While She Was Sleeping

by Diane Pershing

  While Carly checked through the racks, Nick kept an eye out. His gut told him the stalker from this morning was history—either he’d decided to get lost, or something else had come up to take him away from his pursuit of Carly. But Nick wouldn’t let down his guard—all it took was one moment of inattention for violence to strike.

  Something on one of the racks caught Nick’s eye, and he pulled it out. It was a low-cut, semitransparent black dress. He went over to Carly and tapped her on the shoulder. When she glanced around, he held up the dress, smiling suggestively. “What do you think?”

  Her eyes widened, then she gazed at him sorrowfully. “I wish I were like that, but I’m not.” She was serious, he realized, actually regretful that she wasn’t comfortable being on sexual display. Come to think of it, he was glad she wasn’t.

  “Hey, I’m kidding, really.” When Carly’s face relaxed with relief, he checked out the dress one more time. “So, you find this too obvious, huh?”

  “About as subtle as a For Rent sign.”

  She chose a lightweight green sweater and matching slacks. A small well-used black leather purse brought the total to nineteen dollars. After that, they picked up a toothbrush and underwear—sensible cotton, to Nick’s regret. But, he figured, now was probably not the time to extol the virtues of silk and lace next to skin. Maybe later, when the threat of danger was history. Maybe then.

  The glasses were ready when they returned. Carly put on the round black frames, peered around the shop, then into a mirror. Her very own, nonfuzzy face stared back at her. “I can see!” Turning to Nick, she wrinkled her nose. “Do I look awful?”

  “No. Actually, you look kind of cute.”

  She made a face. “Spare me. But, oh, Nick, this is wonderful. Do you realize I have yet to see, I mean, really see, anything? What’s next?”

  He glanced at his watch. “We get information. This reporter I know is meeting us in fifteen minutes.”

  “Reporter?”

  “We do each other favors sometimes. I supply an extra detail or two on a case, Bobbie gives newspaper space to something that needs publicity. She’s bringing along pictures and background on Demeter.”

  The sense of letdown was immediate. Carly had been indulging herself, enjoying a brief respite from tension. Engaging in banter with Nick, and window-shopping in the sunshine, she’d actually been able to leave the terror in the shadows.

  But, of course, Nick was right. Now that her immediate physical needs were taken care of, it was time to focus all their attention on the case.

  The clock was ticking.

  Chapter 9

  The morning clouds were gone. The fabled Venice Beach boardwalk, Nick observed, looked her best. As it was past tourist season, the wide stretch of sand that ended in a sun-dappled ocean seemed clean and relatively free of debris. There was, as always, still a lot of foot traffic on the boardwalk—dogs, in-line skaters, bicyclists, joggers, the elderly with walkers, mothers and fathers with babies in strollers—but Nick was able to steer Carly close to some of the stalls that lined one side of the street.

  He should have set the meeting with Bobbie in a less public place, he thought. He should have brought his gun. If he hadn’t been off the force all these months, he would have automatically taken it with him when they’d left the house that morning. He’d lost his edge, and he knew it. So he was super-vigilant in protecting Carly, sticking close and constantly checking their surroundings. The merchandise was all junk to him, but Carly seemed to find the tacky T-shirts with slogans, racks of sunglasses and cheap jewelry, swimwear and souvenirs thoroughly fascinating.

  The woman was definitely a shopper. Nick added this facet of her personality to the small store of information he already had on her. She was also, he discovered, a basketball fan. She knew her game—years, she told him, spent rooting for the Celtics. He was a Lakers man, but who cared, as long as she was a fan.

  When Nick steered her to the Venice basketball courts, which consisted of several playing areas divided by chain-link fencing, Carly decided she had never seen so much testosterone in one place. Black, white and brown athletes, mostly men, but a few women, communicated with each other using the most astonishingly foul language Carly had ever heard. As Nick and she found an empty bench to sit on, he explained that was just the way they talked—it was part of the tradition and meant nothing personal.

  The games were fast and furious. Onlookers hooted their encouragement. Even though she knew they’d come there to meet the reporter, Carly found herself so caught up in a one-on-one challenge, she barely noticed when a woman sat down on the other side of Nick and said hello to him.

