by Joni Rodgers
“It doesn’t seem to make sense out loud,” said Smartie. “I honestly don’t know why he wanted to marry me. He was never the slightest bit attracted to me or my books.”
Casilda sighed and bummed a cigarette from the pack on the counter.
“He says he had the silly dream that you and he would be this literary golden couple. Like Didion and Dunne. Hellman and Hammett. The ironic thing is…” She hitched the lighter, cupping her palm around the flame. “I’ve always had that silly dream for him and me.”
\ ///
8
Charlie was working on walking, gripping two fingers on Shep’s left hand to pull himself up, grinning a great, toothless hillbilly grin of accomplishment, but Shep was focused on the well-worn Gray’s Anatomy spread open on Libby’s kitchen table.
“It looked like a dozen or so pronounced puncture wounds from here to here,” he said, pointing to a posterior view of a skeleton with clear overlays of circulatory system and musculature. “A screwdriver, I’m guessing from the diameter. Maybe an ice pick.”
“Not an ice pick,” said Libby. “That would have been deep enough to do major trauma to several vital organs. Very doubtful she could have survived that.”
He moved his index finger to the shoulder. “Also up along here is sort of an irregular pattern of some kind.”
“Burns, maybe. Possibly a deep abrasion.” Libby scanned the index of another text book and laid it open in front of him. “Or did it look more like this? This would be left by a gangrenous infection of a relatively minor scrape.”
“Except it’s not discolored like that. It’s mostly white.”
“That means the scar tissue is several years old,” said Libby.
“The cigarette burns were clearly identifiable.” Shep indicated the chest on the anterior view. “Both sides of the chest. And around the, um… that area.” He moved his index finger to the place he’d kissed with the most particular care and gentleness.
“I know this sounds terrible in this context,” Libby said, “but I’m thrilled that you were in a woman’s area.”
“Lib.”
“I’m just saying. As a medical professional. It’s healthy.”
“Obviously, we’re looking at evidence of a sexual assault, which means her identity would have been shielded from the media.”
“Or some kind of systematic torture. Child abuse. Or spousal.”
“In any case, the stab wounds had to be a life-threatening injury. I can’t imagine how a violent crime like that could have been kept out of the public record. There has to be a police report. Something in the media about a Jane Doe. I ran the best set of specifics I could put together and came up with no matching criterion in the state of Texas in the last twenty years. ”
“Well, you’re assuming that it happened here,” said Libby. “And that it was less than twenty years ago.”
“She’s thirty-six. If it was more than twenty years ago, she’d have been a kid.”
“You can’t assume that it all happened at the same time. You don’t know that.”
“No, but it’s reasonable to assume.”
“Why? Because it’s less painful for you to think about?”
Shep hated how surgically right Libby could be sometimes.
“Seeing something like that in the ER, we used to automatically think child abuse,” she said. “With this generation of women—and I’m not making any assumptions here—there’s been a weird increase in self-harming. Cutting. Cigarette burns. Point bruising.”
“There’s no way she could have damaged herself like that.”
“In the case of a young woman subjected to domestic violence, sometimes the response is internal self-harm. Self-destructive behaviors. Substance abuse. Promiscuity. Risk-taking. Inappropriate wardrobe choices. Does this woman seem psychologically stable?”
Shep pondered that. “I wouldn’t say she’s unstable exactly, but she’s creative.”
“Like Janny?”
“Like Cirque du Soleil.”
“Oh, dear.” Libby bit her bottom lip.
“She said her late husband specialized in counseling torture victims.”
“Shep, is this the right person for you to be involved with right now?”
“I’m not involved.” Shep closed the book on the exposed body. “She was hoping I’d reopen a case. Now she’s not returning my calls.”
“I’m sorry, big bro, but that might be for the best.” Libby kissed the top of his head like she would Charlie’s. “Coffee?”
“Always.” Shep steadied Charlie who’d begun to teeter.
