Move to Strike (14 page)

Paul was already moving to the bedroom. Decorating the walls in here were posters: girls in odd getups holding ray guns, a large framed illustration from
Cat Women of the Moon
and another from
The
Day the Earth Stood Still
, with Gort, the robot, lugging a blonde in a red cocktail dress. “Klaatu Barada Nikto,” in black marker pen, emanated from roughly where the robot would speak. More plastic phasers. A wooden chest full of work clothes. No sign of drugs. No computer. Suitcase in the closet, toothbrush lying on the sink in the bathroom.

The kitchen. One cupboard full of Wheaties and Trix. Another cupboard cluttered with half-empty bottles of Beam and Gordon’s. More tools on the counter were sprinkled between a million tiny parts, squiggly bits, unrecognizable machinery, white foam balls, and even samples of upholstery. LeBlanc loved his work, too.

“Jerkoff,” said Eddie. “What’s he been cookin’ on the stove here? Airplane fuel? He could have blowed us up, man! I have a three-year-old!” Paul had located a drawer full of bills and correspondence next to the sink. He sat down on a kitchen chair while Eddie poked around, complaining.

No check registers or credit card bills. Shoot. No personal letters. Our boy leads a simple life, Paul thought, or knows how to keep the complicated stuff hidden.

“How long since you’ve seen him now?” he said to Eddie, who was pulling the trigger of one of the toys, causing it to light up and make a buzzing noise.

“Four days, man. I should have come in here before. I’m calling the owner.”

“So where is he?”

“How should I know? I don’t associate with him. I got my own life.”

“Has he gone away like this before?”

“He never goes anywhere.”

“How long has he lived here?”

“Two years.”

“Pays his rent?”

“He’s been late a few times. He says he gets paid late. He’s straining, man, like the rest of us. He says he likes it here. We got a nice pool and that attracts the girls. Some nice girls here, and he’s got the window,” said Eddie, pointing toward the beauties lolling around the courtyard pool below in the blazing sunshine.

“Any special girl?”

“They don’t like him. He just looks.”

Should he stump down there and try to talk to the girls? He was sweating like a pig now, and the bright sunlight out there was—face it, buddy—too much to take. Laboriously, Paul stood up. Eddie was looking at the cast.

“Crackup, huh?”

“How’d you know?”

“It’s always a crackup in LA.”

“File a missing persons report on LeBlanc, Eddie,” he said. “This doesn’t feel like a junket to me.”

What with myriad pit stops for rests and revitalization, Paul didn’t make it home to foggy Carmel in the rented Lincoln until one o’clock in the morning. Leaving his bag in the car, he humped into his frigid condo. First thing he did was to take a couple of pain pills. Then he turned up the heat and examined his stores, found a can of tuna, opened it and ate the contents while leaning on one crutch, looking out the window into a pool of light that lit the quaint village street. Nobody stirred out there, not a human being or even one of the little birds that made such a ruckus in the mornings around here. He wondered how they hung on at night. Did their little claw feet hold them to a tree limb, or did they all have nests in which to retire? Alone in the night, he dragged off to bed.

Turning the light out, he pushed his head into the pillow, adjusted himself. Pulled an extra blanket up over himself. Kicked it off. Groaned.

Wished for a glass of water but saw that one of his crutches had fallen far from the bed. He would have to crawl to get it.

Shut his eyes again. Felt sleep prowling around. Had a fleeting vision of himself creeping through snowy woods, gun in hand. “Rhapsody on a windy night . . .”

He flipped the lamp on, grabbed the phone and punched a long series of numbers. “Wake up, sleepyhead!” he said.

“Wha?”

“Hey, honey,” he said. “What are you wearing?”

“Who . . . Paul?”

“Who else?”

“What’s the matter?” A fumbling in the background. “It’s nearly two o’clock!”

“Did I wake you?” he said meanly.

“What’s going on?”

“Obviously, not a damn thing. Hence my call.”

Nina’s voice sounded wide awake. Could she really not have gone to bed yet? “Are you in Tahoe?” she said.

“Carmel.”

“What’s going on? Where have you been? I’ve called and called. Did you stay in LA?”

“Yep.”

“I assume something major happened down there to keep you away from the phone for so long.”

Yeah, something major had happened. To an
hombre
muy macho.

“Well, what happened?”

“Conversations, calumny, crashes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Say, Nina. You know what I’m thinking about while I’m lying here in my birthday suit, skin rubbing against the soft covers?” The habit of being suggestive with her clung.

“I can’t imagine.”