  “Carly,” Nick said, “meet Bobbie Kim.”

  Bobbie’s round face creased in a smile; she reached over Nick and gave Carly a hearty handshake. She could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, Carly thought, liking her instantly. Her features were one hundred percent Asian, but her accent was that of a California native, except that she spoke much more rapidly. Carly had to really work to keep up with the woman’s flow of words.

  Bobbie had gathered all that her newspaper’s files had on the late Mr. and Mrs. Peter Demeter. To the background noise of thudding basketballs, running feet and colorful insults flying back and forth as quickly as the ball changed hands, Nick looked over the information about Demeter while Carly read about what had happened to her sister.

  Nina Terry had become someone else, had undergone a total transformation, leaving behind the small-town girl of her youth. The reborn Amanda Terrence had been a dancer in Las Vegas, then gone on to Hollywood. Some modeling, some “acting”—roles in a couple of X-rated films. Marriage to Pete Demeter, a big-time gangster, a huge home in the Silver Lake area near downtown L.A., great sections of which had nearly been destroyed in the ‘94 earthquake. After that, they’d lived aboard Demeter’s yacht. He had been wild about her, they’d thrown lavish parties. Who was this person, this Amanda? Carly wondered sadly. Had she ever known her sister at all?

  In the car crash six months earlier that had killed Amanda, Demeter had been driving. It had not been his fault; the other driver, who had been drunk, was also killed. Nevertheless, Pete Demeter had been racked with guilt over his wife’s death and had become a near hermit since, grieving in seclusion.

  Bobbie had also brought along some clippings with pictures of Demeter’s associates. Still dazed and troubled by the story of her sister, Carly looked through them, then, disappointed, shook her head. She didn’t recognize any of the faces. Bobbie shrugged, smiled, said she was glad to help and took off, walking away as rapidly as she’d spoken.

  Bobbie’s data confirmed what Nick already knew: recent underground scuttlebutt was that Demeter was losing control over his drug-trafficking empire. The sharks were circling. There were rumors of a possible takeover from within while his enemies nipped at his heels. But there was nothing new in all this information, nothing that would cast a light on the mystery of Carly’s involvement and the man who was after her.

  He’d been hoping for a break, but it hadn’t popped up yet. He glanced at Carly and noticed the wistful expression on her face. “Hey, what is it?”

  “Nothing, really,” she said with a sad smile. “It’s just that I guess I never really knew my sister, and now I’ll never get the chance.”

  Squeezing her hand, he said grimly, “If she could live with Pete Demeter, believe me, you’re better off not knowing her better. The man was a vicious kilter—the world is better off without him.”

  She nodded, letting him know she was all right, so he went on. “I need to access the sheriff’s department database. Their organized-crime section has everything we’re looking for.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “No, but Dom can. It’s time to bring him on board. Come on, let’s find a phone.”

  Most of the public phones were out of order, so Nick grabbed Carly’s hand and they ducked into a trendy coffeehouse that stood adjacent to a pool hall. He called Dom from
the pay phone, managing to reach him at his desk.

  “So, what’s up, Nick?” Dom asked.

  “I need mug shots of everyone concerned with Demeter.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “Because I’m asking you.”

  “Not good enough.”

  Nick muttered an expletive. “Why did I know you would say that? Okay, here it is.”

  With Carly by his side, her gaze locked on him, he spent the next five minutes, pitching his voice low, laying out the situation for Dom. His friend’s only reaction was what sounded like brief spurts of rapid gum-chewing.

  “Okay,” he said when Nick was done. “I’ll need an hour or so. Meet me at, let’s see, somewhere out of the way. I got it. The kid? Miguel? His family runs a restaurant in Santa Monica, Casa Griego on Tenth near Colorado. Meet me there at six.”

  “We have an hour,” Nick told Carly when he hung up. “You hungry? Need to do any more shopping?” He was buzzed, impatient. He wanted action. Now.

  She put a hand on his arm and said softly, “What I’d like to do is sit on a cliff and look down on the ocean. Do you mind? Something about the waves and the sand makes me calm down, and I really need to do that.”

