by Wendy Heard
He does a double take. “Gloves,” Nielsen gasps. “Holy shit. She’s wearing latex gloves.”
“What about the other woman?” Patel asks.
They look. No. Her wrinkled hands are uncovered.
Gonzalez says, “We found a syringe on the ground nearby, and a playing card over there.” She points to a spot in the corner of the room by the left bank of pews. “Another syringe was over there, too. Identical to this one.”
Patel and Nielsen look at each other, eyes wide.
Patel says, “Suicide? She kills the older lady then herself? Is this our Blackbird Killer? Could Jasmine have been lying about it being a man? No, that’s not possible—there were fifty witnesses at Trader Joe’s.”
The answer explodes in Nielsen’s brain like a hydrogen bomb, burning away all his false assumptions, clearing the horizon for one last, standing revelation.
Nielsen says, “We have two killers. That’s why the crimes have been inconsistent. One killer is smart, quick, accurate. The other one is an amateur. Maybe our pro got sick of working with an amateur.”
Patel casts a sideways glance at Gonzalez, who is deep in conversation with one of the photographers.
Nielsen follows her eyes. “Don’t repeat this. We have to work this lead without sending everyone into hysterics.”
Gonzalez approaches them and hands Nielsen a clipboard. “There’s our list of church attendees,” she says.
Patel nudges Gonzalez out of the way and forces Nielsen to hold the clipboard lower so she can see it. Her eyes scan down the list. She points. “That looks familiar.”
He squints at the name. Carol Coleman. The name next to it is Joaquin Benavides Coleman, and a little note next to the name says “child—13YO.”
“Benavides,” Nielsen says. “Is this a relation to Jasmine Benavides?”
Patel gets her notebook out and flips through it. “She was asking about a brother. I looked it up. Brother is...” She looks up at him. “Joaquin. Yep.”
“Call Jasmine,” Nielsen says, but Patel already has her phone in hand and is searching for a number.
While Patel tries to get Jasmine on the phone, Nielsen heads for the exit. Gonzalez tails behind him like a puppy. “Show me these two,” Nielsen says. “Carol and Joaquin Coleman. I need to speak with them right away.”
Gonzalez leads him out to the makeshift pen in which all the parishioners are huddled under the blazing sun. He raises a hand for people’s attention and calls out, “Carol Coleman? Carol Coleman, we need to see you, please.”
A woman emerges from the crowd. She has a shoulder-length mullet and high-waisted slacks. The slender boy she brings with her is almost pretty, with cheek-length dark brown hair and olive skin.
“Carol?” Patel asks. The woman nods. “We’ll need you to come to the station with us right away. We need to ask you some questions.”
“About what? I didn’t see nothing.”
God, she’s even worse than her daughter, Nielsen thinks, and then his eyes freeze on the hair. Wait.
“One second,” he says to Carol. He grabs Patel and pulls her aside. “Look at the haircut,” he whispers.
“What about it?”
“It looks just like the wig on the woman inside!”
Patel’s eyes fly to Carol, then back to the door of the church. He can feel the tension radiating off her. They’ve screwed up this investigation completely. They’ve gotten it all wrong.
28
JAZZ
THEY’RE HUNTING ME.
My heart pounds a vicious beat all the way up into my neck. I feel hungover from whatever weird shit was in the towel the woman shoved in my face. My hands are unsteady on the steering wheel, but I’m grateful for the job of driving. At least I’m moving. At least I’m safe inside this cocoon of glass and steel. It’s everything outside there, in the wild, frenetic world, that I have to be afraid of.
And now I’m something to be feared, too. I’ve murdered someone. I didn’t stick around to see if the shit in my syringe killed that lady, but I know it must have.
Outside my windows, East LA’s collection of small businesses flashes past, disconcertingly cheerful: a taco shop; a panaderia; a Laundromat; a frutero under a colorful umbrella; a woman inexplicably selling stuffed animals out of the back of a station wagon. For the first time in my life, I feel disconnected from all of it.
