Another thought nagged me, too. What if Heather wasn’t really a dear friend of the McKimber family, but rather a Mensa-smart opportunist? Sure, everything she said and did looked supportive of Richard, but maybe something more sinister was motivating her. How would I ever know? Pretty much everything I knew about Heather came from Heather herself. The only thing I knew for certain, I suddenly realized, was that this Christmas was winning a prize for being the most depressing one ever.
It wasn’t long before I was on the northern stretch of Las Vegas Boulevard, the humbler section north of the Stratosphere Tower, where you can get married without getting out of your car, and you can pay by the hour for your honeymoon motel. I watched a cop chat with a streetwalker at the corner of Charleston. Business as usual.
I toyed with the idea of heading to the Golden Nugget, but I’d spent too much time alone in bed there already, and I knew it would just make me want to call Daniel and try to patch things up. And I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t sorry for how I felt, even if I was sorry we were having a fight on Christmas. And not only a fight, but the worst fight we’d ever had. It really bothered me that Daniel had said “fuck you.” We’d never spoken that way to each other before. I felt as though something had dried up between us that would never spring to life again. It reminded me of David Nussbaum’s backyard.
Chapter 20
I drove to The Light, which isn’t far from the Nugget. Neutral turf sounded good, and I figured I could look over the stuff Ed Bramlett had collected for me while I decided whether I could face Christmas dinner at the vicarage. The old coot had made such an effort to get it to me “before Monday,” so I figured maybe I should look at it before Monday, too.
The guard at the security kiosk, a young black woman wearing a Santa hat, was watching TV, painting her nails, and blowing big pink bubbles. She said “Merry Christmas!” before raising the gate, and I parked closer to the building than I ever had before. The lot wasn’t empty, though. There were at least fifteen other cars, and another one pulled in next to me as I got out.
The parking lot wasn’t deserted, but most of the building was. I didn’t see even one other person as I made my way to my cube. Good, I thought. Alone at last. No Christmas, no Daniel, no family, and not even any coworkers.
And also no jacket. The building was freezing and I’d forgotten to put my blazer back on when I left the Max. I didn’t want to go all the way back downstairs, so I headed to my cube, hoping a confined space might be a little warmer.
I stopped by my mailbox, where, by amazing good fortune, I found a red hooded sweatshirt stuffed in alongside the usual assortment of envelopes and slips of paper. It was a promotional gimmick for a comedy show, and it was size extra-huge, but I didn’t care. I slipped it on immediately and pulled up the hood. I was actually grateful that it hung down to my knees.
It was time to muster my courage and phone my family, but I decided to postpone the task a little bit longer and make myself a cup of tea. I was half-afraid I might run into Ed Bramlett in the lunchroom, but the lights were off, and nobody was lurking in the darkness. While my water was heating up in the microwave, I bought a package of cheese and peanut butter crackers from the machine in the corner. Christmas dinner. I munched one while looking out the window onto the smokers’ patio, and as I stood there, raindrops began spattering the glass.
Rain! It’s a rare but serious phenomenon in Las Vegas. Most of the time, everything is so utterly arid, you can’t imagine precipitation could ever occur. When it does, usually with no warning I ever notice, it won’t be a gentle drizzle. Either you get a few fat drops that vanish as mysteriously as they appeared, or else it’s the Johnstown flood. Really, it’s like heaven’s Hoover Dam busts open, and enough water to fill Lake Mead comes crashing down. Five minutes later, all the major thoroughfares are navigable by oil tankers, and helicopters are performing “swift-water rescues” of people stranded on the roofs of cars. Okay, the part about the oil tankers is an exaggeration, but I’m not making up the part about the rescues. Flash floods are real. When I first got to Vegas, I got caught by a flash flood in a grocery store parking lot. I finished seven chapters of The Da Vinci Code before a dove showed up with an olive branch.
By the time I had finished another cracker, it was obvious this wasn’t just a few fat drops. Rain was sheeting off the eaves over the patio, and the beds around the trees looked like wading pools. I’ll be here awhile, I thought, but at least I had an excuse for missing dinner at the vicarage.
I used that excuse, too. Michael answered the phone, and I told him that Daniel and I were trapped in a flood on the east side of town. “I wanted to show him some of the countryside,” I said, “but I hadn’t planned on a hailstorm.”
“A hailstorm!” Michael said. “That’s weird. It’s only raining here.”
“It’s pouring here now,” I said. “I don’t know when we’ll be able to drive.”
“Well, get here when you can,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to miss the beef Wellington.”
“I hope you’ll save us some,” I said, hoping even more fervently that the storm would be a long one.
It was a cop-out, but I just wasn’t in the mood to reveal to my family that Daniel and I were having a spat. Or maybe I was just following family tradition, the way a good Black should. My parents were having a huge spat, after all, and talking about it was the last thing they’d ever do.
Back in my cube, I turned on a light, rummaged in my backpack for the envelope David had delivered for Ed, and dumped the contents out onto my desk.
