Jessie helped carry the coffin to a hole in the ground. It didn’t feel very heavy. Maybe that was because Blake manned the brass handle in front of hers; his broad back blocked her forward view. To the side were three pallbearers she didn’t know and one she did: Noah Appleman, Barbara’s son. He was three years older than Kate and lived in San Diego with his father, Sid. The sight of his thin arm straining under a blue blazer brought home to Jessie what was in the coffin. She squeezed the brass handle with all her might to keep her hand from shaking.
A Reform rabbi in a paisley tie spoke some nonsectarian words. Jessie stood around the edge of the hole with the others, feeling the heat. Her blackest thing was wool, bought long ago for a party at the Getty; she sweated into it, feeling inappropriately physical. The rabbi quoted Bertrand Russell, Hannah Arendt, Bruno Bettelheim. He was a modern man. That meant he had no comfort to give. Jessie tuned him out. She watched Noah, standing on the far side of the hole, holding his father’s hand. Sid wore a yarmulke, but it didn’t hide his baldness. He’d had a full head of hair the last time Jessie saw him, six or seven years before; in that time, he’d become middle-aged, faded and stooped. Or maybe the whole change had hit him at once, in the past two days.
The rabbi finished speaking. It was very quiet, except for airplane noise trailing down from the sky. The rabbi nodded to a man in a soiled coverall.
“En bajo,” said the man. A machine lowered the coffin to the bottom. The man in the coverall tossed a spadeful of earth in after it. End of ceremony. A bulldozer waited nearby to do the rest.
“Jesus,” Sid said, glancing at Jessie as he passed her on the way to the parking lot. From that angle she could see one of his eyes, naked and helpless behind the green lens of his sunglasses. Noah climbed into the back seat of a big American car. Wife number two was waiting in the front, redoing her face in the vanity mirror. She bared her teeth to get the lip gloss just right.
“Jessie Shapiro?” said someone behind her. Jessie turned and saw a black-suited man taking off his sunglasses; the circles under his eyes matched the suit. “I’m—”
“Dick Carr. Barbara’s partner.”
“We’ve met?” He put his sunglasses back on.
“Once. At her Christmas party a few years ago.”
He smiled. “No wonder I don’t remember.” He held out his hand. She shook it. It was very wet. So was hers. “Got your daughter back yet?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Barbara was very upset about it. She talked about nothing else that afternoon, what was it, Monday?”
“Monday.”
“God.” He looked out across the cemetery. Jessie followed his gaze. The bulldozer moved back and forth, back and forth, shoving earth into the hole. Dick Carr sighed. “I’d like it if you’d drop by the office some time. About Barbara’s will.”
“Barbara had a will?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
“I’ve never seen the—” She stopped: the legs had been chopped off that argument.
Carr turned to her. “Barbara left the bulk of her estate—meaning the proceeds of the sale of her house and car, mainly, which should come to a nice little sum—to Noah. But there are small bequests of a more personal nature to two or three other people.”
“And I’m one of them?”
“Yup.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“What what is?”
“What she left me.”
“I’d prefer you came to the office.”
“All right.”
Carr drove off. So did everyone else. The rabbi was on his cellular phone before he was out of the lot. In the cemetery, workers rolled strips of grass over the earth and maneuvered a square gray stone into place. When they had finished and gone, Jessie walked back along the crushed rock path and stood in front of the stone. “Barbara Ann Appleman.” The dates of her birth and death were carved below the name. She hadn’t quite reached thirty-five. Jessie had a wild vision of overturning the stone, clawing down through the earth, ripping open the coffin, pulling Barbara out. That brought back the dream of Kate. The two visions closed on her like a vise, paralyzing her in front of the marble marker, as though she’d been turned to stone herself.
When, how much later she didn’t know, Jessie finally found the strength to move, she backed away and bumped into someone standing behind her. Spinning around she saw a big, dark man with a heavy beard.
“Don’t,” she said, raising her arms.
“Don’t?” said the man; and then she recognized him: Lieutenant DeMarco.
Jessie lowered her arms. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re a little jumpy.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
He nodded, then looked at the gravestone. “She was something,” he said.
The thought that Barbara might have slept with DeMarco popped up in Jessie’s mind. It was an unpleasant thought; perhaps that sharpened her tone a little when she asked, “Have you found her murderer yet?”
“Murderer? Isn’t that a bit strong? The most we ever shoot for in hit-and-runs is vehicular homicide. And that’s in flagrant cases. With witnesses. Here we’ve got no witnesses. No leads.”
“You do have leads. I explained to the officer that someone flashed headlights at me earlier that night. Later, when Barbara went out, she was wearing the same yellow—”
DeMarco held up his hand; it was big enough to smother her whole face. “I’ve read your statement.”
“Then you’re involved in the investigation?”
“I’m keeping an eye on it.”
“Does that mean it’s being treated as murder?”
“I answered that already. I’m keeping an eye on it because Barbara and—because I knew her personally.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What did you think about my statement?”
His eyes shifted. Jessie could see he’d expected something else, maybe a question about Barbara. “You mean the part about you being the intended victim and it all having something to do with your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t give it much credence.”
