“Uh-huh.”
“You seem pretty current,” Jesse said, “about Erin.”
“We kept in touch.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?” Jesse said.
Gerard leaned back a little in his chair. The California sunshine flooded into the atrium. Gerard clasped his hands in front of his chin, his elbows on the arms of the chair. He smiled a little. His teeth were bright and perfect. His hair was expensively cut. His skin was smooth and tan. His neck was strong. His hands were manicured. His white shirt was crisp. His white trousers were creased.
“Day before Misty died,” he said.
Cronjager uncrossed his legs and recrossed them the other way. It was nice that he was still so limber. Jesse showed nothing. Showing nothing was one of the things Jesse did best. I felt myself tighten a little in my chair.
“You’d have found it anyway,” Gerard said. “American Airlines, both ways. First class, of course. Limo from the airport.”
“Where’d you stay?” Jesse said.
“Not in Paradise,” Gerard said. “Nice town you got there, Chief. I seen more people in Ralphs market in West LA.”
“So where?” Jesse said.
His voice was quiet in the still room.
“Boston,” Gerard said. “Four Seasons. What’s the difference?”
“Better to know than not know,” Jesse said. “What did you go to see Erin for?”
“Visit,” Gerard said.
“Why?”
“Old times’ sake,” Gerard said. “Remember I told you I love her? I visit every month or so.”
“What did you do while you were there?”
“Same as always,” Gerard said. “We visited.”
“I need more than that,” Jesse said.
“I don’t have more than that,” Gerard said. “I picked her up in the limo, took her to Boston, we visited for a day.”
“At the hotel.”
“Yeah.”
“Buddy know about your visit?”
“Hell no,” Gerard said.
“And then you went home?”
“Yeah, like always,” Gerard said. “Brought her back next day. Came back to LA the day after, noon flight, gets in to LA about three.”
“That would be the day after Misty was killed.”
“I guess,” Gerard said. “I didn’t know it at the time.”
“And now you do,” Jesse said.
Gerard turned his palms up.
“Got nothing to do with me,” he said.
“What limo company?” Jesse said.
“Carey.”
“You have any thoughts on who killed Misty?” Jesse said.
“All I know is, I didn’t.”
“We’ll check this,” Jesse said.
“You would have anyway,” Gerard said.
“Which is why you told us.”
“Exactly,” Gerard said.
50
WE GOT NOTHING else from Gerard, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. And when we finally left, we’d been there at least two hours longer than we needed to be.
“Well,” I said, “he was there.”
“So was Moon,” Jesse said. “And Buddy.”
“And Erin,” I said.
Clyde was driving us down Hilgard past UCLA. Beside him in the front seat, Cronjager was admiring the campus, and maybe the coeds.
“Don’t know the case like you do,” Cronjager said, still looking at the campus. “And, a’course, I’m not a chief of police, but I didn’t hear him tell you anything you can use to nail him.”
“If he needs to be nailed,” I said.
“You think he doesn’t?” Cronjager said.
“He needs to be nailed for being a pimp and a thug,” I said. “But I’m not convinced he did it.”
“Because?” Jesse said.
“Because he doesn’t feel right for it,” I said.
“Woman’s intuition?” Jesse said.
“Woman cop’s intuition,” I said. “The perfect combination.”
“Talk about it a little,” Jesse said.
“You know as well as I do that a lot of what we know isn’t fact. It’s how people look and act when we talk to them. It’s how we feel about the way they sound and what they do with their eyes.”
Jesse nodded.
“We frequently know who the perp is before we can prove it,” he said. “You got any favorites?”
“No,” I said. “But we know one thing.”
“Erin?” Jesse said.
In front of me I saw Cronjager nod his head. Jesse wasn’t looking at him.
“Yes,” I said. “Erin. She knew Gerard was in Boston and didn’t tell us.”
“So what else does she know that she hasn’t told us?” Jesse said.
“When I get home, I’ll ask her,” I said. “Woman to woman.”
“Sisterhood is strong,” Jesse said.
“Do you buy that stuff about her wanting to be a female Jackie Robinson?” Cronjager said.
“Yes,” I said. “I think I do.”
“You seen her play, Jesse?” Cronjager said.
“I’ve seen her hit,” Jesse said.
“Can she make it?” I said.
“Sure. It’s Buddy’s team; he can put her out there and they gotta let her play.”
“But?”
“She’ll be humiliated,” Jesse said. “She can’t generate the bat speed. Unless some nitwit throws her a changeup, she may strike out every time.”
“Thus proving that women can’t in fact play baseball with the men,” I said.
“There may be some who can,” Jesse said. “I don’t know. But it is not Erin.”
“Could those college boys strike her out?” I said.
“Sure. Taft’s got a good program for a Northern school. They were in the College World Series three years ago. Kid’s location may not be precise. I don’t know what they got for a breaking ball. And I don’t know how much movement they get off the fastball. But the kid I saw can throw it by her.”
“Could they strike you out?”
“Now? Sure.”
“When you were playing.”
