"She fought with her mother?"
"Not fights, exactly. Arguments, more like. Her grades were slipping, she broke curfew a few times. And they'd go round and round about the clothes she wore."
"Did she have one of those arguments just before…"
"No. It wouldn't have been possible. My wife hasn't lived here for months. We separated just after Christmas. She kept after me to send Diandra for counseling, but Diandra didn't want to go. She was screwing up, I admit that. Flunking a couple of subjects. Stayed out all night once. I figured…kids. This neighborhood and all. It's a pretty fast crowd. We don't have the kind of money some of her friends' parents do…maybe she was trying to keep up, you know?"
"Yes sir."
He dragged on his cigarette, not tasting it. "Anyway, my wife was hot to send her to this hospital they have for kids with problems. Crystal Cove. Diandra didn't want to go. And I wasn't crazy about it either. But my little girl was really going over the line. I was worried about her too. We met with the director there. Dr. Barrymore. He's a pretty young guy, but I got to admit, he made a lot of sense. Said Diandra needed a time–out period. To decompress, get away from the pressure. So, we finally sent her. The insurance on my job covered most of it. Diandra was dead against it, but the people at Crystal Cove told us that was normal. They said they have lawyers—they could get her civilly committed if she didn't volunteer."
"I see."
"So she went. Last fall. It was supposed to be for only six weeks, but they kept her longer. They said she had deep–seated problems, maybe clinical depression, maybe a chemical imbalance—they wanted to run more tests." He ground out his cigarette without looking, eyes down now.
"She came home for Christmas. She didn't want to go back. The hospital said to expect that. I didn't want to send her. After she went back, I was real down. My wife and I fought all the time about it. She always said Diandra was my girl, not hers. We were…close, her and me. Anyway, that's when my wife left."
"When did Diandra come home?"
"Valentine's Day. That's how I remember it. I bought her a giant teddy bear, a white one with a red ribbon around its neck. She loved it. Put it right on her bed…" His control cracked then—he wiped hard at his eyes, but the tears still came. I lit a smoke, kept my eyes down. I was almost down to the filter before he got it managed.
His eyes came up to mine, red–rimmed but hard. They didn't spare me—his voice didn't spare himself. "Things were going so great," he said. "She was doing good in school again, not running around. I have to work. Long hours, sometimes. Diandra used to say she was a latchkey kid, like a joke between us. She got much more responsible after my wife left…did her share of the housework and everything. And she didn't go near drugs, I know that. When I'm wrong, I cop to it. I called my wife, told her that Crystal Cove had saved our daughter. She'd been right. I thought…maybe she'd come home. But she said it really wasn't Diandra that broke us up—it'd been coming a long time, hiding under the surface. She stuck with me through everything before, but…"
"Diandra was doing fine just before she—"
"Yeah! She was, goddamn it."
"I'm not doubting you, sir. I know she didn't leave a note…?" making it a question.
"No," he said, watching me now.
"But maybe she… I don't know, kept a diary or something. The way girls do. Have you…?
"I tore this place apart," Blankenship said. "The police opened her locker at school too. There was nothing. Even when she was…messed up before, she wasn't suicidal."
"I understand," I told him soothingly. "But sometimes, when a loved one searches, they let certain…emotions get in the way. Do you think I could…?"
His face came up again, a different focus in his eyes. "Who did you say retained you again?"
"Mrs. Cambridge, sir."
"Right. You wouldn't mind if I called her myself, just to be sure?"
"No sir."
He got up, walked over to a small table near the TV, picked up the phone. "What's the number?" he asked.
"Sir, I don't mean to sound like a wiseguy or anything, but anybody could give you a phone number, have somebody standing by in a pay phone, you understand? Perhaps you'd feel better if you checked the number in the local phone book?"
His eyes were even more sharply focused, watching me without a flicker. "What'd you say your name was?"
"It's Burke," I told him.
He punched some buttons, got information, asked for the Cambridge residence phone. Hung up, dialed again.
"Could I speak to Mrs. Cambridge, please?"
…
"I see. When will she be back?"
…
"Okay, well, maybe you can help me, Randy. Do you know anything about your mother hiring a private investigator? Name of Burke?"
…
"Thank you. That's very helpful. Yes. Thank you, we're doing the best we can under the circumstances. And please tell your mother. tell her thanks for what she's doing, all right? Goodbye."
He hung up the phone. Walked back to his brown chair, lit another smoke.
"You ever do any soldiering, Mr. Burke?"
I rapid–processed the various stories I could tell, but none of them fit just right. Something about the way the man looked at me said he wasn't going to take no for an answer.
"Not for the U.S.," I said.
He raised an eyebrow as a question, waited for my answer.
"It was a long time ago," I told him. "In Africa."
"The Congo?"
"No. Biafra."
"You were a mercenary?"
"A freedom fighter," I told him, not even a hint of a smile on my face.
He dragged deep on his cigarette. "You have rank over there?" he asked.
"No sir."
"Get paid good?"
"Not like the pilots did."
"Yeah. I could tell. I can always tell a man that's been a working solider."
"How can you do that?"
