by Robert Ellis
“That’s not gonna happen.”
“Yes, it is. You’re gonna keep your job and let me take the fall. And you’re gonna stay away from Klinger.”
Rhodes looked at her with those eyes of his. “Fuck you,” he said.
33
Nathan G. Cava crept up the stairs and moved silently down the hall until he reached the study When he peeked in, he saw Fontaine on the floor by the fireplace and damned himself for being ten minutes late.
The Beverly Hills doctor had just discovered that his cash stash was history.
Cava had to admit that the show was still pretty good. There was some crying going on—some fist pounding and weeping. Even some grunting and swearing, weak as it may have been. Still, he’d missed the big moment. The existential moment. The beat of all beats. He’d hoped to see the greedy little bastard move the rock away and peer into the darkness. He’d hoped to witness the moment when the man realized that there was only nothingness.
Fontaine crawled over to his desk and lifted himself onto the chair, still unaware that Cava was watching him from the doorway. He was cradling his head in his arms and feeling sorry for himself. His shirt was wrinkled and soaked through with sweat, his hair in disarray. After a good five minutes, Fontaine reached for the phone and dialed a number.
Cava felt the cell begin to vibrate in his pants pocket. The phone belonged to Greta Dietrich, Fontaine’s love interest and fuck object. Cava had kept the phone since Dietrich hit the finish line yesterday morning. Curiously, Fontaine had been calling the number every hour as if he didn’t fucking get what was going on. The constant barrage of phone calls had become something of a nuisance for Cava. He had spent the night at Greta’s apartment in Santa Monica. Slept in her bed and got lost in the scent of her body as he grieved over her loss and tried to repent for the things he’d done. Greta didn’t deserve her fate, but Fontaine did.
The phone was still buzzing in his pocket. Cava pulled it out, deciding to take the call.
“Hello,” he said.
“Who is this?” Fontaine asked with suspicion.
“Your new best friend.”
“Where’s Greta? Put her on.”
“She’s busy. She can’t come to the phone right now.”
Cava tried not to laugh. Fontaine’s head was still buried in his arms. The guy was so distraught, so inside himself, he hadn’t picked up Cava’s voice in the room. For Cava it made it all worth it—like all of sudden he was playing with house money.
“Who are you?” Fontaine shouted into the phone. “Where are you?”
“Over here, Doc. Standing by the door.”
Fontaine finally lifted his head and looked over, then flinched as he got it.
“Where’s Greta? Where’s my money?”
Cava closed the cell phone, trading it for a .38 revolver. “Which is more important to you, Doc? The money or the girl?”
“We’re talking about over a million dollars.”
Cava grinned. “I thought so. Now, be real good and sit still.”
“What are you gonna do? Shoot me?”
“Not if you sit still. I promise.”
Cava crossed the room, opening his briefcase behind the doctor’s back. He found the five-pack of auto-injectors, opened two, and removed the red safeties. Each device delivered a fixed dose of 10 milligrams of morphine. One would probably be enough, but Cava wanted to ease Fontaine’s worries and make the ride feel good.
“You’re wearing latex gloves,” Fontaine said.
“That’s right. I’m a physician.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m afraid not,” Cava said. “Now roll up your right sleeve.”
He walked around the desk. Fontaine’s eyes got big when he spotted the auto-injectors.
“Please,” he said. “I can get my hands on more money. Please don’t do this.”
“It’s morphine, Doctor. The White Nurse. Morpheus and the Greek god of dreams. You see the dosage. It won’t hurt you, and we need to talk. It’s either the needle or the gun. Pleasure or pain. There’s no other choice tonight.”
Cava could see the beads of sweat percolating on the man’s forehead as he wrestled with the decision. He placed the auto-injectors beside the doctor’s hand, aimed the .38 at his head, and sat down in the chair in front of the desk.
“Where did you get these?” Fontaine said.
“The U.S. government. They come with the uniform, Doctor. The morphine will make you feel better. It will help you deal with your loss. The safeties have been removed. Now press the purple ends against your arm and shoot.”
Fontaine’s face lost its color. After several hard moments and three or four looks at the .38, the man held the injectors against his arm, closed his eyes, and pushed. One after the other.
It wouldn’t take long. Just a few minutes. Less than an hour to reach the moon.
“Good,” Cava said. “Now place the injectors on the desk and push them toward me.”
Fontaine did as he was instructed, then sat back in his chair and let out a loud gasp. His body had already begun to relax. The lines in his face were vanishing, his eyes just starting to become lazy.
“How do you feel?” Cava asked, his voice smooth as glass.
“Stoned,” he whispered. “Why are you doing this? Where’s my money? Where’s Greta?”
“I can’t show you your money, Doctor. But Greta’s in the basement. If you’d like to see her, we could go down and take a look.”
“The basement? What’s Greta doing in the basement?”
“Not that much actually. Would you like to see her?”
“No. She ran off with my money. Tell her to give it back.”
“I’m your best friend, Doc. I’ll see what I can do.”
Fontaine smiled, drooling a bit as his mouth opened. “That gun looks familiar.”
