Jericho Point (5 page)

I drove out to Isla Vista and gave his apartment one more try. Nobody was home. I left him a note.

Heading back to town, I cut through the university. When I reached the eastern edge of campus, I parked along the cliff overlooking the beach. The promontory had a grand view of the coastline, the Goleta Valley, and the mountains disappearing into the clouds. I locked my purse in the glove compartment and stuck some change in the parking meter. Burrowing into my sweatshirt, I walked to the fence at the edge of the cliff.

P.J. had always had problems. But two disastrous problems in less than twelve hours? The stars said this was not chance. And I had a bad feeling that P.J.’s troubles were tied in with Ricky’s.

Ricky Jimson, Missouri farm boy, had driven the hard road to stardom. He sang with abandon, golden hair flying. And with agility, frequently ending up spread-eagled on the stage, groping the microphone stand. But mostly he sang about death.

Superficially the songs were about women, or sex, or gettin’ it on, or, as one hit put it, ‘‘Ridin’ the Sausage.’’ But they were really about grief, emptiness, the grave. Because Ricky Jimson, who built a huge career in music and lived to tell about it, was convinced that death stalked him.

Or at least stalked his friends and family. His parents died trying to outrun a Kansas tornado in a ’68 Cadillac. A girlfriend choked to death on a wad of chewing tobacco in his hotel room. Jimsonweed’s tour bus crashed after swerving to avoid a cow on a snowy highway. And then there was Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City, where Jimsonweed played to fifty thousand fans as thunderheads boiled overhead, and Baz Herrera strutted forward, erupted into his guitar solo, and was struck by lightning.

Ricky didn’t go outside for two years afterward. Accordingto the tabloids, there was a year when he didn’t even get out of his bathrobe, unless it fell off as he staggered to the liquor cabinet for a fresh bottle of Cuervo.

Karen changed all that. Karen Herrera was Baz’s widow, who poured a bucket of ice water onto Ricky, put his house in the Hollywood hills up for sale, packed him up, and moved with him and her daughter to Montecito. They married, and she began investing Ricky’s songwriting royalties, running the business as Datura Incorporated. From
Datura stramonium
, the botanical name for jimsonweed, the hallucinogenic plant that gave the band its name.

But twenty-five years in the music industry, not to mention Ricky’s inner Nero, had taken their toll. These days he was sober, more or less, and lucid, more or less. But he needed a helping hand.

Enter P. J. Blackburn.

Ricky had needed a gofer, and Karen asked around the law firm for a name. Jesse recommended P.J., who said one word: ‘‘Cool.’’ So for the past couple of years, he’d been making Ricky ice-cream sundaes. He ran down to the newsstand for ciggies and
Rolling Stone.
He tossed a football to him in the backyard. He became part of Ricky’s continual renewal and relaunch.

Because Ricky didn’t want to become one of Santa Barbara’s retired rock legends. Oh, he danced the dance. He sat in at local clubs, and judged the annual chili cook-off at Oak Park. He endorsed a hair dryer with the motto ‘‘Always ready to blow.’’ He appeared as a judge on a reality TV show called
Rock House
. But his ultimate buzz was performing, and he couldn’t give it up. That’s why he was recording a new album, and Jimsonweed was planning to go on tour in a few weeks.

I didn’t think it was coincidence that the checks had been stolen from Datura now. And I knew in my gut that P.J. was involved.

Below me the ocean thrashed. The surf was violent, the color of gunmetal. Nobody was out. I walked down a wooden staircase to the sand.

To clear my name, I knew, I had to call the police. Alone, I didn’t have the authority to gain access to Datura’s goings-on. If an investigation led to P.J., it led to P.J. So be it.

I hiked up the beach. Driftwood lay jumbled on the sand. Heaps of kelp trailed green vines back into the water. I tried to discern shapes within their tangled form. The breakers crashed.

The tide was out, exposing the rocks at Campus Point. I clambered up and across them, taking care not to slip, and hopped down on the other side. In the channel I could see oil platforms, and a container ship steaming south. Ahead of me, the beach stretched in a dirty line west to Isla Vista. The houses of Del Playa Drive lined the cliff above the sand. I picked up a stick of driftwood and threw it into the waves.

Who was I kidding? Even if she was real, I wasn’t going to find her. Santa Barbara County has one hundred and twenty miles of coastline, with coves, piers, rocks, refineries, as well as sandy beaches. Time to head home and do the hard stuff, beginning with telling Jesse. I turned around.

At the point, two men were picking their way across the rocks. When they saw me, they sped up.

