by Chris Rogers
“By the way—” Belle plucked a sheet of paper from her in-box. “You were right about the publisher of those first cards. Only a handful of stores carry the label, all in the San Diego and Los Angeles area, including a store in North Hollywood.”
“Convenient. I hope somebody’s talking to that store owner.”
Belle nodded. “Discreetly.”
“Right. So, what do we tell Joanna?”
“Nothing, for now. Trust me, Sarina was right about the way she’d take it. I’ve seen Joanna go ballistic with much less provocation than this.”
“Weird out, Sarina would say.”
“That’s a fairly apt description.” Belle opened a narrow closet and slipped her suit jacket off a hanger.
The image of a woman weirding out reminded Dixie of something that had haunted her since the evening news.
“Ric, did you hear about the Carrera case?”
“What about it?”
“Brenda worked on that for a while. I’m wondering how she’s taking it.”
“It was never much of a case, Flannigan. The DA’s staff couldn’t put together enough hard evidence against the mother. They had to drop it. And the civil case wasn’t Brenda’s concern.”
“Have you ever known Brenda not to be concerned when a case she cares about goes south?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I don’t know…” The hell of it was, she didn’t know what she was getting at, only that she had a hunch Brenda was stressed to the max lately. Dixie had learned long ago to heed her hunches.
“Keep your nose glued to the right case, Flannigan. The Carrera woman’s disappearance—”
“Disappearance?”
“What have we been talking about?”
“You tell me. I was talking about Patricia Carrera winning custody of her son, and worrying how another failure might affect Brenda.”
“Then you missed the latest.” Belle shrugged into her designer jacket. “Carrera was scheduled to pick up the boy from his grandparents last night, but she never showed. No one has seen her since she drove away from her house a winner.”
Dixie flashed on another winner, Lawrence Riley Coombs, found raped and beaten in Memorial Park hours after he threatened Brenda Benson. Memories of her final weeks as ADA, and her own frequent bouts with rage and confusion, blipped through Dixie’s mind like strobe lights. Every time a smug felon walked away free, Dixie saw the blind lady of justice corroding a bit.
She prayed she was wrong about ADA Brenda Benson, but her hunch indicator was shooting off the scale.
Chapter Twenty-five
Lawrence Coombs adjusted the seat in his Jaguar so he could watch the red Porsche Targa sitting across the parking garage from him. He sipped a cup of hot coffee. His mouth was no longer tender but ugly and misshapen from the stitches. Every time he looked in a mirror, he thought about the bitch who ruined his face and what he was going to do once the trial was behind him. The bounty hunter must have been pissing scared to bring her ADA friend and come after him. He appreciated their nerve, but Dixie Flannigan and friend were going to wish they’d never been born.
The anticipation filled him with energy, made his whole body hum like locusts in a balmy twilight. When the humming reached its extreme ecstasy, he would know what to do. Didn’t want to rush it.
Now look at the bonus he’d won with his patience. Pretty Sarina Page, daughter of the hot-shit actress.
Traffic sounds filtered through his closed window. The morning had turned crisp. He’d wanted to linger in bed, but the bounty hunter’s day started before sunup, so now his did, too. This time, he’d orchestrate the moment perfectly. Plan his moves. Take Dixie and her sweet sidekick to some quiet location, where there’d be no interruptions from nosey, loud-mouthed reporters. No cops. Just the three of them and all the time in the world to enjoy one another’s company.
Lawrence watched the two women now, exiting the sky-walk from the Transco office building, talking as they walked. He envisioned their smiling faces tight with pain.
As they climbed into the Porsche, Lawrence started the Jaguar’s engine, his body humming exquisitely.
Chapter Twenty-six
“I missed breakfast,” Sarina grumbled, leaning against the red brick beside Brenda’s front door as Dixie rang the bell.
“So did I. We’ll only be here a few minutes. Then we’ll eat.”
