Hadn’t Janet managed to keep alive the resentment she’d felt for Lisa when she’d come to the school and immediately become Avi’s favorite? Lisa had stolen not one but two treasures from Janet. Then she’d tossed them both away, the way the alpha dog might take the best bone, only to drop it a moment later, having taken it as an object lesson, just to prove he could.
Push, push, that’s a dog’s world, a way of finding out who’s who and what’s what. Is that what Janet thought Lisa had done, taking Paul and then throwing him away? And did Janet change her rationale with the second killing, leaving the person who stole from her alive to suffer the sting of loss, as she had?
I heard the whine of the elevator. My spine straight, my eyes forward, I moved from my center, continuing the form as the door opened and a moment later closed again. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, just standing there watching me. I finished the form, slowly lowering my arms as I came back to my full height, then turned to face him.
“What are you doing here so late?” I asked. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
He shook his head.
“Me neither,” I told him.
He looked awful, pale and tired. His shirt looked as if he’d slept in it. His hair hadn’t been combed.
“Do you come here often, this late?” I asked, thinking about what the cleaning lady had told me.
“No,” he said. “I saw you.”
“You saw me?”
“In the courtyard. I often s-sit there. It’s so peaceful,” he said, his voice flat, his arms hanging down at his sides. “I saw you sitting there. Then I saw you c-come up here. So I f-followed you.”
A chill passed through me, as if maybe a window had blown open, letting in the cold night air. But I could see them in the mirror, and they were all closed and latched. Still, I was so cold I thought if I didn’t do something fast, I might start shaking. So I did something. Like a dog, I pushed.
“It must be hard for you,” I said. “You must get so frustrated. And so lonely.”
“It’s not so bad when I have someone to talk to,” he said, no emotion showing on his face. Or was it just too dark to see?
“Too bad there’s ho one else to share the load?” I said, picturing the little girl with a round face, like Howie’s, the pretty little girl who was clearly her mother’s favorite. “No other siblings?”
Howie blinked.
“What about your sister?” I asked, hackles up, teeing up on him now.
“What do you m-m-mean?” he said.
“Your mother said—”
“No. She told you about that? She’s a liar,” he shouted. “It was her fault, not m-mine.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Didn’t she tell you already?”
“Do you think I’d believe her? Come on, Howie. Talk to me.”
“I was only seven,” he said. “She can’t hold me responsible. It was her job to watch her, not mine.”
“But she’d been drinking?”
“A lot,” he said, taking a step closer.
“Had she passed out?”
“I don’t know. I was playing with my miniature cars, on the floor. I had my back to them. I didn’t s-see. I was only a kid, for chrissake.”
“And your mother? What did she say happened?”
“She was the one should have been watching. But she blamed me. She said I could have prevented it, if I wasn’t such a d-dummy. That’s what she told the p-p-police. ‘My son was supposed to be watching her.’ She’d never told me that. She never.”
“And exactly what was it that happened when no one was watching?” I asked, even though part of me didn’t want to hear the answer.
Howie took another step toward me.
“She must have climbed up on the s-sill,” he whispered, his face alive now, “and somehow the cord of the Venetian blind must have gotten wrapped around her neck. And then she lost her b-balance and fell out. At least th-that’s what the p-police said happened. It was very tragic.”
In the dark, I thought I saw him smiling.
Was it after that tragic accident that his father had left the first time?
“I guess that’s why we live on the ground floor now.”
Had little Howie stopped playing with his miniature cars long enough to speed his baby sister on her short flight to nowhere?
Had he done the same for Lisa? Surely it wouldn’t have been the first time a man killed a woman because if he couldn’t have her, he’d make damn sure no one else would either.
With Lisa gone, he’d latched on to me.
And sitting in the courtyard one afternoon, he’d seen Paul on his way to the studio. Surely Howie would have understood the significance of that, and the threat implied in it. Wouldn’t the thought of losing me make him beside himself with rage? Mightn’t it even make him furious enough to kill?
