by Meg Gardiner
‘‘Lots of that going around.’’
Again she tapped the pen against her notepad. ‘‘Ms. Delaney, why don’t you explain everything that happened last night.’’
Standard procedure with lawyers is to stonewall, but sometimes the best way to get out of trouble with the police is to explain yourself.
‘‘Lay it out,’’ Jesse said.
I told them everything. The crazed atmosphere at the party. The confusion over P.J.’s name. My 911 call. And this morning, going to the beach in a vain attempt to see if it had been true.
‘‘How did your ID end up on Miss Gaines’s body?’’ Rodriguez said.
‘‘I don’t know. The ID’s fake.’’
‘‘And your credit cards?’’
‘‘Fraudulent. My identity’s been stolen.’’
‘‘You haven’t reported this alleged identity theft to the police.’’
Alleged. My warning board lit up. Incoming. Jesse laid a hand on my arm. The gesture seemed casual, but he was radiating heat. I got it loud and clear: Down, girl.
‘‘Because I didn’t know about it until the thief washed up on the beach.’’ I grabbed my credit report off the printer and handed it to her. ‘‘I called in a fraud alert to the credit agencies half an hour ago.’’
She scanned the report. ‘‘Mind if I keep this?’’
‘‘Be my guest.’’
She handed it to Zelinski. Smiled at me. ‘‘You got a parking ticket this morning.’’
‘‘Expired meter.’’ I disliked that smile. ‘‘I also got my car burglarized.’’
Zelinski looked up from the credit report. ‘‘And all they took was documents. Didn’t touch the stereo, your phone, your wallet.’’ He read some more. ‘‘Must have been important stuff.’’
Documents that incriminated me in grand theft. Shit and more shit. ‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Related to this identity theft?’’ he said.
‘‘Yes.’’ I glanced at Jesse. He was grim. ‘‘I was harassed by a couple of repo men on the beach. I told this to the campus police this morning.’’
Zelinski lowered the report. ‘‘And all this happened at Campus Point, virtually in sight of the spot where Brittany’s body washed up.’’
Rodriguez scanned me with those alert brown eyes. ‘‘Did you know Brittany Gaines?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Did you see her at the party last night?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘I think you did.’’
Jesse straightened. ‘‘We’re done.’’
Rodriguez looked at me. ‘‘Ms. Delaney?’’
‘‘We’re done,’’ I said.
She capped her pen, closed her notebook, and stood up. ‘‘We’ll be in touch.’’
They left. I flexed and unflexed my hands, watching them cross the storm-tousled yard. The sky was furrowed yellow, sunlight cutting through black clouds.
‘‘How did I do?’’ I said.
‘‘Better than I expected.’’
‘‘Thanks, Coach.’’
‘‘And things are much worse than I thought.’’
10
Sunday morning the rain came in batches, broken by cold sunshine. Dew glimmered on the grass. There was a picture of Brittany Gaines in the paper.
Alive, she’d had eyes that looked luminous. The blue streak in her hair seemed playful. She didn’t look like a coldhearted thief. Her smile was crooked. No sand crabs were crawling out of her mouth. After seeing it, I had to throw away my bagel and pour my coffee down the drain.
I double-checked the crime report I’d written up, and drove down to police headquarters to file it. I had duct-taped plastic sheeting over the broken window, and it vibrated in the wind. Jesse’s assessment of the murder investigation dripped over me like chill water.
‘‘They think P.J. killed her,’’ he had said, after the sheriff’s detectives left my house. ‘‘And that you helped him.’’
‘‘Bullshit.’’
‘‘What really twists their nuts is you going to the beach. They figure you went looking for the body, so if it washed up you could get rid of it.’’ He was dour. ‘‘They probably guess you were running a scam with her.’’
‘‘Faking my own fake ID? And then what happened, she went wild in the Saks shoe department, so I had P.J. strangle her? That’s idiotic.’’
‘‘People pull stupid scams all the time. They run up crazy debts and blame pickpockets. They burn down their own businesses to get the insurance. They kidnap themselves for ransom.’’
‘‘I get the picture.’’
And it had my face in the center of a bull’s-eye.
