by Thomas Perry
As Lydia looked at the pictures, she noticed that she was feeling sleepy. If she had known she would be doing this, she would not have had wine with dinner at the hotel. When Mark’s time was up, the pictures ended. There were none that seemed to have been taken after that. She selected the photographs she wanted and put the rest back.
She kept searching the apartment patiently and carefully, but increased her pace. When she ran out of shoeboxes she stood on a chair to be sure she had found everything on the upper shelf. She looked under the frame of the futon, in the cupboards of the little kitchen. All she found confirmed the sparse and frugal tone of the place: a set of four plates, a set of four glasses, a set of four coffee cups and saucers. There were no more papers.
Lydia took a final look around her with her flashlight, wishing she had brought Bobby Mallon with her to see this place. Maybe he would have understood the girl better. Catherine had prepared everything she was leaving behind, absolutely certain that the next visitors would arrive after she was dead. By the time Bobby Mallon had seen her, there was nothing he could have done that would have changed anything.
Lydia used her flashlight to take a last look in her purse, ticking off the things she had kept: a good, clear photograph of Mark Romano and a good one of Catherine Broward, both from sometime late in their relationship; one of them together taken at a beach; the most recent bank statement from the shoebox; a stack of checks. She told herself that taking these things didn’t matter. The negatives for the pictures were still in the box in envelopes, the bank statement could be duplicated, and the checks were a year old. Taking them was a felony, but so was being here at all. There was no use for them except to somebody who was examining Catherine Broward’s death in detail, and nobody seemed to think there was anything left to know except Robert Mallon.
“You were in her apartment?” Mallon was incredulous. “You broke in?”
Lydia said, “Breaking in sounds a lot more interesting than what I did. Nothing is broken. Nobody will notice I was there, and what I took is of no value to anyone but us.”
Mallon watched as Lydia opened the plain manila envelope she carried, and began placing things on the table near the window that overlooked the bungalow’s little garden. “Here. Take a look,” she said.
Mallon studied the photographs. The two with Catherine Broward in them were painful to look at. This was a version of the sensation he had sometimes felt when he saw pictures of happy Europeans taken just before World War II. In the midst of this happiness, did they have any tiny feeling that something was coming, any fear that something about this day wasn’t quite right?
He took his eyes off Catherine Broward and studied the boyfriend. The photograph was clearer and brighter than the videotape had been. Romano had been tall, lean, and well-formed, his face almost too good, too big-eyed and perfect, so his looks almost crossed the line and became feminine. He had the sort of appearance that teenaged girls liked—the look of a boy, really, because boys weren’t as frightening as men.
There was a bank statement. Mallon looked at the address of the branch in West Los Angeles and saw that the date was only a month ago. There were about fifteen checks written for sums that invited him to identify them. Eleven hundred near the end of the month was her rent, because it was even. Thirteen hundred eighty-two and forty-nine cents on the third was a credit card bill that had arrived on the first. One twenty-seven thirteen was probably electricity. It couldn’t have been gas because it was summer and she would have used no heat. His eyes stopped at the balance, a bit over one hundred and twelve thousand dollars. There had been one deposit: twenty thousand even on the first of the month.
Lydia seemed to have read his expression. “The balance?”
“That and the only deposit.”
“The deposit is the same every month. I think it’s a trust fund. She and her sister probably each got twenty thousand a month. I could see from the apartment that she didn’t spend much, so the balance tended to grow on her. Now and then she would write a check to move some to a savings account. If she moved it from there, I didn’t see the record. She doesn’t seem to have been an investor: she didn’t have much interest in the distant future.”
Mallon was silent.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m trying to catch up. I guess I never thought of her in those terms. For a young woman who worked as a waitress, she was pretty wealthy.”
Lydia hesitated. She was not sure whether she wanted to show Mallon her next exhibit. She knew that if she showed it to him, Mallon would jump to conclusions again. The ironic part of it was that Lydia knew any detective should be eager to show it to Mallon. It would make Mallon want to keep paying her for the next year. Delving for ever-more-minute details of Catherine Broward’s short life was a lot easier than going back to the bail bond shop to begin hunting down the next violent jerk that Harry managed to bail out of jail. But Lydia was determined not to take advantage of Bobby Mallon’s guilt. She let herself think wistfully for a moment of putting it all back in the envelope and saying, “Well, that’s it. That’s all she left lying around.” Instead, she reached into the envelope again and produced one of the canceled checks she had stolen.
She laid it on the table beside the photographs. It was for forty thousand dollars, and the date was last July 15. It said, “Pay to the order of Safe-Force School of Self-Defense,” and the notation written on the line in the lower left said, “July 15–August 15.” She said, “There are two of these, both to the school, to pay up to September fifteenth.”
She watched Mallon bend over it and stare. He picked it up and turned it over to read the stamped endorsement. “Deposit only SF Self-Defense.” The bank was in Ojai, California. Mallon placed the check back on the table and stared at Lydia impassively.
Lydia said, “Don’t read too much into this.”
