Edge of the Knife
Page 25
“No.”
The look of pleading went out of her face. “It’s my choice. You of all people should understand that.”
“I don’t understand much about what you’ve done.”
“Oh, don’t deceive yourself. You made it very clear. There’s no secret part of us waiting to be saved. If you couldn’t save your wife, how could you save me?”
Nyman said: “There are still your sons. I know you care about them.”
She shook her head vigorously—too vigorously—from side to side. “For Christ’s sake, don’t talk about them. They wouldn’t want to grow up in a world with me still in it.”
Nyman was opening his mouth to reply when a squeal of tires and the sound of car engines came in from the driveway. He put down the paper sack and started to walk to the front door; behind him there was a rustle of movement.
He turned in time to see Sarah take a knife from the block of wood and run to the back of the house.
He ran after her. She was through the door and into the yard when he came onto the patio. She ran to the back fence, stopped, and turned to face him.
Raising the knife in her right hand, she slashed it against her left forearm, then against the soft skin of her neck.
The blade made clean, shallow cuts. Nyman crossed the yard in a dozen strides and caught her in both arms, knocking her to the ground and pulling the knife by its blade from her hand. Beneath them the grass was still wet from the evening watering.
Sometime later there were footsteps and voices. Timmons, hatchet-faced, came forward and kneeled beside Sarah Freed, telling Nyman to move away.
Staggering to his feet, Nyman walked sideways until he found his path blocked by the fence. At his feet, rising out of black earth, were pink and purple flowers. He stared at the azaleas as if he didn’t recognize them, then turned to look at Timmons.
The detective was putting handcuffs on the wrists of Sarah Freed, who lay writhing in the grass, her voice a shrill animal scream. Nyman shivered and sagged back against the fence. He said a woman’s name—a single syllable—and looked down at his hands.
They were red with blood.
Chapter 50
A cool September wind rattled the windows of a building on Culver Boulevard. Inside, on a red-leather banquette, a man and a woman sat leaning over their drinks, whispering to each other and giggling. Nyman, on a stool at the end of the bar, finished what was left in his glass and signaled the bartender for another round.
The bartender walked over with a careful smile. He dabbed with his towel at a wet spot on the bar and said:
“What about a cup of coffee instead, Tom? I just started brewing some.”
“No thanks.”
“You sure? Or maybe just a glass of water?”
“Another Gibson, Manny. I’ve got the money for it.”
The bartender hesitated, then nodded and reached for the bottle of gin. Nyman, leaning on his elbows, looked across the bar to the man who was playing “Skylark” on a keyboard. In the fishbowl beside him were a handful of dollars and some coins.
Nyman’s eyes were narrowed in concentration. His face, always lean, now showed dark hollows in the cheeks and blue sockets around the eyes. On the palm of his left hand was a crosshatching of pink scars.
“Been meaning to ask you something, Tom,” the bartender said, setting the fresh drink on the bar.
Without shifting his gaze, Nyman picked up the drink. “What’s that?”
“Friend of mine’s been having some trouble lately. Trouble with the police, I guess you’d call it. I told him I knew an investigator who might be able to help.”
Nyman went on watching the piano player and said nothing.
“Is it all right if I send him by your office, Tom?”
Taking a drink, Nyman said: “I’m not spending much time at the office these days.”
“No?”
“No.”
“He could give you a call, then, if that would be easier.”
“I’m sorry, Manny. I can’t help you. Or your friend.”
Reddening, the bartender nodded and turned away. At the keyboard, Ira had finished the song and was rearranging his sheet music. On the bar beside Nyman’s glass, neatly folded, was a copy of the L.A. Independent.
Nyman opened the paper to an interior page and found, under a caricature of Grace Salas, the latest column by Richard Voss.
Salas Breathes Easy as Bombshell Fizzles
Hard evidence seems to be in short supply these days.
Take the announcement made last week by the Los Angeles City Ethics Commission, which has been investigating the questionable campaign donations received by Grace Salas (CD-16) in the last City Council election.
The Commission’s verdict? “Despite irregularities in the councilmember’s fundraising reports, there is insufficient evidence to justify a fine for misconduct.”
Never mind that those questionable donations came from employees of the same two development companies. Never mind that both companies were later chosen by Salas and her colleagues to build Merchant South, a massive real-estate project with links to a pair of grisly murders.
And never mind that the murderer’s husband, Prof. Michael Freed, who recently resigned his post at Pacifica University, is the same economist Salas hand-picked to write a glowing review of the project.
According to the City Council, all this fails to provide sufficient evidence of guilt. In an August meeting, the Council declined to censor Salas for her role in the boondoggle.
“Although Ms. Salas did not follow proper procedure in the allocation of her district’s discretionary funds,” the Council wrote, “we have found nothing to indicate that she was aware of the criminal behavior of other parties.”
Those “other parties” might include Savannah Group, the lead developer of Merchant South and the owner of the Kasbah casino in Las Vegas. After allegations surfaced that Savannah had used its blackjack tables as a one-stop A.T.M. for Freed, the Nevada Gaming Control Board launched an investigation.
The result? “There is no conclusive evidence of gaming irregularities at Kasbah Casino and Resort.”
In fact, the only person who seems swayed by the evidence is the murderer herself, Sarah Freed, who earlier this month admitted her guilt as part of a plea deal with prosecutors. According to her statement, the murders were crimes of jealous passion, not part of a broader conspiracy.
It’s possible she’s telling the truth about that. The evidence, however, suggests otherwise.
Nyman tossed the paper onto the bar and reached for his drink. Across the room, the woman on the red-leather banquette was resting her chin on an upraised fist and snoring softly. She wore a sleeveless dress that exposed her arms, the skin of which was just starting to be discolored by liver spots. The young man beside her, shaking her by the knee, told her it was time to leave.
They rose together and made their way unsteadily to the green-lighted door. For a moment, as the door opened, there was a sound of traffic and distant voices, then silence as the door swung shut again.
Ira had left the keyboard and stood now beside Nyman at the bar, waiting for a cup of coffee.
“That slow enough for you, Tom?” he said.
Nyman looked up. “Hmm?”
“‘Skylark.’ I know you like a slow tempo.”
“Oh. Sure. It was perfect.”
Ira’s eyes narrowed. “You doing all right?”
“Just fine.”
“If this is fine, I’d hate to see what not-fine looks like.”
“It looks about the same,” Nyman said, “just with more gin.”
Ira smiled. “That sister-in-law of yours came to see me, by the way. Theresa, or whatever her name is. Yesterday afternoon.”
Nyman paused with his hand halfway to his glass. “She did?”
“Talented girl. Rusty, obviously, but she was better than I thought she’d be.”
Still with his hand in the air, Nyman asked if she’d agreed to come back for more less
ons.
“If she can stay clean, she’ll probably be the one giving me lessons. I told her I knew some people she could audition for. She said she’d think about it.”
The bartender came forward with the coffee and Ira busied himself with cream and sugar.
Nyman, frowning, drank the last of his Gibson. He looked up at the clock on the wall, then down at the scars on his palm, some of which still showed the redness of fresh blood beneath the skin.
Draping the wet towel on his shoulder, the bartender came out from behind the bar and sat down on the stool beside Nyman’s. Together they watched as Ira went back to the keyboard and started to play another song, a quiet melody in a minor key. The last of the other customers had gone away and the three men were alone in the dim little room.
“All right,” Nyman said, turning to the bartender. “Tell me about your friend.”
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