12TI/3CQ/4:30BK/6MO/9CS/11 MH/midED/lFC
No BO, or SBO or SO to go by.
She tried to match Ralph Meeks with the July nine page and struck out there, too.
4TN/5SO/7AL/9TU/1 CO
No RM, SM, nothing close. She tried reversing the letters but that didn't work. She tried adding one, or subtracting one, but that didn't
work, either. No RM. No BO. Maybe Meeks and Owen had regular dates. Maybe they called last minute. Maybe the initials were code.Or maybe they'd never seen Patti Bailey in their lives and she was just stoned out enough to think she could manufacture a blackmail against well-known men. Not likely—the john didn't protest when Patti called him Ralph or Meeks. And the Owen character didn't put up much of a fight over being called the sheriff.
It would be easy enough to voiceprint them, she thought, if you could get some old news video from 1969 and run the track against tape. Gilliam could do that. But old news programs might be a problem. Orange County didn't have its own news channel then. The L.A. stations didn't pay much attention to what happened behind the Orange Curtain. Most people didn't have video recorders or players. Studies did. Colleges, maybe. But Colin Byrne would get the old broadcast if they were gettable.
Even if the voices didn't belong to the men that Bailey said they did Merci knew what she was looking at. I'm going to play it for them start spending all my new money. Far out.
With an attitude like that, Merci thought, you were headed for a lot of trouble.
She studied the date book. All she could really say for sure was it was full. Bailey was turning an average of five tricks a day, and those were just the regular johns. She studied the initials and wondered they were legit or coded. There were a few phone numbers, but not many. On the very small chance that the numbers would be the same thirty-two years later, she dialed a few: the Escobar family of Tustin. the Millers, All-American House painting, a fax signal that screeched in her ear.
It didn't matter. Merci had her connection between law enforcer and Patti Bailey—Sheriff Bill Owen. And since Owen was tight with Meeks, and Meeks implied he'd arranged to have Jesse Acuna beaten, it didn't take a genius to do the addition: Owen.
Enter Patti Bailey. Party girl with big ears. When Bailey played her tape she made herself extremely dangerous. They had to pay up, or shut her up before the damage was done. Owen again? It was the simpliest explanation.
That much made sense. But the second layer of mystery didn't. Who took the evidence after the murder? Who stored it? Why had they kept that evidence for thirty-two years? Most important, who spilled the beans right into her own lap? She looked over at Tim, now piling pillows on top of the gorilla. She thought that for an eighteen-month-old, he was purposeful and intelligent in his work. He looked over and smiled, a long string of drool hanging from his chin. He shrieked and went for another pillow.
Merci turned the tape player back on.
Car noise.
Woman: ". . . some of the best stuff I've ever had. I guess you got the pick of the good stuff."
Man: "There's a lot of it around."
Woman: "Ever think of selling it?"
Man: "It's just for favors. For friends."
Woman: "Whore friends like me. So, who is this guy?"
Man: "Just a friend."
Woman: "Got lots of green, like the others?"
Man: "Plenty of green."
Woman: "You don't seem real relaxed tonight. Something the matter?"
Man: "I'm fine. I'm just tired. Double shift yesterday, make some extra. Don't light that thing in here."
Woman: "Then where am I gonna light it?"
Man: "We'll pull over."
Woman: "Nothing but an orange grove. Where are we, anyway?"
Man: "Myford and Fourth."
Woman: "Myford and Fourth. What's a Myford? Something to do with oranges?"
Man: "Was a guy's name. Killed himself with a shotgun and a rifle, something like that. Shot himself three times. That was a long time ago."
Woman: "Far out. Doesn't sound like a suicide to me."
Man: "There was a lot of talk about it."
Car noise stops.
Man: "Let's take a walk. You can light the joint."
Woman: "I'm good at lighting joints. You interested in a real good light?"
Man: "I'm always interested."
Woman: "I love it when you are, honey."
Man: "I love you, too."
Woman: "I'm just a party girl to you guys."
Man: "Who says I can't love a party girl?"
