The Crime Writer (aka I See You) (2007)

by Gregg Hurwitz

  "Throw my ass in jail."

  "It would be a mistake to take this as a bluff, Danner."

  "Why don't you come get the gun tonight?"

  Kaden covered the mouthpiece for a murmured consult, then said, "We're outside Morton Frankel's apartment."

  I felt a surge of excitement at having managed to get the proper authorities, or at least authorities, on what I hoped was the proper trail. If Delveckio and Frankel knew each other already, would Kaden pick up on it? What would he do even if he did?

  "Is he there?" I asked.

  "He is. We're gonna take him in for interrogation."

  "Break him."

  "We will. We're gonna sit on his pad for a few hours first."

  "Why wait?"

  "See if he gets up to anything. Plus, they're softened up when you wake them."

  I recalled SWAT crashing my house at 4:00 a.m., dragging my discombobulated ass from bed.

  "I doubt Mort softens significantly."

  "Either way he'll know we're keeping an eye now."

  "I'll sleep soundly."

  "Try not to murder anyone while you're doing it."

  Now that I knew Frankel was taken care of for a few hours, I called Caroline, apologized for running late, and asked if she would like to come over. She agreed hesitantly, which I took as progress. I would've liked to have cooked, but my excursion to the crime lab had left me short on time, so I cruised down the hill to Simon's Cafe. The eponymous owner, dapper, gray-haired, and with a black mustache, is everything you want a chef to be. A septualingual Moroccan export by way of Haifa, he makes a borek of three blended cheeses that, with its pickled lemon garnish, will make you speak in tongues. I ate at Simon's last with Genevieve, a late-night dinner that left us stumbling, food drunk, into the warm Valley air afterward.

  Diners are used to people-watching in L.A., and I took note of the heads rotating to observe my entrance. I approached the counter, mindful of the whispers, and paid for my order.

  The familiar restaurant effaced the ten months since I'd seen Genevieve to what felt like hours. Our split, though not nasty, had been sharp with unspoken resentments, and we'd barely spoken afterward. It occurred to me that Genevieve had likely changed in my absence, the accelerated transformation people make after a breakup. The Genevieve I knew may not have been the one who died. A talk-show shrink I watched once ventured that people either get healthier or sicker emotionally as they grow older. They never stay the same. Under the conditions of this psychological parlor game, which route had Genevieve gone?

  As I left with my to-go bags swinging about my knees, a woman met me at the door. Her face, wrinkled severely, looked more anguished than angry. "You shouldn't be on the streets."

  I smiled politely. "How else will I find Nicole Simpson's killer?"

  I zipped home, leaving the packages on the kitchen counter and walking through the house clicking on lights and whistling for Xena.

  The shredded remains of several of my throw pillows were strewn through the living room. Tufts of stuffing had settled about the carpet and in the fireplace.

  My house had been searched? Again? For what?

  A strand of toilet paper ran from the powder room, across the entryway and living room, disappearing into the dark family room. I drew the pistol and turned on the light. The couch itself had been massacred, the suede torn to pieces. I followed the toilet paper around the ottoman to where Xena lay, snoring contentedly, the end of the two-ply strip in her drooling mouth.

  I lowered the gun, surveyed the damage. "Glad your fangs work for something."

  She awoke at my voice and scrambled to her feet, licking my hand, then followed me around contritely as I cursed and picked up the larger clumps of fabric.

  As I plated dinner, I called Hope House and got Junior on the line.

  "I gotta return Xena."

  "You can't return no dog."

  "She chewed up half my house."

  "Homes, she just upset you leave her all day. You gots to think of your responsibilities."

  I paused from setting the table. "My responsibilities?"

  "Thass ride. I come talk to her, homes. Thass all you need."

  "I'm dropping her off. First thing tomorrow."

  "Where? Here? I can't do nuthin' with her."

  "Then we'll take her back to your cousin's."

  "That wasn't my cousin."

  "Of course not. I'm coming tomorrow morning. With the dog.