Don’t ask me why, but even as I wondered if I’d be able to defuse the bomb that I myself had armed, I made things worse. Once set in motion, some things are impossible to stop.
“So, Howie, were you also present the night that Lisa lost her balance?”
“She had no right to do that to me. She had to be punished.” He looked at the windows, then back at me. “How else would she learn?”
Had Lisa been writing to him, because he’d cried so when he’d heard her plans? Had he left and come right back, his tears turning to rage on his way down the stairs? Was it Howie, then, not Lisa, who had opened the window, Howie saying he couldn’t go on without her friendship? And then what? Had he climbed up on the sill? Of course. And Lisa, her heart pounding, had run across the studio floor in her street shoes to stop him.
He was just standing there, between me and the door, so close I could feel the heat of his body, his eyes as glassy as if he were a dog with rage syndrome. In the dark I could see his aura, red and shooting out around him, like those telescopic photos of the sun. Howie Lish was looking like something that was about to explode.
36
I Don’t Believe You, He Said
Suddenly Howie came to life, grabbing both my wrists in one big paw and, with the other, slapping me hard in the face. “B-bitch,” he said, “you’re just like h-her, only pretending you care.”
“You’re wr-wrong, I d-do care,” I said, desperation in my voice. Now I was the hikavater.
T’ai chi, Avi had said, teaches you who you are, and when you know yourself, you can understand others. But I’ve always known who I am, a person who sees the world through dog-colored glasses. Now I remembered those magazines under Howie’s bed. And I knew who he was, too.
My cheek was on fire, and fear had risen in my throat like a bad meal. No one else here, I thought, pushing the fear away. Rely on yourself.
“Ooo, you like it rough,” I said. “You have no idea how that turns me on.”
“What did you say?”
“Holding me so that I can’t get away, slapping me around, it really turns me on,” I told him, looking right into his eyes. I began to laugh. “I mean, it really turns me on.”
He stopped moving.
I was standing in the middle of the studio, my hands numb from the pressure on my wrists, and the only sound was Howie Lash’s heavy breathing.
“Couldn’t we do this with less on?” I said, hoping he’d think I was trembling from desire and not fright.
“I don’t b-believe you,” he said.
“Try me,” I told him.
I felt the grip on my wrists loosen a little. I could see the beads of sweat on his cheeks, and running down his neck.
“Let me take my clothes off, slowly, while you watch,” I said, someone playing kick-the-can with my heart. “And then you can take yours off, Howie. And I’ll watch.”
He tightened his grip again.
“You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?” I asked him. “I have. Ever since the massage.”
Howie smiled. “Go ahead,” he said. “Undress.”
“I can’t, with you holding me. P
lenty of time for that later. We have all night, don’t we?”
And then I was free, but Howie was so close and the door so far away.
As slowly as if I were doing t’ai chi, I pulled Lisa’s black sweater over my head and dropped it onto the floor.
I could feel Howie’s breath on my bare skin.
I unhooked my bra, holding it out to him on one finger and then letting it slip into his big hand.
“You, too,” I said, stepping back one step and slipping off Lisa’s leggings. “I want to see you, Howie.” And as a final sign of good faith, I slipped my underpants down and stepped out of them.
Howie dropped the bra and began to undress, quickly unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it off. Then he opened his pants and let them drop and began to pull down his underwear. Looking in the mirror, I could see the big, white moon of Howie’s ass shining back at me. I could see myself, too, no longer in black, naked now, except for Lisa’s t’ai chi shoes and her heavy, silver bracelet hanging from one wrist like a handcuff.
