Jericho Point

by Meg Gardiner

  By the end of that week I was improving physically. Ibuprofen was keeping the ache in my broken ribs under control. I could straighten my arm without pain, though I was still using the sling when I was up and about. My face had mellowed to green and brown. I hadn’t received any more threats from Murphy. I had scrounged together enough courage to go out in the yard by myself. But I still didn’t want to drive more than a block from my house.

  But my time and energy were tied up with keeping ahead of the identity theft. More bills were coming in. More checks had bounced. And though I wasn’t liable for any of it, I was constantly contacting new batches of creditors with affidavits proving my innocence. It looked as though I was going to have to go to court to get an official declaration that I was not involved with the fraud.

  I was chasing the debts. The thieves—presumably Brittany, P.J., Sin, and Shaun, the fab four—had been opening new accounts one after another, simply running up charges to the limit, then abandoning the account and signing up for new credit cards in my name. The only way I could keep up was by checking my credit report every day.

  The fraudulent accounts were being shut down once I notified the credit agency. But each time new charges were posted, I enjoyed the pleasure of reading them on-screen like a bill. It was infuriating. Until Monday. That was when I got the hit I’d been looking for.

  Proof. Purchases made after Brittany Gaines died.

  Outside, the live oaks flickered under a cool wind. I leaned toward my computer, scrolling down the screen. Another thousand for the Beverly Hills Day Spa. Two grand at a men’s clothing store on Rodeo Drive. A hundred bucks from an outfit called Bloomsberry. Three hundred at Coast Medical. Twenty-eight hundred at Collezioni Benko, also Beverly Hills. And the biggie, the one that gagged me: eleven thousand- plus dollars to Tropical Holidays World Travel. The thieves liked to travel. First-class, apparently. To Barbados. I saw sugar-white beaches and orchids dripping from the ceiling and sweet cocktails with fruit and little umbrellas in them. Now laid at my doorstep. I ground my jaw and stopped, feeling my broken, yokel teeth.

  Calming down, I went through each of the charges in detail. I looked at the bills from the Beverly Hills clothing stores. One men’s, one women’s. My head began throbbing. I got on the phone and called up the shops. They confirmed my suspicions.

  One man’s suit, charcoal gray, hand-tailored and guaranteed to make you look all grown-up. One Kasja Benko dress, designed to suspend the laws of physics. They were the clothes P.J. and Sinsa had worn to the wedding.

  I felt excited. Here was the first bit of evidence tying Sinsa to the identity theft. Of course, she could claim that P.J. bought the dress for her and that she had no idea the purchase was squirrelly. I thought back to the wedding, Sinsa’s effusiveness and affection toward P.J. Perhaps it was because he had found a way to become her sugar daddy. But I doubted that P.J. was in this alone. I read further through the new credit card charges, feeling a niggle at the back of my mind.

  ‘‘Oh, no.’’

  From the dining table I got the card that had come with the flowers. I snarled. Bloomsberry.

  And I had written him a damned thank-you note. I returned to the computer, continuing to read the expenses listed. Tropical Holidays World Travel. P.J. hadn’t been out of town recently—had he? I didn’t know. But, staring at the computer screen, I got a sick feeling about the rest of the bill. It couldn’t be, I thought. Tell me no.

  But when I phoned Coast Medical, they told me yes. I grabbed my car keys.

  P.J.’s roommate didn’t expect me to kick their apartment door open when he tried to close it in my face. Neither, frankly, did I. He backed away from me, blinking. I stalked in after him.

  ‘‘I said, where is he?’’

  ‘‘Honest, I have no clue.’’

  I picked up the bong from the coffee table. Stinking water sloshed in its base.

  ‘‘If you don’t want me to baptize you, you’ll tell me.’’

  He kept backing away. ‘‘All right, all right. He went out to some fancy restaurant.’’

  ‘‘Which one? Think about it. Hard. Now.’’

  The stud in his bottom lip juddered, and a thought seemed to click into place behind his eyes. ‘‘He called to double-check the reservation.’’ He pointed to the phone on the kitchen counter. ‘‘Push redial.’’

  And my, my, was I surprised when the maître d’ answered at the San Ysidro Ranch. P.J. was going so far upscale he’d shot off the chart. And probably on an Evan Delaney credit card.

  ‘‘Confirming a reservation,’’ I said. ‘‘The name’s Blackburn.’’

  ‘‘Party of two? Yes, one o’clock,’’ he said.

