Bones and Roses (12 page)

“Oh, it's not trouble. I love to cook,” she assures me. “Actually, it's rather a passion of mine.”

“Don't tell me. You studied at the Cordon Bleu,” I reply in jest.

“I did, actually,” she replies modestly. “The summer before medical school.”

Of course. Is there anything this woman isn't good at?

I find Daniel over by the tennis court cutting the grass with the tractor mower. He's shirtless, wearing shorts and sandals, and the stripe of red skin on his nose tells me he's forgotten to put on sun block again. Typical absentminded professor. He waves to me and cuts the engine, climbing down to greet me. “I'm not going to hug you. I'm all sweaty,” he says as he walks toward me.

“I'll take that as a sign of affection.” I give him a peck on the cheek, then step back to admire the fruits of his labor—grass mowed, hedges clipped, flowerbeds pungent with a fresh application of fertilizer. “Nice work.” I don't know how he juggles it with all of the other demands on his time.

He grins at me and pushes his sunglasses onto his head. He looks boyish with his sunburned nose and sandy hair standing up in damp tufts where he's raked his fingers through it in wiping the sweat from his brow. “You done for the day?” I nod, and he says, “Give me another half hour and I'm all yours.”

“I may not be able to wait that long.”

“Why, what's the hurry?”

“Come with me and you'll find out,” I say in my most seductive voice. I give him another kiss, this one on the lips, and turn and head down the path to his place, hips swaying. He needs no further enticement.

A quick shower and he's all over me like maple syrup on French toast. “Wow. You were on fire,” I say when we're lying in bed afterwards, naked and sweaty, enjoying the cool breeze from the ceiling fan revolving slowly overhead. “Was it me or seeing Genevieve in her bikini?” I tease him.

“You know I have eyes only for you, Tish.” He nuzzles my neck. I know he means it but, truthfully, it's been a while since sparks have flown in the bedroom, so whatever the reason, it's all good.

“You're forgiven, in that case.”

“What for?” He draws back to look at me.

“Painting me into a corner when she invited us to supper.”

“Oh, that. I did nothing of the kind. I told her I'd have to check with you.”

“After you told her we didn't have plans.”

“I thought you liked her and Bradley.”

“I do. That's beside the point.” He looks so taken aback, his eyes clear and blameless as a baby's that I take pity on him. “Never mind. I'm sure it'll be a nice evening. Now tell me about your day.”

He does, and I tell him about mine, which I have to say was way more interesting than a contaminated lobster tank and a student flunking out. “Two Fontana employees—three if you count my mom—die within months of each other, both from fatal injuries. You think there could be a connection?”

“I think,” he says, lying on his back with his hands laced behind his head, “you may be reading too much into it.”

“No, seriously, what are the odds?”

“I don't have the statistics, but my guess is, roughly one in ten thousand.” I should have known better than to ask a scientist. “In other words, unlikely but not beyond the realm of possibility.”

“Still. I have a funny feeling about it.”

He turns his head to look at me. “You suspect foul play?”

“Maybe. I don't know. What if Douglas was behind it? He worked at the Fontana back then.”

“And now his wife is claiming he tried to murder her. If this were a movie, the spooky soundtrack would be playing and I'd be yelling, ‘Don't go in the basement.'” He deepens his voice as he utters the line from a thousand slasher flicks.

“You think this is all in my head?” I pull myself into an upright position, the better to glare at him.

“Yes, I do. That said, I also think it's perfectly natural under the circumstances.” He pulls me back into his embrace, but he might as well be hugging his tractor mower, I'm so tense. “First your mom, then Joan, now this. It's enough to have the Dalai Lama looking suspect.”

“There's a lot that doesn't add up,” I insist.

“Or you're seeing monsters where there are none.” He speaks in the same, calming tone I've heard him use with students when they're in hysterics over a failing grade or some other perceived catastrophe. I wrestle free of his embrace and jump out of bed. He rolls onto his side so he's facing me, head propped on his elbow. “Tish. Please. I'm not trying to pick a fight. I'm on your side.”

“No, you're not. You're patronizing me.” I start pulling on my clothes.

“I'm sorry if it sounded like I was. I didn't mean it that way. I was only trying to help.”

I swing around to face him as I'm zipping up my jeans. “How? How is this helping, Daniel?”

