Christine slathered more mayo on what was left of her sandwich. “Nope.”
Melanie gaped. “You tell me everything.”
Christine wiped the mayo off her chin with the back of her hand and smirked. “Sure, when we were ten.” She finished her lunch and wiped her hands on a linen napkin. Amused that she’d gotten mustard stains on it—big yellow streaks that would never come out. “Phillip is my business.” She gulped down the rest of her milk. “I don’t need to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it.”
For a moment, she replayed the goodbye scene at Violet’s that morning. A tight hug, a few tears, and the look. The one that said so much without words. At least Violet had been smart enough not to ask. Because Violet actually wanted Christine to stand on her own two feet.
Mel wanted just the opposite. She wanted to keep Christine weak and reliant. Wanted to run her life while pretending to help. But the days of monsters under the bed were long gone and Christine could fight her own battles now.
Melanie bristled. “I can’t believe you’re talking to me this way. What’s gotten into you?”
Christine cocked her head at her sister. “Freedom, big sister. Precious freedom.”
Chapter 19
DAVIS LURKED OUTSIDE Warsowski’s office. If the door hadn’t been locked she’d have gone inside, poked around, and done a little spying to pass the time. She checked her watch. “Where the hell are you?”
The squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum floors pulled her gaze to the left. Warsowski, an ancient Pole who hung onto his thick accent from the old country, sauntered her way. He held a battered flip-phone to his ear and mumbled quietly in Polish. When he saw her, he lowered his voice and quickly ended the call.
Davis beamed her brightest smile and he answered her with a scowl. “Hey, Doc, been waiting for you.”
Warsowski unlocked his door and went inside without extending an invitation to Davis. But she wriggled in behind him, picking her way around all the charts and files stacked willy-nilly, on chairs, the desk, and the floor.
Warsowski lowered himself into his chair and it poofed as though sighing. He fiddled with a paper sack and pulled out a deli-wrapped sandwich and a Granny Smith apple.
“So, what's up with the stiff that came in last week?”
The M.E. unwrapped his sandwich slowly. “What stiff, Davis?”
“Logan. Phillip.”
“Don't know yet.”
“When will you know?”
Warsowski fished a juice box out of his drawer, stabbed in the straw and sipped—looking like a very old toddler. “We ain’t cut him yet. Lots of bodies here, Davis, lots of bodies. Then we got tox screens, we got tissue samples, labs. You know this.
“How long?”
Warsowski sniggered. “Why, he got previous engagement he don’t want to be late for?” Davis scowled. “Four days, five days, maybe six. Depends. He some kind of VIP special case?
Davis knew better than try to finesse the old bullfrog. She had no call to rush the autopsy and knew the answers to her questions. Still, hope kept its head above water. “Okay, well what does it look like?”
The pathologist gnawed on his sandwich—bologna smeared with brown mustard. “A stiff, what else?” He wiped a smudge of mustard from the corner of his mouth with a finger.
Davis snorted. “You're funny, Doc. Anybody ever tell you that?”
He took a final slurp from his juice box to show his displeasure. “Just you, Davis.”
Davis wedged herself into a chair stacked with file folders. “Come on, Doc.”
He bit into his apple and smacked his lips. “So, I should give a guess?”
Davis leaned her elbows on his desk. “I’ll take what I can get. What are you thinking?”
Warsowski dropped his apple in the trash and wagged his head. “No respect, Davis. Other detectives wait 'til they get the report. They say, "Thanks, Dr. W. Thanks, very much." He jabbed a pale finger at her. “But you? No, just always hurry, hurry, hurry. Don’t want to wait ‘til it’s your turn. Like it’s life and death. But he’s already dead. Nobody’s gonna die if they don’t get the report ‘til next week.”
Davis wanted to scream—where was Daniels when she needed him? He was the one who could charm the old dog. “Okay, please and thank you. Okay? Tell me?”
“He drinks, he takes pills, gets in the tub and drowns. Not a big mystery, you ask me.”
She narrowed her eyes at the old curmudgeon. “So, you’ve examined him and you’re giving me shit about asking?”
