Jericho Point

by Meg Gardiner

  ‘‘How did she get hold of all my information?’’

  ‘‘It was at my gig, the one you came to with Jesse. The Battle of the Bands.’’ He sat on the windowsill. ‘‘She got your wallet from your backpack. Took down your driver’s license, Social Security number, and the rest, and put the wallet back without you knowing.’’

  ‘‘And you set me up. You pointed me out to a kleptomaniac.’’

  ‘‘I made a bad choice. I know that. I’m sorry.’’

  He had the face of an angel. And he was full of crap.

  ‘‘Only one problem with your story,’’ I said. ‘‘Karen Jimson wants to pump my butt full of buckshot for stealing checks from Datura. How are you going to blame that on Brittany?’’

  His pained look sharpened. ‘‘I would never steal from the Jimsons.’’

  ‘‘Who killed her, P.J.?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  I held up the Avalon flyer. ‘‘Know these guys?’’

  He jumped like a startled monkey.

  ‘‘I thought so. The one in the pimp hat turned my car into a Dumpster today.’’

  Through the thin walls, we heard voices in the apartment next door. Before I could stop him he scrambled out the window. I climbed onto the bed and clambered out after him, but he was already loping down the alley, pushing his bike. By the time I dropped to the ground, he was jumping on. He started it up and gunned it out of sight.

  I wasn’t about to climb back in the window wearing a skirt and boots. I walked down the alley. Passing Brittany’s apartment, I caught a look through the bedroom window. Her roommate was dabbing her eyes with a tissue, talking to a man in his fifties. He was a tree trunk, with grizzled hair and arms that hung like clubs from his shoulders. Brittany’s father. Behind him another man paced the shadows. Taller, younger. I heard them say ‘‘coroner’’ and ‘‘autopsy.’’

  I walked around to the front of the building. In the car, Jesse was still talking on the phone. Lavonne must have been giving him an earful.

  The door to Brittany’s apartment opened. Holding the doorknob was the younger man I’d seen through the window. ‘‘Come here.’’

  Sculpt a Greek god with a delinquent’s slouch, and this would have been him. He was mid-twenties, wearing tangled hair and a Limp Bizkit T-shirt. His eyes were sea green, pale and wild, and his gaze felt familiar.

  I slowed. ‘‘Can I help you?’’

  ‘‘Eavesdropping on private conversations isn’t cool.’’

  I stopped. ‘‘I meant no offense.’’

  ‘‘What are you, press?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ Not at the moment.

  I was getting a weird vibe. He was a beefy slab of handsome, and those pale green eyes could have sold teen magazines by the truckload. But the slouch gave him a Napoleonic whiff. Chip on an arrogant shoulder.

  ‘‘Have we met?’’ I said.

  His mouth creased, seemingly with scorn. ‘‘Rock House. I’m Shaun Kutner.’’

  Yes. Rock House—the reality show. Hopefuls singing to industry big shots for a chance at a recording contract. Every week the hapless and half-assed belted their guts out, and every week the judges told them precisely how hapless and half-assed they were. It was a cavalcade of schadenfreude. Jesse found it appalling. I loved it. Of course I knew Shaun Kutner. He was infamous.

  He saw it on my face, and his expression soured. ‘‘The one and only.’’

  Twenty-six million people had watched it, live. Bright lights, raucous audience, the camera swooping across the stage. Shaun attacking a rock classic with angry authority. He worked the song, and worked himself up, and finished wet with perspiration. Not damp—sopping. With rings darkening his armpits, his shirt clinging to him like a leech, and rivulets streaming down his face and neck.

  The judges weren’t shy. ‘‘Great vocal. But what’s with the sweating?’’

  Curious now, I walked toward the door. He was the first tabloid headline I’d ever met: Sweaty Shaun Voted Off.

  He raised his hands. ‘‘This isn’t the time. I’m jet-lagged, and we’re all grieving.’’

  Jesus wept. He thought I wanted an autograph. The weird vibe returned, stronger.

  ‘‘Britt was my best buddy in Rock House prelims. This is devastating.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t know she was a contestant,’’ I said.

  He jammed his hands into his pockets. ‘‘She got knocked out early, but she was my strongest backer. Before and after.’’

  Inside the apartment voices approached, and a man said, ‘‘Who is it, Shaun?’’

  His jade gaze held mine. ‘‘It’s Snoopy. From the alley.’’