The Santa Barbara Police Department’s main station was a Spanish-style building across from the courthouse. I was speaking to the desk officer when I spotted Lieutenant Clayton Rome pouring himself a cup of coffee. I waved. He came over, smoothing his black hair and extending his hand.
‘‘Miss Delaney. Just a friendly visit, I hope?’’
Rome and I had an acquaintanceship that could be called contentious. He thought me reckless, hot-tempered, and pigheaded. I found him aggressive, hot-tempered, and pigheaded. Plus, I had to admit, a solid cop. He kept himself tanned, toned, and as polished as a police motorcycle.
‘‘Identity theft.’’ I showed him the report.
He shook his head. ‘‘I tell you, it’s a damn epidemic. We’re averaging a report a day like this.’’
‘‘Great, a popular crime. I’m finally one of the cool kids.’’
‘‘They’re like rats, these thieves. They paw through your trash, they steal your mail—they’re clever and persistent and devious as hell.’’
He ran a finger alongside his nose, frowning on my behalf. He knew too well what could happen when your identity was stolen: credit and reputation ruined, jobs lost, wages docked and paid to creditors for bad debts that weren’t yours, getting arrested for crimes the thieves committed.
He perused the report. ‘‘You able to provide any leads?’’
My cheeks felt prickly. ‘‘The woman who washed ashore at Jericho Point was carrying counterfeit ID in my name.’’
He glanced up sharply. ‘‘A pro? She part of a ring?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
‘‘You talk to the sheriff’s detectives?’’
‘‘Lilia Rodriguez.’’
‘‘The judge’s kid. Lily’s thorough. Good investigator.’’ He flicked his finger against the report. ‘‘Stay on top of this. And . . . keep your eyes open. This one may be at a different level than most.’’
He gave the report a few more seconds, and handed it back. ‘‘Jesse doing all right?’’
‘‘It’s been tough.’’
‘‘Even when you get ’em, it isn’t painless, is it?’’
Justice never is.
Late morning I went to Mass at the Old Mission. Afterward, while Brian and Marc went to play golf, I took Luke to meet Jesse at the movies. When I drove into the underground garage at Paseo Nuevo, I saw the Mustang parked and Jesse waiting for the elevator. I let Luke out and the two of them went up to get the tickets. I circled the garage and found a slot.
I was reaching into the backseat for my coat when there was a shredding sound at the window. A knife was gashing through the plastic sheeting. A hand ripped it wide-open and garbage came pouring in.
I shouted, recoiling from cigarette butts and KFC leftovers. Outside the car, a glazed skull shone under the lights. Murphy dumped the rest of the greasy garbage bag onto me.
‘‘You give us trash, this is how you get repaid,’’ he said.
Agh. I turned to climb over the gearshift, and outside the passenger window Merlin appeared. His gopher shoulders were hunched inside his aloha shirt. He pressed a small rectangle of paper against the window.
‘‘Now you’re bouncing checks. This came back marked Insufficient Funds.’’
I batted a wet ribbon of gauze off of my skirt. ‘‘It wasn
’t me. A girl named Brittany Gaines did this.’’
‘‘It’s signed K. E. Delaney.’’
Something viscous was dripping down my cheek. The smell of grease was overpowering. I couldn’t tell if it was Murphy or the chicken leg lodged in the collar of my blouse.
‘‘A thief stole my ID. She’s the one who’s been ripping people off.’’
Merlin held up the photocopy of the stolen Datura checks.
‘‘This shows you put plenty of money in the account.’’ He waved the bad check. ‘‘And this tells us you took it out and hid it someplace else.’’
‘‘Listen to me,’’ I said.
‘‘You pay it back, this week, with twenty percent interest. That’s fifteen, plus three for the juice.’’
Did he mean thousands? ‘‘You—’’
Murphy reached in the window and palmed my head. His hands were hot. His leather wristbands smelled of musk and dirt.
‘‘If you don’t pay, the boss gets angry. And when he gets angry he takes it out on us. Which pisses us off, so we take it out on you.’’
And then he won the World Grossness Challenge. He leaned in the window, said, ‘‘Mmm, special sauce,’’ and licked off whatever was dribbling down my cheek, with his flat, rough tongue.
He shoved me loose. ‘‘That’s just a taster.’’
