by Meg Gardiner
I had felt tangible relief and a new lightness of heart. But all his losses slammed down and tipped him into an emotional crash dive. He seemed to be sliding away not just from me but from everything. And I didn’t think my working alongside him could solve that problem.
He wrapped his hands around the coffee mug. ‘‘It’s a job, not a jail sentence.’’
‘‘Of course it is.’’
‘‘So why do you look as if you’re about to make a run for the border?’’
See—starting over wasn’t truly possible, because he knew me too well. I was about to make a smart remark when a shadow crossed his face and he dug his knuckles into his lower back. He bit his lip, trying to ride it out. I waited. There was nothing I could do.
‘‘So what’s your news?’’ he said.
My dad has a saying: God save me from people with good intentions. In the days that followed I would repeat it to myself again and again, but right then, watching Jesse lose his fight with the pain, I decided to be kind.
‘‘It’ll keep.’’
The bartender took her break at midnight, stepping into the alley behind the club. The rain had stopped. Her ears were zinging from the music. Propping the door open a few inches with a brick, she lit a cigarette and tipped her face up to the night sky. The sound leaked through the crack in the door, but out here at least she could hear herself breathe.
She could also hear a man at the pay phone inside the door.
‘‘It’s Merlin,’’ he said. ‘‘She’s at Chaco’s. And she ain’t alone.’’
The bartender took a drag from her Winston, watching the tip redden.
‘‘She banged on apartment doors in Isla Vista, then drove downtown. When I come in the club she’s standing at the bar drinking a Heineken.’’
The bartender paused, the cigarette an inch from her lips. Private investigator? she wondered.
‘‘She was waiting for this dude on crutches. He called her Rowan,’’ the man said. ‘‘I don’t know what’s wrong with him; he coulda got kneecapped.’’ Pause. ‘‘ ’Cause of stuff the Rowan woman said to him. Listen, they weirded me out big-time. Talking some crazy shit.’’
The bartender took a drag.
‘‘Yeah, but only ’cause she started talking to me first. Wanting me to dance with her. But . . . No. Course not. . . . ’Cause of this guy with her, didn’t I just say that? He comes on like a major badass. I think, like, he could be made.’’
The bartender lowered the cigarette to her side and stood very still.
‘‘Oh, sure, I’m imagining it. It’s all just a mind-fuck. Hello, are you here? Did this dude get in your face?’’ Quiet for a moment. ‘‘Whatever. We’ll take care of it tomorrow. I’m going home. My eyes itch.’’
The phone clanged down on the receiver. The bartender dropped her cigarette and ground it out with the toe of her shoe. The night felt clammy.
She counted to fifty, slowly, before pulling the door open. The hall inside was empty. Good. All she needed was Mr. Easily Bamboozled to start jawing her ear off. She knew who he’d been talking to, and, if he was that stupid, he could mess his own nest.
Bartending. The stuff you heard.
Gray. Sky, light, water. By five a.m. the rain had stopped, but wind and tide had the surf running high. It roared onto the beach, almost to the cliffs. The sand was heaped with kelp. Visibility was poor. To the west, the Goleta Pier stuck into the waves. Beyond, the university campus faded into the mist.
On the cliff above the beach, eucalyptus trees creaked in the wind and millionaires’ lawns eroded, inch after inch, into the Pacific. The rough weather kept the morning empty. Nobody was looking down at the beach when it washed ashore. It rolled on the waves, a limp thing rising and dropping with the swell of the breakers. Flotsam, like the driftwood that littered the sand.
Riding the gray surf to shore, it came to rest in a tangle of seaweed. Snared and heedless. Against the leaden day, the only object on the beach that shone was the bracelet, its silver charms gleaming on a wrist pale with death.
3
The garden gate had swollen overnight from the rain, and stuck when I tried to open it. It was about eight a.m., and I was coming back from the gym. I had the car keys in my teeth, coffee in one hand and sack of bagels in the other. I planted a shoe against the gate and pushed. Water sprayed from the ivy that cascaded over the fence. The gate juddered open.
I headed along the flagstone path toward my cottage. Branches were down all over the yard. Next to Nikki and Carl Vincent’s house, a swath of red bougainvillea lay across the lawn like a slain dragon.
