"Um, sure," I said.
"It's too early for Martini's," Evelyn said. "You know I hate eating there before eight--"
"Didn't invite you. Giving Dee a break."
He waved me to the back door as she sputtered an obscenity-laden answer.
* * *
Jaxson
"Jackson," he told the hostess. "With an x."
Even now, ten years after his agent gave him the moniker, he felt silly saying it. Invariably, the other person frowned, not understanding. It wasn't like saying "Brandy with an i." Who the hell put an x in Jackson?
"J-A-X-S-O-N," he said when the hostess's brow knitted.
"And your first name, Mr. Jaxson?" she said as she wrote it down beside the reservation list. Before he could answer, her baby blues went double-wide. "Oh, my God. That Jaxson. I'm so sorry. I should have recognized--"
"That's okay. Some days, I'm happy being anonymous. After No Holds Barred, I didn't want to be recognized for months."
Ba-dum-dum. A line he'd used a thousand times, and not worth a snicker, much less the guffaw the hostess gave it. That's the hell of being famous. Everything that leaves your mouth is profoundly witty, profoundly charming, profoundly profound.
"Will your guest be joining you later?" the hostess asked as she led him through the darkened restaurant.
"She just got a casting call about an hour ago," Jaxson said. "She might be late."
The hostess smiled, nodded, promised to keep an eye out, all the time doubtless wondering which starlet Jaxson (Jackson...with an x) was bedding now. He almost felt guilty, as if he were robbing her of some bit of gossip she could sell or barter on the social market. No one would be joining him. There was no starlet. There was Melanie, a med student, but she was neck-deep in her internship and had no time--or patience--for media.
Instead, he ate lunch with the Washington Post. He plowed through his garlic fettuccine--screw the carbs--and finished up with a slice of chocolate cake--double-screw them. He wasn't in L.A. today, so he didn't need to play by L.A. rules.
After lunch he signed an autograph for the server and left her a twenty as a tip--more than his meal cost, but not so long ago he'd been waiting tables himself. Since he'd graduated from rehab, he had precious little to spend his money on. He might as well give a bit to someone who could use it.
Onto the street. Not much danger of being hounded for autographs here. This town might be small but, having attained a certain cachet in Hollywood circles, it saw stars quadruple his caliber every day.
Earlier, circling for a parking spot, he'd seen a conservation area. He could use the solitude, and the exercise after that meal.
He turned around, orienting himself, then spotted treetops to the east and set out.
He'd been trolling all day. Time for a West Coast hit, and this town seemed as likely as any. For hours he'd browsed the shops, tossed bills to the street performers, amused himself running through his options. Tourist, townie, celebrity...tourist, townie, celebrity. There was much to be said for each choice. And there was much to be said for not choosing at all, for simply targeting the first person who came into view.
The woman in Boston had been his first taste of the truly random. Set a trap and whoever falls for it, dies. The thrill of that still hadn't left his bones. The power of it. Power over even his own conscience. It didn't matter who'd walked through that stairwell door--an adolescent paper-boy, a pregnant woman, an old man--they would have died because that's what he'd decided and he wouldn't renege on the deal.
He'd been strolling the main street, savoring his options, when he'd seen the young man. He wasn't the first actor to walk past. He wasn't the biggest. But the young man tweaked a memory of sitting in a dentist's office, flipping through an entertainment magazine. He'd been in there, this pretty-boy actor with the ridiculously spelled name. A chill of delicious deja vu ran through him. Jaxson, model turned forgettable actor. Sharon Tate, model turned forgettable actress. Perfect.
He'd watched the young man, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, clean-shaven and polite, stepping aside for others, apologizing when he bumped a passerby, never disappointed when the object of his courtesy didn't leap up and ask for an autograph.
Better and better. The portrait of Sharon Tate painted in Helter Skelter was of a good, sweet-natured girl, the antithesis of the spoiled starlet. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't, but it mattered little how someone really behaved, only how she was remembered.
