Jericho Point (13 page)

Jesse gave me a glance. ‘‘If she stole the checks, she’s behind the bad debt to the Mings.’’

‘‘How do we find out?’’ I said.

Lavonne shook her head. ‘‘You don’t. The police do. You stay away from her.’’

Her face was hot. I had never seen her this way.

‘‘Lavonne, did she do something to your family?’’ I said.

‘‘There were incidents. Felonious. Devorah was lucky not to have been injured or arrested. Let’s leave it at that.’’

Her daughter was now, as far as I knew, a straight-A student at City College. I left it.

‘‘Perhaps it comes down to this: Her eyes don’t reflect the light. It’s spooky. She seems to draw in other people’s energy and crush it.’’

We sat for a minute, listening to traffic. Jesse said, ‘‘Maybe her parents shouldn’t have named her after a strain of cannabis.’’

‘‘Her parents named her Cynthia. Calling herself Sinsemilla was her own idea.’’

With a knock on the door, the receptionist stuck her head in.

‘‘Sorry. Jesse, you really need to come out here. Your brother dropped something off for you.’’

In the lobby, a cardboard box sat on the receptionist’s desk. A mewling sound was coming from inside it.

‘‘Oh, God,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘Tell me that’s not a baby.’’

The receptionist reached into the box. ‘‘I’d say about nine and a half pounds.’’

She lifted out a puppy.

At sunset that evening, scarlet embers of light ticked across the ocean. Off of Isla Vista Beach, a surfer lay on his board, waiting for one last wave. When it came, he paddled like hell and stood up to ride it toward the cliffs. In the angled light, he caught sight of an object lodged in the sand. For an eerie second it looked like an arm reaching up out of the water, and he cut a turn away from it. But when he went closer, he saw that it wasn’t an arm. It was the neck of an electric guitar, sticking out of the sand.

In Jesse’s kitchen that evening, I stared at the puppy. ‘‘Cute.’’

‘‘Yeah, he should be on a calendar.’’

Sunset reddened the house, throwing long shadows across the big space that comprised the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Wood and glass shone pale below the high ceiling. Beyond the wall of windows, surf churned the beach. The dog lay curled on a blanket inside the cardboard box with its tail tucked between its legs. It was skinny, all scruff and brown fur, with a white patch around one eye.

Jesse was mopping up its latest mess. A whiff reached me.

‘‘Gah.’’ I opened a window. Salty air rushed in, dispersing the odor.

I am not a pet person. To my mind they’re all blood-letters, including hamsters and goldfish. The puppy gazed at me with the eyes of a Dickens waif.
Not buying it, buster.
I stayed by the window.

‘‘So here’s the story.’’ Jesse slapped the mop onto the floor. ‘‘P.J. rescued him from the animal shelter.’’

‘‘Why’d he give him to you?’’

‘‘He’s an apology.’’

‘‘Most people send flowers.’’

The puppy wobbled to its feet, wagging its tail. But that’s how they break down your defenses—they feign adorableness, right before they chew through your tibia. It whimpered at me.

Dammit, this was too much. I crouched down next to the box. Tentatively I stroked him. The tiny thing was soft and trembling.

‘‘Poor little guy,’’ I said.

‘‘Know anybody who wants him?’’

‘‘You don’t?’’ I sounded palpably relieved.

‘‘I work. I’m not home.’’ He jammed the mop into the bucket and stopped. ‘‘There’s no way I can take care of him.’’

I felt like a match had been lit against my head. How could P.J. be any more clueless, doing something that actually made Jesse feel worse than before?

‘‘Call your idiot brother,’’ I said.

‘‘He won’t take him.’’

‘‘Then he can return him to the shelter.’’

‘‘They’ll put him down. He’d never let that happen.’’

The puppy whined.

‘‘Then I’ll take him,’’ I said.

He gave me a disbelieving look. ‘‘Right.’’

‘‘I’m serious. I’ll find him a new home.’’

‘‘Delaney, you wouldn’t have a dog in your house if it wore a French maid’s outfit and served you caviar in bed.’’

‘‘Just for a day or two. Until somebody adopts him.’’

I picked the puppy up. He didn’t rip out my carotid artery. He was warm in my arms.

‘‘Forty-eight hours, max. Piece of cake.’’

The puppy licked my hand. And peed on my blouse.

I rinsed the blouse in the bathroom sink. I wrung it out, held it up, and spotted, on the shelf beside the towel rack, the manuscript for my new novel.

