Vertical Coffin (2004) (24 page)

I said, "We all do that."

"I can take pressure. I'm good under pressure. It's self-doubt that I can't deal with."

"It's that way for everybody," I told her.

"Except, you always seem so sure."

I couldn't believe she said that. I always felt so unsure. Always following in the footsteps of other people, like Jigsaw John, or Tony, or Alexa.

"I'm never sure," I told her. "Every time I'm sure, I turn ou
t t
o be wrong."

But then I started to work on a way to solve her problem. If it was my investigative technique that was causing trouble, I could change that. I could focus on the SWAT teams like she wanted, leave everything else, the tunnel and all my hunches, for later. Also, I had an idea how I could get Tony off her back.

I was just getting ready to lay some righteous stuff on her when she said, "I'll get past this. It's just a hitch in the road." Then she whispered, "And thanks."

"For what?"

"For just listening. Not doing what you usually do, trying to solve it."

So I scotched all my brilliant solutions and just held her.

An hour later I changed my clothes and got ready to go to work with Sergeant Brickhouse. As I was passing through the living room the phone rang. It was almost ten, and I was pretty sure it was Jo wondering where I was. I almost didn't answer it, but then changed my mind and snapped up the receiver. Immediately, I heard a whispering, threatening voice.

"You been warned Scully. Shut this down now or you pay the price, bitch."

"Wrong Scully, asshole," I said, anger and violence flaring. "When I find out who you are--and I will--I'm gonna reach down your throat and pull your asshole out."

Before I could finish the sentence he had hung up.

Chapter
30

STAR TROUBLE

I immediately hit star-69, but the number was blocked. Alexa was already under enough stress, so I didn't tell her about the call. Instead, I got in touch with Tony. The chief promised to run a phone check on my line and to increase the patrols in our neighborhood, keep an eye on our house.

I was almost two hours late getting to Jo's house off Alameda, in Glendale. It was in a middle-class neighborhood full of small one-story houses and duplexes. It was nine-thirty in the evening as I pulled slowly up the street, looking for her address. I spotted the number painted on a mailbox and turned into the narrow drive of a nondescript painted brick house. There was a black Navigator parked in the driveway facing the street. As I was setting my hand brake, a very pretty woman with black hair and long legs stormed out of the rear of the house, carryin
g a
laundry basket full of clothes. She threw the basket into the back of the SUV and slammed the door. When she came around to the driver's side, I could see a mask of fury on a beautiful, structured face dominated by high cheekbones. She motioned for me to back up, then jumped into the Navigator, started the engine and blasted the horn angrily.

"Okay, okay, I'm trying," I said to my dash. I fumbled the key into the ignition and backed out into the street.

The Navigator came out of the driveway like a getaway car after a 7-Eleven robbery. She whipped the wheel right, squealed rubber, and roared away up the street.

I pulled back into the drive, parked, then went up to the front door and rang the bell.

Nobody answered. I rechecked the address. No problem there. I looked around the front yard. It was neatly trimmed, but bland. The flowerbeds were organized, but mostly planted in white. Colorless. The brick house was gray with white paint on the sparse wood trim. It was a square, uninspired structure. The whole feeling of the place was clean efficiency. No energy had been wasted on frills. A brick shithouse, I thought.

I rang the bell again. Still nothing. So I walked around to the rear.

The backyard was small. Two recliner sun chairs and a portable Jacuzzi with wood sides sat out on the lawn. There was a utilitarian concrete patio that held a coiled hose and a flower potting area.

The back door was ajar. I knocked loudly, then called out, "Jo. It's Shane."

No answer.

I was beginning to feel alarmed. Sheriffs were getting shot, Alexa was being threatened. Who was the angry woman who had raced out of the driveway in the Navigator, almost hitting me?

I checked my gun, but left it in the holster and entered Jo
Brickhouse's sparse kitchen. It was neat, but like everything else colorless and efficient. Lots of stainless steel.

I moved into the living room. Wood floors, plain walls, Danish Modern furniture, which always struck me as the ultimate triumph of form over function.

As I passed through the dining room, I could hear someone crying down the hall. Large, wracking sobs.

"Jo, it's Shane," I yelled out again, and the crying abruptly stopped.

"Just a minute," she called, in one of those fake brave voices. "Go wait in the den."

I turned and went into the den, which was really just an alcove off the living room. More Danish Modern furniture, gray upholstery, white walls. No art. All the warmth of a G
. E
. refrigerator. Her desk, on the far side of the little nook, was piled high with Vincent Smiley printouts.

I decided not to futz with it, but to let her pass out the paper. A minute later I heard her in the bathroom running water. Then her footsteps came down the hall. When she walked into the den her eyes were rimmed red and badly swollen.

First Alexa, now Jo. My female karma was in serious retrograde. "You okay?" I asked.

"Dandy," she said sharply, to cut off further discussion.

"You don't look dandy," I pressed, thinking even as I said it: Don't get into this, Shane. Whatever it is, you can't solve it.

"Where were you?" she snapped. "You were supposed to be here two hours ago." She was pissed at the pretty, black-haired woman in the SUV, but she was taking it out on me.

"I had to deal with something at home," I said.

"Really?" Focusing more anger. "Well, that can happen I suppose. But it never hurts to call. It's why we all carry beeper
s a
nd cell phones."

"Who was that who almost took off my front bumper pullin
g o
ut of here?" I asked, thinking again: You don't want to know} Shane. Don't get into this.

"That was Bridget."

"Who's Bridget?"

"Somebody I'll probably never see again." She said it so bitterly that it sounded like a curse. Then, little by little her composure began to crumble. It started with a slight lip quiver, then spread upward, eventually crashing her entire face. She hiccupped a loud sob at me, spun and ran out of the den, up the hall, leaving me standing alone.

