Milo said, “Out of the elevator, Buell. Stay in the lobby.”
A silent, maddening ride up three flights. So slow. Endless. Me punching the walls of the elevator. Milo just standing there, close to me. I knew he could smell my fear, but he made no effort to distance himself.
When the elevator finally bumped to a stop, I squeezed myself through the door before it was completely open. More green foil. Racing to the far end.
Cop at the door. Always cops. Suspicious eyes. Milo giving the okay.
“Yes, sir.”
Through her door, now tagged with an LAPD crime-scene label. Into her living room. Bright lights. Perfume smell. Oyster walls. Fresh vacuum tracks in gold carpeting—what an organized young lady. Stretched out on the carpet, something human-sized in a black zipped bag.
I broke down, sank to my knees.
A gray-haired, bearded man in a bottle-green blazer and gray flannels sat at the butcher-block table holding a mini-recorder. Black Gladstone bag at his feet. Stethoscope around his neck. Different kind of house call.
He looked up at me. Diagnostic appraisal. But no sympathy—just curiosity.
Sounds from the bedroom.
I got up, staggered in.
More perfume. Cloying.
A slender balding black man in a navy-blue suit stood by the brass bed, holding a note pad and gold pen. The covers were in disarray.
Linda sat on the bottom sheet, shoulders hunched, knees drawn to her chest, wearing a pink quilted robe. Staring off into space.
I ran to her. Held marble.
The man in the navy suit turned. Such a nice suit. He’d always had a thing for clothes. Dapper half of the “odd couple” when he’d partnered with Milo. Tonight no exception... sky-blue broadcloth shirt with white pin collar, red-and-blue paisley tie...
Rust-red. Just a shade lighter than the muddy spots on the mirror above the dresser.
Rust on the plaster too. Three holes, radiating spider-leg cracks, left of the mirror, tight formation. The top surface of the dresser a wasteland of tipped perfume bottles, free-form blood blotches, shattered mirror-tray. Blood looped down the front of a drawer. The carpet was a collage of glass shards, more mud, something metallic. A snub-nosed revolver with a walnut grip. To my unpracticed eye, identical to the one Milo carried when he carried.
Delano Hardy looked at me with surprise and said, “Doc. She talked about you. Was worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“She’s gonna be fine too.” The power of wishful thinking.
I held her tighter, stroked her back. Still frozen.
“... and she did a good job,” Del was saying. “Protected herself, which is what it’s all about, right?”
He pointed to the revolver.
I’m a crack shot....
Very softly, he said, “Tough lady. She’s got my vote for sheriff. Gave her statement really coherently. Then, when we were through, she got real quiet, sank into the way she is now—the shock’s settling in, according to the coroner. Not physical shock, psychological—your neck of the woods. Physically she’s okay, the vital signs and everything. Coroner checked her out, said she was tough, gave her something to take the edge off, make her sleepy. Said she looks fine physically, but should go in for a couple days observation. Ambulance from UCLA is on its way.”
Talking faster than I’d ever heard Del Hardy talk. Despite all the years, all the bodies, still able to be affected. I remembered why I liked him. Apart from the fact that he’d saved my life. Once upon a time...
I said, “It’s down there already, Del.”
“What’s that?”
“The ambulance. It’s here.”
“Oh.” Del looked at me diagnostically too.
I held Linda closer, tried to engulf her, be everything for her. Finally she molded to me, but remained cold and inert as modeling clay.
Milo came into the room.
Del’s eyes widened. “Must have been some kind of party, guy.”
Milo said, “Hot time in the old town, Del. Shoulda been there.” Battered, but oddly authoritative. His gaze rested on Linda. He and Del traded cop-to-cop eye signals. As in the past, I felt like an outsider. Didn’t mind.
Hardy repeated the few facts he’d just told me, seemed to be talking even faster. Pushing comfort.
Linda began to tremble violently. I held on to her but it wasn’t enough to make her stop.
Milo’s big face drooped with pain and empathy. He said, “Let’s talk outside, Del.”
Del nodded, put away his pen and pad and said, “Keep her warm, Doc. Pull the covers over her. She’s supposed to be resting.”
They left.
I lowered her down on the bed and gathered the comforter around her. Stroked her face, her hair. She was still shaking. Gradually it slowed, then ceased. She began breathing rhythmically. I touched her cheek. Kissed it. Kissed her eyes. Waited until I was certain she was deeply asleep before returning to the living room.
Del and Milo were walking the green-jacketed coroner to the door. His trousers had a sharp crease. Everyone had dressed for tonight.
Milo had on a couple of handages.
After the coroner was gone, Del pointed to the body bag.
“Intruder got in by picking the lock.” he said. “B-and-E tools, professional set. But he made too much noise doing it and woke up the victim—Dr. Overstreet. Not that it was a particularly sloppy job—pretty good, actually.”