While Libby assembled the coffee and placed sugar cookies on a plate, she whistled a little tune and then mentioned with utmost nonchalance, “I had lunch with Claire yesterday.”
Shep didn’t answer, but Charlie guffawed and slapped his hands on Shep’s knee, enjoying a moment of schadenfreude at his uncle’s expense.
“She always asks about you,” said Libby. “She said if you feel like giving her a call sometime—”
“Libby. She set my car on fire.”
“That was six years ago. Let bygones be bygones, for Pete’s sake.”
“She set it. On fire,” said Shep. “My car.”
“It was a difficult time for everyone involved. You did some things you regret, too, big brother.”
“And I paid for it. You’ll notice, she’s still a cop, and I’m not.”
“You can’t blame that on Claire.”
“Oh,” Shep huffed. “Can’t I?”
“She doesn’t blame you for the fact that she’s never made detective.” She went to the sink and made herself busy with cups and saucers, her back to her brother. “She’s still in love with you, Shep.”
“Drop it, Libby.”
“Hobbit, Yibbee,” Charlie crowed an imitation of Shep’s raised voice and cackled with delight at his own cleverness.
“I’m sorry if I made it awkward for you,” Shep said carefully. “You and Claire have been friends for a lot of years, and I respect—whoa. Libby. Lib, look! Here he goes.”
“Oh! Oh!” Libby gasped. “Camera! Camera!”
Charlie had let go of Shep’s leg, and wavered now, freestanding but uncertain as Shep eased back and drew a small digital surveillance cam from his pocket.
“You’re good, Scout. You got it,” Shep said low and even. “C’mon, Ponch.”
“C’mon, Charlie.” Libby opened her arms. “Come to Mommy.”
Leering like an ax murderer, Charlie tottered across the kitchen to his mother, off on the journey of a thousand miles.
Later Shep that night watched the brief video no less than forty times, sitting low in the driver’s seat of his Range Rover. Waiting. Shep did a lot of waiting in his line of work. Drinking coffee in restaurants. Hunkering down in his Range Rover on quiet streets. Pretending to read newspapers in hotel lobbies. Waiting was something he did particularly well because he was neither bored nor troubled by it. He did not wait passively or impatiently. Waiting, for Shep, was like the white space on a page, the black keys on a piano.
There was a shiver of light between the crepe myrtles down the boulevard.
Shep thumbed the record button on his little digital video camera. A silver Lincoln SUV emerged from the night-shaded neighborhood and looped into the circular drive in front of the McMansion across the street.
“Time is 11:27 p.m. Subject previously identified as the client’s spouse, Mr. Kevin Van Reuse, exiting the vehicle at the shared residence. Client, Mrs. Van Reuse, exits the vehicle from passenger side. Client and spouse enter via the front door.”
Shep thumbed the pause button and steadied his elbow on the car door. After a time, a door opened at the side of the house and light spilled into the driveway. Shep cued the camcorder.
“Time is 11:42 PM. Subject previously identified as Kevin Van Reuse exits the shared residence via the side door, enters the Lincoln Navigator registered to the client. Subject enters vehicle on the driver’s side
. Unknown party exits from the side door. Appears to be a white female. Late teens. Approximately five-five to five-seven, 130 pounds give or take. Enters the vehicle on the passenger side. And we’re off.”
Without turning on his headlights, Shep eased down the street, keeping the dark green Range Rover close to the palmy shadows near the curb.
“Following subject south on Shattuck. Cross street, Parma Grove. Turning left on Filbert. Unknown female subject is below line of vision periodically. Movement in the vehicle would suggest oral copulation, Mr. Van Reuse being the recipient thereof.”
The Lincoln stopped at a red light that beaconed the border of the subdivision. Shep waited, hanging back, headlights off. The light turned green, but the Lincoln didn’t move.
“Okay. We got him.”
Shep stepped on the gas, swinging his Range Rover up alongside the Lincoln’s passenger side, situating the nose just close enough that the Lincoln couldn’t pull forward without hitting him.
