“Back to her? Why such a big deal?”
“You had to be there,” I said. “The way she went from wary to panicked. Also, she angled for the case eight years ago and Montez voiced a half-joking suspicion that she and Boestling wanted to make a movie about it. I know none of that ties together, but she twanged my antenna.”
“You wanna talk to the ex, it’s fine with me. What about the Daneys? How’d they react to being warned?”
“They weren’t in.”
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do this: You give the Daneys another try and— ah, here’s the coroner’s fax on Hannabee falling through the slot . . . looks like lots of paper, let me check it out, if anything interesting comes up, I’ll call you.”
* * *
I made two more attempts at the Daney residence. The phone kept ringing.
No machine. Considering all the foster kids they cared for, that seemed odd.
At a quarter to six, I called Allison at her office.
“One more patient, then I’m free,” she said. “Want to do something different?”
“Like what?”
“How about bowling?”
“Didn’t know you bowled.”
“I don’t,” she said. “That’s why it’s different.”
We drove out to Culver City Champion Lanes. The place was dark and black-lit, throbbing with dance music, and crowded with skinny, young, hair-gelled types who looked like reality show rejects. Lots of drinking and laughing and ass-grabbing, twelve-pound balls guttering, a few clackering hits.
Every lane taken.
“Studio night,” said the pouch-eyed, middle-aged attendant. “Metro Pictures has a deal with us. They toss the slaves a perk once a month. We make out good on booze.” He eyed the cocktail lounge on the alley’s north end.
“Who are the slaves?” said Allison.
“Messengers, gofers, assistant directors, assistants to assistant directors.” He smirked. “The industry.”
“How long does it last?” I said.
“Another hour.”
“Want to wait?” I asked Allison.
“Sure,” she said. “Let’s play that machine where you try to fish out cool prizes.”
* * *
I spent five bucks moving a flimsy robotic claw around a pile of twenty-cent toys, trying in vain to snag a treasure. Finally a tiny pink fleece troll-like thing with a dyspeptic smile managed to get an arm caught in a pincer.
Allison said “How cute,” dropped it in her purse, and touched her lips to mine. Then we entered the lounge and took a booth at the back. Red-felt walls, moldy carpeting so thin I could feel rough cement underneath. This far from the lanes, the technopop was reduced to a cardiac throb. Allison ordered a tuna sandwich and a gin and tonic and I had a beer.
She said, “What mischief have you been up to?”
I caught her up.
“The eight-year lag stayed in my mind,” she said. “How about this: The fact that Rand was being released set something off in Malley. Does he use amphetamines or coke?”
“Don’t know.”
“If he does, that could prime his rage further. He’d know about Rand’s release, right?”
“At least thirty days before,” I said. “So life stress made him do it?”
“We see it all the time with substance abuse patients. People fighting impulses and bad habits and doing fine. Then something hits them and they backslide.”
Murder as a bad habit. Sometimes it boiled down to that.
CHAPTER 26
Monday night, I slept at Allison’s. She had six Tuesday patients and I left just before eight. During the drive home, I tried the Daneys’ house again. Still no answer.
Family vacation with the foster kids? Homeschooling meant their schedule was flexible, so maybe.
Or had they encountered something nonrecreational?
I drove through Brentwood and into Bel Air, turned off Sunset onto Beverly Glen. Passing the road that leads up to my house, I continued north into the Valley.
* * *
Galton Street was peaceful, a guy watering his lawn, a couple of kids chasing each other, birds flittering. The noise from the freeway was a chronic, distant throat-clearing. I came to a stop half a block up from the Daney property. The redwood gate was shut and the fence blocked out everything but a peak of roofline.
I recalled how crowded the lot had been by three buildings. No room for parking, any vehicles would have to be out on the street. Drew Daney’s white Jeep wasn’t in sight. I had no idea what Cherish drove.
I nudged the Seville forward, searched for a black truck or anything else that seemed wrong. A dark pickup was parked two houses up.
Black? No, dark blue. Longer than Barnett Malley’s truck, with an extra seat, twenty-inch tires and chrome rims.
Plenty of trucks in the Valley.
I came to a stop ten feet from the gate, was about to turn off the engine when a small, beige car pulled away from the curb across the street and raced past with as much pep as four cold cylinders would allow.
Toyota Corolla, lots of dents and pocks, a few Bondo patches on the doors. I caught a split-second glimpse of the driver.
Long-haired blond woman, both hands gripping the wheel. Cherish Daney’s eyes were fierce.
She drove to the corner, came to a rolling stop, turned right, sped off.
A bit of a head start but four cylinders wouldn’t be much challenge.
* * *
Morning traffic was thin and I picked her up easily, hurrying west on Vanowen. Using a slow-moving camper as a shield, I kept my eye on the little car’s sagging bumper as it approached the Ventura Freeway East.