Pointing to the doorjamb. I couldn’t see any scratch marks.
Milo examined it and said, “Spick-and-span, no print dust. No dust in the bedroom either. I saw the print boys down there. What’s the delay?”
“My orders,” said Del. “Haven’t authorized them yet. The uniforms who got here don’t think they touched the jamb but they did touch the knob and they trampled the bedroom pretty darned good charging it—it was a Code Three. They were after prevention, not preservation.”
Milo said, “Yeah.”
Del said, “Let me ask you. Any reason to go through the whole shebang, trash her place? Most of it’s light surfaces—that means the black dust. You know what a godawful mess that makes. Seems like a clear-cut self-defense situation. Coroner says height of the spatters backs up everything she said.”
Milo thought and rubbed his face and said, “No reason.”
“I mean, if we’re going to get into a giant hassle, let’s do it, Milo. But I just don’t see the point.”
“No point,” said Milo. “I’ll handle any procedural hassles.” Glance at the body bag. “Tell me a bedtime story, Del.”
Del said, “Okay, so she hears the door opening, wakes up. She’s normally a good sleeper but tonight she was jumpy because of the doc’s call.” He looked at me. “Something about your being followed, some weird Nazi stuff that I couldn’t really make out. What I did get was that ’cause you sounded worried, that worried her.”
“Goddam good reason to be worried,” said Milo.
Del stared at Milo’s wounds and said, “Your hot party’s related to this?”
Milo let out a long sigh; suddenly he looked weak and wasted. “It’s a long story, Del. You wouldn’t believe it if I tried to give it to you for free.”
“I’m open-minded,” said Del.
Milo smiled. “It’s a four-drink story, Delano. You buy; I tell.”
“After the paperwork?”
“Fuck the paperwork.”
Hardy shrugged. “You’re the D-Three. Someone gets on my case, I blame it all on you. You sure you don’t want a blanket?”
“I’m fine,” said Milo. “Tell the story.”
“Where was I,” said Del. “Yeah, she was jumpy—so jumpy she took her gun out of storage. S and W Police Special. Apparently it used to belong to someone named Mondo back in Texas where she’s originally from—she didn’t want to talk about that. I couldn’t get that part real clear. If the reg isn’t kosher, I imagine we can work that out, too, right? No Bernie Goetz illegal weapons bullsh
it. Anyway, she had a box of bullets for it, loaded it up, put it on her night stand, and had it ready to grab when she heard the intruder out in the living room. Intruder came tippy-toeing in. There was light from the window above the bed. She could see the intruder swinging something—we found it over in the corner. Louisville Slugger with nails sticking out of it, real pretty. She yelled at the intruder to stop. Intruder kept coming. She yelled again, kept yelling. Intruder didn’t pay any mind. So she emptied the gun. Three slugs in the intruder, three near-misses in the wall. She’s a damn good shot, considering the situation. Hope she doesn’t waste too much time on guilt.”
He knelt beside the bag. “Now for the interesting part.” Tugging down and parting a foot of zipper. It sounded like something ripping.
A face stared up at us.
Female. Capuchin-monkey face under dirty-blond hair. Mussed hair. Eyes closed, the left one puffy and plum-colored. Skin tinted gray—the greenish-gray reserved for Death’s palette. A quarter-sized, black-edged ruby hole in the left cheek. Dry lips, parted. Between them a sliver of corn-niblet tooth.
“A woman,” said Hardy. “Can you top that? No ID, nothing on her. One thing weshould have them dust is the bat. Hopefully we’ll pull something off of that.”
“She calls herself Crisp,” I said. “Audrey Crisp. That may or may not be her real name.”
“Yeah?” said Del. “Well, Crisp got herself crisped.” Shaking his head. Tugging the zipper another inch lower. “Want to see more?”
“Anything to see?” said Milo.
“Just two more holes down below.”
Milo shook his head.
Del zipped up the bag. “Lady with a baseball bat—all those spikes, like one of those medieval things. Mace, or something. Gotta be one for the books, right? Ever see that before, Milo?”
I walked back into the bedroom. Sat on the bed. Linda opened her eyes, muttered something that could have been my name.
With no evidence to the contrary, I decided it had been my name.
The power of wishful thinking...
I brushed hair away from her brow and kissed it.
She whimpered and turned on her side, facing me, looking up at me.
I lay down beside her and closed my eyes. When the ambulance attendants came for her, they had to wake me. Had to pry my arm from around her waist, and hers from mine.
