Goode had no idea what that last line meant. It was simply too esoteric. He jotted down Gregg’s name with the others, and wrote LA next to it. He felt empathy for Tania, unable to find someone to really satisfy her, physically and emotionally. Goode flipped through to an earlier section, written in the spring. The handwriting was cramped, as if she were feeling anxious. A man named Gary B. showed up in this entry, and a few later ones as well.
I know Mom thinks I’m throwing away a good college education by going into this beauty school. I can see it in her eyes. I keep telling her it’s important to learn the technical aspects of cosmetology, but also to get a business overview of the entire industry if I’m going to run a chain of salons. I’ve tried to explain how I see my future, but only Daddy seems to understand. I told him I would work at the ad agency through the summer, save some money, and start the program in San Diego this fall. After I finish, my plan is to take some hair styling seminars around Europe, then open a shop in Westwood. After that, I’ll open another one on Melrose. I’m going to be very, very rich, I can feel it… Mark came up to me at his parents’ anniversary party and whispered his usual, “Tania, you’re beautiful, I love you.” Mark is so nice, but I don’t like being needed like that. It’s suffocating. It’s been three long months and I feel like I’ve given it a fair chance. There’s a lot I want to do before I settle down. Like have an affair with Gary B. from Dobson & Gray. I don’t care if he is married. He is the sexiest older man I’ve ever met, especially his graying temples. On Tuesday, he came up to me at the elevator and told me my bubble bath copy made him feel warm all over. I caught him looking down at my shirt and noticed afterward that the top button had come undone so my black bra was showing. It made me feel sexy. I can tell he’ll know exactly what to do. We’re going to drive his little black Ferrari to that place in Malibu that’s right on the water.
Goode turned to the next entry where Gary B. was mentioned and thought maybe he was on to something:
They stopped for a while, but I got more of those weird phone calls last week. The guy whispered. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” The first one came Wednesday night about ten thirty. I was expecting Mom to call so I picked up rather than screen the call. I hung up on him, but he kept calling back. I replayed the messages, trying to figure out who it was and finally decided it was Gary B. Something about the intonation. He’s been acting really strange since I told him I wanted to date guys my own age. At first, he was pretty good in bed, but then he started to do stuff I wasn’t into. Like rip off my underwear, literally tearing it, even after I told him not to. But that only seemed to encourage him. The last straw was when he said he wanted me to slap him. Talk about a turnoff. What am I doing to attract these guys? I mean, I like sex, but not that kind. I think he was too much of a coward to ever hurt me. He just wanted to experience some pain. And I, being a sadist of sorts, refused to hurt him.
Goode made a mental connection between this entry and the ripped pair of panties he found in Tania’s trash. He did a quick Google on Dobson & Gray Advertising in LA, found an executive named Gary Bentwood, added the name to his LA list of contacts, with a star next to it. He’d definitely be paying that pervert a visit. He read on:
I got home after working late tonight, and I couldn’t sit still, so I drank a couple glasses of Cabernet before making dinner. I worked my ass off all summer for this agency, only to find out that the copy for the five shampoo ads I’ve been working on for weeks were mysteriously deleted from my computer. No one knows where the file went. Well, I know it was there Tuesday because I slaved over the last one for three solid hours. Someone is trying to sabotage me and I think it’s Sandy. I’m sure that dyed blonde bitch has been sleeping with Gary since we stopped seeing each other. She probably can’t stand the thought of me having been with him. Whatever. I could care less about the guy at this point. I have half a mind to go talk to Mr. Benson about it, and see if I can cause her some grief. I’ll probably just drop it, though, in case I need a reference.
After that, Goode decided to lie down on his bed and try to shut down his over-active brain. He let his eyes roam over the rows of tiny holes in the ceiling tiles, his version of counting sheep. He pictured Tania, her black bra showing. A man ripping her shirt off. Lying on the bathroom floor, touching herself. Goode tried to push the images away. He didn’t want to feel aroused by the words of a homicide victim. But he couldn’t help it.
Chapter 11
Alison
Alison had walked three blocks east when she heard two faint male voices half a block behind her. The voices fell silent after she turned around to see where they were coming from. She could see two figures in white T-shirts against the night, but she couldn’t make out their faces. An abrupt ratta-tat-tat sound coming from their direction, like a stick being dragged along a ribbed metal fence, startled her. But it was the swagger, the baseball caps, and the outline of baggy pants that really frightened her. She thought she’d escaped gang violence by leaving the San Fernando Valley. She never expected to find gangs roaming the coastal streets of San Diego.
She’d read that predators chose victims who smelled of fear and vulnerability so she increased her pace and kept her head high, hoping to convey confidence and strength. Turning right at the next corner, she headed toward Garnet, where she would feel safer, walking under the bright streetlights. Only she hadn’t realized it was a good three blocks away. As the young men drew closer behind her, their steps quickened and their stick banging grew more insistent.
For all she knew, Tania could’ve been taking a walk like this, on her way to the convenience store for a diet soda, when someone jumped her and dragged her into the bushes. They could’ve raped her, flung her into a lowrider car and dumped her in that alley.