I’m not generally mistrustful of strangers. But a mouse of warning told me to give these two a wide berth. I looked around for another way back. They clattered across the rocks in my direction.

‘‘Hold up,’’ one shouted. ‘‘Stop. Yeah, you. Rowan.’’

It was Gopher, from the bar at Chaco’s. His dirty hair ruffled in the wind.

‘‘Thought you’d have some fun with me last night, huh?’’

He teetered toward me across the wet rocks. The second man followed him. He was Gopher’s taller, balder, fitter double. Same mustache; Santa Barbara was where Pancho Villa was making his last stand.

‘‘Playing with my head, making me feel small. That what you’re into, making men feel small?’’

I had left my phone in the car. How stupid was that? And the beach was empty. But on campus, past the lagoon, sat the marine science lab, and somebody had to be there.

Gopher shoved his glasses up his nose. ‘‘How about we play a new game?’’ He turned to his double. ‘‘Whatcha think, Murphy?’’

How far was the marine lab, maybe four hundred meters? I took two running steps and Murphy jumped down in front of me, blocking my path. His head was shaved, and he was as pale as a glazed doughnut. Despite the weather he wore a sleeveless T-shirt. He seemed heedless of the cold. The studded dog collar and matching leather wristbands couldn’t be keeping him warm.

‘‘We’ll play Truth or Dare.’’ He walked toward me. ‘‘I’ll start. You’re a liar and a cheat.’’

I put my arms up, backing toward the breakers. ‘‘Stop this. I don’t know you.’’

Gopher fumbled his way across the rocks. ‘‘Make her take the dare, Murph. She’s big on challenging guys; see how she likes getting some back.’’

Murphy picked up a stick of driftwood about a yard long. He broke it across his knee and aimed the shattered ends at me like skewers.

‘‘Merlin, your turn. Truth or dare?’’ he said.

Gopher finally reached the edge of the rocks and slipped down to the sand. ‘‘Truth.’’

Murphy poked the driftwood sticks at me, backing me toward the water. ‘‘So tell me, is she lying, or does she know?’’

‘‘She knows. Else she wouldn’t be trying to get away.’’

‘‘That’s what I think.’’

‘‘So we agree,’’ Gopher said. ‘‘You got the money. Question is now, how you going to get it to us, and how quick?’’

Murphy smiled. ‘‘And how you like your nose— plain broken, or with these sticks jammed so far up it, you’ll be breathing out the top of your head?’’

Money? What money? The waves foamed around my ankles. The cold was bone bending.

‘‘We know you got it,’’ Murphy said. ‘‘And the boss knows it, too.’’

‘‘What the hell are you . . .’’ Wait. The boss. I bridled. ‘‘Did Karen send you?’’ I said.

Murphy frowned. ‘‘What?’’

Anger displaced my alarm. ‘‘Dammit. If she thinks she can muscle me—’’

‘‘Who the fuck’s Karen? Mr. Price sent us.’’

Change anger to confusion. And fright. Murphy poked me backward into the water.

‘‘You played us all,’’ he said. ‘‘But you didn’t pull it off, and now it’s time to come through. Either work the deal or give the money back.’’

Gopher—Merlin—twitched his shoulders. ‘‘Right now, Rowan.’’

‘‘Stop calling me that. It’s not my name,’’ I said.

‘‘Yeah, right. You’re really Evan Delaney.’’

He guffawed. Murphy snorted.

‘‘The games stop here,’’ Murphy said. ‘‘We know you got the money in a safe place. Show her, Merlin.’’

Merlin held up a sheet of paper. My heart sank. It was the photocopy of the stolen checks. Only one way they could have gotten it from my car. Smash and grab. The water was over my knees now.

Gopher smiled. ‘‘You look scared, honey. Don’t she, Murphy? What’s wrong, Tiny Tim ain’t here to protect you? He can’t come out of the woodwork and off me?’’

‘‘You think he was just messing with you last night?’’ I said.

‘‘Course he was,’’ Gopher said.

‘‘Next time he won’t be. And the last man who tried to mess with me ended up dead.’’

He put two fingers against his temple. ‘‘Bang-bang, huh?’’

‘‘Single shot to the throat. Nine-millimeter hollow-point round.’’

They looked at each other. And laughed out loud.

‘‘Go on, scare us some more,’’ Murphy said.

He trudged through the water at me. ‘‘You have a choice. Refund the boss’s money, with interest. Merlin, what’s the juice on the investment?’’

