Red Light

by T. Jefferson Parker

  "It's worth a try."

  "Absolutely."

  Brighton watched the city going past the windows of Merci’s Impala.

  "So, why did you drag me out here?" he asked finally. "I don't think we drove out here to talk about a rusted gun, or Patti Bailey."

  She spilled it all: the brass at Whittaker's, the missing friend; card and Mike's meddlesome presence in the lab, the letters and suggestions of blackmail, the chukka boots and sweater, the silencer, switch at Mike's—no details about that—the three shots she took at man in the moon, Gilliam's match on the casings.

  She knew it was all just a storm of circumstance right now, except for the casings. The match pointed at Mike and only Mike.

  "Sir... I'm just not sure what to do."

  Brighton was staring at her. She kept her eyes on the road waited. She waited a long time.

  "Let me talk to Clay," he said quietly. "Right now, don't do anything. Don't say anything, either."

  The name Clayton Brenkus made her heart sink. The old man ran the district attorney's office with a sharp tongue and an iron fist. His assistant prosecutors revered or hated him; his conviction rate was high. The old joke about him getting reelected term after term was that people were afraid to vote against him. The idea of setting him loose on Mike somehow surprised her. She hadn't thought it through that far.

  "I keep trying to figure what I'm not seeing," she said. "I keep looking for the out. For Mike. For all of us."

  "That's Clay's business. He's been our DA for twenty years because he knows which cases he can win and which ones are losers."

  "What did I miss, boss? What's right in front of me that I'm not seeing?"

  "I don't know, Merci. Maybe you just did your job and caught a killer."

  She made a U-turn and headed back up Fourth Street, past the De Anza again.

  Brighton looked out at the building. "I don't remember Bailey being part of that place."

  "The word is, she lived there but didn't work there."

  "Maybe the whore-cop-farmer scenario is too neat," he said. "You take one side of it out and the triangle collapses."

  "What's the side that won't hold?"

  "Well, I never heard of Bailey linked to law enforcement. And what if Acuna had it wrong to begin with? He got threatened by guys who reminded him of policemen. He got beaten up by guys in masks. So that makes them cops? That's two weak sides, if you ask me. Thornton didn't get anywhere with Bailey and cops."

  "But the cop rumor was a year after Bailey. The case was cold by then."

  "Do you want to argue details or do you want to solve the crime?"

  "Solve the crime."

  "Then consider the possibility that you're wasting your time. Consider the possibility Patti Bailey didn't know squat about Jesse Acuna."

  "I will consider. And I apologize, sir. I'm still arguing about those things with myself."

  Brighton studied her, then went silent for a long while. She turned onto Flower, heading in.

  "Who have you talked to about the Bailey case, except for Thornton?"

  "Her sister. Glandis. My dad, a little."

  "Did Mel ask if you thought he'd make a good sheriff?"

  "Yes."

  "And did he ask you if I was too old and worn out to be effective anymore?"

  "No." Not in those words, she thought.

  Brighton smiled. Nothing happy in it, she saw, like it was mostly for himself.

  Overload, thought Merci: He's heard too much to process in few minutes. Too much bad news, such as learning that one of his best investigators is staring down the barrel of Penal Code 187 for shooting prostitute who was blackmailing him.

  "You talk to Mike's dad about this?"

  "Which? Mike or Bailey?"

  "Either one."

  "No," she said, realizing that if she wanted to pick Big Pat's memories of the Bailey murder, she'd better do it soon.

  The sheriff stared out the window, hunched in the overcoat, and for the first time in her career Merci saw Brighton as old. She could feel his weakness and this made her feel both sorrow and excitement.

  She looked out to the darkening northern sky and wondered what this said about her. She thought about nomadic male lions who fight their way into a pride and promptly eat the cubs and mate the females establish their own bloodline.

  "Aubrey Whittaker's father called my office this morning," said Brighton. His voice was flat and disembodied. "Saw her picture on the news. Her real name was Gail White, grew up in Bakersfield, ran away from home when she was sixteen. Hadn't talked to her for three years

  "How was he?"

  "Concerned about her bank accounts."

  "One of those." It had always amazed and angered her how many relatives of murder victims were mostly interested in the victim's estate.

