He'd lined it all up: The videotaped testimony from my hearing at the park suggested I had a history of "stalking"; my subsequent firing suggested I had motive to get revenge on Jeffrey (by taking away the love of his life, just as he'd taken away the park from me); my reporter's notebook, confiscated at the time of my arrest, indicated I'd been following Melinda for weeks, noting her every move; my interviews with some of her neighbors and so forth reinforced the idea that my attentions had been "obsessive"; my being in the house at roughly the time of her murder, and the broken lock on the front door ... well, that seemed to speak for itself. Not good, any of it.
Obviously, Jeffrey killed her. Surely, you can see that. My part, as patsy, just made it a "perfect crime."
But nobody wanted to hear that.
The staff at the Carl's Jr. did not recall Jeffrey and me ever having eaten there, but why would they as it had been almost a month previous? The calls from Jeffrey to my home phone, the most recent of which had occurred the night before the murder, proved to have been placed from my own lost cell phone, which Jeffrey must have stolen from my apartment before initiating his plan.
My attorney advised me to cop a plea.
I told him to go to hell.
When the DA started rooting around in my past, things got no better. I still don't know how they thought they'd ever locate Mandy in Bangkok. She doesn't exactly work a desk in an office-besides, she's probably going by another name these days. That's how it works there. Just because immigration has no record of her ever exiting the U.S.A. doesn't mean she didn't go back, for God's sake. There are a million ways for girls to get around bureaucrats! I'd never have hurt Mandy, however much she hurt me. And who'd have guessed that the student I took such an interest in during my last year of teaching was shortly thereafter murdered? My sixth sense alerted me to her need for special protection. I was right! Do I get no credit for that? If the school district hadn't gotten in my way all those years ago, she might be alive today. Any inference now of my having killed her is ridiculous. Look, whose past wouldn't reveal unseemly coincidences if put under a microscope? Yours? I doubt it.
Maybe I'll cop a plea after all.
But let me ask you this: after all my years working in park security (which is a branch of law enforcement, after all), do you think I'm fool enough to commit a murder and leave every clue pointing to me? Of course not! Any true detective of the Sherlock Holmes ilk would understand that the vast number of details that seem to incriminate me, actually exonerate me! Besides, if I did kill poor Melinda, then much of this report is a pure fiction. Talk about fantasy-land! And knowing what you know about me, do you honestly believe I'm capable of making something like this up?
should have left the minute I gave it to him, should have just tossed the eviction notice across the doorstep and onto the cracked tiles of the old mansion's foyer. A smarter man would have hoofed right back to the Sentra and caught the car ferry off Balboa Island. Me? I stood there like the wideeyed fan I once was, rooted to the front steps of his formerly grand palace at the island's southern tip. I'd specifically asked for this delivery, just for the chance to meet somebody I once idolized. Now I was staring into the face of a faded nobody with the saddest eyes I'd ever seen. When he answered my knock, he looked like someone peering up from the bottom of a well.
"Been 'specting you," he said, slurring a bit.
"Wheels of justice don't turn so fast, but now you've got the paperwork. Court order came down yesterday."
I resisted the urge to apologize. I'd read everything ever written about him, including the entire bankruptcy file. He could only blame himself for this latest bit of unpleasantness. He'd never stopped living like the star he once was, even if the money ran out years ago. It showed. The fenders on the Porsche out front were rusted through and the canvas top was ripped in three places. The house was the choicest piece of real estate on this tony Newport Harbor refuge, but pretty run-down. His ex, the third, owned it now. The judge gave him twenty-four hours to vacate.
I looked at my watch. "Anyway, the sheriff'll be here this time tomorrow morning."
"Splendid."
He cinched the belt of his robe, raised his highball glass, swirled the ice, and took a sip of something thick and ambersomething completely wrong for 9:40 in the morning. His bony chest was unnaturally tan, almost orange, the hair on it white.
"Question for you, sir," he said. "Know anythin'bout dark matter?"
