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Authors: Meg Gardiner

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BOOK: Jericho Point
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I felt colder than I could have imagined, and hollow. I dug my fists into the pockets of my sweatshirt. The light turned green, but the car in front of us didn’t move. I reached over and hit the horn.
Nikki scowled at me. ‘‘Ease off. He’s going to be okay.’’
‘‘Just get there.’’
I felt Nikki’s eyes on me. It seemed as though she were peering through my skin, down to the secret depths where I hid my worst thoughts. And she was seeing the fear I had swallowed: that, negligently or recklessly, Jesse might harm himself.
‘‘I know it’s somebody else. But I don’t want him to see it. I don’t want him even to set foot in the morgue. After all that’s happened, it’s too much to ask of him.’’
Thea, seeming to sense our tension, rattled the car seat. ‘‘Out. Get out.’’
‘‘Has he been that depressed?’’ Nikki said.
Not depressed; ragged with grief. His friend Isaac Sandoval had been killed when the hit-and-run driver ran them down. And only a few months ago Isaac’s brother, Adam, had died before Jesse’s eyes, trying to put the driver in prison. Against evidence and reason, Jesse thought their deaths were his fault. That guilt was what pulled him down beneath the surface of a black river he swam, upstream, in his own heart.
I pointed at the cross street. ‘‘This is it.’’
We turned the corner. The morgue was part of the county sheriff’s complex, a low building designed to be nondescript. Jesse’s black Mustang was parked outside. Nikki swung in next to it. I had the door open before the car finished rolling.
I rushed inside and found Carl pacing back and forth in the lobby. He was his usual immaculate self, with creases ironed into his blue jeans, but behind round-rimmed glasses his face looked drawn.
Seeing me, he stopped still. ‘‘My God.’’
‘‘Where’s Jesse?’’
He pointed at a door. I ran through it and down a hall, pushed through another door, and found myself in the cold-storage room. In chilly air, rows of body lockers shone along the far wall. One was open. An attendant from the sheriff’s office was sliding out a tray, on which lay a corpse covered with a sheet.
Jesse was watching. Sitting in the wheelchair, he was going to be eye-to-eye with the body. The morgue attendant reached to fold the sheet back.
‘‘Don’t,’’ I said.
The attendant turned, her round face prickling in surprise. ‘‘You’re not allowed in here.’’
Jesse didn’t move. I walked toward them.
The attendant raised her hand. ‘‘Turn yourself around and march right back where you came from.’’
Jesse sat motionless, gripping his push-rims. The attendant stepped to block the corpse with her own body. I walked past her.
‘‘Jess, it’s me.’’
His head dropped. He covered his eyes with one hand. I fell to my knees at his side and wrapped my arms around him. He held as still as stone. He felt cold, his whole body knotted.
‘‘Breathe,’’ I said.
He buried his face against my shoulder. His fingers snaked into my hair. I felt his lips on my neck, and when he finally drew air it was through a kiss, fierce on my skin.
‘‘Ma’am.’’ The morgue attendant’s voice had softened.
Jesse found my cheek, and my mouth. He kissed me twice, three times, stroking my hair, holding my face close to his.
‘‘If you don’t mind,’’ said the attendant, ‘‘who are you?’’
I looked up, seeing a name badge that read, AGUILAR. ‘‘Evan Delaney.’’
Surprise kinked on her face. She nodded at the sheet. ‘‘This is Evan Delaney.’’
‘‘I vehemently doubt that.’’ I stood up. ‘‘And I’m in serious need of an explanation.’’
Jesse turned his back on the sheet. He pulled out his phone and punched a number. Aguilar’s mouth pinched.
‘‘Sir, please. Not now.’’
‘‘This can’t wait.’’ He spoke into the phone. ‘‘It’s me. Here.’’
He handed it to me. Putting it to my ear, I said hello.
‘‘Ev? Sweet Christ.’’
My brother’s voice sounded brittle. I began to understand how far the bad news had spread.
‘‘I’m okay, Bri. Mom and Dad?’’ I said.
‘‘Negative. I was waiting for verification before I called them. Jesus God, how did they make this mistake? Evan, you have no idea.’’
From his end came the noise of traffic. ‘‘Where are you?’’
‘‘Going like a Tomahawk missile down Highway Fourteen. I’ll be in Santa Barbara in a few hours.’’
I felt myself choking up, and fought it. ‘‘You mean you thought I was dead, and you decided to
drive
?’’
He let out a hard sound that wasn’t really a laugh. ‘‘The navy hates it when I borrow their Hornets for personal flights.’’ His voice sobered again. ‘‘We’ll be there in three.’’
