“I care,” he said, “and I think other people will too. Is that how you felt about Seth? And Sharona? That they betrayed you?”
“Yes,” she said.
They stood in silence for a minute, facing the ocean. He wondered what she saw out there. Norman had so many questions, but he had to try to get her to focus. “Why were you in the hospital?” he asked.
Clover spoke in a low tone, conspiratorially, as she watched another boat zigzag across the water. “They thought I was crazy, but I’m not. I just feel things a lot sometimes.”
“Uh-huh.” Norman felt even more sorry for this pretty woman. Her moods were so up and down. But she was opening up to him, and that was all that mattered.
“Promise you won’t print what I’m telling you,” she said.
He decided he would try to talk her into letting him use the stuff she was saying after she was done telling her story. “Sure, whatever you want.”
“Okay. So, I did cocaine. It made me feel good, not like the pills they were always giving me. My mom wanted me to go to rehab, but I told her I didn’t need that.”
Norman figured she was pretty coked up now, in fact. “Really?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know. My parents and I talked about the drugs and the whole Sharona thing in family group therapy. It never did any good, though. I hate doctors.”
“How did you and Sharona end up at the beauty school together?”
“When I was in the hospital, Sharona told my stepdad she was going, so he decided I should go, too. Things were going pretty well with Seth and I thought maybe we might get married someday. Then things changed.”
Now they were getting to the good stuff. “So what happened between you?”
“He screwed Tania. They were all over each other in the bar that night, right in front of me,” she said. Her voice broke as she started to cry, and the words came streaming out. “I followed them back to her apartment that night, and then when he didn’t come out, I knew what they were doing in there, so. . . ”
Clover stopped talking. Her makeup was running down her face in streaks and Norman didn’t really know quite what to do. He was so new at this, he just wanted her to keep talking. “Go on,” he said, cautiously. “It’s okay. I’m glad you decided to confide in me. I think if we put all this in the paper, then maybe everyone will understand better what happened.”
“Well, it’s all Seth’s fault,” she said. “He’s the devil and he really messed with my head.” She turned abruptly. “I’ve got to go.”
“Miss Ziegler,” a man said from behind them. “I’m glad I’ve found you.”
Norman swiveled around. It was Detective Goode. “What’s up, detective?” Norman said.
Goode’s tone was short. “Listen, have either of you seen a tall, pretty young woman with long brown hair?”
“Nope,” Norman said, noticing that Goode’s face relaxed a bit.
“Good,” the detective said. “So, how about you go back to your car, Mr. Klein. I need to talk to the young lady alone. Police business.”
“But I’m right in the middle of an important interview,” Norman said, hoping the detective would understand from his tone and the look on his face just how important it was.
Goode looked serious and a little high strung. Norman wasn’t getting it. “Well, I’m sure my interview is more important than yours, and I don’t think Miss Ziegler and I need any company.”
That’s when Norman felt Clover’s arm come around his neck from behind and the pressure of a cold metal object poking into his temple.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Clover told Goode in a thick, hard-edged voice.
Norman didn’t really want to think about what the cold object was. “Clover, what are you doing?” he asked, hoping that she or the detective would answer him.
“Everything’s going to be okay, Norman,” she said. “You and I are going to get in my car and this cop is going to leave us alone.”
Goode’s voice went soft. “Clover, why don’t you put the gun down and we can talk about this.”
“I’ve already told Norman everything I have to say. You can ask him.”
At the mention of a gun, Norman felt faint. “I can’t breathe,” he managed to choke out.
Goode took a step toward them and held out his hands. “Why don’t you let Norman go? Then you and I can talk.”
“No,” she said firmly.
Clover moved her arm down to Norman’s chest, crushing his left arm against his side. She was pointing the gun at Goode now. The fingers on Norman’s left hand, which were gripping his notebook, were starting to cramp.
I can’t lose these notes. Not now.
Clover started backing away from the detective, pulling Norman along with her. His feet shuffled back, matching her steps as they made their way down a grassy slope, and away from the parking lot. They were heading toward the edge of the cliff where the hang glider pilots jumped off. He wished he had eyes in the back of his head. The drop down to the beach had to be two hundred feet.
Norman started thinking about his short-lived journalism career and all the things he’d never get to do. Like work his way up to a job at the Los Angeles Times, see a stripper, and go on a date with Lulu. Have a family. Make enough money to buy a new car, a new house. Or tell Al and Big Ed what he really thought of them. His body started to go limp.
“Stand up. You’re too heavy that way,” Clover ordered.
Norman wished he knew how close they were to the edge. Why was this happening to him? Clover jerked him backward and down a sharper slope, hard. His legs slipped out from under him and he fell backwards, headfirst, into the dirt. Then everything went black.
He wasn’t sure how long he was out, but when he came to, he was on the ground, looking up at the sky. Pain was shooting through his head, neck, and back. Clover was standing over him, pointing the gun at his face. She was going to kill him. He almost peed in his pants.
“Get up,” she said.
Norman felt dizzy as he slowly rose to his feet.
I wonder if I’ve got a concussion. Everything is all blurry.