He had her now. “I’m wondering how the little birds stay in trees at night. Don’t they just build nests in the spring? What happens the rest of the year when night descends and there’s no place to lay down their tiny little bodies? Why don’t they fall down?”

“Are you serious?” He heard her yawn. “Is this really what you ponder in the dead of night? Whatever happened to the old mainstays, death and ghosts? Whatever happened to nostalgic reminiscences?”

“Some, the unlucky injured, may even have lost full use of their uh . . . whatever. Feet, toes. Whatever they use to hang on to the branches.”

“You mean ‘claws’? I guess those birdies are shit out of luck, Paul.”

He listened to her grouchy voice with perverse pleasure. She hardly ever used that kind of language.

“Thanks for faxing those reports, but we have a lot to talk about. Where have you been? When are you coming? I need you up here right away!”

“I didn’t call you to talk about work.”

“Then I’m going to sleep now.”

“I just wanted to say hello.”

“Grrr. Good-bye.”

“I just wanted to hear you growl.”

He hung up. Talking to Nina could be so relaxing. Or else the Darvocet must have kicked in, because suddenly he felt he could sleep like a baby.

CHAPTER 11

WHEN NINA ARRIVED at the office on Tuesday morning after the long Memorial Day weekend, a courier from the D.A.’s office was loitering by the door with an envelope for her. Ripping the packet open, she went inside, not bothering to take off her jacket or her shoulder bag.

Random-sounding scientific explanations grew in meaning as she studied them. The paper showed the result of DNA tests. At the top was a reference to Daria Zack. A cover letter from Henry explained that due to an oversight the results hadn’t been sent earlier.

So they had already tested Daria! The paperwork showed a comparison of Daria’s blood pattern to the pattern of the sample of blood on the sword.

Daria’s blood didn’t match the sample. The autorad showed no sign of a third allele.

She scratched her head. She didn’t want it to be Nikki’s blood, but she hadn’t really wanted it to be Nikki’s mother’s blood, either. The allele was a squiggle on a piece of paper, and she had to find some explanation for it. She would fax it to Ginger and call her later.

The day heated up and five hundred things went wrong. An obstreperous DWI client had busted the chops of an arresting officer. She claimed the police must have beaten her when taking her into custody, which explained all the bumps and bruises she had that she was too hungover to remember getting. Another client accused of car theft had allegedly made the mistake of stealing a casino owner’s car. The windows of his house had been bashed in the night before and he had decided to leave town and his bail bond.

Johnny Ellis called. He had a new doctor and wanted to start fresh with his back pain claim even though he had the new job Sandy had found him. Nina multitasked frenetically until lunchtime, then shut the door to her office and sat in one of her orange chairs, taking a breather, closing her lids down over her stinging eyes.

Sandy knocked.

“She’s not in,” Nina said.

Sandy entered her office with a flurry of paperwork to be signed, then hung in the doorway.

“You’re going to wear the paint off that spot,” said Nina.

“You have an appointment with Linda this afternoon.”

“At three, that’s right,” said Nina. “It’s only one o’clock. What’s the problem?”

“She wants to talk but . . . you’re not gonna like this.”

“What?”

“She’s drunk. She’ll be drunker by the time we get there.”

“Cancel the meeting,” Nina said. “I don’t want to talk to her like that.”

“You don’t understand. She drinks. You won’t catch her sober. I forgot to mention it.”

Nina thought she knew why Sandy hadn’t mentioned it. She knew it from Matt’s drug phase years ago, when she hoped daily for a miracle, always to be disappointed.

“Are you sure this is a good idea then? Maybe she should have an attorney present. Yes. I insist that she have an attorney present when we talk.”

“What for? You’re not the cops.”

“I can’t do it, Sandy. What if she incriminates herself? Then I have to go after her. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Listen. Two things. First. She didn’t kill Sykes. Okay? I already told you that. When are you gonna listen to me?”

“You’re her friend, Sandy. You’re loyal, naturally, but . . .”

Sandy spread her hands. “She was passed out in a bar at Round Hill called the Thirsty Duck the night Sykes was killed.”

“How do you know that?”

“She told me.”

“Uh huh,” Nina said. “So if you’re convinced she did nothing to Sykes, why should I go and see her?”

“She knows something you ought to hear. She laid that on me too.”

“And what’s that?”

“She’s hard to talk to these days. I didn’t push it.”

“She ought to be in a hospital if she’s that far gone. She’s dangerous to herself.”

Sandy said, “We tried getting her into detox. There are some good programs in place that are geared toward Native Americans—alcohol’s just one of the problems that can drag people down—but she’s not ready yet. Meanwhile, she has a doctor, and Joe watches her days when I’m at work. She’s gonna get through this.”