  The vibe twanged again, and I realized I’d seen him before, in person. But before I could say anything, a hand pulled the door wide. The tree trunk stood there. The muscles in his jaw were popping.

  ‘‘You want to talk about my daughter? You speak to me. Ted Gaines.’’

  He had seen her body, I could tell. Though he was stump-solid, he looked as though a daisy cutter had torn up his insides. How he was still standing, I couldn’t imagine.

  ‘‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’’ I said.

  ‘‘You a friend of Brittany’s?’’

  Behind him, the roommate dabbed at her nose with the tissue. ‘‘She came by Friday night. Around midnight, looking for P.J.’’

  Gaines and Shaun shifted, seeming to fill the doorway. Shaun took his hands out of his pockets. Gaines’s eyes cooled.

  ‘‘What do you want with him?’’ he said.

  Shaun said, ‘‘I bet she’s his lookout.’’

  ‘‘Not at all,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Yeah, you’re hanging around here so you can tell him when the coast is clear.’’ His gaze lengthened, past me, to the street. ‘‘Oh, man. It’s him.’’

  Gaines stepped into the doorway. ‘‘Where?’’

  ‘‘The shithead. There.’’ He pushed out the door past me.

  I turned. If P.J. had come back, he was in for it. But I saw no sign of him—and with awful certainty I understood. Shaun was charging toward my car.

  Jesse had the phone pressed to his ear, baseball cap pulled low on his head. With sunset reflecting off the window, it was easy to make the mistake.

  I moved. Gaines wrapped a hand around my arm. ‘‘No, you don’t.’’

  ‘‘That’s not P.J.’’ I tried to pull free.

  ‘‘He has to answer for this.’’

  Shaun pounded down the walkway. I shouted Jesse’s name. Shaun steamed up to the car, yanked open the door, and grabbed Jesse by the arm. He heaved him out of the Explorer.

  I saw Jesse slam to the ground. Then things flared solar white, and I was shoving Ted Gaines into the wall and running for the car. Shaun was standing over Jesse, his face crimson, shouting. ‘‘Bastard. Cocksucker.’’ He drew his leg back and kicked him in the ribs.

  Blue light shot my vision. I felt Ted Gaines running behind me. Jesse was on his back on the dirt, and I saw that his leg was jammed between the door and the frame of the car. He couldn’t go anywhere and couldn’t get up. Shaun kept shouting. ‘‘Shit for brains. She’s dead on account of you.’’ He swung his foot again.

  Jesse gritted his teeth. The kick connected. And he swept an arm out, locked his elbow behind Shaun’s leg, and rolled against him.

  ‘‘I’ll break your knee,’’ Jesse said.

  Spittle flew from Shaun’s mouth. ‘‘Fuckhead. She only went to that party because of you. And now she’s dead.’’

  ‘‘Five more pounds of pressure. You’ll hear it crack.’’

  Shaun wrenched back and forth, but Jesse had too much upper-body strength. Shaun was caught. He grabbed the car door. His eyes were glazed, his cheeks burning. I saw what he was going to do.

  Jesse saw it too: slam the door and snap his leg. He popped Shaun’s knee at about the same moment I bodychecked Shaun into the side of the Explorer. After that, Ted Gaines had me in a wrestling hold. Shaun was barking in p
ain, limping in a circle.

  Gaines pushed me against the car. ‘‘You ain’t gonna interfere.’’

  I pointed through the window of the car at the wheelchair. ‘‘That’s his. You understand?’’

  Gaines stared at it. ‘‘What?’’

  Shaun limped. ‘‘Dickhead. I’ll kick your face in.’’

  Jesse’s face was pure fury. He struggled to sit up, flinching and putting a hand against his ribs where Shaun had kicked him. Gaines took in the fact that he hadn’t tried to stand up. His hands fell away from me. He looked horrified.

  Shaun broke for Jesse. Gaines blocked him.

  ‘‘No. The guy’s in a wheelchair. It’s not Blackburn.’’

  ‘‘The hell it’s not.’’

  Gaines held him back. Shaun glared at Jesse. Uncertainty spread across his face. He threw up his hands and backed off.

  Gaines reached down. ‘‘God, son, I’m sorry. Let me give you a hand.’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  Jesse’s leg was still jammed in the door. He pushed and pulled, trying to free it. I stepped toward him.