  So did he, and both of them knew it. “I know just the place.”

  They drove to the palisades that stretched all along and above the Santa Monica beachfront. Rugged cliffs rose high over the Pacific Coast Highway, offering a view of the vast ocean. Along the grass-filled palisades were oddly shaped pine trees that had been sculpted by the winds. In the late afternoon, people were gathering blankets and boom boxes, leaving, making their way back to their regular lives.

  A low wooden fence, perfect for leaning on, ran the entire two-mile length. After checking the area and deciding it was safe, Nick stood next to Carly and watched die-hard surfers to the south, dolphins to the north, sailboats way in the distance. For a short while, he tried, really tried, to allow his nervous energy to let down.

  Carly’s suggestion had been a good one. When you looked at the ocean, just looked at it, thought about how it had always been there and always would, things got put into context. He’d always been drawn to the water for that very reason.

  It was one more thing they had in common.

  Monday night

  At six, they walked into Casa Griego, which was small and intimate, with four tables in the middle and three rounded and high-backed booths on each side, facing center. All except one of the booths were full, but conversation was muted by the mariachi music playing in the background. Just past the entrance stood a colorfully decorated cubicle where a round, gray-haired woman—the blood of an ancient American Indian tribe inscribed on her face—was hand-rolling tortillas from ground cornmeal, then setting them on a hot griddle to bake.

  At the first whiff of the restaurant’s wonderful smells, Carly heard her stomach growl. Realizing they hadn’t eaten since breakfast, she told Nick, “I’m starving.”

  “Yeah?” He seemed distracted, but revved up again, the way he’d been all morning. The ocean view had helped her, a little anyway. But it hadn’t worked its magic on Nick. His barely contained restlessness radiated from him like static electricity.

  A slender, dark-haired boy of twenty or so came up and led them to a booth. “Carly, this is Miguel,” Nick said. “Miguel, meet Carly.”

  The boy smiled shyly at her. “Welcome to my family’s place,” he said with a faint Hispanic accent.

  “It’s charming,” she said. “Do you have a large family?”

  “My aunt and uncle are in the kitchen. That’s my abuela, my grandmother, rolling the tortillas, and my mother is watching from the cash register. I wait on tables, and my little brother is the busboy. Now, what can I bring you?” he said once they were seated. “A glass of beer? Maybe some nachos?”

  By now her mouth was watering. These were not familiar East Coast smells, but they were enticing. She glanced at Nick, then back at Miguel. “Well, we hadn’t planned on eating...” She let it trail off.

  “But you will,” Miguel said with a grin. “Dom told me you were meeting him here.” His eyes glowed with excitement. “You two are working on something undercover. Very important.”

  “Yeah? Is that what he said?” Nick asked.

  “Not really, but I can tell when he’s hyped. He’s been my Big Brother a lot of years. Okay, sit back and I’ll bring something delicioso while you’re waiting for him.”

  Dom walked in just as they were drinking beer and eating hot fresh corn chips smothered with melted cheese and chiles. He was shorter than Nick and stockier, Carly noted, although none of it was fat. He had black curly hair, a nose that looked as if it had been broken a few times and an unsmiling mouth with a small scar across one corner. He wore dark wraparound sunglasses and chewed gum rapidly. He scared her to death.

  “Um, hi,” she said when Nick introduced them.

  Poker-faced, Dom nodded at her by way of return greeting, but said nothing. As his glasses completely covered his eyes, she couldn’t see his expression—but it wasn’t friendly. She wondered if he disliked all women on principle or her in particular, for putting Nick in a difficult situation. Whichever it was, it didn’t make for a pleasant atmosphere.

  Seating himself next to Nick, Dom tossed a thick manila envelope on the table. As though on cue, Miguel appeared with an open bottle of beer and a chilled glass, and set it down in front of him. “Your favorite, Dom.”

  Dom almost cracked a smile. “I like the service, kid.”

  “Will you excuse me, please?” Carly said, getting up and escaping to the bathroom. She needed to give herself a little talking-to.

  Both men watched her walk away, then Dom turned to Nick. “Hey, my friend,” he said, “what kind of deep doo-doo are you into? You got to bring her in.”

