Authors: Meg Gardiner
Jericho Point (30 page)
‘‘Where’s Karen?’’ I said.
‘‘Up in the valley, checking out that vineyard where we’re doing the gig next week. She won’t be back till tonight.’’ He looked from me to P.J. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’
‘‘P.J.’s going to tell you,’’ I said.
Perhaps it was the Valium kicking in, or the bloodlessness of his broken heart, or the desire for revenge. P.J.’s voice went flat.
‘‘She’s ruined me, man. She’s ruined us all.’’
Ricky sat leaning his elbows on his knees, blond hair hanging, bodysuit looking like a tattered latex glove. Cigarette smoke trailed from the Winston in his fingers.
‘‘You don’t seem surprised,’’ I said.
‘‘Are you sure about all this? Sure, sure, sure?’’
I gave him copies of the bills for the Kasja Benko dress, and the full details of the trip to Barbados. The cigarette hung between his fingers, the ash growing.
‘‘It says Kathleen Delaney took the trip,’’ he said.
‘‘You think I took a tropical vacation with Sweaty Shaun? Check Sinsa’s stuff. You’ll find a K. E. Delaney passport alongside that designer dress.’’
He shook his head. ‘‘I don’t need to.’’ The ash dropped to the floor. ‘‘She said she was staying with a girlfriend down south.’’ He looked at P.J. ‘‘Devi Goldman, you know her?’’
P.J. nodded. He was moving like syrup. The Valium had apparently taken the edge way, way off. I wondered how many he had snarfed before I grabbed the Baggie.
‘‘It’s because of Shaun,’’ Ricky said. ‘‘Fucking Sweaty Shaun Kutner. How I wish I’d never said that word on national TV.’’
‘‘If you hadn’t done it, the press would have,’’ I said.
‘‘He blames me, you know. He hides it, but he thinks his career would have taken off if I’d just kept my mouth shut. And Sin plays into it.’’ He smoked. ‘‘She wanted me to produce an album for him. I said no. That’s what this is about. Getting back at me for Shaun.’’ He looked at P.J. ‘‘I’m disappointed in you.’’
P.J. hunched on the window seat.
‘‘Get out, Peej. I don’t want to see you around here no more.’’
P.J. blushed a hard red. His eyes ducked Ricky’s gaze, and he swallowed. ‘‘Can I just say—’’
‘‘No. You’re out of here.’’
For a second he stared at Ricky. Pulling himself to his feet, he hurried from the room.
Ricky stabbed out the cigarette in an ashtray. ‘‘Jesus, that makes me feel like a prick.’’ He looked at the receipt for the Barbados tickets. ‘‘How am I gonna tell Karen?’’
‘‘The direct approach would be good.’’
‘‘I have to finesse it. Or she might think I’m stabbing Sin in the back.’’ His eyes dropped. He looked a thousand years old. ‘‘You don’t have kids, do you?’’ He grabbed another cigarette and lit it. ‘‘Sin’s not my natural daughter.’’
‘‘I know.’’
‘‘She’s Baz Herrera’s kid. She was nine when he died. I legally adopted her, but she’s never been totally mine. You get it?’’
Unfortunately, I did. I nodded.
He gazed again at the Barbados itinerary. He got a perplexed look on his face. ‘‘What’s with these dates?’’
There were two locator numbers, one for K. E. Delaney and one for S. Kutner. I saw what I hadn’t before: They had flown outbound on the same flights, but had returned on different dates. Sinsa returned on a Sunday. Shaun came back three days later, Wednesday. Barbados—Miami—LAX—Santa Barbara.
Wednesday.
‘‘That’s wrong,’’ Ricky said. ‘‘We picked him up on a Saturday morning.’’
‘‘I remember.’’
It was the Saturday morning when I saw Shaun and Sinsa romping in the BMW four-by-four. The day after Brittany was murdered. But the airline records showed that Shaun had flown home several days before that.
‘‘What do you make of it?’’ he said.
‘‘Not sure yet.’’ But I had a bad thought: Shaun wasn’t really out of the country when Brittany died.
He stubbed out the cigarette. ‘‘No point in hiding from what I gotta do. Let me talk to my daughter. Maybe I can convince her to come clean. That would be the best thing all around. If she and I tell Karen together.’’
I stood up. ‘‘Where is she?’’
‘‘Shopping. She’ll be back soon.’’ He looked up at me. He seemed sad, and strangely hopeful. ‘‘Can you just give me today—hold off on going to the cops until tomorrow?’’
‘‘I’m going to tell Jesse. After that I’m going to the sheriffs. However long that takes, it takes.’’
