The elevator in Alison’s building rattled and jerked as it rose, like an old man in a walker, to the second floor. Goode felt relieved to step out of it.
When Alison opened her door, Goode was startled by her natural beauty. She had voluminous green eyes and a heart-shaped mouth, all engulfed by wild, curly blond hair. Her skin was pale, but her cheeks were rosy, even without makeup. She looked like an angel from a Rubens painting, only thinner. As he introduced himself, he could see in her eyes that she had secrets, perhaps even from herself. He also couldn’t help noticing that her large breasts were pressing against her white terry-cloth robe. He reminded himself that he had other, more pressing issues to think about.
“Alison Winslow?”
“Yes,” she said, her smile fading as she glanced at the badge he pulled from his jeans pocket. “Please tell me something hasn’t happened to my grandmother.”
“No, not that I know of. I’m here to talk to you about your friend, Tania Marcus.”
“Oh,” Alison said, frowning.
Goode didn’t want to do this on the stoop. “Do you mind if I come in for a few minutes?” he asked.
Alison hesitated. “Okay. Sure.” She ushered him in and motioned him toward a deep, well-worn armchair next to the couch, which faced a bay window. “So, what’s going on?”
Goode started to sit in the chair when it lurched backward. He jumped up and out of it, feeling his cheeks flush. He’d thought for a minute that he was heading over.
“Nice chair,” he said, embarrassed by his own nervous laugh. He was acting really stupid. Not to mention inappropriate.
Keep your head on business.
“Sorry. You would have been okay, actually. It just feels like you’re going over. Why don’t you sit here on the couch next to me?” she said, patting the sofa cushion. She was looking a little more relaxed. “That chair was my grandfather’s. My grandmother pulled it out of the garage and had it cleaned before I moved down from LA, but I guess she never got the back legs fixed.”
Goode nodded. “So,” he said, pausing to let her know he was going to change gears. “Tania Marcus. You two been friends long?”
Alison cocked her head with a lopsided grin. “No, not really. Just a few weeks. Why, did she rob a bank?”
“No. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Her smile dropped from her lips. “Oh… What is it?”
Goode tried to say it as gently as he could, but that didn’t change the truth. “Her body was found the alley behind her apartment building this afternoon,” he said.
Alison gasped. Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth fell open. “You mean she’s dead? I can’t believe that. We just went out Friday night. There’s no way.”
“She was murdered,” Goode said, choosing his words carefully and watching for her reaction.
Alison turned away from him, shaking her head. Something about the way her shoulders folded into her neck made him want to comfort her. But he knew it wasn’t a good idea, personally or professionally. She could turn out to be a suspect, or just as bad, a witness they needed to testify in court. If they got too close, the defense might find out and attack her credibility. Goode was not about to blow the case—or his future—by stepping over the line.
Alison’s gaze was fixed on the coffee table as a single tear crept down her cheek. The room was still until a clock on the kitchen counter clicked over to 9:06. Goode could taste the meatball sandwich he’d inhaled two hours earlier.
“Alison, Are you okay?”
She nodded.
“I’d like to ask you some questions,” he said gently.
She nodded again and wiped her eyes with the tie of her robe. His heart went out to her.
“Do you remember seeing her or anyone with her wearing a man’s white shirt with red pin stripes?” he asked.
He watched Alison watch a spider skim across the table’s shiny finish.
“Alison?”
“God, this is such a shock,” she said, squeezing her eyes closed. “I just can’t believe it. Give me a minute.”
“Take your time,” Goode said. He paused to let the news sink in and give her some space to get her thoughts together. That also gave him a chance to study her reaction. She genuinely seemed to be taking the news pretty hard and it seemed to come as a surprise to her. That would fit regardless of whether she was Ms. X, but not if she had been involved somehow. He didn’t get a lesbian vibe from her, although he picked up something unusual about her sexuality.
Scanning the room, he saw a framed photo of Alison, her arm around the shoulder of a woman with white hair. Her grandmother, he assumed. There was also a small, faded black-and-white shot of a young man in a military uniform. He looked so much like Alison that Goode guessed it must be her father. He saw no pictures of anyone who could have been her mother.
“It sounds familiar,” Alison finally said. “But I’ve met lots of people in the past month. School just started. You know, I usually notice what everyone’s wearing and I may have seen the shirt you’re talking about, but I can’t say for sure.”
“We can come back to that later,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me about the last time you saw her.”
She looked up at him intermittently as she recounted the events of that Friday night. “You know, now that you mention it, I think Seth was wearing a shirt like that.” She paused for a minute, then almost jumped out off the couch she got so excited.
“He had on this red tie with a little diamond pattern,” she said. “He must have come straight from work. He was totally overdressed for a beach bar, but I was impressed that his tie matched his shirt. Most guys can’t match reds.”
Goode tried to appear calm, not wanting to spook her, but inside, he felt a shot of adrenaline spike through his veins.
“What was your impression of Seth?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what was your gut feeling about him? What sticks in your mind?”