The first chapter, anyway. Back in the kitchen, I found Jesse putting away the bucket and mop. He looked tired. I had to do something about this situation.

‘‘What do you think of my new story?’’ I said.

If he’d been a gecko, he would have scurried up the wall and through a crack. ‘‘It’s awesome.’’

Turning on my heel, I strolled to his bedroom. Books were stacked on the nightstand.

‘‘Let’s see what we have.
Band of Brothers
. The
California Bar Journal
. The new FDR biography.’’

He came in behind me. ‘‘I’m reading your manuscript.’’

‘‘
Warrior Politics: Why Leadership Demands a Pagan Ethos
. Oh, and a DVD.
Beavis and Butt-Head Do America
.’’ I put a hand on my hip. ‘‘You haven’t read past page nineteen.’’

‘‘Sure I have.’’

‘‘That’s what’s in the bathroom.’’

‘‘No, really. That part with the soldiers dying.’’

I walked toward him. He backed up.

‘‘Rowan’s men. Her lovers. They all get killed; it’s terrible,’’ he said.

I kept walking. ‘‘How?’’

‘‘How what?’’

He had that
Honey-does-this-dress-make-me-look-fat?
expression on his face:
Just hand me the seppuku knife, now.
He kept backing up.

‘‘How do they die?’’ I said. ‘‘Come on, the medicos explain it.’’

‘‘Um.’’ He backed into a corner and had to stop. ‘‘Too much woman?’’

I gave him the black stare. He held his breath.

I erupted in laughter.

He relaxed, almost smiling, and I walked back to the kitchen and got the cardboard box. ‘‘Come on, dog. We’ll go to my place, where people appreciate fine literature.’’

On my kitchen floor the puppy quivered in the box, looking small. Luke knelt, stroking him. His face was bright.

‘‘What’s his name?’’ he said.

Give them a name, next thing you’re putting their photo on your Christmas cards wearing an elf’s hat.

‘‘What do you think we should call him?’’ I said.

He tilted his head, thinking. ‘‘Ollie.’’

As in the skateboard move. Or as in Ollie, short for apology.

I nodded. ‘‘That’s it, then.’’

Luke lifted the puppy’s ears. I smiled at Brian, ever so hopefully.

‘‘No way, no how. I need a dog like I need a root canal,’’ he said.

I dropped the gooey smile. ‘‘Fine. Then do something else for me.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘We need to threaten P.J. Metaphorically speaking.’’

‘‘Metaphorical Threat, that’s my middle name.’’

‘‘I thought Death from Above was your middle name.’’

‘‘No, that’s my rap handle.’’

‘‘Excellent. Because I want P.J. to be Scared into Talking.’’

When Patsy Blackburn opened the door, I heard laughter inside, overlaid with boisterous voices. Patsy wore a skintight turtleneck with six strands of gold chain around her neck. Her eyes had a fluid glow.

‘‘Come join the party. It’s the family of the groom,’’ she said.

Right—her nephew’s wedding, coming up that weekend. Though I was in the wedding party, I hadn’t met the blushing couple. The remains of a lasagna dinner cluttered the dining room table. The too-bright talk faded when we walked in. Keith Blackburn stood up, extending his hand to Brian.

‘‘Commander Delaney, I thought you were still at the Pentagon.’’

Keith had given his sons their strong looks and their height, though he seemed to be eroding with time. He was a neat and courteous man who worked on his feet all day at Office Depot, selling staplers and printer paper.

He introduced us. The parents of the groom, Patsy’s sister, Deedee, and her husband, Chuck Dornan, had an air of insouciant Manhattan sophistication. Santa Barbara was where they kept their winter home. Their son, David, gave us a killer smile that struck me as pure frat-boy bravado. And Caroline Peel, the bride, vibrated like a pink cashmere espresso bean. She hadn’t eaten a bite of her lasagna. Only when Keith introduced me as Jesse’s girlfriend did she stop gripping David’s arm like a claw hammer.

‘‘You’re my sub,’’ she said. ‘‘Terrific.’’

‘‘Emergency replacement bridesmaid, reporting for duty,’’ I said.

She eyed me up and down. ‘‘Have you tried on the dress yet?’’

Caroline had asked me to join the lineup for one simple reason: I fit the uniform. Her first-string bridesmaid was laid up, having been thrown by her polo pony the week before.

‘‘My fitting’s Friday,’’ I said.

David leaned his chair back on two legs. ‘‘You a Pi Phi?’’

I smiled. ‘‘I’m more sci-fi.’’