“Not often,” Jesse said.
The car was quiet. Clyde took us up a hill to Selby Avenue, and left onto Wilshire.
“You got a plan?” Jesse said after a time.
“I’m thinking about one,” I said.
“You want to prove to her she can’t do it?” Jesse said.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Give her less to protect,” Jesse said.
“Soften her up before I question her,” I said.
Jesse smiled at me.
He said, “You are a hard case, Sunny Randall.”
I shrugged.
“If you’re right,” I said, “it’s better she knows it now.”
We went down the corridor of high-rise condos, past the country club. Century City soared in the near distance beyond the club.
“Remember,” Cronjager said from the front seat. “I got an unsolved double homicide out here that your case has something to do with.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Jesse said.
We went up the hill toward Beverly Glen. There was no one on the street except a couple of Hispanic gardeners, working out of an ancient maroon pickup, grooming a small front lawn.
“You and Jenn doing anything these days?” Cronjager said.
“Jenn’s doing something,” Jesse said. “But not with me.”
Cronjager nodded, still looking out his side window as if he’d never seen Los Angeles before.
“I heard she’s back east where you are,” Cronjager said.
“Yes.”
“How’s your general health?” Cronjager said.
“I’m not getting drunk very often,” Jesse said.
“Okay, so I can talk in front of Sunny,” Cronjager said.
“Yes.”
“You over Jenn?” Cronjager said.
I felt myself tighten up a little.
; “I think so,” Jesse said.
“And you’re sober.”
“Reasonably,” Jesse said.
“I’m glad to see it,” Cronjager said. “You’re a good cop, and a good man. I hated firing you.”
We approached the Beverly Hilton, near where Wilshire and Santa Monica intersect.
“You had no choice, Captain,” Jesse said.
“No,” Cronjager said. “I didn’t.”
51
IT WAS WINTER IN PARADISE. And the recency of LA made it seem more so. The gym at Taft was sort of gloomy. Erin was in the batting cage. The big kid who had pitched to her the first time I’d seen her hit was standing on the pitcher’s mound. This time there was a catcher, too, in his catcher’s outfit, squatting behind the plate. Someone had taken away the little batting-practice fence that had been there before. Roy Linden leaned against the cage, watching.
“Be a simulated game,” Linden said to Erin. “I’ll call balls and strikes from behind the cage. Won’t be right on it, but you’ll get an idea. Pitcher’s going to try to get you out. You going to just make contact. Line drive is a hit. Ground ball or pop-up is an out. No need to hit it to New Hampshire.”
Erin nodded. She had on cobalt shorts and top with a matching headband. She was wearing spikes. Linden moved directly behind Erin, with the batting-cage screen to protect him.
“You discussed this with Mr. Linden,” I said to Jesse.
“Yes. He liked it. He’s pretty sick of Erin.”
Linden pointed at the pitcher.
“Play ball,” he said with the hint of a smile.
“And he’s discussed it with the pitcher?” I said.
“The pitcher will be trying to get her out. Linden told him, nothing fancy. Fastballs should do it.”
“Linden agrees with you that she won’t be able to hit?”
“Yes.”
The pitcher threw. Erin didn’t swing. The ball cracked into the catcher’s mitt. Erin turned and looked at Linden.
“That’s a strike, Erin,” Linden said.
She turned back, set her feet again. Swung the bat again.
I said, “My God, Jesse, she can’t hit that.”
“True.”
“Nobody could hit that.”
“They could,” Jesse said. “It comes fast but it’s straight. No movement.”
The next pitch came just as fast. Erin swung this time and didn’t hit it.
“And you could hit that?” I said. “When you were playing?”
“Sure.”
“And you weren’t even a great hitter,” I said.
“No. I hit enough to survive. But I was going to make it with my glove and my arm.”
The ball cracked into the catcher’s mitt again. Erin had swung and missed badly.
“Find his release point,” Linden said to her. “Pick up the ball coming out of his hand.”
Erin nodded. Staring out at the pitcher, she crouched a little more in her batting position. I thought the pitcher had a little smile on his face. But I wasn’t close enough to be sure. He pitched. She swung and missed.
“I can’t see the rotation,” Erin said to Linden.
“Don’t worry about rotation,” Linden said. “He’s throwing nothing but fastballs.”
Pitch. Swing. Miss. I could feel it in my stomach. This was awful.
“And this pitcher couldn’t make the big leagues?”
“Guys like Barry Bonds,” Jesse said, “Manny Ramirez, would hit .800 off this kid. They’d pay his salary to keep him in the league.”
Pitch. Swing. Miss.
“This is awful,” I said to Jesse.
“Hard game,” he said. “It’s one of the things about sports. It’s clean. Either you can do it or you can’t.”
“Not just sports,” I said.
“No, a lot of skill things. Ballet. Singing. Whatever. You may get further than your talent allows because somebody like Buddy comes along and packages you and sneaks you around the hurdles. But you still can’t do it. Things have their rules.”
Pitch. Swing. Miss.