I'd seen my share of people in denial. I serve eviction notices for the Superior Court of Orange County, California. I am a $15.50-an-hour destroyer of worlds, the death messenger of the American Dream. Nothing surprises me-guys with guns, screeching women, unleashed dogs. It's why I carry pepper spray in a little holster on my belt. But this, this was the worst of it. I'd just delivered a final curb stomp to somebody who'd once meant a lot to me, somebody who'd obviously given up. What was I thinking when I asked to handle this one?
"Dark. Mat-ter," he repeated, working hard to enunciate.
I knew all about his eccentricities. Guy was one of the kings of cock-rock when he was, like, nineteen. So big even a teen dork like me played his first album to death. He was white-hot after that first record, the swaggering lead singer of the '70s band. Life was good. Spent millions on anything that moved-cars, horses, women. For years he kept exotic animals as house pets, and claimed some mystical connection to them-right up until Animal Control took them away after his panther killed a neighbor's dog.
Nothing lasts. The second album rose briefly, then sank to oblivion. The third? It was over. The band broke up. That was more than thirty-five years ago, half a lifetime of autograph shows, Behind the Music cameos, and the occasional Japanese royalty check. The passing harbor tour boats used to point out his house, but that stopped years ago. No one even called him for session work anymore, because of the drinking. I have this friend who works at TMZ, the celebrity scandal show. She said that during his latest divorce, his ex was shopping a videotape that showed him butt-naked on a lawn chair, pasty and late-life Baggy, getting blown by a Goth-looking high-school sophomore. Its release actually might have helped his career. But my friend told me the show had passed on the tape.
The executive producer didn't even recognize his name.
What do you do when you peak at nineteen? You move to Balboa Island, that's what. You fall down a well.
"Dark matter?" I said.
He stood up straight and squared his shoulders. "Astrophysics. Cosmology. C'mon, you know."
He swayed and bumped against the doorframe and motioned me closer, like he was about to share a secret. I stood my ground, but leaned in a little, near enough to smell the booze but far enough to cut and run if he was as drunk and nuts as he seemed. I also caught a whiff of something that made me think of a dirty litter box.
"Can't see dark matter," he said, "'s invisible. But it's there."
"Where?"
"All 'round its. Most of th' mass in th' observ-a-ble universe?" He grinned. "Dark matter."
"I'll be damned. And you can't even see it?"
That brought a somber shake of his head, still crowned by that goofy hair-metal cut, improbably black. "But y'see what dark matter does."
I took a small step backward. His breath was toxic. "Which is?"
He lit up. Perfect rows of bright white teeth split the weathered skin of his face. "Changes things. Affects things. See, mass has weight, and weight creates grrra-vi-ty." Took his time pronouncing each syllable of the word. "And grrra-vi-ty doesn't lie, man. Doesn't lie." Another wink. "C'mere. I'll show you."
With that he turned from the open door and scuffed down the hall, the soft soles of his UGG boots making a schik-schik- schik as he moved away. For some reason, don't ask me why, I followed. Say what you will about celebrity, but there's definitely something magnetic about it. Seductive. Dangerous. No one's immune. Maybe that's what he was talking about? Anyway, as soon as I stepped across his threshold I was thinking, Dude, you really gotta ask fo
r that raise.
More than eighty rehab facilities dot the Balboa Peninsula within a mile of this exclusive island; Southern California's celebrities like to dry out in tidy, well-appointed luxury, and by the beach. I'd never been inside one of those, but this place struck me as probably the exact opposite. Piles of stuff everywhere-books, clothes, newspapers. One side of the hall was just drywall, installed but never plastered or painted. The other side was '70s-era flocked wallpaper hung by an amateur. A classic Fender Strat with a snapped neck lay at the base of a stairway leading to a second story, its looping strings holding the pieces together like thin steel ligaments.
"Mind your way right here," he called back over his shoulder, sidestepping something. It looked like a mound of shit the size of a football.
When I got closer, I realized it was a pile of shit.