Warsowski tossed his lunch bag into the trash. “Don't sound like thank you, to me.”
“Somebody could have loaded him up with the drugs.”
He yanked a chart out of a stack and flipped it open. “No puncture marks.”
Davis craned her neck trying to read the chart upside down. “Or got him drunk and held him under?”
He continued staring at the chart. “No trauma to the body consistent with a struggle.”
Davis slouched back, dejected. “He couldn't have put up much of a fight if he was drunk and doped up.”
Warsowski shrugged his pudgy shoulders. “Maybe yes, maybe no. Depends.”
Davis squinted at the man who never made sense to her. “Stop toying with me, Doc.”
Warsowski chucked the chart on the desk and looked at her. “Élan vital.”
For crying out loud. “Huh?”
The doc creaked back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “The original vital impulse which is the substance of consciousness and nature.” Davis stared at him without comprehension. “Very simple, Davis. Why do some survive and some do not? Because some have an impulse to survive and some do not.” His eyes sparkled as though he had imparted the recipe for McDonald’s secret sauce. “You see? The spirit. Your spirit, my spirit, they are all different. The stronger the impulse—”
Davis cocked an eyebrow at him and stood. “Oh yeah, I see. I get it.”
Warsowski clasped his hands together. “Yes? You do?”
She yanked open the door. “I'm not getting the report for at least a week.”
DAVIS MARVELED AT HOW Jess Wilson hadn’t changed a bit in the last five years. She was still lanky as an underfed cowhand, denim was her preferred uniform, and her lavender eyes still twinkled. “Emily Davis?” She gathered Davis in a friendly hug. “How are you?” She held her out and looked her over. “It’s so good to see you. You look well.”
Davis blushed at the affection and dragged a chair to the table. “I’m doing okay. Good, really.” She straddled the chair and hunched forward. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”
‘Here’ was a greasy spoon known as Frank’s, in Van Nuys. The food was barely edible but the coffee and apple pie went down pretty good. Davis eyed a well-worn paperback on the table. “Still reading the trashy novels, huh?”
Jess’s laugh was girlish. “Nothing like a little happily-ever-after at the end of the day.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Davis wasn’t good at the small talk. In fact, she hated the small talk. “Still working in the trenches?”
Jess bowed her head. “Always.” Her expression said she understood it wasn’t a social visit. “What do you need, Em?”
Davis’ cheeks burned and she rubbernecked the room. She signaled the server for a coffee. “What? Can’t I just look up an old friend to say hey?”
Jess tapped her empty cup when the waitress swung by with Davis’ coffee and the pot. “Sure, but that’s not your style.” Davis cringed but Jess patted her hand. “Don’t get all guilt-trippy on me. Tell me. What’s up?”
Davis raised her hands. “Okay, you got me. I’ve got a case. Suspicious death. Looks like the vic was probably abusive. But witnesses don’t want to bad mouth the dead guy, right?”
Jess listened and smiled but avoided inferring anything. “Right.”
Davis sipped her coffee. “Long and short is that I think the vic’s wife was abused. If I’m right, it could go to mot
ive.” She checked Jess for a reaction but her expression remained neutral. “But the thing is, I don’t have cause to subpoena medical records. I’m sure if I did, I’d find she’s had a lot of mysterious injuries. Right?”
Jess draped her arm over the back of her chair. “And what were you hoping I could do? Work my underground network to get her records?”
Davis shook her head. “I wouldn’t put you on the spot like that.”
“Good, because that’s a spot I won’t let anybody put me in.”
Davis pulled a picture up on her phone and showed it to Jess. “Do you know her?” She raised a hand to cut off any protest. “I’m not asking if she’s a client or anything. No violation of confidentiality. But does she look familiar?”
Jess bristled. “We’re riding dangerously close to the line, Em.”
Davis brought her hands together as though in prayer. “Come on, Jess. I’m not asking for anything personal. No details of anything. But do you? Know her?”
Jess pressed her lips and glanced at the picture of Christine Logan. “No. I don’t think so.”
Davis hunched over the table. “No? Or you don’t think so?”