37
Her father flew in the next morning from Texas. I’d expected Gary Cooper and got Lyndon Johnson out of a trash compactor: short, stout, big ears with banjo lobes, whiskey nose, crinkle chin. The only genetic link to Linda I could discern, a pair of small, delicate hands that he kept plastered to his sides. Nothing Texas Rangerish about his clothes either. Powder-blue sport coat, yellow golf shirt, white seersucker slacks, brown patent-leather loafers.
He called me sir a lot, not sure who I was. Not sure who his daughter was. When he walked into the hospital room, she gave a weary smile and I left the two of them alone.
She left with him the following day, promising to call when she got to San Antonio. Following through that evening, but sounding tentative herself, as if someone was listening in and she was unable to talk freely.
I told her to take her time healing. That I’d check to make sure the kids at Hale were okay. That I was there for her whenever she needed me. Working at making it sound convincing—putting a little therapist in my voice.
She said, “That means a lot to me, Alex. I know the kids are going to be okay. The person they’re using for substitute principal is really good. I went to school with him—he’ll do a good job.”
“I’m glad.”
“Can he call you? For advice?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks. You’re so terrific.”
“My head is swelling swelling swelling.”
“I mean it—you are. By the way, Carla has your gift—we got a gift for you. Last week. It’s a set of Mark Twain. The complete works. I know you like books. I hope you like Twain.”
“I love Twain.”
“It’s an old leather set, really pretty. I found it for you myself, in an antiques store. Wish I could be there to give it to you. But Carla will send it to you. Unless you’re at the school. Then you can pick it up. In my office. On the desk.”
“I’ll go by. Thanks.”
Pause.
“Alex, I know this is nervy, but do you think you could possibly come on out here, spend some time with me? Not just yet, but maybe a little later?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Great! I’ll take you around. Show you a good time. I promise. You can have grits for the second time. As soon as things settle down.”
“Look forward to it. Remember the Alamo.”
“Remember me.”
Later that day Robin came by, with deli sandwiches and jug wine, a beautiful smile and a soft quick kiss on the lips.
We sat facing each other at the ash burl trestle table she’d hand-carved years ago.
First time in a long time we’d been in the same room. If we’d scheduled it, I’d have spent hours dreading it. But it ended up nice. Nothing physical, nothing covert or calculated or stiff. No excavation of old wounds, debridement of damaged flesh. It wasn’t denial. There just didn’t seem to be any scars either of us could see or feel. Or maybe it was the wine.
We sat talking and eating and drinking, discussing the piss-poor state of the world, occupational hazards, occupational joys. Trading bad jokes. The space between us smooth, soft. Baby-smooth. As if we’d birthed something healthy.
I started to believe friendship was possible.
When she left, my loneliness was tempered by the pleasant confusion of hope. And when Milo came by to pick me up, I was in an amazingly good mood.
38
Surveillance. Numb butts.
But nice to be on the other side.
The first couple of days yielded no results. I learned about cop boredom, about self-doubt. About how even the best of friendships get strained by too much of nothing. But I refused Milo’s repeated offers to drop out.
“What? Your year for masochism?”
“My year for closure.”
“If your guess is right,” he said.
“If.”
“Lots of ifs.”
I said, “If you don’t want to bother, I’ll do it myself.”
He smiled. “Joe Detective?”
“Joe Curious. You think I’m reaching? It was just a look.”
He turned to me. The swelling down, his wounds greening, but one eye was still puffy and wet and his gait was stiff.
“No, Alex,” he said softly. “I think you’re worth listening to. I’ve always thought so. Besides, what do we have to lose except sanity, and not much of that left, right? It’s only been forty-eight hours. Let’s give it at least another couple of days.”
So we sat in the rented car until our butts turned downright frozen. Ate stale fast food, did crossword puzzles, engaged in inane chatter that neither of us would have tolerated under different circumstances.
The second day it happened. The maroon Volvo rolled away from suburbia, the way it always did. But this time it abandoned home territory and headed for the 405 Freeway.
Milo hung back until it had climbed a northbound on-ramp, then followed, hanging back several car lengths.
“You see,” he said, turning the steering wheel with one finger. “This is the way it’s done. Subtly. No way short of psychic powers he’s going to see us.”
Bravado in his voice but he kept checking the rearview mirror.
I said, “How’re your psychic powers?”
“Finely honed.” A moment later. “I knew the Department would buy my story, didn’t I?”
His story. Post-traumatic stress reaction. A need for seclusion.
Escape from L.A.
He’d been thorough. Buying an airplane ticket for Indianapolis. Showing up at LAX only to duck out of line just before boarding. Picking up a rental Cadillac and dr
iving into the Valley. Checking into a motel out in Agoura under the name S. L. Euth.
Then surveillance. The other side.
Picking me up at a preassigned place that changed each day.
Watching. Making sure we weren’t being watched.
Today he had on a brown polo shirt, tan cords, white sneakers, and an old felt Dodgers cap on his head.
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