"Not at all," I told her, taking out my own.
"Now…" she said, taking a deep enough drag to give her blouse a workout. "What can I tell you?"
"Well, I'm not really sure. With this kind of investigation, you can't be sure there is anything. Was Lana depressed in any way before it happened?"
"Depressed? Mr. Burke, she was born depressed. Lana was always a strange girl. You know the type—dressed all in black, stayed in her room a lot."
"The…suicide wasn't such a shock, then?"
"Shock? Not to me. She'd tried it before."
"She tried to kill herself before?"
"That's what I just said. She wrote this long, incomprehensible poem first. A piece of drivel. Then she ran herself a warm bath, climbed in and cut her wrists. If my husband hadn't called the paramedics, she would have been dead then."
"How long ago was that?"
"Almost four years ago. She was still in high school."
"What happened after that?"
"She went into therapy, what else? Cost enough money, I can tell you. But it was a waste of time. This therapist, she wanted me and my husband to come in and talk about it. And we did that. But I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life in therapy because I had a sick girl for a daughter."
"Did she ever try it again?"
"She was always trying something. She and a friend of hers, another weirdo, they were always writing this sick poetry about death. She tried pills once, too."
"And…?"
"And they pumped her stomach out at the hospital. And she went back into therapy. What a joke."
"You don't seem much of a fan of therapy."
"Why should I be? Everybody I know has been. They want to quit smoking, their husband has an affair, they're losing their looks…whatever it is, some shrink will do a number on you. You want a therapy fan, you need to talk to my husband—he loves the stuff."
"Your husband has been in therapy for a while?"
"Sure. Started when he was a kid. He's a rich, weak man. If that sounds like a contradiction to you, it isn't. He inherited the money. From his mother. He was a sensitive poet too, just like his precious daughter."
"Was?"
"Oh, he's alive. If you can call it that. We have a cabin. In Maine. That's mostly where he spends the summers. Writing," she sneered, the last word rich with contempt.
"He's a writer?"
"Some writer. He pays to have his own stuff published, can you imagine that?"
"I've heard of it."
"That's so lame. So weak. Him and his literary little friends. Fags, most of them, the way I see it. I intimidate them. The only kind of women they like are so skinny you could use them to pick a lock."
"I know what you mean."
"Do you?" she asked, squirming in her chair to make sure I couldn't accuse her of being subtle.
"Sure. It's a class thing. Working–class men have different taste."
"And what class are you, Mr. Burke?"
"Low–class," I told her, earning myself a wicked smile. "Was Lana at home when she…?"
"Killed herself? Sure. She was only back from the hospital a couple of weeks. Crystal Cove. Another of these joints that charges an arm and a leg. To hear them tell it, we pay enough money, we'd get a brand–new kid."
"How was she when she came back?"
"The same. To be honest with you, I got pretty sick of it. My husband, he gives me my space. But not little Miss I'm–So–Depressed, not her. The shrink at the hospital told me the suicide crap was a cry for help. I never put up with it. I called her bluff all the time. Told her, you want to kill yourself, it can't be that hard."
"How did she react to that?"
"With a lot of babble. Like I said, I wasn't surprised. Only thing that surprised me was the way she did it."
"How did she do it?"
"She drowned. You know where Chalmer's Creek is?"
"No."
"It's maybe ten miles from here. It's not really a creek, more like a lake. But they call it a creek. They found her floating in it. The police said her lungs were full of water, so it was a drowning, I guess. But she didn't leave a note. That would have been the one thing I'd've expected from her—she always loved attention."
"The police tell you why they didn't think it was an accident?"
"They did think it was, at first. But when I told them all about her other attempts, they changed it."
"You've been very helpful, Mrs. Robinelle."
"Marlene."
"Marlene," I agreed. "Just one more question, if you don't mind. This friend of hers, the one she wrote poetry with…do you remember her name?"
"Wendy. Wendy something. She was only here a few times—I never really spoke to her."
"Would you have any of the poems?"
"No. The police took all that. They wouldn't even let me have her room cleaned until they were finished, can you imagine?"
"Yeah," I said, standing up to leave.
She got up too, standing very close to me. I could smell her overripe perfume, sweat running through baby powder. "If you need more information, you know where to find me."
"I appreciate that."
"My husband won't be back for a couple of weeks. It gets pretty tiresome, even with all this," she said softly, sweeping her hand to show me the water view through the picture window.
"I'm sure I'll have more questions."
"Then you come back. Call me first. But don't bring that nosy bitch with you."
I raised my eyebrows in a question.
"I like the way you handled her. I like a man who can take charge."
"She's paying the bills," I said.
"I can pay some bills too."
Fancy was sitting in the lush, paneled library, her face in an art book.
"Come on," I said to her.
She got up meekly and followed me. Marlene Robinelle didn't see us to the door.
"What did you find out?" Fancy asked me from the front seat of the Lexus.
"You first," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"Don't play games, bitch. I know you used that time to stick that perfect little nose of yours places."
"Do you really think my nose is perfect?" she smiled.
"Yeah. Cute as a button. Now what did you—?"