"You relax inside the fire. It goes around you, and you know there's not a whole hell of a lot you can do about it. You know your real job is getting out alive. There's no rules."
"You did that?"
"In the Nam. Surprised?"
"No," I told him truthfully. "Infantry?"
"That's right," he said, nodding his head. "A ground grunt. I was just a green kid, but I saw a lot of working pros. Especially when we went over the border. I've seen the look before."
"You can see it in prison too," I said, not even thinking about why I was breaking the rules…telling a source the truth.
"You've been there?"
"Yes."
"And now you work as a private eye?"
"Yes sir."
He took a deep breath, hands clasped in his lap. "Her room's in the back. Look around all you want. You can't miss it—there's a big teddy bear on the bed."
I went over the room with a microscope. No diary, no address book…maybe the cops had them. I checked inside Diandra's clock radio, slit open a tube of toothpaste, opened every book, even checked the teddy bear for seams.
When I came back out, he was still sitting there. "I didn't find anything," I told him.
"I know. But this isn't the only place you're going to look, is it?"
"No sir."
"If you find anything, you'll tell me?"
"I will."
He got to his feet, moving slowly like there was a piece of broken glass inside his gut. His handshake was way too powerful for his slender frame, pulling me close. "You think something happened to her, don't you?" he whispered.
"I don't know."
"I still know how to do things," he said in the same whispery tone. "You find out anything, I'll be here."
In the Lexus, I raised the kid on the car phone.
"Hello," he said.
"It's me. I'm on my way back."
"He called. Did I…"
"Not on this phone," I told him.
As I turned into the bluestone drive,
I spotted the kid. He had a green garden hose in one hand, a big clump of sponge in the other. The Plymouth was shining in the afternoon sun, as close to its original dull gray color as it ever got. I parked the Lexus, got out and walked over to him.
"What's going on?" I asked, pointing at the Plymouth.
"I just thought I'd clean her up a bit. Man! When was the last time you washed her?"
"I generally don't wash it. The idea is to blend in, not call attention to yourself. This is a working car, kid, not a showpiece."
"Oh. Hey, I'm sorry. I was just trying to…I don't know."
"I know. You were trying to show respect, right?"
His chin came up, a bit of strength edged into his voice. "That's right, I was."
"Good," I told him. "Doesn't matter around here anyway… no way this beast is gonna blend in."
"I know. It's…cool. I mean, she doesn't look like much of anything, but…"
"There's people like that too," I said. "You don't know what's under the hood until you hit the gas, right?"
He nodded, not sure who I was talking about—never thinking it could be him. "That guy called," he said. "Like I told you."
"Blankenship? Yeah, I was in the room when he did."
"I told him my mother had hired you, before she went to Europe. I said she'd be back soon—she hired you because she was concerned that maybe the police weren't doing everything they could."
"You did good," I told him. "But, listen, remember when I told you not to talk on the cellular phone?"
"I was on the regular line."
"But I wasn't. Anyone can listen in to those calls. Some geeks do it with scanners—they got nothing else to do with their lives, so they stick their nose into other people's. Used to be CB's they listened to, now it's these cellular phones. So when we use them, we keep it short, right? No names, no information. Got it?"
He nodded gravely.
"I'm going upstairs to change. And I'm going to work again tonight. When I come down, we'll get some dinner, okay?"
"Okay. Uh, Burke…?"
"What?"
"What kind of oil do you run in her?"
"The synthetic stuff—you don't have to change it so often."
"Yeah. Is that a dry sump underneath?"
"That's right," I said, looking at him in surprise.
"I read about them all the time, cars," he said, a grin on his flushed face. "I wished they had auto mechanics in school, but they don't. But I sent away for books. I do all the work on the Miata myself. I thought maybe I'd change the oil and filters, put in some new plugs
"It's running fine, Randy."
"I know, but…"
"What the hell," I told him. "It could always run better."
He took off like a kid with a puppy.
"What is this stuff?" I asked him, spearing a bite–size chunk of white meat off my plate.
"It's coq au vin. Like chicken with sauce on it. There's a French restaurant in town. They deliver too. I thought maybe you'd rather have something like a real meal."
"It's good," I said. "That was thoughtful of you."
The kid ducked his head again. We ate in silence for a bit, part of my brain still working over what Blankenship had told me.
"You know what a gymkhana is?" the kid asked.
"Where they race around in a parking lot?"
"Well, sort of. A real one, it's like a slalom, only flat. They set up pylons for the course, and you run through it for time. If you hit a pylon, they add time to your score, see? It's tricky. Not like real racing. I mean, they only let one car at a time go through. But it's slick. All kinds of cars do it, 'Vettes, Ferraris, one guy even has a Lola he brings."
"What do you get if you win?"
"Trophies. I mean, it's not for money or anything. But it's real serious—the drivers really go at it."
"You ever do it?"
"Sure. In the Miata, once. It was…okay. I mean, all the kids go there just to hang out."
"Do they bet on the races?"
"Bet? Gee, I don't know. I mean, we don't. But maybe the older guys do…we don't mix with them much."
