by Anna Burke
“Bad guys are never as smart as they think they are, right Frank?” Don asked.
“That’s true, Dad. I suppose Peter’s right though. Maniacally conniving is just another version of desperate. Carr's co-conspirator is throwing up roadblocks that will stall the investigation, but as Jessica points out, won’t end it. There are more jurisdictions on the job now than ever.”
“I’m guessing the guy is desperate to buy time, Frank, if what you’re saying is true. But with those deep pockets, if he’s afraid of getting caught, why not just pack up and leave?”
“Something important is holding him here, Jessica,” Frank replied.
“Hey, maybe he still hasn’t used the ultimate, multi-purpose cleanup machine. Could be that’s still in his hat,” Brien said with a knowing look on his face.
“Where’s that food?” Bernadette asked. “Brien will stop talking about the Cat and the Hat if he has something to put in his mouth. Stop chewing up that straw, Brien.” Brien put down the straw.
Bernadette’s utterance, like magic, conjured up a flurry of activity as food appeared. The rest of their lunch was much quieter. Don and Frank excused themselves as soon as they had finished eating, hitting the road to deliver the evidence collected at Libby’s place. After lunch, the rest of them checked into their hotel rooms, the guys hauling in luggage from the loaner car that Peter had provided to Bernadette and Jessica. Peter was accompanying them to Malibu, with Brien riding “shotgun” if he didn’t pass out from the lunch he put away. The bacon topped cheeseburger he had ordered was enough to stupefy people with normal appetites. His meal came with the option to have fries or a salad, and he ordered both.
“I’m learning from Peter to eat better,” he said as he started in on the salad. Peter just shook his head as he devoured his own larger salad ordered with a side of hummus and pita bread.
“If that’s true, you could have ordered the edamame, or hummus, instead of the artery-clogging nachos you ate.”
“I’m not ready for the mushy good stuff, Peter. I need to eat things that are crunchy, not already-been-chewed food.” Kim looked at him, stopped eating the Greek salad she had ordered, and spoke.
“Then I take it you won’t be eating any more of Bernadette’s guacamole or salsa. They don’t crunch.”
“No, no, those are okay. They go with chips and chips crunch, get it? Besides, I’m talking about healthy food, not Bernadette’s food.” Tommy snorted, almost doing a spit take. Brien realized that wasn’t the right thing to say.
“Whoa, that’s not what I meant. Your food’s healthy, Bernadette. It’s just stealthy healthy not harsh healthy.” That, and the anxious look on Brien’s face, set off more chortling.
“Oh Brien, shut up, before I show you what harsh unhealthy looks like!” They all stopped eating and gazed, open-mouthed, at Bernadette. She put her two small fists up, moving them through the air, like she was challenging him to a fight. Brien blinked several times in a row, waiting for her to throw a punch.
“Eat your lunch, Brien. I’m just messing with you.” She went back to eating the fish tacos she had ordered.
Brien let out a big sigh and stuffed more salad into his mouth. The rest of them looked at each other and burst into laughter.
Jessica was pensive as she drank a cup of coffee later, alone in her room. She hoped the extra caffeine would get her through the afternoon still ahead. She pondered that lunch conversation about the culprit still on the loose... deep pockets... desperate... buying time... and if Betsy Stark was right, someone who moved in the same rarefied circles inhabited by the Van Der Woerts and the Donnellys. Less than ‘six degrees of separation,’ Betsy had said with that far-off look in her eyes. If he was the man in the photos Carr had tucked away in his desk, who was he? Could they figure it out before his desperation led him to take more drastic measures?
24 Red Devil
Jessica wanted to stay put on the sumptuous bed in her hotel room. That bed was so comfortable. Her body was objecting to the time she had spent in cars, getting in and out of cars, sitting in stiff dining chairs, etc. All normal things to do, but not for someone who had toppled off a mountain the week before. Her whole body ached, made worse by the tension that gripped her.
