When Jimmy is done talking to Randall, he searches for Dale. He hasn’t seen him since the day of his release and is feeling slightly guilty about it. Looking through the dwindling flock he spots Dale talking animatedly to Maxon on the sidewalk next to the church. He can see Dale moving in his chair as he gestures. The two of them stop conversing when Jimmy approaches.
“Sorry you missed the sermon,” Maxon says.
“Bet you are,” Jimmy says. Then, to Dale: “Where’s your tricked out wheelchair?”
“Repair shop,” Dale says, a little too quickly.
“So soon?”
“Korean piece of shit,” Dale says with another smile. Jimmy wishes his brother would stop smiling. The bad teeth make him look like the career criminal he is and Jimmy is tired of seeing him that way.
“You want a lift back to Mecca? Give us a chance to talk.”
“Not going back down there,” Dale says.
“He’s working on the campaign,” Maxon says.
“Oh, yeah? What do they have you doing?”
“You know,” Dale says. “This and that.”
“How about we get some dinner tomorrow night?” Jimmy says.
“That’s the night before the election,” Maxon says.
“Guess you’re pretty valuable to the re-election effort, Dale.”
There is an uncomfortable pause, during which Dale looks away from his brother. Jimmy notices that Maxon is staring at him with a slightly strained expression. Sees Maxon is squeezing a tennis ball with his left hand.
“How about Wednesday,” Dale says.
“Sure, yeah. That’s good. I’ll give you a lift down to Mecca after.” Turning to Maxon, Jimmy says, “What’s the tennis ball for? Got a game later?”
“Great way to relieve tension,” Maxon says.
“You should try meditation,” Jimmy says.
“I’m a Christian,” Maxon says.
Jimmy walks away wondering what he has just witnessed. They had appeared to be arguing when he came upon them then stopped immediately when they sensed his presence. What could those two possibly have to argue about? Jimmy plans to ask Dale when he next sees him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Only ministers and priests like to work on a Sunday morning, but this is an unusual situation. While Cali examines Nadine Never’s computer files at headquarters, Arnaldo sips coffee from a Styrofoam cup and briefs her on the chilling checklist of Chief Harding Marvin’s depredations. Along with the cell phone photograph, there is a threatening text message from Hard to the victim, a threatening voice mail from Hard to the victim, and a theory develops—based on Arnaldo’s recollection of overhearing Chief Marvin saying “Crazy bitch murdered Bane,” prior to cursing him out and ejecting him from the office—that the victim may have killed Hard’s dog, thus providing a motive for the crime.
All of this is on Cali’s mind an hour later as she sits across from Hard and his lawyer in the interrogation room at Desert Hot Springs Police Headquarters. She is working the double homicide now, along with every detective on the force. The plan, outlined earlier this morning in a meeting with Captain Delgado, Hard’s former second-in-command and now the acting chief, is for her to do the initial interrogation of Hard, just annoy him mostly, before Arnaldo and other senior detectives take over.
Cali knows if she had mentioned her history with Hard to Delgado, she would have been asked to stake out another meth lab. That Hard had used his position as a means to have sex with her, and that their encounter had ended violently, is something she believes can be overlooked. Whether or not Hard believes this is immaterial to her. He won’t be bringing it up.
Jolene Ryder is short and feisty and slightly overweight. A barrette keeps her blunt cut hair off a wide forehead. She has narrow gray eyes and her complexion is slightly mottled. She wears a print dress and Birkenstocks. Her only jewelry is a wristwatch on a thin metal band. A briefcase sits next to her on the floor. Jolene’s father was a cop and she has defended a lot of police officers accused of crimes committed in the line of duty. Hard is dressed in khakis and a white button-front shirt. When the Desert Hot Springs Town Supervisor temporarily removed him from active duty he was forbidden to wear his uniform until further notice, a terrific indignity for a man who has worn one his entire adult life.
In a black slacks, flats and a black linen blouse, Cali has dressed for the occasion. They’ve been there for an hour and Hard has spent the entire time explaining to Cali that he had nothing to do with the terrible fate that has befallen Nadine.
“You can tell me you were in the desert lighting your dog on fire all you want, Chief, and we can have a forensic guy determine when the fire was burning, but it won’t be accurate enough for an alibi.”