We
meant Luke, my nephew. I said, ‘‘Can’t wait,’’ and handed the phone back.
Aguilar said, ‘‘Ma’am, may I see some identification?’’
I showed her my driver’s license. She scowled.
‘‘Kathleen Evan Delaney. Same as all the credit cards on the deceased.’’
‘‘Oh, brother.’’ I glanced at the sheet, and at Jesse. ‘‘Hear that?’’
He hung up the phone. ‘‘Stolen ID. Or counterfeit. You know what that means.’’
‘‘Cherry Lopez. That last kick in the pants she loved to give people.’’
I explained to Aguilar. ‘‘My purse was stolen last summer. The thief was into online credit card fraud. This could be connected.’’
Damn, had Lopez sold my credit information online? Or was the woman under the sheet a professional thief?
‘‘It’s identity theft.’’ Jesse’s face was severe. ‘‘This is not good.’’
‘‘Not in any way.’’
Aguilar gestured to the door. ‘‘Let’s discuss this elsewhere.’’
Jesse didn’t move. ‘‘Not until you tell me why you contacted next of kin before investigating this young woman’s identity.’’
Beneath Jesse’s voice I heard Gopher’s words.
Yeah, right. You’re really Evan Delaney.
Laughing, because he didn’t believe that. I ran my knuckles across my forehead. Something bad was unspooling all around me, and at the end of the line lay a dead woman on a slab.
‘‘You didn’t check fingerprints? Identifying marks? Missing persons reports?’’ he said.
I stared at the sheet, becoming aware of what I’d been consciously ignoring amidst the metallic sterility and cool of the room: a scent. Like a stagnant pond.
‘‘Did you take even a cursory look at her before calling Evan’s brother and telling him she was dead?’’ Jesse said.
Aguilar’s cheeks were turning pink. ‘‘She had a pocketful of plastic giving us a name. And if you’ll allow me to correct you, we have not identified this body. That, sir, is what you came here to do.’’
‘‘She drowned?’’ I said.
‘‘We haven’t determined cause of death yet,’’ Aguilar said.
The smell augured through me. It was the scent of the ocean.
‘‘Did she wash up on the beach?’’ I said.
‘‘Below More Mesa.’’ She gave the sheet a dispassionate look. ‘‘Near the black sands.’’
‘‘Jericho Point,’’ Jesse said.
I nodded distractedly. Jericho Point was what we called the beach below the eroding cliffs, because the walls collapsed and came tumbling down on hapless beachcombers. People died there with depressing regularity. And it was where the current could have carried someone who fell into the water in Isla Vista.
‘‘Let me see the body,’’ I said.
Jesse gave me an incredulous look. ‘‘You don’t want to do that.’’
‘‘I do. You go out to the lobby.’’ I looked at Aguilar. ‘‘Please.’’
Jesse took my wrist. ‘‘No, you truly don’t want to do that.’’
‘‘I can handle it.’’
His eyes were arctic. ‘‘Nobody’s told you.’’
‘‘What?’’ I looked from him to the sheet.
‘‘She didn’t drown, Evan. She was murdered.’’
At once I felt disconnected, as if the buzzing lights and chill air were biting at my face.
‘‘I don’t understand,’’ I said.
Aguilar looked somber. ‘‘The deceased was the apparent victim of a homicide. Viewing the body may be difficult.’’
My skin tingled. I couldn’t stop staring at the sheet. ‘‘I need to know.’’
‘‘Perhaps there’s another way,’’ Aguilar said.
Stepping to the tray, she lifted a section of the sheet and exposed one of the dead woman’s arms. I saw a delicate wrist wearing a silver charm bracelet. And a grayish hand twisted stiff with rigor mortis.
‘‘Does this look familiar?’’
She gestured to the charms hanging on the bracelet. A shamrock, a koala, a dolphin, a Chinese character. I shook my head.
‘‘May I presume that you can give us a negative on the ID? Mr. Blackburn—can you confirm that this is not Kathleen Evan Delaney?’’
Jesse was pale. ‘‘Jesus.’’ He pushed closer to the tray, staring at that wrist.
‘‘Sir?’’
He lifted a hand to pull the sheet off, only to stop himself. ‘‘Show me.’’
I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘‘What are you doing?’’
‘‘Take off the sheet.’’ Sparks in his eyes. ‘‘Do it, just do it, come on.’’
Aguilar looked uncertain. But with practiced formality she stepped to the side of the locker tray and folded back the sheet.
‘‘Oh.’’ The cry escaped my lips as I staggered backward. ‘‘God.’’