Merlin leaned close to the glass. ‘‘We’ll be seeing you.’’
They hopped into a grubby red van and pulled away. Blue exhaust hung in the air behind them.
I jumped out of the car. Ignoring the chicken bone and the cigarette ash on my neck, I grabbed a piece of paper and wiped my cheek. Scrubbing, trying to eradicate the sensation of tongue. I wondered if I should get a skin graft. After I burned the piece of paper, in a biohazard containment facility. And blech, I realized it had come from the garbage sack. I dropped it and saw something worse. It was a printed flyer. I’d been wiping my face with a photo of Merlin and Murphy.
I nudged it with my boot and read the blurb: Party down with the Party Kings—Avalon! The best party band in Santa Barbara. All occasions. Christmas parties! Senior prom! Seventies nite!
The road to hell was paved with disco balls. Burn, baby, burn.
Jesse pinched the flyer between his thumb and forefinger, touching it as minimally as possible. ‘‘Avalon. I dig the photo of the band, in their platform shoes. And check out Murphy and Merlin’s last name.’’
‘‘Ming. They’re the Party Dynasty.’’ I squeezed the steering wheel. ‘‘Except the band must be lousy, if they’re loan-sharking as a sideline.’’
The big rig ahead of me on the freeway cast spray on the Explorer. We had dropped Luke off with the Vincents, and were heading for P.J.’s apartment. I had showered and was wearing fresh clothes. The ripped plastic chattered on the window.
‘‘It’s not necessarily money lending. Could be drugs, or stolen property,’’ Jesse said.
‘‘Yeah.’’ What had they said to me on the beach? Work the deal, or give the money back. That implied a transaction, possibly fraudulent from the start.
‘‘Twice now they’ve talked about their boss,’’ I said. ‘‘Take a look at the back of the flyer.’’
He flipped it over. ‘‘ ‘For booking, contact Tibbetts Price.’ ’’
‘‘Shall we?’’
‘‘Call him? No.’’
‘‘He thinks I have his money. Perhaps I can dissuade him.’’
‘‘Let me put that another way. No.’’
Fields and lemon orchards shone green in the setting sun, wet with rainwater. Spray freckled the windshield. He pulled his red Blazers cap low on his head.
‘‘We’re dealing with pond scum. For guys like these, fifteen grand is plenty of money to kill people over.’’ He looked at me. ‘‘It may be why Brittany Gaines is dead. And now they’re after you.’’
I didn’t want to deal with that thought. Los Carneros Road came up. I pulled off the freeway and headed toward the beach. From the overpass we could see the university riding the promontory above the ocean. The sea was a blue smear between land and sky.
‘‘So,’’ I said. ‘‘You agree that P.J. couldn’t have done it.’’
He sighed. ‘‘Cut it out.’’
‘‘What out?’’
He pulled himself up in the seat. ‘‘Stop protecting him.’’
I glanced over, taken aback. ‘‘That’s not what I’m doing.’’
‘‘Of course it is. You’re feeling sorry for him, so you want to save him.’’
‘‘You’re exaggerating.’’
His laugh was sardonic. ‘‘Evan. It’s in your bones. You’re drawn to wounded things.’’
Oh, boy. Instant heat, from my belly to the center of my skull.
‘‘Jesse, you—’’
‘‘Don’t get me wrong. It’s an unselfish impulse,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s not like you’re watching for us to fall behind the herd so you can strike. You want to help.’’
Puddles shone yellow with the reflected sunset. ‘‘That’s . . .’’ My palms tingled. ‘‘Christ, you—’’
‘‘But you can’t stop P.J. from wrecking himself, any more than you could coach me to high jump.’’
‘‘Damn, I . . . you can’t . . .’’
‘‘That stutter’s getting worse. Bang your head against the door frame, see if you can get rid of it.’’
I forced myself to slow down. We curved along the road through a landscaped business park.
‘‘If—’’
‘‘There is no if. There’s only the way it is.’’
I stopped at a red light. Ahead, Isla Vista’s crammed apartment blocks formed a beige rampart. Cars lined the curbs. Students zigzagged along the street on clunker bicycles.
‘‘You should come with a warning label,’’ I said.