  I hung up, unplugged the phone cord, and stuffed it in my purse.

  ‘‘Hey,’’ said the roommate.

  ‘‘P.J.’s lunch is not going to be disturbed.’’

  Not by the roomie, that is.

  The San Ysidro Ranch is tucked into the greenery of the Montecito hills, and, pulling in, I knew my clothes were all wrong. Jeans, cowboy boots, and an old denim shirt I’d grabbed from Jesse: yeehaw. But the Ranch hasn’t worked cattle since the 1800s. Nowadays it works celebrities and power players. It’s where Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier were married, and JFK and Jackie spent their honeymoon. Guests come expecting foie gras and ayurvedic massages, and the Stonehouse Restaurant has a reputation as one of California’s best. It’s a classy place, which was why the hostess managed not to gape when I walked in looking like an extra from a John Ford western, with my bruised face and my arm hanging in the sling.

  ‘‘May I help you?’’ she said.

  ‘‘I’m joining Mr. Blackburn.’’

  A look of pity and understanding came into her eyes. She led me into the restaurant.

  Across the crowded room P.J. sat at a corner table by the windows. His back was to me. Sycamores shaded the view beyond him. I didn’t recognize the young woman sitting across from him, a big-boned girl with Raphaelite curls and a lively light in her eyes. But I recognized P.J.’s charcoal gray suit. And I recognized his ride, the Quickie wheelchair he’d rented from Coast Medical.

  He was pouring white wine into the young woman’s glass. She was listening to him, nodding intently.

  ‘‘Booking the studio time,’’ he said, ‘‘and hiring the band. I know you’re tight with the guys you’ve been gigging with, but for this you need pros, session players from L.A.’’

  She bit her lip with apparent excitement. She was beaming at him like a mystic having a vision. He was basking in it.

  My temples were thudding, my black eye throbbing, but for the first time since the beating I felt no pain. Only heat. I pulled out the chair next to him and sat down.

  ‘‘And the producer won’t come cheap, but is he ever sweet. He’s—’’

  ‘‘Boo,’’ I said.

  I saw shock on his face, and a streak of fear that went away when he inhaled. So. Game on.

  ‘‘Nice suit,’’ I said. ‘‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’’

  He paused just long enough that I knew he was calculating. Warily he gestured at the young lady across the table from him. ‘‘This is Devi.’’

  I extended my hand to her. ‘‘Howdy. Kathleen.’’

  She had a guileless face, and didn’t suppress her surprise at my appearance. ‘‘Wow, what happened?’’

  ‘‘Didn’t he tell you? No, but he wouldn’t. He’s a sensitive person.’’ I set a hand on P.J.’s arm. ‘‘And he respects attorney-client privilege.’’

  She nodded. P.J.’s arm was tense under my hand. I gave it a squeeze.

  His index finger jittered. ‘‘Why don’t we go outside? It’s more . . . confidential.’’

  ‘‘I won’t be a minute. I don’t want to interrupt your date,’’ I said.

  ‘‘This isn’t a date.’’

  Devi sat straighter, shaking her head. ‘‘No, no. This is a business meeting.’’ But her cheeks glowed pink. ‘‘Jesse’s helping m
e with my record deal.’’

  I nodded. ‘‘Jesse’s a helpful guy.’’

  She gave him a bashful look. It was full of longing. And full of sadness, as if she felt pain at the thought of his tragic life. Romantic pain. I’d seen women look that way at Jesse, and it made me want to scalp them. P.J. was eating it up.

  I’d seen Devi somewhere as well. I wondered if she sang in local clubs, or did musical theater around town.

  ‘‘Let me guess,’’ I said. ‘‘You’re signing with Black Watch Records.’’

  ‘‘Right,’’ she said. ‘‘Are you signed to them, too?’’

  ‘‘I’m not a musician. But I know that Black Watch is Jimsonweed’s label, and Jesse’s tight with Ricky Jimson.’’

  She smiled. ‘‘I know. That’s why Sin recommended him.’’

  Bingo.

  P.J. squirmed. I lowered my hand to my lap and eased it under the table to pat him on the knee. His mouth tightened.

  He gave me what I presume was his most attorneylike look. ‘‘Why don’t we go outside, so you don’t have to worry about, ah, revealing . . . lawyer, stuff. Details.’’

  ‘‘That’s okay. I’m not embarrassed. She can hear the whole thing.’’ I squeezed his leg.

