“You want me to believe that The Barb was your Svengali?”
She smirked at that one.
“Who supplied you with the drug?”
Autumn sulked, pulled the covers up to her chin.
“I don’t know, do your lab tests, figure it out. I’m tired. Leave me alone.”
There were voices outside the room then the door opened and a burly suit, carrying a suitcase, walked in.
“Hi Autumn,” said the big man.
“Lo,” she said.
“Ms. Lambert?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Frederick Levy, Autumn’s lawyer.” He put his hand out. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
I shook his hand and it wasn’t a bad grip, fairly strong. His beard wrapped around his big face. I wondered if he was from St. Louis or Los Angeles.
“Do you also negotiate record deals, Mr. Levy?”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t answer her,” said Autumn.
“Well, thank you for your legal advice,” he said, smiling with great charm at Autumn. Then he turned to me.
“I’m trying to find out if Autumn knew anything about the drug,” I said. “There haven’t been any charges made against her so there’s no need for alarm at this point.”
Frederick scratched his beard, then showed me his teeth and turned to Autumn.
“Autumn, do you have any information on this drug matter?”
He was from St. Louis. No Los Angeles lawyer would have even used a pretense of cooperation.
Autumn vehemently shook her head no.
“Ms. Lambert, from now on I must ask you not to speak with my client, not without my presence.”
“Okay.”
He was from St. Louis, but he was in Los Angeles, now. “Autumn will help in any way she can in your investigation, but I understand the guilty parties in this are all dead.”
“That’s not entirely accurate. We’ve located the remains of The Barb but have yet to find any trace of Dewey.”
A look of fear ran across Autumn’s face. “Dewey is still alive?” she asked.
“We have every reason to believe so. He must have escaped into the mountains during the explosion.” She considered this. “Someone supplied the drug,” I said to Levy. “They had to get it from somebody. I’d like to know who.”
“I see. If Autumn remembers anything, we’ll call you first thing.”
“I’d appreciate it,” I said. “And Autumn will need to undergo some tests to see if the drug she was given is the same as the one used on the kidnap victims.”
“Well see about what Autumn needs,” said Frederick Levy.
Autumn was staring at the end of her bed when I walked out. Once outside on the UCLA grounds, something jabbed at my brain. Like a stone in my shoe, I couldn’t ignore it.
I called Gus and told him what was on my mind, but he insisted I join him at the LA County Museum for some exhibit. I said okay, but not with much enthusiasm.
“Meet me out front,” he said.
When I got there, he was standing on the steps. Pink buttermilk clouds filled the blue sky over his head. I walked up to him and he grinned at me.
“What’s so goddamn funny?” I asked.
“You’re going to the museum with me. As you walk up these stairs, I want you to leave the world behind you and enter a different realm.”
“I think I’ve spent plenty of time lately in a different realm, okay? It’s not my first museum, Gus. Come off it.”
It was a brisk trip up the stairs, Gus grinning all the way.
I patiently listened while Gus droned on about the Renaissance and then Latin Art, which included some souped-up cars with flames. I have to admit that I found the Goya intriguing. It underlined my desire to visit Spain. One day, I’m going to go. Then we came across something that looked vaguely familiar. It was a textured abstract painting with bright colors.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s a Haitian artist,” said Gus.
I walked up to the painting and looked at the caption. It was an unknown artist and the painting had been done on goatskin. Gus came up beside me.
“What is it?” he asked.
There was a white streak through bright colors of red, orange, and vibrant blue.
“Do you think that looks like lightning?” I asked. Gus pursed his lips and then turned to me.
“That’s not really the question, is it?”
“No, the real question is—Where have we seen this before?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
WE DROVE OVER TO Dr. Sheffield’s lab. The bored old lady receptionist took us down a hall. Dr. Sheffield wore rubber gloves and big safety goggles as he worked behind a glass wall. He looked up with dawning recognition as we approached. He stared at us blankly, eyed Gus, then nodded to the receptionist, so she left us there. We waited while he removed his gloves and goggles and came out of his glass box.