‘‘Might be a couple hours, right?’’
‘‘It might.’’
‘‘Thanks.’’
I did it because he was trying to do the right thing. Good intentions, big mistake.
P.J. wasn’t in my car. The housekeeper said she’d seen him heading around the side of the house to Sinsa’s apartment above the garage. Then she clucked.
He
was allowed in Sinsa’s apartment, but
she
hadn’t been allowed in for weeks—because the girl liked to sleep late. She shook her head.
Princess,
she seemed to be thinking.
He
was allowed in Sinsa’s apartment, but
she
hadn’t been allowed in for weeks—because the girl liked to sleep late. She shook her head.
Princess,
she seemed to be thinking.
I climbed the exterior stairs to the apartment, knocked, and went in.
‘‘Leave me alone,’’ P.J. said.
I leaned against the door frame, exhausted by the sight of him.
The apartment was minimalist modern in design, a loft with grand windows overlooking the mountains. But the furnishings were pure Sinsa: combination Santeria sacrificial altar and Paddington Bear. Candles, incense, Thai silk, stuffed animals three feet deep. And a skinned Tickle Me Elmo, its pelt nailed to the wall above her bed.
Which was where P.J. lay, facedown, hugging a three-foot stuffed Tigger.
Two suitcases lay open on the floor, erupting with men’s clothing. I checked the name tags; they were Shaun’s.
P.J. curled on his side. ‘‘She did it all for him.’’
‘‘Sorry. It’s a bitch.’’
I looked around. The wastebasket was in the corner, and lucky for me the housekeeper hadn’t been up there yet. I picked through it.
‘‘That’s not your stuff,’’ P.J. said.
‘‘As if you didn’t come up here without permission to recover your stash.’’ I pulled out a Baggie with half a dozen tiny brown seeds inside. ‘‘Looking for this?’’
‘‘That’s probably Shaun’s. He takes herbal remedies to control his sweating.’’ He clutched Tigger more tightly. ‘‘Shit, I can’t believe she wants that clammy pig instead of me. She’s gonna get tired of it; she has to.’’
I dug, and voilà. I found the airline baggage tags. They confirmed that Shaun had flown in from Barbados on the Wednesday before Brittany died. I kept digging.
‘‘What are you looking for?’’ P.J. said.
I peered in and pulled it out. ‘‘This.’’
It was a crumpled airline ticket and boarding pass. Los Angeles-Santa Barbara, one way. A twenty-minute hop on the morning after Brittany was murdered. I stood up and stuffed them into my purse.
‘‘Let’s go,’’ I said.
He rolled onto his back. ‘‘She’s going to be mad. When she finds out that I told.’’
‘‘Too bad.’’
‘‘So will Shaun.’’
‘‘Shaun’s going to be dealing with the sheriff’s detectives. Don’t worry,’’ I said.
‘‘What if he comes after me?’’
‘‘Slap him with a restraining order.’’ I knelt a knee on the bed and pulled him up by the arm. ‘‘You’ve played lawyer enough; you ought to be able to figure out how to do that.’’
A few minutes later, Sinsa flipped the turn signal in the four-by-four and slowed for the stop sign, waiting to make the turn onto the road leading to Green Dragons. Cross traffic didn’t have a stop. She waited for a pickup to speed past, and a Jaguar. And a white Explorer.
Uh-oh.
She watched it recede down the road. That had definitely been P.J. in the passenger seat. This could be bad.
When she swung up the drive at the house, she headed straight for her apartment. Lie low while she scoped it out, that was the thing to do. Call P.J. He should have been with Devi Goldman, not the Delaney woman. Charming the socks off her. And then the clothes. And then the money. If he’d fucked this up . . .
She trotted up the stairs to the apartment and unlocked the door.
Ricky sat on a chair in the center of the room, waiting for her.
‘‘Daddy.’’
‘‘Baby. Sit down. Let’s talk.’’
30
I dropped P.J. off at his apartment. He paused before getting out of the car, as though wanting to say something. But all that emerged was a sigh.
I knew he might pack up and gun his motorcycle straight out of town. But the disappearing act didn’t have to be physical. He was more likely to vanish into a miasma of drugs and alcohol.
‘‘What’s that look?’’ he said.
‘‘You’re such a jerk. And we love you. You know that, right?’’
Though he looked miserable, he almost managed a smile. ‘‘I guess.’’
He opened the door but didn’t get out.
‘‘When you tell Jesse what I did, tell him I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pretended to be him. And what I said, about him catching the breaks—I didn’t mean it. I know he’s . . .’’ His hands lay in his lap. ‘‘I know what he’s been through.’’