Mallon’s left eyebrow arched. “July fifteenth through September fifteenth, Lydia. She was off taking a self-defense course when her boyfriend got killed. How can that be a coincidence?”
“I’m not saying it was a coincidence. I’m just not assuming it means she knew he was in danger.”
“Then what was she afraid of?”
“It doesn’t even mean she was afraid.”
Mallon’s other brow rose. “Forty thousand bucks a month?”
Lydia shrugged.
Mallon pressed her. “Forty thousand bucks for four weeks at a self-defense camp, and she’s not afraid?”
“It’s not much time if you’re not doing anything else, and forty thousand is not much money if your trust fund brings in twenty thousand while you’re gone.”
“Forty thousand is not much money compared to my bank account either, but forty thousand bucks is still forty thousand bucks. It has an objective value. I know that most people work a long time to get that much, even if I don’t. To throw it away is disrespectful to them.”
“You worked most of your life, built a couple of businesses. You learned young. She probably didn’t.”
“She worked as a waitress, not once, but several times in different cities. She wouldn’t have to do too many shifts on her feet to get the idea.”
“Maybe it was a lark,” said Lydia. “You know: go to some fancy ranch with a couple of girlfriends, learn a few judo moves, and discharge a firearm at a target a couple of times.”
“That’s not a lark. For forty grand she could have gone anywhere.” Mallon frowned at the check. “Depending on who you talk to, she was either in the midst of the love affair of her life or she had just been dumped. Either way, it doesn’t sound like a time to go out of town for intensive self-defense training, does it?”
“It could be a response to her boyfriend’s social set. Maybe they just gave her the creeps.”
“Then she was afraid, exactly as I said,” Mallon insisted. He looked at Lydia expectantly.
“All right. We’re never going to figure out what she was thinking by sitting here and making up stories,�
� said Lydia. “We’ve got to go back up to Santa Barbara anyway if we’re going to get anything out of Detective Fowler. Why don’t we drive up? On the way we can take a detour, have a look at this self-defense school. Maybe they’ll be able to tell us what the hell she was doing there while her boyfriend was down here getting himself killed.”
CHAPTER 10
The Safe-Force School of Self-Defense was not easy to reach. Mallon followed the route with a road map while Lydia drove. They were over forty-five minutes north of Ojai on the winding highway into Los Padres National Forest before they spotted the turnoff on the right. They followed the smaller tributary road eastward into the rising, tree-covered hills as the pavement narrowed into something under two lanes. At several points, flat spaces beside the shoulders had been cleared to provide turnouts so a driver could pull over and let vehicles behind him pass.
The first sign of habitation on the road was a high chain-link fence that began before Mallon noticed it. Mallon had simply tired of looking to his right into some woods that ran up a slight rise and left no view. He stared ahead at the road for a time, looked to the right again, and saw that a fence had begun. He turned around in his seat and verified that it stretched back for some distance. It had not caught his attention at first because there was tall brush on the inner side that had grown through the wire, keeping the fence in shadow, muting the metallic gleam and keeping the eye from perceiving the straight boundary line. The coiled razor wire along the top was above eye level, and in some places climbing plants had grown into it as though it were a trellis.
After a time an open gate interrupted the fence. There was no sign, but an oversized rural mailbox at the first gatepost had the stenciled words SAFE-FORCE SCHOOL. Between the posts was the beginning of a long, straight gravel drive that led into the property, past some low wooden buildings and one in the distance that looked about the size and shape of a barn. A short way in there was a parking lot on one side of the drive that held about fifteen cars, and on the other, a sprawling one-story ranch house with a rough board exterior and a large roofed-over front porch above a row of benches and a drinking fountain.
Lydia drove into the parking lot and glided to a stop between two freshly painted white stripes. She turned off the engine and opened her door. In the sudden silence they both heard a distant report of a gun. As Lydia stood, she turned her head and listened. There was a rapid pop-pop-pop. She pointed up the long, gradual slope of the hillside beyond the driveway. “Sounds as though the rifle range is over there someplace.”
“Yeah,” said Mallon. “Only that sounded like a pistol, didn’t it? Maybe a forty-five, or a nine-millimeter?”
“Sounds about right to me,” she said.
They closed the car doors and walked across the driveway toward the low ranch house. As they approached it, a tall, lean man in a khaki shirt with button pockets and tinted aviator glasses stepped out of the building onto the porch to wait for them.
The gunshots had come from the other side of the long hill, where a young woman named Marcia Teller held her nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson pistol at her side, muzzle downward, as she walked carefully along the path at the bottom of the arroyo. The combat range was supposed to be a simulated battle, but the battle had rules. There could be no accidental discharges, no wild shots of the sort that indicated she was afraid of her weapon, and if a round misfired and jammed the gun, she would have to stop, flop to her belly, and clear it before she showed herself again.
As she took her next step, another target popped up to her right, a cardboard cutout in the shape of a man’s head and torso. She went to a two-handed grip and a bent-kneed crouch, fired three shots into the target’s chest, then pivoted to face forward again. The targets were spring-loaded on their own stands so they could be moved to different hiding places each day. The range master triggered them with a remote control.