Woman: "Your own way, I guess."
Static. Sounds like the mike is rubbing against something, maybe being moved. Car doors open and shut. Footsteps on gravel, then footsteps on dirt—a road perhaps.
Woman: "Dark tonight."
Man: "Moon's small. Just coming out."
Footsteps.
Woman: "Walking to China?"
Man: "There's a cable spool out here we can sit on."
Woman: "You bring your other girlfriends here?"
Man: "Only you."
More footsteps. A thud, then no footsteps. A rustling sound up
near the mike.
Woman: "I'm lighting up."
Man: "Do what you want." A match flares, then puffing sounds.
Woman, smoke-choked, holding it in: ". . . Just.. . expands." Coughing, more puffing.
Woman: "Blows my hair back."
A minute goes by. No conversation, just the sound of the woman smoking, and footsteps.
Woman: "Trippy, the way the moon shines on the water in that ditch? Lookit that. It looks like God's pouring melted silver into the ditch. Men shouldn't walk on God's moon."
Man: "Nice. Here's that cable spool."
Woman: "Far out! It's like a giant spool for thread!"
Man: "Sort of."
Woman: "You're kind of down tonight, baby. What's wrong? You ought to take a hit of this, just try to get in the groove. Go with it."
Man: "I'm fine. This is all I need."
The sound of liquid in a bottle.
Man: "Ah."
Woman puffs.
Woman, holding in smoke, letting it out: "Isn't it boss when it's hot enough to just walk around like this, no coat or nothing? Summer's great. I feel like going down to the beach and laying in the sun for a week. Except I gotta work. Business is better when it's hot, gets all you guys hot and horny, makes you pay up and get off with good old Patti. Boy, this dirt here's so soft. I got my toes in it. Look. It's warm feeling, not like you'd think dirt is gonna be at all. Mother Earth."
Man: "Uh-huh."
Sound of movement.
Woman: "Come on, dance with me."
Sound of liquid against glass. A man's sigh.
Woman: "You like me, don't you?"
Man: "You know I like you."
Woman: "Gonna leave your wife for me?"
Man: "Can't do that."
Woman: "So, you're lovin' us both."
Man: "I guess that's what I'm doing."
Woman: "She know?"
Man: "She don't know anything ' cept how to scream and fight."
Woman: "So, where's this new john?"
Man: "He'll be here."
Woman: "What's he do? Is he one of those big important guys?"
Man: "No. He's a regular guy."
Woman: "How come we gotta meet in an orange grove? He get off doing it outdoors?"
Man: "Yeah, that's what he said."
Woman: "I'm charging him triple what I charge you. I already told you that."
Man: "Fine, Patti. You charge him what you want. "The woman hums a tune. It sounds like she's dancing, moving around.
Woman: "I think I was reincarnated as me. Before, I was a whale way down in the deep. Next, I'm gonna be a butterfly."
Man: "They only live for a couple of weeks."
Woman: "So, then I'll get to be a lion. Or maybe an eagle or a hummingbird."
Man: "Can you see the man in the moon?"
Wo
man: "Lemme see now."
The woman's voice is fainter. Like the microphone is farther away, or perhaps she has turned around.
Woman: "Oh, yeah. There he is. Can't figure if he's happy or sad tonight. I think he changes moods. How do you know it's not a woman, though? Maybe I could get reincarnated as the first woman in the moon."
Man grunts. The sound of liquid on glass. Again. Then a shuffling sound. Footsteps. A pause. Then a loud blast, quickly followed by another.
Man, quietly: "Oh, God. Oh, my God."
Distant sounds. Grunting. Footsteps. Something being dragged. A man sobbing. Footsteps. Quiet.
Merci sat there for a long minute, listening to the tape hiss, Tim turned to her with an odd look on his face.
"It's okay," she said quietly. "It's okay, little man. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that to you."
She clicked off the player, picked up Tim and walked him into living room. She looked out at the brightly lit yard and the dark grove beyond the fence. Just a few miles from here, she thought. Myford and Fourth. A hot night in early August, 1969.