  "He's going to claim the body, make the arrangements. I've got his number for you, for whatever it's worth."

  She looked out at the courthouse building, saw the lawyers heading in and out. A bail bondsman she knew hustled down the sidewalk, cupping a smoke in one hand, the other hand jammed in his coat pocket.

  "I hope there's some kind of legitimate explanation for this," Brighton said. "For Mike. For you. For my department. For my own sorry hide. Stop. I'll walk it from here."

  • • •

  She pulled over beside the old courthouse and called Big Pat McNally. He wasn't home, but she didn't think he would be. More likely, by this time of day he'd be at Cancun Restaurant, down on First Street.

  Like Clark, he was retired; unlike Clark, Pat McNally liked to get out and raise a little hell.

  It was still early enough to park close to the restaurant. She guided in the Chevy, looked for Pat McNally's black Cadillac. It was taking up two spots out in the corner of the lot.

  Pat himself was taking up a stool by the margarita blender, chatting up a pretty young thing who looked at Merci approaching and scuttled away like she'd been slapped.

  "Didn't mean to ruin your moment," she said.

  Big Pat lumbered off the stool and hugged her. His arms were huge and freckled and his neck seemed thick as a power pole. His hair was graying red, and he had the most gentle blue eyes Merci had ever seen. Crooked smile, quick laugh, good guy.

  "You rescued me from temptation. It's the only thing I can't resist."

  She sat down next to him, got coffee. She wondered if she'd ever do such a thing again, the way things were stacking up against his son. She stared straight ahead.

  He put his hand on her forearm, gave it a squeeze. "How you doin', Merci? Everything okay?"

  She nodded and looked at him but she let her eyes betray her.

  "What is it? That son of mine?"

  "No. Mike's great." She tried to make it convincing. It occurred to her for the first time that she might ruin Big Pat along with his son. It seemed like every hour she had to recalculate the size of her betrayal.

  His clear blue eyes roved over her face. He took a drink of his beer. "Lemme guess. He's asked you for the twentieth time to marry him, and you wish he'd stop."

  "No, Pat. Really, it's not Mike."

  "What then?"

  "Patti Bailey."

  He reeled back in an exaggerated gesture, like he was taking one on the chin. "All the miserable unsolveds and you got that one? Mike told me."

  "Can you tell me anything?"

  "Well, Detective, that was a long time ago."

  "I'm getting interference from the outside. Maybe it's help. I don’t know what it is."

  "You'll have to explain that one."

  She did—the letter, the key, the storage unit, the gun and casings, the blood-riddled dress.

  Pat looked at her slack-faced, like she was telling him a whopper just couldn't believe. She watched him choke down his surprise, try make something good out of it.

  "What else was in the box?"

  "Newspapers from sixty-nine. That's it."

  That wasn't it, because she had Patti Bailey's little black bo
ok and the unlabeled cassette tape in the trunk of her car. But she wasn't going to give those up until she looked at them. No lab, no Brighton, McNally, no nobody.

  "Well, you got solid physical evidence now. That's more than Thornton ever found. It's a start. But somebody's messin' with you, Merci. Somebody wants you to have this stuff. There's something in for him. So ride it out as far as you can."

  He leaned in close to her, his big red face right up close to hers. "But be careful. Anyone with enough balls to lead a cop around like that is dangerous. Patti Bailey was murdered. Thirty years or thirty minutes ago—it ain’t some fuckin' game."

  "Pat, it's like they're . . . inside of me. Watching everything I do. Moving me around like a chess piece. Like they're in the backseat of my damned car."

  Big Pat sat back, observed a moment of silence for what Merci had gone through with the Purse Snatcher. Something about Pat reminded her of Hess, the way he wore his scars, the sharp sadness in eyes that had seen a lot, the same graceful refusal to become bitter. The difference was Pat had a life outside of work; Hess had never found one. He'd been close to finding one.

  "The gun and the dress, they're safe in the lab now? Nobody can mess with them?"

  She nodded. Safe as the lab can be, with detectives running all over it, stuff disappearing, Gilliam ready to put it off limits to everybody but his own staff.

  Big Pat thought about this. She couldn't tell what. A cell phone rang and Merci got her purse, but it wasn't her phone. Pat's hand went to his ear.

