Jericho Point (27 page)

‘‘Hope you don’t mind,’’ he said. ‘‘The florist was delivering these. I took the liberty of intercepting him.’’

I stood shaking like a paint mixer. ‘‘No. Great.’’

The flowers were extravagant—red snapdragons, white lilies, yellow roses in a vase wrapped with a velvet bow. I couldn’t carry them with one arm. I couldn’t even see straight. The officer brought them in for me and set them on the dining table. I thanked him and locked the door.

The snapdragons looked sinister. The lilies made me think of death. My nerves were vibrating all the way up in the register only dogs can hear. What if Toby had sent the flowers, as a warning?

I called the dentist and canceled my appointment. Then I took Brian’s gun into my room, set it on the nightstand, wrapped up in my quilt, and lay on the bed, listening. I was still there when Jesse turned his key in the front door at six thirty.

‘‘Ev?’’

‘‘Back here.’’

He leaned through the doorway, face half shadowed by the bedside lamp.

‘‘Gorgeous flowers. Who sent them?’’ he said.

‘‘I didn’t look.’’

His gaze lingered. ‘‘I’ll check.’’

That got me out of bed fast, ouch, ouch. When I got to the living room he had the card envelope in his fingers. He raised an eyebrow, asking permission. I nodded.

He opened it, read the card, and his mouth skewed. ‘‘We’re safe.’’ He handed it to me.

The next morning the officer guarding my house went off duty. He told me good-bye. I heard him start the engine of the patrol car. And drive away.

I straightened up the living room, and made my bed, and put on another pot of coffee. Listening. Keep the stereo and television off, that was the thing to do. Don’t make any noise that could obscure the sound of people approaching.

Breathing, for instance. Breathing was noisy. Just hold your breath, Delaney.

Nikki stopped by at lunchtime, bringing me my mail. She had the puppy on a leash. He strained at it and wound around her legs. She looked unusually whimsical.

‘‘That’s because I have news that will cheer you up. We’re going to keep the pooch.’’ She smiled and bent to scratch Ollie’s ears.

‘‘You’re a pal,’’ I said.

‘‘I’m going to go whole-hog. Enter him in dog shows. Knit him a little tartan blanket and Tam o’ Shanter.’’ The fanciful smile remained. ‘‘Nah, Thea loves him. Thanks, Ev.’’

After she left, I went through the mail. Bracing myself for unwanted bills, screaming demands for repayment, and, of course, offers to sign up for new credit cards. I sorted through the envelopes. Mine, mine, junk, junk. And a manila envelope. Addressed to Rowan Larkin. I felt it, making sure there weren’t any wires attached, and ripped it open.

It was the paperback of my novel, the one Toby had deconstructed. It was now physically deconstructed. The cover artwork had been defaced. My name had been scratched out with a knife. Most of the pages had been ripped out. But one chunk remained: the chapter where Rowan’s soldiers were massacred. The page describing their deaths had been circled in fat red marker. An arrow was pointing to the worst atrocity. An angry hand had written,
YOU, BITCH
.

Motion at the door, and a knock. I leaped, practically clawing my fingers into the ceiling.

Marc stood outside. He was holding a bouquet of purple iris. Beneath his aviator shades he wore his enigmatic smile. When I opened the door, it vanished.

‘‘What’s the matter?’’ he said.

I handed him the manila envelope and paperback. I balled my hands and pressed them against my forehead. He hung his shades in the collar of his polo shirt, his demeanor stiffening, and read the envelope.

‘‘Postmarked Los Angeles.’’

My fists were knocking against my forehead. ‘‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.’’

He led me to the sofa and sat me down. I heard him on the phone, calling the police. Then he sat down beside me.

I squeezed my hands between my knees. ‘‘It isn’t over. Murphy said that it wasn’t, and he’s making sure I know.’’

He put an arm around my shoulder. I felt his strength and chill heat. His brown eyes held a merciless calm; he was wearing his game face.

‘‘I’m going to cover your six. Twenty-four by seven,’’ he said.

I felt relief and thankfulness and a yearning for him that came on like fever. That was as scary as anything. ‘‘Thank you. But I need something else.’’

‘‘Tell me.’’

‘‘Target practice.’’

He nodded. Clasping my hand, he stood. ‘‘Come on.’’