  And we're dropping her somewhere or I'm taking her to the pound." I hung up and looked at Xena. The ropy strands of saliva dangling from either jowl made her look doleful. "I'm just bluffing. I would never take you to the pound."

  As I was lighting the candles on the table, my phone rang.

  Junior said, "Look, homes, you wanted to know about Ms. Caroline. I tell you about Ms. Caroline."

  "What about her?"

  "Her face. I heard my probation officer tell the story. I was in the hallway, but he leave the door open. Ms. Caroline used to work in a prison. Assessments, all that. I guess she was on the rapist ward when a riot broke out in another wing. Guards took off to help. They did a lockdown but forgot she was in there. Trapped in with a buncha rapers. For days, homes. They pulled a train on her, cut up her face good. You know what a train is?"

  My throat was dry, so the words stuck at first. "I do."

  "She was barely alive when they found her. But she lived. That's how tough Ms. Caroline is." His tone changed back to the cheery fourteen-year-old. "Now will you keep Xena?"

  "Good-bye, Junior." I stood over the table, the match burning down to my fingers. I shook it out and sat, watching the smoke curl and dissipate. The doorbell rang.

  I took a moment, smoothed my shirtsleeves, and answered.

  Caroline stood at the edge of the porch, gazing up at the house's exterior. She wore jeans and a black button-up with cuffs, the pashmina thrown across her shoulders matching her eyes as if the designer had pulled the color from them.

  She looked at me, her smile vanishing. "You found out what happened to me." She leaned in close. "There's a change around the eyes. Like pity, but worse." She turned and started walking away.

  I caught her at the curb, already in her car, about to swing her door closed.

  "Let's make a deal," I said.

  She stopped but kept her grip on the handle.

  "Let's for one night suspend all awkwardness and nervousness between us. Let's just put it on hold and eat and talk and see what that feels like."

  "Easy enough for you."

  "Let's not be arrogant."

  "You're a fine one to talk."

  She closed the door. I knocked on the window.

  "If you drive away, you're gonna feel bad," I said. "It's just a familiar brand of bad."

  "I like my brand of bad."

  "So it's gotta go this way, huh?"

  She seemed to collapse into anger. "You want to play Prince Charming and rescue me from my tragic predicament? Well, I would say get in line, but I've scared away the rest of the line. And I'll scare you away, too. So why don't we just skip it and save ourselves some time?"

  "Hey," I said, sharply enough that she jerked back to face me. "I know what it's like to have people afraid of you. So drive off, fine, but don't kid yourself into thinking you're the only person drawing the wrong kind of stares in public."

  She squealed out from the curb, and I had to step back to keep my foot from getting run over.

  I walked inside. Xena cocked her head, regarding me quizzically.

  "Sometimes grown-ups fight," I told her.

  I blew out the candles. Recorked the wine. Started to clear the dishes when the doorbell rang. She was holding her hands clasped at her stomach, as if it hurt, and her face was flushed except at the scars.

  "Do you mind if I come in?"

  "I'd love you to."

  She came, not bothering to take in the view, and sat at the table. I took the chair opposite her.

  "The facts are al
ways less scary," she said. "More containable."

  "When you can find them."

  "What did you discover? About me?"

  I told her.

  She said, "It was a correctional institute, not a prison. An interview room with a door that didn't lock. There were three of them. Men. They were territorial toward the others, kept them out. It wasn't days. It lasted two hours and forty-two minutes." She kept her gaze unflinchingly on mine, reading my face. I did my best not to show any reaction but probably failed. She leaned forward so I could feel her faint breath across my cheeks. "Hey," she said, "at least I got syphilis out of it."

  I studied her for a long time, thinking how she'd like to have me go running around my living room with my arms waving over my head.

  Instead I said, "How about a drink?"

  "I'm not going to talk about it with you. Not details. Not broad strokes. So don't think we'll get cozy and I'll get all cathartic. Off-limits. Got it?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll have that drink now."

  I worked the cork free, poured two glasses, and handed her one. "In case you're more pretentious than you look, I should tell you it's a flinty, soil-driven sauvignon with a rich finish." I buried my nose in the glass, inhaled the fumes.

