Moon Music

by Faye Kellerman

  Jensen took Poe's coffee cup, drank it down to the bottom. "No hard feelings, Rom?"

  Poe rolled his eyes. "Get me some coffee!"

  Jensen sighed. "It's gonna be one of those weeks." He poured water into the machine.

  "Stop feeling sorry for yourself," Poe said. "At least your mother wasn't arrested."

  "I'll take an arrested mother over a crazy wife." Jensen felt clubbed and winded. "God, Poe…we're a sorry lot."

  "Speak for yourself!"

  Patricia looked out the rear window. "Herrod and Marine Martin just pulled into the parking lot. We'd better look neat and efficient."

  "Fuck it," Poe said. "I outrank both of them."

  Jensen said, "Go easy on Herrod, Poe. He just became a grandfather."

  Poe paused. "Isn't that a good thing?"

  Jensen said, "Not when you still think you're twenty."

  "He's major-league depressed," Patricia added.

  Poe frowned. "What's this world coming to when you're upset about becoming a grandparent?"

  Patricia said, "It's this city, sir. It does strange things to your head."

  Picking up his phone line, he said, "Poe."

  "I got news."

  Jensen sounded excited. Poe told him to hold on while he got out his notebook. Then he said, "Shoot."

  "I got prints from the bodies, ran them through the National Print Register. You ain't going to believe this. I actually got some positives."

  "Good going."

  "First, our skulless man is…or was…Williams."

  "And the girl?"

  "Katerina Barns. Eighteen. She worked as a prostitute up in Elko for around three, four months, then disappeared. During the interim, she must have hooked up with Williams. Anyway, she was arrested in Vegas for crack possession a month ago. Spent a week in jail and then was released due to lack of space."

  Poe was writing furiously. "You did good."

  "I ain't nearly done." Jensen was breathless. "Get this, Rom. There was also another white teen female with them in the van. Highway patrol postulated that she was sitting in the back without a seat belt, was pitched from the van upon impact with the center divider, was thrown clear across the westbound highway, and landed about twenty feet off the right shoulder. Man, talk about bad luck. The van wound up landing on top of her, crushing her like an olive press—"

  "Jesus."

  "Yeah, it was bad. But it gets worse. Now when is an accident not an accident?"

  "Go on."

  "Nothing official yet, because the investigation isn't complete, but a little bird told me that the van had been monkeyed with."

  Poe sat up at his desk. "Really!"

  "Something about the bushings in the upper arm control. You know anything about cars?"

  "Enough to know that the control arm has to do with the steering box."

  "They haven't even gone over the brakes yet. And that's not all. Are you ready for this?"

  "I'm taking it all down."

  "Williams had money on him. Twenty grand in hundreds, Rom. Two neat little bundles of ten grand each, wrapped up with a hundreds band. Crisp, new bills—"

  "Counterfeit?"

  "No, the real thing. Just fresh from the bank."

  "Can we trace it?"

  "Maybe."

  "Good job. Stick around, see if you can find out more about the car. I'll page if I need you. Keep in touch."

  "Will do."

  Poe hung up, collected his thoughts as he bounced his knee up and down.

  Okay, what do we have, what do we have?

  Basics: It appeared that A.A. had packed up and was heading west, probably to set up shop in L.A. He had two girls with him and a shitload of money.

  Where'd he get the money?

  That was easy. Crack dealers made thousands a day. Not hard to believe he could have collected twenty grand in a short time given that he was dealing plus he had at least three girls hooking for him.

  The miracle was that he had actually kept some of the bread. Dealers were notorious squanderers, couldn't keep a dime to save their souls. That A.A. had actually amassed twenty gees in crisp one-hundred-dollar bills…that didn't sit well, especially since he lived in a pisshole of an apartment. The money smelled of payoff.

  Combine a payoff with a car that had been worked over, one could draw an interesting conclusion: that Williams had known something bad. That he had been fleeing because something was rotten in the state of Nevada.

  NINETEEN

  AFTER ENTERING the data into the computer, Poe examined his notes. The cases: Brittany Newel—twenty-three-year-old desert drop, raked and gouged, with a missing eye. Heavily sedated when murdered. Former dancer who hooked for Williams, and, according to her ex-boyfriend, had a relationship with Parker Lewiston. A drug user. The scraping under her fingernails had shown white skin cells, dirt, and no grass.

  Kid Jane Doe—a teenager, probably not more than fourteen, fifteen. Desert drop who died by asphyxiation, but also had her throat slashed. Hooked and flagged for Williams and addicted to crack. Her nail scraping showed white skin, dirt, sand, and grass. Her eyes had been intact when the body had been found.

  Katerina Barns—the eighteen-year-old who died along with A. A. Williams in a suspicious car crash. She had worked as a hooker in Elko. She had also been one of Williams's girls. She also had an arrest record.

  Lydia Townsend—the seventeen-year-old who was crushed by the van. Presumably she had also worked for Williams.