“You're asking questions that could get you fired.”

“Are you worried about what would happen to you if I do?”

A hurt look comes over his face, and I start to feel bad. Naturally he's concerned about his living situation. He'd be out on his ear along with me, damned by association, if I were to voice my suspicions about Douglas and it got back to him. Even Joan wouldn't be able to protect us. The property is in both their names, at least until the divorce is final, and he pays the bills. I would have relented, then, if Daniel had lost his temper or even sulked. Instead he heaves a long-suffering sigh, which only incenses me further. He sits up, swinging his feet over the edge of the mattress so they're resting on the floor, arms extended in supplication. “Tish. Please. Don't be this way.”

“You think I have a choice? That I can snap my fingers and be a different person?” I demand. “Sorry, I only come in one flavor, and it's not vanilla!” I grab my sneakers and march out the door.

I decide to pay a visit to McGee on my way home. He's not in his office, so I climb the stairs to his apartment. He answers my knock, beer in hand, wearing baggy chinos and a wife beater that shows his tattoos: a coiled rattlesnake on one arm, Jesus on the cross on the other—an interesting statement, if that's what it is. I didn't phone ahead, yet he doesn't seem surprised to see me.

“Pardon the mess. It's the maid's day off.” He smirks and steps aside to let me in. The place isn't so much untidy as it is tired-looking with its blue shag carpeting and outmoded furnishings: a worn plaid recliner and matching sofa, laminate coffee table with more cigarette burns than a Guantanamo Bay detainee, and a bookcase that holds a handful of paperbacks and a TV set dating back to when
Family Ties
aired in prime time. The kitchen appliances are seventies-era avocado. “Have a seat.” He motions toward the sofa. “Get you something to drink?”

“Water. With ice, if you have it.”

“Sure, I got ice. Got running water and cable TV, too.” Only McGee would get prickly at an innocuous request. He walks over to the fridge and pulls out an ice-cube tray with more frost than ice from the freezer section. He gives it a good whack against the kitchen sink and drops a handful of cubes in a plastic tumbler. He fills it with water from the tap and brings it to me.

“So, how does a cop end up in a place like this?” I ask when he's seated across from me.

He squints at me. “Why, something wrong with it?”

“No, I was just asking.”

“If you must know, it was on account of the previous manager being a crackhead. The owner, Red—he's a friend of my cousin Tommy—found out he was cooking the books to feed his drug habit and fired his ass. That was where I came in. He figured he couldn't do wrong with a cop.”

“Interesting.”

His raptor eyes fix on me. “Your turn. What brings
you
here? Because I have a feeling this ain't no social call.”

“As much as I enjoy your scintillating company, no.” I offer up a crooked smile. “Something came up that I'd like to run by you. Is this a good time?”

“Good as any.” He bids me to continue with an exaggerated, impresario-style sweep of his arm. I tell him about Martina and Hector and my growing suspicion that Douglas Trousdale had something to do with their deaths. McGee listens intently, showing no indication of whether he thinks I'm onto something or as delusional as my brother. He doesn't weigh in with an opinion until I'm done.

“So Trousdale gets caught with his hand in the till or he's running some scam. Seems unlikely two low-level employees fresh off the boat would've found out about it, but let's say they did. They threaten to expose him. Or they're blackmailing him in exchange for keeping quiet. He's desperate. And unlike my boss, Red, he can't just send them packing. He needs a permanent solution. The kind that requires the services of a professional.” He mulls this over. “Interesting theory.”

It sounds even more bizarre coming out of his mouth, yet I can't shake the gut feeling that has me so unsettled. “What I can't figure out is where my mom comes in. If she got tangled up in it somehow and was killed because of it, why dispose of the body? Why not make it look like an accident?”

“Maybe because it would've been one accident too many. Three in a row would've raised suspicion.”

“Makes sense. But where does Stan come in? Do you think he was involved?”

“I'd need to know more before I could answer that. So far you got nothing on him.”

“He sure acted guilty.”

McGee shrugs. “I've had guilty men who could talk a good game and come out smelling like a rose, and innocent men who you'd have bet a paycheck had bodies buried in their backyard.”

“It's possible I was wrong about him.”

“We won't know until we have more information. Let's see what my brother-in-law can dig up.”

“Pete?”

“Nah. Patrick. My sister Connie's husband.”