He took me to the firing range up in the mountains off West Camino Cielo. When we checked in and went out to the range he laid out Brian’s gun, the magazine, and a box of nine-millimeter ammunition.

‘‘Have you ever fired a gun?’’ he said.

‘‘Of course. I’m a military brat. I want to be sure I can hit a moving target. In the dark. Fifty times in a fricking row.’’

He picked up the gun. ‘‘This is your weapon. A Beretta semiautomatic pistol.’’ He put it in my hand. ‘‘Hold it. Get used to the weight.’’

I had been carrying it back and forth from the living room to the bedroom, so I wasn’t surprised by the weight, a couple of pounds. And the cool. The metal felt good in my hand.

‘‘Okay,’’ Marc said. ‘‘Can you get by without the sling for the next hour?’’

I took it off.

He led me through it. Loading the clip. Racking the slide to chamber a round. Safety on, and off. Adopting a stance, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly flexed. Two-handed grip, left hand bracing the right.

He put a hand on my injured elbow. ‘‘Arm all right?’’

‘‘Fine.’’

‘‘Hold it,’’ he said. ‘‘Feel the weight. After only a short time it can affect your aim. And if you’re in a situation to fire, you won’t be calm. Patience.’’ I knew all this, but having him run me through it calmed me.

‘‘The main point is commitment,’’ he said. ‘‘If you draw your weapon, that means you’re in a life-or-death situation. You shoot to kill. Not to wound, or wing, or frighten. Do you understand?’’

‘‘Absolutely.’’

‘‘Do you? You can’t falter. You have to commit. Sometimes women . . .’’ He put up his hands. ‘‘Don’t take offense at what I’m going to say. My ex took a self-defense course, and this is the point the instructor drilled home to the gals in the class. Women can let compassion trip them up. They’ll hesitate, pulling back at the last second, not wanting to inflict the fatal blow.’’

‘‘That won’t be my problem.’’

I held the pistol out. He steadied my arm. He radiated a blue-star intensity that went through me like a burn.

‘‘Marc, I . . .’’

Eyes on me.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what I felt. I remembered Brian’s warning to cool things down.

His eyes held mine. ‘‘What?’’

I adjusted my grip on the pistol. ‘‘Anything else your ex gleaned from the class?’’

He held quiet for one beat, then two. His hand slipped off my arm. ‘‘Beyond ten feet, most shooters won’t hit you. If you’re unarmed, your best option is escape.’’

‘‘I’m planning to be armed.’’

‘‘Then plan to get within ten feet of your target, so you’ll have a chance of hitting it.’’

‘‘Gotcha.’’

He pointed at the paper target out on the range, and stepped back. ‘‘Take your shot.’’

I aimed at the silhouette of a human form. Exhaled. Squeezed the trigger. Again, and again, and again. But it was just a target. No resolution. With anybody.

I don’t believe in luck. I believe in chance, but I think we make our own luck, good or bad. And I was about to live the luckiest day of my life.

By the end of that week I was improving physically. Ibuprofen was keeping the ache in my broken ribs under control. I could straighten my arm without pain, though I was still using the sling when I was up and about. My face had mellowed to green and brown. I hadn’t received any more threats from Murphy. I had scrounged together enough courage to go out in the yard by myself. But I still didn’t want to drive more than a block from my house.

But my time and energy were tied up with keeping ahead of the identity theft. More bills were coming in. More checks had bounced. And though I wasn’t liable for any of it, I was constantly contacting new batches of creditors with affidavits proving my innocence. It looked as though I was going to have to go to court to get an official declaration that I was not involved with the fraud.

I was chasing the debts. The thieves—presumably Brittany, P.J., Sin, and Shaun, the fab four—had been opening new accounts one after another, simply running up charges to the limit, then abandoning the account and signing up for new credit cards in my name. The only way I could keep up was by checking my credit report every day.

The fraudulent accounts were being shut down once I notified the credit agency. But each time new charges were posted, I enjoyed the pleasure of reading them on-screen like a bill. It was infuriating. Until Monday. That was when I got the hit I’d been looking for.

Proof. Purchases made
after
Brittany Gaines died.