It would be incorrect to report that Cali did not derive a slight degree of sadistic pleasure from watching Hard squirm. She believes he has wanted to get rid of her for years and resisted the temptation because of a potential employment lawsuit. That their most recent encounter had been adversarial in nature and had revolved around her request to work a homicide was an irony lost on neither of them. It does not surprise Cali that she is enjoying the unaccustomed role of being in the position of power with Hard. What does surprise her, though, is that she does not feel hatred for Hard, the philanderer, sexual predator and now the accused murderer. What she feels is something like sympathy.
Jolene checks her watch. “Are we done? The Chief is here of his own volition and I think an hour of his valuable time on a Sunday morning is enough.” Cali believes Hard is in considerably deeper trouble than his attorney wants to acknowledge so she doesn’t bother to answer. “And now that we’ve established that Chief Marvin didn’t have anything to do with this, we’re done.”
Cali and Jolene go back. The lawyer represented a suspect in a fraud case she was working and got the guy off. Cali knew her client was guilty. Doesn’t like the woman, but knows her to be a formidable adversary.
“Chief, I’m touched by the story about your dog,” Cali says, unable to resist baiting Hard. “But you’re gonna have to come up with something better.”
Hard chews his tongue to keep from spitting something back at Cali.
“Chief Marvin doesn’t need an alibi. Until you charge him. And there’s not a single piece of forensic evidence tying him to the crime scene,” Jolene says. “This is a deeply unfortunate coincidence. The chief’s record is spotless and the female victim is not going to be sympathetic to a jury.”
“Chief Marvin, we have you threatening to kill Nadine Never on tape. She winds up dead. You might want to think about making a deal. This is a death penalty case.”
Hard does not react to this, but instead looks at Jolene.
“If you file charges we’re going to move to dismiss immediately,” she says. Then, turning to Hard, “We’re leaving.” Hard pushes away from the table, rises from the chair and walks out of the room without looking at Cali. She takes a moment to marvel how quickly fate can reverse. Hard in the car trying to fuck her, Cali working in the shadow of their sordid secret too scared to report it, and now the karma wheel poised to grind Hard to a fine powder. What was it Jimmy had told her? Something about if you sit on a riverbank on and wait long enough, you will see the body of your enemy float by.
Of the thousands of times Hard has passed through the portals of the Desert Hot Springs police headquarters and into the parking lot, this is the first time he has done it as a person of interest in a murder investigation. He glances over his shoulder at the K-9 vehicle parked in the lot. Wonders if somehow this is all connected to the way things went down with that police dog, the one Jimmy Duke claimed to have released in the desert. He should have been more empathic, should have recognized Jimmy’s feelings for that dog. This is particularly difficult for Hard to grapple with in the wake of Bane’s demise. Had he gone through that grief prior to being confronted with Bruno’s malfeasance, Hard believes he would have acted different.
A deepening sense of his l
ack of popularity gnaws at Hard as he walks toward his truck. It wasn’t that he was expecting a banner strung along the front of the station reading WE SUPPORT YOU, CHIEF but he finds the response of his erstwhile minions infuriating. Hard knows the officers are professionals and have to be objective but he is not feeling much in the way of love, no subtle winks, no sympathetic pats on the back—not a single We’re with you, sir!—and some of these people he has worked with for a decade. It makes him question humanity.
So what if the troops aren’t rallying around him in any discernible way. He’d be suspicious, too, if one of his people were hauled in under the same circumstances. Hard isn’t going to judge. The facts will come out and all will be back to normal in short order. There may be a murder indictment hanging over him, but he knows he didn’t do it, and believes, no he’s certain, he can recover from what he views as nothing more than character assassination.
As he climbs into his truck and jams the key in the ignition, he realizes there is one person who can stand up for him, who can guarantee the public sees him for the man he really is, an heroic figure, a paragon of the law enforcement community who is on the verge of being railroaded by the system he has gallantly served: Mary Swain. Hard knows he has to talk to her as soon as he possibly can. Given that he is in extremis at the moment, he’s surprised he has not heard from her.
