“You handed me up,” Abatangelo guessed. He looked out the back. “They follow you?”
Waxman bristled. “Of course not, Christ—”
“You want to talk about retaliation?” Abatangelo said, facing back around. “Police aren’t the only thugs here, Wax. Felix Randall, his hoods. Some Mexicans hellbent on blood from the looks of it. Cops are known for their tactical leaks. Bad enough they’re gonna tie me to this. Now you’re telling me that’s the least of my worries. I’m public record. What else did you tell them?”
“They already knew,” Waxman protested. “Everything.”
“So you confirmed it.” Abatangelo groaned. “And what do you mean, ‘everything’? What the fuck is ‘everything’?”
“You were willing to be openly named to begin with.”
“You said it would help with credibility if I wasn’t.”
“Yes. Yes. But that’s no longer true.” Waxman looked to Cohn, hoping for an ally. Cohn regarded him with an indifference that bordered on loathing. “The police are set to hand out your name to the next guy who stumbles along. Trust me. Some low-level corker working cop shop out here in the Delta somewhere. If I don’t identify you, someone else will.”
In a bid for self-control, Abatangelo laughed softly and looked away. The truly galling part, he thought, was that Waxman was right. At first he’d been perfectly willing to have his name made public. Being named had swagger, it’d flush somebody out, they’d come looking for him, asking who the fuck he thought he was. He’d only relented when he realized the benefit to remaining unnamed, given Shel’s likely reaction to his exposing Frank. All that seemed obscenely irrelevant now. Even so, this smacked of betrayal—not so much what Waxman had done as the way he’d confessed to it. The squirming, the bluster, the milky eyes.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Enough on that. Now did they respond to the message above the phone?”
“I was getting to that,” Waxman snapped. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Look, I’m sorry if I seem back on my heels. It’s just … you’re insinuating that I was there to feed them some cooked-up version of events.”
Cohn, sensing a need for a different tack, stepped in. “Any sense the detectives think this Frank Maas character killed the three people in that house?”
Waxman put his glasses back on. “If they do, they didn’t share that with me.”
Abatangelo said, “It doesn’t make sense, Tony.”
“It doesn’t?” He turned a little, the light catching his eyes briefly, making them glisten within the shadows veiling his face. “This is a guy you yourself described as a sociopath. Your girlfriend, after getting the shit kicked out of her, ran back to him.”
“Not to him,” Abatangelo said.
“Oh, Christ. To what, then?”
“To protect me.”
“From this Frank character.”
“I don’t think so,” Abatangelo said. “Not from the note she left. I think she meant the people Frank was in with. This Felix Randall guy.” It came out rushed, unconvincing. “Look, Tony—”
“As long as we’re dwelling in the land of I Don’t Think So,” Cohn interrupted, “I’d say my guess is as good as yours, and my guess is she came back, this Frank character was lying in wait, as they say in the penal code, and he went off all over again. He made this thing look like a burn, just like he did with the Briscoe kids. Now he’s on the run. He’s got the woman he loves with him. That woman’s either going to love him back or die. If she isn’t dead already.”
Abatangelo thought it through. It was possible, he supposed. The problem was, it also meant there was no hope.
“I don’t see it that way,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t explain the message above the phone.”
Cohn snorted with disgust and turned to Waxman. “Anything else?”
“They implied,” Waxman said, “that they have information to the effect that Dan and Ms. Beaudry had gotten back together.”
“What information?” Abatangelo asked.
“I don’t know, but whatever it was, it suggested the involvement wasn’t strictly romantic. They think you’re back in the trade.”
“Then their information’s lousy.”
“One of the detectives suspected the murders were meant for the two of you, retaliation for some drug deal gone wrong.”
Cohn closed his eyes and murmured, “Lovely.”
“That’s the way it’s set up to look,” Abatangelo countered. “These cops, they’re not really that stupid. They were playing you, Wax.”