Alison picked up the pace and fought the urge to face her assailants, even if it was just to see how close they were. She pounded the pavement with her boots, hoping she sounded like a force to contend with, and began chanting, silently, in time with her steps.
Don’t be scared. Don’t be scared.
One of them, a short, scrawny kid about fifteen, caught up and fell in step next to her, his floppy pant legs rubbing against each other as he walked. She recoiled as his shoulder touched her bare arm. He was carrying a super-size can of cheap beer in his hand and who knew what else in his pockets. She’d heard once that San Diego County once had the world’s largest market for methamphetamine, which provided a far less expensive and longer lasting high than cocaine.
“Hey, lady,” he said in a singsong voice with a Latin accent.
A moment later, the second boy was on her other side, inserting his tall, string-bean body between her and the street, and blocking her only chance to run away. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him swinging a baseball bat like a cane, but she kept her eyes focused straight ahead. She didn’t want to say something wrong, but she also didn’t want to anger them by saying nothing.
“What, you think you’re too good to talk to me, lady?” the first one asked, leaning into her. A strong waft of beer breath hit her as if she’d been sprayed by a skunk. She was so allergic to beer that she’d been hospitalized the last time she drank some.
“No,” Alison said hoarsely. The inside of her mouth felt dry, as if someone had wiped it with a paper towel.
“I’m looking for a pretty lady to go party with. So’s my homeboy, Frankie, here. You looking for a party?”
“No,” Alison rasped. She could see the headlights of cars cruising down Garnet now. Only two more blocks to go.
“Hey, lady, why you walking so fast? My friend here is just trying to conversate with you,” Frankie said in a nasal, slurry voice. The short one had fallen behind.
“I got to stop, Frankie,” he whined. “I’m going to barf.”
“Shit, dog, I’m trying to get something going, here,” Frankie said, stopping in his tracks and pounding the end of his bat on the cement as if he were staking a claim.
Alison heard th
e short boy retching but didn’t look back.
“Dog, you are disgusting,” Frankie grunted.
Alison stepped off the curb and hustled across the street like a speed-walker straining to cross the finish line. The voices of the two boys arguing in Spanish frustrated tones receded as she got further away.
She was free.
By the time Alison finally reached Garnet, she was shaking. She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the bright lights of the Kentucky Fried Chicken on the corner. Safety was waiting up ahead in the drugstore, although the cigarette mission now seemed irrelevant.
Trying to calm down, Alison stood motionless in front of the magazine racks, staring at the shelves of airbrushed women. She would take a taxi home, smoke cigarettes on the balcony and paint her nails bright red to some more Billie Holiday, she decided. She picked out some polish and proceeded to the checkout counter, where she had to make a brand-name decision for cigarettes. She settled on Camel Lights, the kind Tony smoked.
Outside the store’s double doors, she tried to light a match, but the wind promptly extinguished it. She turned her back on the breeze and wrapped her hands around the cigarette, like she’d seen Tony do. It worked on the third try. The smoke burned her throat and made her cough, but it got easier with each pull. Soon, the rhythm of her breathing had lulled her into a more comfortable realm of sanity. She smoked the cigarette down to the butt, then tossed it into the wet gutter, where it landed with a pish sound as the embers went out. She flagged down a taxi and ignored the driver’s glare when she told him she was only going a few blocks.
Back at her apartment Alison sat on her cold cement balcony, and lit another cigarette. She still had not achieved that comfort or that fullness Tony had described. A dwarf evergreen, potted in a red clay tub on the balcony across the courtyard, caught her eye. Bathed in a golden light from the lamp mounted on the wall above it, the tree and its setting resembled a Japanese painting, each stroke expressing the calculated precision of nature. It seemed so clear now: Everything was going to be all right.
Detective Goode’s face and his deep, comforting voice popped into her mind. She’d gotten lost in that voice while they were talking before, coming out of it only when he asked if she was okay. She’d said yes, but truthfully, she’d been feeling a bit overwhelmed. Her thoughts had been racing so fast that she couldn’t really focus on what he was saying, especially when his eyes seemed to see straight into her brain. His intense gaze made her feel naked and vulnerable. But in a good way.
Alison could tell Goode was a passionate person, about his job anyway. She pictured him rubbing a woman’s back with massage oil like the detective in the last video she rented. She particularly enjoyed the movies with plot descriptions that used words like “obsession,” “seduction” and “betrayal,” and featured main characters like the tough cop and the woman in trouble. He’d have a great body and a problem with relationships; she’d be forced into hiding from her husband’s killer. The cop usually ended up in bed with her, fell in love (or maybe just lust, it was so hard to tell), then risked his job and his life trying to protect her. Of course, their coupling was forbidden because she was a witness, or worse yet, a suspect. But the tension always grew and, if it were a good movie, it delivered a clever twist at the end. Things usually didn’t work out between the cop and the woman. Too much baggage. Alison sighed.
I wonder if Ken Goode will let me help him solve Tania’s murder.
