by K. A. Tracy
Her mental note to call the groomer first thing in the morning was interrupted by the half dozen police cruisers parked on the opposite side of the highway. Sam slowed down and counted ten cops walking methodically over the ground she’d covered this morning. Larson wasn’t going to risk missing any other evidence. Sam appreciated the detective’s thoroughness but suspected Larson’s troops must be cursing him under their charbroiled breaths.
Sam pressed down the accelerator and was cruising along at 80 mph so she paid no attention to the old, blue car parked on the side of the road with two distinctive green and black Elect Konrad stickers adorning the back bumper or the man behind the wheel watching the police grid search.
Chapter Two
It was 1:25 when Sam’s car screeched to a stop in the loading zone. The sidewalk was deserted except for Joe. He sat on one of two large suitcases, leafing through a Vogue. Sam released the trunk on her Eclipse Spyder and hopped out of the car. Joe smiled and looked at his watch.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I would’ve been here on time except there was a traffic jam in Claremont because of a fender-bender.” Not to mention I’d completely forgotten about you until the plane practically landed. “And I forgot my cell phone at home so I couldn’t call. Have you been waiting long?”
“Just long enough to have two people ask if I’d like to take a personality test, a scab cabbie offer to drive me anywhere for forty bucks, and several men in business suits and turbans—a very nice touch, I must say—try to recruit me for a retreat.”
Joe stood and held his arms out. Sam stepped forward, and he gave her a bear hug. “And that was only in the first fifteen minutes.”
“I’m really sorry,” Sam said again, pulling away to look up at him—still blonde, still youthful, still tanned, still tall. “How is it possible you’ve looked the same for twenty years except for the haircut? You supporting some plastic surgeon?”
“And you look…” Joe gave a low chuckle and gingerly touched her unruly hair, which had dried into windswept crests on top and wingtips on the side. “Been wearing your hair like this long?”
Sam finger combed her hair into submission. “I’m usually much better coifed. I just didn’t have time to dry my hair before leaving.”
“Because you suddenly remembered you had to pick me up?” Joe teased, trying to stuff his second bag into the small trunk. An airport policeman headed toward them, motioning for Sam to move along.
Alpha and Omega gang-jumped Joe’s lap when he got in, staking out fresh nap territory. “Poodles? You said they were mutts.”
“They’re not poodles,” Sam corrected him, putting on her seatbelt. “They’re a toy poodle-bichon mix, which to me is a mutt.”
“They’re poodles…and I see you take them to your stylist.”
She shifted into first, “Funny guy,” and accelerated fast enough to whip Joe’s head back and knock his sunglasses off.
“I missed you, too,” he said through gritted teeth.
They spent the drive home catching up on the details of each other’s lives. Joe had been uncharacteristically MIA since Sam’s last visit to Chicago a couple years earlier so she had been pleasantly surprised when he called the previous week asking if she wanted company.
Joe was the last strong tie to her hometown. Sam’s dad and her sister’s family still lived in the area but there wasn’t a close connection anymore and communication with them was sporadic at best. Sam hadn’t spoken to her mother since moving to California almost fifteen years earlier to attend UCLA.
Joe read her sudden mood shift. “Ever hear from your mother?”
“No reason to. I get to see enough cruelty and violence at work.”
He knew to leave it alone. “Do you like your new job?”
“It’s okay. It’s sure a lot quieter down here.”
“Isn’t that what you said you wanted?”
“Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for, right?” Sam took a deep breath. “My editor asked me to check out a homicide this morning. I think I’m going back on the beat.”
What surprised Joe was that she actually seemed conflicted over it. “You think?”
“I’m not absolutely sure I should.” She glanced over. “I’m afraid of crashing again.”
“Samantha,” Joe angled his body to face her, “I can’t begin to imagine what it was like seeing the aftermath of a family tortured and slaughtered. But you can’t let it dictate your life forever.”
“One of the first cops on the scene who found the bodies ended up on medical leave. They don’t think he’s ever coming back,” she said quietly.
“You’d have to be superhuman not to be affected. And with everything else that was going on in your life with what’s his name and your grandmother dying…you just needed to regroup and take a step back for a while. But not forever.” Joe shifted to face forward. “Sam, being a crime reporter is who you are. It’s also what you do better than almost anyone. Besides, aren’t you bored out of your mind yet doing fluff?”
The work she’d been doing at the Weekender was emotionally user-friendly but her brain felt as if it were atrophying. Was it really just a matter of time healing her emotional wounds, or did she simply have a genetic affinity to violence? Either way, Joe was right—she was bored with being bored.
“Well, shit,” she finally said, “since when did you become so perceptive?”
“Since you became so transparent.” Joe checked his hair in the vanity mirror. “So what’s the story you’re working on?”
“The police found a body out along Highway 111; a young guy named Jeff Rydell who’d been tortured and murdered.”
“Rydell?” He flipped the mirror shut.
Sam glanced over. “You know him?”
“No, why would I? So tell me about it—and don’t leave out any of the gory details.”
By the time Sam recounted the morning’s events they were already sailing through Cabazon and were less than a half hour from Palm Springs.