She’d decided to ask Brenda outright if she knew anything about Carrera’s disappearance. Lots of parents who battered their children were getting help one way or another, trying to work out their problems. Maybe Carrera, in a sudden flash of conscience, had decided her son was better off with his grandparents, and decided to simply get in her car and keep driving. No reason to think Carrera’s disappearance was in any way connected with the attack on Coombs. But Dixie knew she’d never shake that haunting feeling until she heard Brenda’s take on it.
It was Gail—a younger, taller, darker version of her sister—who answered the door. The separation of nearly a decade showed most in the sisters’ personalities. Brenda was work-driven, determined to make a difference. Gail’s interests were more political, fast-lane, high-rolling. She dated a young Texas senator who had aspirations for the governorship.
“Well, hey, Dixie!” Gail had her sister’s whiskey voice. “Brenda’s already gone. Was she expecting you?” Her gaze flitted from Dixie to Sarina.
“Actually, it was you I wanted to talk to.” Not true, but not a bad idea. “You have a minute?”
“Sure, a minute, if you don’t mind talking while I dress. We’re putting together mailers today for the primaries.”
She opened the door wide, and Dixie introduced Sarina as they entered the modest but attractive home.
“Smells like banana bread in here,” Sarina commented, a hopeful note in her voice.
“Fresh from the bakery. Would you like some? I made hot chocolate to go with it.”
Sarina glanced at Dixie, then at the portable television above the breakfast bar. “If it’s no trouble.”
With Sarina happily engaged in her two favorite activities, eating and channel surfing, Gail led Dixie through the family room, filled with enough potted plants to start a nursery, to her bedroom, all chintz, ruffles, and girlie gizmos. The only unplanned clutter was a tray of makeup on the dresser and the closet door hanging open. After pulling out a green slacks suit and a white blouse, Gail shut the closet door.
“What’s up? I’ve lived with Brenda two years and you’ve been here maybe ten times, never at eight-thirty in the morning.”
“I’m worried about her. She’s lost some important cases lately, and I think she’s taking it hard.”
“Brenda doesn’t like losing any better than I do.” Gail slid the green pants on under her robe.
“Has she said anything to you about quitting?”
“Leaving the DA’s staff? No way.”
Maybe Brenda didn’t confide in her little sister. “Has she seemed distracted lately? Upset about anything?”
Gail turned her back, tossed off her robe, and slipped into a bra, snapping it in front. “Brenda’s always distracted. Always buried in a case.”
Was Gail being evasive, or had she really not noticed anything unusual? “Did she talk to you about the Lawrence Coombs case?”
“That sicko was all she talked about for weeks.” Gail eased the white silk blouse over her shoulders and turned around to button it, smiling. “After what the Avenging Angels did to him later, Bren didn’t seem as upset about losing. Maybe the court should take a lesson—let the victim decide the punishment, put a real quick stop to crime.”
Victim? “What makes you think it was Regan Salles?”
“Regan wasn’t the only woman he messed up.” She scooped the makeup tray off the dresser and headed for the bathroom.
Dixie followed, pausing to inch open the door to Brenda’s bedroom as they passed it. Clothes littered the chairs, but the bed was made.
She
watched from the hallway as Gail applied black mascara to her blond lashes.
“Actually, I’m surprised Brenda’s gone already.” The prosecutor was usually a late sleeper.
Gail leaned close to the mirror, separating the thickly coated lashes with a straight pin. “I didn’t even see her this morning. She was gone before I got up.”
Interesting.
“Did she mention the Carrera case? You remember the boy, Paulie, his mother liked to lock him up, punish him?”
“I remember. Brenda had to drop that case.” She blinked at the mirror, then added another layer of mascara. “Why do you ask?”
Dixie wondered if her lashes felt heavy with all that goop on them. “The grandparents filed a civil suit. Looks like Carrera beat that one, too. Only she never picked her son up from his grandparents, and now Carrera’s disappeared.”
