by Paul Bishop
“Did she have a lease?”
“A year's lease, but she didn't try to break it. She simply paid it off and didn't come back. It was all very sudden and strange.”
“Why strange?”
Ibarra gave a shrug. “She was a strange woman. All of the furniture in the apartment was rented so, of course, she left it behind. But she also left behind all her clothing and personal items. She told me to donate it to Goodwill.”
A strange woman indeed, Fey thought. What woman could bear to leave behind the favorite sweater that brings out the color of her eyes, or the comfortable pair of shoes you never want to give up? No treasured books or high school love notes. No memories, no keepsakes, no connections to the past. Only an order to bundle up what was there and give it away. The human equivalent of a snake shedding its skin.
She could understand why the woman paid off the lease. When you were trying to disappear, there was no sense bringing extra heat on yourself. If you tie up all your loose ends, nobody gets upset and nobody makes the effort to look for you.
Fey surprised herself by finding she felt sorry for Miranda Goodwinter, or more specifically the child who had become Miranda Goodwinter…The child who had grown into a savage, calculating serial murderer with no conscience and no goal beyond adding dollars to a bank account.
Fey's thoughts flashed to the hell of her own upbringing and the effects it had wrought upon every relationship, every decision, every day of her life since. She could only venture the vaguest guess about the depths of depravity it took to cause a child to grow into a Miranda Goodwinter.
“What do you think caused Ms. Blake to move out? Did she give any explanation?”
“No. One day everything was fine, the next she said she was moving out.”
“Did she have any regular visitors?”
Ibarra shrugged again, but picked up the phone and asked the head doorman to come into his office.
“This is Diego Mazina,” Ibarra said, by way of introduction. “He would know about Ms. Blake's visitors.”
Diego nodded at Fey, giving her a wide smile displaying a gold incisor. He wore the same style company blazer as Ibarra, but without the fancy trim.
Fey identified herself and asked him about Monica Blake's visitors.
“Not many,” said Diego. “There was one man who came to take her out regularly.”
“When did he first show up?”
Diego looked thoughtful. “About a month after she move in.” His Latin accent was more noticeable than Ibarra's. Fey knew he would have to sanitize his speech a lot more if he hoped to move into management. Bland was what the world was coming to expect. Being a foreigner, or a minority, was becoming more accepted, but you better not appear ethnic.
“Did she ever have any women visitors?”
“Not on my shifts,” Diego said. “And I am here most of the time.”
Probably working as much as he could, Fey thought, to send money back to his family in Central or South America.
Fey articulated several descriptions of males to Diego.
“The first one sounds like the man who came to take her out.”
“Did he ever stay overnight?”
Diego shook his head. “Sometimes, he would go up to the penthouse with Ms. Blake. But he would always leave later in the evening.”
Monica Blake, the black widow spinning her web around a new victim before devouring him.
“The man was very upset when Ms. Blake moved,” Diego offered of his own accord.
“Really?”
“Si. Very angry.”
“He also became very upset when I told him Ms. Blake had not left a forwarding address,” Ibarra chimed in. “He didn't believe me. I was forced to call the police, but the man left before they arrived.”
“Since you seem to recognize my description,” Fey said, “I'm sure you would recognize this man if I was to bring back a photograph.”
Both Ibarra and Diego nodded in the affirmative.
“What about the second man I described?”
“It could be he was here also,” Diego said. “It was the day before Ms. Blake moved out.”
The second description Fey had given had been as close as she could get to describing Isaac Cordell.
“Did anything unusual happen?”
Diego gave the same ethnic shrug displayed earlier by Ibarra. “After the man's visit, Ms. Blake came down the elevator in a big hurry. She seemed upset. She was very nervous while she was waiting for her car to be brought around.”
“Nothing else?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Did Monica Blake have any pets?” Fey asked Ibarra, refocusing on the interview.
Ibarra grunted. “We don't allow pets in the building.”
It surprised Fey, but she thanked the two men. Diego accompanied her out of the office and walked with her to her car.
“Why did you ask if Ms. Blake had a pet?” Diego asked as Fey was about to get in her vehicle. She halted her process and stood up again, leaning one arm across the top of the open car door.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Diego?”
Diego looked back over his shoulder, as if regretting he had spoken.
“It's okay,” Fey told him. “Whatever you say stays between us.”
Diego licked his lips. “Senor Ibarra does not know, but Ms. Blake had a cat.”
“A cat?”
“Si. She pay me to feed it if she was going to be out or away.” Diego said in a hushed voice.
“What kind of cat?”
Diego shrugged. “Blanco…A white one.”
Bingo. Fey felt her pulse increase. Brentwood.
“What happened to this cat?”
Diego looked around again, nervous he would be seen talking too long to Fey. “The lady, Ms. Blake, she call me. Ask me to get the cat and his things and save them for her.” The more nervous he became, the more broken Diego's English became.