As she lay there, waiting for a fresh dose of aspirin to kick in, Jessica marveled at the havoc wreaked by that combination of Carr’s impulsive stupidity and his maniacally conniving partner. Throw in Libby’s special brand of troublemaking and it was surprising there wasn't more than one dead body, at this point. Carr had paid for his dirty dealings. Shannon Donnelly may have paid the price for whatever part she played in the tangled web of deceit. Add to that the carnage done to families ripped apart by Carr’s cynical manipulation of the women in his care, and the toll in human terms was mounting.
What was the point of all that manipulation on Carr’s part? Was it just a matter of self-gratification, easy sex, and some narcissistic ego trip? Then, why would he have had a partner? Maybe it was about the money, as manipulation morphed from sexploitation to extortion. Libby thought she was getting the money so that she and Carr could run away together. Had Carr told Shannon the same thing? Was she expecting to wring money out of her parents, using the false allegation gambit, and take off with Carr? Could the man have set up a competition between the two women, in which the first to score an early inheritance would win him as the prize?
“Some prize,” Jessica muttered to herself. She could not imagine the two women fighting over him, but women had done stranger things to get a man. Would either Libby or Shannon have come up with enough money to be able to run off to an island somewhere? If Carr got the girl, and the money, what did his mysterious partner get out of the deal? Why was a partner who already had deep pockets, involved in a scheme to extort money from the parents of spoiled rich girls? A quiet rap on the door pulled Jessica out of her rumination.
“Jessica, we should get going.”
“Okay, Bernadette.” Her mother was expecting them. Jessica had called to confirm, even though that had seemed an overly formal thing to do. Alexis had sounded good on the phone, but Jessica was reserving judgment until she could see for herself—presuming she could ever tell how her mother was doing. Jessica had missed so much for so many years.
“Do you know how to get there, Bernadette? I can pull up directions on my smart phone if you’d like.”
“Nah, Peter already put the address into the GPS system so we won’t get lost. He and Brien will be right behind us.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Jessica said, as she gave her hair a brush and added lip gloss. Most of the scrapes and bruises on her face had faded, and her right hand was no longer bandaged. Still, it was hard to feel “pulled together” with one arm in a cast and a sling. Both were part of her wardrobe for two or three more weeks.
Traffic on the way to Malibu was not bad by L.A. standards. Roads were always congested in the sprawling county with ten million residents. Early afternoon, the Pacific Coast Highway was navigable, after lunch and before rush hour. The views of the Pacific Ocean were soothing as they drove up the coast from Manhattan Beach.
They had no trouble finding a spot in the limited visitor parking. Bernadette pulled into a spot close to the clinic entrance. Peter pulled into a space nearby. The grounds on which the clinic sat were stunning. Fences concealed much of the facility, but the entry beckoned under a vaulted overhang. Jessica climbed out the car, glad to be wearing a light jacket around her shoulders. A chilly breeze swirled around her as she walked toward Peter, with Bernadette following.
“Peter,” she called out as she grew closer.
“Shush, shush. I just got him to sleep,” Peter whispered, slipping out of the car and shutting the door with a soft click. “That guy can talk, Jessica. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing encouraging him to take on a job in security. Maybe he’d be good at the interrogation side of things.”
“He can talk, I’ll grant you that. He's learned a lot already, or maybe it�
��s just the influence you’re having on him. I’m seeing aspects of Brien I haven’t seen before.”
“I see it too, Peter. Sometimes he even thinks before he says somethin’—even when his mouth’s not full,” Bernadette added with a wicked little smile on her face.
“Yeah, he surprises me, too, but then he goes back into surfer dude mode and blabs about UFO conspiracies, or sets out the debate about the merits of shave ice versus a snow cone. Did I ever think about that? It’s not like I can answer him because he’s on to the next subject. Who killed JFK and was it the same person who killed Marilyn Monroe? I couldn’t get a word in edgewise if I happened to give a damn about one of the topics he goes on and on about.”
“I hear you. Maybe he missed his calling and should be a litigator—they talk plenty.”
“Or a tour guide at Disneyland where he can talk all day long,” Bernadette added.