When his vision became clear again, he saw that they were on a ledge about five feet lower than before and Goode was nowhere to be seen. A few moments later, the detective appeared at the top of the slope, pointing his gun at them. Norman hoped he was a good shot. But Clover didn’t budge.
“I told you to leave us alone,” she shouted up at Goode. “And you’d better stop pointing that gun at us or I’ll shoot him.”
Before Norman had time to react, Clover grabbed him by the wrist, jerked him up, and turned him around so she was behind him again, using his body as a shield. He felt her gun jabbing into his side as she closed her elbow around his neck once more.
“Okay, Clover, I’ll put the gun down, but there’s no way out for you now,” the detective called down to them. “I saw your collection of souvenirs in your bedroom, the ones you took when you killed Tania Marcus, Sharona Glass, and Keith Warner.”
“Whaat?” Norman said in disbelief.
So Clover is the killer? This woman holding a gun to my head?
He wouldn’t have believed it fifteen minutes ago. He felt like a total idiot.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Clover said in a low voice, directly into Norman’s ear. “I went to her apartment complex Saturday night to tell her I was hurt that she’d slept with Seth, but when I was in the parking lot I saw some guy wearing a baseball cap backward go into her apartment. I figured she was probably doing him, too, so I left.”
Norman wasn’t sure what to think. He could hear her breathing harder and faster. She was strong, crazy, and high on who knows what. He didn’t want to do anything to piss her off. As he saw it, this could go one of two ways. She would either throw him over the cliffs or Goode would save him and he would write the best story of his life. He tried to think positive thoughts.
Detective Goode will save me. Right? He has to.
“I kno
w you’re not well, Clover,” Goode yelled over the wind. “Maybe we can find a sympathetic judge and get you some help, send you to a hospital instead of a prison. But there’s no chance if you don’t let Norman go.”
“I’m never going back to a hospital,” she told Norman.
“Prison would be worse,” he said.
Goode made a move like he was going to come down the bluff, but Clover started shuffling backward again, forcing Norman to come with her, so Goode stopped. Norman felt so powerless. He hated not being able to see where she was taking him.
“If you didn’t kill anyone, why are you holding a gun to my head?” he asked.
“Because I was in the middle of doing something private here and the two of you interrupted,” she hissed.
“Don’t come any closer,” Clover shouted up at Goode, “or I’ll push him over.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Norman could see now that they were only a foot or two from the edge. One false step and he was a dead man. He started shaking and couldn’t stop. Clover let up a little on her grip around his neck as she moved them along the ledge. He was going to lose it if he didn’t come up with a plan. She may be serious that she wasn’t going to hurt him, but they were awfully close to the edge.
“Clover?” he asked tentatively.
“Not now,” she said.
But Norman knew he had to do something. He was fighting for his life. “If you let me go I’ll get your story out. People will understand that. If I tell it right, maybe they’ll let you off with an insanity plea.”
“I’m not insane,” she said. “And I told you I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Well, temporary insanity then. You know, a crime of passion.”
Clover stopped moving.
Is she considering my proposal?
“They’ll believe you,” he said. “I know they will.”
“Be quiet,” she said, tightening her grip before she pulled him down a dirt slope with her.
Still dizzy, he tried, unsuccessfully, to let his mind go blank.
This is the end.
Norman felt a rush of relief as they stumbled a few feet down onto another ledge that he hadn’t realized was there. Even so, they were that much further from Goode and not close enough to yell up at him anymore. He could see Goode, staring down at them and then up the coast.
That’s when Norman heard a beating noise, a low thunder. As it grew louder, he realized it was the dull roar of an aircraft approaching. Maybe the sheriff’s air rescue helicopter or the U.S. Marines were coming to save him. Goode or someone else must’ve called for help.
“You hear that?” Clover asked. She whirled them both around to see a helicopter about a half mile to the north, heading right for them. Her fingers were still gripping his arm and he had no idea what she was going to do. When the chopper got close enough, a man with a bullhorn leaned out and said: “Drop your weapon. Let the hostage go.”
Norman’s toes were only a few inches from the edge. He could see nude people sprawled out on towels below, their faces turned up toward the copter. There were no more ledges, only the final drop.
He felt Clover let go of his neck and step away, but he stood still, not wanting to move for fear she was still pointing the gun at the back of his head. She stepped forward so she was standing next to him and took his hand. The gun was still in her other hand, but she wasn’t aiming it at anyone.
“Look at those people down there. They seem so free,” she said softly. “I want to be free.”
Is she going to try to take me with her?
“Drop your weapon and let the hostage go,” the man with the bullhorn repeated.
The wind whistled in Norman’s ears and blew the hair into his eyes. “Clover, it doesn’t have to end this way,” he said. “I don’t want to die. You don’t have to either.”
“I was never planning to hurt you or anyone else,” Clover said, dropping his hand and the gun, too. Leaning into his face, she kissed him on the cheek. “Bye, Norman.”
Then, in one swift motion, she stepped off the cliff. Partway down, as her body sliced through the air, she spread her arms out like an angel, a strange smile on her face. Oddly, it seemed to slow her fall a bit.