  ‘‘I’m fine.’’ He looked at Shaun. ‘‘The hell’s wrong with you?’’

  Shaun rubbed his leg. ‘‘You broke my knee.’’

  ‘‘If I had, you’d be on the ground, screaming.’’ Jesse wrenched his leg loose and sat up. ‘‘She altered the angle with that body slam. You lucked out.’’

  ‘‘It hurts. I oughta sue your ass.’’

  ‘‘Bring it on. I love shooting fish in a barrel.’’

  ‘‘You making fun of me?’’ He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘‘Know what? Screw this.’’

  He limped away. I went after him.

  ‘‘Hey. Come back here.’’

  He headed for the apartment, daubing his forehead. ‘‘He was sitting right there in your car. What else was I supposed to think?’’

  ‘‘That’s it? That’s all you have to say?’’

  ‘‘My best friend’s dead and now my knee’s fucked. So yeah.’’ His shirt was dampening under the arms. He wiped his upper lip, and stopped. ‘‘Get off your high horse. If P.J. didn’t kill Britt, one of his hophead buddies did. Tell him he’s on notice. I see him, I take him apart.’’

  He walked away.

  Next to the car, Jesse sat on the curb beside Ted Gaines. The back of his Blazers Swimming shirt was muddy.

  ‘‘You okay?’’ I said.

  He nodded.

  Gaines rubbed his forehead. ‘‘You got no idea how sorry I am about that. But Shaun’s taking it hard.’’ He sagged. ‘‘We all are. God.’’ His shoulders huffed. ‘‘God, my girl.’’

  Covering his eyes, he lumbered to his feet and halted toward the apartment.

  When he closed the door, the dimming light and the wet street and the empty evening spread out around us again. The wind blew cold over our backs.

  ‘‘Fuck this whole day,’’ Jesse said.

  He slid along the curb and jacked himself up to sit in the door frame. His face looked strung with pain.

  ‘‘Sure you’re all right?’’ I said.

  Grabbing the handhold above the door, he pulled up onto the seat. ‘‘Getting in this car’s going to bust my shoulders someday. Big high SUV—it’s like rock climbing.’’

  Ping, right between the eyes. ‘‘Oh.’’

  He slammed the door.

  On the drive home he leaned back against his seat, staring out the window. He didn’t want to talk. The black river had risen on him again. Outside my house he headed straight for his car, parked down the street.

  ‘‘Shall I come over?’’ I said.

  ‘‘Your family’s here. Stay.’’

  Ivy spilled over the fence, dark in the twilight. He stopped on the sidewalk by the Mustang. In the fading light he looked far older than twenty-eight. I brushed a lock of his hair back behind his ear.

  ‘‘I know. I’m acting like an open sore,’’ he said. ‘‘Sorry for getting snarky about the Explorer back there.’’

  ‘‘No problem. Sorry I kept you from breaking the guy’s knee.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, it would have made a good headline. ‘Sweaty Shaun Gets Bent.’ ’’

  ‘‘I didn’t know you recognized him,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Not every day I get kicked by a reality-show reject.’’ He arced around to face me. ‘‘You know Ricky Jimson was the judge who called him Sweaty Shaun, right?’’

  ‘‘I remember. And I know where I’ve seen him before. Yesterday, in the Jimsons’ four-by-four outside Sanchez Marks. Banging the gong with Sinsa.’’

  He thought about it. ‘‘I just got stomped by a jealous boyfriend. This keeps getting worse and worse.’’

  I held out my hand. When he took it, I hitched up my skirt and straddled his lap. He wrapped his arms around me. My feet dangled behind him.

  ‘‘Wish I had a wand I could wave,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Nothing to be done. You play the hand you’re dealt.’’ He breathed. ‘‘Though sometimes I think an ordinary deal would have been good.’’

  He never admitted that the hit-and-run had ravaged his life. He coped and kept going. He had survived. And if his legs didn’t work right anymore, then he’d use the wheelchair, or crutches, and do the things he could. So the wreckage didn’t always seem that bad. But at times like this tenacity didn’t cut it. I could have cried.

  But I didn’t. I laughed. ‘‘Boy, you are a riot.’’

  ‘‘I am?’’

  ‘‘Jesse Matthew Hotshot, Wiseass, National Champion, Cut ’Em Off at the Knees in Cross-examination Blackburn. As if you really wanted to be ordinary. Fat chance.’’