“Whatever Rydell was doing out there, it had to be awfully scary. It’s not like you can go pound on anyone’s front door for help.”
Joe stayed quiet a few moments. “What will you do next?”
Sam considered her options. “I’ll probably stop by Konrad’s campaign headquarters again tomorrow. Somebody has to know something about this guy. And I’ll talk to some of Rydell’s neighbors to see if they know anything.”
“Why not go today?”
“It’s Sunday. I thought we’d have a swim, go out for dinner, walk around, or whatever.”
“We can still do that later. Why don’t we go talk to Rydell’s neighbors today?”
“We?” she glanced at him in surprise. “You want to come?”
“Why not? It’ll be fun watching you work, Ms. Investigative Reporter. Sure beats being a shoe salesman.”
“Shoe salesman, my ass.”
Joe was a buyer for an exclusive Chicago design house—so exclusive Sam had never even heard of it—and was always jetting off to Milan, New York, Paris, or some other fashion capital of the world.
“Travel isn’t always as exciting as you might think,” he said, interpreting her expression. “Oh, come on. I won’t get in your way, I promise.”
“Joe, it’s bad enough having people slam doors in your face without someone else watching. I’ll feel self-conscious.”
“No you won’t. Besides,” he poked at her hair, “you’ve got a lot more to feel self-conscious about than having a door slammed in your face.”
Sam smiled. “It’s technically my day off.”
“Come on, Sam; you know you want to start working this story today. Let me tag along. Please? Or we could just stay home and I’ll spend the day giving you a beauty make-over to try out a new shipment of samples I brought.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“It’ll make up for making me wait at the airport. We can start with a facial and then move to the brow sculptor—”
“My
eyebrows are shaped just fine.”
“…and then I have this mineral-based powder—”
“Alright, you can come; no need to use scare tactics,” she grumbled. “How long did you say you were staying?”
Joe smiled knowing annoyance was Sam’s sincerest form of affection and turned the radio up. Diana Ross was wailing out the beginning of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.”
“This reminds me of the time I went to a Diva’s Costume Ball on Halloween.”
She looked over trying to imagine the visual. “You as Diana?”
“That’s Ms. Ross to you. And no, I went as Maria Callas and borrowed a friend’s bulldog to be Onassis…”
Joe went off on a story-telling roll and by the time they pulled up to her condo Sam’s jaws hurt from laughing. The plan was to drop off the dogs and pick up her backpack and a baseball cap.
Joe insisted on waiting in the car. “If I come up now, you’ll find an excuse not to go,” he smiled sweetly.
Sam found it a little aggravating, but oddly comforting, to be in the company of someone who knew her so well.
• • •
Desert Wash Drive was a littered, faded cul-de-sac on the eastern end of Palm Springs, adjacent to Cathedral City. The homes lining the street were no larger than a two-car garage and while some were well-tended, most reflected a resigned surrender to decay. Perched at the end of the street was an apartment building that loomed jarringly out of place, peering over the small adobe dwellings like a stucco-clad medieval lord. Twenty years earlier the three-story building had been an attractive, middle class dwelling but subtle neglect had taken its toll, leaving it a low-rent option.
The only signs of life were a couple of Hispanic children playing a lazy game of catch in the middle of the street. They barely moved aside as Sam drove past. She parked the car so it faced the apartment but left the engine running.
“I’m glad we didn’t have to come here at night,” Joe said, looking at a yard cluttered with several dismantled cars propped on cinder blocks.
“Just because a neighborhood is rundown doesn’t automatically mean it’s dangerous,” Sam said, reaching into her bag for a notebook. She shut off the car and slapped it against Joe’s arm. “You’re the one who wanted to work today—here, make yourself useful.”
“And do what, make a grocery list?”
“Take notes.”
He bounded out of the car and immediately sagged against the door. “Jesus Christ. It’s like an oven.”
“Welcome to Palm Springs,” Sam said with a serves-you-right smile, adjusting the baseball cap lower on her forehead.
The Windy Dunes apartment complex was supposed to be a secure building but a gaping hole yawned where the front door lock should have been. Splayed wires poking out of the wall beneath a dilapidated list of apartment codes was all that remained of the intercom system. Inside the foyer a tenant directory was tacked above the row of mailboxes. The manager was R. Goldman in apartment 201. J. Rydell was in 312 and by the cleanliness of the label he was the newest tenant.
“Why do I have the feeling they must have a lot of vacancies here?” Joe asked.
“I don’t know; maybe because you’re a snob.”
“You’re probably right,” he agreed. “Sam, what are you doing?”
Squatting in front of Rydell’s mailbox, she used her car key to gently pry the metal door open just enough to peer inside. “There’s mail in there.”
“It’s a mailbox; that’s what it’s for. You know, I don’t like the look on your face.”
“Don’t sound so nervous.”
“Sorry, but the thought of aiding and abetting a felony tends to make me jumpy.”
She smiled and gently worked the key up the side of the box, trying to jimmy open the lock.
“You had the same look on your face in high school when you walked into football games with a Diet Coke spiked with rum.”