“There must be places that would be happy to have an affable security presence, Peter. It’s good you’re trying to help him get a focus. He lives alone, and he works alone most of the time. Maybe he’s just lonely.” Peter sighed.
“You could be right, Jessica. I wonder if he keeps this patter going on when he’s by himself. It doesn’t seem to matter much that I’m there. Does he do that when he’s cleaning your pool?”
“I never noticed, but it could be. He sounds like Libby up there on Mt. San Jacinto. At least instead of red devils and dead daughters, he’s muttering about something innocuous, like snow cones.”
“Snow cones? Where?” Brien asked in a muffled voice.
“There’s nothing wrong with his ears,” Bernadette quipped. “He could listen good as a security guard if he stops talking all the time.” Brien climbed out of the car, a sleepy look on his face as he stretched.
“No snow cones, Brien. This is the rehab facility where my mom’s staying, in Malibu.”
“Not bad,” Brien said. “I could totally live here.” Jessica wondered about his apartment. He seemed ready to move in anywhere they went.
Nobody responded to his comment as they all moved toward the entry to the facility. The architecture was a modern take on the seaside cottage. It was hard to get the lay of the land with all the fences and trees around the complex. The low-rise-building occupied a lot of acreage on a Malibu bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. That made a statement in a place where it was hard to find property for sale at less than $1000 per square foot. Land with beach frontage, even if you had to climb down the bluff to get to it, cost a pretty penny, too.
The entrance to the facility opened to a lobby. As soon as they stepped inside, a receptionist welcomed them warmly. Why not, if you had a family member who could afford $30,000 a week for treatment? The charming receptionist confirmed their names and appointment. She escorted Brien and Peter to a waiting area and then showed Jessica and Bernadette the way to Alexis’ suite.
Their escort gave the door a light tap. Jessica felt relieved when Alexis answered the door looking composed. What was she expecting? To find her writhing in the agony of withdrawals—like Frank Sinatra in the Man with the Golden Arm. Not a chance. This was a medication-assisted detox and treatment facility with lots of services and supports.
Her mother, impeccable as always, sported pricey, but casual resort wear. Black capris and a long-sleeved boat neck silk tee worn under an unconstructed cardigan. Cashmere, Jessica guessed, as she rushed into the room to embrace her. As the door shut, and their escort left, Alexis returned the embrace. With the sling Jessica was wearing, it was a little awkward, but wonderful. Bernadette gave Alexis a hug too.
Alexis went into hostess mode. “Have a seat, you two. Can I get you something to drink? No cocktails, but bubbly water or a soda. Or I could put on water for tea—decaffeinated, herbal something or other. There’s a ginger-lemon that’s not bad.”
“I’ll take some water, Mom.” Jessica felt pressured to accept something, falling into the polite mode that the hostess thing required. Why hadn’t she thought to bring flowers or something for her mother? What was an appropriate gift for a friend or relative in rehab?
“Why don’t you sit down and talk to Jessica, Alexis, and let me do that.” Jessica could see her mother fighting to stay in hostess mode, but in another few seconds she yielded. Her shoulders slumped, giving up the perfect posture that went with hostess.
“Sure, Bernadette, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, Alexis. You’re supposed to be takin’ it easy. I’ll get us all some of that fizzy water, okay?”
“Sounds great,” Alexis replied, seating herself in a club chair near Jessica.
“You look good. How are you doing, Mom?” Jessica asked. She was glamorous in dark glasses, her shoulder length light brown hair cut, colored and styled.
“My eyes are sensitive to light and it makes my head hurt. I’m tired, Jessica.”
“Well, you’ve got a lot on your mind. Bernadette’s right about taking it easy. Are you feeling sick?”
“No—not sick, just tired. Tired of being me,” Alexis said, gazing out of the window at the ocean.
“Mom, geez, what does that mean?” Jessica asked, trying to hide the alarm that statement had set off. “I’m not tired of you! I love you—and I'm just getting to know you. The real you, not the ‘Mom’ you, but the you, you... I, I... I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Oh, don’t go all worry-wart on me, Jessica. I don’t know what I’m saying either. I’m just so tired. Sad and irritable, too.”