‘‘Danger, in sight.’’ He put his hand across the back of my neck. ‘‘I love you. But you need to get your head completely clear. You have too much at stake here to mess around trying to rescue my brother.’’
A horn honked. In the next lane a woman was waving at us. Correction—at Jesse. She smiled and blew a kiss. The light changed and she turned the corner.
I crossed the intersection. ‘‘Somebody you know?’’
‘‘No clue.’’
He peered after the car. I eyed him with mock suspicion.
‘‘Seriously,’’ he said.
I slowed, turned down P.J.’s street, and pulled up in front of the Don Quixote Arms. ‘‘Fine, Blackburn. No rescues. So what are we here for?’’
‘‘A reckoning.’’ He unbuckled his seat belt. ‘‘Let’s do it.’’
I hopped out, and his cell phone rang. I heard him say, ‘‘Right here.’’ His tone of voice told me it was work.
‘‘I know she did.’’ A glance at me. ‘‘Lavonne, I asked her to. My brother was working over at the Jimsons’ house.’’
I winced. She was irked that I’d gone over there. Jesse indicated for me to go ahead.
‘‘Impolitic?’’ he said. ‘‘That wasn’t my foremost concern.’’
The Don Quixote Arms was quiet. A soccer ball lay on a patch of grass in front of the building, but nobody was out. Word about Brittany Gaines had spread. P.J.’s roommate answered my knock, still wearing the If I gave a shit T-shirt and the zombified look. It was apparently his natural state.
He scratched his cheek. ‘‘He went to the library.’’
And I had hatched full-grown from the forehead of Zeus. ‘‘I’ll wait.’’
I walked in before he could think about why P.J. wouldn’t want me to do that. I strolled through the living room, checked the kitchen, and walked back toward the bedrooms. The apartment smelled like pepperoni and bong water. A draft was blowing from under a bedroom door.
I opened it. P.J. froze like a chipmunk in the high beams.
‘‘Forget your library card?’’ I said.
‘‘This isn’t what it looks like.’’
‘‘Get
down.’’
He was standing on his bed with one leg out the window. His Suzuki was parked in the alley behind the building. When I walked in he gripped the windowsill.
‘‘I’m going back to Mom and Dad’s,’’ he said.
‘‘And a force field prevents you from using the door.’’
‘‘Brittany’s father is next door.’’ He lowered his voice, glancing in the direction of her apartment. ‘‘I can’t deal with him.’’
‘‘You mean you’re avoiding the sheriffs.’’
‘‘He’s a gorilla. And he’s looking for somebody’s head to rip off.’’
‘‘Yours? She must have made you out to be a prince.’’
He hiked himself farther onto the windowsill.
‘‘Hey.’’ I knelt on the bed and grabbed his arm. ‘‘Okay, two-minute warning. You’re coming close.’’
‘‘To what?’’
‘‘Seeing me get mad.’’
His blue eyes were pleading. ‘‘You don’t understand. She was hanging onto me, way overboard. Like, obsessing.’’
‘‘Obsessing about what? Your credit card scam?’’
‘‘No, following me. Popping up everywhere. Like I’d open the door and she’d be right outside. Or at the Laundromat I turn around and, boo, she’s behind me. Wanting to talk. It was freaking me out.’’
‘‘Did you lift my wallet?’’ I said.
‘‘You’re trippin’.’’
‘‘It had to be a few months ago, because that’s when the unauthorized purchases began.’’
‘‘But that’s when your purse was stolen. That woman, Cherry whatsit?’’
‘‘Good answer.’’ I let go of him. ‘‘Almost like you’d rehearsed it.’’
He hesitated, just long enough. ‘‘No.’’
I sighed and stood up off the bed. ‘‘So you figured what—I’d chalk it up to Cherry Lopez, and the card companies would eat the bills?’’
‘‘You have this totally wrong.’’
‘‘Go ahead, explain it. I’m at ninety seconds to mad, and counting down.’’
His eyes skipped around. He brought his leg in. ‘‘I made a mistake. I told her how your purse got stolen. Britt, she . . .’’ He looked pained. ‘‘She had a problem. She took things. Big-time. I don’t know why; she had plenty of money. Her dad’s rolling in bucks.’’