  His knee jumped, and he worked to keep a straight face.

  A waiter came to the table, asking if I’d like a drink. I ordered a double shot of Bacardi 151. P.J. squinted at me uncertainly.

  I smiled at the girl. ‘‘Devi. That’s Indian, isn’t it— the name of a Hindu goddess?’’

  She flushed, seemingly with pleasure. ‘‘Goddess . . .’’ Laughing, embarrassed. ‘‘Not me, hardly. It’s short for Devorah. Goldman. Hundred percent Jewish.’’

  It took a second, but the switches flipped. I knew where I’d seen her photo. In a frame on a credenza, next to the photo of her dad the classics professor, Charlie Goldman.

  She was Lavonne’s daughter.

  She was Sinsa’s high school buddy, now in college. Which meant that P.J. was either incredibly ballsy, or incredibly ignorant. Casually I put my hand back on the table, covering my fork. I gave Devi an earnest look.

  ‘‘And you’re old friends with Sinsa? That’s why she sent you to Jesse’s firm?’’ I set my hand in my lap, with the fork.

  ‘‘She said Jesse’s the man to go to for entertainment law. And she should know.’’

  I poked P.J. in the thigh with the fork. His shoulder twitched.

  ‘‘What about your mom?’’ I said.

  Bemusement. ‘‘She does litigation, not entertainment. You know my mom?’’

  ‘‘Sure. Lavonne Marks—she’s top-notch.’’

  P.J.’s face drained of blood. Ignorance it was. He had no idea that Devi was related to Jesse’s boss. I jabbed him again, harder. His eyes crossed.

  Devi’s face had also paled, but for another reason. ‘‘Mom doesn’t . . . She wouldn’t . . . I mean . . . I’m doing this on my own.’’

  ‘‘She doesn’t know you’re signing a recording contract?’’

  ‘‘Not yet.’’

  ‘‘Because she’d rather you study law than sing in a rock band,’’ I said.

  ‘‘You see.’’ Her shoulders relaxed.

  The waiter brought my drink. The fumes from the rum could have peeled the paint from the walls.

  ‘‘Who’s fronting the money for the record deal?’’ I said.

  She looked at P.J., as if waiting for a cue. The thudding in my temples deepened.

  ‘‘Let me guess. College fund?’’ I said.

  Back to the fork. I gave him two hard jabs.

  He inhaled sharply. ‘‘Kathleen, I don’t want to keep you. Why don’t I see you to your car?’’

  He pushed back from the table, moving unevenly in the wheelchair. Okay. Pedal to the metal.

  ‘‘Got a light?’’ I said.

  He turned, laboring at it, and looked at me with suspicion. ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Devi? How about you?’’ I said.

  ‘‘Sure.’’ She took a lighter from her purse and handed it to me.

  I pushed my chair back as though to stand, and hindered P.J.’s way. ‘‘Hang on—I almost forgot to tell you what happened to me.’’

  ‘‘Right.’’ Devi leaned forward on her elbows. ‘‘If it’s not too personal.’’

  P.J. was beginning to sweat. ‘‘It is.’’

  ‘‘Not at all,’’ I said.

  He nudged forward. ‘‘No, you shouldn’t put yourself through it again.’’

  ‘‘On the contrary, I need to vent.’’ I leaned toward Devi. ‘‘It was a screwup. On the set.’’

  Her eyes pinged. ‘‘Set—like, for a TV show?’’

  ‘‘Like that. Have you heard of Mistaken Identity?’’

  Her expression turned vague. ‘‘It sounds familiar.’’

  ‘‘It’s a genre we call extreme reality. Your identity is assumed by another person without your knowledge. Then we see who gets into bigger trouble, you or the impostor.’’

  ‘‘That does sound extreme,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Hilarity ensues,’’ I assured her.

  P.J. wiped his nose nervously. ‘‘Ev—’’

  I settled a stare on him.

  His eyes bugged. ‘‘Uh.’’ The oh, shit, was all over his face. ‘‘Ev . . . everything’s going to be all right, Kathleen. But I think it’s time for your medication.’’

  I turned back to Devi. ‘‘The thing about Mistaken Identity is, the participants can’t predict when they’re going to get hit with the consequences. That’s why we don’t stick to the studio. We go on location.’’

  She nodded, intrigued.

  ‘‘Because you never know what might trip up an impostor.’’ I gestured to P.J. ‘‘Right?’’