Outside, the live oaks flickered under a cool wind. I leaned toward my computer, scrolling down the screen. Another thousand for the Beverly Hills Day Spa. Two grand at a men’s clothing store on Rodeo Drive. A hundred bucks from an outfit called Bloomsberry. Three hundred at Coast Medical. Twenty-eight hundred at Collezioni Benko, also Beverly Hills. And the biggie, the one that gagged me: eleven thousand- plus dollars to Tropical Holidays World Travel. The thieves liked to travel. First-class, apparently. To Barbados. I saw sugar-white beaches and orchids dripping from the ceiling and sweet cocktails with fruit and little umbrellas in them. Now laid at my doorstep. I ground my jaw and stopped, feeling my broken, yokel teeth.

Calming down, I went through each of the charges in detail. I looked at the bills from the Beverly Hills clothing stores. One men’s, one women’s. My head began throbbing. I got on the phone and called up the shops. They confirmed my suspicions.

One man’s suit, charcoal gray, hand-tailored and guaranteed to make you look all grown-up. One Kasja Benko dress, designed to suspend the laws of physics. They were the clothes P.J. and Sinsa had worn to the wedding.

I felt excited. Here was the first bit of evidence tying Sinsa to the identity theft. Of course, she could claim that P.J. bought the dress for her and that she had no idea the purchase was squirrelly. I thought back to the wedding, Sinsa’s effusiveness and affection toward P.J. Perhaps it was because he had found a way to become her sugar daddy. But I doubted that P.J. was in this alone. I read further through the new credit card charges, feeling a niggle at the back of my mind.

‘‘Oh, no.’’

From the dining table I got the card that had come with the flowers. I snarled.
Bloomsberry
.

And I had written him a damned thank-you note. I returned to the computer, continuing to read the expenses listed. Tropical Holidays World Travel. P.J. hadn’t been out of town recently—had he? I didn’t know. But, staring at the computer screen, I got a sick feeling about the rest of the bill. It couldn’t be, I thought. Tell me no.

But when I phoned Coast Medical, they told me yes. I grabbed my car keys.

P.J.’s roommate didn’t expect me to kick their apartment door open when he tried to close it in my face. Neither, frankly, did I. He backed away from me, blinking. I stalked in after him.

‘‘I said, where is he?’’

‘‘Honest, I have no clue.’’

I picked up the bong from the coffee table. Stinking water sloshed in its base.

‘‘If you don’t want me to baptize you, you’ll tell me.’’

He kept backing away. ‘‘All right, all right. He went out to some fancy restaurant.’’

‘‘Which one? Think about it. Hard. Now.’’

The stud in his bottom lip juddered, and a thought seemed to click into place behind his eyes. ‘‘He called to double-check the reservation.’’ He pointed to the phone on the kitchen counter. ‘‘Push redial.’’

And my, my, was I surprised when the maître d’ answered at the San Ysidro Ranch. P.J. was going so far upscale he’d shot off the chart. And probably on an Evan Delaney credit card.

‘‘Confirming a reservation,’’ I said. ‘‘The name’s Blackburn.’’

‘‘Party of two? Yes, one o’clock,’’ he said.

I hung up, unplugged the phone cord, and stuffed it in my purse.

‘‘Hey,’’ said the roommate.

‘‘P.J.’s lunch is not going to be disturbed.’’

Not by the roomie, that is.

The San Ysidro Ranch is tucked into the greenery of the Montecito hills, and, pulling in, I knew my clothes were all wrong. Jeans, cowboy boots, and an old denim shirt I’d grabbed from Jesse: yeehaw. But the Ranch hasn’t worked cattle since the 1800s. Nowadays it works celebrities and power players. It’s where Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier were married, and JFK and Jackie spent their honeymoon. Guests come expecting foie gras and ayurvedic massages, and the Stonehouse Restaurant has a reputation as one of California’s best. It’s a classy place, which was why the hostess managed not to gape when I walked in looking like an extra from a John Ford western, with my bruised face and my arm hanging in the sling.

‘‘May I help you?’’ she said.

‘‘I’m joining Mr. Blackburn.’’

A look of pity and understanding came into her eyes. She led me into the restaurant.

Across the crowded room P.J. sat at a corner table by the windows. His back was to me. Sycamores shaded the view beyond him. I didn’t recognize the young woman sitting across from him, a big-boned girl with Raphaelite curls and a lively light in her eyes. But I recognized P.J.’s charcoal gray suit. And I recognized his ride, the Quickie wheelchair he’d rented from Coast Medical.

He was pouring white wine into the young woman’s glass. She was listening to him, nodding intently.