She chugged up the on-ramp, lost momentum climbing, and slowed. I pulled ahead of the camper, drove to the bottom of the ramp, and waited until she made it over the hump. If a cop saw me, I’d have some explaining to do.
But no cops in sight. Very few people in sight. The Corolla finally disappeared from view and I shot forward.
Cherish Daney merged nervously into the slow lane, swerved a bit as she switched to the center. One hand to her ear; talking on a cell phone. She needed a half mile to build up to seventy-five miles per, maintained that speed on the route through North Hollywood, past Burbank and into Glendale, where she exited at Brand Boulevard.
Maybe this was nothing more than a shopping trip at the Galleria and I’d feel foolish.
No, the mall wasn’t open this early. The look I’d seen on her face said she wasn’t thinking about bargains.
I stayed two vehicles behind the Corolla on Brand and drove south.
Past the Galleria. One mile, two, two and a quarter.
Suddenly, without signaling, Cherish Daney yanked the Corolla’s wheel and bumped up into the parking lot of a gravel-roofed coffee shop called Patty’s Place. A banner on the window promised Breakfast Special: Best Huevos Rancheros in Town! Below that: Dip Into Our Never-Empty Coffeepot! Our Hotcakes Are Flappelicious!
Despite all that culinary temptation, Glendale appeared skeptical— only three other vehicles sat in the wide, sunny lot.
Two compacts. A black pickup.
Cherish pulled up alongside the truck. Before she got out, Barnett Malley was at her side. He had on the same outfit I’d seen at his cabin plus a wide-brimmed leather hat. Yellow gray hair streamed over his collar. His thumbs were hooked in his belt and his long legs bowed.
Cowboy Buckaroo.
Cherish Daney was all city girl: fitted yellow top, black pants, high-heeled black sandals. Her white blond hair, loose in the car, was now pinned in a chignon.
The two of them moved toward one another, seemed about to touch, stopped just short of contact. Without exchanging a word, they walked toward the restaurant, in perfect step. When Malley held the door open for Cherish, she glided past him without hesitation.
Used to it.
* * *
They stayed in there just short of an hour and when they left he held her elbow. My diagonal watch-spot
afforded a clear view of Patty’s Place, but I was too far away to make out facial expressions.
Barnett Malley held Cherish’s car door open, waited until she got behind the wheel before entering the black pickup. She drove away, continued south on Brand, and he followed soon after. I was third in the convoy, hanging a block behind.
They drove to a Best Western near Chevy Chase Boulevard. Through the motel’s glass facade two levels of rooms were visible above a bright aqua pool.
Barnett Malley went in and Cherish Daney waited in her car. Seven minutes passed before she got out of the Corolla, glanced around, tamped her hair. The Seville was one of many cars in the motel lot and this time I was close enough to pick up nuance.
Tight face. She licked her lips repeatedly. Glancing at her watch, she patted her hair again, tugged at her blouse, ran a finger across her lower lip. Inspecting the digit, she rubbed it against a trouser leg. Then she locked her car, took a deep breath, threw back her shoulders, and marched grimly toward the motel’s entrance.
Thinking about sins of the flesh? Or had the concept lost its punch?
* * *
She reemerged alone forty-five minutes later. Still tense, slightly hunched, the way she’d been the first time I’d met her. Arms clamped close to her body. Racewalking to the Corolla, she backed out, sped away.
I let her go and waited.
Malley appeared after nine minutes. His hat was in his hand, his walk was loose and easy, and he smoked a long, thin cigar.
I followed him onto the 134 West. A mile or so later, he switched to the 5 North; when he got on Cal 14 twenty miles later, I lowered my speed and put a couple of eighteen-wheelers between us. He was pushing eighty-five and the next twenty-three miles were consumed like fast food. When he got off at the Crown Valley exit, I kept going, took the next exit, got back on the freeway, and headed back toward L.A.
Like Milo had said: This was his turf, nowhere to hide.
* * *
I was home by one p.m. My cell calls to Milo’s house had been answered by his machine. He wasn’t at his desk.
Allison would be working for another couple of hours. The plan was we’d get together at five, maybe see a movie. I fed the fish, tried to relax, got on the phone again.
Milo said, “Hey.”
“Malley does leave his house,” I said. “All he needs is a bit of motivation.”
I told him what I’d seen.
He said, “This changes everything.”
CHAPTER 27
At two p.m. Milo strode through the front door that I’d left open. Grabbing an orange juice carton, he said, “I need fresh air.” We went down to the pond.
“I was trying to be well-adjusted,” he said. “As in sniff the petunias. Rick was off so we went walking in Franklin Canyon, then grabbed some brunch at Urth Café. All the beautiful folks, and me for contrast.” He touched his gut. “Whole grain waffles— kind of takes the fun out of overeating.”