“You again,” he said.
“Could we go into your office and get comfortable, have a nice conversation?” I asked.
“I’m busy. I have a lot of responsibility to attend to. In the future, an appointment would be prudent.”
We followed him to his office and Gus spotted the painting behind Dr. Sheffield’s desk. It was nearly an exact replica of the one at the museum. They could have been a set. Dr. Sheffield sat down at his desk. “Have you ever been to Haiti?” asked Gus.
“Why do you ask?”
Gus walked over to the painting. “Is that where you got this painting?”
“The painting is from Haiti. It was a gift to me.”
“From Dr. Blanchard,” I said as a statement.
“Yes.”
“When I first came here, you didn’t mention that you actually knew him. Why not?”
“It’s not something I announce. But you seem to know already, so I’ll tell you that I was his field researcher for two years. I was well out of there by the time of the incident. Is that what you are here about?”
“Can you tell us who would be able to supply a large amount of a drug, similar to the drug Dr. Blanchard used in Haiti?”
“No, I couldn’t. I haven’t been in that world for twelve years. What makes you think the case you’re on now has anything to do with Dr. Blanchard?”
“Let me ask you another question. Do you know anyone by the name of The Barb or Dewey?”
Dr. Sheffield sighed and shook his head. He pushed his glasses down on his nose and squeezed the place between his eyes.
“There was a young man by the name of Dewey who worked for Dr. Blanchard in the lab, an assistant.”
“And The Barb?”
“Never heard that name.”
“Did Dr. Blanchard give you any other gifts? Maybe a journal with his formulas, a book of his potions?”
“No. And now, it is time for me to make a call. Excuse me. I will be with you in a moment.”
He ushered us out. Gus and I stood outside the door of the doc’s office and waited.
“Thanks for taking me to the museum,” I said.
“I bet you lunch he’s calling whoever financed this operation to get the name of a lawyer.”
In two minutes, Dr. Blanchard opened the door and waved a piece of paper at us.
“Please feel free to call my lawyer if you have any further questions.” He handed me the paper and closed the door on us.
“Lunch is on me,” I said.
We went to Engine 52 for lunch, an old firehouse transformed into a classy restaurant. The fire pole is still there and sepia-stained pictures of all the firemen and the old fire engine built in 1941. It’s a comfy but elegant place.
I ate my Mediterranean salad on the side of my mouth that still had all its teeth and gulped down a cup of coffee. Gus had meatloaf, which is his favorite.
“You want dessert?” asked Gus.
“No.”
“Come on, you have to try the devastation cake.”
“I think I’ve alr
eady had it.”
“No, no. You’ll love it.”
“Sure, okay. Why not?”
We had our cake; it was delicious. We left the restaurant, drove over to Parker Center, and on the way Gus received a text with a file attached to it. I checked it out while he was driving.
“What’s this?” I asked. “Says it’s from Camarillo, the asylum.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t tell you. While you were out on medical leave, I found out Dewey has a cousin in Camarillo, murdered his wife. I followed up on it and one of the trustees had remembered a letter from Dewey and promised to text it to me.”
“Amazing, really, but as your partner, I think you should keep me better informed.”
“I’ll work on it.”
I read the letter out loud to Gus.
•••
Dear Cousin,
I didn’t know where you were until Bernie told me last week all about your wife and how you ended up in Camarillo. My heart was heavy with the bad news. If only we could go back to Haiti and start over again. So many of us have been splintered like wood for the fire. I am on my way to California and I will make a point to come visit you when I get there. I hope you are allowed visitors.