Again, I had the same strange feeling that I knew her from somewhere before, but where the hell was it? The feeling was circling close, just out of reach. I tried to pin it down. Sometime, a while back. It was something about her build, or the way she moved. What was it about those muscular arms, those developed calves and thighs?

Then it hit me.

"Son-of-a-bitch," I said softly to myself.

I went out through the kitchen into the backyard, then crossed to the small garage and opened the side door. Parked inside was a department black-and-white. I walked around to the far side and there it was.

Jabba the Slut's yellow-and-black Screamin' Eagle Deuce.

Chapter
31

JABBA THE SLUT

I was back in the tiny den waiting for her, thinking: She must have remembered me from the Iron Pig's rally. But, just like me, she wanted to pretend to have emotional distance on Emo's death. If I'd known they were friends I would have questioned her objectivity, as she had undoubtedly been questioning mine. It explained some of her argumentative attitude. At least, I hoped it did.

After a while she came out of the bedroom and sat in the swivel chair across the room, maintaining a careful physical distance from me. She looked crushed. Emotionally shattered.

"Look, Jo, this is probably a bad time to work on this. I could come back tomorrow."

"No. No, we have to do it now. There's a lot at stake."

"Right. But I can see you've just--I don't want to add to your emotional problems."

She looked at me, then shrugged her big shoulders. The motion said: I don't count, I'm nothing. Don't worry about me.

Then she added, "My brother sheriffs want this solved. I'm getting threatening calls at work."

She went to her desk and sat looking down at the papers. I decided not to complicate things by telling her Alexa was being threatened, too. I needed to get her focused on something else for a minute.

So I said, "I saw your bike in the garage. Why didn't you tell me you were on that ride?"

She shrugged again. "I didn't like you. From the first moment I saw you up in Trancas Canyon you sorta pissed me off. Sitting on that big Roast King that wasn't even yours, acting like some bullshit Willie G, high-siding and countersteering every turn. You ride like a girl."

"Jesus. That bad?" I smiled at her.

"Hey, I have female issues. I won't deny it. I also make snap judgments, so I'm wrong a lot. I've befriended a lotta assholes, alienated a lotta friends." She rubbed her hand under her one green eye, taking away some excess moisture. "Look, I do the best I can. Everybody doesn't see my virtues."

"I do," I said softly.

"Gimme a fuckin' break, Scully. I piss you off. But that's okay, I piss everybody off. If you could throw me overboard ten miles out, tied to an anchor, I'd be strolling the Catalina Trench right now.

"Don't be so hard on yourself."

"Right." She shook her head in bitter frustration. "Bridget says deep down I'm cold. I don't let people in. I suppose she's right, but I never know what to expect from people. I get scared, so I play a lot of defense."

"Me too."

She spun the swivel chair around and regarded me with frustration. "Don't try and get inside my head, Shane. It'll scare the hell outta you."

"What's in your head probably wouldn't scare me, Jo. My own devils seem worse than yours, because they're mine."

"I'm sure," she said skeptically.

For some reason, at that moment I needed to get something off my chest. Maybe I was feeling guilty and isolated over Alexa, or maybe it was that I sensed that in her current state, Jo wouldn't judge me. Whatever it was, I took a deep breath and let go.

"Most of the time I feel pretty lost and unsure," I said softly. "And deep down I usually don't think I'm worth very much."

She was watching me carefully now, waiting for a punch line. But there wasn't one. This was one of my dark spots, a place I rarely go. Her mismatched eyes softened, so I went on.

"That can happen when you're left at a hospital when you're six weeks old, and the county can't give you away, even if they're paying people to take you. I'd go with somebody for a week and they'd spit me back--too fussy, too hyperactive, too old, too hard to handle. Mostly I was raised by the county. So, like you, for most of my life I never let anybody get close.

"I wanted to be a cop because cops got respect just by wearing a badge. Being a cop gave me standing in the community. It made me part of a brotherhood--a family. I stood for something important that didn't have to be explained to be understood. But there was something else--something less noble. As a cop I didn't need to have a personal relationship to affect the relationships of others. I was great at police work, but as a person I was hiding out. I was good with assholes, because at least I understood them. I knew what to expect. Nothing. And I was used to getting nothing."

She sat quietly listening, so I went on.

"But in the last few years I've been trying to change that, to take more chances and be more vulnerable. I'm learning that vulnerability doesn't have to signal weakness. In fact, it draws people to you. Little by little, my personal life is getting richer. But it's like everything is balanced on some kind of complicated teeter board. The more vulnerable I become the happier I am personally, but the more inept I feel as a cop. I'm getting played more, and I'm having trouble finding a reason to care about anything on the job. This case we're working is threatening to end my career because it is the ultimate breakdown of everything I once believed in."

"So you're taking a chance with me now. Is that what this is? Showing how open and nonjudgmental you can be?" She was sort of sneering as she said it.

"I don't care whether you're gay, Josephine. It's just a choice and it's yours to make. But if you want some unsolicited advice, don't let your sexuality define you. You're worth more than that. I have my own issues I'm working on. Nobody gets through life without getting ambushed occasionally. Stop thinking it's only you. Everybody's out there looking for their own answers."

She remained silent, her face hard to read.

"You and I are in this thing together," I said. "My wife is getting phone threats like you are. I'm worried about her safety, and now yours, too. Everybody wants us to ditch the Smiley background and start focusing on those two SWAT teams. Only, I can't shake the feeling that the answer is hiding in his past. Putting our rocky beginning aside, you've been a good partner, and I don't usually do well with partners, because trust is another one of my issues. But maybe we could develop some trust. If you wanta let down some personal boundaries, just say the word."