The Linda she had seen at Sandy’s wedding was hard to reconcile with this stranger Sandy was talking about. “You think this is a temporary breakdown caused by what happened to her daughter?”

“That, and her husband leaving. Yeah, she has to grieve before she can get on with it.”

Linda was another woman riding on that cold tide Nina knew so well, grieving over someone lost. Suddenly, the world seemed full of women like them. For most, there would be macaroni to cook for hungry children, leaves to sweep from the steps, checks to write. Sex and love and hunger, all the normal drives would rear up and seize them again. Life itself would drag them back into the mainstream. But what happened to the ones that never got yanked back? What about Linda, sinking so far down she might never rise to the surface again? How did a mother recover from losing her child? What about Nikki? She floated in one place, unable to move forward. How did a child move on after being rejected by her father?

Sandy was still talking. “But you need to know what happened and I guess Linda thinks she knows something so I’m gonna take you to her. Not Paul.”

“Why the insistence that she see me and not Paul?”

“She’s got enough pride left not to like people seeing her like this. You’re easier for her. Wish is coming back in a while. He can watch the office while we’re gone.” Her son, Wish, did odd jobs for them.

“All right,” Nina said. “Sandy? You said ‘two things’ when I said it wouldn’t be right to interview her when she was intoxicated. What was the second thing?”

“Second thing is, what’s ethical about being nice to people when you have a little girl charged with murder? I don’t care who Linda is or how messed up she is, I’d be on her like a hungry dog on a rib steak if I thought it would help the client.”

Nina thought about that and thought some more. “You know, Sandy, I think you’ve got a point there,” she said finally. “I guess I do get tangled up in the fine points of professional ethics sometimes.”

“Like I always say. You lawyers think like spiders, weaving these webs that you get stuck in. Make like a cockroach. Go for it and just remember to run for cover when the bright lights come on.” She dropped the set of points and authorities on Nina’s desk.

At two-thirty, Sandy directed Nina to a red Chevy pickup. “It’s Joe’s,” she said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Only breaks down on hot days.”

Shifting from park to drive made the entire vehicle shudder. The day was straight out of a tourist brochure, warm and bright, the trees dropping yellow pollen like fluffy snow on cars and roofs and streets.

Nina leaned back and enjoyed the scenery while Sandy drove. She usually drove these roads automatically and it was sheer luxury to take time to look out the windows and smell the wildflowers blooming along the verges. She had driven this way with her husband to Sandy’s wedding, and back from it with Paul.

Hard to remember that only a few months before, in late March, these green fields and blooming waysides had still been a dense field of white extending into eternity, or at least as far down as Placerville. The earth had renewed itself and somehow, so would she. Lulled by the back and forth motion of the car, she dozed, half in and half out of awareness.

By the time she had fully returned to her senses, they had stopped at a stout wooden gate on a dirt road. Sandy and Joe’s property. “I must have drifted off,” she said.

Sandy got out, lifting the gate carefully into place before giving it a push with her hip. “You could use some coffee before you talk to her.”

“Yes, I could,” she admitted. In addition, she was dying to see where Sandy and Joe lived. She had never seen the place. Sandy’s wedding had been at a friend’s home. Sandy got back into the truck and revved the engine to a lurching start. Without taking the time to close the gate, they drove down a dirt road, stopping for some ducklings following their mother toward the pond to the right. Ahead, a low ranch house with a big porch stood, and behind, a forested hill began its ascension toward the sky.

Sandy stopped the truck and got out, walking toward the house, but the truck’s door wouldn’t open on Nina’s side. “Uh. Is there a trick to this?” she called.

Sandy came over and jiggled the handle. “Nothing to it,” she said, opening the door with ease. She led the way up a path to the house.

“It’s so beautiful up here, Sandy,” Nina said, clutching her briefcase and following Sandy’s stately sway. “You have so much sky. You must love it.”

“It’ll do.”

The house was all Nina would have hoped for Sandy and Joe: older, comfortable, very homey and well-loved looking, with pine furniture and an orange blanket with a zigzag pattern on the couch. In the large, sun-yellow, tiled kitchen, she helped Sandy assemble a tray with coffee and sandwiches. Linda wasn’t staying in the house. Sandy and Joe had a one-room studio out by the barn they had fixed up for her.

Two small windows framed Linda’s door. A tiny porch in front held a rocking chair with gingham pillows. They knocked. No answer.

“It’s Sandy and Nina Reilly, Linda,” said Sandy firmly. “We’ve brought you some lunch.”