  ‘‘Kathleen, you’re looking awfully pale. I think I’d better get you home.’’

  ‘‘For example. Where’s your center of gravity?’’ I said.

  ‘‘I don’t—’’

  ‘‘Knees, butt, axle of the rear wheel?’’

  He leaned back, raising his hands, before apparently realizing that this was a fact he should know. ‘‘Hip level. Middle of the seat.’’

  I nodded, smiling, looking from him to Devi. ‘‘See?’’ I stood up. ‘‘This is why we do the show live.’’

  I walked around behind him, so that I was at the window and he faced the restaurant as he would an audience. He sensed trouble too late. I grabbed his shoulder and flipped him over backward.

  He pitched to the floor. Devi shrieked. Someone shouted, ‘‘Oh, my God.’’ Silverware clattered and conversation died.

  ‘‘A man’s center of gravity is chest level,’’ I said. ‘‘Lean back, you can tip over.’’

  Devi leaped to her feet. P.J. lay splayed on the floor beside the wheelchair, shocked and scared. He knew he’d better move—but there was the rub.

  ‘‘What is wrong with you?’’ Devi said.

  ‘‘Nuptial dementia. Call the police.’’

  Devi looked across the restaurant, where the maître d’ was stalking toward us, and cried, ‘‘Call the police—’’

  P.J.’s arms shot into the air like a faith healer’s. ‘‘No! No police.’’

  She ran around the table and dropped to his side, touching his chest gingerly, as though he might disintegrate. ‘‘Are you hurt?’’

  ‘‘Not yet,’’ I said, ‘‘but he’s coming close. Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen.’’

  He reached for the wheelchair. I righted it and pulled it toward me, backing against the window, out of his reach.

  Devi’s fingers hovered above him, fluttering. ‘‘What should I do?’’

  I said, ‘‘You’ll have to pick him up. Seventeen. Or I might just blow, you know—out loud, shouting all kinds of things.’’

  He shot me a crazed look. ‘‘No, I can do it myself. Everybody just back off.’’

  Several patrons and the maître d’ were closing on me. The maître d’ gave me a superciliou
s little two-fingered wave. ‘‘Madam, you must leave. Come with me.’’

  ‘‘Back off, Pierre.’’

  I fended them off with the wheelchair. P.J. waved his arms.

  ‘‘Don’t touch her.’’

  Devi’s hand was at her throat. ‘‘He’s paralyzed. Leave him alone.’’

  ‘‘Remember, I gave you a two-minute warning about me getting mad. You’re down to sixteen seconds.’’

  He pushed himself up to a sitting position. ‘‘Kathleen, you need help. Let me take you somewhere safe.’’

  ‘‘Fifteen. Credit card fraud. Fourteen. Practicing law without a license.’’

  ‘‘Jesse, what should I do?’’ Devi said.

  ‘‘He’s not Jesse,’’ I said. ‘‘Thirteen.’’

  ‘‘What do you mean? Of course he’s Jesse.’’ She looked on in horror as he pulled himself along the floor, trying to reach the chair.

  P.J. had broken out in a full sweat. ‘‘Everybody just . . . go back to eating. Please, for God’s sake. Give me some dignity.’’

  The maître d’ stepped back. I picked up my double Bacardi shot.

  ‘‘Twelve, P.J. Eleven.’’

  ‘‘P.J.? Who’s P.J.?’’ Devi said.

  ‘‘He is. Ten. Grand theft. Nine. That suit. Eight. Sinsa’s dress. Six. The flowers you sent me. Five.’’

  He kept dragging himself backward. ‘‘What happened to seven?’’

  I pulled the chair out of his reach. ‘‘Four. First-class airfare to Barbados. Tell her who you are.’’

  ‘‘Ev—Kathleen . . .’’

  ‘‘Three. Faking paralysis, when you’re perfectly able-bodied.’’ Heads turned. The maître d’, the waiters, and every diner in the room were watching. ‘‘And doing it to con this girl out of her money.’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Two. Breaking your—’’ My voice caught. ‘‘Breaking your brother’s heart.’’

  ‘‘I haven’t done that.’’

  ‘‘You’re doing it right now. One. Blaming everything on Brittany Gaines.’’

  He backed into the table and stared at me, breathing hard, saying nothing.

  ‘‘Zero.’’ I threw the rum in his face.

  More gasps, and a ‘‘Hell, what a bitch.’’

  ‘‘Now I’m mad,’’ I said.