Mama made me go work for the doctors against my own will and good sense. I wanted to stay home and learn the old ways like her. I never liked those doctors. But she was convinced they had special magic and the secret to making money because they were from the United States. Everybody listened to my mother and so I did too. I wish I hadn’t. In Haiti, I was my mother’s son and the people loved me. Now, I have fled my village and can never return. Here, in New York, I am only another fool with no money or home. The funny thing is the man who brought me here believes I have the same power as my mother. My mother helped him once he says and he is indebted to me. He has taken an interest in spiritual things and he thinks I can help him. He is very ambitious and means for me to assist in his endeavors. What he doesn’t know is that I am dead inside. I didn’t learn the secrets from Mama like I wanted and now I have lost the spirits.
They don’t talk to me anymore. I have offended them and I don’t think I can get them to take me back. It is hard to convince the spirits because I don’t even believe that I deserve their mercy. Mama is dead, as are many others, and though I didn’t mean for any of it to happen, I feel I am to blame. Maybe Mama will explain to the spirits for me.
Pierre, why did you kill your wife? Was she cheating on you? I heard she was American. There are many beautiful women here but I don’t seem to be able to befriend any. Maybe I will meet one in California. I don’t know what will happen to me. This man I am working with has some crazy ideas and though I’d like to discourage him, I am afraid to alienate his good feelings toward me. In this world, a man must have at least one friend. Sometimes I think I should run off into the woods. But there are no good woods in America where a black man like me can live in peace. Perhaps if I disguised myself as that BEEEG FOOT THING. But then, can’t you just see them coming after me with their cameras, inspecting my footprints? That would give me away for sure because my feet are too small. Maybe you should make some room for me in your asylum. I might end up there and at least I would have a safe roof over my head and get to see my cousin. I’ll say a prayer for you but I warn you, no God or spirit listens to me.
Your cousin, Dewey
“You think Dewey is hiding out in the Malibu Mountains?” Gus asked.
“For all we know he’s on a bus to New Orleans or Miami,” I said. “Where he can just disappear.”
“His description went out to all fifty-two states, so plenty of people will be looking for those dreadlocks and that knot in the middle of his forehead.”
“Yep, there’s that.”
Dewey could make an interesting witness against Autumn Riley. That was for sure. Autumn and Dewey in a courtroom; I’d like to see that.
•••
BACK AT THE OFFICE, we had to do yet more paperwork wrapping up the case and filling in the more recent details on Autumn and Dr. Sheffield. Gus added the letter from Dewey to his cousin to the murder book. I added the information from the coroner’s office on the old man, the potter buried in the backyard. There was no next of kin. I didn’t give any details regarding my Raggedy Ann, as I didn’t think I could stand the harassment I’d receive if that ever got out. I did get plenty of congratulations and a big pat on the back from Satch. Then he called me into his office.
“Autumn Riley’s parents were here; they were sorry to miss you.”
“Oh, jeez, Cap’n. I would have liked to talk to them.”
“Personally, I’m glad you didn’t.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t have been as diplomatic as you and the DA, but it would have been an enlightening encounter.”
“The DA has worked out a deal. Autumn will go to an institution for deprogramming. It seems Autumn was unduly influenced by The Barb, manipulated with this powerful drug. He used it to control her. That was your original theory, right? The DA feels strongly that Autumn Riley is strictly a victim.”
“What? The DA? Who? Which one?”
“Stephen Mollach.”
“Stephen Mollach? Since when did he become an expert on these things? I’m going to call him myself and give him the blues, yes I am.”
“Go right ahead, Joan. Waste your time if you like. Politics and justice don’t mix, Satch. They don’t go together. Autumn Riley is strictly a victim? Yeah, sure she is. You have proof different?”
“Paige and Vernice might have a different story.” If only I could add the name Dewey to the list. I had this feeling that Dewey had the full story and that he just might want to tell it. Certainly, we’d have to offer him a deal.
“Legally, Autumn can’t be held liable for acts done under the influence of The Barb and this drug.”
“Don’cha think a jury should decide that? Satch, she locked Paige in a well. She had a personal vendetta against each of the girls, I’m sure.”
“For what reason?”
