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Authors: Meg Gardiner

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BOOK: Jericho Point
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He was the one who’d phoned me to come to the party where Brittany Gaines was murdered. His flunkies had been dogging me ever since. They were the ones, I thought. They had killed her.
He took off his glasses. ‘‘You messed my evening up, calling nine-one-one like that. I ask you to deal with one kid having a bad trip, and next thing I know the house is full of uniforms.’’
He stared at me intently but his eyes didn’t lock on, as though a hive of bees were loose in his brain.
‘‘I looked you up,’’ he said. ‘‘Kathleen Evan Delaney.’’
He stood and went to the back of the cabin. Opening the boat’s first-aid kit, he took out bandages, a flare gun, and a silver cigarette case. He got himself a prerolled joint and offered the case to me.
‘‘No, thank you.’’
He lit up, holding the smoke in his lungs. Exhaled. ‘‘Merlin went to the courthouse, checked out property records. The place you live is owned by people named Vincent. But there’s a K. E. Delaney listed in the phone book. So we know she’s for real. And we know she has credit cards. And a bank account.’’ He took another toke. ‘‘That she writes bad checks on.’’
The smoke began to sweeten the air. He set the joint in the ashtray and rooted around in the debris on the coffee table, knocking popcorn and a bag of Oreos to the polished wood floor. He came up with a well-thumbed paperback. It was my novel
Lithium Sunset
.
‘‘And weirdest of all, here’s a book by Evan Delaney. No photo on the jacket. Could be you, could be some hack the publisher hires. But the book’s about this guerrilla babe called Rowan Larkin.’’
Sitting back down, he opened the book. He had highlighted passages in yellow marker and written in the margins, tiny reams of commentary. My skin shrank. The only people I knew who did that were unmedicated compulsives or survivalists parsing the Bible for signs of the Apocalypse.
‘‘Some extreme stuff here. This Rowan chick, she cooks a guy’s brain inside his head just by staring at him.’’ His gaze swarmed over me. ‘‘That your message? Men gotta toe the line, or women’ll fry their minds?’’
He took a drag from the joint.
‘‘You’ve been playing with my head. You were supposed to be the silent partner, the go-between who was gonna make the payoff. Instead you kept the money for yourself and left me twisting in the wind.’’
Silent partner. God. Was the other partner Brittany Gaines—now silent forever? This wasn’t about mistaken identity or money. I smelled the fetid ocean smell of the morgue, and saw Brittany’s torn throat. I had to get out of here. Alive.
‘‘I—’’
‘‘Do not interrupt me.’’
‘‘Just—’’
‘‘Not one fucking word.’’
No amount of identification, and no explanation, was going to satisfy him. Not when he had done this . . . research.
‘‘You told Merlin you were Rowan, which is obviously an alias. You may be Delaney. Or that may be a nom de plume.’’ He pinched the joint between his fingers. ‘‘What I do know is, you’re in entertainment.’’
He turned my book over and peered at the spine. ‘‘Arcturus.’’
He squinted at me like a law professor demanding an answer.
‘‘That’s the publisher,’’ I said.
‘‘A subdivision of Spillhouse Media.’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Which in turn is owned by the VZG Group.’’
Why did this matter? Where was he going with it?
‘‘Which owns radio stations in the U.S. and Canada and is a minority stakeholder in film production companies and record labels headquartered in Hollywood and Nashville.’’
This was news to me. I felt my knees jouncing. I glanced at the
Wall Street Journal
, and the zing in his eyes.
‘‘It’s one of North America’s largest entertainment conglomerates. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? I have a degree in business economics, for fucksake. I ran the dope business for half of Isla Vista from my fraternity house when I was nineteen.’’
He knocked more junk around the coffee table, finally coming up with a CD. He tossed it at me like a Frisbee. I caught it clumsily. It was Jimsonweed’s last album.
‘‘And Jimsonweed records on the Black Watch label, which is owned by the same conglomerate that owns your publisher. I do my homework, bitch-hole.’’
I stared helplessly, thinking:
So what?
‘‘I—’’
‘‘No excuses. The deal didn’t go through, so you’re going to get me my money back. Do you fucking dig?’’
‘‘I don’t have that power.’’
The beehive awoke behind his eyes, and he leaped off the director’s chair. He was on me in a second, grabbing my hair with one hand and planting his knee between my legs.
‘‘Don’t fuck with me, woman.’’
The joint was pinched between his fingers, aimed at my cheek.