“Yes, well,” Waxman said. “Another detective, the narc I mentioned, came up with a different theory. He suspects you’re the killer.”
Cohn opened his eyes again.
Abatangelo said, “And you laughed, right?”
“He apparently believes that you came out looking for Frank Maas, to get even for what he did to Ms. Beaudry.”
“Which he knew about how?”
“From my article,” Waxman said. “I gave them a draft, remember?”
“Wait. This theory, that I’m the killer, this narc made it up while you were sitting there? What’s that tell you, Wax? It’s horseshit.”
“Be that as it may,” Waxman continued, “the way this narc sees it, when Frank wasn’t there, you killed the people who were, figuring blame would work back to Frank.” Turning to Cohn, he added, “That’s his explanation for why the killings were made to look like a drug burn, like the Briscoe murders.”
“I’m one cold-blooded snake,” Abatangelo said.
“It’s also,” Waxman added, “his explanation for why you were there earlier tonight.”
Both Cohn and Abatangelo snapped to at that one. “How’d they know that?” Abatangelo said.
“I told you, they were very well informed.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Some kind of trace on the phone out here, I imagine,” Waxman said.
“You imagine?”
“He simply said they knew it for a fact.”
“Fucking Christ, Wax. I’m not hearing this. You didn’t confirm it, did you?”
Waxman shrank back a little. “As I said, I gave them a draft of the story—”
“You haven’t had time to write that part.”
“I’ll be phoning it in,” Waxman said, “as soon as we’re done here.” His eyes hardened. “And if I were you, I might consider taking refuge in the truth for once, instead of this scamming knack for bullshit you seem so fond of.”
“You know what?” Cohn interjected sourly. “I think this is a good time—”
“You still haven’t told me, Wax, what the cops said about the message above the phone.”
“Nothing,” Waxman said.
Abatangelo flinched. “Come again?”
“They said nothing about it. I brought it up, they acted like I was an idiot.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Tell them, not me. I said the message suggests she was abducted. Some kind of trade is being arranged.”
“Exactly.”
“They laughed.”
“Wax, come on, you sold it—”
“It’s not my position to sell anything. I pointed it out, I showed them my story. Once there was no longer any point concealing the fact that you were my source, everything else I proposed came off like canned crap, manufactured by you.”
“Wait, wait—”
“My guess is they think you wrote the message above the phone, intending it as some sort of smoke screen.”
“That’s nuts. One minute I’m making it look like Frank did it, the next I’m trying to pin it on some Mexicans?”
“I’m just telling you what they suggested.”
“And you said?”
“As little as possible,” Waxman responded. “Though I realize you don’t believe that.”
Cohn pinched the bridge of his nose. “As I was trying to say, this might be a good time for me to speak with my client alone. All rig
ht?”
Waxman reached for the door handle then stopped, turning back to Abatangelo. “I have to see it from all sides. Nothing I write will seem credible otherwise.”
“All sides,” Abatangelo said. “I’m a guy who’d come out here, clip a kid and two adults, and use the article you’re writing to point the finger at Frank. Except, of course, I also wrote a message above the phone, implicating a bunch of Mexicans.”
“What I’m saying is, I have an obligation—”
“Wax, come on. We sat together, side by side, hashing out that story word for word. I didn’t shove it down your throat. You asked me every damn question you wanted and I answered every single one. Now you’re gonna tell me you sat there, played patsy to a bunch of fast-talking cops and not once tried to drive home the fact that Shel’s been dragged off somewhere.”
“Again,” Cohn said, loud this time. “Just a minute, alone, here in the car. Me and you, Dan.”
Abatangelo ignored him. “Wax, do what you’ve got to do, but look at me, you look at me, I swear to God, I … did … not … use you. They did.”
“Now!” Cohn shouted.