He tipped the juice carton to his lips.
I said, “Sorry to spoil your leisure.”
“What leisure? Rick got called to stitch up a kid who fell out of a tree and the whole time I was thinking about the case and faking mellow.” He tossed food pellets at the water, muttered, “Come to Uncle Milo.” The koi swarmed and splashed. “Nice to be appreciated.”
He gulped until the juice was gone, kneeled and picked a few leaves out of the mondo grass that rims the pond rocks. Ground them to dust between his fingers before sitting down. “Malley and Cherish doing the nasty. Good old reliable human frailty.”
“It fits what Allison said about the Daneys not communicating well. With Cherish’s skepticism about the black truck. She was downplaying Barnett as a suspect.”
“Diverting attention from her boyfriend,” he said. “How do you think the two of them got together?”
“Had to be something related to Kristal.”
“They were on opposite sides of the aisle.”
“Love is strange,” I said.
“What, they passed each other in the hallway and clicked? From everything we’ve heard, Malley despised anyone on the defense team.”
“Apparently anyone but Cherish.”
He scratched his nose. “Think it’s been going on for eight years?”
“It’s not brand new,” I said. “They were comfortable with each other.”
“Good old Cherish, woman of the cloth. Meanwhile the cowboy’s cherishing her in some sleazy motel.”
“It was actually a pretty nice place,” I said. “AAA certification, swimming pool— ”
“Yeah, yeah, and water beds that bounce to the rhythm of misbegotten passion. What is it with these religious types, Alex?”
“There’re plenty of decent religious folk doing good works. Some people are attracted to religion because they’re struggling with forbidden impulses.”
“And others see it as a way to make a buck. How much does the county pay to take care of foster kids?”
“It used to be five, six hundred a month per ward.”
“Not a way to get rich,” he said.
“Five hundred times eight kids is four thousand a month,” I said. “Which wouldn’t be chump change to a divinity school dropout. Especially if it was supplemented by other income.”
“Daney’s other jobs. What’d he call them— nonprofits. He runs around to churches while wifey does some motel-schooling.”
“Plus, they might be getting supplementary fees. I’m not versed in the welfare regs, but there could be a homeschooling allowance. Or extra money to take care of kids with A.D.D.”
“So they could be raking in decent dough.” He rolled his jaw. “Okay, Cherish and Malley are a love connection. What does that say about the murders, if anything?”
“The only thing I can think of is that Troy had three visits before he was killed. One from his mother, two from the Daneys. Theoretically, Cherish could’ve made contact with Nestor Almedeira.”
He put down the bag of fish food. Loosened a shirt button, slipped his hand under the fabric, rubbed his chest.
“You okay?” I said.
He turned toward me. “Reverend Blondie acting as Malley’s emissary to arrange the hit? She poses as a thirteen-year-old’s spiritual support and sets him up to be cut like a hog? Jesus, that would make her a four-plus monster.”
“It’s a hypothetical. It’s just as logical to assume Barnett knew Nestor from the drug trade.”
“And Cherish is just a plain old adulteress.” Another chest rub.
I said, “Itch?”
“Self-administered cardiac massage. If Cherish and Malley didn’t hook up during the six months it took for the boys to be sentenced, when would they have the opportunity?”
“They used to live pretty close to each other.”
“What, a chance meeting at Kmart? One look at Cherish and Barnett goes from enraged dad to lover boy?”
I shrugged.
“Okay, let’s put that aside and think about the next body: Lara. That could still be what we theorized— Malley blamed her for Kristal, their marriage was falling apart. But toss in a new girlfriend and you beef up the motivation. Wonder if there was any life insurance out on Lara.”
“If there was Malley didn’t use it to finance the good life.”
He jotted in his pad. Picked up the bag and tossed more pellets to the fish.
I said, “The new girlfriend wouldn’t have to be Cherish.”
“Barnett’s a ladies’ man?”
“He looked pretty jaunty exiting the motel and you felt there was chemistry between him and Bunny MacIntyre. Cherish, on the other hand, seemed pretty tense.”
“The cowboy’s a player,” he said. “Sure, why not. MacIntyre’s crack about not keeping tabs on his comings and goings was gratuitous bullshit. You saw the layout there. He drives his truck through the trees and she’s not gonna notice? Next d.b.: Hannabee. Though I’m still not convinced she’s part of it. Cherish making it with Barnett spin that
in any new way?”
“The Daneys were providing support to Jane during the trial. Cherish might have known where Jane slept at night.”
“The fixer, again. Okay, for argument’s sake, Cherish is a charter member of the Very Bad Girls Club. What does that say about the case the city’s actually paying me to work on?”
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