The feeling of pushing the depressor haunts me. I shake my hand out, a shudder passing through my body. I can’t believe I did that. And now I’m out of poison and Carol’s still alive. And I’m a killer, someone who has taken a human life.
I want to go back and undo it. I can’t believe I can’t. It seems wrong, that I should be here and not back there again, allowed a second chance at the decision.
But no. That woman is dead. Forever.
I pull the wig off and throw it onto the passenger’s seat. The sweat soaking my hair plasters it to my head.
The light turns red, and I stop behind a truck with someone’s foot hanging out the passenger window. I’m at the corner of Main Street, almost at Lincoln Park.
How did they know to find me at the church? Were they watching the church, figuring I’d go there since I don’t know where Carol and Joaquin are staying? Did they follow me to Kevin’s last night and then to the church today? That seems impossible. I was so careful, doing U-turns and taking every side street.
I head west toward downtown. I pass through the ornate gates of Chinatown and turn left to approach downtown from the south. In just a few minutes, I’m surrounded by warehouses, scrap yards and abandoned factories with busted windows. By the time I’m in Skid Row, the sidewalks are lined with tents and shopping carts. I pass two men screaming at each other on a corner and a scattered collection of mothers with babies in strollers marching north through the encampments, their faces slick with sweat in the nuclear sunshine.
On a one-way street with fewer tents and pedestrians, I pull over next to a metal trash can. I lock the door, pocket my keys and slide across the front seat to the passenger’s side door. I pull the muumuu off; I have jeans and a tank top on underneath it. I stuff it and the wig into the paper bag that contains the rest of my murder kit gear.
I grab a lighter out of my glove compartment, hop out of the car and place the bag in the trash can. With the lighter, I set fire to the edges of the paper bag. It ignites quickly, and the polyester of the dress and the synthetic hair are quick to catch. Within thirty seconds, the bag is brightly ablaze. The smoke reeks of trash and plastic. I spy a pile of discarded, crumpled newspaper near an abandoned campsite, and I grab it and lay it on top of the fire in the trash can. The paper whorls into flame, and soon the entire contents of the can are engulfed.
I get back into my truck, start the engine and peel away from the curb, putting as much distance between myself and the fire as I can, but I’m not worried about the fire raising much alarm, not down here.
I take side streets all the way to Kevin’s house, eyes glued to my mirrors. It’s Sunday and traffic is clear. Usually this fills me with exuberance and makes me feel free, like I can go anywhere and do anything. Today, the bright, open city feels hollow and unsafe, like anything could happen to me and no one would be around to see it.
At last, I pull up to Kevin’s house. I put the truck in Neutral and engage the e-brake.
I wait. No one else comes driving down the street.
I rest my forehead on the steering wheel, and I start to cry. I grip the sides of the steering wheel, just to have something to hold on to.
All my life, I’ve worked so hard to not be a certain kind of person, and here I am, so much worse than anything I had imagined. That woman I killed—what if she was in a situation like Sofia, like me? What if I just orphaned some kids?
And what about my own kid, the whole reason I got into this mess? What should I have done, let
her kill me, let Joaquin live his life at the mercy of Carol and DCFS?
I miss Joaquin so much. Where is he?
A small, sick voice in my head says, He’s lost. He’s gone.
* * *
At last, I pull myself together, wipe my face and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. I can do this. I can figure this out. First things first, I need to be normal with Kevin, and then I need to get my head together and make a plan. I need to move forward. Because what else is there except putting one foot in front of the other? At the end of the day, that’s how life is done.
I get out of the truck. I’m out in the world now.
I cross the street to Kevin’s house. I open the screen door and knock a few times. “It’s me,” I call. I try the doorknob. It turns easily; Kevin had said he’d leave it open for me if he was in the shower.