  “I will. Not yet.”

  “She’s a witness to a homicide.”

  “Not technically—she didn’t see who did it.”

  “Don’t give me that technically crap. Hell, she should go in for her own safety, if nothing else.”

  “I’m taking care of it.”

  “Oh? Pardon me, I forgot I was talking to supercop. Why haven’t you brought her in?”

  Nick let out a sigh. What Dom was saying reflected what his brain had told him already, repeatedly. He shouldn’t have agreed to the twenty-four hours. But, since meeting Carly, he hadn’t listened to his brain. “Because I’ve promised her she doesn’t have to, not yet.”

  “Excuse me?” The black eyebrow rose in an arch. “You ‘promised’?” He made the word sound ludicrous.

  Defensive now, Nick’s temper flared. “Hey, I gave her till tomorrow morning, Dom. Get off my back. If you don’t want to help me, say so.”

  Dom continued to stare at him, assessing. He chewed his gum rapidly, then stopped. Finally, his natural pugnacity lessened and he allowed one corner of his mouth to quirk up. “All right, for now.”

  “And, for my sake, lighten up a little on Carly.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay.” Shaking his head at the shame of it all, he added, “Amazing what happens to a man when a woman is involved.”

  “It happened to you, too, Dom,” Nick said quietly. “With Theresa.”

  At the mention of Dom’s late wife, his friend took in a quick breath of surprise. He was thoroughly subdued, his expression serious. “No way. Is it like that, Nick?”

  “Could be.”

  Dom whistled softly. At that moment, Carly returned to the table. He snuck another look at her, as though deciding to really check her out this time, maybe even give her another chance. Good, Nick thought. The tension at the table would lessen now.

  “Ready,” Carly said. She’d taken a little time to gather her resources. Dom had intimidated her, but she was determined to get past that. She had no intention of viewing pictures of criminals while her hands shook.

  “Look at these, okay?” Dom said, pulling out the stack of pictures from the envelope and setting them on the table. He
sounded almost pleasant, for that moment. While she studied each one, he went on. “I ran a check on all known associates. The two goons that guarded Demeter are in that stack too, in case they look familiar. Both of them were found unconscious belowdecks, one with a major conk across the temple.”

  He pointed. “That would be Sam ‘the Shift-Man’ O‘Connell. The docs aren’t sure if he’ll make it. The other one—Fast Frankie L’Bonza—he just had a mild concussion, but he ain’t saying squat.”

  Wide-eyed, Carly glanced at Dom, then at Nick. “Do they really have names like that? Shift Man and Fast Frankie?”

  Nick chuckled. “Yeah, it’s a status thing. If you don’t have a nickname, you’re not part of the inner circle.”

  Dom pointed to the picture Carly held in her hand—a brutal-looking man with a shaved head. “I also threw in a few for-hire types, in case some rival gang set Demeter up. I got a whole book of these crooks down at the station.” He directed this pointedly to Carly. “If you want to come in, you could look through them.”

  “Tomorrow, Dom,” Nick said easily, perusing the pictures over Carly’s shoulder. “Like I told you.”

  Carly had just rejected one of a surly-seeming ape of a man when she picked up the next one and froze. Her stomach muscles clenched with fear.

  The man had a narrow face with sunken pits under his cheekbones, and pale, eerie eyes. His hairline was receding, but he didn’t seem older than thirty-five or so. True, she hadn’t seen him with her glasses on, but she hadn’t needed to. “That’s him,” she told Nick and Dom. “The man at the airport. And he was on the yacht, too, at some point, although I can’t say just when.”

  Nick grabbed the picture, studied it and nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one who followed us this morning.”

  “Bingo,” Dom said.

  Nick turned the photo over and read the information on the back. “Eddie Monk,” he said out loud, “aka Lance Monk aka Lawrence Edwards... Born. in Boyle Heights, here in L.A. Two arrests, in L.A. and Vegas. One conviction—served nine months in Nevada for selling drugs. That was eight years ago. Moved back to L.A. afterward. Last-known address is Kittery Island, Maine.”