by Hester Young
Eager to shuffle us out of view, the restaurant’s crisp hostess seats us in the rear, where we are less visible to incoming customers. Only then does Pam remove her hat and glasses. Only then do I wonder if her casual dress was an act, a strategic move to keep us out of view. But who are we hiding from?
An annoyingly pretty waiter who is almost certainly planning his move to LA fills our glasses with cucumber-and-mint-infused water. Pam peers down at a floating green sprig. “Moments like these, I’d about kill for a beer,” she says.
This strikes me as a bad sign. “What’s up? You said you had something big.”
She nods. “I’ve been keeping an eye on some of Jasmine’s friends these last few days. Their behavior’s been pretty interesting.”
“What do you mean ‘keeping an eye on’?”
She holds out her iPhone to me, a video clip cued up on the screen. I press Play and find some jerky footage of a door. Desert Village Apartments, I realize. The outside of Jasmine’s place. It’s night, and the scene is yellow and grainy from the building’s exterior lights. After several seconds without any action, the camera sweeps suddenly across the grounds, past the empty pool area, and zeroes in on two moving shadows. The recording follows these shapes to Jasmine’s apartment, and then the picture quality deteriorates even further with an attempt to zoom in. Still, the building light is just bright enough to make out a blurry face.
“Is that McCullough?”
“Doug McCullough, stopping by the scene of the crime,” Pam confirms. “Always thought he was a good kid, but maybe not.” Her mouth forms a tight little line. “Jasmine had a way of getting to people, bringing out the worst in them.”
I ignore that comment and focus on the video, where the figure beside McCullough stands unlocking the door to 802. Both disappear into Jasmine’s apartment. I shudder, remembering the inside. Not the kind of scene you’d think a grief-stricken boyfriend would want to spend time in.
“When was this video taken?” I ask.
“I shot it last night.”
I frown. “Why? What were you doing hanging around Jasmine’s place?”
“Wanted to see what Mac was up to.” Pam shrugs. “One a.m. those two show up. A little weird, going through a dead girl’s apartment at that hour, don’t you think?”
The idea of Pam staking out Jasmine’s apartment in the wee hours of the morning—or worse, following people around like some creepy stalker—is almost as concerning as McCullough’s unexplained appearance, but I don’t tell her that.
“The other guy’s got a key,” I note. I rewind the video and study the figure of the second man, but he’s obscured by McCullough. “Is that Sanchez?”
“Bingo.”
“What are they after?”
“I don’t know. They were in there over an hour. Didn’t look too happy when they came out, so I don’t think they found what they were looking for. I’ll show you the video—”
“No, that’s okay.” I don’t need further evidence of Pam’s bizarre pursuit. “The CSI team went through every inch of that place, didn’t they?”
She nods. “These boys must think they missed something.”
“Sanchez has been out there before, you know,” I tell her. “I ran into him last Monday when I stopped by Jasmine’s place.”
“Oh? You didn’t mention.” Pam takes a slug of her cucumber-mint water like she’s downing a shot.
“That memory card with the pictures—Sanchez and McCullough must know about those, right?”
“Sure,” says Pam. “They aren’t a well-kept secret.”
“McCullough’s a jealous guy. Maybe he’s trying to figure out who was in those photos.”
“Those pics were taken before Jasmine and McCullough were even an item.”
I give her a look. “Jasmine has photos of a sexual encounter that happened at her place, which she was probably involved in, and you think McCullough cares when it happened? Come on, Pam.”
“Point,” Pam says with a chuckle. “I’m sure Mac’s been getting flak about it from the guys at work. Slutty girlfriend and all that.”
“I still don’t understand what stake Sanchez has in this,” I muse. “You said the guy in the photos was white, right? Not Hispanic?”
“Yeah, there’s no way it was Sanchez. Not with that pasty white ass. But I’ve got a theory.” She smirks, and I can tell there’s something she hasn’t told me. “Only one way to test it.”
“What’s that?”
She jerks her head toward the restaurant’s waiting area several feet behind me. “Be casual.”
I glance over my shoulder, past a couple empty tables. My eyes bug when I see McCullough pacing around by the hostess, eyes on the door, clearly waiting for someone. “How long has he been here?”
“A couple of minutes.”
“Is he here to see us? Did you call him?”
“Nope.”
“Then how did you know he was coming?”
She’s enjoying this entirely too much. “I told you, I’ve been keeping an eye on things. And an ear, from time to time.”
“Who’s he meeting?”
She picks up the menu, ignoring my question. “Keep your voice down and don’t stare.”
“What if he sees us?”
“I’ve been tailing this guy for four days. Long as I keep my distance, he doesn’t see shit.” Pam gives a dry laugh. “If he was one of my boys, I’d bench him for cluelessness. Anyway, looks like he’s got something else to focus on right now.”
I try to peer over my shoulder, to see what she’s zoned in on, but Pam shakes her head.
“Don’t turn around.” Both her voice and face remain completely natural. “They’ll walk right by us.” She puts a hand to her forehead and raises the menu, casually shielding her face from view. Now I understand the hat and glasses she wore before.