I had seen the dead before, but not this. ‘‘Shit. Oh, God.’’
If I force myself, I can see her blond hair, with one streak of blue, matted and packed with sand. A purple blouse, dried and wrinkled. Paper-gray skin. But then I smell the smell, and I start to swim, and I see her face.
‘‘Fuck. Damn, fucking hell.’’
Jesse said it, or I said it, stumbling away from that tray.
‘‘Do you recognize her?’’ Aguilar said. ‘‘Mr. Blackburn?’’
I banged into Jesse and kept going backward. ‘‘Stop it, make it stop.’’
The corpse was staring at me. Right at me, shit, with bloodshot huge eyes that bulged out of her eye sockets.
She was willow thin, with flawless skin, and from the neck down her body looked perfect. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. She could have been me at that age. Sand crabs were crawling in and out of her mouth.
It was her, I knew, the girl who had gone off the balcony at the party. She had been garroted. With wire. Through the gore, I saw a bloody, shining strand embedded in her throat. Her head had almost been sawed off. Her face was bloated. Her tongue looked like a sea slug protruding through swollen lips.
The lights spun. The door hit the wall when I threw it open. I fought to bring air into my lungs, shoved my way through the lobby and outside into the wind.
Nikki stood next to the car, bouncing Thea on one hip, talking to Carl. I lurched past. Carl called my name. I felt covered in filth. My clothes stank with the smell of the corpse. I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and threw it to the ground. I yanked off my shoes and socks and tore off the track bottoms and stood there in my shorts, shivering. I still smelled it.
‘‘Ma’am.’’ Aguilar was calling to me. ‘‘Ma’am. I’m sorry about that.’’
I paced in a circle, shuddering. ‘‘And you haven’t determined the cause of death? Jesus Christ.’’
‘‘As a formality, can you tell me whether you recognize the deceased?’’
‘‘Where’s Jesse?’’
‘‘He said he needed to wash his face. The deceased, ma’am.’’
That girl hadn’t fallen off of any balcony. P.J.’s story was a lie.
‘‘I’ve never seen her.’’ I sat down on the sidewalk and leaned my head on my knees. ‘‘But I think I know where she died.’’
I gave her a short summary. Jesse came out, looking ashen. Aguilar went over and spoke briefly to him before going inside. I sat on the sidewalk. Jesse was talking to the Vincents. Nikki put a hand over her mouth and turned away with Thea. Carl shook his head. Jesse headed for the Mustang, jerking his head for me to join him.
I stood up, gathered my things, and wandered over like a zombie. Jesse was trying to put the car key in the door lock. He kept missing.
I covered his hand with my own. ‘‘Think I’m in better shape than you. I’ll drive.’’
‘‘It’s not that.’’ He lowered his hand to his lap. ‘‘Did you see her charm bracelet?’’
‘‘Yeah. It brought her no luck, did it?’’
The wind raked his hair. He looked up at me.
‘‘It belongs to my mother.’’
7
The Mustang fired up with a roar. Jesse threw it into reverse and spun the tires backing up. I braced my hands against the dashboard. This car.
Jesse had bought it from my brother. He painted it black and installed hand controls. And he kept Brian’s bumper sticker: MY OTHER CAR IS AN F/A-18. It was a load of V-8 menace.
I buckled up. ‘‘You’re positive about the bracelet.’’
‘‘I got the
Xi
in Beijing, the shamrock in Dublin. The koala in Sydney, when I swam Pan Pacifics. It’s all stuff I picked up competing on the U.S. team.’’ He flung the wheel and bounced out onto the street. ‘‘The dolphin was a birthday gift from P.J.’’
‘‘Did you tell Aguilar?’’
‘‘I had to.’’
‘‘Do you know who that girl is?’’
‘‘No.’’ He turned onto Hollister and let the car growl. ‘‘Do you?’’
I stared out the windshield. We had come to it.
‘‘This isn’t straight-out identity theft, is it?’’ he said.
‘‘No. And it has nothing to do with Cherry Lopez snatching my purse.’’
‘‘Spill.’’
‘‘Pull over.’’
He gave me a canny look and stopped the car along the curb. His gaze cooled on me.
‘‘It has to do with your brother,’’ I said.
For a long second he continued looking at me. Then he jammed the car in gear, spun the wheel, and slewed into a U-turn across traffic. The car did what Mustangs tend to do, with the big engine up front and the short back end. The wheels got light and started sliding across the slick roadway.
I grabbed the door. ‘‘Christ.’’
BOOK: Jericho Point
7.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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