He thought about the page in his pocket. A court scene. No mention of Tate. Too bad...or maybe not. Think of all the overeducated experts he'd rob of a paycheck if he was too obvious. He could see them now, pale-faced professors scrabbling over their stacks of books. A jolt of excitement in flatlined lives. Who was he to take that from them?
Tagging along behind a group of chattering retirees, he followed Jaxson to the edge of a conservation area. As the seniors stopped to snap photos, Jaxson's light gray sweatshirt disappeared down a wooded path and he had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. If he believed in ESP, he'd almost think that somehow he'd sent out signals, directing Jaxson to the best possible spot for a kill. The strong mind dominating the weak.
He allowed himself a brief smile, broke away from the tour group and headed into the woods.
In the beginning, there was a plan. And it was a good plan. But it wasn't very interesting. It wasn't supposed to be interesting. But, to his surprise, after all these years, the act of killing came with a rush of power, a charge of adrenaline, an excitement that bordered on the sexual. It was as astonishing as waking one morning and getting a hard-on from brushing your teeth.
Jaxson's pale shirt flashed between trees, appearing and disappearing like a lighthouse beacon in a storm. He kept his eyes trained on his target, ears mapping its path when that shirt slipped from view. Undergrowth crunched steadily under the young man's footfalls, and the birds quieted as he approached.
Time to get closer.
He was near enough to smell the actor's cologne, harsh against the subtle smells of nature. Near enough to hear him breathing. Inhale, exhale, the rhythm of life. Moving faster, closer, he felt the first twinge in his crotch, a spark of excitement that would remain but a spark. The power of control. He slid his finger along the ice pick and pulled it from his jacket.
Then, with only a curtain of forest between them, he stopped. It suddenly occurred to him that he had more choices than how to kill and whom to kill and where to kill. He could choose whether to kill. Push to the brink and stop.
When he stopped short, he expected the spark to dwindle, to recede into disappointment. Instead, it surged into a full-blown, fly-splitting erection. He stood there, the ice pick in one hand, and let the other fall to his crotch. One caress, so firm it made his eyelids flutter. Then he put the pick back in his pocket, turned and walked away.
The power of control.
The power of choice.
* * *
EIGHTEEN
It was only after we left Evelyn's house that I realized I was hardly dressed for dinner. The jeans and pullover were bad enough, but the wash-and-wear hair and zero makeup had me cringing. Jack was still in a variation on his "aging biker" getup, complete with garish forearm tattoo, so obviously we weren't dining at any place with a dress code, but I still vowed to make a dash for the washroom when we arrived.
As it turned out, I was glad I had some grooming supplies in my purse, because his choice of restaurant was a steak house. Not a "slap the meat in a frying pan" type, but one where the server brings out a steak for your inspection before cooking it. We had to wait as the hostess scrambled to clear tables for the extended family in front of us, so I had time to slip into the bathroom to touch up and to scrub for dinner. When I came back, Jack was still waiting.
"Is Evelyn going to be upset?" I whispered as the server showed us to our table. "Us taking off on her?"
"Nah. Not here. Hates this place. She likes fussy food. Fancy." He glanced over at me, fr
owning slightly. "This okay? With you? Should have asked."
"This is great. I like food that covers the plate, not decorates it."
A small smile. "Good."
The hostess tried to seat us near the kitchen doors, but Jack redirected her to a small room they hadn't started filling yet. Our table was tiny, but private, the noise of other diners only a distant murmur. The lights were low. Too low really. Nice for atmosphere--not so good for reading menus. When I noticed Jack squinting at his, I borrowed his matches and lit our oil lamp. It sputtered a moment, acrid smoke filling the air, then lit, casting a wavering yellow glow over the table.
Jack considered the wine list, but seemed relieved when I said I'd be having a mixed drink instead. I ordered a Caesar, then--seeing the server's blank look--changed it to a Bloody Mary. Jack got draft beer.
For our meals, we both chose steaks, with vegetables on the side and loaded baked potatoes. Add on an appetizer, plus the bread they brought with our drinks, and it was probably enough calories to last a week. But after grazing on fast food for days, I considered this healthy eating. At least there would be something green on my plate.