“Oh, my God,” Norman whispered.
She hit the sand a couple of seconds later, a crumpled mess of bones. He stepped back from the ledge and stared out at the ocean, shaking. He heard footsteps behind him and felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, kid. You okay?” Goode asked, kneeling down and putting Clover’s gun in his pocket.
Norman nodded. He felt numb. In shock, really. “Yeah, I’m all right, I guess. You?”
Goode nodded back. “Yeah, I just wish I could’ve stopped her from jumping.”
“I know,” Norman said. “But you can’t blame yourself. . . .I guess some people just don’t want to be saved.”
They looked down at the beach, where a crowd of naked people and a few surfers in their wetsuits had gathered around the body and were craning their necks to watch the helicopter descend.
“Please move back,” the bullhorn voice said.
The people scattered like insects, grabbing their towels and running, their flesh jiggling. The sand blew every which way as the copter set down on the shore.
As Norman stood there next to the detective, he felt happy to be alive. But at the same time, he felt slightly ashamed that he’d ended up with a story out of this.
“That poor girl,” Norman said. “She was so mixed up, I don’t know what to think. . . . Did she really kill those people?”
“It sure looks that way, kid,” Goode said. “I searched her room an hour ago and I found a box with the tips of red fingernails, a lock of red hair, and a ring with Keith Warner’s initials. And you can print that this time.”
“Maybe not,” Norman said.
“What do you mean?” Goode asked.
“Well, right before she jumped, she told me she didn’t kill anyone, and that she never planned to hurt me or anyone else. She said she was about to go talk to Tania on Saturday night, but some guy wearing a baseball cap backward got to Tania’s apartment ahead of her, so she never went in.”
“Really?” Goode asked, growing silent. “No shit.”
“Then she said she wanted to be free, and she just jumped, almost like she thought she could fly.”
The two of them stood there for a minute before Goode blurted out, “You sure you’re all right, kid? I’ve got to go.”
Chapter 49
Goode
Goode jogged back to his van in the parking lot, his mind racing with what had just happened. Now he wasn’t sure what was going on. Why would Clover deny being the killer if she was about to kill herself? She had nothing to gain by lying.
He was sure Stone would have the telephonic warrant for Clover’s bedroom by then, and he wanted to get back there to secure the gilded box before it disappeared. He also felt a moral obligation to be the one to personally notify Mrs. Stratton about her daughter’s suicide, a duty he did not relish on her wedding anniversary. However, he took some solace in the fact that she’d come on to him that afternoon—on said wedding anniversary.
As he ran through the suspects and witnesses in his head, the only guy he could remember wearing a baseball cap backward was Jake. The problem was, Jake had no apparent motive. That said, if he had murdered Tania, it would make sense for him to return to the alley to see if she was still there, maybe wait until the cops arrived so he could tell them he’d just happened upon her. Then he could touch the body, accidentally on purpose, so he’d have an excuse in case they found his DNA on her. If that’s the way it played out, Goode would feel like a sap.
He punched Stone’s number into his cell phone so they could come up with a game plan. While he was waiting for the sergeant to answer, he rifled through his little notebook for the scribblings he’d made about the men in the diary entries.
There it was. The notation about J., the guy Tania had made out with at th
e strip club. Jake didn’t seem like her type, but then again, she’d been all about experimentation.
Stone sounded a little harried. He was right in the middle of setting up a press conference at headquarters for the chief to reassure the public that the residents of La Jolla and Pacific Beach were officially safe now that Clover Ziegler was dead.
“I’d tell him to hold off if I were you,” Goode said.
“What now?” Stone groaned.
Goode filled him in and Stone was just as befuddled as he was about the new lead. They agreed to hold off on the press conference for a few hours while they pursued the Jake angle further, starting with a quick call to Goode’s buddy, Artie, who happened to be the ME’s investigator assigned to this series of murders. Byron was over at the hospital with his wife and new baby, so Stone dubbed Goode the lead detective for the moment.
As Goode drove to Clover’s house, he called Artie. Now, more than ever, he was chomping at the bit for Tania’s toxicology results and a definitive cause of death. With this mix of clues, he felt in his gut that these answers were key. What the hell had Jake been doing in her apartment? And furthermore, why would he have killed her?
“Artie, dude. Please tell me all those test results are in,” he pleaded. “I’m dying here.”
“Hey, Goode. You’re in luck. I was just getting ready to call you guys,” Artie said. “You know how you said you found coke and meth at either end of Tania’s table? Well, she’s got some alcohol, an extremely high level of methamphetamine, a small amount of amphetamine, a barely detectable level of ephedrine, and a small amount of Rohypnol in her blood. But no cocaine.”
“What’s that mean in English?”
“Based on the autopsy report, I’d say it means that someone knocked her out with a date-rape drug, got all excited, but then lost it on her stomach, if you know what I mean. Then I’d say she did some meth, probably as the Rohypnol was wearing off. Only it looks like it was such incredibly pure meth that she died from a heart attack or arrhythmia. Then someone tied something around her neck, really tight, to make it look like she died of strangulation.”
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