“Like love,” I said.
“I thought all was fair in love,” Jesse said.
“You can love someone however much, and if they don’t love you, you can’t make them.”
“They can’t love you because you want them to,” Jesse said.
“I know.”
“Mutual interests help,” Jesse said.
“Like being in the same profession?” I said.
Jesse smiled.
“Like that,” he said.
Erin swung and missed and threw the bat away and began to cry. The rest of us in the gym seemed to freeze. The pitcher and catcher were motionless.
“Oh God,” I whispered to Jesse.
“I can’t hit it,” Erin said, crying. “I can’t hit it. I can’t hit it. I can’t fucking hit it.”
Linden’s voice was gentle, but the gym was so still that it carried.
He said, “No, Erin. You can’t.”
52
DR. SILVERMAN was in black today. Black sweater, black suit. She had on a small silver necklace. She gleamed with grooming, in, of course, an understated way. As I talked she watched me with complete attention, apparently absorbed by everything I said, every hand gesture, every shift in my position.
“With my pants down,” I said. “In a public dressing room on Rodeo Drive.”
Dr. Silverman nodded.
“I mean, my God,” I said.
She nodded again. I didn’t quite know what I was trying to say.
“Have you ever done anything like that?” I said.
I knew the question was inane as it slipped out. She smiled. She knew it was inane and she knew I knew it.
“Why do you ask?” she said.
“I know, I know,” I said. “It’s about me, not about you.”
“But why do you ask?” she said.
I thought.
“I probably asked it so you’d push me to examine my own reactions,” I said.
“Talk about that,” she said.
“I feel, or maybe I feel, like a whore, you know? I mean, that wasn’t lovemaking. That was…that was just fucking.”
“Define ‘fucking,’” she said.
“I suppose I have some sense of it as exploiting a partner for your own pleasure. Not having sex because you love them.”
“Like you and Tony Gault?”
She didn’t forget anything.
“No, that was just for fun.”
She nodded.
“I don’t love Tony.”
She nodded and raised her eyebrows. I knew that meant So? in shrink sign language.
“Maybe I am starting to love Jesse.”
She nodded.
“And it scares me. If I will do that, what’s next? Sex in Harvard Square? At noon?”
“So you’re worried about the sex?” she said.
“Sure…no…of course not. I’m worried about losing control. About loving him too much and giving myself over to him.”
“And at the moment you were worrying about loss of control, you had this exotic sexual experience.”
I nodded. She nodded. She raised her eyebrows again. I didn’t know what to say.
“Sometimes,” she said, “we dramatize our interior state by what we do.”
We sat. I studied her face. I couldn’t tell how old she was, except I knew she was older than I.
“So, my experience tells me that being in love with someone may make me submerge myself….” I said.
She nodded slightly. That meant Go ahead.
“And then we have sex in a store, and I fasten my fears onto that.”
She nodded. I sat. And then there it was. I saw it all, in full, at once, like turning on a light.
“I have always thought,” I said, “that if you were in love, the only purpose of sex was to express that love, and anything else was fucking.”
“There’s a lot at stake,” she said.
“A
lot,” I said. “Every time you have sex, it has to prove you love each other.”
“Freighted with anxiety,” she said.
“Unless you don’t love each other,” I said.
She nodded.
“Then it’s easy,” I said.
“Sex is better with someone you don’t love?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “No. Both.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Well, I mean, it’s easier in some ways if there’s just sort of a friendship. No big deal. Nothing to prove. Have a nice time,” I said. “But on the other hand, it lacks something. With someone you love, it’s not just fun, it’s…important.”
“Good news and bad news,” she said.
I listened to my breathing for a while.
“I suppose,” I said, “that if I were fully, ah, integrated, I could seek the pleasure and let the love take care of itself. You know, I mean, lovemaking isn’t just sex. If you love someone you are making love all the time. When you talk. When you eat dinner together. When you laugh or walk along. And when you are having sex.”
“And if the sex isn’t what you’d hoped for?”
“It doesn’t mean we don’t make love.”
She smiled at me.
“Sometimes,” she said, “the fish just don’t bite.”
Wow. She’s approving. I felt empowered.
“What if there were no sex?” I said.
She shook her head ever so slightly, as if diminishing the gesture made it less directive.
“Sex is part of love,” she said.
“Do you believe in love?” I said.
I knew it was a question she would probably turn aside. Much too intimate a revelation for a shrink to make to a patient. Why do you ask? she would say. Or she’d paraphrase. There are certainly strong emotions centered on relational blah blah…
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
53
IMET ERIN FLINT for lunch at the Bristol Lounge in the Four Seasons Hotel. No bodyguards. No entourage. No Buddy. Just Erin, who turned every head when she walked in and came across to my table by the window. Up close, her face looked tired and sort of tight.
I stood to shake hands with her and found myself putting my arms around her. She felt stiff.
“No bodyguards?” I said.
“No. They’re for Buddy,” she said. “He pretends it’s me. But it’s him. He’s scared of something.”
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