She sat in the rocker, sang a quiet song to him. A few minutes he went heavy and limp in her arms and she carried him into his room. She put him in the crib, raised the bars, turned on the monitor.
For a long while she stood and watched him, his arms thrown back, his mittens on against the drafts of the old house. She decided at moment that she wouldn't lead him into her kind of life. Until now she'd always figured he could choose someday. Now it seemed to her that the best thing she could do for him was to keep him from doing what she did, from listening to things like he'd just heard when he was no longer too innocent to understand them. Anything, she thought, be anything but a cop.
Back in her bedroom she played the end of the tape again. Then she turned to the last page of Patti Bailey's black book and found the entry for August third.
4SV/6CM/7DL/8:30FD/11KQ
It must have been KQ at eleven, she thought: too light to see the man in the moon at eight-thirty. Not dark enough to hide the parked car, to make them invisible walking into the grove at Myford and Fourth.
KQ.
KQ, with dope he gives away. KQ, with a new "friend." KQ, whose other friends have plenty of money. KQ, married and messing around with Patti Bailey on the side. KQ, with a .38 Special on him, and his date unsuspecting.
Or maybe she was used to the gun, because he was a cop. Thus, the free dope, the weapon, the double shifts at work. And the trust. Bailey trusts him. Friend of Bill Owens and Ralph Meeks?
Merci played the end of the tape once more and tried to picture it, to see things that weren't right in front of her, as Hess had tried to teach her. She closed her eyes and imagined Patti Bailey standing on the dirt road along the dark trees, her back to KQ on the cable spool, looking out at the man in the moon, at the water in the culvert that looked to her like silver being poured. She saw KQ set down his bottle, lift himself off the rough wood of the cable spool, walk over to Patti and shoot her in the back. Twice, fast. Then KQ sobbing, pulling off her clothes and dragging the woman away.
The tape ran another ten minutes. Nothing but the quiet of the orange trees on a hot summer night. It clicked off.
Mike called at ten. "Hi, Merci. Sorry it's late, but I miss you."
"Nice to hear you."
"Really? Don't answer that. Last night was special to me. Sounds weird to say thanks, but thanks."
"It sounds weird to say you're welcome, so I won't. I... yes. It'sspecial to me, too."
"What are you doing?"
She said she was reading over the Bailey case file. "I asked your Dad about it today."
"Any help?"
"He's trying."
"It's a wonder he can remember anything, with all the beer he drinks."
"He's pretty sharp still."
Mike was quiet for a beat. "You feel like going away for a week?" Just drop everything, cash in the vacation time? Carver in vice, he's got a line on a condo on Maui. We could leave, like Friday or something. Just forget everything. Stay warm, get a tan, maybe go fishing."
"I can't do that. You know I can't."
"Bring Tim."
"It's not that. I've just got a full plate at work."
More silence. "How's the Whittaker case coming?"
"It's coming."
"Am I still one of your suspects?"
"No. You weren't a suspect, Mike."
"Even when I said I did it?"
Merci said nothing.
"You might not believe this, but somehow I'm going to make this all up to you."
"It's not me you owe."
"Who then?"
"I have no idea, Mike. Aubrey Whittaker maybe."
Mike went quiet again. When he spoke his voice was so low could hardly hear him.
"I owe somebody. I messed up. I shouldn't have done what I did. It makes everything bad. It stains everything. All I had was my reputation. Now it's gone. Shot to hell. I don't know how to get that stain off me."
"You were falling in love. It happens."
She wanted to give him a chance to confirm it. Even after everything that she'd found, it still mattered if he had betrayed her in his heart, whether he'd taken the woman to bed or not. Whether he'd murdered her or not. How petty, she thought, but it was too late to recall her statement.
"No, I wasn't. I'm in love with you. But I just... I swear, Merci, I just thought I could ... change her. Make her different. Help her get out of what she was. That's what I wanted."
"She's out."
"Yeah. Okay. Look, Merci, I'm thinking I'll take that Maui trip anyway. Alone. I'm going to fly out on Friday. I just got to get away for a few days. Everybody in the department seems to know I had dinner with that girl."
