the facility were believable as structures to ensure privacy rather than to keep you inside. During the day, you could pass through gates and walk down flights of stairs to the beach below. Once you reached the beach, there was nowhere to go. The small strip of sand bordered by rocky encroachments made escape from the beach dicey. The setting made it tough on paparazzi to scale those rocks, even if they could get close enough to the rocky area by boat. Alexis had already caught glimpses of several Hollywood favorites, so keeping the paparazzi out was a good thing. In principle, she could sign herself out without the “escape-from-Alcatraz” drama. Down there on that beach, though, she felt the urge to run for it.

  Since Hank dropped her off Wednesday night, she had given up alcohol and her drugs. Not that they expected her to go cold turkey. They had her on a regimen of medications intended to prevent severe withdrawals and make detox more tolerable. There had been rough patches in the last two days, but the physical symptoms on day three were mild. She experienced lightheadedness, antsy feelings, mild nausea, sweating and intermittent headaches. They were at their worst when it came close to time for the clinic to administer the next dose of Suboxone.

  A knock at the door stopped her from pacing. Was it that time already? Alexis moved to answer the door and let the therapist into the living room. They made “house calls,” so-to-speak, in this luxurious facility by the sea catering to the rich and famous. Perhaps, the house call was also another way to take stock—observe you in a more natural setting. Like a zoo animal or a lab rat, Alexis thought.

  “Come on in, Angela,” Alexis said, moving away from the door. Her shrink shut the door behind her and waited for Alexis to pick a seat. When Alexis chose a comfortable club chair, with a view out to the horizon Angela sat down opposite. She made sure not to block the view.

  “How’s
it going Alexis?”

  “How do you think it’s going? I’m into day three without my goodies. The physical withdrawals are not too bad, but everything is so much sharper.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Are you kidding me? The whole point of taking Oxy or Xanax and a drink or two is to smooth out the sharp edges of the world.” That was putting it mildly. How could she tell this woman how much she hated the intrusiveness of the external world? All Alexis wanted was to be oblivious to her surroundings and the truth of her situation.

  “I think I get it, but can you tell me what you mean by that?”

  “Everything is so bright and shiny. I see edges, angles and corners, everywhere, like out there on the horizon. It should be sky blending into the sea, smooth and silky like an impressionist painting. Instead it’s this slash, with flickering points of water below and a bright blue sky above. There’s too much blue and all that light bouncing off the water hurts. It's hyper real like HDTV, but intense and painful.” Talking about it made it worse. Alexis shifted in her seat to block the view, making eye contact with the gray-haired woman sitting across from her. Dr. Angela Graham had to be about her own age. There was nothing sharp or edgy about her gray on gray appearance.

  Why doesn’t she do something about that awful gray hair and why no makeup? She's not an unattractive woman, but wrapped in a haze of gray, who could tell? Alexis shifted back the other way to get a view of the outdoors. She blinked as though blinded by the sun beating down on the Pacific Ocean.

  “Is there anything that seems to help?”

  “Yeah, but you won’t let me use those,” Alexis snorted, half in anger, half in laughter. “Just kidding,” Alexis said as she stretched to reach a pair of sunglasses on the opposite side of the end table near where she sat. “These help.” She put the dark glasses on.

  “Okay, Alexis. Some of what you’re experiencing is withdrawals. Even with the Suboxone, that’s not uncommon. I’m sure things around you were dimmer before—they had to be. You were up to 6 or more Oxycontin a day, and maybe about that many Xanax, in addition to Ambien and alcohol. That's bound to blur the edges for anyone. It sounds like you feel that support has been taken from you, right?”

  Duh, was what Alexis wanted to say, but the etiquette of psycho speak demanded better. “I’ve told you that’s why I use them. I also know you haven’t taken them away from me. That’s my choice, even though I made it after getting some prodding.”

  “By your family you mean?”

  “Yes, and by my doctor.”

  “So why do you suppose you’ve been getting all the prodding?”

  “I suppose because I was letting things get out of hand.” She did not keep the sarcasm out of her voice. This talk therapy dance was painful too. You’re detoxing, and still they want you talk and talk and talk. Individual sessions, group sessions, and lectures on drug and alcohol use. Her itinerary hadn’t started off bad, but it was getting more packed each day. Like joining a cult—soon, there wouldn’t be a moment left for solitude.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Getting sloppy, mixing booze with the pills, things I should have been managing better.”

  “So how do you do that; manage better?”

  “Well, no alcohol until dinner time is one thing. Then, two or three drinks, and keeping better track of when I took the last pill. Resting more, things like that.”

  “Resting more, at night or during the day?”

  “Both. During the day, if I get a headache or stressed out, it helps to go to my room and rest.”

  “Okay, so you go to your room. But, isn’t that where the pills are?”

  “Yes. I don’t have to take them.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, but I don’t make a scene, at least.”

  “What kind of scene, Alexis?”

  “I don’t know... breaking down or getting all needy, I guess.”

  “Is there something wrong with breaking down or being needy? Does that bother Giovanni, or your other family members?”

