by Meg Gardiner
Becky’s appliqué T-shirt stretched mightily to cover her beer-barrel torso. It was chartreuse and featured tiny pom-poms and glitter paint. The cover of the photo album was decorated to match. Jesse was next to me, playing hang-man with Travis Hankins. He didn’t look up, but he did smile. I took the pencil from him, drew lines for nine letters, and filled in good sport.
The Shore Patrol officers stopped a man in a Go, Hounds cap, who pointed them toward the playground. They crossed the patio and walked out into the sun. Wally and Abbie were chatting while their girls climbed on the jungle gym.
Becky turned a page. “Ryan’s big for his age. Don’t know if you can tell.”
“He’s beautiful. He looks like . . .”
“Winston Churchill. I know.” She laughed good-naturedly. “So do I.”
The patrolman spoke to Wally. Wally’s face fell, and Abbie grabbed his arm. He walked off the playground with the cop and Shore Patrol officers, head down, pale and grim.
Abbie watched him go, her blond hair swirling in the wind. She caught my eye. Her hand went to her mouth and her shoulders began to shake.
I stood, grabbing Jesse’s arm. He looked up, alarmed.
“Something bad’s going on,” I said.
Five miles out of China Lake I pulled the Mustang off the highway at a truck stop. I couldn’t wait to put two hundred miles between myself and this town, but if I kept driving I would run the tank dry, and there wasn’t another gas station for sixty miles.
Back at the hotel, the parking lot had looked like a scene from a disaster movie, with people throwing luggage in their cars and hightailing it for the hills ahead of an avalanche. People who lived in China Lake, I knew, were stocking up on ammunition or attack dogs.
The wind gusted against the car and the sun burned gold in a shattering blue sky. I filled the tank and grabbed my purse.
“I’ll get drinks.”
Jesse gave me a thumbs-up.
The truck stop was a weary place with a café attached. The screen door griped open for me. Inside, an air conditioner struggled in the window, tassels flopping up and down. Behind the counter, the cook was watching a wrestling match on the TV.
“Getcha something, hon?” she said.
“Two bottled waters and a couple of burgers to go.”
She tossed hamburgers on the grill, and I headed down a creaking hallway to the women’s room. The desolation on Abbie’s face lingered in my mind. Ceci had been murdered in Wally’s dental office; that was all I knew. I leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on my face. Straightening, I looked in the mirror.
A woman stood behind me, watching me over my shoulder.
I froze. I hadn’t seen the door open, hadn’t heard her boots on the groaning floor. She leaned back against the wall and blinked, slowly, like a Siamese cat.
“Go on, finish washing up. Don’t mind me,” she said.
Cold water ran down my face and dripped onto the counter. She grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and handed it to me.
I dried my hands and face. “Hello, Jax.”
“Don’t look so surprised.”
“Then don’t be such a drama queen.”
“Honey, I’m forty-four years old. I’ve lived this long by knowing when to do dramatic things.”
I stared at her in the mirror. The sleeveless black T-SHIRT clung to her frame like high-gloss paint. The fatigue pants left more to the imagination, but there was no mistaking her ballerina’s posture. Diamonds gleamed on her ears and left hand, six carats at least, set off against almond brown skin.
Not many women would walk into a flyblown desert café wearing Caterpillar boots and $50,000 worth of jewelry, but Jax wasn’t like other women. She wasn’t wearing a holster, but I knew she was armed. Not that it mattered. Anybody who messed with her, I thought, she could kill barehanded.
No good could come out of seeing Jakarta Rivera here today.
She stared at me with the detachment of a runway model. Sidling over, she lifted my left hand and looked at my bare ring finger.
“You and your man ever going to tie the knot? The suspense is killing me.”
“Why are you here?”
“I brought a gift to your bridal shower. I expect performance. Heat those cold feet up, honey.”
“Please tell me Tim isn’t out in the car having this same heart-to-heart with Jesse.” I glanced at the door, wondering if she had locked it. “Is this about your dossiers?”