“Is there anyone in your family who's
not
in law enforcement?”

McGee pauses to consider this. With his tattoos and slicked-back Donnie Brasco hair he looks more like an undercover cop, disguised as a dealer, than a retired one. “Well, there's my cousin Danny,” he says. “But we all think that's on account of he got dropped on his head as a baby.”

I wince, picturing it. “Jesus. You mean he's brain damaged?”

“Worse—a lawyer.” He chuckles and tips back his beer.

“Funny. So you think Patrick can help us?”

“He's with the Bureau. They have access to shit you wouldn't believe. Anything on those D. B.'s—accident reports, insurance records, coroner prelims, you name it—if it's out there, he'll find it.”

CHAPTER TEN

I'm no stranger to detective work. I've found runaway cats and dogs that were given up for lost and the source of mysterious leaks and noxious odors that had professionals baffled, and I can usually tell, without invading anyone's privacy, who in any given household has a stash of weed or is likely to cheat on his or her spouse. Two days later I get a call from a client, eighty-two-year-old Mrs. Belknap, who's frantic over a report from her next-door neighbor that the pool boy has been using the swimming pool at their vacation home for his own recreation. The following morning, which happens to be the day of the Belknaps' regularly scheduled pool maintenance, I drive over to investigate, arriving in time to catch Pool Boy, a lanky redheaded kid named Colton, in the act. Only it's not him, but his pooch, a gray-muzzled Labrador retriever, paddling in the deep end. He's contrite, explaining that his dog, Maverick, has arthritic hips and his veterinarian prescribed swimming as therapy. He pleads with me not to rat him out. He needs the job to pay off his student loan. I let him off with a warning. I'm not about to get a fellow animal lover fired, and it's not a lie exactly when I report back to my client that he hadn't put so much as one toe in the water.

I head over to the Trousdales' afterward to meet with Joan about some work she wants done on the exterior of the house. I'm winding along Canyon Oaks Road when I hear an ominous popping sound and the Explorer starts to shake and shimmy; it's a tense minute before I can wrestle it onto the shoulder, where I skid to a stop amid a cloud of dust. Cursing, I get out to find I have a flat tire, as I suspected. Great. Just what I need. I debate whether or not to call Triple A before deciding to man up and deal. Never mind I haven't changed a tire since I learned how in driver's ed.

I'm grabbing the jack and tire iron from in back when the quiet of the country road is shattered by the crack of a gunshot. Dirt erupts from the ground, two inches from where I'm standing. I freeze, the air sucked from my lungs. A split-second later I'm on my hands and knees commando-crawling toward the ditch that runs alongside the road. I'm scared out of my wits, but I'm also mad as hell. I figure it's some numbnuts shooting at squirrels and missing by a mile. I'm about to call out to him when another bullet whizzes past my head. I drop onto my belly, holding myself flat to the ground, inhaling as much dust as air with each breath. A cold hand tightens around my windpipe with the realization:
He's not shooting at squirrels.
It appears I'm the target.

I struggle to quell my panic, mumbling a mash-up of every prayer I learned in catechism along with some language the nuns wouldn't approve of, then I start crawling again as fast as my knees and elbows can carry me. I dive headlong into the ditch as another shot rings out, tearing a chunk from the fencepost above my head. I start to hyperventilate, emitting squeaky hysterical noises with each breath. Now it's to my higher power I pray. Unlike the heavenly father depicted in the illustrated Bible I'd had as a kid, with His flowing white beard and celestial robes, my HP is more big brother than father. The brother who taunts you but also protects and defends you.
Dude, you've gotta be fucking kidding me. I got sober for
this?
So I could end up as road kill?

I quickly realize that if I want to live to see my next birthday, my only chance is to get the hell out of Dodge. Because I'm a Hail Mary away from one of those bullets finding its mark. I rise to crouch, bursting forth in a mad sprint, headed for my SUV. The last time I ran this hard was in seventh grade PE doing the fifty-yard dash. Then, I was one of the slowest in my class; now it's as if my heels have sprouted wings. I'm Wonder Woman. My feet barely touch the ground I'm moving so fast.