  He tried to keep the long face, but I’d caught him out. He rolled his eyes.

  ‘‘Once a year, that’s all I ask,’’ he said. ‘‘Ignore my moping for five minutes.’’

  ‘‘Maybe on your birthday.’’

  Headlights caught us. Marc Dupree’s silver Ford truck pulled up, pinning us like teenagers caught breaking curfew. I hopped off Jesse’s lap and smoothed my skirt down. Jesse shook his hair out of his eyes.

  Marc parked and cut the lights. Brian got out and walked past us, poker-faced, whistling. Marc followed. His gaze was cool.

  Jesse watched him. ‘‘Officer, I swear she looked eighteen.’’

  Marc snickered and walked through the gate. Jesse got out his car keys. The moment was gone.

  When I went inside, Brian was foraging through the fridge. He pulled out a hunk of cheese, sniffed it, and started cutting off the blue bits.

  ‘‘Things okay?’’ he said.

  ‘‘That’s Roquefort. It’s supposed to be that color.’’ I didn’t want a go-round about the afternoon’s events, much less my love life.

  ‘‘Jesse doesn’t look so hot.’’

  ‘‘Long day.’’

  He continued cutting. ‘‘How much weight has he lost?’’

  I leaned back against the counter, saying nothing.

  ‘‘Ev. Is he all right?’’

  I couldn’t hide it. He put down the knife. He pulled me against his chest and hugged me.

  ‘‘I’m scared,’’ I said.

  11

  Monday morning broke gently. The storm had passed, and the sky spread satin blue above the mountains. When I stepped outside, the air tasted crisp. I drove out to Goleta, where Allied Pacific Bank sat at the corner of an undistinguished strip mall. I walked in and asked to speak to the manager.

  Bianca Nestor had a brisk stride crimped short by her skirt. I handed her the SBPD crime report.

  ‘‘I think the thief opened a checking account here, under my name,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Nasty business.’’ She peered at the police report. ‘‘We’ll check into it, and all pertinent information will be provided to you. It usually takes ten working days.’’

  Karen Jimson wanted my blood this afternoon.

  ‘‘Could you check right now? Please. I’m in hot water over this.’’
/>
  She drummed her fingers on the desk, turned to her keyboard, and typed, staring at her computer screen. After a minute her face pinched.

  ‘‘I’m right,’’ I said. ‘‘You have an account in the name of Evan Delaney.’’

  ‘‘No.’’ She read the computer screen. ‘‘It was closed this morning.’’

  We stood up simultaneously. Going behind the counter, she questioned each teller. Finally a balding young man nodded to her. Nestor came back around, heels ticking.

  ‘‘I just missed her, didn’t I?’’ I said.

  ‘‘Nope. Mr. Evan Delaney closed his checking account twenty-five minutes before you walked in.’’

  A man. Blame my parents for sticking me with a boy’s name. Defrauding me can be a gender free-for-all.

  ‘‘What did he look like?’’ I said.

  ‘‘Twenties, white. Scruffy hair, according to my teller.’’

  P.J.

  She glanced at me sharply. ‘‘Do you know who did this?’’

  How I could still feel disappointed in P.J., I didn’t know. But I did. ‘‘Possibly.’’

  Nestor walked me to the door. ‘‘We’ll have him on surveillance tape. Leave things in my hands. I’ll be in touch.’’

  I headed out into the chill sunshine. Det. Lilia Rodriguez was leaning against my car.

  ‘‘A word, if you don’t mind?’’

  I’m a rotten liar. That’s why I’m not an undercover agent, or writing The Seven Secrets of Weight Loss. The problem is, I get shamefaced, at least when fibbing to people I respect. Once I faked it during sex, and Jesse said, ‘‘You just blew up the polygraph machine.’’

  But I didn’t need to lie to Rodriguez. I needed to convince her that I was Little Miss Honest Citizen. Which was just as bad, because nobody can answer police questions without anxiety. Are those your toes sticking out from the ends of your feet? Gag. Stammer. Mine? Yes. They’re not toes smuggled in from South America. God, no. Panic-stricken laughter.

  I also needed to get across town so I could convince Lavonne Marks that I hadn’t committed grand theft.

  Rodriguez was dressed in a blue blazer and khaki skirt. Her hair was suffering a cowlick. Sticking up like that, it made her look like one of the Little Rascals.

  ‘‘Bad checks?’’ she said.