by T. N. Robb
"For a ride, Ellen. Put the bag down on the floor. I've got a few questions."
"So do I," she said, and set the groceries down between her feet. "What makes you think you can kill someone just because you think he might have killed Nick? You've really gone off the deep end this time. And I'm really not surprised, you know that? I'm not one goddamn bit surprised because this is how you used to get when you were drunk. Only now you're sober, so you can't even blame it on booze."
"I didn't kill him." He put the gun back in his shoulder holster. "Remember that big, friendly, Irish detective, Dan Dibble?"
When she didn't answer, he continued. "Dan killed him. You want to know why?"
She whipped the kerchief off her head and shook her hair free. "What's this got to do with me?"
He laughed. "Dibble, Ellen, is working for the man who killed Nick. A guy named Eddie Rosen."
He glanced at her. Her eyes were wide with terror. She looked as if she was ready to leap from the car.
"We're going to just keep driving around tonight, Ellen, until you've told me what I want to know."
"Are you going to torture me like you did to that man in the motel if I don't answer?"
"No," he said softly.
She sensed she had the upper hand. "Take me home right now, Jack. Then, if I were you, I'd get out of town fast."
"Like I said, you're not going anywhere until I get some answers. I won't hurt you, but someone else might. Cops see this car, who knows what might happen."
She shifted in her seat. "Jack, please, you're just going to make it rougher on yourself if—"
"I imagine Rosen's guys are looking for me, too. Wouldn't that be a sweet end? Machine-gunned down together, Mr. and Mrs. Cleary."
"All right, Jack. What's your question? Am I seeing Tex Harris? Yes. Do I love him? None of your business. It happens that he's good to me, very good, and I like that. Maybe I love him for it. So what?"
"I want to know how you met him, when and where. Tell me that."
She made a soft, almost inaudible sound, perhaps a sigh of sudden understanding. "Okay, I get it. You want to know if I was seeing him when we were together, right? Is that it? Well, it so happens that I did meet him before we separated, but nothing happened until after we split up."
"Where'd you meet him?"
"At a department store while I was shopping." She was looking down now as she talked, smoothing her hands over her skirt. "He complimented me on a blouse I tried on, then before I knew it, he paid for it. I told him I was married and couldn't accept it, but he said he had plenty of money and it was okay."
Yeah, swell, Cleary thought. He could just imagine some big, raw-boned cowboy, spewing out a string of "shucks" and "ma'ams," and pulling out a wad of bills. "When did that happen?"
"Oh, about a week before you were suspended. He wanted to see me again, but I told him I couldn't. Then a few days later... after we ended it, I ran into him again."
"Where?"
"At a party. I was feeling crummy, and got invited to a party, okay? He was there."
"Whose party?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter."
She was lying. He could detect a slight quaver in her voice. "Whose party was it, Ellen?" His voice held a cold, manic edge, and she heard it.
"Someone in the movie business."
He looked over at her, still doubtful that she was telling the truth. "Who invited you?"
She was staring out the window. "Where're we going, Jack? Take me home. Please." She reached out, touched his leg. "You said you'd take me home." He brushed her hand away; her fingers curled in on themselves.
"We're not through yet, Ellen."
"We are through, you bastard," she spat. "Get that straight, Jack. You and I are done. Over. The divorce is just a formality. Now turn around, damn it. I mean it, Jack. Turn this car around."
"I meant you're not through answering me. I know where you and I stand." If anything, the gap between them was so wide now, that it couldn't have been bridged even if he had wanted it to be. The curious part was that he no longer felt anything for her. Nothing except resentment, anger, and the incipience of hatred that would turn dark and dangerous if he discovered she knew more than she was letting on.
Please, Ellen, don't know any more.
"Who invited you to the party?" he repeated.
She sighed and ran her hands over her face. "All right. It was Helen, Helen Dibble. She felt sorry for me. She knew what I was going through."
"And your cowboy just happened to be there?"