  "This is delicious." She looked around, as if for the first time. "Spectacular view."

  "You're not allowed to be gracious. I won't recognize you."

  She bared her teeth at me. I retrieved the plates from the kitchen counter, and we dug in. We both had some trouble with the designer utensils, food dropping back to our plates before it reached our mouths. Finally she held up a MOMA fork, one tine separated by a gap. "I'm not adept at using this."

  "But isn't it pretty?"

  "It's a fork. It exists to convey food to the mouth."

  "In our case clearly not." I spun my fork around, regarding the design. "These really do suck, don't they?"

  She was smiling now, broadly. "You have something easier? Garden trowel, perhaps?"

  "Chopsticks?"

  "How about Ethiopian bread?"

  "I'll check the Mirte stove. In the meantime . . ." I took our forks and tossed them into the trash compactor. I found some plastic utensils, still bagged from my last round of takeout, and we reap-proached our plates more successfully.

  "This is amazing," she said. "What is it?"

  "Israeli salad. Watch out it just launched a counteroffensive against the Wiener schnitzel."

  "I'll send in the couscous."

  "Keep it up and I'll drop a Big Mac on your ass."

  "Aren't you going to taste the wine?"

  A flash of memory, six years new Mustang slant-parked in the bed of hydrangeas off my front step, radio blaring, me standing on the steaming hood hoarsely shouting Morrison's voice-over on "The End" with a blonde wearing butterfly barrettes.

  I said, "My name is Andrew Danner, and I'm an alcoholic."

  "Then aren't you supposed to keep all booze away from you?"

  "I need to keep an eye on it so it doesn't sneak up on me."

  "Like the Israeli salad."

  "Precisely."

  "How's sobriety?"

  "Ruins my drinking."

  "What kind of alcoholic were you?"

  "I was one of those guys who never knew when the party stopped, or that it had. As long as there was booze and anyone else still drinking, I kept going. Pig at a trough. Sorority binger confronting Twinkies. I wasn't one of those drown-the-pain lushes. I just loved alcohol." I shuttled more couscous onto my incredibly effective plastic fork. "If you believe that, my former shrink would be unimpressed with you."

  "Last one to leave a party," she said. "You didn't like being alone with yourself?"

  "And a writer. The irony thickens." I swirled my wineglass, watched the maroon legs streak the crystal. "I guess if life was easy, it wouldn't be as much fun."

  "Sure it would."

  "The Cliche Buster claims another victim. I guess I've been regurgitating that dandy since my childhood."

  "Good childhood?"

  "Am I on the clock, Doctor?"

  "Yeah, but you bought dinner, so I'll only charge half."

  "I was a replacement child. My parents lost a daughter a year before I was born."

  "That's supposed to be difficult."

  "My folks must've skipped that chapter."

  "Not bad?"

  "I was cherished. My feet didn't hit the ground until I was five."

  "Passing you back and forth."

  "Exactly. And you?"

  "I lost my mom recently." She took a sip of wine. "We were very close. My dad's great lives in Vermont. Gonna be remarried in the fall."

  "Two stable childhoods. How refreshing. And here we are, fortyish and single."

  Despite my flippancy, the remark cut her deep. Loudmouth moi of the thoughtless aside. I stood to clear, imploring her to sit. She watched as I dumped my glass of wine down the sink.

  "Why buy expensive wine if you're just going to pour it out?"

  "I said I was an alcoholic, not that I had bad taste." I scrubbed and loaded while Caroline sipped and looked at the view. We engaged in some small talk, which was surprisingly enjoyable. She lived in West Hollywood, on Crescent Heights. Hated cats and shopping. Brown belt in judo, reached it in just three years. I'd forgotten how warming it was to have company.

  The rest of the objet d'art forks joined their mates in the compactor, drawing a laugh from her.

  I asked, "Would you mind handing me that equally affected trivet?"

  "Do I have to do everything?" Smiling, she set down her glass and brought the trivet over to me.

  "Why don't you sit on the mauled couch in the family room? I'll join you in a minute."