“It should,” Cava said. “It’s the one you kept in the bedside table. You gave it to me. Don’t you remember?”
Fontaine rocked his head up and down. “That’s right. I did. I forget when, though.”
“You gave it to me for Christmas. It’s a toy gun.”
“I like toys. Does it make a sound?”
“No,” Cava said. “It’s a toy. It just clicks. Watch.”
Cava turned the revolver to his own head, pressed it against his temple and pulled the trigger. When the gun clicked, Fontaine erupted in laughter, nervous laughter that he couldn’t stop. The man was feeling joyous. In the zone and rolling with the morphine. Still making the climb toward the top.
“Do it again,” Fontaine said.
“I’d be happy to. It’s a fun game.”
Cava pushed the gun against his head and pulled the trigger a second time, smiling at his prey.
“You’re a funny man,” Fontaine said. “A funny friend. I wanna try.”
Cava nodded, leaning forward and calmly loading the weapon behind the desk. Fontaine reached out and began to whine.
“I wanna try,” he said. “It’s my turn now.”
Cava passed the revolver over. Fontaine was beside himself with glee and fighting off the giggles. Once he finally settled down, he met his new friend’s eyes and raised the gun to his own head. He flashed a big wide smile, and Cava smiled back.
“It’s your turn, Doc. You’re free.”
Fontaine giggled and pulled the trigger.
34
Lena ignored the Caprice hiding in the mist and pulled into her drive. Somewhere along the way home her priorities had changed. That included the idiots from Internal Affairs watching and listening to her house when she wasn’t even there. Somehow they had become irrelevant. They didn’t seem important anymore.
She pushed open the front door, didn’t bother switching on the lights, and headed straight for the kitchen. Inside the freezer she kept a fifth of Skyy vodka. She didn’t drink it very often. But tonight she needed it. Tonight the blue bottle looked like medicine.
She poured a glass over ice in the d
arkness, then headed outside onto the back porch with her cigarettes and sat down on the steps. There was no view tonight—just the fog tenting the city and glowing from the lights underneath.
She held her glass up as if to make a toast, then took a long sip that burned her throat. As she lit a cigarette, she felt the vodka reach her stomach and ignite.
This was what the fall felt like. Sitting alone in the darkness. Unable to see the city lights even though she knew that they were right in front of her.
Her cell started vibrating and she thought about throwing it into the pool. When she saw Steve Avadar’s name on the display, she took a drag on the cigarette and decided to take the call.
“I’m sorry, Lena. I know it’s late. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
She tried to pull herself together. “Everything’s good, Steve. What’s up?”
“It’s about the witness,” he said. “I’m worried.”
She looked over the hill into the gloom. Everything seemed so far away.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“He tried to use McBride’s ATM card on Sunday.”
“Where?”
“Fourth and Arizona. The same branch we met at on Saturday. When that didn’t work, he hit an ATM at a convenience store in Venice.”
Lena took another pull on the drink, pressing the ice against the glass with her fingers so Avadar wouldn’t hear it. “I thought you said that the card would only work inside the bank during business hours.”
“That’s all still good,” he said. “He didn’t get any cash. But here’s the problem. Yesterday there were no attempts to use the card at all. Same thing happened today, and that’s why I’m worried. Usually they keep trying. The machine doesn’t eat the card. The screen they get gives them their balance, branch locations and tells them to try again.”
“And this guy hasn’t tried again.”
“It’s a first, Lena. There’s a lot of money in that account and he knows it. I think something’s going on.”
She took another drag on the smoke. A lot was going on.
“Let’s see what happens tomorrow,” she said.
“I’m just giving you a heads-up. I’ll call if anything changes.”
“Thanks.”
She slipped the phone into her pocket and dowsed the cigarette in the wet ashtray. It seemed fitting that Avadar would call this late and give her the news. Albert Poole was stretched out on a gurney at the morgue and now it looked like their witness was in the wind.
The chief and his adjutant were probably celebrating. Probably out there somewhere in the fog with the DA.
Lena looked back at the drink in her hand, then dumped it out on the lawn. She got up, heading inside to make a cup of coffee. She didn’t want any more vodka. The blue bottle wasn’t working tonight.
35
It was 5:30 a.m. Lena disconnected the charger on her cell and glanced at the display, expecting the worst. Good calls didn’t come this early in the morning. When she read Irving Sample’s name, it threw her. Sample was calling from his desk in the Questioned Documents Unit at Parker Center. Either he was getting an early start, or like Lena, he hadn’t gone to sleep yet.
She opened the phone and pulled a stool over to the counter, no longer concerned that anyone was listening. Two hours ago she had walked outside and heard the Caprice drive off. Her life as a homicide detective had hit the drain. No one was listening anymore.
“I’ve got the answer,” Sample said.
“The answer to what?”
“The forms the victim filled out at her doctor’s office. I’ve got the answer to your riddle. I know why she rushed through the first page and slowed down on the second. It took a while, but I figured it out. And you’re not crazy, Lena. You noticed something no one else did.”
The words were coming rapidly. She could hear the excitement in his voice.
“Okay,” she said. “What’s the answer? Why would Jennifer McBride start fast and end slow?”