"Today go okay?" Jack asked when the server left.
"You mean with Evelyn?"
He nodded.
"It seemed fine."
He hesitated, his gaze sliding to mine, searching. After a moment, he broke away and nodded, satisfied.
"If you were worried she was going to pester me about the protegee thing, it didn't happen. She hinted about better jobs, but didn't pursue it. I think she's changed her mind about my suitability."
Another pause, butter knife raised. Then another nod. He speared one of the bread slices with the knife, offering it to me. I took it. Then the server arrived with the appetizer, and I asked how his trip to Illinois had gone.
As I sipped my Bloody Mary, I thought about how long it had been since I'd had something like a "date dinner." Not that I'd mistaken this for a date, but the general scenario--sitting in a semidark restaurant, enjoying drinks and conversation with a man over a long, leisurely meal--was one I hadn't experienced in a while.
Three years since my last relationship. Even that had been casual. My last serious one was six years ago, when I'd been "preengaged."
That had been Eric's word for it. He'd even bought me a preengagement ring. It'd been a joke, something to placate his mother, who kept looking at me with visions of grandchildren in her eyes, but after a while, I think it became reality for Eric, and maybe even for me, the idea that we really were headed toward engagement. I didn't need to get married. But I could, with the right guy. And if there was a right guy, Eric was it.
He was a firefighter. My first firefighter, I always teased. When it came to dating, I had a definite "type." Men in uniform, and it had nothing to do with symbols of authority setting my libido aflutter. I'd grown up in that culture. Lived it, breathed it, loved it. Born to a family of cops. Practically grew up at the station. Raised by the force, as they'd joke. So I'd dated cops, with the odd military officer thrown in for variety. I understood guys like that. I was comfortable with them. Dating a firefighter hadn't been much of a stretch.
It had been a good time of my life. The right time for someone like Eric. I had my problems, but I'd learned to control them. Then along came Wayne Franco.
When I shot Franco, Eric tried to hide his shock, tried to convince me--and, through me, himself--that it had been an uncharacteristic act brought on by overwork, stress and anxiety over Dawn Collins's murder.
In the aftermath, Eric stood by me, even when his superiors started "suggesting" he might want to take a vacation, get out of town while all this was going on. Seeing that pressure on him, I did the right thing. I told him I could handle this myself and suggested he step back. To my surprise and, yes, my disappointment, he'd done just that. And I'd realized that he'd supported me not because he believed in me, but because he believed it was the right thing to do, the noble thing to do.
After almost a week passed and he hadn't called, I phoned and told him where he could stick his nobility.
We never spoke again.
The food arrived as Jack and I were scraping up the last of the crab dip. My steak was a decent size--I'd turned down the "smaller" portion offered by the server--but Jack's took up most of his plate, so big they had to serve the potato separately.
We both started to eat, quiet for a few minutes, relishing the food. After a moment, Jack paused to watch me, as if making sure I was enjoying it.
"This is great," I said, tapping the steak. "I haven't had one like this in a long time."
"Yeah?" He waved his fork over his plate. "To Evelyn? This is workman's food. Me? Growing up? Rich people's food. We'd dream about eating like this. See it in movies, magazines." He cut off a generous slice. "I was a kid? Used to brag. Saying I'd be rich. Live in America. Eat steak every day."
I smiled. "Did you ever do that?"
"Tried. After my first big job? Ate at places like this almost two weeks straight. Made myself sick."
I laughed. "I'll bet."
I could have prodded more personal information from him, maybe asked if he'd known Evelyn at the time and what she'd thought of that. Innocent questions that I suspected he'd answer. But that seemed manipulative, tricking him into revealing more.
Was I interested in knowing more? Sure. Jack played a significant role in my life, yet I knew next to nothing about the man. Curiosity was a given.