Waxman jumped in his seat and, in the same movement, opened the car door to get out. “Of course,” he murmured over his shoulder. “I need to leg all this in to my editor, or we won’t even make deadline for an exclusive.” Glancing one last time at Abatangelo, he left the car and trundled across the parking lot. Taking up position at a phone booth outside the store, he lit a cigarette and dialed, exhaling smoke into the receiver and leaning into the wall, his corduroys bagging at the knees.
Cohn said, “Well, wasn’t that inspirational.”
“Tony—”
“Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that you can fill me in on a lot that’s still missing from the picture. That may prove helpful at some point, but frankly I don’t want to hear it now. The most important thing is, you need to stand clear. The scenario I laid out, the thing about laying all this on the sociopath, this Frank clown, I don’t mean to take the most twisted view possible. Not that there’s a good or better way this thing could’ve gone down. Christ. What I mean is, it’s all hypothetical at this point. And I need to see every way it could have happened, especially since the cops appear keen to pin it on you.”
Abatangelo groaned and started to object but Cohn cut him off again. “No. You listen. I realize the most important thing to you is finding out what happened to your friend. That isn’t my chief concern. My chief concern is you. When this lead detective—I spoke with him, by the way, and Waxman’s right, he’s sharp—when he calls, it’ll be to me, not you. I took care of that much. If they want you for questioning, the two of us go together, period. Given how fast this thing’s spinning out of control, you’re not saying word one without immunity. As for the Bureau of Prisons, if they want to yank you in for a violation—”
“On what grounds?”
“Any fucking thing they want,” Cohn snapped, his eyes catching the light again. “What are you, dense?” He looked away, collecting himself. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”
“Home.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise. You said it yourself, there may be people after you.”
“I’ve got a home, Tony, that’s where I go.” The thought of possible harm to himself seemed inconsequential. Almost inviting. “I’m not hiding from anybody.”
“It’s not just some redneck bam squad I’m worried about,” Cohn said. “I’m trying to work it so, if your probation gets revoked, you can surrender on your own terms. Instead of being taken down at your apartment like a fucking abscond.”
Abatangelo shrugged. “I smell feds at the door, I’ll shag out the back. Won’t be the first time.”
Cohn grimaced and scanned the parking lot. “No,” he said quietly. “That won’t do. You have to listen to me. You do what I say, and only what I say. It’s got to be like that or I pass this on.” He gestured out the window toward Waxman. “You don’t need a lawyer, not a press agent. You sure as hell don’t need the likes of him.”
Waxman, speaking into the phone now, threw his cigarette onto the asphalt, creating a tiny ricochet of ash. He crushed the butt with the toe of his desert boot then chafed his arm to warm himself.
“Wax is all right,” Abatangelo said. And strangely, he meant it. The remark about a scamming knack for bullshit, it stung. “He just needs to be caught up to speed. Stakes are a little higher than he’s used to.”
“I’m advising you,” Cohn said, “not to talk to him.” His voice was surprisingly calm, almost kind, despite the ultimatum.
“Can’t do that,” Abatangelo responded. “As fucked as the situation is right now, I back away, let everybody else tell my story while I just sit there, I’m screwed. I’ve still got Wax’s attention right now. I’m the best source he’s got. That’s leverage, Tony.”
Cohn let loose with a long, slow, dispirited sigh. “I would have thought,” he said, “after what happened tonight in particular, that I would not have to remind you of your deficiencies in the judgment-of-character department. Good God, we’re talking murder one here.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“It’s always bullshit with you,” Cohn barked. The calming kindness was gone. Abatangelo, choosing to ignore that, knocked on the glass to assure Waxman he’d not been forgotten.
“He’ll betray you the first chance he gets,” Cohn said. “From the sounds of it, he already has.”
“Interesting tone you’re taking.”
“I’m not here to make apologies for myself,” Cohn said, “if that’s what you mean.”
Abatangelo turned to look straight at him. “Lucky you.”
After Waxman finished his phone-in, he returned to Cohn’s Lexus and the two men drove away. Abatangelo, left behind, returned to the old Dodge Dart. It felt small around him as he got in. Digging his key from his pocket, he inserted it in the ignition and turned. The engine started at once, and warmed up quickly. He found himself strangely comforted by so minor a thing as that.