Howie’s erection had popped loose and was staring me in the face; his pants and shorts were around his ankles. As he lifted one foot to jettison them on the pristine oak floor of the studio, I remembered Avi telling me that in martial arts, unless doing something gives you a clear advantage, it’s better to do nothing at all. For a moment, that’s what I did—nothing. Then slowly I reached out for Howie, as if to embrace him, slipping my hands around his sweaty neck, and using a martial art even older than t’ai chi, I too lifted a foot, driving my knee as hard as I could into Howie’s naked crotch. And when he’d doubled over, folding at the waist, his head coming forward, I lifted my knee a second time, even harder, and heard it crack against Howie Lish’s forehead.
That’s when the door opened and Avi walked in, Ch’an trailing behind him.
37
He Seemed to Be Smiling
He looked slowly from my head to my feet. Too slowly, if you ask me.
“Ah,” he said, focusing on Lisa’s black cotton shoes. “You’ve been practicing. Excellent.”
He seemed to be smiling, but it was too dark to be sure.
He turned away and headed for his office, Ch’an padding along at his side. “I forgot my keys,” he said, “good, good, they’re on the desk.” I heard him dialing as I quickly got dressed.
I looked down at Howie. His eyes were still closed and there was a large red bruise on his brow. “Thinking,” O. J. Simpson had once said, “is what gets you caught from behind.” I’d say in his case, and Howie’s, it was not thinking that had done them in.
After the police left, taking Howie with them, Avi and I sat on the couches and talked until the sun came up. Then I made a phone call and headed home to change to my own clothes, pick up Dashiell, and get the car.
A thin dusting of sand, carried by the wind, covered the street where I parked the Taurus. When I opened the car door, Dashiell headed straight for the ocean, and before I’d locked the car, he was out of sight.
I slipped off my shoes, rolled up my jeans, and swimming in the sea of now, stood in the surf with my dog, just listening to the roar of the waves. Then the yin and yang of private investigation went to see the Jacobs family one last time, to tell them that what had happened to their beautiful daughter had not been their fault.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Rachel Alexander and Dash Mysteries
1
MAN PLANS, GOD LAUGHS
Less is more. Except when it comes to money and sex. These unassailable truths may explain why I found myself checking into a hotel barely a twenty-minute cab ride from my front door.
I’d been asked to work undercover at a weeklong symposium for dog trainers, which meant I’d be paid to lecture about dog behavior, a paean to my former occupation, and paid again as I practiced my current one, private investigation.
So much for the money part.
My PI firm was an equal partnership, and my partner and I always worked together, which may explain why the elevator operator whistled and stepped back as we boarded his car.
“Hell of a dog you’ve got there, missus,” he said, both hands dropping rapidly to cover the area directly below the brass buttons of his jacket. “Pit bull?” His back was against the wall.
I nodded.
“He okay?”
I looked down. Dashiell looked up at me and wagged his tail. “He’s not complaining.” I waited, but nothing happened. “Want me to drive?” I asked.
“Sorry, missus. Where to?”
I held up my key. While he read the room number, I read the name embroidered over the breast pocket of his jacket. “Home, James,” I told him. But once again, nothing happened. There was another customer approaching. And another big dog.
“Rachel,” the other customer said. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” Ignoring Jimmy, who by now was the color of watery mashed potatoes, Chip Pressman and his shepherd, Betty, stepped onto the small elevator. “Three, please,” he said, never taking his eyes off me.
Dashiell was staring, too. Either he’d gotten a whiff of Betty, or Chip had a roast beef in his suitcase.
“I’ve been meaning to call you,” he said, the elevator, its doors gaping open, still on the lobby floor.
“Go sit,” I said, pointing to the corner farthest from Jimmy. Both dogs obeyed, squeezing into the spot I had indicated. I have no issues when it comes to dogs, but some men turn me into Silly Putty.
Jimmy closed the folding gate and turned the wheel. The old-fashioned open-cage elevator began to rise, albeit slowly.