Nikki was my best buddy, my former college roommate. She ran a small art gallery, while Carl was a software executive. They were surrogates for my family, which was scattered across the country.
From the Vincents’ house came the sound of pounding. At a living room window Thea, their toddler, stood on a chair slapping her hand against the glass. Her sturdy little frame was swaddled in pink pajamas. She smiled, stuck her mouth on the window, and blew like Louis Armstrong. I made a kissy face back.
My place is a small adobe house, originally the guest cottage on the property. Outside the French doors, star jasmine glistened wet silver. I fumbled with the key, hearing the phone ring. I got in and picked up to hear the gritty voice of Lavonne Marks.
‘‘Whatever you have going this morning, put it on the back burner.’’
Saturday at eight was early, even for her. ‘‘Okay. What’s—’’
‘‘Come to the office, pronto. Is Jesse with you?’’
‘‘No.’’
He was doing what he did every Saturday: coaching a kids’ swim team, the Blazers. After that he would go to the office, bury himself in work, and continue running himself down. Anything to keep his mind off the pain, and the memory of violent death.
‘‘I just got back from the gym; let me—’’
‘‘Now.’’ She hung up.
Sanchez Marks filled the top floor of a Spanish-style building near the courthouse. Walking into the lobby, I looked out the full-length window at clouds hanging over the city, torn gray pressing on red tile roofs and sodden palm trees. A flock of sparrows darted past. Down the hall, the lights were on in Lavonne’s office. I finger-combed my hair, trying to look presentable. Jesse could carry off the scruffy-with-the-boss act, but he already had the job. I called her name.
‘‘Door’s open,’’ she called back.
She stood at her office window, arms crossed. She was wearing black, from her slacks to her turtleneck. Her unruly dark curls and half-glasses completed the look: urban, eastern, as un-Santa Barbaran as she could possibly get. She’d only lived here for twenty-five years.
I smoothed my track bottoms. ‘‘Excuse my getup. I was . . .’’ What, punching the bag? Hurling weights? Eating iron filings? ‘‘What’s urgent?’’
She turned from the window. What could possibly make her so anxious to bring me on board today? And what was I going to say, yes or no?
She took off her glasses. ‘‘I need to ask you a question. I want a frank answer.’’
Uh-oh. Did she consider Jesse and me too combustible to work near each other? I tried to gauge her expression. She had only a few soft spots—for her bookish husband, for the zaftig daughters whose faces laughed from the photos on her desk, and for Jesse. She admired the way he lived his life. Fearlessly, doggedly. Throttle up. If it came to a choice between my boyfriend and me, I stood no chance with her.
‘‘Certainly,’’ I said.
‘‘Have you seen these before?’’
She handed me a piece of paper. Confusion bit. It was a photocopy of three checks. With many digits, totaling almost five thousand dollars. Made out to Evan Delaney.
‘‘Did you cash those checks?’’ Lavonne said.
My pulse thudded. ‘‘No.’’
My gaze jumped over the photocopy. That was definitely my name, on the line that said, Pay to. Then I saw the account the checks had been drawn ag
ainst, and nausea skated through me. Datura Incorporated.
‘‘What’s going on?’’ I said.
‘‘Those checks were stolen from Datura.’’
Datura was an important client. This was bad news. Very bad.
‘‘I didn’t take them, Lavonne.’’
Her shoulders lowered. ‘‘Then explain how they came to have your name on them.’’
My legs felt like linguine. ‘‘I can’t.’’
Datura Incorporated was the company set up to handle the business dealings of Karen Jimson and her husband Ricky—known in his day as Slink, front man for a band called Jimsonweed. They were hard-rock millionaires. They lived on a cloistered spread in Montecito, where Karen invested Ricky’s money, and Ricky planned his next comeback tour.
The landslide had just slipped a few more feet. This wasn’t coincidence.
‘‘Karen called me at home an hour ago,’’ Lavonne said. ‘‘They’re giving me a chance to clean up this mess without involving the police. So if you have anything to say to me, say it now. She and Ricky are on their way over.’’
I forced myself to breathe quietly. ‘‘Good. Let’s straighten this out right here.’’ But my lips felt numb. The last person I wanted to see at eight on a Saturday morning was Karen Jimson, the Iron Pixie.
