by Chris Rogers
“My contact at the Sex Crimes unit said Coombs was worked over pretty good,” Dixie said. “Won’t talk about what happened. Just stares out the window, eyes as empty as Saturday night beer bottles.”
“That man deserved whatever he got,” Belle said evenly.
“You won’t hear any argument from me.” Dixie hesitated. “Have you talked to Brenda?”
“It’s only eight A.M.—I’ve barely had my morning coffee.”
“Coombs’ acquittal hit her hard, harder than any case she’s lost in a while.”
Belle was silent a moment, then, “Benson has better sense than to be part of a revenge mob, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
That was the idea Dixie’d been resisting. “But she might know who did it.”
Any involvement could put a rude end to Brenda’s career. More important, it signaled a need for professional counseling. For ten years Dixie had walked in the same shoes her friend wore now. She knew the frustration of watching one scuzzball after another thumb his nose at justice, knew how it could eat at you. You felt responsible, even though the verdict was out of your hands. You felt embarrassed that a system you worked so hard to uphold had failed. You felt a burning rage against the judge and jury, and a raging need to see justice done, even if it meant putting your own gun to the scuzzball’s head and blasting him into the ozone. If Dixie hadn’t walked away from the job when she did, hadn’t bottled up the bitterness and pushed it into a cold, dark chamber of her heart, she might herself have wreaked vengeance on Lawrence Coombs.
Maybe she’d given Brenda the wrong advice last night. Perhaps she should’ve recognized the level of her friend’s frustration, encouraged her to quit the system while she could still face herself in the mirror.
Changing the subject, Dixie asked Belle, “Can you get copies of those mash notes Joanna Francis received in LA?”
“Already done—but I have an investigator on that part, Flannigan. Your job is to keep Sarina safe.”
“What’s the harm in my taking a look? Find the stalker—everybody’s safe.”
“Okay. I’ll leave the copies at the front desk.”
“Is Joanna’s L.A. lawyer doing anything at all to identify this guy?”
“Surveillance. They had someone watching both Joanna and Sarina.”
“Did you read the other notes?”
“Briefly. Why?”
“Did any of them mention a face-to-face meeting?”
“They all hint at it, saying things about destiny, divine union, that sort of thing. This last one is the most specific.”
Dixie wondered if Joanna’s change in location had fueled the stalker’s passion or merely offered a favorable time to arrange a meeting.
“While I’m chauffeuring Sarina to dental appointments, who’s guarding her mother?”
“Joanna refuses to have a personal bodyguard. Her only concern is her daughter’s safety. Until Sarina was threatened, only Joanna and her agent knew about the notes.”
“I don’t feel good about this. You know how much I hate personal protection of high-profile targets.” No matter how vigilantly you guarded a person, a determined assassin would eventually find a moment of opportunity. And nine times out of ten the principal made the job tougher by refusing to take simple precautions.
“You’re the best insurance that girl could have for the money, Flannigan.”
“For the money?”
“You know what I mean. Joanna’s budget doesn’t approach the national security allotment for protecting the president. I hired the best person for the job.”
“Save the faint praise, Ric. Just get me everything the LA attorney has compiled on this bozo writing the love notes. At least I only have to brat-sit for four days.” The sooner Joanna Francis and her weird daughter flew back to Glitter City, the better Dixie would like it. The longer the job, the greater the chance of something going wrong.
“Ummm, about those four days …” Belle left the sentence hanging.
“What about them?”
“Dixie, I’ve got another call—”
“What about them?”
“Last night’s rain flooded the area where part of the shoot was to take place. They’re filming other scenes while searching for a new location, but this could add a couple of days to the original time frame.”
“A couple of days? That would cut into the weekend.” But Belle had already hung up. “Coward,” Dixie muttered to the dead phone.
She cradled it just as Sarina emerged from the treatment room showing off her puppet to the hygienist. Sarina moved a lever, and the creature reached out one rubbery hand to stroke the woman’s arm. She laughed, obviously impressed.