The door cracked open. Linda blinked at the sunshine. She looked disheveled, as if she had been sleeping, and her dark hair had a matted look. She didn’t even look at Nina. Her eyes were fixed on the tray. “That all?” she asked.

“No booze, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Sandy, inserting a foot in the door and giving it a rough heave.

Linda jumped back. They walked in.

Some effort had been made to make the room habitable, even pleasant. A braided oval rug filled most of the large floor. An iron bed painted white was against one wall. The walls were light blue, and navy-and-white-striped curtains fluttered in the windows. Two upholstered chairs sat opposite each other at a circular wooden table. Other than the unmade bed, the room looked reasonably tidy.

Next to the table, on the floor, stacked like wood, were the empty bottles, enough to fill a wine cellar. A glass, heavy and round, sat on the table, also empty. Several more bottles lay alongside the bed.

Sandy ignored them and put the tray on the table. “Sit down,” she said to Linda. “Have a sandwich.”

Linda sat. Her eyes roamed around the room for a while, trying to fix on Nina and failing. She closed them. “Hell. Hate it when you get to the dizzies.”

“Food helps,” Sandy said. “Eat up, now.”

She handed Linda a half-sandwich and stood over her until Linda, making a face, ate it. “I’m blotto. No fooling.” She spoke slowly, enunciating precisely.

“I’m Nina Reilly,” said Nina, taking the chair opposite. “I met you at Sandy’s wedding. Remember?” It hurt to see Linda like this, hardly able to speak. Her eloquent simplicity at Sandy’s ceremony had touched Nina.

“Not—not really.”

“I represent a young lady who has been accused of killing Dr. William Sykes.”

Linda nodded. “Right. Right,” she said, taking a bite of food, chewing a little. Sandy put a coffee cup in her hand and excused herself, then headed back to the house. Finishing her coffee, Linda put a hand on her stomach. People did not really turn green in Nina’s experience, but Linda came close.

“I wish you didn’t know me like I was before,” Linda said to Nina. “Now let’s talk about—what? What did you come here for? About Robin?”

“I’m here about Dr. Sykes.”

“Not much to say. Six months ago, he killed Robin and ruined my marriage. They gave us some money but that didn’t change anything. I had to give up my ministry. Lost the joy. Lost the faith.”

“I’m so sorry . . .” Nina said.

“I took her to him. I gave her the money.”

“Don’t blame yourself.”

Linda stared down at the table, lost in thought. “Drinking’s the only thing that helps. Ever heard of Buffy Sainte-Marie? No, you probably haven’t. My mom loved her songs.” She sang a few lines in a harsh voice from “Codeine.”

“Well, my belly’s cravin’, too, only my curse is the oldest kind. I’ve bent to drink.”

“Tell me about your daughter.”

“Robin was her name. Wait,” she said, getting up.

Pulling a suitcase out from under the bed, she opened it, rummaging until she found something. She left the suitcase out and handed a photograph to Nina.

“There she is.”

A girl with short black hair cut very stylishly smiled, showing a top row of even white teeth. She had Linda’s strong, jutting nose. “She liked herself straight on, but wouldn’t let you take her in profile,” said Linda.

“A pretty girl,” said Nina.

“She hated her nose.” She took the picture back. “It was all she wanted for her sixteenth birthday, to have the surgery. She had a scholarship to go to beautician school. Loved people, talking with them, helping them look their best. She lived through the operation.” Linda stopped. A tear fell down her cheek. She didn’t seem to notice. “Where was I?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, yeah, and she died a couple of hours later. She stopped breathing. ‘A rare outcome,’ he said. They blamed it on some hidden defect in her lungs, but what it comes to is that sometimes people can’t take the insult of surgery. Isn’t that a perfect way to describe it? The insult. That’s what they told me.”

“Pretty vague.”

“Why my daughter? Our doctor said Sykes was careless with Robin. But his lawyer was a man named Jeffrey Riesner. You know him?”

“Yes.”

“An animal has more sympathy. He bit into us like a rat in an alley. When he got done, we felt like— dirty.”

“I understand you made some threats,” Nina said.

“I got Sykes’s number, never mind how. Late at night a few times, I called him up and told him what I thought of him. I wrote him a letter once.” She shrugged. “I was drinking. Makes me meaner.”

“He got a restraining order against you.”

She rubbed her hands against her cup, as if wishing it into something more potent. “He was the one needed restraining.”

“You attacked him.” Sandy had told Nina this.

She snapped her fingers. “That’s what Sandy said I should tell you. That’s right. I remember now. Now listen. This was about—oh, a month ago. I went into Prize’s for a nightcap. I was wanting not to be alone. I lost it. You know. Lost it.”