‘‘You were out at the property three weeks ago, weren’t you?’’ Lavonne said.
‘‘That’s right. With the draft contracts for the Embarcadero syndication.’’ I tried to look at the date on the checks, but my vision was pulsing. ‘‘Is that when they were stolen?’’
In the lobby, the elevator chimed. A moment later we heard a heated soprano voice.
‘‘Where is everybody?’’ Boot heels clacked on the hardwood floor in the hall.
Lavonne put her glasses on. ‘‘Here.’’
Karen appeared at the door. When she saw me, she crossed her arms and leaned against the frame, one hip jutting out.
‘‘Talk about chutzpah.’’
She stalked in, chewing gum. ‘‘Tell you, it’s a hell of a way to start the weekend, getting those checks back from the bank yesterday.’’
I turned to her. ‘‘I didn’t steal them.’’
‘‘Deny, deny, yada yada. Bay at some other moon, girl.’’
Karen Jimson was five-foot-zilch of hard body. Kitten nose, gamine hairdo, fawn’s eyes, and a white drill instructor’s T-shirt, cut short to reveal her six-pack. She wore a sapphire ring the size of a Gummi Bear. Working with her was like wrestling a crowbar.
‘‘Let me lay it out,’’ she said. ‘‘Evan came to the house on January twentieth. Those checks are dated January twenty-first. Don’t know ’bout you, but I can count.’’
‘‘Wait,’’ I said. ‘‘I was at the house for all of ten minutes, getting your signatures on the Embarcadero contracts. And I was with you or Ricky the whole time.’’
‘‘Sleight of hand.’’ She mimed a pickpocket. ‘‘Finger magic.’’
‘‘Good point. Have you taken steps to preserve the fingerprints on the checks?’’
She scoffed. ‘‘At this stage? There’s gonna be too many to count. Mine, Ricky’s, the bank teller’s, whoever stuffed them back in the envelopes to mail to us . . .’’
‘‘But not mine.’’
‘‘Honey, come off it. In thirty seconds you could have scoped it out.’’
‘‘Karen—’’
‘‘So here’s the deal. You return the money.’’ She turned to Lavonne. ‘‘And Sanchez Marks severs its relationship with her. Permanently.’’ The gum snapped in her teeth. ‘‘Meet those conditions and this all goes away. It never happened.’’ She looked at me. ‘‘By Monday afternoon.’’
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Karen chewed.
Lavonne said, ‘‘Give me a minute with Evan.’’
‘‘Yeah, I’ll bet. Where’s your coffeepot? I need a hit.’’
She left, and Lavonne shut the door. ‘‘Monday afternoon. Got that?’’
‘‘I can’t.’’
‘‘Karen’s giving you a pass. She’s turning her back and counting to ten, and if everything is put back in its place, they won’t call the police. Or the state bar.’’
‘‘Lavonne, I didn’t steal the money. You can’t actually believe that I did.’’
She stood motionless, so hot that she was practically crackling. ‘‘Belief is useless without proof.’’
It was an opening. ‘‘What do you want?’’
‘‘Evidence.’’ She tossed her glasses on the desk. ‘‘By Monday morning. Do that, and I’ll present it to the Jimsons.’’
I stormed out of Lavonne’s office into the hallway, clutching the photocopy. I was cussing rapid-fire. I rounded the corner into the lobby.
Ricky Jimson stood by the window, talking on a cell phone.
‘‘Sloppy, man, I’m telling you the track’s a mess,’’ he said.
His arms were rope-thin. His jeans sagged across the butt. Up close I could see gray hair threading his blond mane.
‘‘The drum’s lagging, and the rhythm guitar’s flat,’’ he said. ‘‘Hey, I’m listening to it in my car, and I can hear it going south over the fuckin’ freeway traffic. We gotta fix it.’’
‘‘Ricky,’’ I said.
He turned, his attention still on the phone call. In his prime he had been likened to a cobra. Now he looked like a python that had swallowed a Christmas ham. But his face was still handsome, rakish and bright-eyed, if pumped smooth with beer fat.
‘‘No,’’ he said into the phone. ‘‘Call the studio and tell them we’ll be in this afternoon. We’re Jimsonweed, dude. You don’t ask; you tell ’em we’re coming.’’