  "Yo. Hey, Bright. Yeah. Um-hm. You got it."

  Got what, she wondered.

  He set the tiny phone on the bar. He looked down at his beer, took it off the napkin, then looked at the sweat ring in the middle of the paper.

  "Merci, it isn't easy doin' what you do. Lemme think about the Bailey case, see what I can remember after all these years. You watch yourself. You don't know what's going on and that isn't good. It's always when you're stepping easy on the ice, it breaks and in you go. Stay light, girl. Heads up."

  He set out a couple of bills for the waitress, collected his phone and smokes and got off the stool. He hugged her again.

  "Sorry," he said. "Boss barks, I still jump."

  Chapter Twenty-two done

  After dinner she took Tim into her room and set him up with a stuffed gorilla to play with. The animal was almost as big as he was. Tim liked to sit the ape on the floor, then creep around back and sneak up him, either kiss him or slug him.

  Merci put the unlabeled cassette into her old boombox. She put in new blank in the second deck, hit the dub button and sat down on floor with her back against the bed. She looked through the black book as she listened.

  Man: "Whazzat?"

  Woman: "Zwhat?"

  Man: "Clickiri sound."

  Woman: "My bubble gum." Chewing sounds.

  Man: "Chew a lot of that flavor, don't you?"

  Woman: "Just yours, honey."

  Man: "I'm a lucky guy."

  Woman: "I don't panic, it's organic. And it goes down smooth."

  Man: "Want another drink?"

  Woman: "Yeah, and how about another hit, honey?"

  Man: "I'm still damned stoned."

  Woman: "Poor Ralphie-Honey. Not used to that."

  Man: "Like I got hit by a train."

  Woman: "Like that farmer you were talking about."

  Man: "That ain't funny."

  Woman: "You said at least it got his attention."

  Pause. Tape hiss. Covers rustling?

  Man: "Know somethin', Patti Dear? "

  Woman: "Tell me, honey."

  Man: "For afuckin' whore you sure got big ears."

  Woman: "I'm horny, honey, not deaf. You say something and I listen to you. Everybody's talking about him. It's in the papers. You said it got his attention. I believe you."

  Man, snide laughter: "Attention. Yeah, it got that."

  Ice clinking in a glass. A match flares. Deep inhale.

  Woman, smoke-choked: "You know who conked him?"

  Man: "I told you I did. How come if you listen so well you gotta ask a dumbfuck question like that?"

  Woman: "Because I wanna know, Meeksie. I'm interested. I care. Man, this dope is really good."

  Man: "You're stoned. I'm not telling you anything. You'd forget it by tomorrow anyway."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  After dinner she took Tim into her room and set him up with a stuffed gorilla to play with. The animal was almost as big as he was. Tim liked to sit the ape on the floor, then creep around back and sneak up him, either kiss him or slug him.

  Merci put the unlabeled cassette into her old boombox. She put in new blank in the second deck, hit the dub button and sat down on floor with her back against the bed. She looked through the black book as she listened.

  Man: "Whazzat?"

  Woman: "Zwhat?"

  Man: "Clickiri sound."

  Woman: "My bubble gum." Chewing sounds.

  Man: "Chew a lot of that flavor, don't you?"

  Woman: "Just yours, honey."

  Man: "I'm a lucky guy."

  Woman: "I don't panic, it's organic. And it goes down smooth."

  Man: "Want another drink?"

  Woman: "Yeah, and how about another hit, honey?"

  Man: "I'm still damned stoned."

  Woman: "Poor Ralphie-Honey. Not used to that."

  Man: "Like I got hit by a train."

  Woman: "Like that farmer you were talking about."

  Man: "That ain't funny."

  Woman: "You said at least it got his attention."

  Pause. Tape hiss. Covers rustling?

  Man: "Know somethin', Patti Dear? "

  Woman: "Tell me, honey."

  Man: "For afuckin' whore you sure got big ears."

  Woman: "I'm horny, honey, not deaf. You say something and I listen to you. Everybody's talking about him. It's in the papers. You said it got his attention. I believe you."

  Man, snide laughter: "Attention. Yeah, it got that."