The girl turned toward the camcorder, whisking her honey-colored hair over her shoulder, an expression of wide-eyed innocent surprise on her heart-shaped face. Van Reuse remained oblivious for a second or two, head tipped back, eyes closed, but then he did a double take, his face flexing from startlement to instant rage when he saw Shep leaning out the window with the camcorder in his hand.
Van Reuse thrashed himself upright, pushing the young woman’s head from his lap, dragging his pants up around a spit-glistened woody. For the sake of the camcorder, Shep tried hard not to laugh, but he took particular delight in nailing this ass clown. Chowing it to the teenaged babysitter. That was low.
Smile, asshole, Shep grinned. You’re on candid—
“If you post that on YouTube, you’re dead, you fucking pervert!”
“Mr. Van Reuse, I’m an investigator with—hey, hey. No. I advise you to stay in your vehicle, sir.”
Van Reuse crashed out of the Lincoln, shouting at Shep that he was a pervert and about to die. Raising his window, locking the doors, Shep kept the camcorder running. He wanted an iron-clad close-up ID of the subject along with the verbally abusive and downright loco behavior. Van Reuse strode to the rear of the Navigator and brought out a tire iron.
“Sir, you do not want to do that.” Shep called through the closed window. “Listen, sir. Mr. Van Reuse? Listen to me.”
They never listened.
“Fuck you, asshole!” Van Reuse bellowed, and the rear window of the Range Rover exploded.
“Mr. Van Reuse? Sir, you’re only making this worse for yourself.”
The tire iron jabbed through the passenger side window and raked across the hood. The windshield spider-webbed and sagged.
“Ah, God damn it,” Shep groaned.
He spurred his headlights and caught a fleeting bit of footage of the babysitter running down the street, her Hello Kitty backpack bouncing off her shoulders. As the Range Rover roared away from the intersection, the tire iron clanged against the rear quarter-panel and bangaranged on the pavement.
Shep cursed and lowered the driver’s side window, completing the involuntary cross-breeze as he headed toward the freeway. He was going to require a beer before going home. And a coin-operated car vacuum. It was Shep’s job to deliver Charlie to daycare every morning, and Libby would not be amused if she saw her son’s little safety seat filled with auto glass niblets.
The cell vibrated in his breast pocket. He fished it out and checked the caller ID.
Suri Fitch.
Shep said, “Hey, boss.”
“Good evening, Mr. Hartigate,” said Suri. “Did you bag Van Reuse?”
“Paper or plastic?”
“Sweet. Upload the video and e-mail a link as soon as you get home, will you? I’m anxious to see it.”
“No problem.”
“Why so noisy on your end?”
“Got the top down.”
“Ah. How Roman Holiday of you, Shep. Hang onto your Fedora.”
He enjoyed the way she said his name, enjoyed the easy back-and-forth they’d settled into over the last year. The honeysuckle texture of Suri’s laughter combined with her all-business demeanor to create a short-skirt-long-jacket brand of sexy.
Smartie Breedlove had been the anti-Janny with her generous curves and petite stature; every time Shep watched Suri walk purposefully down the hallway, he was instantly returned to everything he loved about Janny’s long, lean legs and angular body. Suri had the same strong lines and unquestionable rightness with which Janny had always carried herself.
In the ultra-modern glass and steel construct of their workplace, Suri’s private office was a tastefully sensual haven of rich fabrics, soft side chairs, and warm wooden fixtures. In an intricately carved box on her desk, she kept a collection of little elephants carved from soapstone and tiger’s eye, and she played with them sometimes when she was thinking.
“It’s getting late,” Shep said casually. “Why don’t I stop by the office and see you to your car?”
He’d wait until they were in the elevator together before he suggested they go for a drink. Get her to a bar. Take it from there.
“You’re very thoughtful, Shep, but Mr. Barth is here.”
Shep’s shoulders sagged a little. Oh, well. Worth a try.
“Shep, could I trouble you to take care of one other tiny thing?”
“Sure, boss.”