"Whoa," I said, and stopped.
"Cheers," he said, lifting the glass again as he moved off down the hall. "Best to let it air-dry a bit."
He waved me on, turning left toward a sun-filled room facing the harbor's main channel. "Right in here."
My father taught me caution in all things. He lived life by the Law of Worst Possible Consequences and communicated it to us daily. An unbuckled seat belt would lead directly to death. So would a carelessly placed skateboard, improperly inflated tires, or an incautious remark to the wrong cop. To be honest, it's probably why I gravitated to a career wreaking legal vengeance on people who live too close to the edge. Still, something irresistible was pulling me around the corner into the unknown, into a room filled with cast-off dorm furniture.
The space itself was a realtor's wet dream. Vast windows overlooked the main channel of Newport Harbor. Electric Duffy boats slid past, and the mast and mainsail of an enormous passing yacht briefly dominated the view. Here was a daily parade of all that the Good Life could offer, no longer within reach from this ringside seat.
No matter how ramshackle this castle, the thought of losing it must be torturing the king.
"Sweet," I said, crossing between a battered couch and a shredded La-Z-Boy recliner, which lay on its side in the middle of the room. It looked like a toy tossed aside by a giant child.
I joined him at one of the windows. "You've lived here a long time, right?"
He drained his drink before answering. "Three albums. Three marriages."
He turned away from the view and headed for the bar across the room. That's when I noticed her.
She was stretched out in a claw-footed tub, gray and glassy-eyed and naked except for a pair of strappy red-stiletto heels. Maybe early forties, with the look of a tired old groupie. She had stringy, damp blond hair on her head. The dark roots were the same color as the fluffy patch between her legs. He'd half-filled the tub with party ice he must have bought last night or early this morning at the 7-Eleven on the peninsula. A dozen crumpled plastic ice bags were piled at one end. Best guess: she hadn't been there long; for an ongoing obsession, he'd be using dry ice.
I tamped down my clutching fear. I'd never seen a dead body before.
"Sh-she may need help," I managed.
Absurd, I know. My other option was to just crap myself and run.
"Who?" he said, his back to me, pouring himself another drink.
I pointed to the tub even though he wasn't watching. "Her."
When he turned around, he was stirring his drink with the index finger of one hand. He did that for a long time without saying a word, without even looking at the chilling body in the middle of the room. Suddenly, he seemed to notice her.
"Hoo boy," he said, cheerful, as if he'd simply neglected to introduce her. "Dam'nest thing, that."
"She definitely doesn't look okay."
"Oh no. She's definitely not." He took a sip. "No par-medics necessary, 'm afraid."
Time to go. I sidestepped toward the hallway.
"Wait," he said. "Her ... this ... tha's not what I wanted to show you."
"Dude," I said, "this is seriously fucked up."
"I know!" he said. "She comes by th' house to party, then overdoses. Self-control's sush a problem with some people."
She didn't look like she'd been killed. No blood. No bullet wounds or knife holes. No bruises at her throat. Just the waxy gray corpse of a woman who'd stopped by to party.
On ice.
"When, um..."
"Lass night. She found my coke and jus' . . . overdid!"
"Jesus," I said. "I'm sorry."
"Me too! Terrific talent, that one." He winked. "Not a kid anymore, but she sure knew how to work it."
I struggled for words. "Sorry for your loss."
"But now y'see what I mean 'bout dark matter?"
I sidestepped again toward the hallway, quietly unsnapping the plastic holster of my pepper spray as I did. "Not really."
He reached into the pocket of his robe. When he pulled it out, I saw something black in his hand and swallowed hard. Who carries a gun in their bathrobe? Nobody sane. He seemed as surprised as I was to see it. He slid it back in and fished into the robe's other pocket. Whatever he pulled out of that he pointed across the room toward me. The widescreen beside me blinked to life.
A TV remote.