A quick look confirmed what I had already noticed. It was all about Julia Saxon. Printouts of newspaper stories, a couple of police reports, some court documents, copies of minutes from City Council meetings, photographs, and even two Xeroxed pages from the 1983 Valley High School yearbook. The first one, which featured a large photograph of a big-haired Julie Bigelow in a white gown and mortarboard, listed her accomplishments, including a stint as junior class president and a role as an attorney on the school’s mock trial team. She’d also played tennis and starred as Ado Annie in Oklahoma! But it was the second page that made me start paying real attention. A montage of photographs identified the Class of ‘83’s “Superstars,” a boy and a girl in each category. Duly noting the “Cutest Back Pockets” and “Most Likely to Sleep in the White House,” I learned that Julie Bigelow and a boy named Jasper Cutler were the “Most Likely to Rob a Bank Together.” Oh, come on, I thought. Maybe Sierra and Michael were right. Julia didn’t deserve suspicion because of a silly label in her high school yearbook.
The next page that caught my eye was a set of minutes from a City Council meeting about a year ago. I scanned it, and sure enough, Julia Saxon had been on the agenda, representing a client who wanted to build houses on a property on the north side of town. The city rejected the petition because of “hazmat ground contamination” caused by two ancient, leaky underground gas tanks left over from an old filling station on the site.
Next was a newspaper article about the Willow Lake property next to the wastewater treatment plant that the Alliance had wanted to buy. The treatment plant was enough of an environmental problem that the city wouldn’t let the adjacent land be used for houses. The City Council did grant a variance when it looked like the Alliance was going to acquire the property. Still no homes, they said, but it was all right to build “multiunit housing, including apartments, dormitories, or temporary housing for the homeless.” Why all this was okay if houses weren’t, I couldn’t figure out, but I guessed it was because they figured homeless people wouldn’t notice the smell.
I still couldn’t see why Ed had been so eager for me to get this pile of info before work on Monday, but when I looked at my watch and realized nearly an hour had passed, I was actually grateful to him. I hadn’t thought about Daniel or Christmas even once. I picked up a court brief, thinking I might as well read that next.
&nbs
p; “Whoa! It’s a big red Smurf!”
I almost knocked my mug onto the floor in surprise.
“David! What are you doing here?”
I pulled the red hood back and hoped my hair wasn’t too much of a mess.
“I should be asking you that! You’re the one who celebrates Christmas.”
“Yeah, well … I thought you had a date with Clint.”
“Oh, I do, but I ended up spending more time downtown than I expected today. I ran into some friends from back home on Fremont Street, and we had a few beers at the Main Street Station brewpub. I had to let the drinks wear off before I could drive, so I hung out in the coffee shop at the Golden Gate for an hour. Had the place practically to myself. But anyway, I just stopped by here to check my mail before I head home. Oh, and here’s something you might want to know. There’s a chance the cops are going to pick up Bobby Marks tonight.”
“Really? For Victoria’s murder?” I asked.
“Possibly. It could just be for assault, though. The Nye County Sheriff is involved, which means he did something in Pahrump.”
“Where the brothels are.”
David nodded. “Don’t know anything more. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
Somehow, that news cheered me up a little. If Bobby Marks killed Victoria, then Heather was probably the McKimbers’ real friend.
“Has the rain stopped?”
“Nope, but it might be showing signs.”
David leaned against the partition.
“What are you doing here, Copper?”
Damn. I didn’t feel like talking to David about Daniel, but the story I’d concocted for my family wasn’t going to work.
“I’m sort of homeless again,” I said, hoping it sounded sufficiently vague.
“Hmm. Weird situation for a WASP on Christmas.”
“Yeah, well, holidays aren’t immune to weird situations.”
Our eyes met. David may talk loudly, and he may speak his mind, but he also thinks carefully. I watched him consider what to say next.
“Is this what Ed sent you?” he asked, looking at the pile on my desk.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m still trying to figure out why, though.”
I opened my file drawer.
“Ed also gave me these,” I said, pulling out the pages he had delivered in person. “I haven’t had a chance to do anything more than glance at them.”
“Want some help?”
“Um … ” I said. Did I really want to bring David into what was already an uneasy blend of family, boyfriend, work, and career aspirations? I kind of liked keeping him as a separate refuge, but on the other hand …
“Yeah,” I said. “I’d actually love some help.”
“Well, look,” David said. “It’s freezing here. Why don’t we go to my place?”
I had to pause. If I drove all the way to Green Valley, I’d definitely be blowing off beef Wellington at the vicarage. I’d be pretty much blowing off Daniel, too.
“Will Clint be okay with that?” I asked. “I wouldn’t want to horn in.”
“Copper,” David said, “it would make his day.”
:: :: ::
So I decided to go, even though I had no toothbrush, and I was pretty sure that if I drove all the way across town I wouldn’t be coming back in only an hour or two. But who knew? And who knew what Daniel was doing? Screw him, I figured. I could use David’s insights on the Ed Bramlett intelligence, and his house did feel like a refuge. This had been a lame Christmas anyway. Except for meeting Nicky, it had been worse than a regular day. Although I was grateful to my mom for the bridal shower of household gifts. Really, that was sweet.
I was on my way down to my car when I realized I had to brave another phone call to the vicarage. If I didn’t make contact, my mother would probably make the police issue an Amber Alert.