“Why not? My daughter disappears with my ex-husband. Then my best friend gets killed wearing my raincoat. Doesn’t that make you suspicious?”
“Look, this is hardly the time or place for an argument.”
“No? You think she’d mind?” The words were out before Jessie realized she’d pitched her voice a little higher—like Barbara’s—and jabbed her thumb at the gravestone, the same way Barbara jabbed hers.
DeMarco’s mouth opened involuntarily. He was a homicide detective who must have seen everything L.A. had to offer, but she’d shocked him with an unconventional remark. That hadn’t been her intention—she had no idea why she’d imitated Barbara. Was her subconscious trying to keep Barbara alive? Jessie didn’t know. All she knew was that she had finally gotten through to DeMarco.
“Well,” she said, “do you?”
DeMarco let out his breath. “I guess not,” he said.
“She’d love it.”
“Yeah?” he said. His lips curled up, just a little.
“Yeah. You’d know that if you knew her at all.” She looked right into his eyes to see just how well he had known her.
Well enough, she saw, to make his lips curl a little more. “Yeah,” he said. “Come on to the car. We’ll talk.”
They walked along the crushed stone path to the parking lot. They had to step aside to make way for another group carrying a coffin. This one was fancier, with gold-plated handles and lots of scrollwork. That’ll impress the worms, Jessie thought. There was no point in saying it out loud. The only person she knew who appreciated that kind of humor was gone. She overcame the urge for one last look back.
A rabbi came hurrying up the path. It was the same rabbi, but Jessie didn’t recognize him at first. He’d had the sense to change his tie.
She sat in DeMarco’s
car. On the scratchy radio a bored woman dispatched patrols to scenes of mayhem. DeMarco turned on the air-conditioning. “Ever been to an Italian funeral?”
“This is my first one, ethnic or non.”
“Yeah? Shit. People don’t die in your circle?”
“Evidently they do.”
DeMarco looked at her. “Got me,” he said.
“Two-two-six-eight-oh La Cienega, robbery in progress,” said the bored woman. “Make that two-two-eight-six-oh. That’s the Seven-Eleven on the corner.”
“Thirsty?” asked Demarco.
“Not really.”
“Mind if I?” He had a cooler in the backseat. He took out a can of beer and snapped the tab. “Ah,” he said, tipping it to his mouth. He looked at her. “You need some release at a time like this.”
“Release?”
“Make that Sepulveda,” said the bored woman.
“Instead of Pico?” crackled a voice.
“Instead of La Cienega,” snapped the woman.
DeMarco drank his beer. The man in the coverall came up the path, smoking a cigarette. A woman in a clanking heap drove up. She had four kids in the back, drinking Coke. The man got in and spun his cigarette out the window as they drove away. Sparks flew.
“Doing anything tonight?” DeMarco asked.
“Looking for my daughter.”
He didn’t miss the sharpness in her tone. “Sorry,” he said. “Maybe I’m going too fast, but you’re a very attractive woman.”
“It’s not just the speed. You’re going in the wrong direction.”
He laughed, turning toward her; at the same time he threw his arm over the back of the seat. “That’s what Barbara said, too. At first.”
Jessie reached for the door handle.
“Don’t,” DeMarco said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Jessie kept her hand where it was, resting on the handle.
“It was misleading, for one thing,” DeMarco said. He reached around and opened another beer. Jessie realized her first funeral was over; now came her first wake. “She dumped me,” DeMarco continued. “I was ready to leave my wife for her, you know.”
“I didn’t know. Are you happily married, Mr. DeMarco?”
“No.” DeMarco allowed a little sadness into his tone. It sounded sentimental to Jessie.
“Then it wouldn’t have been much of a sacrifice, would it?”
“I’ve got kids too,” he said, “not just a wife.” His voice rose, more in pleading than anger.
“I don’t want to hear about it, Mr. DeMarco. I want to hear about who killed Barbara and what you’re doing to find my daughter.”
DeMarco turned to her, but whether he was trying to stare her down or blinking in astonishment, she didn’t know, because of his sunglasses. “Shit,” DeMarco said. “Okay. But get it straight—this is a hit-and-run, not a murder. I already told you that.” He put the beer can between his thick legs and took a notebook from his shirt pocket. “No witnesses,” he said, summarizing what he saw there. “Both sides of the street have been canvased. A few people heard it. No one saw diddley. No reports of any speeders apprehended in the area. Automobile paint flakes were taken from Ba—from the victim’s hair. We’ll have the lab report tomorrow. Then we can start calling the body shops. Okay? That’s number one.” He turned the page. “Number two: your daughter. Three days overdue on a legal custodial visit with her father. Whereabouts of father also unknown. Status: they’re both on the computer.”
“Does that mean you’re looking for them?”
“It means if they’re picked up for anything—speeding, running a red light—we’ll hold them.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“It’s better than anyone else gets, at this stage. Missing children come in three categories. The biggest, by far, are runaways. Then come custodial scuffles like this one. The last, and by far the smallest, are genuine abductions.”
“But this isn’t custodial. My—my ex-husband doesn’t want sole custody.”