"Yes. Is that so strange? Actors have been known to party with other movie people."
"What about the Dibbles? It doesn't exactly sound like their kind of crowd. I mean I've never known Dibble to hang around with movie people."
"Dan said he does some after-hours security work for the guy who was putting on the party. That's all I know."
Cleary wondered if Ellen was substituting movie for record industry people, and the party was actually put on by someone like Mickey Schneider.
"Let me tell you about someone else that Dibble happens to work for, namely Eddie Rosen."
"I don't want to hear it, Jack. It doesn't involve me."
"I think it does, because I think Dibble set you up." He pulled into an alley, shifted into neutral, and held his foot against the brake. As the car idled, and the moon traveled in its solitary journey across the dark, unforgiving L.A. sky, he told her everything he knew.
She listened with her head bowed, then when he was finished, sat quietly a moment, digesting it all. He wasn't sure what he expected: disbelief, remorse, possibly anger at being duped. But the moment she opened her mouth, he knew it wasn't going to be any of those things.
"Jack, I'm sorry about what happened to you and Nick. I really am. But that's over. Nothing will bring Nick back. And I know you were warned about that city council investigation. You told me yourself. You should have dropped it."
"Dropped it because someone told me to?"
"For your own safety."
"Wake up, Ellen.. You think your cowboy is going to give a damn about you when this is over? You were used by Dibble. He was trying to destroy me for nosing into the mob. Your cowboy was just playing another role."
She shook her head vehemently. "You're wrong. Well, maybe what you say was true at first. But Tex cares for me. I know he does. He asked me to marry him, and I accepted."
"Marry him?" Cleary nearly choked on the word. "When our divorce is final."
Marry. That's what she's saying, man. M-A-R-R-Y. Cleary slammed the Eldorado into gear and pulled out of the alley. He drove in silence, remembering again Nick's prophetic statement about Ellen. He felt numb, cold, despite the heat. He braked at a red light, leaned across Ellen, opened the door. "Get out, and take your groceries."
She looked around frantically. "I don't know where I am. You can't leave me here. You said you'd take me home. How can I carry this bag of groceries home? Jack? Jack, listen to me."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the nickel Betts had given him earlier. "Call Tex, and tell him to take you home."
TWENTY
The Refuge
Cleary knew he couldn't go home, and he knew he couldn't drive around all night. The later the hour became, the greater the chances a police cruiser would pull him over. The tapes were locked in the trunk with plenty of evidence to support his story. Yet, he seriously doubted that either he or the evidence would see the dawn if he turned himself in. He could imagine the headlines in tomorrow's papers: FORMER COP DIES IN SHOOT-OUT, or, KILLER-COP TAKES OWN LIFE. At best, FORMER DETECTIVE CHARGED IN MURDER RAP.
He was heading in the direction of the beach, pulled toward the one person who seemed to care that he was alive. He arrived at the beachhouse unannounced. There was a light on inside when he knocked. He waited, knocked again. Finally he heard a voice. "Who is it?"
"Lana, it's me. Jack."
The door opened slowly. Lana wore a white silk robe and
was silhouetted against the illumination behind her. A nimbus of light surrounded her head like a halo, so that she seemed angelic, not quite real. But when she reached for his hand and drew him into the house, he knew she was not only real, but that she was his harbor.
"You surprised me," she said, shutting the door behind them.
"Sorry, I should've called before—"
"No, I'm glad you came. I wanted to see you. I've been calling all night. God, you look—is something wrong, Jack? What happened?"
He stepped inside, noticed the glass door was open to the deck. He stiffened, suspecting someone else was here—Dibble or Rosen's thugs. He glanced at Lana, who gave him a puzzled look.
He crossed the living room, stepped through the doorway and onto the wide deck facing the ocean, looked about. It was empty, except for the deck chairs and table where they'd eaten lunch that day lifetimes ago.
He drank in the warm ocean air, tried to relax. "What is it, Jack?"
He turned to her. "You didn't hear anything on the radio about what happened?"