Yes, she’s over eighteen, I could hear her say, but she’s my baby! You’ve got to find her!
I considered calling Michael’s cell phone, but then decided I better straighten my spine and call the house. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to make it tonight,” I practiced out loud as I punched numbers on my keypad. No, wait! No “I’m sorry,” even though skipping Christmas dinner felt as rude as missing my own wedding.
The phone rang three times before the answering machine picked up.
Yay! Another Black family tradition! My parents’ strictest dining room rule was “No phone calls, in or out.” Michael and Sierra didn’t adhere to the custom, but tonight they were apparently kowtowing to the ancients.
I waited for the beep.
“This is Copper,” I said. “I’m sorry, but”—damn!—“I’m not going to get there tonight. Merry Christmas, and I’ll call in the morning. Bye!”
I clicked my phone shut and smiled. Except for the “I’m sorry,” I’d pulled it off! And better yet, as I passed Russell Road, the freeway under me was suddenly bone dry.
When I got to David’s house, I parked on the street and rang the doorbell. As I stepped into the entry hall, I noticed that the wedding picture in the alcove next to the door was gone. The only evidence that it had ever been there was a little bent nail in the wall.
It was weird, but the absence of that photograph made me feel as though David’s marriage really was over. He’d removed Rebecca from the holy shrine, and in her place—nothing. Somehow that seemed more final than a court document. It should have seemed sad, too, but that’s not the feeling that started wrapping itself around my stomach. That was a giddy feeling, an excited feeling.
Except he is married! I reminded myself fiercely. Don’t let sentiment blur the cold hard truth! Still, I couldn’t help thinking as I followed David into the kitchen, he was in the process. He was moving on.
“Are you hungry, Copper?” David asked.
“Kinda,” I said, still grappling with the new feeling the naked bent nail gave me. “And—thanks for inviting me over, David. It’s been a really strange day.”
“Well, I guess that sweatshirt is the right outfit for you, then,” he said. “I’m not used to you as Little Red Riding Hood.”
“What big teeth you have,” I said.
“And nothing to eat with them,” David said, his head stuck inside the refrigerator. “I was going to get take-out Chinese on the way home, but I forgot to tell you, and you gave me my key back. I didn’t want you to beat me here and have to wait.”
“You could have called.”
“True.” He pulled a package of ground beef out of the refrigerator. “But I remembered I hadn’t had a chance to make you a meat loaf.”
I was very glad David was still rummaging in the crisper drawer when he said that, because it made a tear jump up in each of my eyes. It was just so damn sweet that somebody wanted to make me meat loaf. I pulled off my sweatshirt, surreptitiously wiping my eyes with it on its way over my head.
“So Ed Bramlett’s flirting with you now?” David asked as he located a bowl, a can opener, a knife, some celery, and an onion.
I rolled my eyes, but it was a wasted gesture. David was too busy opening a can of tomato sauce to notice.
“It’s a bunch of stuff about Julia Saxon. He hates her.”
“A lot of people do.”
“But she always seems so professional and civic-minded to me. She’s helping the Alliance for the Homeless, and she took on Victoria McKimber pro bono. And I just read a story about how she helped a neighborhood downtown get a skateboard park, and she’s on the board of the Humane Society—”
“A real champion of underdogs and nonprofits.”
“Well, yeah!” I said. “So why do so many people despise her? Because of her dad? Because she’s a strong woman?”
“Her father didn’t help her reputation much, but I think she’s made her own enemies.” David was chopping up an onion now,
and wiping his eyes on his sleeve. I liked watching him. All I’d ever seen him do in the kitchen before was make coffee.
“You hate her, too?”
“No. I don’t know her. I just wouldn’t trust her.”
“I guess that’s what Ed is trying to tell me. But I can’t figure out what I’m supposed to do about it.”
“Want some help?”
“You asked me that before,” I said, “and I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Well, look, then,” David said. Why don’t you spread everything out on the dining room table, and as soon as I get dinner in the oven, I’ll join you.” He wiped his hands on a paper towel, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a beer.
“And Merry Christmas,” he said solemnly as he handed it to me. “I’m sorry you’re not with your family, but I’m not sorry you’re with me.”
And damned if that same little thrill that took hold of me when I saw the empty marriage shrine didn’t wiggle its way into my belly again. I was still sorry Daniel was mad at me, but I wasn’t sorry at all that David had just diced me an onion.
Beer and backpack in hand, I moved into the dining room, where the table was clear except for two silver candleholders that had to have been wedding presents.
I was still arranging everything when David emerged from the kitchen and turned on an overhead light.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Yikes,” he said. “This is quite a pile.”
“I’m organizing it chronologically,” I said. “As much as I can, anyway. Some things don’t have dates.”
“Damn!” David had found the yearbook page. “Look at that eyeliner!”
“Wait’ll you see the page underneath.”
“Most Likely to Rob a Bank Together,” David read. “Cute.” He looked more closely. “Hmmm,” he said slowly. “That’s Jaz Cutler.”
“Jaz?” I said. I’d heard that name—where was it? Oh, my God! On Julia’s mystery tape.
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