Driving over, Dixie had bought a newspaper and had read the brief article at stoplights. As ordered by the judge, Paulie Carrera’s grandparents had readied the boy and his belongings to be transported home. When Patricia didn’t show by nine o’clock, and didn’t phone with an explanation, they called their lawyer, who alerted the police. Checking Carrera’s home, the police found nothing out of the ordinary. She hadn’t been missing long enough to start a full-scale investigation.
Gail glanced at Dixie in the mirror. “Well, hey. Good damn riddance. As long as the kid’s okay, Carrera can drop dead.” She carefully outlined her lips with a bright red pencil, painting just outside the lip line, making them look full and sexy. Dixie watched, fascinated, as she filled in the pencil line with red lipstick, blotted it, powdered over it, then reapplied everything, adding a spot of lighter color in the center of the lower lip.
Deciding to come clean with what worried her, Dixie said, “Think Brenda might have anything to do with Carrera disappearing?”
“You mean like wrapping her in chains and throwing her off the Galveston bridge?” Gail picked up a wide-toothed comb and fluffed her hair, pulling a few casual wisps over her ears.
“When I was sixteen, I talked Mom into letting me have a cat. One weekend Brenda came home from college, and Mom had gone on one of her weekend getaways. I’d gone home with a friend from school, and we’d forgotten to leave the cat any food or fresh water. Brenda embarrassed me in front of my friend’s parents, dragged me to the store, where she bought a whole case of cat food, then home, where she made me clean the bowl and fill it with that smelly fish paste. I had to pay Brenda back for the cat food by doing her laundry and washing her car every weekend she came home—at twenty-five cents an hour. The cat ran away a week later, but I was still paying Brenda back for months.”
She dabbed a scented cream on her wrists. “If Brenda thought Carrera would hurt that kid … well … she might do whatever she thought necessary to stop it.” She pushed the makeup into a drawer, tossed a towel into a hamper, and snapped off the bathroom light. “Hate to hurry you along, but I gotta get downtown.”
On their way out the door, Dixie said, “After college, I lost track of Brenda, until four years ago, when she applied for a position as ADA. I know she was living out of state, and wasn’t working in any legal capacity, but—”
“You didn’t know she was married?” Gail frowned. “I’m not surprised—she won’t even talk to me about it.”
“How long was she married?”
“A few years, I suppose. Ask her.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Patricia Carrera stood alone in the dark, her bladder so full she feared it might burst, and listened to the scrabbles and squeaks draw closer. How long did her jailers plan to leave her here?
Suppose they decided not to return at all?
Trying to escape had gotten her nowhere, although she had finally freed her hands, wrenching and pulling until the tape stretched, thinned, and developed a tiny tear. She worked the tear until it separated. Then she struggled furiously with the chain holding her to the slimy wall, bracing her feet and yanking with all her strength. To no avail. Following the chain to its connection, she found a metal eyelet in the plaster and tried to pry the chain loose with her fingers. When that didn’t work, she tried to break the lock that fastened the leather collar around her neck, digging her fingernails under the leather surrounding the lock.
Now her hands were torn and bloody, and she was exhausted. Yet nothing had changed. The chain still imprisoned her to the wall. She could not sit or lie down unless she was willing to have the collar choke the life out of her. Anyway, she’d rather die standing than sit on that filthy floor.
At first she’d heard the rustling and squeaking only around the walls, but after a while the mice—or rats?—had ventured nearer, until she felt one of them nip at her shoe. Darting away without thinking, she nearly snapped her neck. Now she remained as far from the walls as she could get, in this one spot for what seemed like forever, so tired she could barely stand up. Twice she’d nodded off, only to be jerked awake by the collar as she sagged against it.
She had to concentrate on keeping her muscles contracted so as not to lose the water from her bladder. No matter what else happened, she would not lose her water, would not squat like an animal, her own urine splashing up at her from the filthy concrete floor. That was too disgusting to think about.