For nine months a fat envelope had lain in my safe-deposit box. It contained documents that convinced me Jax and her husband, Tim North, were who they claimed to be, and had done the things they said they’d done. CIA, British intelligence, and, as they put it, private work. Contract assassination.
“No, this is something else,” she said.
They told me they wanted me to write their memoirs. In fact, they wanted something very different, but, after everything was over, they delivered the envelope to me. I suspected they were using me as a dead drop—a place to park stolen and classified documents that they wanted for self-protection or blackmail. Possessing such documents, I knew, could put all of us in prison, but I couldn’t return them. Jax and Tim had gone into the wind.
But the envelope was also a bargaining chip, for them and for me. I could sell it to their enemies, get them killed, and probably earn myself a hell of a payday. And they could, if they wished, torture me for the key to the safe-deposit box, retrieve the dossiers, and murder me.
Nice little balancing act they’d subjected me to.
“Shall we go out to the counter?” I said. “Catch up on the family, watch wrestling on the TV?”
“You need to talk to your buddy in the China Lake Police Department. Have him contact the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit and get their profilers out here.”
The bathroom smelled of ammonia. My stomach was queasy.
“Shit,” I said. “You think a serial killer committed the murders.”
“Murder doesn’t describe these acts. Try butchery.”
I ran the back of my hand across my forehead. “Two killings in twenty-four hours. You know the police already suspect it’s a serial killer. Why are you here?”
“Because they don’t suspect that the killer is ex-government.”
“Are you telling me you know who this is?”
“Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
She stepped forward. “These murders aren’t the killer’s first. The locals will need federal muscle who can dig into government records and get the information they need.”
The heat was crippling. Sweat was running down my chest.
“What do you mean by government? Navy? Civil service? CIA?” I said.
“A clandestine service. That’s all I know.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Coyote.”
The wind hissed against the walls. “Is that a cover name?”
“Yes. I don’t know his legal name.”
“How do you know that this guy is the killer?”
She blinked, cat-cool. “In select circles, Coyote is a legendary operative. The killings this weekend bear hallmarks of his style.”
The word style had never sounded so hair-raising.
“He hasn’t been heard from in a long time. And if he’s back at work, he’s off the clock. No controllers, no restraints, just his own private blitzkrieg.”
“You’re telling me that a trained killer has gone off the leash and started running amok?”
“I believe so.”
She waited a moment, and when I didn’t mouth off again her voice cooled a few more degrees. “This character’s a chameleon. You know Native American mythology?”
“Vaguely.”
“In tribal folklore Coyote is a trickster. That’s who this guy is. He changes his appearance and behavior to suit the situation.”
“Can you describe him?”
“White, early forties, nondescript. That doesn’t matter. Wha
t’s important is that the police start unearthing this guy’s trail and get on him, asap.”
“They’re on this guy; you know that. Why would they listen to me?”
“The person who disemboweled Kelly Colfax with a carving knife also rammed a dental pick through Ceci Lezak’s eye socket into her brain. Tell that to the police. It will convince them you know what you’re talking about.”
I felt what can only be described as a stabbing pain in the center of my forehead. “How do you know that?”
She gave me a flat stare that said, Don’t be an idiot. I turned to the sink and washed my face again.
“They’ll instantly consider me a suspect,” I said.
“You’re smart. You’ll finesse that.”
“Why do you care about catching this guy?”
“Homicide isn’t a sport. Human beings shouldn’t be taken like game animals.”
“Why don’t you tell the police yourself?”
“I can’t talk to them. Honey, I don’t even exist.”
Jax Rivera, the world’s only invisible drama queen.
“If I call Tommy Chang, I’m not going to hold back. I’ll tell him who gave me this information,” I said.
“You can do that, but when he runs my name through VICAP he won’t come up with anything except an expired Texas driver’s license. But he will alert certain people to my proximity, and they would like to talk to me. On an extreme level. And to reach me, they’ll come to you. On an extreme level.”