"I never left the library. I was afraid you'd come back and catch me. I didn't know how long you'd be."
"And…?"
"She's a big phony. I found a list in a drawer. The last four, five weeks of the New York Times best–seller list, okay? And on the shelves, every single one of those books. Brand–new, never opened. You can tell, the spines were too tight. And inside each one, she had a photocopy of the review from the Times, see?"
"No."
"She doesn't read the books, just the reviews. So she can be with it at cocktail parties, see? What a tame cow she must be."
"Because she lets other people tell her what to do?"
"You can't be that stupid," she snapped at me. "I'm talking about your mind, not your body. Sex is different."
"Sex is only with your body?"
"What do you think it's with?"
"It's got to be with your mind. Otherwise, you could do a better job by yourself, right? Once your eyes are closed, once it's dark…how could you tell the difference?"
"Maybe there is no difference."
"Maybe not. But you have to throw the switch first."
She gave me a long look. "You scare me sometimes," she whispered.
"And you like that too, don't you?"
"Yes."
I piloted the Lexus back the way we came, not asking for directions, seeing if I could retrace my steps alone if I had to. Fancy wasn't talking, looking out her window, drumming her fingernails on the console between us.
"None of the books had been read?" I asked her. "In that whole huge library?"
"Oh sure, a lot of them. On a separate shelf. Like they were for separate people. Old books, you could tell somebody rea
lly loved them. And I'll bet my sweet ass it wasn't her."
"All that time alone, and that's what you found out?"
"Well, yes. It's a real clue to her character."
"Big fucking deal."
"Well, it could be. Did she offer you sex?"
"Kind of."
"That sow. If she ever climbed out of that girdle she calls an outfit, she'd flop around like a fish."
"Don't worry about it."
"I'd like to whip her fat ass. That'd be fun, but there's no market for it."
"What about—?"
"Nobody wants to see fat people being disciplined. They have to look good. And young.
"I guess you'd know."
"I'm a pro," Fancy said, turning her head so she could watch me.
"What can I get you?" she asked over her shoulder, crossing the threshold to her house.
"A glass of water."
"That's all?"
"Yeah. I don't have much time."
She moved off. I closed my eyes, playing the tapes of my conversations with the parents, mentally engraving the notes I hadn't taken. My eyes were still closed when I heard the click of high heels on the hardwood floor, quick and close together, thinking: Either a short woman or a real tight skirt. It was both. Fancy, in a French maid's outfit right out of a porno movie. She had a glass of water on a wood serving board. She bent down, holding the serving board in both hands, just the trace of a smile on her lips.
"I always wanted to try this on," she said. "You like it?"
"It's very pretty."
"Pretty? I'm pretty—this is sexy.
"That's true."
"Wouldn't you like a maid of your own?"
"Sometimes…I guess I would."
"Here's your chance, mister."
"Not now," I told her. "I have to go.
Her gray eyes darkened. Sadness, not anger. "It's too good to rush–rush," I told her softly. "I'll be back."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
"What about tonight?"
"I'm meeting some people. Late."
"Going back to fuck that sow?"
"What if I was?"
"I could come too. Did you ever—?"
"I'm not going there. It's business."
"Can't you come back? After?"
"It'd be way late. Three, four in the morning."
"That's okay."
"You sure?"
"Yes. I helped, didn't I?"
"You sure did."
"Well, if it's business, it's this business, right? Couldn't you come over, tell me about it?"
"All right."
She dropped to her knees, resting her chin on my knee. "Tell me to stay here," she whispered. "You know how to do it. Please."
I slapped her face, a short, sharp slap. It was louder than it was hard. "Stay here, bitch," I told her. "Don't leave. Right by the phone. I'll call you when I'm coming. And you better answer on the first ring."
"Yes sir," she said in a choky voice.
The kid was working on the Plymouth in the garage. He had the back end jacked up, the rear tires off. I wasn't worried about him finding the false bottom to the trunk—even the ATF had missed it once.
"What's going on?" I asked him, stepping out of the Lexus.
"I'm cleaning the tire treads," he said. "I tested it earlier. She corners better with forty–five pounds all around. You know you were only running thirty?"
"Yeah. Too much pressure and it rides like a truck."
"Sure, but for the race…"
"Okay. That's fine. However you want to do it."
The kid busied himself, intent. I lit a smoke, figuring out how to do what I had to do. First rule, get the other guy in a place where he's comfortable. Relaxed, so the knife goes in easier. I thought of taking him into the kitchen in the big house, where he couldn't hide his face. But when he had his hands on the car, he was a different kid, so maybe…
"Randy," I said, playing the long shot, "your girlfriend Wendy, how come you didn't tell me she was pals with Lana Robinelle?"
He dropped the tire pressure gauge, whirled to look at me, blood flooding his face.
"How did you…?"
"You haven't been leveling with me, kid. Maybe not from the very beginning."
"I was! I mean, I told you the truth. Just…"
"Just what?"