To anyone familiar with the world of politics, Mary Swain’s lack of contact with Hard would seem ordinary. Why should a rising political candidate, someone already getting national attention before she’s even won a local contest, reach out to any supporter—much less a government employee—who has found himself in the middle of an imbroglio that smells like this one? But Hard does not understand. He spoke forcefully on her behalf just a few days earlier, blessed the Mary Swain rally with the power of his uniform. Is she a woman of honor, he wonders, or just another hack, albeit a more attractive one. A sympathetic phone call should have come his way by now.
Mary Swain had scribbled her cell phone number on a torn piece of paper and given it to him a few weeks earlier. Rather than transcribing it in his own writing, or programming it into his cell phone, he had folded the paper and placed it in his wallet, the paper scrap imbued by Hard with talismanic significance by virtue of it’s source. He takes it out now and dials the number. Gets the message, a computer-generated voice. Hard disappointed, would have liked to experience the comfort of hearing Mary Swain right now, even the recorded version.
There are several gated communities in the Coachella Valley but Casa Sereno is the one to which the residents of all the others aspire. Not because the streets are more pristine, the homes more exquisitely designed, or the residents more beautiful. But like people who are famous for being famous, the neighborhood’s exclusivity is Platonic. Casa Sereno is the most sought after simply because that is how this collection of homes and lanes and landscaping is perceived. This is where Mary Swain told her husband she would like to live. Their house, one of four homes they own, is a five bedroom Spanish modern with a soaring entrance hall, huge living and dining rooms, a landscaped back yard, and a four car garage occupied by a Mercedes sedan, a Land Rover, a Bentley convertible and a Mini. That they could afford something far more impressive is a given, since among their other homes is a Fifth Avenue apartment in New York and a pied a terre near Hyde Park in London, but Mary Swain has what in the Palm Springs area passes for the common touch and this place was purchased only a few years ago with her political ambitions in mind.
Hard knows from an internal campaign memo that Mary has some down time this afternoon, which she plans to spend at home, and as he drives toward her house, he thinks about the couple of hours he and Vonda Jean spent there one evening last Spring. It was a fundraiser and when they walked in Hard had been immediately struck by two things: he was the only person there who worked for a salary and he had never in his life been around this much concentrated wealth.
After Hard heard Mary Swain was running for office he had written her a note volunteering his services and was surprised when she answered him with a personal note of her own. Yes, she would be thrilled to have the Desert Hot Springs Chief of Police work on her campaign. In fact, she was having a fundraiser at her home and would he like to attend? Hard waved that letter in front of Vonda Jean like it was Lincoln’s own copy of the Gettysburg Address.
He savors the visit to her house, remembers it like a favorite film, one that has unspooled in his mind many times. It had been a warm evening in late April. At the front door of Mary Swain’s home a silent young Mexican man in a white coat had greeted them and looked quizzically at the dress blue police uniform Hard was wearing. When he proudly displayed his invitation the man obsequiously gestured toward the backyard, where the event was taking place around the pool. The air in the house was cool and as Hard and Vonda Jean passed through he noticed the art on the walls, local scenes of desert landscapes and skies, modern furniture, variations in metal, leather and rich, dark wood that appeared to be daring people to use it.
A group of men surrounded a beautiful woman, listening as if the words from her lips revealed heretofore inaccessible secrets, the knowledge of which would allow those who possessed them to pass into celestial realms and Hard realized he was gazing at Mary Swain in the flesh. In a moment, she was gliding toward Hard, a vision in a white sleeveless dress that showed off her toned body, perfect hair swept to the top of her head. She introduced herself to Hard and Vonda Jean in a voice that held hidden promises and had she asked him, Hard would have run off with her that night. There were thanks for coming, and offers of drinks, and suggestions to mingle and then she was gone, flitting around the party like a faerie, dispensing her magic wherever she deigned to alight. That night Hard thought Mary Swain whispered of possibility, of hope. It made him want to be around her for the rest of his life, but since that was not possible, he knew he would throw himself into her campaign.
Hard remembers standing to the side of the shimmering pool, its limpid surface reflecting the white paper lanterns that had been hung for the party, remembers recognizing the owners of several local companies, two casinos, and a golf resort. And he knew the woman across the water whose beauty appeared to him otherworldly was a movie star because he had seen her in a romantic comedy Vonda Jean had wanted to watch on cable just a few weeks earlier.