‘‘I will.’’
‘‘Do you think . . . Should I apologize to Devi?’’
‘‘That’s your call. But it would be the right thing to do.’’
‘‘She’s a nice girl.’’
He was looking for a soft shoulder to cry on, I thought. I took his hand.
‘‘I want you to give me the pills you put in your pocket.’’
His back started going up.
‘‘Just for tonight,’’ I said. ‘‘Do this for me. Just tonight. Stay sober. Don’t get wasted.’’
‘‘When’s the last time you went through a breakup sober?’’ he said.
‘‘Things will feel much worse hungover. And worst of all if Sweaty Shaun pays you a visit when you’re blasted.’’
‘‘Why should I do it?’’
‘‘Consider it a down payment on your redemption.’’
This time he tugged his mouth into a junior version of the Blackburn Wry Look. He scrounged in his pocket for the pills and gave them to me.
I handed him the phone cord, which I’d taken from his kitchen earlier. He took it, puzzled. Driving away, I saw him in the mirror, walking toward his door, head down. I wondered how long he would last.
Back home, I locked the door behind me, something I never used to do. I took the phone to the sofa and lay down, with my feet still on the floor. Afternoon light fell silently through the windows, casting a pale shine on the hardwood floor. I felt exhausted. My bones were ringing.
After a minute I lifted the phone and dialed Sanchez Marks. Recognizing my voice, the receptionist said, ‘‘Jesse had to go home.’’
I glanced at the clock. ‘‘At three thirty?’’
‘‘His burglar alarm went off.’’
I sat bolt upright. ‘‘And he went to check it out?’’
‘‘He said he was going to call the sheriffs.’’
I was up off the couch, heading for the door.
Jesse wouldn’t wait for the sheriff’s deputies. He never waited for anything. I swerved through traffic on the 101. The stupid sling was restricting my movement. I undid it and tossed it aside. Hitting speed dial on my cell phone, I tried him again. No answer. What the hell was he thinking?
I pulled off at San Ysidro and headed toward the beach, barely tapping the brake to check for trains at the railroad crossing. Down the isolated road, where houses were sparse and burglars could break in at a leisurely pace.
Except that it wouldn’t be burglars.
I turned in at his drive. The Monterey pines rushed past. I punched it around the bend. A strange car was parked in front of the Mustang. The side door to the garage was open. The lock had been splintered and the window cracked. Inside, things were strewn across the floor. No cops.
I slewed to a stop and jumped out. My palms were sweating. I heard no music, no conversation, only the smothering roll of the surf. I ran to the front door. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I peered through the narrow panes of glass that flanked the door. Everything looked still. I couldn’t see or hear anybody.
I didn’t want to go in. Inside meant being shut in a box, where I couldn’t run, couldn’t jump back in the car. My heart was skipping, and I was cold with sweat. What if Murphy Ming was here? My bladder felt weak. My thigh was trembling.
If Murphy was here, he had Jesse. What was I going to do, hide on the floor of the car and wait to see if the sheriffs turned up in time to stop him? I breathed, counted to three, and dashed around the side of the house.
And gave myself a mental forehead slap.
On the edge of the deck Jesse sat cross-legged, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened at the collar. On the sand nearby lay something I hadn’t seen out of the garage in years: his surfboard. Sitting on it was Ricky. He was slumped over, blond hair riffling in the breeze, and he was talking a hundred miles a minute.
‘‘For a second she got almost panicked, and I thought she was going to own up. Then she turned ultracool, playing it like it’s no big deal. Made a pot of actual fuckin’ tea. But I pressed her, and then, shit. She went off on me.’’
Jesse gave me a look that told me to stay quiet and roll with it. I sat down beside him. His face was weary; Ricky must have told him about P.J. playing lawyer.
Ricky was holding a seashell, turning it over and over in his hands. He had extricated himself from the catsuit and was wearing jeans. His eyes were rimmed red and his face was flushed.
‘‘She said I was abandoning her. Throwing her to the wolves.’’
The tide was going out, the waves breaking white over blue-gray water. Ricky turned the shell.
‘‘Sin thinks I’ve ruined everything. She said I’ve squashed her—I’m repressive, forcing her to have a small life. You believe that? Stymied her. Me, Slink Jimson.’’
He looked at me. His pupils were wide, as though the shock had blown them open.
‘‘She says what she did, stealing your ID, she did it to breathe, to live. Said it was my fault; I gave her no choice.’’ He raised a hand. ‘‘I know; don’t say it. She did it for the thrill.’’
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