"Do what you need to do, Mike."
"I'll let you know. Merci, please believe in me. I'm worth it. I'm going to make you see I'm worth it. It's just kind of hard to see right now."
• • •
Evan O'Brien called at 10:40.
"No dice on the .38 Special, Merci—too old, too dry, too rusted. Nothing off the Inland Storage envelope. Those no-lick stamps are great, people bear down and presto. But yours was clean. I can try an iodine fume. Then ninhydrin or silver nitrate. I wouldn't put the chances at real good."
"What about the envelope itself?"
"I actually did think of that. Clean, Lady Dick."
"Thanks for trying."
"It's my job, pain in the ass that it is sometimes. You're lucky you left when you did today. Zamorra blasts in here this afternoon and practically punches out Gilliam. It's about the evidence from the Whittaker scene, but I wasn't clear on exactly what evidence. Then Brighton storms in here later and lectures Gilliam behind closed doors for twenty minutes. I could see them—both really pissed off. Then Gilliam comes out and says the lab is now off limits to anyone who doesn't work in it. Off limits specifically to Mike McNally, Paul Zamorra and Merci Rayborn. We're setting up a sign-in, sign-out sheet by the door, just like a crime scene."
The anger shot up through her. "What the hell did I do to get on list?"
"Don't ask me, but Zamorra glared and Brighton spoke and Gill clamped down. I'm calling you from home right now—I didn't want to use the lab line to call one of my own detectives. Shit, a bunch of paranoid old farts, if you ask me. I go upstairs later to run something by arson guys, I see Brighton's got Pat McNally in his office. It's like old boy's club around there. Soon as you make sheriff, I hope you got the good sense to put me in charge of the lab."
"I'll see what I can do."
"Glandis pulse you on his move for Brighton's job?"
"Yeah."
"Me, too. I told him I thought he'd be great. It's not my fault he’s stupid enough to believe me."
Merci was surprised to hear a woman giggle quietly in the background.
"Gotta go," said O'Brien.
"I guess you do."
She hung up and wondered what Brighton could possibly be telling
Big Pat. Or not telling him. She would like to have been a fly on the for that one.
• •
Brighton called at 11:05. He told her they were going to bring Mike to room 348 of the Newport Marriott the next morning at eight o'clock sharp. They'd have a closed-circuit video camera set up. He told her to be there at six so they could set her up in 350, next door.
"I don't think you should be the one to question him at this point.” said Brighton. "I don't think he should see you. There's no need for that right now. Later, Merci, we might need you for that. Leave Zamorra out. You can bring him up to speed later."
"I agree. I understand."
"But I want you to direct us. Clay Brenkus and one of his assistants are going to depose you, first off. That'll give them the rough outline to follow—what he said, how you found what you found. Clay and I are going to sit in, let Mike know this is the real thing. I'll have a couple of deputies, men I trust, just in case Mike gets belligerent. We'll give him every chance to explain himself. Every chance, Merci. We'll have two DA investigators in position out at Mike's place, ready to go as soon as he gives us permission to search."
"What if he doesn't? He's got no reason to let us waltz in there and search his home."
"Then we'll arrest him. That, based on his confession to you, the hair and fiber evidence from the Whittaker scene, and the fact that he was with her an hour before she died. We can do a warrantless search on the emergency exception—that's assuming he'll destroy the evidence. I think that's a reasonable assumption, and so does Clay. The forty-five was in plain view, so we're covered there. We'll book it, shoot it and get our own casing. Even if we have to get phone warrants we can do that in less than a day."
She couldn't talk at first. She felt like she was in a bullet train in a tunnel, darkness smearing past the windows, no chance for clarity or perspective. It was Tuesday, exactly one week since the murder of Aubrey Whittaker. One week. Now they were going to question Mike McNally in connection with that homicide.
"I can't believe this is happening," she said quietly.
"It's only started to happen. Strap yourself in, young lady. It's going to be a long, rough ride."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
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