In the parking lot the two gray Camrys had multiplied to three, none of them occupied. Circling the block twice, Dixie assured herself no one was following, and minutes later the red Porsche was back on the expressway headed to Belle’s office in the Transco Tower. After she picked up the file of threatening notes, Dixie intended to drop by the DA’s office for a heart-to-heart with Brenda, maybe take the prosecutor to lunch. Eventually, Joanna’s cultural attractions list would have to be tackled, and sometime during the day, Dixie hoped to squeeze in a visit to the foot doc, talk him into removing the cast.
“Where’s Greenspoint?” Sarina asked.
“About fifteen minutes north of downtown. Why?”
“My next appointment is near Greenspoint.”
“Not another dentist?” The kid’s teeth sparkled; her gums looked pink and healthy.
“No, not a dentist.” She clicked on the radio and began punching buttons.
Dixie grimaced. Getting information from this imp was harder than milking a porcupine.
Finding a rap station, Sarina adjusted the bass and began drumming the dash.
“When do you have to be at this unspecified place near Greenspoint?” Dixie asked her.
“Eleven-thirty.”
Terrific. Time enough to stop at Belle’s office for the file, but not enough time to lunch with Brenda.
The rap song ended, and Sarina punched another button.
“—Lawrence Coombs is under police protection pending investigation of the eye-for-an-eye beating—”
Dixie caught Sarina’s hand. “Wait, I want to hear this.”
“—as yet Coombs has not given police a description of the assailants dubbed by one officer as ‘Avenging Angels.’ Meanwhile, a verdict is expected later today in the Carrera versus Carrera civil case”
“This is one wild and crazy town,” Sarina said. “Avenging Angels?”
“You don’t have violence in L.A.?”
“Violence, sure, but—”
“Isn’t Hollywood where Charlie Manson, the bogeyman of the century, ran amuck? And what about the Saldana thing? Or the Menendez murders?”
“Yeah, it’s creepville, all right. Mother fired our gardener last year because he was ‘acting strange.’” Sarina made a leering, grotesque face framed by twisted, menacing hands. Then she changed the radio station to drum along with another song that defied rhythm.
Dixie parked in the Galleria Mall garage, across the street from the Transco Tower. A gray Camry passed and continued to another level. Dixie jotted down the license number, but she’d already decided she was being paranoid. With so many freeways crisscrossing Houston, tailing somebody was difficult enough when you knew the routes. An L.A. stalker would’ve gone nuts trying to stay on the Porsche’s tail this morning.
She checked the dash clock. With luck, she could be in and out of Belle’s office in ten minutes, take another ten to drop by Brenda’s for a brief chat, and still make Sarina’s eleven-thirty appointment.
“I’ll stay in the car.” Sarina reached for the cell phone. “I need to make a call.”
“You can make it from inside. Come on.”
“You’ll only be in there a couple minutes, right? I’ll keep the doors locked.” She punched numbers on the dial pad.
“Sarina. Put it dow
n and come on.”
“What can happen in broad daylight in a locked car?”
“I’m not interested in finding out.”
The girl stared, as if Dixie had sprouted a second head.
“You’re kidding about this, aren’t you, Flannigan? You’re not really telling me we’re going to be joined at the hip until Friday!”
“Ms. Flannigan. And no, Sarina, I’m not kidding. For the next four days I’ll stick to you like toilet paper to a fresh cut. My job is to keep you out of trouble until you fly back to L.A., where another chump can take over, maybe let you sit alone in a car in a public parking garage. Until that happens, you and I, as you say, are joined at the hip.”
“But—”
“Sarina!”
“Hey, all right, Ms. Flannigan. Don’t weird out.”
She slapped the phone down and climbed out of the car.
They took the skywalk across the street, rode an elevator to the twenty-third floor, scooped up the file, and were back in the Porsche without incident in nine minutes, Dixie feeling slightly abashed about their dispute. Yet she had to make the kid understand up front that even the smallest breach of security was unacceptable. Otherwise, the girl would make life hell during the coming days. Protecting a cooperative principal was tough enough; guarding a target who didn’t want to be guarded was a nightmare.