Seconds later, a young brunette passes by us in heels and a minidress. Doug McCullough tags behind her with a sour expression.
“That’s Jasmine’s friend,” I whisper. “Serena. The one in the pictures.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m not telling Pam anything she doesn’t already know.
We watch them sit down at a table on the other side of the restaurant. Though I can’t make out any of the words that pass between them, their body language is remarkably incongruent. Serena looks happy, giggly even, as she pores over the menu. McCullough says little and responds mainly with scowls.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “He doesn’t look like he wants to be here.”
“No,” Pam agrees, draining the remainder of her water. “It was like that in the coffee shop the other day, too. She’s got something on him. Be nice to find out what, wouldn’t it?”
“Oh no.” I recognize the danger much too late. “You’ve got a plan.” There’s no big lead, no super-secret clue, just some harebrained scheme.
“A minute or two, that’s all I need from you,” Pam says. “You see where they’re sitting? We hit the jackpot.”
It doesn’t take a surveillance expert to see what she means. McCullough and Serena’s table borders a four-foot partition. With all the hanging plants, someone could easily stand on the opposite side of the partition and listen in.
“The restrooms are behind that divider,” Pam says. “Over by the kitchen. Easiest thing in the world for you to pull off.”
“Me?” I hold my head in my hands. “No. Just no. I am not hiding behind some freaking plant.”
“Not asking you to.” Pam grins and hands me a tiny circular piece of black metal. “You’re going to the bathroom and then, on your way back, you reach up, like you’re admiring the leaves, and drop that in the planter.”
I could probably use a trip to the restroom if we’re being honest, but depositing spy equipment to conduct an unauthorized investigation of a cop? Not my fie
ld, thanks. How did I miss the fact that Pam is totally off-her-rocker crazy?
“Bugging their conversation is illegal, Pam, and you know it.”
“It’s a transmitter, not a recording device,” she argues. “Takes some legwork out of overhearing a public conversation, that’s all. And I’m not gathering evidence, just hoping to get something that can point me in the right direction.”
“Then you do it.”
“All right.” My refusal doesn’t faze her any. “I just thought, if he spotted you, it would be no thing. If McCullough sees me here, the game’s up.”
I glance at Serena and McCullough, hesitating. There’s something going on with them. Could McCullough have been the guy in those photos? What implication would a Serena-Jasmine-McCullough threesome have for Jasmine’s death? Did Jazz become an unwanted third wheel?
For someone who had nothing good to say about McCullough at the funeral, Serena certainly seems to delight in his company now. She tosses her hair, confident, a bit flirtatious. McCullough, on the other hand, looks queasy.
Pam’s right. This girl has something on him. Something that must have come into play after her bitter comments about him after the memorial service.
Could McCullough have killed Jasmine? He and Sanchez were supposed to have been on duty that night, but if McCullough wanted to stop by his girlfriend’s place, Sanchez might’ve covered for him. Could still be covering for him.
Serena lived at the same apartment complex as Jasmine. She could’ve seen something, heard something. Maybe they were in on it together. Either way, Serena seems to like having a cop in her pocket.
I give Pam a scathing look, annoyed at both her and myself that she’s exploited my curiosity so successfully.
“I’m going to the bathroom, but I am not bugging anyone, do you understand?”
“Fine,” she says. “Of course, if you happen to hear anything . . .”
I shoot her another dirty look. She’s getting what she wants. She doesn’t need to rub it in.
Twenty-Six
Standing against the partition, I wait my turn for the bathroom while trying to avoid waitstaff traffic in and out of the nearby kitchen. There are just two single-occupant restrooms. I let a woman with both a toddler and an infant leapfrog me in line for the ladies’ room, buying me extra time. Any actual need to pee I had recedes with nerves.
I get out my phone, partly to look occupied, but also to see if Noah has called or texted an apology for our fight earlier. He hasn’t. A waitress passes by, her arms full of drinks, and I step out of her path, edge just a little closer to McCullough and Serena’s table. The hanging plants have large gaps between them, so I angle myself carefully.
Three quick steps backward, and I’m behind the hanging plant nearest their table, its spidery leaves scratchy against the back of my head. Now, if I sort through the bar chatter, I can just make out their conversation on the other side of the divider.
“They’ll figure it out,” McCullough’s saying. “It’s only a matter of time. This is a murder investigation. They’re throwing a lot of resources at it.”
“Would you chill out already? You’re overthinking this.” Serena’s chewing as she speaks. “The situation is under control, trust me.”
“Trust you? Why would I trust you?” he demands. “You’re the whole reason I’m in this. You told us you got rid of that card, and here we are, all the photos you said you deleted getting passed around the Homicide unit. What the fuck?”
“I did delete them,” she says calmly. “Just not the copies I gave Jazz.”
“And here’s where I run into problems with you, Serena. Because what kind of jealous, insane little bitch gives her friend pictures like that?”
So Jasmine didn’t take those photos. She wasn’t even there.