Her jailers would have to return soon, demanding she sign their stupid papers. She would agree—but only if they let her out of this room first, gave her water to drink and the use of a bathroom to … wash up. Then she’d tell them to stuff it!
They couldn’t force her to sign. What could they do, other than kill her? She’d never been afraid of dying, and she refused to believe she was going to die now.
They wouldn’t leave her here indefinitely, would they?
She’d always gone back for Paulie.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“Belle said you were a lawyer” Sarina said quietly when they were back in the Porsche. She sat fiddling with a mechanical device of some sort.
“Yep.” Dixie entered rush-hour traffic on Interstate 59, squeezing between a Ford van and a big-assed 1968 Cadillac that rattled like it was about to fall apart. If she remembered right, Brenda had a case on the docket later this morning. A midmorning break would be just right to pull her aside for a firm-but-friendly chat.
“All those years in law school,” Sarina said, “and you just quit?” The gadget in her lap made a pounding sound, like a judge’s gavel.
Dixie glanced at the kid. Sarina wasn’t the first to ask that question. It wasn’t easy to answer.
“I spent a lot of time learning a lot of other things, and I’m not putting those to good use, either. The law is still there. I still know how to use it. Right now I’m … a bit burned out.” To put it mildly.
“Like Dad.” She punched a button and the gadget elicited a groan. “He can’t get the juicy parts anymore, so he grunges out, fishing, golfing.”
Dixie cut in front of a truck, reminding herself smugly that she hadn’t quit at the bottom of her career, but at the top. “A few years of grunging out can be useful in rearranging priorities.”
“But you could still practice law, you said, right? Remember that boy who sued his parents for divorce—?”
“A kid can’t divorce his parents.”
“Okay, maybe it was a boy in a film, but suppose a kid wanted to make her parents send her to a certain college, instead of someplace lame, like Harvard?”
“Is this kid anyone we know?” Dixie slid the Targa over a lane, to pass a Greyhound bus. She hated riding behind diesel fumes. “Like you, perhaps?”
“Could I do that? You’re a lawyer—”
“Criminal, not civil law, but never mind that. In Texas, Sarina, you’ll be just as much an adult at seventeen as your parents. You can live on your own. You can go to any school that will have you, as long as you can pay the tuition. You can get a job, pay taxes, get married, drive a car, do anything any other adult can do.”
“Me pay tuition? Aren’t
parents responsible for that?”
“Your parents’ responsibility ends when you become an adult.”
The thing in Sarina’s lap boomed to life: “Objection, your honor!” The male voice, with exactly the right amount of sarcasm, sounded familiar.
Dixie slid a glance at Sarina. “What was that?”
“Sam Waterston. Law and Order.”
“You just happen to have a recording of Law and Order?”
“Only the best parts. I record sounds, then copy to my hard drive for manipulation, and save them to my Datman.” She shoved the sound player into the deep pocket of her poncho and scooped up Dixie’s morning newspaper.
Dixie took the Houston Avenue exit into town, glad to drop the conversation. Her adoptive parents had spent plenty sending her to law school, even with scholarships. The day she brought home her license, framed in mahogany and gold leaf, Barney’s face had glowed with pride.
“This is incredible.” Sarina’s voice came from behind the Amusements section. “Star Voyager starts tomorrow.” She folded the paper in quarters, the movie ads prominent. “There’s a special sneak preview today at six.”
“I didn’t notice movies on your mother’s list of approved sightseeing attractions.”
Sarina poked her head up long enough to pull a face. “Same director and effects team that worked on Star Exile. Which, in case you don’t remember, had only the best new effects since Close Encounters of the Third Kind”
“I saw Close Encounters.” Dixie had loved it, sitting on the edge of her seat, shoveling popcorn, practically alone in the theater, having caught a midday showing. She couldn’t convince any of her friends to join her. But that was years ago. “Never heard of Star Exile. Was it recent?”
“Last year.”
“Must’ve been obscure. I catch all the SF movies.”