But Dixie didn’t like the heavy silence that hung between them.
“You can call me Dixie,” she said, steering the Targa toward downtown.
“Is that a Southern thing?” Sarina drawled. “Ah mean, is Dixie like a nickname or the appellation on yore burth certificate?”
Dixie ignored the kid’s sarcasm—she couldn’t help being a Hollywood brat. But few people knew Dixie’s real name. When the Flannigans adopted her, they’d insisted she keep her given name out of respect for her birth mother. Later, changing it hadn’t seemed important enough to bother with the paperwork. After all, her full moniker appeared only on her driver’s license and other legal documents.
“My birth certificate says I’m Desiree Alexandra.” She tossed the kid a shamefaced grin. Maybe sharing what was essentially a minor embarrassment would loosen up communications. “Could you look at this mug and say Desiree Alexandra without cracking up?”
“Well—” Still the sarcastic drawl. “It is sweet enough to make mah teeth ache.”
“I think my mother pictured me in pink organza on the sweeping lawn of a Southern mansion, mint julep in one hand, ruffled parasol in the other, and a dozen suitors at my feet.”
“You mean, she didn’t expect you to grow up to be a bodyguard?”
“Even I didn’t expect me to grow up to be a bodyguard.” Not to mention a bounty hunter. “I wanted to be Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.”
“So what happened?” Sarina had dropped the sarcasm, but was fiddling with her rod puppet, apparently losing interest.
Dixie shrugged. “Life happened.”
Surprised to find a parking meter within a block of the courthouse, she whipped in, telling Sarina to stay put until she circled to the passenger side of the car. Security inside a deserted parking garage hadn’t bothered her nearly as much as out here in the open where an assailant could be anyone who passed. Gray cars in every direction. She hadn’t spotted a Camry, but the street was teeming with traffic, as were the cross streets. Who could tell?
Sarina waited without comment while Dixie scanned the area, then she motioned the girl out. As they walked, Dixie instinctively took the side nearest the street.
Inside the courthouse, she surrendered the .38. Even with a carry permit, the law forbids weapons in courtrooms, except on cops. The guard also took the Kubaton from her key chain. It might be only a six-inch cylinder of hard plastic, but in the right hands it was lethal.
As they waited their turn at the receptionist’s desk in the busy sixth-floor office suite, District Attorney Sonny Grossman sidled out of his cave.
“What brings you in from the farm, Dix?” He shook hands, giving hers a discreet squeeze.
She and Sonny had engaged in a brief, unspectacular romance after she quit the system, him teasing her constantly about going soft. He’d been supportive when she took up skip tracing, but there remained a mild sexual tension between them.
“I have some questions for Brenda. She around?”
“On the phone a minute ago.” Grossman glanced at Sarina. Dixie introduced them without giving the girl’s pedigree. “I can flag Brenda down, if it’s important.”
“No, I’ll wait a few minutes. She seemed upset after Coombs’ acquittal. How’s she doing now?”
“Treated the whole department to breakfast this morning.” He nodded toward an orange juice carton and an open box of pastries. “I’d say she’s taking it fine. Besides, Coombs didn’t exactly escape justice, did he?”
“Any idea who worked him over?”
“If I did, I’d send a thank-you note.” He looked at Sarina. “You didn’t hear me say that, miss.”
“Hear you say what, sir?” Sarina mugged a look of doltish innocence and wandered over to forage for pastries in a blue and white package mottled with grease spots.
“Astute kid,” Grossman commented. “Cute, too. Where’d you find her?”
Dixie mentally debated how much she could say without infringing on her client’s privilege. News of Joanna Francis arriving in town had already made the papers, and Belle hadn’t mentioned that Sarina’s presence was a secret. Anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to have Grossman alerted, in case the greeting card stalker tried anything more serious than an occasional love note. She briefed Grossman quickly. Then he spotted someone he needed to talk to and was gone. Dixie poured a cup of coffee from a stale-smelling pot. Pondering whether she really wanted to drink it, she saw Brenda approaching, her smile as radiant as her hair.