  Patricia looked over Poe's shoulder to the monitor. "Too bad Williams got himself scalped. He was the common thread."

  Poe rubbed his aching forehead. "The two desert drops had Caucasian skin under their nails."

  "It could mean that they didn't scratch Williams when he killed them."

  "I've got another postulation. Williams brokered the two girls out to a sadistic white john. First, he gave away Brittany. Sadistic White John killed her, but kept Williams quiet with twenty gees in crisp bills. The second time White John did his stuff, Williams got nervous. The john was out of control. Williams decided to take his crew and split. This agitated White John, because Williams knew too much. So White John booby-trapped his car."

  "And your candidate for White John is Lewiston."

  "Why not? He's got lots of grass in his office."

  "Sir, Brittany Newel didn't have grass under her nails. Besides, tampering with a car is not a practical way to kill. Lewiston isn't a man who'd leave things up to chance."

  She was right.

  Patricia said, "But I like your theory, sir. It explains everything." She waited a beat. "Well, I've got a bit of news. A possible identification for Kid Jane Doe. She's a runaway from Nebraska. They're sending over dental records."

  Poe nodded. "Are there parents?"

  "There's a mother. She's a secretary for a major farming equipment manufacturer. She's worked there for thirty years. She was very broken up when I told her the news. She told me her daughter had been out of control. Then she started doing the mea culpas. It was hard to hear. Her grief sounded so genuine."

  "I'm sure it was."

  "Her daughter's name is or was Sarah Yarlborough."

  Poe shook his head. "She didn't look like a Sarah to me. Maybe a Heather or an Amber…not a Sarah."

  Marine Martin looked up, saw Poe conferring with Fat Patty. He stood up, brushed off his perfectly creased khaki pants and starched white shirt, then picked up a folder from his desk. He marched over to Poe. "For you. From Jensen."

  Poe took the envelope from Martin. "How's it going?"

  Stiffly, Martin answered, "Any break in the cases?"

  "Nothing yet."

  "Keep going. Perseverance. Name of the game."

  Poe saluted. Martin marched back to his desk, which was buried under and pasted with Marine paraphernalia—badges, posters, slogans.

  What this country needs is a few good men.

  No, what this country needed was a lot fewer bad guys.

  Poe broke
open the seal on the envelope, flipped through the pages. Highway Patrol Accident Report. Preliminary finding on the van. Way to go, Jensen. To Patricia, he said, "Where is Stevie?"

  "It's past five, sir. I believe he went home."

  "Past five?" Poe looked at the wall clock. Where did the day go? Though he was glad it was gone. The week had been a scorcher. Hell had chosen to turn up the thermostat early this year. He said, "I've got to meet Rukmani." He stuffed the accident report in a briefcase. "I'm forgetting something."

  "What?"

  Poe looked at his monitor and remembered. No time. He turned off his computer. "Remind me to add Janet Doward's name to my list."

  "Who's she?"

  "Victim of a murder case that's been plaguing me for twentyfive years."

  "What does she have to do with our murders?"

  "Maybe something, probably nothing."

  Walking out of the Hayward Convalescent Home, Rukmani wiped sweat from her forehead, smoothed out her pink-and-gold silk sari, then put on her sunglasses. The week had turned blisteringly hot—unusual for May, but not unheard-of. "So what did you think?"

  Poe shrugged.

  Rukmani remained positive. "I liked Karen. She was friendly, warm…pretty, too. Not that your mother will care." She elbowed him playfully. "But why not have someone who's pleasant on the eyes?"

  Poe didn't answer—quiet and sullen. She knew his recent cases weren't going well. Compulsive that he was, he kept going over details, concentrating on minutiae, hoping something might materialize. But sometimes it just ain't there.

  She said, "You must have garnered some kind of an opinion."

  Poe said, "She's a flake."

  "A flake? Poe, she's been working as a geriatric nurse for over four years."

  "She's too young."

  "She's twenty-nine."

  "She's had breast implants."

  Rukmani stopped walking. "What does that have to do with anything?"

  Poe brushed hair out of his eyes. He rolled up his sleeves, feeling limp from the sudden, oppressive heat. The sun was baking the sidewalk, turning the concrete into clay cookware. He could feel fire through his shoes. "Women with breast implants don't take their work seriously."

  Rukmani took off her sunglasses, squinted at him. "What kind of cockamamie conclusion is that?"

  "It's true." Poe started toward the car.

  She slid her glasses back on, said, "What's the real problem, Rom? Afraid you'll get distracted?"

  Poe picked up his pace.

  Rukmani had to jog to keep up with him. "You're full of piss and vinegar today. Why don't you go out and get yourself a nice blow job?"

  Poe stopped short in front of his newly repaired Honda, jamming the key into the lock and throwing open his door. He hunkered down into the driver's seat, unlocked the passenger door from the inside, then turned on the air conditioner full blast.

  Rukmani slid in, turning the vent toward her face. "You've got a 'tude. Just take me home."