She looked over at the tree again, and, as fast as it had come, the clarity disappeared and the little tree returned to its earthly state. It was, most likely, a stunted plant, starved of water and food by some junior executive with too few hours in the day. Alison stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette on the cement and threw the butt over the railing into the courtyard below. She felt a little lightheaded, her tongue was coated with a sticky film, but she no longer felt the urge to paint her nails Red Red Red.
Chapter 12
Goode
Monday
Goode paddled his surfboard toward the horizon over the undulating waves at Black’s Beach, a nude beach that was also frequented by surfers wearing full wet suits. The sun was rising, the sky was brightening, and the fish were chattering in an odd high-pitched sound as they retreated to the ocean’s depths to retreat from the light. A good swell was coming in.
Goode was riding a wave into shore when he hit something so hard that the impact knocked him off his board. When he came up for air, he saw a woman’s body floating, alabaster white, her blue lips bobbing in and out of the water. He turned her head toward him to see her face. It was Tania, her eyes open in a wide, blank stare. Goode hoisted her onto his board and used his bungee cord to tow her in.
Three uniformed officers, leaning against a patrol car, were waiting for him on the sand. With no driveway in sight, he had no idea how they’d gotten the cruiser to the bottom of those steep cliffs. But before he could say anything, one of them handcuffed his wrists together.
“Wait, I’m a police officer, off duty—” he tried to explain.
“Hold the bullshit,” the fat older one said as they all shook their heads with disbelief or disapproval.
The older one metamorphosed into the homicide lieutenant, Doug Wilson, who tried to push Goode into the back of the cruiser, banging the detective’s head into the frame in the process. As Goode struggled to break free from Wilson’s grip, the lieutenant tied a dirty tube sock around Goode’s neck, so tight he couldn’t breathe. Why didn’t Wilson recognize him? As hard as he tried to scream, no sound would come out.
Goode woke up to find that he’d twisted himself up in the sheet, which had gotten coiled around his neck.
No wonder I can’t breathe, he thought groggily. Coffee is evil. It makes me sleep so fitfully. I really need to cut back on the caffeine.
The alarm clock read five thirty. He’d slept for four hours, but it felt like a lot less. He popped a couple of extra-strength painkillers.
Sergeant Stone once told him that the department frowned on any homicide detective who went surfing during the first few days of a murder investigation because he was supposed to be working around the clock. But Stone he also said that if a detective really needed to go surfing, he simply shouldn’t admit to having done so. Given the dream, though, Goode wasn’t all that upset about going without.
Rolling out of bed feeling achy and disoriented, he cocked his head to each side, trying to get the kinks out. As he shuffled into the bathroom to turn on the shower and let the water heat up, the smell of freshly brewed coffee floated in, beckoning him into the kitchen to pour some. His resolve had lasted what, two minutes?
Lighten up. This is not the time to try to quit coffee.
He’d forgotten that he’d set the timer on the coffee machine to 5:20 A.M. the night before. Still, Goode vowed to drink only two cups. He poured himself a mug-full, with generous helpings of milk and pale yellow grains of Demerara sugar.
By then the shower was just the right temperature, so he hopped in and felt himself start to wake up. He rubbed the soap into his chest and wondered why the older he got, the hairier he got. Everywhere but his head. Goode let himself stay in a little longer than he should have, letting the water stream into his face, and massage his tight upper back and tense shoulders. Forcing himself out, he dried off and wiped a circular opening in the steam on the mirror. He was in decent shape, worked out at the gym three times a week, and surfed as much as he could, but his body didn’t look as good as it used to. He turned to the side and pinched a small roll of loose flesh on either side.
How can you have love handles with no loving?
He knew he needed to do more sit-ups on the incline bench, but he just hated doing them. Leaning in toward the mirror, he pulled at the skin around his eyes. The wrinkles were getting deeper from being in the sun so much. As he ran a comb through his hair he noticed it was a little thinner on top than the last time he looked. He kept it long, below the collar, to fit in with the drug users, but h
e knew he couldn’t carry it off forever.
God, you’re as vain as a woman. Not good.
From reading Tania’s journal, Goode got the impression that she liked older men. He could tell she particularly liked sexual guys with a dark side—like him. At least that’s what Miranda used to tell him. Goode shook his head at his reflection.
“Get over yourself,” he said. Sometimes, he wondered who was steering the chariot in which he was riding.
Goode slapped on a thick layer of antiperspirant in anticipation of a long day that likely would turn into two. He pulled on some sweat pants and a T-shirt, hoping a quick walk on the beach would help calm his stomach so he could choke down some steak and eggs. If he didn’t have time to go surfing, at least he could check out the waves, and mentally sort through his leads.
Heading west toward the beach from his place, a guest cottage behind a fairly large house, he came up with his game plan. He would talk to Seth and Keith at the real estate office and try to track down the cab driver who had taken Tania home. London had promised to print out a list of the contacts from her cell phone for him this morning, with a binder of her recent emails and texts soon to follow. As soon as he had those in hand, he would ask Slausson and Fletcher to help him cross-reference her contacts with the short list of names from the diary and run down some of these characters.
Naked Addiction Page 10