"I haven't listened to it all day. For God's sake, Jack, tell me what's—"
"Can we sit down?"
"Let me get you a drink."
"Water's fine," he said, easing himself into one of the chairs at the deck table.
When she returned with his water, she suggested they sit on the lounge chairs, which were more comfortable. A full moon, tinged a bloody red, was rising. Waves crashed down on the shore, shattering the glistening moonbeams, as Cleary told her about his day. At one point, his ennui became so great, he stood, paced along the deck, and finally stopped at the railing, gazing out at the sea.
"I used to feel at home in the world, surrounded by things I could believe in." His voice was steady, emotionless. "Now, I don't know what to believe in anymore. The last couple of months I've cut myself off from anything or anyone who could make me feel the way I used to."
Lana walked over, stood next to him. "Jack," she interrupted. "There's something I need to tell you. I—"
Anticipating her, he took a step closer to her, placed a hand on her shoulder. "Me first." His hand slid around her. He embraced her.
"Jack, please. I—"
Then Cleary kissed her, and her body seemed to melt into his, and he knew this would be no repeat of last night. Their desire for each other was mutual. Without speaking, they went inside.
In the doorway of the bedroom, he pulled her gently against him, kissing her, and her hunger became a low, feverish moan as her mouth opened against his. It tasted faintly of Scotch. His hands slid down the curve of her spine, then around to the sash at her waist. He untied it. The silky folds of her robe fell open and his hands slid inside, against skin softer than a baby's, over the flare of her hips, up to her breasts, reading her contours and curves and planes like a blind man.
His fingers dipped inside the waistband of her panties, then drew them off as she lifted one foot, then the other, kicking them away, her mouth never leaving his, her hands working at the zipper on his slacks, the buttons on his shirt. He didn't know how long they stood there in the doorway, caressing each other, murmuring softly, their words lost in the haze of desire, but at some point, he simply picked her up and carried her over to the bed.
The mattress sank with their weight. She reached out with her arms and he slipped into them as if he had been doing it all his life. In the moonlight that seeped through an opening in the curtain, her skin was washed in gold. He cupped a breast in his hand and lowered his mouth to it, caressing the nipple with his tongue, then gently with his teeth, and she whispered, "Oh God, yes," and drew her nails lightly down his back as his mouth moved lower. The muscles in her stomach rippled. Her thighs opened slightly. Her hands tightened against his head as he caressed the inside of her thigh, as his fingers slid into the wetness there.
She gasped. She arched her hips. She said his name. He touched her with his mouth, and suddenly she cried out and pulled him up over her, and guided him inside her.
They made love for a long time, savoring each other, playing each other, reaching a fever pitch then backing down just as they approached the edge. It was as if their bodies were tuned to the same frequency, as if their chemistry had been matched genetically. Even the best times of his marriage had never been like this.
Afterward, they lay in each other's arms, talking quietly of nothing and everything, and then they made love again. Cleary didn't remember falling asleep, but he awakened during the night, in that most silent of hours that hovered between dark and dawn. He had been dreaming that he was running on all fours and feral, fanged creatures were stalking him. Didn't take a Freud to figure out what that one meant, but still, it haunted him. He thought he was with Lana in the dream, but then she was gone, and in her place was one of the creatures.
He sat up carefully, so he wouldn't wake her, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. An opaline wash of moonlight filtered through the room, and the soft pulse of the Pacific seemed almost loud in the stillness. He glanced back at Lana, sleeping soundly on her back, a hand curled up near her chin. The sheet had slipped off her shoulders, cutting her in half just below her breasts.
Cleary noticed a gold chain around her neck. From it dangled a gold heart. It had twisted over and, when he leaned closer, he saw something was inscribed on the back. He lifted it carefully away from her skin, trying to catch the exiguous light so he could read it. She stirred; he froze. Then she sighed as if at something she was dreaming.
He deciphered the name on the back. Sarah.
Who the hell was Sarah?