  "I have every intention of doing just that."

  "You know, Romulus, I'm happy to give you help. But you might try acting a tiny bit appreciative—"

  "Why do you mention blow jobs every time I get upset? Like all of my problems could be solved by one good round of head."

  "It's worked in the past." She exhaled. "It was meant tonguein-cheek. Besides, this has nothing to do with blow jobs. It has everything to do with you taking responsibility for your mother. I know you haven't had it easy, Poe, but you're not the only Hardluck Harry around. It wouldn't hurt you to act decent—"

  "You have complaints?"

  "Maybe a gripe or two."

  "Then here's what you do, Doctor. You write them all down and send them to me with a SASE. I'll get back to you."

  Rukmani bit her lip, then said, "Are you trying to tell me something?"

  Poe tapped the wheel and didn't answer.

  Rukmani said, "Well, at least Alison'll be happy. She'll get her errand boy back!"

  Poe jerked the car over curbside, shut the motor, and flipped Rukmani the keys. "You take the car. I'll walk."

  Quickly, Rukmani grabbed his arm. "C'mon. I'm tense…so are you. This isn't right."

  Poe hadn't moved. He was still halfway out of the car.

  Rukmani tried to hide her trembling voice. "It's hot outside. Please."

  Poe came back in, shut the door, eyes focused on the car's ceiling. Rukmani put the key in the ignition to turn on the air conditioner. Neither one spoke.

  Finally, Poe said, "I'm tired, I'm grumpy, and I have a headache. Let's call it a day."

  Rukmani nodded. "Fine."

  He started the car. They rode in silence, which drove

  Rukmani crazy. She needed conversation. Talk about work. It was neutral ground. "Patricia called me. She said she found out Teen Jane Doe's identity."

  "A possibility. Sarah Yarlborough—a fifteen-year-old runaway from Nebraska."

  "A young life ended in such a cruel way! What a shame!"

  "Somebody'll be sending you the dental records."

  "Okay. That'll work."

  More silence.

  Rukmani tried once again. "I should be getting blood and gas reports back any day now. Sorry it's taking so long. But it has to be done right to be meaningful."

  "Of course."

  Again no one spoke. At that point, she gave up. Poe drove to her apartment, parked the car at the curb. To Rukmani's surprise, he got out and opened her door.

  He said, "I'll walk you up."

  Her first impulse was to say, "Not necessary." But she nodded instead. She fumbled for her key, then finally inserted it into the lock, looking plaintively into his eyes. "Come in, Rom. I'll make you some spicy Masala iced tea from Bengal."

  Poe hesitated, then walked in, sinking into her pillowed couch. The room had been cooled by an air conditioner that droned more than it hummed. But her place was always full of light, pleasant and immaculately clean. She lived in a two-bedroom apartment filled with pastel colors—a pink-and-green-print couch, rose velvet chairs, ivory carpeting. The legs and frames of her coffee and end tables were dark mahogany intricately carved in the filigree patterns that typified Indian woodcarving. A carved ivory top was set into the coffee table, protected by panes of glass. The dining area was an open space off the living room and held a simple stone table with four chairs. The kitchen was diminutive but tidy, the cabinets finished in sparkling white lacquer. Poe stared at the pictures on her wall—multilimbed Indian gods and goddesses—as well as a couple of photographs of some rajah's palace. Several gilt animal/human statues had been placed between the medical tomes on her bookshelves.

  Rukmani took off her glasses and said, "Tea'll just take a moment. Is it cool enough for you?"

  "The temperature is fine. I'm not really thirsty right now. Have a seat."

  Rukmani sat. "This sounds ominous."

  "Not at all." Gently, he said, "It's been a hard week. I'm not making much headway on my cases, and my neurotic brother has been driving me crazy. I'm sorry if I've upset you."

  "Likewise."

  "In the future, however, I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention the words 'Alison' and 'errand boy' in the same sentence."

  "That was nasty of me. I'm sorry." A beat. "I just wish she'd—" Cut your losses, Ruki. "Never mind."

  Poe tried to keep his voice even. "I know you think she's jerking my chain. And maybe you're right. But she's an old friend, Ruki. Her husband is a ninny without a clue. I can't desert her, because she has no one else. Her problems are usually cyclical. You'll see. She'll calm down."

  "Yeah, when we stop seeing each other, I'm sure she'll be wonderful." Rukmani suddenly stood. "I'm getting tea for myself. Are you sure you don't want any?"

  Slowly, Poe rose. Strolling over, slipping his arms around her waist. He pressed her back into his chest and said, "If Alison becomes a problem, she's history."

  She turned to face him. "She already is a problem." A sigh. "Look, I understand the
magnetic pull that the past can have. I'm not asking you to choose. Besides, your business is your business. If I don't want you meddling in my affairs, I shouldn't meddle in yours."

  Poe dropped his hold on Rukmani. "I've got to go."

  Again, Rukmani held his arm. "Why are you so pissed off? What do you want from me?"