The carousel music drew me inside the glass-and-wood building of the permanent and famous carousel. It’s the same carousel featured in the beginning of that movie, The Sting, and it’s been in use since the 1930s. The flying horses and sleds with rococo ornamentation, their lights and music, were balm for a weary soul. The building that encases the carousel has large windows that allow passersby to look in. I sat down on one of the wooden benches to keep a lookout for Eddy. A clown walked by outside with a bouquet of colorful balloons and I watched his big red shoes clomp, clomp on the water-worn wood of the pier.
Children ran up to the carousel and climbed onto the bright horses, their parents often climbing onto a nearby one. It was uplifting to see their gleeful shining faces as the carousel started and the horses went up and down and around. I looked out the window for Eddy and caught my reflection in the glass. My face was encircled by the swirling colors of the carousel, the little horses with children going round and round my head. I was reminded of Epona, the goddess in Kunda’s poster, and the vivid prism that encircled her pale face. I recalled the white colt in the background, as well as the skull of death. I turned back quickly to see the children and their joy, to hold death back from my mind, if only for a moment.
Eddy walked toward me. He stopped and talked to the clown and I watched as he bought a blue balloon. Eddy and the balloon made their way toward me and I smiled as he entered the carousel and sat beside me on the bench.
“The balloon is for you,” he said.
“You hold it for me.”
I put my arms around his middle and laid my head on his shoulder. I felt good, at one with the world. I decided that there wasn’t anything at all wrong with Eddy. He wasn’t too young or too anything. He was just right.
He gave me a hug and I went to sleep, dead away, right there on his shoulder. I hadn’t realized I was so tired.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
A FEW MONTHS WENT by. I was working a case in Koreatown that involved the murder of two slave labor immigrants, a brother and sister. I had spent the day interviewing people who thought it was clever to pretend they couldn’t speak much English. To say I was frustrated wouldn’t begin to describe it.
That week, as arresting officer, I had testified against Mary Tyler in the preliminary hearing. She had lost some weight but not her subtle charms, and I was thinking that the death penalty was going to be a no-brainer for the jury. Oh, but wait. No, not in California. I can’t say if it’s right or not to put someone to death, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. The Mary Tyler case had been a tough one in that so much was at stake and the details of the case were laced into the illusion of the silver screen. There had been several TV and cable movie versions of her story.
When it came to the case of the Korean brother and sister, I was in uncharted waters. Within the world of the garment industry, there’s a subculture filled with languages, dealings, and personalities that I was not so familiar with and that worried me. I believe that one of the things that makes me unique as an investigator is the fact that, in addition to the foolproof methods of thorough investigation, I often go for the unusual approach that brings me into the case on a deeply personal level with those involved. I couldn’t see how I was going to pull that off in the case with the brother and sister. I needed an in.
Gus came into Homicide and tossed a tabloid rag on my desk with Autumn Riley and Glenn Addams’s picture splashed on the front. Bright red typeface announced their small secret wedding in Tuscany.
“Just thought I’d brighten up your day.”
I picked up the paper and gazed at the figure of Autumn Riley in a pure white dress and a tiara.
“She looks just like an angel. Don’t make me read it, okay? Just tell me what it says.”
“They’re doing a movie together.”
“Oh, yeah? What kind of movie?”
“A thriller—storyline is of a rising pop star taken captive by a crazed manager.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“Isn’t Hollywood a wonderful place? Speaking of which, I heard that Kunda is over at the police academy today. Is that right?”
“She’s working with that bloodhound lady from Riverside.”
“What’s she doing?”
“Kunda, the psychic, is providing insights on what the dogs are feeling. It seems they’ve been traumatized by one of their assignments.”
“You’re lying.”
“Nope. I swear it’s true. It seems she has done extensive ESP work on animals and she’s developed quite the reputation. Did you know that dogs are psychic, too?”
“This I got to see.”
“I thought you would.”
•••
I FOUND KUNDA ON one of the park-like fields set aside for dog training. She was sitting on a low stone bench with three bloodhounds in front of her. One of the dogs had his big head on her lap. The other two sat like loyal disciples.
The dogs’ handlers stood off to the side and showed me only a glancing interest. I wasn’t certain it was Kunda until I came close enough to see her face well. I’d only seen her adorned in the flowing new age silks and Pre-Raphaelite hair arrangements. Today, she was dressed in brown suede pants and a white T-shirt and her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail. Her hand floated just above the hound’s remarkably sad face. How had she convinced whomever she had convinced to give her this gig? Her eyes were closed and she was uttering an affirmation or something. Her voice was barely above a whisper. Maybe for the dog’s sensitive ears. I wasn’t sure what the etiquette was, so I just said hello and waited. The dogs all turned their sad eyes on me. They still had the scars from the homemade bomb that had killed one of them and two officers.
Kunda opened her big violet eyes and stared straight through me for a few seconds while she came back from wherever. The dog on her lap gave me a big huff as a hello. “Detective Lambert,” she said. “I thought that it might be you. I see you’re doing much better than the last time we met. Your aura has much greater clarity. I’m happy for you.” She thought it might be me. You had to love this woman.