“Then he’s probably off on some toot. Barbara told me something about him.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“No? Is he a drug user?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“How would you put it?”
Jessie searched for the words. They were blocked by the times she’d grown up in; by DeMarco’s job; by residues of loyalty to Pat; and by loyalty to something else she couldn’t name precisely: a generation, perhaps, or a culture. She added it all up; it didn’t add up to much compared to Kate. “He’s a drug user,” she said.
DeMarco nodded. “Then just hang on. He’ll be back. I had a case identical to this once. Busted my ass from one end of the county to the other.”
“And what happened?”
“He came back. All on his own. They always do.”
“I meant what happened to the child.”
DeMarco looked surprised. “He brought the kid back. That’s what I’m saying. Too much responsibility. A druggie looks out for number one. Period.”
“But it’s not just that Kate’s missing. It’s Barbara too.”
DeMarco raised his big hand.
Jessie kept talking. “Supposing it wasn’t just an ordinary hit-and-run. Supposing someone was trying to kill me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“Do you have any enemies?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Barbara had plenty.”
“She did?”
DeMarco lowered his hand. “She mauled a lot of men in court. That makes her a more likely candidate than you, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she do your divorce?”
“Yes. But we didn’t go to court, and no one got mauled.”
“Yeah. What color’s your ex’s car, by the way?”
“Blue. A blue BMW.”
DeMarco shook his head. “The flakes were green.” He closed his notebook, took off his sunglasses and picked up the beer can. Jessie smelled beer. It made her want to puke. “Hot today,” said DeMarco. “Change your mind about a beer?”
“No.”
“You don’t drink?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes you do or sometimes you don’t?”
“Right.”
DeMarco smiled. He had a nice smile; his eyes joined in, if that meant anything. “What about tonight?” he asked.
“No.”
The smile faded. He put the sunglasses back on. “Make that an Amoco station,” said the radio woman, “not a Seven-Eleven.” DeMarco tipped the beer to his lips. “Anything else?” he said.
“No.” Jessie got out of the car. Before closing the door, she said, “What if you’re wrong?”
“I’ll take you to Disneyland, all expenses paid.”
Barbara spoke to her from the grave. Jessie passed on the message. “You won’t be able to afford it. I’ll sue you for every penny you’ve got.” She slammed the door, got into her car and sped out of the lot. For a few moments, she had the strong feeling, despite her disbelief in the supernatural, that Barbara was watching her, that Barbara was smiling. Then, all at once, the feeling was gone. It never came back.
On the way home, Jessie stopped at the printer’s. The posters were ready. She’d ordered two hundred. Now she didn’t know why. Why not a thousand, or a million? At the time two hundred had seemed like a measured response. Jessie opened the package on the counter and inspected them. “Have You Seen This Girl?” they said in big black letters. That was followed by pictures and descriptions of Kate and Pat, a description of the car, and her phone number.
“Okay?” said the clerk.
“Okay?” she repeated. What was he talking about?
“The way you wanted it.”
“Oh. Yes, it’s okay.”
“Thirty-three eighty-eight. Plus tax.”
&nb
sp; Jessie paid. The clerk rang it up.
Jessie had her staple gun in the car. She drove around Santa Monica looking for places to tack up the posters. Almost every street had suitable trees or telephone poles. She passed a notice-free telephone pole at the corner of Ocean and Olympic; an empty hoarding beside a busy gas station on Pico; a notice board outside a laundromat near the beach. She didn’t get out of the car; she didn’t even stop. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed, or even that a public display would shred her last illusions that nothing was really wrong; those illusions had vanished. She didn’t want Kate splashed all over the place, that was all.
Jessie drove home. She went into the silent house, checked for messages, called Pat’s machine. She put the phone down and listened to the silence. Then she looked in the cabinet where the booze was. It was still there. She looked at the bottles for a while. Red or white? Red. Let’s live a little.
She called Philip to tell him about the posters. The posters had to go up. Maybe he’d come over and help.
“Jessie! How are you?”
“I’ve just come from Barbara’s funeral.”
“Oh. It’s terrible.”
She mentioned the posters.
“Gee, I can’t come over right now. The most exciting thing has happened—someone’s coming from the Museum of Modern Art tomorrow to see ‘Valley Nocturne.’”
“That’s great.”
“Isn’t it? I couldn’t sleep a wink last night.”
Jessie said nothing. There was a long pause. Philip said, “Hey, don’t worry about the posters. Just tack them up wherever you want. Everybody does. The worst they can do is tear them down.”
“That’s not—”
“Oh shit, there’s someone at the door. Listen, could I—”
“What about the translation, Philip?”
“Translation?” Jessie heard someone talking to Philip in the background: it sounded like Mrs. Stieffler.
“You said you’d find out what those words on Pat’s blackboard meant.”
“Damnation. I forgot all about it. Shit, I’m sorry. I’ll try—”
Jesse hung up. She didn’t slam the phone down. She just hung it up.
Then, still in her black dress, she went out, got in the car and drove to Malibu. She started tacking up the posters, moving north to south. She ended in Venice, stapling the last one to a palm tree outside Pat’s darkened house.
Hard Rain Page 9