That evening Vonda Jean had been wearing a simple green cotton dress, belted at the waist. Hard had sensed without asking that she felt underdressed and overmatched. She drank her wine like she was quenching a thirst and after a few glasses informed Hard what she thought of this collection of swells. There is no money in Vonda Jean’s family and on the drive home Hard had accused her of resenting those who have it. As for him, he had felt no class resentment, his attitude where do I sign up? The business world was not attractive to Hard, the man no great lover of lucre. But he liked the idea of power and was only too happy to labor on behalf of Mary Swain if it got him closer to the throne.
The next day he had phoned her office and was immediately invited to attend several functions with her and would he please be sure to wear his uniform. Hard is not much of a conversationalist, prefers to work the strong, silent side of the street and leave the yammering to the pencil-necks, so he and Mary Swain didn’t do much in the way of talking. During the campaign events where they were together Hard mostly basked in her glowing rays. Ever gracious, Mary Swain expressed her appreciation for Hard whenever he was with her, and Hard was seduced by her ability to look into someone’s eyes and make them forget anyone else was within miles. He never invited Vonda Jean to any of the events and she didn’t seem particularly interested which was fine with him. The relationship between Hard and Mary Swain found its apotheosis when he was asked to introduce her at the outdoor rally in the SaveMart Parking Lot the week before the election.
All of this is racing though his mind as he pulls up to the guardhouse at the gates of Casa Sereno. Hard recognizes the uniformed man at the gate. Rolls down th
e window of his truck and identifies himself the way a celebrity would introduce himself to a fan, we both know you know who I am but I’m doing this to be polite. The man greets Hard and then looks over his head, like he doesn’t want to make eye contact.
“Ms. Swain’s not there, Chief.”
“Her campaign schedule says she’s home with the kids today.” The man nods his head. Laconic. He’ll wait. “You see her leave?”
“Don’t know where she is.”
“Maybe you want to call the house and check?” Hard grips the steering wheel a little tighter. In the rearview mirror he sees a BMW 750i pull up behind him. The driver is a woman who appears to be in her sixties. Her lacquered hair rises in a pompadour several inches above her head.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No I don’t have an appointment.” The security guard holds up his index finger to the driver of the BMW, indicating that she should be patient. Hard fixes his stare on the security guard. “Pick up the phone and call her.” The man hesitates, then dials. Tells whoever it is on the other end that he has Chief Marvin here and he would like to stop by. After a pause, he hangs up and tells Hard that Mary Swain can’t see him right now.
“Did you talk to her?”
Now the security guard looks Hard directly in the eye and says, “I talked to Mr. Swain,” invoking the male territorial prerogative for which he is the proxy and suggesting by his tone that Hard should have the good sense to infer their conversation is now officially over. But Hard did not get to be a leader of men by hanging back, and he is not going to let this wage slave who couldn’t get hired as a real cop determine how this scrape in which Hard finds himself will play out. So he steps on the gas and rolls past the gate and into Casa Sereno.
The guard must have called reinforcements immediately because in less than thirty seconds Hard notices a security vehicle in his rearview mirror. Exhausted from lack of sleep and psychologically disoriented from finding himself in the unfamiliar role of suspect, Hard desperately tries to remember the way to Mary Swain’s home but the palm lined streets all look alike and he realizes he has no idea where he’s going. When the distorted and magnified voice blares, “You in the truck, pull over!” there is a brief internal debate during which he weighs the pros and cons of having a roadside conversation with the rent-a-cop on his tail, or just turning around and trying to get out of there with a scrap of dignity. In no mood to talk, he executes a three-point turn and heads in the direction he thinks will lead him out of Casa Sereno. The guard in the patrol car sticks to him and in the rearview Hard can see the man talking into the dashboard-mounted microphone, probably relaying Hard’s whereabouts to the guard at the gate who is going to be calling the Palm Springs Police Department if he hasn’t already. If only he could take back this entire day, Hard thinks, no, the week, the month, the year, if only he could go back to the night he met Nadine and walk right past her. Then he would not be desperately searching for a way out of this gated community, stage set for his mad dash to the girl of his heart, the perfect woman and now he aches at the situation in which he finds himself, his political future in jeopardy—his political future? His life!—the private patrol car right behind him now “Pull over,” but Hard knows if he does the police will arrive in moments so when he rounds a corner and sees he’s headed back to the gate, he guns the truck and hopes the security guard on his tail won’t follow him on to public property.
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