‘‘Representations were made to me. I was promised face time.’’
‘‘With whom?’’
‘‘You’re insulting my intelligence. With Slink’s producer. And the execs at the label, who were doing the deal. Three albums, a spot on the tour.
Access
.’’ The joint wavered back and forth in front of my face. ‘‘Fifteen K in pay-fuckin’-ola, and I got jack shit.’’
He flicked the joint at me. I put up my hands. It stung my palm and fell to my dress. I swept it off and ground it out on the floor.
He loomed above me. ‘‘I’m not going to dink around Santa Barbara forever, booking bands to gig at the Elks lodge and the county fair. I have real singers, acts who can put me on the map in the industry. And I paid real money to get them signed. And you fucked me up the ass.’’
He pointed at me. ‘‘You wrecked my deal. And instead of me, who’s VZG paying? You.’’ He grabbed my novel. ‘‘For your publishing deal. So to make up my losses, you’re going to donate your book money to me.’’
He flipped pages. ‘‘Shitty paperback, I’ll lowball the estimate, figure seven grand. Add it to the original fifteen, plus the three in interest, that makes your bill twenty-five thousand.’’
He threw the paperback at me. I batted it aside and pressed my fists into the seat, trying not to scream or wet my pants.
I didn’t know who had sold him fool’s gold. Almost certainly Sinsa. But right now that didn’t matter. I had to get out of here in one piece and get to the police. I smoothed the skirt of the dress, brushing away ash. I exhaled, slowly, and prayed to God to put lies in my mouth.
‘‘Mom always told me only easy girls say yes right away. You’ve got to say no, or the boys think you’re a slut.’’
He gave me a crooked stare. I cleared my throat and continued, stronger.
‘‘Don’t blame a girl for trying.’’ Before he could respond I put up my hands as if in apology. ‘‘We’ll make an arrangement.’’
He sank back onto the director’s chair. ‘‘That’s better.’’ He reached again for the silver cigarette case. ‘‘The Mings will take you by the bank on your way back to . . .’’ He blinked and widened his eyes, as if assessing my getup for the first time. ‘‘Wherever it is you came from.’’
‘‘That won’t work.’’
‘‘Make it work.’’
‘‘The money is safe, but I can’t get it today.’’
He pressed his fingertips to either side of his skull. ‘‘I’m getting a sensation here like you’re trying to barbecue my brain.’’
‘‘Allied Pacific Bank is under surveillance. Didn’t the party kings tell you what happened the last time I went in?’’
His forehead creased. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘The cops were waiting when I came out.’’
He looked frustrated, perhaps displeased that the Mings hadn’t reported this detail. ‘‘So do it inside the bank. Ask for a private room. Get the cash and give it to the boys behind a closed door.’’
‘‘With surveillance cameras filming the whole thing? The account is flagged, Toby. There’s been too much cash flowing in and out of it, plus some checks that bounced. They’re watching it.’’
‘‘That’s your problem, not mine.’’
‘‘It’s not a problem. It’s a matter of timing.’’
‘‘How?’’
‘‘Think about it.’’
The beehive decelerated behind his eyes. I balled the fabric of my skirt between my fingers. He was thinking. He believed me.
‘‘Time-lock vault?’’ he said.
That worked. ‘‘In part. Safe-deposit box.’’
‘‘So go get the key.’’
‘‘It’s not that simple. There are several accounts involved, and other banks, and travel time.’’
He reached for the tub of chocolate frosting on the coffee table. A butter knife was stuck into it. He swirled a gob onto the end and poked it into his mouth to lick it off.
‘‘Tomorrow,’’ he said.
‘‘Afternoon.’’
‘‘Don’t fuck—’’
‘‘Wouldn’t dare.’’ I stood up.
He stabbed another gob of frosting onto the knife. He licked it, taking his time.
‘‘Have it here tomorrow at five p.m.’’ Finally he looked at me. ‘‘Now get out.’’
The red van chugged into the alley behind the bridal boutique. Murphy slid open the door and climbed out with me.
‘‘Tomorrow. Dress in something else,’’ he said.
I took a step, and he put an arm out to block me. ‘‘Remember, I said I always give you a choice?’’
Merlin moaned from the van. ‘‘Naw, Murph.’’
A new light was playing in Murphy’s eyes, what in a normal man would be amusement. His hand went to his mustache, smoothing it. His greasy body scent filled my nose.
The thought slapped me. Did he give Brittany a choice? I backed against the van.