Jess shook her head. “No, I don’t know her.”
Davis put her phone away and moped. “You’re sure?”
Jess finished her coffee and stared through the window—the soft jazz on the sound system, filling in the silence. “How’s your mom doing? Better?”
“Okay.” Davis shifted in her chair. “Fine. She’s fine.” Jess returned her gaze to Davis but said nothing. Davis sighed. “Look, let’s not confuse the issue. This isn’t about my sister, okay?”
Jess nodded. “Right, because Laura is no longer with us. But her abuser is still with us.”
Davis didn’t need to be reminded that her sister died at the hand of her psycho boyfriend. She scraped back her chair. “This is my job. I have to find his killer. Even if he was a batterer.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and tossed a couple bills on the table. “I’d expect you to understand that.”
Jess smiled and caught Davis by the hand. “I do understand, Em. And I know this can’t be easy for you. But I can’t help you. And I expect you to understand that.”
Davis bit her lip to hold in the tears. Now was not the time to think about the sister she missed so much. She forced a smile and tugged on Jess’s ponytail. “Okay, thanks anyway. Let’s not let another five years pass before we see each other again, okay? Maybe a girl’s night or something, soon?”
Jess murmured her agreement, though they both knew it would never happen.
Chapter 20
DAVIS GAVE UP TRYING to sleep around midnight. The visit with Jess Wilson had been a bad idea. It didn’t help her with the case and only churned up memories she wanted to keep locked away in the dark corners of her mind. The wound she’d convinced herself had healed was open and bleeding again. Every time she closed her eyes she saw her dead sister, Laura.
She tried to distract herself by working but couldn’t concentrate. It was too late to call her boyfriend, Jimmy, who was in Cleveland for his sister’s wedding. No cat or dog or trusty pet to comfort her. She was alone with her ghosts and she didn’t like it.
If misery was on the menu she figured she might as well have a chili dog. So she tossed on some clothes and drove to Pink’s. Since Daniels went there most nights, she could run into him without having to call him. Without looking desperate and needy.
She hated this case and wanted to rubber stamp it, call it an accident, and move on. But she wasn’t built that way. She had to be sure. And she wasn’t sure. Whatever her personal feelings, she had a duty to Phillip Logan and his family to investigate his death. If he was murdered, she needed to find the who, the what, and the why. If he wasn’t, that would reveal itself too. Either way, she owed Logan justice—whether he deserved it or not. Period. At least, that’s what she told herself.
She was in no hurry to get to Pink’s—even if there had been a fast route from her house. Which there wasn’t. She navigated the night streets, radio blasting, thoughts restricted to when and where to turn and obeying traffic lights. All other thoughts were prohibited. Singing loudly and badly helped to squelch any little voice that dared to defy her.
She got two chili dogs with the works, a Coke, and a chocolate shake. The night trade was a little sketchy, so she avoided the tables in the back and sat on the hood of her car and ate.
Daniels came up behind her. “Hey lady, want a date?”
She flipped him off. He chuckled and eased onto the other side of the hood—the car sinking a couple inches closer to the pavement. “Ah, late night chili dogs, my favorite nightcap.”
She slid the extra dog to him. “For you.”
He snatched the dog and in one bite, half of it disappeared. “Not surprised to see me?”
She handed him the shake. “Saw you pull up.” She snorted. “And when was the last time you didn’t hit this place at the witching hour?”
Daniels chuckled. “I fear the missus is giving away all my secrets.”
Davis grunted. “God, let’s hope not.” She chewed on her fingernail. “You talk to Warsowski like I asked you to?”
Daniels popped the rest of the chili dog into his mouth. “Oh crap, I forgot.” When she didn’t laugh, he sighed. “Don’t I always do what you ask?” He shook his head. “Ain't no murder here, Em.”
“Says you.”
Daniels glanced toward the front. No doubt, contemplating a second chili dog. “Nope, not me, the odds.”
Davis watched the traffic on LaBrea—still rolling, though it was nearly 1:00 a.m. “Screw the odds.”