“Well, he seemed kind of arrogant. Probably because he’s handsome. Like he’s used to getting whatever he wants. I could tell he comes from money,” she said.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“He said his family’s from La Jolla,” she said, flicking the end of her nose to indicate he was snobby. “He said something about hanging out at the beach and tennis club. Plus, he wore a Rolex watch. And he talked about how he and Keith planned to make a buttload of cash in the real estate business. He also knew this other girl at Pumphouse that night. She goes to our beauty school, and she’s from La Jolla, too. She and Tania were kind of friends, but not as close as we were.”
“What’s her name?” Goode said, his pen poised over his notebook.
“Clover,” Alison said. “I don’t know her last name.”
Goode asked her a few more questions, including whether he could borrow a recent photo of her for questioning witnesses, then decided that was enough for one evening. He tucked the photo into the same crowded slot in his wallet with the shots of Tania and his mother, got Alison’s phone number and figured he could always call her if something else came up. Especially if he found some evidence linking her identity to Ms. X.
As he stood up to go, Alison still wouldn’t meet his eyes for more than a moment. He figured it was shyness because he didn’t sense anything sinister. But he’d been surprised before.
“Here’s my card,” he said hopefully. “If you remember anything else that might be important, call me, any time, day or night…. You going to be okay?”
She finally held his gaze and smiled a little. He could tell from her expression that she was used to dealing with disappointment. He felt a pang in his chest and squeezed her hand gently.
“Take care of yourself, Alison,” he said, closing the door softly behind him.
He had a date with Seth.
Chapter 9
Alison
Time became irrelevant after Ken Goode left. Alison could do nothing but stare at his business card and
tap her bare feet on the carpet. She grabbed strands of her hair, twirled them around her fingers and pulled, repeating the motion again and again. She couldn’t believe Tania was gone. Goode’s last words played over in her mind.
“Take care of yourself, Alison,” he’d said. Not in the usual brush-off tone she’d heard other guys use when they said that, but in a kind, caring way. Like he really meant it. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but was he implying she might be next?
The more Alison pondered Tania’s death, the more it fell into perspective. This was her destiny, to live through a series of losses that came in almost predictable intervals, generally not long after she thought she’d finally found the true path to happiness. The setbacks started when she was ten, the morning her mother, Lila, left for her secretarial job and didn’t come back.
They’d been staying at Grandma Abigail and Grandpa Harold’s two-bedroom house in the San Fernando Valley to save money. When her mother, Lila, didn’t return from the office that evening, Grandma Abigail kept saying that her mom was going to walk through the front door and surprise them with some fancy chocolates.
“Lila always deals with the bad times by buying expensive candy in gold boxes,” she said.
But Lila, as it turned out, was gone for good. Night after night Alison sat on the loveseat with her grandmother, watching sit-com reruns and waiting for her mother to return. Her father had disappeared, too, but she was too young to remember him. Lila never talked about him, so the only image Alison had of him was the photo in her bedroom—dressed in an Army uniform, with soft eyes that could’ve disarmed any woman. They had sure worked on Lila.
Alison saw something similar in Goode when she’d opened her door and seen him standing there. She felt an immediate connection. He seemed to feel it too; he kept smiling at her even though she could tell he was trying to be serious. Under the circumstances, it felt wrong to think about him that way. But she couldn’t help it. Plus, the distraction lessened the impact of the news he’d delivered.
After he’d left, she stuck her face into the sofa cushion and breathed in the scent of his cologne, which had rubbed off on the cushion, until she couldn’t smell it anymore. She knew it well. A big seller at Nordstrom, it came in a blue bottle and conveyed a strong but pleasant maleness. When she and Tania were at the mall the weekend before, Alison sprayed a tester on Tania’s wrist. Tania looked distracted for a minute.
“Tom,” she declared finally, and Alison knew exactly what she meant.
Alison knew it was selfish, but she couldn’t help feeling angry about Tania. Why did she have to lose her so soon? Now she’d have to start looking for a friend all over again. She toyed with a series of what-ifs. What if she’d gone over to Tania’s apartment Saturday night? What if she’d interrupted the murderer? What if she’d been killed too?
That’s silly talk. Think about something else.
She felt nauseated and strange as Goode’s voice echoed in her head: “Was Tania dating anyone? Had she broken up with someone recently? Did she mention any men from Los Angeles who’d been bothering her? Did she have any female friends in San Diego besides you?”
Alison wanted to know more about what had happened to Tania, but then again, she didn’t. Who would have done such a thing? It couldn’t have been Seth. He and Tania really seemed to like each. And Keith? Quiet and not very friendly, but not the murderer type. Not that she’d ever met one. She wished that she’d pressed Tania for more details about her life in LA. For all the talking Alison did about herself, Tania shared very little.
Alison’s hair-pulling turned painful as her neck cramped up, but she couldn’t stop herself. Dozens of hairs had fallen into the lap of her robe in swirled patterns, like silken threads of a tapestry. She wrenched herself off the couch and grabbed a can of diet soda from the refrigerator. In her nervous haste, she poured it too quickly, watching helplessly as it foamed over the lip of the glass. She swooped down to suck the river of beige suds before any more of it could pop and sputter on the counter.