I let myself in. “Kevin, it’s me, man.” I close the door behind me and set my purse down on the dining table. The lamp by the TV fills the living room with warm yellow light, casting shadows from the leather couch onto the white tiles. Al Green sings soulfully somewhere nearby.
I reach down by the couch to grab the tote bag in which I’d stashed the phones and some clothes.
It’s not where I left it.
Maybe Kevin moved it. It was kind of in the way. I check all sides of the couch. No tote bag.
I hunt around the living room, checking corners. Where did he put it? Maybe in his bedroom?
“Kevin,” I call. “You got my bag, dude?”
It occurs to me that the Al Green might mean he’s got the girl in his bedroom still. Whoops. But I should let him know I’m here to avoid an embarrassing moment, and I want to check my phone. I make my way through the living room. “Kevin? Hey, dude, I’m here!” I check the bathroom first. It’s empty, and it carries the faint, shampoo-steam smell of a recent shower. Al Green is louder back here, singing about love and happiness. I step farther down the hallway. Kevin’s bedroom door is partway open, spilling lamplight into the hallway in a liquid yellow stream. Maybe he doesn’t have a girl in there after all. I knock lightly on the door frame. “Hey, dude, you got the bag I left in the living room? It had my phone in it. Can I grab it?”
Silence.
I knock again. “Kevin?” I push the door open.
On the white tile next to the bed, a red puddle glistens.
My heart, a kick drum, pounds a bloody beat.
Kevin is sprawled out sideways on the bed, shirtless, his head hanging half-off the mattress. His beautiful powder-blue eyes stare emptily straight at me. A thin stream of blood has soaked the sheets, trailing from his lips down to meet the puddle on the floor.
I back up until I hit the wall. Someone’s talking—it’s me. A string of “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God” is wheezing from my chest.
My foot hits something. I look down.
It’s a flip phone.
Stuck to it, a tiny blue Post-it reads Jasmine.
I pick it up. It’s just like the one from my tote.
What do I do? What do I do? I can’t think. Not with Kevin’s dead eyes staring at a fixed point between him and me. Get your iPhone and get the fuck out of here, a voice yells at me, like a conscience, but it sounds like myself.
There’s almost no furniture in this room, just a dresser, bed and nightstand. My bag is nowhere.
I back out of the room into the hallway. Al Green sounds warped and melted.
I’m in the living room. I can’t tell if I’m breathing too fast or not at all. The air in the house is thick with death.
On shaky legs, I check the kitchen. Nothing. It’s not here.
I grab my purse off the table and flee, out the front door, slamming it behind me, down the three steps, out onto the sidewalk.
I’m dizzy. I feel like I’m going to faint. I put my hands on my knees and look down at the sidewalk, at the tiny blades of grass poking out of the cracks.
Dark spots appear on the sun-soaked concrete. They’re tears, dripping from my eyes.
How fragile are humans that we can be extinguished so quickly? Two deaths in one day, both my fault.
I straighten up. I wipe my eyes with shaking fingers.
I can run, but I can’t hide. I’m a fucking dead man walking.
In my hand, the phone starts buzzing.
29
JAZZ
I THROW THE phone in my purse. I’m in the street. I can’t get my key into the door of my truck. My hands are numb. I drop my keys, pick them up from the asphalt. A car driving by honks at me and I scream, cover my head with my hands, but it keeps driving. I finally connect the key with the lock and get behind the wheel.
My purse starts buzzing.
I lock the door. I turn on the engine. I peel out, fly through the stop sign and make a wild left. The phone goes quiet.
At a red light on Adams, it starts buzzing again.
I take the phone out.
Blocked.
My hand is shaking so hard, it slips trying to open the phone, sending it rattling down between my feet. I retrieve it, open it and put it to my ear.
“Jasmine,” the warped voice barks. It’s the scariest sound, the rage filtered through the disguiser.
I can’t talk. I can barely breathe. I push the lock button on my door even though I already locked it.