“Thanks,” I said. “You look good yourself. A new style you got going here?”
“Not really. It’s a little more conservative is all. I can fit in just about anywhere in order to do service. ‘Course, there’s some very rigid, closed beings around here…but I don’t have to tell you, do I?”
“They’re cops, Kunda.”
“I suppose.”
“So, are these guys going to be all right?”
“Definitely. They’re very pure, very gentle spirits. I’ve been able to bring in the love, the healing love, of the spirits who passed on. They have kind, soothing messages to give those they’ve left behind and these gentle beings are responding very well, as you can see.”
I wasn’t sure if I could or not, but, if pressed, I’d have to say that the dogs did seem to adore her.
“Have you done this type of work before?”
“Sure, lots of times with dogs. But I also work with birds, cats. A fish once.”
“A fish? No kidding.”
She gave me that superior smile of hers and that tilt of her head.
“What has brought you to me? Is it a case? The brother and sister? I’m sensing you need help with that. I’m being well paid on this assignment but I’d be willing to work with you free of charge.”
“I seem to remember you saying that before.”
“And did I keep my promise?”
“Yes.”
“And did the information I provided help you with your case?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it did.”
“And that’s why you’re here, Joan. You need my help again.”
“You think I want your advice?”
“I’m not offering advice exactly, more like assistance.”
“No, Kunda, you’ve got it all wrong. I came here today because I couldn’t believe
that it was really you, doing this important work with the bloodhounds, and I had to see for myself. I’m very fond of them, by the way. So, please, do a good job.”
“We never know where our paths lead, Detective. The important thing is to be open to traveling them with awareness. The wrong paths as well. There are always signs pointing the way. Closed doors are not always closed doors.”
“Wish I knew what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I will always do a good job for you, Joan. I may have my flaws. I might have made mistakes in my past, but…”
“Yes, go on.”
“It’s foolish for you to turn away my help.”
“So long, Kunda. Happy trails to you.”
The goddess smiled, and the tilt of her head made its appearance again.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. It was nice of you to come by.”
I nodded and walked away.
“There is one thing…I suppose it is a piece of advice. It’s not coming through very clear, though. Maybe because you are not as receptive as the dogs.”
I chuckled softly to myself, stopped, and turned back to her.
“Are you insulting me?”
“You should do the painting or finish the painting. Yes, that’s it. Finish it. Are you in the middle of redecorating? Finish the painting… Oh, hey, do you do, like, ah, oil paintings?”
I tried not to clue her in, but my jaw may have dropped a bit when she said that, giving her the affirmation she was looking for. I didn’t speak; I merely looked at her.
“Yes, that’s it! You’re an artist. Right.”
“Maybe.” I gave her a slight nod, tried again to make my exit outta there.
“Call me, Joan. I can help. I want to help.”
I turned back to her one last time. One of the bloodhounds looked up at me.
“Ya know, I just might take you up on that.”
A sincere grin took form on her face. Finally, I walked away from her. I could feel her bright smile shining on my back.
Behind me, one of the bloodhounds let out a soft mournful howl, and that set another softly howling, and then another joined the sad song. The collective refrain created a chorus that ushered me on my way.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENT IS due to the detectives, all diligent men and women, of Pacific Homicide. Namely, Michael DiPasquale and Joe Lumbreras, who both gave me great insights to their work and the detailed picture of a crime.
I’d like to thank Pat Walsh and Tyson Cornell along with the gifted staff at Rare Bird Books.
I’m deeply grateful to Michael Connelly, who is quite the decent guy. He was generous to me and supported my process while writing this book. He also gave me sound advice about the publishing industry. Thank you, Michael, you are an inspiration and a friend.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
EVA MONTEALEGRE CAME OF age on the historical showboat, The River Queen. Her father docked the old gambler’s boat in St. Louis, Missouri, and transformed it into a renowned restaurant and nightclub. Her mother, a journalist for the respected St. Lousian Magazine, influenced Eva’s ardent development as a researcher and writer from a young age. Eva grew up in an environment rich with the dramas of socialites, politicians, artists, and musicians.
Eva began writing professionally as the researcher for a small production company in Santa Monica, California. The position evolved into writer/producer and sometimes director on the project The Shaping of America, a series of historical spots on American history. Eva has an extensive interview and journalistic background and has worked for Brentwood News and Venice Art Magazine interviewing and reviewing the work of known personalities as illustrious as the beloved Dizzy Gillespie and the respected Chris Connelly, editor of Premiere Magazine.
Mixomatic, Eva’s first short story, won Best Fiction award in Direction literary magazine. She has created a living anthology of short stories for the Internet. Eva has interviewed Michael Connelly, T. Jefferson Parker, Robert Eversz, Barbara Seranella, and other stellar mystery authors.
When working on her novels, Eva does firsthand research. She works closely with detectives in Los Angeles. She has also toured the coroner’s office with the medical examiner. Eva has guest-lectured and taught writing to both children and adults; she has been on mystery panels and participates in mystery conventions.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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