If Tania were still alive, Alison would’ve called to give her the lowdown on Goode. She figured he was a good six feet tall, a hundred and seventy-five pounds, with nice, broad shoulders, a thin waist, a great jawline and a sexy grin.
But Alison didn’t trust her own instincts. She’d had pretty bad luck with men since her twelfth birthday, when Grandpa Harold had come into her bedroom to say good night, his head a silhouette against the moonlight, and pushed her hand inside his robe. His visits, which grew increasingly violating, continued until she was seventeen. It was a heart attack that finally stopped him from sticking his nasty wrinkled red thing in her.
After that, she’d tried to date guys her own age, but few interested her. Sure, she’d had sex with a bunch of them. But every time, it felt as empty as the last. Eventually she just felt numb, so she stopped.
Then came Tony, an older married man she’d met at her perfume counter, where he’d bought one of her most expensive bottles.
“It’s for my daughter,” he said.
She thought nothing of it—this was LA and it was none of her business anyway—but she did remember seeing him later that afternoon in the parking lot with a young woman with long flowing dark hair. Alison never saw her face. He showed up again the next week and asked Alison to dinner, but neither the dark-haired woman nor his wife came up in conversation and she didn’t ask. If he wanted to tell her, he would.
After that, Tony kept taking Alison to nice places. He treated her with respect, at least most of the time. But even that situation went bad. She’d seen the signs but had ignored most of them, including the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach that the excitement she felt with him was wrong. He made her feel naked and vulnerable, even when she was fully clothed. She didn’t really trust him or her own instincts, so it was very confusing.
She and Tony agreed to meet at a hotel one Saturday night, and he was late. She put on the black teddy he’d sent her in the mail and stretched out on the purple velvet bedspread to read a magazine. When Tony walked in about an hour later, she asked him where he’d been. He slapped her face and pressed his fingers so hard into her shoulder that she cried out in pain.
“Don’t ever talk to me with that tone again,” he said in a low voice, his mouth a narrow slit.
He went outside to the balcony and lit a cigarette, then he called room service for a bottle of Dom Perignon. He drew a bubble bath and guided her into it. He seemed to be trying to make peace, but he never said he was sorry.
Tony was the first person she’d ever dated who smoked. He said it filled him up, made him feel whole. He was all nerves if he went too long without a cigarette. At least he chewed mints, which helped mask the dirty taste when they kissed.
Alison never told Tony she was leaving LA to go to beauty school in San Diego. She just stopped returning his calls and then disconnected her phone without leaving a forwarding number. Alison wished she’d gotten Tania’s input on the Tony situation.
Goode was quite a contrast to Tony. He made her feel safe, and not just because of the gun and the badge. He seemed like good boyfriend material.
She felt agitated, her mind suddenly spinning with images—Tony slapping her, then leaning against the balcony, smoking. Tania dancing with Seth. Goode leaning toward her as he asked his questions. She felt claustrophobic, as if the room had no air. Was there something to what Tony said about smoking? It seemed counterintuitive, but she decided to go buy a pack anyway. A walk in the cool night air would feel good, maybe even relax her a little.
She pulled on the jeans and turtleneck she’d been wearing before she took her bath and stepped into her ankle-high boots. To top off the outfit, she put on some “Burgundy Summer” lipstick.
The drugstore was about half a mile away. To avoid drunk skateboarders, she took a wide residential street parallel to Garnet, the main drag. The moon seemed even bigger from outside her apartment. It was a Super Moon, after all. She swore her hands were
gleaming.
Chapter 10
Goode
Goode reported the details of his conversation with Alison Winslow to Sergeant Stone as he was driving over to the Pumphouse bar in search of a Seth, Keith, J., or anyone else who’d seen Tania on Friday or Saturday night.
“You’re making good progress,” Stone said. “Keep it up, buddy.”
Pumphouse was only a few minutes from Tania’s and Alison’s apartments—not really far enough to take a cab. But then again Goode could understand why a woman wouldn’t want to walk the streets of Pacific Beach, which were crawling with young men, teeming with testosterone. He certainly didn’t like his sister living among them. He always worried that one would follow her home because she’d let him buy her a drink.
Goode parked a few blocks away. By the time he got to the bar, it was about ten o’clock. The green neon sign cast a cartoonlike incandescence over the sidewalk. As he opened the door, he heard the scratchy sound of skateboard wheels on pavement and scooted out of the way just in time. He felt a breeze as a kamikaze surf rat rode past him, jumped the curb onto the street, and skated away, his long, stringy hair flying behind him like the tail of a kite.
Ah, youth.
Inside, stools and round tables were clustered around the narrow dance floor, which skirted a stage that would comfortably fit a two-person band but likely would have to accommodate four and a drum set. The place had that fraternity house smell from so much stale beer seeping into the wooden floor that no amount of soap or wax could kill it. No one was playing at the two pool tables in the adjoining room. The lights were low and Patsy Cline was singing on the jukebox. The music was a little loud but Goode didn’t mind. He liked Patsy.
“I go out walking, after midnight, out in the moonlight, just hoping you may be somewhere a walking, after midnight, searching for me…”
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