He brought his hand away from the heart as if it had burned him, stared at her face for a long moment, at the way the moonlight limned her jaw, then he got up slowly from the bed.
He walked over to the window, opened the curtains a little, picked up his pack of Luckys from the sill. He lit one and gazed out the window as he smoked, trying not to think about the name. But it was all he could think about. He was fixated on it. He looked back at her, sleeping deeply, innocently. He wished his own sleep could have been the same. He wished he hadn't seen the heart, that he hadn't felt compelled to read what was inscribed on the back, that... oh Christ.
Cleary rubbed his eyes, then let them wander around the room until he spotted her purse. ID. She's got to have ID. In there. Please be Lana Williams. Please don't be Sarah. He wouldn't look. It would be better not to know for sure. If he didn't know for sure, then things could go on from here between them.
But already he was moving across the room, drawn inexorably to her purse. It rested on a chair in the corner. With a mix of regret and resolve, Cleary thrust his hand into it. His fingers brushed the wallet. You can still take your goddamn hand outta there, buddy' boy. After all, Sarah might've been one of her names. Even Ellen had several names. Sure, Sarah Lana Williams, or the other way around, Lana Sarah Williams. But his fingers closed over the wallet, lifted it out silently.
Cleary clenched it tightly in his hand and padded back across the room with it. He went through it until he found her driver's license. He held it up to the moonlight, his vision blurred. Put it back back back. But now his eyes were focusing, now he was tilting it so he could read it. Now it was too late.
The name on it was Sarah Anne Thompson.
He slipped the license in the pocket of his pants, then replaced the billfold. His hands were shaking, his breathing jagged. He stared at the woman sleeping so peacefully, a beautiful imposter who had just pushed him over the brink.
TWENTY-ONE
Morning After
The Pacific at dawn was smooth as lacquer, its berylline surface lightening with the rising sun. Cleary watched as a lone pelican swooped in low over a kelp bed, its wings barely skimming a glassy swell. Then it flew off, disappearing to the west. He wished he could do the same this morning, fly out to sea and disappear from L.A., and everything that awaited him.
He stood beside a barren stretch of coast highway. This was the way he imagined the wo
rld would look after an atomic war, if it ever happened. No traffic, no people, nothing but the hot sun burning perpetually in an unnaturally blue sky, nothing but him and the hot sun. No wonder people were digging fallout shelters like there was no tomorrow.
Ten yards away, the Caddy was parked in front of an isolated phone booth, a remnant from the thirties. It was after nine, and he had been waiting patiently for almost an hour. But hey, he had no pressing social engagements. There was no one waiting anxiously for him to appear.
Then the hypnotic silence was shattered by a sharp peal from the phone. Butting out his cigarette, Cleary stepped into the booth and picked up the receiver. He listened for several moments, slowly nodded, and hung up. He stood there a moment, the sun beating hard against the glass, heating it like a greenhouse, then he opened the door and walked back to his car. He drove by rote, his mind on automatic, back to the beachhouse.
The front door was unlocked and he entered without knocking, as though he had every right to do so. The woman he had known as Lana—her name's Sarah and she lied, he reminded himself—was in the sunny nook of the living room, sipping coffee, wearing a pale blue robe. She was gazing out the window, her hair tumbling free to her shoulders. Cleary repressed an urge to go over to her, quietly, to lean toward her, to run his fingers through her hair. He just stood there, motionless as a corpse, watching her. The windows were open, the air awash with the sound of the ocean at high tide. She seemed oblivious to his presence.
"Seems like half of Decker Canyon's on fire."
She turned her head slightly toward him, then looked back out the window. "I thought you'd left again without saying good-bye."
He forced a smile. "After last night? I wouldn't think of it... Sarah."
Her back stiffened noticeably at the sound of her real name. The din of the Pacific and of a gentle wind were the only sounds that penetrated the subsequent uneasy silence. Cleary pulled out her driver's license from his pocket. "Feel free to jump in any time the tune moves you, honey."