Pop, pop, pop
. A hail of gunfire kicks up the dirt around me. It seems he's not shooting to kill, he's only trying to scare me. He's doing a good job of it: I've never been so scared in my life. The next bullet cuts close enough to shave hairs from my cheek. I stumble and nearly fall but somehow manage to stay on two feet. I hurl myself into the driver's seat with not a moment to spare as a bullet rips into the door. With shaking hands I turn the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life. Keeping my head down, I shift into drive while at the same time stomping on the gas pedal.

Then I'm careening down the road, the Explorer bumping and lurching like a covered wagon drawn by a team of runaway horses. Luckily mine is the only vehicle on the road or I'd have been in danger of a head-on collision with my flat tire causing me to veer into the oncoming lane. My mind spins. Who was shooting at me, and why? Stan Cruikshank owns a rifle. Douglas Trousdale must as well; I recall his mentioning something once about having gone on a hunting trip.

After a few minutes I realize to my intense relief the only sounds I'm hearing are the thumping of rubber and the wind whistling through the open hatch. Still, my foot refuses to ease from the gas pedal even when the village of La Mar comes into view up ahead (more outpost than village, it consists of an Albertson's, Long's Drugs, Radio Shack, and Arco station, all within a one-block radius). The rim of my flat tire is grinding against the pavement as I come tearing into the Arco and brake to a stop. I'm bathed in sweat, rivulets trickling down my forehead into my eyes. My lungs are on fire and I'm shaking all over. I tumble out to find a guy filling his tank at one of the pumps and gaping at me like I was the lone survivor of a zombie apocalypse.

“Don't ask,” I croak as I stagger off.

Only when my hands have stopped shaking do I pull out my phone. I'm ensconced in the manager's office next to the service bay with a water from the vending machine and box of Kleenex with which to mop my still-sweating brow. I dial the number for the landline at the La Mar house, and Bradley picks up after the second ring. I explain that I was delayed by a flat tire and ask him to relay the message to Joan. I don't mention I was also the victim of a sniper attack. I can't go there while I'm still struggling to wrap my brain around the possibility that his father was behind it. He offers to come get me. I decline. He insists. “I'll be there in ten,” he says, and hangs up.

I'm punching in Spence's number when I'm interrupted by the trilling of my brother's ringtone, Beethoven's Ninth. “I can't talk now. I'll have to call you back,” I inform him. I make a conscious effort to regulate my breathing so as not to worry him. It's no use; he senses something is up.

“What's wrong? You sound funny.”

Breathe in, breathe out.
“I'm fine. Just some car trouble.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I'm hanging up now. I'll call you in a little w—”

Before I can finish the sentence I'm cut off when he says to someone in the background, “Excuse me, Officer? My sister needs roadside assistance.” My blood pressure shoots back up.

“Arthur, who were you talking to? What's going on?”

Another voice comes on the line. “Officer James here.”

What the hell?
“Jordan, it's me. Tish Ballard.” I speak in a calm voice. The voice of someone exercising extreme control in the face of absolute chaos. “Would you mind telling me what's going on?”

“We're taking your brother into custody,” he informs me.

“Why, what's he done?”

“Nothing, as far as we know.”

“Then why are you taking him into custody?” I'm momentarily distracted by the whining of a hydraulic lift. Through the window onto the service bay I watch as my Explorer slowly ascends, beaten but not vanquished. I shudder at the sight of the bullet hole in the driver's side door.

“He requested it. In fact, he insisted.”

I groan inwardly. Because I can imagine Arthur doing just that, if only because the voices in his head told him to. But I'm too rattled right now to approach it in a rational manner. I can only demand, “Don't you have anything better to do than go around arresting law-abiding citizens?”

“He's not under arrest. Yet,” he adds in an ominous tone.

“
Yet?
What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I won't have answers for you until we run a check to see if there are any outstanding warrants.”

“I don't suppose you'd take my word for it.”

“Not a chance.” Jordan hangs up. He must have figured out I was the instigator of his most embarrassing moment in high school. He was always a prick; now he's a prick with a hard-on.

I call Spence. I'm surprised when he answers—I'd expected to get his voicemail—and even more surprised by the wave of relief that washes through me. It's all I can do not to burst into tears. “It's me, Tish. I think someone just tried to kill me. Or … or it was a warning … I don't know.”

“Slow down. You're not making much sense,” he says as I burble on in broken sentences.