She turned toward the door. “You have a webcam for your computer?”
“It isn’t hooked up.” Jesse had been bugging me to set it up, but I suspected he wanted it for entertainment, not communication.
“Hook it up,” she said.
“Jax, why me?”
“Start looking, and you’ll find out.”
I was heading for the café’s screen door when the cook called to me.
“Hon, your burgers.”
I grabbed them, paid, and walked out into the heat. Jesse had his door open and was pulling his gear from the backseat, about to get out.
“I was starting to think a scorpion got you,” he said.
I shoved the sack with the burgers into his hands and stood watching the café, hands on my hips.
He looked up. “You know, PTSD is a bitch. But nothing compared to PMS.”
I gave him the death stare.
He raised his hands. “No, of course that’s not it. And I’ll just be crawling under a rock now.”
A moment later I heard a motorcycle start up. Jax pulled out from behind the café and curved onto the highway. We watched her gun the throttle and accelerate into the distance.
“Is that . . . ?” Jesse said.
“None other.”
“Fuck me. With a flagpole.”
I got out my cell phone and called Tommy Chang.
The China Lake Police Department occupied a sleek glass-and-steel building in the Civic Center complex. The atmosphere in the station was crackling. Jesse and I waited at Tommy’s desk. His porkpie hat and an empty holster hung on a coatrack. Jesse gazed at framed photos of Tommy’s five kids, and one of Tommy on a dirt bike, catching huge air. Outside was a white-and-red news van painted with the call letters of a Los Angeles television station. A cameraman was leaning against the back, sipping a Coke, talking to the reporter.
Tommy walked up, accompanied by his boss.
I stood and held out my hand. “Detective McCracken.”
He was a walking side of beef, wearing scratched old eyeglasses. His red hair needed a good cut. His size made Tommy look like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
He shook. “It’s Captain nowadays. How’s that little nephew of yours?”
I told him Luke was great, noticing that he didn’t ask about my brother. McCracken and Brian nettled each other. But then McCracken had, at different times, placed both Brian and me under arrest, which we Delaneys find nettlesome.
He leaned against the edge of the desk. The metal creaked under his weight.
“Tell us more about this former government employee who provided the information about the murders,” he said.
Jax may have overhyped the warning about giving her name to the police, but I knew that if I said the phrases CIA or undercover operative, I would get laughed out of the station, put on an antiterrorist watch list, or both. I put on my legal journalist’s hat.
“This is a source. They’ve provided me with background for several stories I’ve written. That series on cybercrime, the criminal ring that infiltrated IT companies out on the coast.”
“What’s his name?” McCracken said.
Thank you, bad grammar. “That’s confidential.”
He scratched his nose and huffed out a breath. “Nothing’s ever simple with you, is it?”
Tommy sat down behind the desk. “I know your source wants to stay anonymous. But this is a murder investigation.”
“I’ll give you any other information I have. But not the name.”
“Are you playing games?” McCracken said.
“No, sir.”
“We’re getting pounded with media attention over this. Local newspaper and radio. That Los Angeles TV news van outside with the dish antenna on top. And CNN’s calling. It’s going to be a circus.” He stood up. “So what’s your angle? Is this an ego trip? You want a scoop?”
Jesse rubbed his palm along his leg, which he did when he was tense. Keeping quiet went against his grain, but this line drive was mine to field.
“No,” I said. “I’m simply passing along the information.”
“Then give us the damn information. You tell us we have a killer nicknamed Coyote, but you won’t help us contact the source who might give us something helpful.”
“That’s all I know. If I learn more, I’ll tell you.”
He shucked his slacks up by the belt, jiggling them over his belly. “Fine. But expect a visit from the Bureau.” He eyed Tommy. “Call the resident agent in Bakersfield. I’ll phone Los Angeles. Behavioral analysis and the serial murder group have units there.” He walked away shaking his head. “Shit on a biscuit.”