“Hey, sport. Are you recovered from our game?” The prosecutor looked fresh and vibrant in a brown tweed jacket and tan skirt. No telltale circles under her eyes.
“As a matter of fact, I’m ready for the rematch. How about right now?”
Brenda laughed. “I can appreciate that you might want to get even, but next week will have to do.”
She didn’t look like a woman riddled with remorse, Dixie noted. She motioned her friend away from the receptionist’s eager ears.
“So, what happened last night?”
“What do you mean, what happened?”
“Regan and Clarissa. I left you cooling an argument.”
“Oh, that. We had a long talk, a couple of beers, and a few laughs.” Brenda shrugged, still smiling.
“How many are a couple?”
“Not enough to need a designated driver. What are you getting at?”
“The Coombs beating. Those two women were upset enough before they started drinking. You don’t think … maybe … they decided to teach him a lesson?”
Brenda’s smile faded only slightly. “I’m smart enough not to wonder.”
“Brenda, wrong is wrong—”
“Listen, kiddo, I have work to do. Catch you later.” She turned abruptly and headed back down the hall, a spring in her walk that had definitely been absent the evening before.
“Thursday,” Dixie called. “Defense class. It’s your turn to be the poor dumb bastard attacker.”
Brenda looked back long enough to flash her radiant smile and a quick thumbs-up, then continued down the hall.
Chapter Fourteen
The road to Sarina’s eleven-thirty appointment degenerated from pavement to gravel to graded dirt, the Porsche picking up road grime with every mile. Dixie watched for the gray Camry, but if it followed, the driver had to be damned good. Finally, at a pocket of undeveloped land a good five miles east of Greenspoint Mall, the address Sarina had supplied materialized.
“This is it?” Dixie asked. The building looked deserted.
Two-story, windowless aluminum, it jutted among colossal pines that shrouded the late-morning sun. The ground had tur
ned marshy from last night’s rain, which threatened to start again as she and Sarina picked their way along a broken concrete path. Sarina hurried ahead.
“Are you sure this is the right address?” Dixie called after her. A sign to the right of the metal door said STONED TOAD PRODUCTIONS.
“Its the right place. I’m expected.” Sarina pushed the doorbell. Inside the building a buzzer brayed.
“Why would your mother send you way to heck and gone out here?” A car passed on the road. Dixie looked uneasily through the trees.
“She didn’t send me.”
“What do you mean?” This mysterious appointment wasn’t on Joanna’s list, but then neither was the dentist.
“Mother doesn’t know. If she hadn’t hired you to protect me, I’d have taken a taxi.”
“A taxi would’ve dumped you at the last turn. If those rain clouds open up, we’ll be hubcap-deep in mud.” Dixie counted to ten, reminding herself this wasn’t really the kid’s fault; all teenagers were handicapped with pubescent brain damage. “Sarina, tell me what’s going on here.”
The girl scuffed her feet on the gravel-studded concrete, her gaze riveted to the silent building.
“You can’t tell my mother!”
“You know I won’t promise that.”
“She’ll weird out, and this is really no big deal.”
“If it’s no big deal, why all the mystery? What is this place?”
Sarina pushed the bell again, as if hoping someone would rush out to rescue her.
“Sarina.”
“A cinefex studio. Alroy Duncan”—she said the name reverently—“creator of only the best innovations since Spielberg—well, small-time stuff, but good—sort of invited me to visit his studio.”
“Sort of invited you?”
“I met him when he came to the premier of Devil’s Walk. Soon as I heard we were coming to Houston, I called, and Duncan said sure, come on by.”
“Cinefex? As in special effects? Close Encounters? E.T.? Titanic?” Dixie had heard that film production companies were sprouting in Texas faster than bluebonnets, but this was the first she’d heard of a “cinefex” house in Houston.
“The only way to learn effects, see, is by doing it, inventing as you go, or finding someone who’ll take you on as an apprentice.”