Sample laughed. “Because she didn’t,” he said. “She made a mistake on the first page and crossed it out. When she finished the second page, she asked for another copy of the first and filled it out twice. She did just what you said. She followed human nature. She started slow and picked things up at the end.”
“You’re saying that there were two first pages?”
“That’s right. And the pen she used left impressions from both on the second page.”
“What did she cross out?”
“A phone number. The one they need in case there’s an emergency.”
Lena grabbed the pen off the counter, barely able to speak. “What’s the number?”
Sample read it to her. After writing it down, she read it out loud just to confirm.
“That’s it,” he said. “And that area code’s Las Vegas.”
“Yeah,” she managed. “Vegas.”
“Then it’s important. I wasn’t sure.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“I didn’t do the work, Lena. You did. I’m just glad I could help.”
She closed her cell and stared at the phone number on the pad. She could imagine what happened with perfect clarity. The woman living as Jennifer McBride had thyroid problems and needed to see a doctor. After filling out the forms, she would have checked her work just to make sure it mirrored the real Jennifer McBride’s history and contact information. When she spotted the Las Vegas number, she realized her mistake and crossed it out.
But the number must have been too important to her. There could be no other reason why she decided to take the extra step and ask for another form, or even why she made the mistake itself. The woman living as Jennifer McBride had left a lifeline after all.
Lena thought about that snow globe she had found beside the victim’s bed. The snow falling over Las Vegas. Most likely it wasn’t a gift or souvenir, but a remembrance. And there was a decent chance that it pointed to home.
She turned and looked outside. The sun was still hidden below the horizon. The city, still buried in the marine layer. She dialed the number anyway, lifted the cell to her ear, and listened. After three rings, a man picked up and said hello. His voice was low and gruff, but not groggy. In spite of the hour, he hadn’t been sleeping.
“I’m trying to locate Jennifer McBride,” she said.
His hesitation was unmistakable. “Who?” he asked finally.
“Jennifer McBride.”
Another beat went by. When he spoke, she sensed the undercurrent of emotion in his voice and knew that she had just struck a nerve.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s no one here by that name. You must have dialed the wrong number.”
She listened to the man hang up. Then she moved over to the table by the windows. Her computer was already logged onto the Internet. She found AutoTrack in her bookmarks and entered her user name and password. When the search window popped up, she typed in the phone number and hit ENTER. Almost immediately a man’s name appeared on the screen. Mike Bloom from Las Vegas, Nevada.
Lena jotted his address down and started reading. Until four years ago Bloom had been employed by the Las Vegas Police Department and carried a badge. He was only thirty years old, so he couldn’t have retired and she already knew that he wasn’t deceased. Every job he had ever worked was listed. Every address ever used and every phone number. Yet, the lack of information about the man was striking. Everything was listed as it should have been until four years ago when everything in the man’s life seemed to stop. Everything went dark except for the registration on his Ford F-150 pickup.
She made a second pass, rereading Bloom’s history and thinking it over. She didn’t want to call him back and she didn’t necessarily want to inform the LVPD. After what happened last night, she didn’t want to spook the guy or possibly warn him. Still, Bloom’s past four years had as much detail as a black hole feeding on the universe.
She crossed the room, opening a cabinet below the bookcase. Inside
were a variety of LAPD forms she kept as backup when working at home. Most of them were blank reports that made up a murder book. But now she was looking for a letter. The one she needed to get her firearm through security at the airport. Vegas was only an hour away from Burbank. And after one week, she finally had a lead on who the victim might actually be. A real name to go with the woman’s dead body.
36
She had tried to catch some sleep on the plane, but couldn’t shake the way Albert Poole had died. The man’s fate had followed her to Vegas. And she knew with certainty that he would follow her home when she returned to Los Angeles. No matter what happened to her career, no matter how Chief Logan decided to rewrite what went down, Poole would be with her for a long time.
Just like the woman who cast spells. The woman without a name who was driving her, pushing her. As Lena walked down the aisle to her rental car, she understood that her need to know the victim’s true identity had become an obsession—but also her saving grace. If she could just find out who she really was, Lena thought she stood a fair chance of living with whatever came next.
She climbed into the car and unfolded the map on the passenger seat. Bloom lived in the desert, northwest of the city off Kyle Canyon Road. After deciding on her route, she powered up her cell phone and checked for messages. There were three. The first call had been made by Rhodes an hour ago. He said that he had checked in with Barrera. There was no word from the chief’s office yet. Barrera thought that it would be a good day to lay low and see what happens, maybe work on that loose end list. Rhodes had been away and didn’t know about the chief’s list, but promised to call back later.
The next two messages surprised her. Both were left by Denny Ramira from The Times. And both calls were made within the last fifteen minutes. Ramira sounded upset again and wanted to talk. But like the last time, the reporter didn’t give her any details. Just more smoke.
Lena tossed her phone on the passenger seat and pulled out. As she exited the garage and hit the bright sunlight, she could feel the dry heat and still air. According to the thermometer on the dash, it was already seventy-five degrees. A winter day in the desert wasn’t usually so warm or forgiving.