“Well, I know that Paige, for one, beat Autumn out at the pop star audition. Several witnesses confirmed the confrontation in the acting class with Katrice, Anne, and Vernice. Tia, the waitress, said Autumn was bragging about acquiring scoring roofies down in Mexico. Plus, Vernice overheard Autumn planning the sacrifice of all the girls with The Barb and Dewey. I think that, in itself, qualifies as kidnap and attempted mass murder, don’t you? Autumn is absolutely accountable for her actions. I know it.”
“I need proof.”
“Sure, no problem, as soon as I can get the psychic to turn.”
“When’s that?”
“When pigs fly out my ass.”
“When pigs fly out your ass? Oh, that’s a good one.”
“It’s not mine, I borrowed it.”
“So, anyway, Autumn Riley’s wrapped.”
“Autumn Riley better make sure she pees straight because if I get even a…”
“Now, your Dr. Sheffield, you need to leave him alone, too. He’s been cooperating since day one. When you first visited, he sent over some extremely helpful information to the coroner’s office. Now, what do you want to do? Incriminate him with it?”
“But they had to get those drugs from somewhere. What? You think Dewey was able to brew them up all by himself or that he smuggled them into the country from his lab exploits in Haiti? Sheffield must know something.”
“There’s nothing on him. He’s clean. His lawyer worked me over with a tractor this afternoon.”
“With a tractor, Satch? Where’d you get that?”
“I got that one off you.”
“Oh, you’re just trying to smooth me over. Though it does sound like something I’d say. Jeez, you’re killing me here.”
And the conversation went on like that. To sum it up, I was told that I had been a good girl and to quit while I was ahead. Then Satch sent me home, said I looked beat. My head was pounding so I begged some aspirins off of Gus and downed them with water
. I crushed the little Dixie cup in my hand and tossed it into my trash can and stared at it for a few moments, not thinking anything, just studying the little folds in the crunched paper of the cup. Probably a slight residual effect from the drug cocktail Dewey shot me with.
When I drove across town to my place, I stopped at a stand that makes keys and had an extra house key cut for Eddy. While I was waiting, I used my cell phone to call home. The answering machine answered and I told Eddy to pick up. He did.
“Do you want or need anything?” I asked like we were an old married couple. “I’m on my way home.”
“No, but I’d like you to meet me at the Santa Monica Pier, in front of the carousel.”
“Okay. Any particular reason?”
“Think of it as a date,” he said.
I paused for a moment. “See you there.”
I realized when I hung up that Eddy and I had never actually been on an honest-to-God date.
A half hour later, I stepped onto the historical Santa Monica Pier. When I walked across the wooden planks, the soles of my feet became suddenly very sensitive and it was as if I could feel each groove of the wood through my shoes.
I didn’t see Eddy anywhere and I wasn’t interested in the arcade or any of the other booths that attracted throngs of people every weekend. I stopped and stood outside the carousel as couples and families strolled by.
When a father and daughter walked by holding hands, I recalled my father giving me the gift of my Raggedy Ann doll and that got me thinking about Hector. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to make sure Autumn had my doll. I had to believe he wanted to tell me something. It was meant to be more than a taunt. He’d taken Pancho from my home but had not harmed the dog. Maybe an angel still had a hand in him. I could only guess that some place within him he still had a conscience and could know the pain of others. With his last spoken words, Hector had provided me the clue,
“Piuma,” “basura,” pointing me to the dirt road that I was able to recognize on the limousine driver’s map. It was because of Hector that I was able to find the captives, to put it all together. He had enabled me to see the full picture so I could bring an end to it. Was it merely to get back at The Barb? I didn’t think so, because he had been laying down tips, clues, from the beginning, starting with the Raggedy Ann Doll. It was a game that he meant for me to win. Perhaps he had finally recognized what he had become. Or maybe it was some part of him that wanted it to be revealed. At any rate, it was Hector’s last tortured words that led me down the trail, Piuma, the dirt road, to Tommy and the girls.
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