He stood up, walked over to where I was standing. His hands were shaking, but he met my eyes. "I knew Lana…tried to kill herself. Before. A couple of times, even. Everybody knew it, at school and all. I tried to talk to Wendy about it, but she thought I was an asshole. A tanker, you know?"
"So when you called me…"
"I was scared. That was the truth."
"But not scared for you, huh?"
"I guess I was, maybe. I don't know. The hospital. My mother told me once that she'd send me there if I didn't straighten up.
"But you're eighteen now. An adult, right? She couldn't make you go.
"Nineteen," he said. "But you don't know her."
"Never mind that now. Just give me the whole story."
"I was at a party a couple of months ago. She…Wendy was there. She doesn't do dope, but she drops acid sometimes—it's coming back in now, a lot of kids do it. She was out in the back, on the lawn. Tripping. She got real scared. The rest of them thought it was funny, her jumping around and all. I…held her. A long time. When she stopped, she was dreamy. Spaced out, I guess. She told me she saw Lana. She was happy. Lana, not Wendy. Happy where she was."
The kid took a breath, still on my eyes. I could feel him willing me to understand how bone–deep important this all was to him. "I got…terrified. You see it, don't you? She was going there. With Lana. But the more I told her it was crazy, the more she said I didn't understand. I stayed with her, that whole night. She has her own car, but I wouldn't let her drive. When I took her home, it was light out. Her father was there, waiting up. He blamed it on me. Told me if he ever saw me around her again, he'd kill me.
"I couldn't call her on the phone. And I don't see her in school anymore. She sent me a letter. A poem. It wasn't a sad poem, like I expected. It was…I don't know, gentle. I read it and read it. But when I got it, I got scared. It's about dying, Burke.
"I watched her house. At night. The police stopped me one time. They were gonna take me in, but then they found out who I was. Who my mother was, really. They called her and she came and got me.
"Wendy found out. She told me it was sweet, what I did. But it didn't matter. She wasn't going to go until she was ready.
"I saw her a lot, after that. Different places. She was the only one I ever told about racing. She said that was my poetry, driving.
"Then my mother went away. For the summer. Right after that, Wendy told me. Her parents were gonna put her in Crystal Cove, to get her some help. She promised to stop the acid–tripping, but they didn't believe her. That's when I got so scared. That's when I called you. I thought you could…save her. And I could…help, like."
I felt it. So deep I didn't know there was such a place in me. This rich, spoiled kid. This punk I thought was a herd animal. I never saw anyone so scared for someone else, reaching outside himself like that, trying to pull her in with him.
"Come on, kid," I told him. "We got work to do before it gets dark."
We took the Miata. The kid knew about Chalmer's Creek, got us there in a flash.
"What's here?" he asked.
I stood at an outcropping of rock, looking down at the blue–black water. "This is where Lana Robinelle went over," I said. "Drowned."
I picked up a heavy rock, held it in two hands. Dropped it over the side into the water. Watched it disappear, the circles spreading out from the center, wider and wider, reaching.
"What's it look like to you?" I asked him.
He looked down, eyes following my pointing finger. "A bull's–eye," he said.
"You're in it now," I told him on the drive back. 'That's what you wanted, right?"
"
Yes."
"All right, kid. First rule—you don't talk. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Anybody you talk to, regular?"
"Just…Wendy."
"Nobody knows your secrets? Not your mother? Nobody?"
"Nobody."
"Okay. Keep it that way. Meet me at the garage tonight. Eleven o'clock. We're gonna do some work."
"I'll be there," he said, face set in harder lines than I thought it had.
Back in the apartment, I found the microphone and pulled it loose. Whoever set it up would have to come back. I checked the rest of the place. Couldn't find anything new.
Eight o'clock. I took a shower, wrapped a towel around my waist, lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. I didn't even try and sort things—I'd be talking to the Prof soon enough.
A tap on the front door glass woke me up. I flicked off the towel, slipped into a pair of pants, walked through the dark house. My watch said 10:05.
It was Randy, standing outside the door, hand poised to tap again. I opened the door. "What?"
He stepped past me, agitated, moving quick, words tumbling out of his mouth too fast for me to follow.
"Hey!" I said to him. "Hold it down. Get it together, all right? Something happened?"
"No. I mean, yes. I don't know. It didn't just happen. I have to tell you—
"Randy, sit down. Relax."
"I can't. I…"
"Breathe through your nose," I told him. "Close your mouth and breathe through your nose. Deep breaths. Slow."
He followed orders, working at it until he stopped gulping air, sat down on the couch. I sat across from him. The only light was a moon–spill through the windows, enough to see his shape, not his face.
"Now…what is it?"
"I…lied, Burke."
"About what?"
"When you asked me, about secrets. Did I talk to anyone…?"
"Yeah?"
"Charm. I talked to Charm. That time she was here. When she went into the house by herself."
"You already told me about that." He mumbled something, head down.
"Randy, work easy now. Speak so I can hear you. Come on."
"Charm asked me about you. What you were doing here."
"You told me that."
"I didn't tell you that I…told her about Crystal Cove."
"That's all right. It's not much of a secret now, with all the running around I've been doing."
Down in the Zero Page 15