I take a deep breath and start over, this time managing to give a more or less coherent account. “I'm pretty sure he was only sending a message, or I'd be on my way to the county morgue right now instead of talking to you. If that's what it was, a warning, it came through loud and clear.”

“Maybe this time you'll listen,” he replies sternly.

“Fuck you.” I don't need a scolding on top of everything else I've had to endure.

“You're sure it wasn't just some kid shooting at tin cans?” he asks in a gentler voice.

“Positive. It was … like he was toying with me, you know?” I think of my cat having fun with the mice he catches that he doesn't kill right away.

“Where are you now?”

“The Arco station in La Mar Village.”

“Do you need a ride?”

“No, I have someone picking me up. I'll stop in at the station on my way back into town.” I don't mention my brother. I'll deal with that when the time comes. “I'm just waiting on the mechanic.” My SUV needs a steering realignment in addition to a new tire, so it's not an in-and-out job.

He asks where on Canyon Oaks Road the shooting took place, and I give him the precise location. “I'll send one of my men to check it out.”

“I'm sure the shooter's long gone by now, but he might have left some bullet casings. Oh, and you should have a word with Stan Cruikshank. I happen to know for a fact he owns a rifle.”

“Copy that.” I hear traffic noises in the background which tell me he's already en route. Maybe he's not so incompetent after all. Any softening toward him is erased, however, with his next words. “In the meantime, do me a favor and stay out of trouble. You think you can manage that?”

“Are you implying this was my fault?” I demand.

“You don't want me to answer that,” he says, and hangs up.

Minutes later Bradley pulls into the station behind the wheel of the black Escalade his parents keep at the house but that's hardly ever driven, except by Daniel when he uses it to pick up gardening supplies. Anyone who didn't know better would think Bradley was the hired help as well, dressed in holey jeans, a maroon polo shirt with a button missing, and a pair of flip-flops. “Must've been some flat tire,” he observes when I start to cry, after I've climbed in the passenger side.

“That was the least of it.” I fill him in on the rest while he drives.

“Holy Christ.” He darts me an alarmed glance. “So you don't think it was random?”

“No. I think it was because I was making someone nervous with all of the questions I've been asking.”

“Who have you been talking to?”

“My mom's boyfriend for one.”

“You think he was the shooter?”

“I couldn't say for sure—he didn't show his face. All I know is, Stan owns a rifle and he lives near here, out at Four Chimneys Ranch. Detective Breedlove is on his way there now to have a word with him.” I don't mention my suspicions about his father. “For his sake, he'd better have an alibi.”

“I'll breathe easier when whoever did this is behind bars.” Bradley shakes his curly dark head. He's gripping the steering wheel so tightly I can see the whites of his knuckles. “Jesus. First my mom, now this. I saw less action when I was in Zhargun Shar with the 101
st
infantry division.”

“Yeah, and it's even less fun when you're in the line of fire.”

He cuts me a glance, his face furrowed with concern. “Thank God you're all right.”

“Just some scrapes and bruises. Nothing that won't heal.”

He turns onto the private drive to the estate. Trees and manicured lawns soon give way to an ocean view that's easily the most spectacular of any of my properties. It has what we realtors call the “wow factor.” But right now what I'm feeling isn't wowed. The sunlight glinting off the water is an assault on my eyes and it almost hurts to behold such beauty after all the ugliness of the past few weeks. He pulls up in front of the house and turns to me as I'm unbuckling my seatbelt. “Tish, listen to me, if that was just a warning, next time it could be for real. Let the cops handle it. For me getting shot is an occupational hazard, but you don't have to put yourself at risk.”

I say nothing. I just nod meekly, touched by his show of concern. He's saying the same thing Spence had basically, except coming from him, I'm not tempted to give my middle finger a workout.

Joan is there to greet me when I walk in. You would never know to look at her that she's recovering from an ordeal of her own. She's as perfectly put together as ever, wearing fawn slacks and a cashmere shell that appears to have been woven from a summer cloud. Her silver-blond bob gleams, not a hair out of place. I catch a whiff of her fragrance, Chanel No. 5, when she hugs me. “What a nuisance,” she clucks. “But it could've been worse. Better a flat tire than a fender bender.”

“Actually it was a bit more involved than that.” I wait until we're sitting down to tell her the whole story. A range of emotions plays over her face as she listens: shock followed by horror and finally dark comprehension.