  "Junior's dog?" She waited for my reluctant nod. "Where is she?"

  "I put her in a decompression chamber upstairs."

  She started for the other room, and I said, "Hang on."

  She turned back. The pashmina she'd draped over her chair, and her black shirt had loosed another button, revealing a dagger of smooth flesh. Delicate clavicles, lovely, slender neck. The notched-down lighting demoted her scars to impressions pronounced, to be sure, but there was a kind of beauty to them as well. They accented the composition of her features like war paint, bringing to them a hyperdefinition, added force, added grace.

  "You look spectacular."

  She tried to repress her smile, a shyness I hadn't thought she possessed. "This from a tumor-addled alcoholic suffering from temporary insanity."

  "Nothing wrong with my eyes."

  As she turned away, I caught a smile in her profile. When I finished, I found her in the family room, facing the bookshelf filled with my titles.

  She turned at my approach. "Where's Chain Gang?"

  "Propping up the kitchen table."

  "Are you working on a new book?"

  237"You're living an investigation?"

  "A story. We all are, but this segment of my life has a pleasing structure to it."

  "Maybe that's why it happened to you."

  "I don't believe in intelligent design."

  "Sure you do." She waved a hand at the book spines in all their eye-catching glory.

  It took a moment for me to catch her meaning. "I believe in narrative. But I don't believe there's a reason for everything and that matters work themselves out for the better."

  Tell it to Lloyd and the wedding picture hanging in that dark hall.

  Tell it to the Broaches, sorting through Kasey's half-used toiletries and frozen dinners and white barrettes.

  Tell it to me, waking up in that goddamned hospital bed with Genevieve's blood dried under my nails.

  Caroline was looking at me, studying my face, so I continued. "I don't deny design, no, but I believe you have to craft your own and it's hard work and there are no guardrails."

  "So what happens when you veer off course?"

  "You wind up with wasted years or a shitty first draft. Neither of which is particularly con
sequential."

  "It's not the randomness of life that holds meaning, Drew. It's our response to it. Say your wife gets hit by a bus. You could spend the rest of your life bewailing an unfair world, or you could decide to start an orphanage."

  "Or a home for people paralyzed by incompetent bus drivers."

  "If you choose to start your merry home for impaired and guilt-crippled bus drivers, then you've given a senseless event meaning. You've given it its place in a story. No merry home, no story. No story, no meaning."

  "No meaning, no growth."

  "People don't change much, not as adults, but this thing, maybe it gave you a shot." She licked her lips. "I was forced to change."

  "For the better?"

  "I don't know. I'm smarter, I think, but also maybe worse off."

  "According to you, it depends on where you go from here."

  "Exactly. But am I up to it?"

  "Inquiring minds want to know."

  "I don't know. I don't know if I'm up to it." She was trembling, arms crossed, fingers nervously working a thread that had come loose in the stitching of her shirt. For a moment I thought she might be cold, but then she said, "You drew back the first time you saw me. On the playground at Hope House. I disgusted you. It's the only pure response you'll have. You don't get another true reaction to my face."

  "I wasn't disgusted. I was surprised."

  "Great. Romantic."

  I reached gently for her shoulders, and she let me take them, and then I pulled her to me. The indented scar split her lips at the edge, the flesh soft and warm. I drew back, and for an instant she kept her eyes closed, her head tilted, mouth slightly ajar.

  She opened her eyes, pale green flecked with rust.

  "Surprised?" I asked.

  "Surprised."

  "Disgusted?"

  She shook her head. A few lines raised on her forehead. "I can't stay with you. I'd like to, but I can't."

  "Can I walk you to your car?"

  As we crossed the front step, she took my hand in a bird bite of a grip. A tentative hold, didn't last three strides. The air was wet, sweet with night-blooming jasmine. We were awkward at her car which side the head goes on for the embrace, me holding the door for her, not sure if I should lean in to kiss her again. I tried, but she pulled the door closed and I stepped back quickly. Her face had darkened with concern, and she fiddled with the stick shift, then said, "That was the nicest time I've had in a while," as if that were something extremely troubling.