"DVD," he said, `°s a Science Channel thing on the cosmos or some such, 'bout dark matter. Been watching it all mornin', tryin' to sort this out. All this shit slidin' toward th' center, t'ward me. I mean, where do I go from here? M'whole comeback thing?" He nodded to the dead woman. "This'll complicate plans a bit."
A bit?
"You said it was an accident. I can't imagine they'd-"
He waved my words away like gnats. "So I'm listenin' to this show, about how dark matter's invisible, but y'know it's there cause it has gravity, 'cause it pulls things into its orbit. All sortsa things. And I'm thinking, see, how I'm sort of like dark matter."
I said nothing. He sensed my confusion.
"Shit happens, you know? To me. All the time. I always seem to land right in the middle of it. And I had this ..." He paused to enunciate. "... epi-phany. I just wanted t'show somebody."
I looked at my watch again. Made a point of doing so. "Really gotta get back."
"Won' take long. Wanna drink?"
"Can't."
"I told you to stay."
Those final words were hard and sharp enough to cut glass, scary, the dopey-drunk voice completely gone. I stared at him until something flashed in the corner of my eye. My first glance to the left registered nothing. The second registered something that didn't compute at all. Why would a full-grown Siberian tiger be standing in the doorway, right between me and the only way out of the room?
Things started to add up. The giant shit pile in the hall. The suffocating litter-box smell. Even the shredded La-Z-Boy, which I suddenly realized was just an overworked scratching post.
"Really need to get going," I said.
"Pussy, sit!" he called out.
The tiger didn't move, just kept its intense yellow eyes fixed on me. It filled the door frame.
"Sit!" he commanded.
I sat back on the window ledge, just in case he was talking to me. Slowly, the tiger sat. Head level. Ears back. Gaze steady.
"That's Pussy!" he said. "Raised 'er right here. Took'er in as an orphaned cub, had 'er a year." He wandered across the room and scratched the tiger between the ears. "Harmless old bird now. Mostly. No sudd'n moves, though. Big cats never lose those instincts. Don't want 'er thinkin yer a threat. Y'sure don' want her thinkin' yer wounded."
My body was flushed with primal juices. Every nerve was on fire. "It lives here?"
He shook his head. "Refuge. Up in Ventura. Snuck'er out yesterday and drove 'er down in my panel van, brought 'er in after dark." He gestured grandly around the room. "We lived here together once. Happy days, y'know, and I jus' wanted her to see the place again, b'fore ... well, you know."
"I see."
"Figured we'd spend a li'l time together before the big move." He held an index finger up to his pursed lips. "Don'
tell the neighbors."
"Not a word."
"Nice people, but they'd go apeshit. Always do." He tipped his glass toward the bathtub. "Course, now there's this situation."
"Complicated, like you said."
"I still generate a lot of grav'ty, even if I'm invisible."
"I'm sure you do." I don't know why, but I added: "I played AniMosity to death when I was a kid. Great album."
"Thanks."
I'd kicked into some weird survival mode, desperate to say anything that might get me out of this. He hadn't threatened me. I didn't think he was capable of violence. On the other hand, I was in a room with a dead groupie, a live tiger, and a desperate armed man who was drinking heavily before 10 a.m. Things were beyond weird already.
"I even liked the second album."
I instantly regretted my phrasing, but he smiled.
"Beastiary?" he said. "More mature, don' you think? Re cord company hated it. After that, they just bailed on the third record. No support a'tall."
"Bastards," I said. "For what it's worth, though, I bought Zoology too. Got all three."
"Appreciate that."
"You guys ever think about a fourth studio album? Reunion tour, maybe?"
"Never been that desp'rate."
"I'd love to see that. Lot of people would."
He drained the rest of his drink during the awkward silence, dumped the ice into the tub, and set the glass gently on the dead woman's pubic mound. When he turned back toward me, the look he gave me had the same edge I'd noticed in his voice.
"So I guess we have a l'il situation, then?" he said.
"Meaning?"
"You barged into m'house like some stalker-fan. You and this woman."
"You invited me ... Wait. Me and this woman?"
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