Two blank stares.

Brian said, ‘‘My sis wasn’t sorority material.’’

Patsy laughed, loudly. ‘‘Evan writes
books
. Science fiction. I hear they’re kind of like
The Jetsons
but with guns and group sex.’’

Seven blank stares, including mine. Patsy’s cocktail tumbler was empty. She’d hit round three: past sentimental and surly, onto spill-the-beans.

In the family room, I heard P.J.’s guitar. Through the door I saw him sitting on the floor. He was picking out a blues line, and had a melancholy look on his face. His guitar strings were wound with blue thread at the ends.

‘‘Excuse us.’’

I left as if being chased by bees, heading into the family room with Brian following. P.J. looked up, and his eyes went wary. The guitar fell silent.

‘‘Sweaty Shaun Kutner,’’ I said.

‘‘Aw, do we have to do this?’’

‘‘You sent Jesse a puppy-gram to make up for Shaun. Yes, we do.’’

‘‘Doesn’t Jesse like the puppy?’’

‘‘Shaun seems to hate you, supposedly because of Brittany. But he’s also Sinsa’s boyfriend, so I think he wants to whomp your butt to keep you away from her.’’

‘‘He just got in from the Caribbean; he only sees her because she’s going to produce an album for him.’’

Stop. Reset. ‘‘Sinsa is a record producer?’’

‘‘Shaun’s her first big artist. She sort of took pity on him after the
Rock House
thing. Ricky felt bad about mentioning the sweating, but what can you do? It came out of his mouth and he couldn’t put it back.’’

‘‘So this recording project is her way of making it up to him?’’ I said.

‘‘No, but it’ll create a buzz. An irony kind of thing. And Sin needs a buzz, something to put her own stamp on things. It’s tough for her.’’

Brian faked ignorance. ‘‘Because she’s so young?’’

‘‘Mainly ’cause of her folks. The Hollywood dudes hear ‘Jimson’ and think showbiz brat, riding her dad’s coattails.’’

Brian nodded. ‘‘Like Frank Sinatra Junior. Or Ringo’s kid.’’

‘‘Right. Coming along behind a star, you have to climb out from under their footprint.’’

‘‘How many artists has she produced?’’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘‘Five or ten. Demos, not whole albums. I mean, she doesn’t run a record company. She takes the demos to the A and R people to get her artists signed.’’

‘‘And is she getting her artists signed to record deals?’’

‘‘It takes time. You have to know who to know.’’

I nodded. ‘‘Who’s putting up the money for Shaun’s record project?’’

He shrugged.

‘‘Me?’’

He pulled the guitar against him, as though trying to hide behind it.

‘‘Excuse me, I mean is
Evan Delaney
putting up the money? You know, the man who opened a fraudulent checking account at Allied Pacific Bank?’’

He shook his head.

‘‘The person who ripped off some lowlifes from a group called Avalon, and told them I had the money ready to pay back?’’

‘‘I don’t know what you’re—’’

‘‘Don’t tell me you went to such trouble on Shaun’s behalf.’’

He didn’t say anything.

‘‘Did Sinsa ask you nicely? Explain it all, how she needed extra money, some safe way of getting cash?’’ I walked toward him. ‘‘The thing is, I think that all of this ties in somehow to Brittany’s death.’’

He pressed his lips together, shaking his head.

‘‘A police lieutenant downtown thought Brittany might be part of a ring of thieves. Looks like that involves you and Miss Jimson.’’

He kept shaking his head.

I stopped. ‘‘Hold it. Sinsa’s not producing an album for the Mings, is she?’’

Patsy walked in, a Marlboro in her hand. ‘‘Patrick? I heard you talking about that poor girl.’’ She looked at Brian. ‘‘Patrick’s been so upset.’’

P.J. stood up. ‘‘Evan, let’s go outside.’’

‘‘Don’t you want dessert?’’ Patsy said.

P.J. headed for the front door. As we went along behind him, Brian nodded at all the family photos and leaned close to my ear. ‘‘No question who’s the favored son, is there?’’

I shushed him.

‘‘It’s like Jesse barely exists. Are they ashamed of him?’’

Outside, P.J. tucked his hands into his armpits and paced in a circle on the driveway.

‘‘Jesse put you up to this, didn’t he?’’ he said.

‘‘Do you have cotton stuffed in your skull? This is not about Jesse.’’

‘‘I’m sorry Shaun got into it with him, but don’t let that color what you think. You have this thing all wrong.’’