“Stop worrying. I just want to take a quick peek. I’m not going to actually steal anything…probably.”
But the chintzy lock was tougher than it looked and no amount of prying would make it spring open without busting the lock entirely. Frustrated, Sam sat back on her heels—this is what she got for leaving her pick tools at home. She considered just breaking the damn thing open—Sam wasn’t above a little larceny in the line of duty.
The one rap against Sam at the Times was her tendency to get too involved in stories, regularly crossing the thin line between reporting and sleuthing. But she shrugged off the criticism as ill-informed ignorance. Getting the story sometimes meant digging a little deeper, which occasionally meant taking calculated risks. That was simply good journalism. But in this case the risk didn’t seem worth the reward.
Sam stood and faced the center courtyard. Potted palms strategically covered a large mismatched square of uneven concrete where a pool once offered a place to cool off. The muted sound of television sets was the only indication any residents were home. Sam was struck by the uneasy sensation they were being watched. She scanned the rows of doors and windows but saw nothing.
Apartment 201 was the first door to the right as they got off the elevator. A tarnished, brass Manager sign was nailed above the peephole. Sam pushed the doorbell, and it stuck in its hole. She poked the offending button until it sprang out, emitting a dull clunk. Sighing, Joe reached over her shoulder and rapped briskly on the door.
“I was just going to do that,” Sam said, snatching her notebook back from him.
The door swung open. A solid sixty-something woman with short gray hair and wire rim glasses filled the doorway. “I heard you the first time, for Chrissakes.”
“I’m sorry, we were having a little problem with your doorbell,” she explained, ignoring Joe’s muttered We? “Are you the manager?”
The woman took off her glasses and tapped the plaque. “That’s what the sign says.”
“Hi. My name is Samantha Perry. I’m a reporter for the Weekender, and I wanted to ask you a few questions if I could.”
“The Weekender? You’re kidding. I didn’t know they had reporters actually working there. Well, I guess you learn something new all the time. That’s what they say, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” Sam agreed. “I wanted to ask you about Jeff Rydell.”
“I figured as much. I’ve gone years with nobody coming to the door except tenants upset about one thing or another—you wouldn’t believe the things people can complain about—and all of a sudden I’m getting visitors by the hour. Well, come on in before all the hot air does.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Goldman.”
“Call me Rose.”
Rose Goldman’s apartment was a packrat’s dream. Every nook and cranny was filled with a stunning variety of knick-knacks and tchotchkes. Magazines were stacked neatly on each end table, and three checkerboards adorned the coffee table. A string of Christmas lights framed the picture window, fitted with blue velvet Roman shades, overlooking the courtyard. Although the apartment was clean, the smell of old paper still hovered in the air.
Sam and Joe huddled together on a maroon velvet love seat that coughed a delicate puff of dust when they sat down. The cushions were worn down toward the middle, tilting Sam and Joe towards each other.
“It’s been a circus around here today,” Rose exclaimed, easing into her chair, “what with the police and all.”
“I can imagine,” Sam said, suspecting Rose was more excited than upset at being involved in a murder investigation. “How long had Rydell lived here?”
“Four months going on five, the fifteenth of next month. He rented out one of the furnished apartments—said that’s what attracted him to the place—and always paid on time, unlike some of the others who live here. Seemed like a nice enough young man. But was kind of strange, too.”
“In what way?”
“Well, he kept odd hours. Not that I was checking up on him, but I’m old and don’t sleep too good anymore. Out my front window, I can see his apa
rtment because it’s opposite mine a floor up. So late at night if I hear the elevator, I make sure it’s someone who’s supposed to be here. I just haven’t gotten around to fixing the door downstairs. Every time I do, someone just rips it out again so why bother? Tenants come in drunk or boyfriends kick the door in because their girlfriends won’t answer the buzzer. It never ends.”
“I’m sure it’s hard keeping up.” Sam steered Rose back to the present. “So Jeff was strange. Was he a problem tenant in some way?”
“No, I told you, nothing like that. But he was a bit skittish, though, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“He seemed nervous lately. Like when I’d see him coming home, he was always looking over his shoulder, like he thought someone might be there behind him. Or maybe watching him.”
“You were,” Joe said under his breath. Sam’s elbow jabbed his ribs.
“Did you ever see anyone else with him? Did he have any friends who came over?”
“Not at night. I might have seen him leaving with a friend once or twice, but I don’t pay attention to people’s comings and goings in daytime. Mostly he seemed to keep pretty much to himself. He wasn’t one to sit out on the walkway and get to know the other neighbors. Now, a few tenants did mention to me that Jeff and George had some run-ins but it happens.”
“Run-ins as in arguments?”
Rose nodded. “Tenants can get on each other’s nerves, like any neighbors can.”
“And who is George?”
“George Manuel in 308.”
“Any idea who got on whose nerves?”
She shook her head. “Nobody said and I never saw it myself.”
“When he rented the apartment, did he have to fill out an application?”
“All the tenants do. Before we’d run a credit check on ‘em but now the owner don’t want to spend the money. He’s glad for anyone who’ll put up with this place.”