"Did any of the kids who killed themselves race there?"
"No. At least I don't think so. I mean, that's not why I asked about it. I was thinking… maybe…if you wouldn't mind…"
"What?"
"Could I run the Plymouth in one? There's one next Sunday. I never saw a big American sedan run one—it would be boss, you know?"
"Can you get hurt doing it?"
"Nah. You could spin out, that's the worst. They make you wear a helmet, that's all."
"You really want to do it?"
"Yeah! Big–time. It would be—"
"Okay."
"You mean it?"
"Sure."
"Great! We could drive over early, get in a couple of practice laps, then we could—"
"Hold up, kid. What's this 'we' stuff?"
"I just thought…seeing how it's your car and all, you'd want to…"
I watched his face, seeing how different it looked from when I first met him. Thinking about why kids kill themselves. "Good idea," I said. "Let's do it."
"Gardens," Mama answered the phone like always.
"It's me. You hear anything from Michelle?"
"Yes. She say, take Mole longer to read what you show him."
"Longer than what?"
"I don't know. You ask, okay?"
"Okay. Anything else going on?"
"Very quiet. You?"
"I'm not sure."
"Very pretty stones," Mama said. "Look careful."
I learned to sleep in chunks a long time ago. Grab it when you can. I know that REM is the true deep sleep, the only kind that restores you. That's where you dream. I don't remember most of my dreams—it's one of the few things in my life I'm grateful for.
It was after eleven when I came around. I took a shower, thought about shaving again, decided the hell with it. I listened to some music while I was getting dressed in the outfit Michelle bought for me. The broken blank eye of the television stared at me—I guess I really only watch it with Pansy—she loves it.
I held my pistol in my hand, turning it over like it would tell me something. I couldn't leave it in the Plymouth with the kid driving it around, and there was no good place in the Lexus to stash it either. Finally, I just wiped it down, wrapped it in a sheet of heavy plastic and put it inside the toilet tank. It wasn't a world–class stash, but even if someone turned it up, it wouldn't connect to me. The piece was ice–cold—came right off the assembly line at the factory, never went through a dealer's hands. The serial number would never have been registered. I got it from Jacques, Clarence's old boss. Specialty of the house, guaranteed not to alert any law enforcement computer. If they found it, they'd have a hell of a time proving it didn't belong to whoever stayed here before me.
Fancy's house was in the same neighborhood as Cherry's, that's what she said, anyway. The same neighborhood turned out to be about five miles away—people measure differently out here. I found it easy enough: a big modernistic spread, all redwood and glass in front. It was midnight plus two when I pulled into the long drive. I angled the Lexus toward a long, wide building that looked like a six–car garage…where she'd told me to park. The doors were closed. I opened the car door and stepped out, getting my bearings.
"You're late," a voice said from the darkness. Fancy. In a pale blue T–shirt that draped to mid–thigh, standing barefoot a few feet away. She stepped forward, no real expression on her face.
"Come with me," she said, turning to walk away.
I followed her along a slate path around the back of the garage, past an Olympic–size swimming pool glowing a muted gold from underwater lights. The big house was to our left, but Fancy moved in the opposite direction, past a low structure that looked to be all glass.
"Is that a greenhouse?" I asked her.
"No, that's the pool house. Where people change into their bathing suits before they swim."
"It looks too big for just that."
She made a face over her shoulder, kept walking. One more turn and we were facing three little houses standing in a triangle maybe a hundred feet along each line. Two were dark; one had a soft orange light glowing next to the door. As we walked closer, I could see it was some kind of Japanese paper lantern over a bulb.
Fancy opened that door, stepped inside. "Over there," she said, pointing to a long white leather couch.
I sat down. Fancy went to the far corner of the room, did something with her hand, and a small cone of light hit the dark carpet. I could see it was a long black floor lamp with a gooseneck top bent toward the floor. Fancy stood watching the light for a second, hands on hips. Satisfied, she turned and came over to the couch. She sat, then curled her legs under her, turning so she was facing me.
"Could we start over?" she asked.
"Why?"
"You liked me when you first saw me. You did, didn't you?"
"Yeah, I did."
"How come?"
"I liked your look."
"My face? My body? What?"
"Not your looks. Your look. Understand?"
"No. Tell me. Please tell me," she hastily amended, like she'd made a fatal slip.
"You looked like a…merry girl. Bouncy. Sweet. A true–hearted girl."
"And I…showed you how I play. So you don't like me anymore?"
"I don't care how you play. I just don't have people playing with me."
"Are you scared?"
"Of what?"
"That you'd like it."
"I like a lot of things—the only things that scare me are the ones I need."
"And you don't need much?"
"I've had a lot of practice."
"Because you were poor?"
"I was born broke," I told her. That's the best way to lie to strangers—tell them the true truth.
She got up, walked over to a big–screen TV facing the couch. She bent over at the waist, cued a VCR, ran her finger down a stack of cassettes. When she found the one she wanted, she shoved it into the slot. Then she plucked a remote from the top of the TV set, came back over to the couch holding it in her hand.
Down in the Zero Page 10