When Evelyn had tempted me with details on Jack, goading me about being interested, I'm sure this casual curiosity wasn't what she'd meant. Was I interested in Jack? Physically attracted to him? Maybe to Evelyn the question should have an easy answer. He was a man, not unattractive, and available, at least in the sense that he was right there, with no immediate competition in sight. Maybe, to her, it was as simple as "yes, I'm interested" or "sorry, not my type."
Jack wasn't my type. Far from it. But when I looked at him, across the table, even asking myself "am I interested?" threw up a mess of incomplete and conflicting emotions...and an overriding sense that any time I spent untangling my feelings for him would be wasted, because he was clearly not interested in me.
I'd worked with enough men to sense, almost immediately, whether I was in danger of being cornered in a dark alley on patrol or followed to my car postshift with a shy "You doing anything tonight?" With Jack, that radar didn't even turn on.
When the server asked whether we wanted to see the dessert menu, Jack didn't consult me, just said yes, two please.
"What're you getting?" he asked after I'd surveyed mine for a minute.
"I don't think I could finish anything..."
"So don't finish. That's the point of dessert. You don't need it."
I smiled. "Are you getting something?"
"'Course. Eat like this? Gotta have dessert. Rich people do."
My smile grew, and I ordered an apple-caramel something-or-other and a coffee.
When it arrived, he asked, "So, the money. What're your plans? Something for the lodge?"
It took a moment to realize he meant the payment for this "job." "We need to catch him first."
"We will. Got plans?"
"I haven't thought about it," I said as I cut into my dessert. "The Moretti job will pay for the roof and prewinter repairs. I think I'll use this for extras."
"That deck by the lake? You mentioned that this summer."
"I did." I leaned back with my coffee. "I really want to work on snagging more of the romantic getaway market for summer. Winter is easy--couples just want to hole up in a warm room and have someone else cook comfort food for them. Summer needs more. Owen and I have plans for a picnic spot in the meadow. I'd been hoping by next fall I could afford a gazebo, for the following summer."
"There you go. Buy yourself one this spring. Get one for the deck, too."
"That'd be nice. A big deck at the waterfront, plus a gazebo over the edge. Maybe even upgrade to ones with screens for black-fly s
eason and cooler weather. It'd make a great place for couples to have a drink or--" I tapped my pastry. "Coffee and slice of Emma's pie. It'd photograph well for the brochure. I'd take the picture of the meadow picnic spot when the spring flowers are out. And the other one by the lake at sunset."
My mind racing ahead, planning. All the tension and frustration from earlier, from hearing the killer's letter, had evaporated. Maybe it was the drink. Maybe it was the good food. Maybe it was just being away, comfortable and relaxed. Whatever the reason, the fire in my gut had stopped burning, and I could see beyond this case, to a time when it would be over and I'd be reaping the rewards--the monetary ones and the deeper, more meaningful ones.
I glanced at Jack. "First, we need to catch this guy."
"Still gonna get paid. Only difference? Afford two gazebos or four. I'd count on four."
I smiled. "You do have an optimistic streak." I sipped my coffee. "As much as I'm enjoying this break, should we talk about tomorrow?"
"Yeah. I'm going after Baron."
"Do you think Evelyn will have a lead for you?"
He shrugged. "Doesn't? I'll find one. Legwork."
"Evelyn wants us to talk to Volkv tomorrow, but I think Baron is the better lead. Where do you want me?"
He considered this as he scraped chocolate icing from his plate. "Shouldn't focus on one thing. Do I want you along? Sure. Need you? Hard to say. More than Evelyn will? No."
"So I'll stay with her. If you find Baron...I know you don't need backup..."
"I find him? I'll call."
* * *
NINETEEN
Again, Evelyn met us at the door. "About time. I'm getting a little tired of this, you two. I find all your leads, then I'm stuck in this damned house waiting for you to get your asses back and start investigating them."
"You find all our leads?" Jack said as we hung up our coats.
"Most."
"Is this one about Baron?" I asked.
She waved the question aside. "Later. I have something better--a fresh avenue."
I groaned. "The only thing worse than not having any theories? Having too many."
Exit Strategy Page 12