He leaned his face close to mine. ‘‘Naked or not?’’
I felt myself jerk. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘Murph,’’ Merlin said. ‘‘We ain’t got time for this shit. The boss won’t like it.’’
Murphy smiled. ‘‘How do you want to go back in the wedding shop? Naked or not?’’
‘‘Not,’’ I said.
‘‘Fine.’’
Grunting, he heaved me off my feet and pitched me into the Dumpster.
I landed on my back in soggy lettuce and veal gristle and wet cardboard. I looked up to see Murphy slamming the lid shut. Dark and stink enclosed me.
He banged on the side of the Dumpster. ‘‘Tomorrow. Don’t fuck us.’’
I heard the van drive off. Gingerly I sat up. Every inch I moved brought new sucking, sliming, crackling noises from beneath me. They mixed with another sound. Myself, crying with relief.
The lid cracked open. Madame Kornelia peered in.
‘‘You will pay for this dress. Now,’’ she said. ‘‘In cash, fräulein.’’
17
An hour later I met Detective Rodriguez at the International House of Pancakes, off the freeway near the sheriff’s station in Goleta. The restaurant was busy with truckers and deputies and the usual crowd of retirees eating dinner at five p.m. Rodriguez was sitting in a bright blue booth near the counter, digging into bacon, eggs, and a short stack of pancakes. I slid into the booth, across from her.
She wiped her mouth on a napkin. ‘‘Tibbetts Price. Known as Tokin’ Toby, or Toby Price-Is-Right.’’
‘‘You checked out what I told you?’’ I said.
Her nose wrinkled. ‘‘What’s with the garlic?’’
‘‘It’s eau de Dumpster.’’
‘‘You’re here without your lawyer. You must be feeling brave.’’
‘‘Feeling scared.’’
Too scared to put off this meeting until I could get someone to come with me from Sanchez Marks. Jesse was in court, and Lavonne had gone to Ventura for a deposition. I needed Rodriguez’s help, right now.
‘‘Tell me about Toby,’’ I said.
‘‘Local boy makes bad. He’s smooth, he’s rich, and, for a drug dealer, he’s smarter than the average bear. As he’ll tell you.’’
‘‘Degree in business economics. Reads the
Wall Street Journal
.’’
‘‘Bred in the bone. He’s a stockbroker’s kid. Got his start selling to his classmates at Lassen Academy, then moved his trade to the frat house at UCSB. Now he runs a tidy organization. Under the umbrella of his music promotion business. He does a lot of his business in international waters.’’
‘‘He can actually sail that boat, then.’’
‘‘Grew up sailing it, and inherited it from his father. The slip, rumor has, he got as payment in a drug deal.’’
I didn’t bother laughing at how absurd it was—Toby Price, drug runner, expecting fame in the music industry. People with worse reputations, people who’d done prison time for homicide, ran record labels and hosted radio shows in L.A.
‘‘And the Mings?’’ I said.
‘‘Merlin’s clean. No arrests, not even a parking ticket.’’
‘‘What about Murphy?’’
She poured maple syrup onto her pancakes, taking her time, drawing a spiral.
‘‘Detective?’’ I said.
‘‘Murphy Ming has a longer jacket.’’
She had that wide-eyed face, and the cowlick sticking up. And, despite being a tough gal who wore a holster on her belt, she looked reluctant to say anything cruel.
‘‘Auto theft, assault. Robbery. And he did three years for sexual battery.’’
His greasy presence asserted itself. I felt a phantom sensation, his mouth against my skin.
‘‘He raped somebody?’’ I said.
‘‘The robbery victim. Though he claimed he was settling a debt, and that the victim consented.’’
‘‘I know what he claimed. He claimed that he gave her a choice,’’ I said.
‘‘Him.’’ She put down her fork. ‘‘Gave
him
a choice.’’
I leaned my forehead on my palms. ‘‘What was the choice?’’
‘‘The victim could get it, or his sister could. And it was penetration with a foreign object.’’
‘‘What object?’’
‘‘A curling iron.’’
A feeling of slime and blood and dirty seawater was rising in me.
‘‘Murphy killed Brittany Gaines,’’ I said.
‘‘You have no evidence to support that.’’
‘‘She died. Toby Price was there at the party; I saw him. Murphy was too, I’ll bet anything.’’
‘‘I reread the deputy’s report. He got three names at the Del Playa house—you, P. J. Blackburn, and somebody called Bill Smithers.’’
BOOK: Jericho Point
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