  “It doesn’t happen with Giovanni. I just keep moving when I’m around him—one party or activity after another. I’m like a shark that has to keep swimming or it’ll drown.” Alexis laughed as she said that. “He likes bubbly so I give him bubbly.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “No, but does it make sense that Giovanni, or any man, would want to be around a clingy, needy, drag?”

  “And that’s the alternative to nonstop bubbly: clingy, needy and a drag? That’s the person you’re afraid will make a scene, the one you hide away behind pills and a bedroom door?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “It must exhaust you to keep up that front—stay bubbly all the time. What about coming up with an alternative to bubbly that's not clingy or needy, so you don’t have to put on like that all the time, or escape to get a break from it? Do you think we could work on that?” Alexis was silent for a long time before answering.

  “Maybe, but do you think we could work on taking the edge off, inside my head, too? My thoughts are like darts being thrown at me, a hail of pin pricks. I can’t think straight half the time. Sometimes, with just the right amount of buzz, I can—think straight, I mean. As long as that’s going on, I don’t think I can figure out how to be another way.”

  “Okay, so what are the thoughts about?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I don't know. Let’s find out, okay?”

  “I’m scared to death about the cancer. I’m so tired of bubbly and I can't always keep it up, even when I should be able to do it. Like after my daughter, Jessica's birth. I was a mom with a beautiful new baby daughter. I had money, clothes, houses, services and supports, and a man in my life that cared for me. Plus this amazing woman who started out as our housekeeper and ended up doing a lot more. Everyone told me, over and over, how lucky I was to have it all. Do you have any idea what that feels like, to have it all and still not be able to get out of bed in the morning?” Alexis searched the therapist’s gray, deadpan face. She did not wait for her shrink to answer. “I’ll tell you how it feels, like you’re nothing. Like you should be nothing, want nothing. So I looked for it—a lot of nothing; ways to push it all away.” The words spilled out, like water over a dam; tears too. The shrink popped up, grabbed a box of tissues on a side table nearby and passed them to Alexis.

  “Thanks,” Alexis said, dabbing at her eyes. “Here I am again. At the drop of a hat, Giovanni would be on a plane from Zurich or Paris, London, Rome or wherever he is day-to-day. He’d be here, at my side. If I told him the truth about all that’s going on, he’d insist, in fact. But I don’t want him here. I don’t want him to see me like this.”

  “Like what, Alexis? You seem raw and genuine. I’d say authentic. We all need support from others, that’s part of what makes us human. Why is that so bad?”

  “It's not, I guess. My daughter’s had her own problems and I've added to them. She's standing there all banged up, having been through hell, and she’s worried about me.”

  “Yes, I saw that story. I’m sorry that you’ve had that shock to deal with, too. She is one fortunate young woman.”

  “Tell me about it. She’s more worried about me than she is about herself. She's angry too, but she wants to support me. Hank, my ex, and Bernadette, too, are in my court. So, I have family—people who care about me. I don’t feel good about myself, or safe, when I break down. It’s unseemly for a Baldwin woman.”

  “That sounds like another clue, maybe, about how you view yourself and how you handle challenges, big or small, in your life. Like a new baby or a health problem. You’ve got a lot going for you, Alexis. It's good you can acknowledge the people in your life who care about you.”

  “Too bad I’m not one of them,” Alexis laughed hoarsely. There was a harsh edge to the words she spoke next. “I know what I’ve become. I’m an addict. Talk about weak and needy. I detest the booze and the pills, and all the managing it takes to
be a functional addict, but I’m too worn out to find a new way to live, this late in life.”

  “Well, it’s hard to know how much of that is the booze and pills talking and how much of what you’re describing is another problem. Is there a history of depression or anxiety in the Baldwin family?”

  “My mother never talked about anything like that. Mom kept to herself, proud and haughty. I can tell you she did not approve of needy, so it’s hard to imagine she ever felt that way, depressed or not. I’m not sure she ever felt much of anything. She was cold and distant, so who knows?”

  “Okay, so, your mother didn’t approve of needy, but it doesn’t sound like you felt better when she withdrew or withheld herself from you. Does haughty, cold and distant sound better to you than needy?”

  “No. She didn’t like bubbly either. I’m not sure how it came down to a choice between bubbly or needy, with hiding out as the solution.” Alexis looked at Angela, like she might have the answer.

  “What I can see is that it doesn’t seem to be working all that well for you. This is a tough time, Alexis, I’ll grant you that. That doctor who’s prodding you to get surgery says you have time to sort things out. And, you’re here. Sixty-two isn’t too old to learn some new tricks. Hiding out is not the way to deal with cancer. How about we take stock as you leave the drugs and alcohol out of the picture? Let’s try to sort out how much of what you're thinking and feeling is the sly tricks an addict’s mind learns to play and how much is you—the real you? Then we can figure out which parts you want to hang on to, change, or discard.”

  “That could take a while.”

  “Sure, but it beats holing up in your room and poisoning yourself with drugs and alcohol, while you get sicker from cancer.”