Daniels wagged a finger at her. “No, no. We don’t screw the odds. The thing that makes the most sense is usually what happened.” He raised a hand as she opened her mouth to protest. “And what makes the most sense is that he offed himself or pushed his luck one too many times.” He shrugged. “Either way, it doesn’t add up to murder.”
“Yeah, but—”
“What if he used the missus for a punching bag?” He bobbed his head. “Yeah, I’m with you on that one, he probably did. Though I can’t find any proof of it.” He cocked a brow. “I checked and double-checked. No record. Of anything.”
She scowled. “Probably got his friend, the mayor, to clean his record.”
Daniels’ brow sloped. “Careful, we don’t want to make accusations we can’t support.” She clamped her mouth shut. “Maybe karma is the culprit who swept in and pushed him under the water. Making things right?”
If only she agreed with him it would be so much easier. But her gut said murder and she believed her gut. More than the odds. Even more than her partner. “His mother doesn't think so.”
Daniels snorted and wiggled a hand. “Moms are like that.” He pitched his voice high, "My son would never do such a thing. He's a good boy.” He winked. “Isn’t that what Manson’s mother said about him?”
Davis snorted. “Manson has a mother? Are you sure?”
Daniels chuckled. “Not even a little bit.” He sighed the ‘I’m gonna be a good partner and go along with this’ sigh. “But hypothetically speaking, who do you like for it? The frail little wife? She comes in at a buck and change. Maybe 110? Or her sister? Definitely a little psycho but she’s no linebacker.”
Davis jutted her chin. “Wife could have a guy on the side? One happy to do her a solid?” Her voice rose in excitement. “Or maybe they did him together.”
Daniels scratched his stubble. “Yeah, that works.” He scanned the space around them. “So who is he? Where is he?”
Davis frowned. “Damned if I know. We have to find him first.”
Daniels patted his partner on the shoulder. “Okay, tomorrow we start looking.” He eased off the hood. “Want another dog?”
“No thanks, I'll just watch you.”
Daniels pursed his lips. “I’m telling you, Em, take that act to Vegas and you’ll be rolling in the green stuff. You won’t even need your pension
.”
He pivoted for the front and Davis said, “Hey Pete?” Daniels twisted back and smiled. “Thanks. For having my back.”
Daniels chuckled. “It’s the least I can do for the woman who keeps me in chili dogs.”
Chapter 21
CHRISTINE STARED AT the darkened apartment. Where are you? What are you doing? She’d gone every night to Michaels’ place since Phillip died. She’d parked in the alley and watched for hours. Waiting for him to appear. But the apartment remained abandoned.
She checked the secret phone again, for messages and texts. Nothing. Still.
His key was slick with sweat in her hand. She peered through the windshield at the gloom that surrounded her. Not even a stray cat. She lifted her eyes to the apartment—her nerves, tiny razors slashing at her insides. There were clues inside. She knew it. There had to be.
She slipped out of the car and the cool night air caressed her face as if to reassure her. With her collar up and her head down, she hurried around the building and scurried through the courtyard. In less than a minute, she was inside the apartment—as still as a graveyard.
Using her phone as a flashlight, she found her way to the windows. Quickly, she closed the blinds and drew the drapes over them. For a moment, she stood in the darkness and listened. No footsteps approached, no slamming doors, or muffled voices. She’d gone unnoticed. It was safe to switch on a lamp.
The bedclothes were rumpled and dragged halfway to the floor—as though he’d fought his way out of them. Anxious to leave, to run. Drawers, half-empty, hung open. The closet held little more than empty hangers, some scattered on the floor. The duffle missing from the top shelf. The shaving kit missing from the bathroom. Each small discovery confirmed her fear that he wasn’t coming back.
Harboring a little hope, she went to the cookie jar on the kitchen counter. In the early days of their affair, he’d leave love notes for her there. She lifted the lid and her heart fluttered at the folded piece of notebook paper inside. With trembling hands, she opened it, slowly, deliberately, to savor it. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all it said. Sorry about what? That he’d left? That he hadn’t followed the plan? That he didn’t love her anymore?
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