  Ice clinking in a glass. A match flares. Deep inhale.

  Woman, smoke-choked: "You know who conked him?"

  Man: "I told you I did. How come if you listen so well you gotta ask a dumbfuck question like that?"

  Woman: "Because I wanna know, Meeksie. I'm interested. I care. Man, this dope is really good."

  Man: "You're stoned. I'm not telling you anything. You'd forget it by tomorrow anyway."

  Woman, giggling: "I know you know. You're that kind of guy."

  Man: "Come here. Make yourself useful."

  Woman, giggling still: "I'm just kidding, honey. I don't care what you know and what you don't."

  Man: "I don't just know the shit around this county, Patti. I make it happen. I'm the shit king."

  Woman: "Groovy."

  Man: "Ought to have you banged on the head. Maybe you'd work more and talk less."

  Woman: "I'm going to take care of you, Ralphie."

  Man: "What year?"

  Woman: "This one. Good old nineteen sixty-nine. Mmmm."

  Man: "Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, yeah."

  The sounds of sex.

  Merci hit the pause button and thought: Patti Bailey and Supervisor Ralph Meeks. So, Bailey's sister had it right, Patti had moved to a higher-end clientele after her biker days. And Meeks knew who had Acuna beaten, or claimed to Bailey that he did. He even implied he was behind it. Was he confessing a truth, or trying to impress her with a lie?

  Merci looked over at Tim. She didn't like him hearing this kind thing. He was chewing the gorilla's hand, paying her and the voices no apparent attention whatsoever. She fast-forwarded through the heavy breathing, thought of the Clockwork Orange scene where they do it fast to the William Tell March. But on Patti Bailey's tape it didn't seem funny, it just seemed disgusting.

  Woman: "This is Patti Jo Bailey about to tape-record William Owen of the Orange County Sheriff Department. He's the sheriff. I'll try to get him to say his name so you'll believe me, but th
at's not going to be easy. I got to be cool. He's not a drunk like Ralph Meeks. I'm going to try on Meeksie again, but I couldn't ask him more about that farmer without making him mad and suspicious. He made it sound the first time like he was responsible for the farmer getting almost murdered, losing his eye, getting all those stitches and his teeth knocked out. When I get everything on tape I can get, I'm going to play it for them and start spending all my new money. Far out. I'm turning this on as soon as he knocks, so there might be some sex and sex talk. Bill won't say much, and he's always in a hurry, but his voice should be enough for proof of what he's doing. Oh, yeah, this is July twenty-fifth, nineteen sixty-niner. The first entry on this tape, Meeks, was July ninth."

  Tape hiss. Off.

  Knocking on door.

  Woman: "Who's there?"

  Man: "Jerry."

  Woman: "Jerry who?"

  Man: "Open thefuckin' door, Patti."

  Door opens.

  Woman: "Hey, sweetie. '

  Mon in." Man: "Hello."

  Door closes.

  Woman, flirtatiously: "You don't look like a Jerry to me."

  Man: "Not everybody looks like their dog, either."

  Woman: "I'd say maybe a ... say, a Bill Owen."

  Man: "Bullshit. Never heard of him."

  Woman: "I'm just playing with you, sweetie. Just 'cause you're the big bad sheriff doesn't mean you got to be soooo uptight. Go with the flow. What's this, our fifth or sixth date?"

  Man: "Sheriff? You must be loaded. Beats me what date this is."

  Woman: "Want a drink?"

  Man: "No time."

  Woman: "What'll it be then?"

  Man: "The usual."

  Woman, flirtatiously: "And what could that be?"

  Man: "Go sit on the bed. Just do it."

  Woman: "There's the little matter of money." A shuffling sound, the faint crackle of paper.

  Woman: "Fifty big ones. Where's your big one?" A zipper, the jingle of a belt, a man's groan.

  Merci hit pause again. Supervisor Ralph Meeks, Sheriff Bill Owen, and their party girl, Patti Jo Bailey. What a cast. What a dismal thing to listen to. Bailey had enough to blackmail the living daylights out of them. She seemed ditzy enough to try.

  Merci tried to match Bill Owen with the July twenty-fifth entry in Bailey's date book. Hard to say. There were eight entries on the page.