“Mom, that sounds like depression. Have you told your therapist how you feel?”
“Yes, but she feels it’s too early to figure out what’s going on with me. Some of what I’m going through has to do with the drug withdrawals, so she says. Your mother is a tough nut to crack, Jinx. I’m just getting to know me, so welcome to the club. Someday, when I figure out the me, me, I’ll introduce you.”
Bernadette joined them with glasses of water, and a blue bottle for refills, on a tray she must have found in the small, well-appointed kitchen. She handed out the glasses and then sat down.
“That’s why you’re here, Alexis, to figure it out. You’ve been trying too hard for too long not to be you. I don’t think it’s the real you you’re tired of, it’s the phony you you’re tired of being. So stop.” Jessica and Alexis were both staring at the petite guru in navy trousers and a deep burgundy red tunic sweater. Her head, with its short-cropped dark hair, was bowed as she took a sip of water. Jessica caught Alexis’ eye, and they both burst out laughing.
“Trust Bernadette to tell it like it is,” Alexis proclaimed, lifting her glass in a toast to the tiny woman, beaming at them now. “And make it all sound so easy. Here’s to you, Bernadette!” They all scooted closer together to clink glasses. Jessica was rewarded with a shot of pain in the ribs. That happened much less often than it had a week ago, but it was still unpleasant when it occurred.
“To the new you, Mom, or the old real you...” Jessica stopped, getting all tongue-tied again as they clinked their glasses. “Sorry, Mom, you know what I mean.”
“Let’s hope there is a real me—old, yes, but with some living still to do,” Alexis said. Laughing again she added, “I’m as confused as you are, Jessica, so you don’t have to apologize. I owe you lots of them—apologies, I mean. I’m nowhere near that step in the 12-step part of the program here. I received an overview, but I’m still an infidel, on the outside looking in.”
“You gotta start somewhere, Alexis.”
“I understand, Bernadette, but it feels like I’ve spent most of my life on the outside looking in. This isn't my first introduction to 12-steps, although it's a new take on it here. I’m not so sure I want to go in. All that powerless before God stuff is not inviting.”
“Is it the powerless part, or the God part, that’s no good?” Bernadette asked.
“Both,” Alexis and Jessica said, in unison. Surprising each other and setting off another round of laughter.
“Mom, don’
t tell me you’re a control freak, too. Have you been in the closet all this time?”
“Oh come on, what closet, darling? You must have noticed that I like to have things my own way.” Jessica thought about it.
“I guess so—when you were around, sure.”
“It’s exhausting keeping it all under control—you must have figured that out by now, too, Jessica. When I couldn’t do that anymore, I gave up and disappeared. I guess that’s the first thing I’m sorry for, Jessica, but I didn’t think I was doing any good hanging around anyway. I understand the need to have control is a losing battle.”
“That’s because you’re not in control. Neither am I—none of us are. All that trying and trying to have things your way, it’s just a lot of huffing and puffing, so you won’t be afraid because your life isn’t under your control. You’re right, it doesn’t work.” Bernadette piped up. “So you have already faced the powerlessness, Alexis. You even chose a God of your own—the pills, you know?”
“Hmm,” Alexis replied. “I’ll have to think about that, Bernadette.”
“I get what she’s saying. For me it’s shopping, Mom. The thing I go to first for solace or comfort when I’m shook up—which is all the time these days. It’s confusing, but Father Martin says an awakening soul has choices to make. Different choices than the ones I’ve made in the past. Not all of them easy or pleasant but I’m trying to face up to them.”
“Well I’m no stranger to shopping as a way to take my mind off things, but what’s wrong with that? You can afford it. At least it’s a crutch you can choose to use or not.”
“That’s sort of true, Mom. I’ve tried to put the black AMEX card away, but I get this urge to shop. When that happens, sometimes I can say no, but other times I have to get my fix. It’s a compulsion.”