“I had a rather odd conversation this afternoon,” said Suri. “This new client is supposedly announcing her intent to file tonight.”
“Supposedly?”
“I got a frisson that something was off.” Suri retreated just short of anything that might sound like an accusation. “It’s a bit late, but I wish you’d pop round and verify that she made good on her intention and the spouse is off the premises. For her safety, or however you care to spin it.”
“Got it.”
Suri gave him the address, but Shep’s hand stopped midway as he jotted it down.
“Smartie Breedlove?” he said. “She’s your client?”
“Yes. How do you know her?”
He groped for an answer. “She’s a writer, isn’t she?”
“Shep,” Suri said crisply. “Don’t make me be an archeologist.”
“I interviewed her a while back.” For some undefined reason, Shep didn’t want to say any more than that. “It was a non-issue. The case never made it to filing.”
“What case?”
“The Bovet matter.”
“Indeed.”
A stone-cold trickle crept down Shep’s back.
“She didn’t know anything,” he said.
“About what?”
“About the Bovet matter.”
There was a silence. Shep suddenly felt Neville-ish and sweaty, wishing he could close the broken windows on his car.
“My goodness, Shep. What an elephantine memory you have,” said Suri. “To recognize her home address after all this time.”
Shep didn’t answer. He waited. Let her play the black key.
“Also an interesting coincidence that Ms. Breedlove should come to us,” said Suri. “There are so many less expensive firms that could proficiently handle what appears to be a simple annulment to avoid giving up any of her assets.”
“She has grounds for that?”
“Tax records show lack of cohabitation. Both parties have maintained individual residences. No consummation. He’s on record objecting to the fact that she documented his impotence in a book. Case closed.”
There was another brief silence. Suri made a little cricket sound between her teeth.
“Pop round to Ms. Breedlove’s,” she said. “Make sure the spouse is out and she’s sincere about her intent to file. Tomorrow I’d like to revisit your notes on the Bovet case and refresh our memories on Ms. Breedlove’s involvement. Have those files on my desk first thing, if you would, please.”
“No problem, boss.”
\ ///
9
Parked across the street from Sm
artie’s house thirty minutes later, Shep still felt that uncomfortable tickle somewhere between the back of his mind and the root of his shoulder blades.
The porch light was on, as were the driveway and patio lights, and what appeared to be pole lamps inside the downstairs windows. Shep debated knocking on the door, but before he’d had time to puzzle through the various ways this thing might play out, he saw Smartie and her gargantuan dog jogging up the block.
“Smartie,” Shep called, and she stopped in the center of the street, feet set apart, arm raised to shoulder level. A small object glinted in her hand.
“I have pepper spray,” she announced. “And this dog is trained to attack.”
“It’s me.”
“Shep.” As she jogged toward him, she muttered something that sounded like, “Yams.”
Twinkie, whose attack training had apparently lapsed a bit, loped over to the Range Rover, plopped his hammy paws on the window ledge and thrust his head in, leaving a wide swath of drool across the headrest and Shep’s neck.
“Dog. No! Sit. Down, boy.”
Still breathing hard and perspiring from the jog, Smartie gave Twinkie a schnuzzle and hauled back on his leather collar, gently scolding.
“Twinkie, down. Go kennel up, baby. Twinkie, kennel for cookies.”
Leaving another swath of drool on Shep’s shoulder, Twinkie heaved himself off the car door and gamboled across the street and up the steps, assuming his assigned post on the front porch like a lion outside a library.
Smartie eyed the Range Rover’s broken windows and scarred rear section.
“Nice wheels,” she said.
“Nice hair,” Shep shot back, relieved when she laughed.
“It’s good to see you again, Shep.”
“Is it? I left several messages and didn’t hear from you.”
“Right,” said Smartie, offering no white lies or legless disclaimers.
“Right. Well. Sorry to bother you so late. Your friendly neighborhood divorce lawyer asked me to come by and make sure your spouse is off the premises.”
“He is.”
“Everything okay?”
“God’s in His heaven. All’s right with the world.”