He put the car in gear and pulled out onto the Delta Highway, heading west through scant traffic toward home. Gripping the wheel, he listened to the thrum of the motor, the high-pitched whistle of the wind keening in from the side vent. The highway lines on the empty road darted forward in the cross-eyed skew of his headlights. It’s possible, he reminded himself over and over, that she’s all right, alive at least. He could not tell whether that prospect made him feel more committed to finding her, or simply more afraid she was going to suffer. On reflection, given what he’d accomplished so far—or more correctly, what he’d failed to accomplish—one seemed to go with the other.
He spent the rest of the drive in a sullen brood, and by the time he reached North Beach and entered his flat he felt vaguely hopeful at the prospect of unwelcome company. A fight, he thought, that’s what I need. Catharsis. Blood. The place was just as he’d left it, though, empty and untouched. In the kitchen he downed several glasses of ice cold tap water, then set his empty glass in the sink and wandered. When he came upon his tape player—Maria Callas still cued up in the cassette port—he turned it on. With the music as background, he dragged a wooden chair across the cracked linoleum floor to the window and stared out across the bay, watching as dawn crept upward in the eastern sky, bathing the far-off hills in a mad wash of color.
CHAPTER
17
Shel sat upright on a bare mattress laid out on a concrete floor. The room was small and stark, with a low ceiling and whitewashed walls. A rough crucifix the size of a candy box hung on one wall, directly across from the wood plank door that Shel had tried repeatedly to open. Through its rough-hewn slatwork she could smell damp earth and a faint stench of rot. There was a root cellar out there, with a bare dirt floor. She remembered it from when they’d dragged her down here, locked her in.
She sat there on the mattress, back propped against the wall, panting from the effort of tramping back and forth. She’d slammed hersel
f against the door, clawed at the planks, tried to pry them apart. She’d grown weaker by the hour, blaming it on fear, exhaustion and the stew of pills in her system. The pain in her head didn’t help. It throbbed nonstop behind one eye, erupting from time to time in spearing flashes that made her think her eardrums would crack. Her face and hands dripped with sweat that congealed with the mucus and blood she was constantly wiping away. The wounds Frank had inflicted and Danny had nursed were open and raw again. You’re a nasty mess, she thought, trying to wipe her face on her shirt, her hands on the mattress. Don’t let them kill you like this.
Across the room, a tarp lay in a shapeless form, tucked into the corner. She’d found herself staring at it off and on, ever since the Mexicans had locked her inside the room alone. The tarp was filthy, encrusted with smears of paint and oil. The only thing in the room except the mattress and the crucifix, it spooked her. That’s going to be your shroud, she thought. Then claim it, she told herself. Claim it for your own, wrap yourself in the thing and let them find you like that. Let them know you see right through them, you’re scared but not weak. Show them.
She scuttled across the floor, drew the tarp away from the wall and recoiled screaming.
Underneath the tarp, wrapped in clear stiff plastic, lay the naked body of Snuff Akers. His hands and ankles were bound with wire, a wad of filthy cloth jammed deep into his mouth. A bloody scald the size of a tennis ball blackened his temple. His eyes gazed vacantly. A needle and syringe lay with him inside the plastic sheath.
Shel sat there shaking in the middle of the room. Sobs chirped unbidden in her throat and she told herself, You’re losing it, girl. Hang in there.
She heard the sound of an approaching motor, then tires on gravel. Doors opened and closed. Men brayed in Spanish and laughed.
She crawled back to the mattress, wiped her face and pressed her back against the wall. Heavy footfalls resounded on the wood plank steps into the cellar, then softer ones across the flagstones and mud. A key rattled in the door lock.
The first one through the door was the wiry one, with the birthmark, the one who spoke English. In a glance he saw the tarp had been pulled away, Snuff’s body exposed.
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