“Can we have a drink before the dinner tonight?” Chip said, looking at his watch. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Somehow, the way he said it, I didn’t think it was going to be something I’d want to hear.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jimmy turn slightly, perhaps to make sure he wouldn’t miss any nonverbal response, a nod, a shrug, one hand demurely placed on my flushed cheek to indicate both pleasure and surprise.
“Can’t,” I said.
Jimmy exhaled.
“I have to straighten out some things with Sam before the symposium begins,” I lied.
The elevator stopped at three.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you at dinner, then?”
“I guess.”
He got off. Betty followed him. Dashiell followed Betty, play-bowing as soon as he was in the hallway. He must have had adjoining rooms on his mind. I thanked Jimmy and got off, too.
“We’re on the same floor,” Chip said.
I looked down at my key. “Looks that way.”
We stood in front of the closed elevator door, neither of us moving, the air between us thick with pheromones and anxiety. He could have used a haircut. I could have used Valium.
“The reason I didn’t call,” he said, pausing and looking down for a moment, “even though I told you I would—”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“But I do, Rachel. The thing is, shortly after I saw you at Westminster, I—I went back to her, to Ellen. For the sake of the children.”
That ought to work, I thought, the arrow he’d shot piercing my heart.
“Hey,” I said, as sincerely as I could, “no problem. I hope it works out for you.”
“Rachel,” he said. He appeared to be gathering his thoughts. Lots of them. Too many, if you ask me.
“I have to run,” I said, as if we were standing so awkwardly not in the third-floor hallway of some hotel but on the track that goes around the reservoir in Central Park.
“Well, okay, I’ll see you later.”
He seemed disappointed. But was that a reason for me to hang around and listen to the touching story of how determined he was to make his marriage work, or to hear about how he tried but found he couldn’t live without Ellen’s cheddar cheese potato surprise? I didn’t think so.
We walked down the hall. I stopped at 305. Chip and Betty continued another two feet, stopped, and turned.
/> “We’re next door,” he said, looking down at his key to make sure.
“Right,” I said, nodding like one of those dogs people put on the dashboards of their cars. Then I stood there in the empty hall for a few minutes after Chip and Betty had disappeared into 307.
This wasn’t exactly how I had imagined things would go when I was wrapping the black lace teddy in tissue paper and packing it carefully in one of the pockets of my suitcase.
Man plans. God laughs.
So much for the sex part.
Or so I believed at the moment.
2
DON’T SAY A WORD, SHE SAID
I‘d been reading the fashion section of the Sunday Times, most of which gets delivered on Saturday morning, when the phone rang. I liked being up on the important news a day ahead of people who bought their papers at the newsstand. Nails are big, the article said, especially in unreal colors.
The phone rang again. I picked up my toasted bagel and took a bite. The model’s nails were considerably longer and bluer than mine. I heard Dashiell bark three times, my outgoing message. Then I heard that it wasn’t my sister, so I picked up. “Alexander,” I said.
“Oh, good. You’re there,” a deep, whiskey voice said. “Well, here’s the story in a nutshell. I’ve arranged a weeklong symposium for dog trainers in New York City, the first of its kind, but it seems the participants all absolutely detest each other, and I’m afraid it’s only going to go downhill from there. You know how these things are, I trust. So I got in touch with Frank Petrie, who I know from way back, because I decided that what this situation needed was a guard with a gun, you know, just to keep things from getting out of hand. Perfect solution, right? Wrong. He said what I needed was you.”
“Can I getyour name?” I asked, pulling over a pad and a pen.
“Of course, Samantha Lewis.”
Sam Lewis, I thought. I’ll be damned.
“Look, Rachel, I’ve got a problem here—can I call you Rachel? Please call me Sam. Everyone does. The symposium starts in just two days, and I’m beginning to panic here. I’m still dealing with totally annoying last-minute changes in the program, and I’ve got to get this security business nailed down, too. God, I hope you’re available. Maybe I ought to explain what I’ve done here. Do you have a minute?”
The Dog Who Knew Too Much Page 21