“Oh, Mac. They were so good, I just had to share.” Serena laughs, a high-pitched, nasal sound that must grate on McCullough even worse than it does me. “Seriously, though, you can relax. Rob never took pictures of your face. I mean, what are they gonna do, identify you from a dick lineup? Even Jazz wasn’t totally sure it was you.”
Two servers stop to gossip beside me, and I lose the next minute to their complaints about table 16. Just my luck. Sidelined by rants about a vegan right when things are getting interesting. It takes almost Herculean strength to keep myself from peeking around the plant to see what Serena and McCullough are up to. When the waiter bitch session finally breaks up and I tune back in, McCullough is still obsessing over the photos.
“What about the ones of Sanchez?” he asks. “What did you do with all those?”
“I only gave Jazz the you-and-me pics Rob took. Don’t worry, I deleted all the gay shit.”
“There was nothing gay,” McCullough protests, as if deeply offended by the idea. “I didn’t even touch him.”
Serena snorts. “You watched each other. That’s pretty gay.”
My mind races, trying to arrange all the pieces, to figure out what’s going on. Clearly McCullough and Sanchez had some kind of ill-advised sexual encounter with Serena a while back, but what’s he so scared of?
“You couldn’t let her have one good thing without pissing on it, could you?” McCullough asks. “You just had to let her know you had me first. Had to give her photographic evidence.”
“I did have you first,” Serena tells him sweetly. “Anyway, she was my best friend, and it was her apartment. She had a right to know what went on.”
“Don’t pretend you were her friend. You waited, what, a year to give her those photos? She was barely speaking to you. Just admit it. You were jealous.”
She sighs. “Why would I be jealous of her inheriting my sloppy seconds?”
“Because I loved her. Really loved her. But you . . . you were just a piece of ass on a night me and Sanchez were too drunk to think straight.”
Serena has no snappy comeback for this one. I suspect his insult has hit the mark. “Well,” she says at last, “if that’s how you feel, I don’t want to waste your precious time here. I should probably go stop by Homicide. Who’s the lead detective? Max Vargas? I’m sure he’ll understand about the gay stuff.”
I can’t help myself. Her threat is just too brazen. I peer around the hanging plant’s long green tendrils and finally get a look at them. Her hands are on her hips, her breasts thrust forward, triumphant. She has him by the balls, and he knows it. Both are far too absorbed in their weird little power game to notice my gawking just a few feet away.
He’s going to blow, I think. Back off, girl, if you know what’s good for you. But Serena doesn’t know or doesn’t care.
“They’re probably wasting a lot of manpower on these pictures,” she continues, just in case McCullough needs further incensing. “I should really spare them the trouble, don’t you think? Save some tax dollars?”
McCullough grabs her roughly by the wrist and yanks her toward him. I flinch at the violence of his gesture, look wildly around for Pam. Serena, however, looks thrilled.
“Ooh, Dougie. Getting a little rough with me, huh?” He releases his grip on her, and she slides back into her chair with a smirk. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I could kill you,” McCullough murmurs. “With my own two hands.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who cheated on you.”
“Of course she cheated on me! She saw those pictures, what was she supposed to think? I bet you didn’t even tell her they were old.”
Serena rolls her eyes. “News flash! She was cheating on you long before she saw those pictures.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe whatever you want. But I don’t blame her for going back to Ruben. That guy is hot. She always said he was like some kind of animal in bed. You know what he liked to do to her?”
McCullough leans across the table and puts a hand on her throat. “Shut. U
p.”
So much for staying in hiding. I need to act before the situation escalates to something dangerous—if it hasn’t already.
Pam, thank goodness, is one step ahead of me. She chooses this tense moment to wander over to their table, gnawing casually on a slice of artisanal bread. “Mac,” she says, her expression benign. “What are you doing here, buddy?”
He removes his hand from Serena. “Nothing,” he says. “Just grabbing lunch with my friend. But she’s leaving now.”
Serena looks about to disagree, but Pam’s cool and appraising gaze convinces her otherwise. “Later, Dougie,” she mumbles, and flounces off.
“So. You checking up on me?” McCullough stares down at the table.
Pam spreads her hands as if to assert her innocence. “I’m just like you, man. Grabbing lunch with a friend.” She scans the restaurant—as if she hasn’t known where I was this whole time—and waves to me. “Charlotte! Come join us.”
Although less than thrilled about his two new dining companions, McCullough plays the game, gives me a little nod of acknowledgment when I sit down. “Hi,” he says stiffly.
“Well, now.” Pam grabs a knife from McCullough’s table and begins to butter another slice of bread. “Did I hear you’re in some shit over those photos that turned up in Jasmine’s apartment?”
“You heard that?” McCullough slumps back in his seat. “Goddamn it.” He stares up at the ceiling for a minute.
Pam gives him a long look. “Sneaking around doesn’t look good, Mac. You should come clean with Vargas before they put it together for themselves.”
He nods miserably. “It’s just . . . it was a year ago. One night. We were drunk, you know?”
“You and Sanchez,” she says.
“There was nothing gay.” He glances at me as if I might contradict him. “I don’t care if that’s your thing, Pam. Whatever, it takes all kinds. But I like women. And Serena, she was just . . . there.”