I raised the photocopy to face level. ‘‘You have a problem.’’
His eyes crinkled with curiosity. Scratching his chin beard, he leaned forward to peer at the text. His brow creased. ‘‘Hang on, man.’’
‘‘I’m not the person who ripped you off. So think— who else knows where Karen keeps the Datura checkbook?’’
Her voice ice-picked from behind me. ‘‘What do you think you’re doing?’’ She was stalking along the hall, wagging her finger. ‘‘No. You talk to me, Evan. Me.’’
Ricky’s gaze ping-ponged between us. He pressed the phone hard to his ear.
Karen raised her hand as if to soothe him. ‘‘I’ve got this.’’
Ricky returned to his call. She turned her gaze on me.
‘‘You have a problem with boundaries?’’ she said.
‘‘Do you keep the Datura checkbook locked up?’’
‘‘I told you what to do. Start doing it. Don’t jump the fence and drag my husband into this.’’ She chewed her gum. ‘‘He has bigger fish to fry. He’s finishing an album and planning the tour. He doesn’t need you turning him hectic.’’
‘‘How many people work for you? Who comes out to the house?’’
‘‘Plenty of folks. But you’re the one whose name ended up on those checks.’’
‘‘Which is why this whole thing is bizarre and stupid. If I had actually stolen those checks, I would have written them out to cash, not to myself. Not ever.’’
The gum-chewing slowed. Her fawn eyes blinked.
‘‘Cash. Good point. That’s how I want the money.’’ She crossed her arms. ‘‘Monday. Get to it.’’
I stormed out of the building. The wind caught me, raising tears in my eyes. How the hell was I supposed to find proof that I was in the clear? I stalked toward the parking lot. Rounding the corner of the building, I heard rap music reverberating from a car stereo. A BMW four-by-four, a big black X5, was emitting the boom. Its tinted windows vibrated with every thud. Its license plate read, JMSNWD. It was parked in a disabled spot.
No, it was parked in two disabled spots.
My scalp tingled with anger. The audacity. And Karen dared to lecture me about crossing boundaries? I beelined toward it, ready to lay into the chauffeur, bodyguard, whoever had parked here. I was
ten feet from it when a shriek of laughter cut through the funk. In the backseat, a woman’s arm arced up. Her wrist was spangled with silver bracelets. Her palm slapped against the window. I slowed.
The hand slid across the glass.
The top of a head appeared in the backseat. Dark tangles. A man, looking down. The woman raised a leg and jammed her foot against the headrest of the driver’s seat. She wore black Caterpillar boots. Silver eyelets seemed to wink at me. I stopped.
The man looked up, just for a second. He held poised, his features striped by light reflecting off the window. The woman’s hand pulled him back down. Before he disappeared, he grinned at me.
4
I don’t remember starting my car or driving the first mile through downtown. Or anything, until I heard Toby Keith on the radio, that blue-collar Oklahoma baritone singing that he was going to kick somebody’s ass. I felt my palms, sweaty on the steering wheel, and my teeth, biting my cheek. I saw that I was flooring it up State Street toward the mountains, past empty sidewalks, store windows reflecting the sooty sky, blue banners whipping on lampposts.
At the edge of my vision burned a gold corona of anger. And fear. Why didn’t I tell them? Why didn’t I say anything?
Because the suspicion was only half-formed.
Why didn’t I insist that they go ahead and call the police?
Because when you do that, you surrender control to a machine that has power to seize your liberty. And because it was an inside job. And though I’d been in the Jimsons’ house, there was someone else who was inside plenty more than I.
P. J. Blackburn.
P.J. worked as Ricky Jimson’s gofer. I looked again at the photocopied checks, fearing in the pit of my stomach that P.J. had stolen them. His life had gone disastrously awry, and because of him I was in trouble.
I drove out to Isla Vista and gave his apartment one more try. Nobody was home. I left him a note.
Heading back to town, I cut through the university. When I reached the eastern edge of campus, I parked along the cliff overlooking the beach. The promontory had a grand view of the coastline, the Goleta Valley, and the mountains disappearing into the clouds. I locked my purse in the glove compartment and stuck some change in the parking meter. Burrowing into my sweatshirt, I walked to the fence at the edge of the cliff.