“Jasmine,” the voice repeats.
“What?” My voice is hoarse.
“Who else have you told?”
“Told what?”
“Told about us.”
I feel completely blank, like they aren’t speaking English. “What are you talking about?”
A weary sigh, and the voice comes at me like a kindergarten teacher. “Apart from the man whose house you were hiding at, who have you told about this organization? Have you told the police? A friend? A neighbor?”
I realize what they’re saying, that they killed Kevin because they thought I’d told him about the murder club. “You fucking piece of shit!” I cry. “I didn’t tell Kevin anything! I’ve done everything you’ve asked!” I dissolve into tears. Through them, I manage to ask, “Why? Why would you do this? Why would you hunt me down like this? Why did you kill Kevin? You’re supposed to help people like me. Isn’t that what you said you do?”
“I am in the business of trading lives, of determining their worth. You were comfortable with this when your life was on the better end of the trade. You can’t argue with logic you supported just because the scales tipped out of your favor.”
“But I’m still me! You’re still supposed to help me save Joaquin from Carol! You’re not supposed to try and kill me!” I sound like a little girl.
“And I am still saving Joaquin from Carol. Or I was, but again, that was your mistake.” A distorted sigh. “Do you know why I sent Kelly in dressed like your Carol?”
I’ve never heard of a Kelly, but I imagine they must be talking about the woman I killed in church. “Why?” I ask.
“So Carol would be blamed for your murder. Carol was on the scene. There would have been witnesses placing the two of you together. Joaquin would have gone to a better foster home, and he would have been spared the trauma of dealing with both of his terrible mothers for the rest of his life. But instead, he went home from church with Carol, and he still doesn’t have his insulin. That’s your fault. Again. Your fault, Jasmine. I’m out of time and energy trying to save your rat of a son from the mess you created. So keep driving. Drive until you run out of gas. We’re everywhere. We’re everyone. Tick tock, Jasmine.”
The line disconnects.
The light turns green. No one is behind me, so I stay put. I don’t think I can drive right now.
How did they find me at Kevin’s house? How did they find me at the church? I was sure I wasn’t followed. Could they have followed me last night and figured out what
I was planning? A flash of panic hits me as I realize they could be using the GPS on my phone to track me, but then I remember that I didn’t take my phone to the church, either last night or today. What else could it—
My truck?
Could they have put a GPS tracker on my truck?
I know you can buy those. I remember Joaquin talking about them once, about how parents are using them to keep track of teenagers. He was outraged, of course, but I remember thinking it wasn’t a bad idea if he ever went through a rebellious stage.
I throw the truck in Reverse and back up to the curb. I straighten out into some semblance of a parking job. I turn off the engine, flip the hood release under the dashboard and grab the flashlight out of the glove compartment.
I get out and open the hood. I don’t know much about cars. The only thing I’ve ever done is change my oil and jump it when the battery died. I shine the flashlight around in the engine, but I don’t think I’d recognize anything out of place.
I have to hurry.
I get down on the asphalt and shine the light up around the undercarriage. Nothing looks out of place. I get up, go around to the back and get down on my back to look at the underside of the truck bed.
Something reflective catches my eye on the inside of my passenger’s side tire well. I shine the flashlight at it.
A silver-and-white box the size of a pack of cigarettes is attached to the corroded black metal.
I’m afraid to touch it and leave my fingerprints on it. I rack my brain. I have no spare clothes anymore, and I’m not wearing a sweater. At last I pull a sneaker off, yank off my sock and use it as a glove to try to pull the silver-and-white box off the tire well.
It’s slick and shiny and is really stuck on there. I pull harder, grunting, and then I shine the light right on it to see how it’s attached.
“Damn,” I whisper. It seems to be bolted onto two slim metal straps that wrap around it and are secured to the tire well. I’m not getting it off without a wrench.
I put my sock and shoe back on and get up. This means they know exactly where I am. They could be sending someone my way right now.