‘‘At a point a week?’’ Gopher said. ‘‘Let me think a minute.’’

‘‘Never mind. We’ll send you a bill. So get things together for when we come to collect.’’

Collect? Crap, they were repo men. Or loan sharks. And they had me down for somebody else’s bad debt.

He gave me a chilly smile and tossed the driftwood sticks aside. ‘‘Oh. Yeah, your choice. Wet or dry?’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Wet it is.’’

With three lumbering steps he charged, brought up an elbow, and whammed into me. I pitched backward into the waves.

‘‘Nice day for a swim,’’ he said. They walked away laughing.

By the time I hiked back to the stairs I was shivering. Seagulls cried on the wind. I jogged up, stiff with cold, afraid of what I was going to find. And yep, jackpot. My car window was smashed.

Heat prickled up my neck. Unlocking the car, I peered inside. Glass lay in beads all over the seat, but I breathed a sigh of minor relief. The glove compartment hadn’t been broken into. My purse, with my wallet and cell phone, was still there.

I called the campus police. My voice sounded pale. A break-in, I said. And I had been menaced on the beach. Documents had been stolen.

But I saw that I had a replacement on the windshield. A parking ticket.

When I trudged up the street toward my house it was past noon. The garden gate was still swollen shut. My face was chapped, my feet tired, my patience gone. I whacked the latch and kicked. The wood groaned but this time the gate didn’t budge.

A voice called from the garden, ‘‘Hold on, I’m coming.’’

The gate screeched open. Nikki Vincent stood on the path.

She wore overalls and leather gardening gloves, and held a pair of shears in her hands. She was cleaning up the red bougainvillea that had fallen in the storm. Perspiration sheened on her molasses skin.

‘‘Oh, my God.’’ She dropped the shears. ‘‘Where have you been?’’

A caffeine jolt hit me. ‘‘Is anything—’’

She grabbed me and crushed me against her chest. ‘‘Why didn’t you answer your phone?’’

My pulse had jumped into overdrive. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

‘‘God. You don’t know.’’

‘‘Nikki, you’re scaring me.’’

‘‘Come on.’’ She pulled me across the lawn toward her house. ‘‘We have to stop Carl.’’

‘‘From what?’’

She broke into a jog. ‘‘He’s on his way to the morgue.’’

My stride faltered.

‘‘Come on.’’ She tugged my arm. ‘‘Jesse—’’

White noise, white air, everywhere, that’s all I heard and saw. My knees buckled and I dropped to the grass like a marionette.

I felt water soaking through my sweats. I heard Nikki saying, ‘‘Girl, oh, damn.’’ I smelled wet grass and jasmine so sweet it could have choked me.

She gripped my shoulders. ‘‘No,’’ she was saying. ‘‘Evan, no.’’

My mouth was gaping open and Nikki was fizzing in and out through the fog. The car, Jesus, tell me he didn’t wreck the car.

‘‘Carl’s on his way to the morgue with Jesse,’’ she said.

She had a hand on my elbow. I slapped it away.

‘‘Don’t do that.’’ I heard myself. I was crying. ‘‘Don’t do that to me.’’

She helped me to my feet. She looked disturbed at the force of my reaction. Drawing myself up straight, I climbed the porch steps.

‘‘Why are they going to the morgue?’’ I said. ‘‘Who’s dead?’’

She opened the kitchen door. ‘‘You are.’’

Nikki gripped the steering wheel. ‘‘It’s going to be all right.’’

‘‘We can catch them if you’ll go faster than twenty-five miles an hour.’’

We were crawling along Hollister Avenue through Goleta. With Thea squirming in her car seat, Nikki refused to exceed the speed limit. But Jesse’s phone was off, and when I called the morgue I reached an automated message system.

‘‘Evan, chill down. You’re alive.’’

‘‘He doesn’t know that.’’

At the roadside, eucalyptus trees moaned in the wind. Inside my head the white noise and air had dispersed into bright pebbles of confusion.

‘‘Explain it again. Maybe this time it’ll make sense,’’ I said.

She exhaled. ‘‘Jesse got a call asking him to go to the morgue.’’

‘‘To identify my body.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘That’s stupid-ass crazy.’’

‘‘Hon, he was barely coherent.’’

Traffic slowed for a red light. My knee jittered up and down. ‘‘Keep going.’’

‘‘He was at the bottom of the back steps, throwing rocks at the kitchen window to get our attention. Shouting, ‘Where the hell’s Evan?’ ’’ Her mouth crimped. ‘‘The look on his face. I never want to see it again.’’