She walked up the arroyo another hundred feet, watchful and tense. She knew she had gotten the first two with something close to perfection, and it made her feel more serious, more committed to the game.
The third one popped up ahead and to her left, so close it made her jump. She let a small involuntary cry escape as she dropped to one knee and fired twice through its chest. She stood and advanced again. The third target had been good for her. It had reminded her that all the speed necessary was in efficient, deliberate movement: it pops up, you aim, you fire. When she had come out here the first time, she had mistaken the course for a quick-draw contest, and she had failed humiliatingly. Now she was calm and unhurried, and she was splendid.
The next ambush was especially devious. The target came up behind her: how had she passed that bush without seeing it? She did as her instructors had drilled her to do, not shuffling to turn in place but stepping, bringing her foot around with her so that before she faced the target she had already moved a pace to the side. She fired too low this time, maybe not a fatal first shot, but she compensated by bringing the barrel up, and when she fired again she saw a spot of light open in the center of the faceless head.
Marcia remembered to repeat the step-around to face forward in time to see the next target appear ahead of her, as though the two targets had been trying to get her in a crossfire. She placed two rounds into that one, and dropped to the ground to reload. She pressed the catch to release the magazine, removed it from the bottom of the grips, and put it into the pocket of her canvas jacket. Then she inserted a new clip and used the heel of her hand to push it home. She pulled the slide to cycle the gun and put a round into the chamber, then looked up, rose to her feet, and stepped forward.
There were ten targets—assailants, enemies—and she spotted all of them, one after another. Sometimes, as in the fourth and fifth, more than one came up in rapid succession, as real enemies did, ganging up, taking advantage of the very ability to focus and concentrate that she had so laboriously developed to become a competent pistol shot. Everyone had been told that a “pass” was to get all of them. Wasn’t that what would have been required in real life? The one you missed would kill you—a “fail.” There were no grades beyond those.
At the end of the arroyo she leaned her backside against a big sandstone rock, released the magazine, and cleared the round that was left in the chamber, then stood waiting for Parish to come up and congratulate her.
It was Spangler, the firearms instructor, instead. He was striding up the arroyo in his khaki shorts and hiking boots and red sleeveless T-shirt. “Good shooting, Marcia!” he called. “It’s a pass!”
She looked up from her weapon and smiled diffidently to hide her disappointment. “Thank you, Paul,” she said. Her eyes moved beyond him and flicked here and there to interpret distant shapes, searching for the tall, thin shape of Parish.
Spangler read the expression. “Michael had to run off ahead of us a minute ago. He got a call to tell him there were some visitors.”
“Did he see the shooting?”
“Oh, sure,” said Spangler. “Practically all of it. He said to tell you he would speak with you later.” He looked back up the long, twisting streambed, glanced at his watch, then turned to her. “Come on. Let’s go look at your targets.”
They walked to the last one, and he used his index finger to poke each of the holes she had put into the effigy. “Here’s your fatal shot, to the heart. This one down here would be very painful and incapacitating, but not a kill.” He took two gummed squares of paper from his pocket and stuck them over the bullet holes so the enemy was healed, then pushed the metal rod that held the target back into its trap so its catch held the target down. He placed a few cut boughs over it, stared at it critically, and moved to the target she had shot before that one.
At each stop, as he patched and reset the target, he gave an evaluation. “This one you got four times. That’s what I like to see. This hit to the head was your third or fourth round. If you hadn’t taken that shot, who knows? Your earlier shots are keeping him from killing you, and maybe he’ll bleed to death, but
this is what we’re after.” They went on.
“Now this one is a bit thin, just two hits in the chest, but no sure fatals. I made the other one pop up across from him right away, so you had to turn around and get him too. In the street, what do you do? They’re both down. You come back to the first and put a hole in his head, and then the other.”
Marcia listened attentively and seldom spoke. Spangler was the firearms instructor, the one who had given the classroom instruction and taught the mixed group of men and women how to break down a weapon, clean it, clear jams, and recognize worn or damaged parts. Then he had taken them out to the range and taught them how to fire effectively. But somehow, she had expected that Parish would stay to see her test this morning, and that he would be the one to talk to her about it afterward. Spangler was a technician. He was an expert, but he was not the master. She had looked for the quiet, brooding presence of Parish this morning. She felt almost as though she had gotten less than her money’s worth because he had not watched all of her test.
When Spangler had reset the first target she had hit, he glanced at his watch again. “Where do you go next?”
“Hand-to-hand is in about a half hour.”
Spangler grinned. “Drink plenty of water before. It’s going to be hot today, and your stomach won’t hold what you’ll need if you take it in all at once.” He paused, then said, “And rest a bit. You earned it.”
Spangler patted her shoulder, and Marcia began the walk back to the main lodge. The dry brown hills were dotted with short, round California oaks with dusty leaves. Beyond them to her right was a wooded area, some parts of it tall pines, and the rest thick with a growth of bushes and deciduous trees. Here and there among the rocks on the high ridges above the ranch where trees would not grow were a few shin-high paddle-shaped cactus plants that had grown in to fill the gaps.