Tommy rubbed his eyes. “You’d never know it, but he’s actually an engaging guy.”
“Tommy, I’m not trying to pull something. This information came at me like a broomstick being jammed into my spokes.”
“I believe you. But this is all so . . .” He looked up, frayed.
All so grisly, barbaric, and overwhelming. And on his shoulders.
“You okay?” I said.
He gave a tight nod.
Jesse put a hand on the desk. “What worries me? Those other names on the memorial board.”
Tommy looked at him, saying nothing. Outside a fighter jet curved into view and blinked past, trailing thunder.
“And so you know,” Jesse said, “I have a Glock nine at home, and I keep it loaded. But since it’s two hundred miles away, I’m going to tell Evan to put her foot to the floor and not pull over for anything, even a Highway Patrol car with Jesus Christ behind the wheel. You okay with that?”
“Don’t get stopped,” Tommy said. “I’ve got no pull with Jesus.”
I stood up. “Don’t worry. Nothing can keep me from getting out of this town.’
5
The sun was dropping into the Pacific when I rounded the bend and we got our first glimpse of home. The ocean flared gold, as if it were an offering poured out below the peaks of the Santa Ynez Mountains. The view never fails to thrill me. I wouldn’t leave Santa Barbara for ten million bucks.
I dropped Jesse at his house on the beach. By the time I pulled onto my own street the sky had deepened to cobalt and stars were winking in the east. The live oaks and white oleander shimmered in the dusk. Near the corner, neighborhood kids were playing baseball. I pulled up in front of my place and my headlights caught the red Mazda convertible parked in the driveway.
For a second I sat idling the engine, my hand on the gearshift. I had a V-8 under the hood
. I could be blazing up the street in a quarter of a second.
The Mazda convertible was empty. Shit on a Southern-fried biscuit. That meant my cousin Taylor was already inside my house.
I killed the engine, grabbed my things, and got out. Pushing through the garden gate, I stalked along the flagstone path toward my door. Across the lawn at my neighbors’, the lights were off. Crud. Nikki and Carl Vincent could have helped me drive Taylor off. My little house was lit up like the Moulin Rouge. I heard the stereo blasting country music. Bad country. My-dog-died bad. Donny and Marie bad. The ivy on the fence was starting to curl.
I threw open the French doors, walked in, and dropped my bags on the hardwood floor. Under the force of the music my shoelaces began untying. In the kitchen the refrigerator door was open. Sticking out behind it was my cousin’s rear end. Her jeans were black-and-white cattle-print with a heart branded on the butt.
“Taylor.” Nothing. “Taylor Boggs.”
I walked to the stereo. Saw the CD case. Backseats and Backstreets: The World’s Best Cheatin’ Songs. I turned it off.
Taylor pulled her face out of the fridge. A chicken leg protruded from her mouth. Her eyes went as round as pie and she pulled the drumstick from between her lips.
“Sweetie,” she said.
“How did you get in?”
Her eyes were the color of grape jam. Her T-shirt said, Makin’ Hole. And beneath that, Carnahan Drilling—we go all the way down. She skipped toward me, arms outstretched.
“Where y’all been all weekend?”
All weekend—oh, God. How long had she been here? I glanced around.
She clenched me in a hug. “What is going on with your hair? I like this longer length, but it needs some height.” She fussed with my toffee-colored locks. “My gal at the salon can fix you up.”
Her blond mane was hair-sprayed to the size of a tumbleweed. I shooed her hands away from my head.
“I figure you took a house key the last time you were here,” I said. “What I want to know is how you got my alarm code.”
“Don’t be silly. I came by when the workmen were here, and told them I’d lock up.”
I ground my teeth. I was having the bathroom remodeled: new shower, sink, mirrors, window, paint, and tile. I wanted to eradicate the memory of being attacked in there by a homicidal rock singer. Also, I’d shot the old shower to hell. I needed to tell Mr. Martinez and his sons that Taylor was persona non grata. Let her in and she spread over the house like light sweet crude.