“Did she come back for the cat?”
“Si. It was the night after she left. The same night the first man you described became so upset when he found out the lady had moved.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, except she came to the maintenance room and got her cat.”
“Monica Blake came back here and picked up her cat?”
“Si. She pay me a hundred dollars.”
“Was she driving her regular car?”
“No, she had another. I don't know what kind.”
“She came and picked up the cat, nothing else?”
Diego looked, if anything, even more uncomfortable.
“Come on, Diego, give.”
“It was the man...”
“Which one?”
“The first one you described. The one who was so upset because she was gone.”
“What about him?”
“He was still here when the lady come for her cat.”
“Here? In the building?”
“No, in his car. Parked at the curb across the street. He was sitting there when the lady came back to get her cat.”
“He saw her? Even though her car was different?”
Diego nodded. “I think so.”
“You didn't tell Ms. Blake.”
Diego didn't reply. Fey realized he hadn't wanted to lose his hundred bucks if Monica Blake had taken off without her cat. “It’s okay, Diego. What happened next?”
“When the lady left, the man…he follow her.”
“He followed her car when she drove away? Did she see him?”
Diego cast his eyes down and shrugged.
Fey slid back into the driver's seat of her car. “Thank you, Diego. Muchas, very much, gracias.” She dug a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse and handed it over. “Send something home for your kids.”
Diego's face lit up with pleasure.
Chapter 38
Fey had most of the pieces she needed, except for the biggest one—Isaac Cordell.
Putting a case together was
like working a jigsaw puzzle. First you turned all the pieces face up. Next you tried to fit together all the straight-edged pieces to form the outline of your picture. This gave you a framework on which to hang the pieces of the big picture—the solution.
Unlike a jigsaw puzzle, when you were investigating a case you didn't have the picture on the front of the box to work from. All you had were experience and intuition—the tools a detective needed to put together the leads, clues, and evidence making up the substance of an investigation. However, if Fey could capture Cordell, crack him open like a walnut in a vise, she would have the key to unlock the entire scenario without relying on assumptions and long shots.
She didn't need what she wanted from Cordell in order to present the case for filing. However, pinning him down would end to any argument regarding her slant on the case.
She also knew Cordell wasn't going to go away. He would continue to fester until he burst all over her. Fey wasn't willing to live with the anxiety of anticipation.
True bottom line was she wanted Cordell. Wanted him bad.
She wanted him for the case.
She wanted him because she wanted to silence the naysayers.
She wanted him most, however, for what he tried to do to her; for what he did to her brother; for the fear he stirred in her.
She hated the fear most of all. It made her want to destroy Cordell, blow him away the second he made his move.
You can't always have what you want.
She wanted Cordell dead, but she needed him alive.
She also needed him broken and to find her own strength in the breaking.
Picking up the shotgun from against the wall in her living room, she hefted it under her arm and walked out the back door. With a casual pace belying the tightness in her stomach, she sauntered to the gate in the slump-stone wall giving access to Peter Dent's backyard corrals.
She had not thought about the cleanup needed to her own corral. The charred mounds of her horse boxes were a sodden, blackened mess, filling the evening air with the odor of smoke. Taking care of those repairs was for another day.
Peter Dent had more acreage and used inherited money to build larger stables. They were beautiful, but labor intensive. Fey was grateful for Peter’s help, but didn’t envy him the extra work.
Thieftaker nickered when he saw Fey. The horse trotted over to the steep-poled corral fence to meet her with Constable following. Fey fondled her horses' muzzles, whispering in a soothing voice. Taking the shotgun, she climbed between the corral's railings, Fey checked the alfalfa, hay, and water supplies. As usual, Peter had everything in order.
As darkness fell, Fey spent a few more moments with her horses before returning toward her own residence. With the shotgun held loosely in her left hand, she considered taking Thieftaker on a night ride through the surrounding foothills.
As she passed through the gate between the properties, a muscular arm whipsawed around her neck. A knee dug into the small of her back, and she was pulled back into an off balance arch. She gasped for breath.
“Hello, bay-bee,” Cordell grunted in her ear. “I've been waiting for you. I'm going to make you real happy to see me.”
Three days of hiding in bushes and sleeping rough had added to Cordell's unpleasant disposition. The smell of him overwhelmed Fey as she fought for breath. Her throat felt it was being crushed. She tried striking backward with the butt of the shotgun. Cordell sensed the movement, bending Fey farther backward to avoid it.
“Naughty, naughty,” he said. He pushed forward, forcing Fey to move with him. Her head pounded from lack of oxygen. Blackness blurred the edges of her vision. Desperately, she threw her legs straight up and out, crashing down to the ground. The movement tore her head free of Cordell's grasp. She had landed hard, but rolled onto one knee with the shotgun at the ready.
Cordell laughed.
Fey wasn't taking chances. She had a round in the shotgun's chamber. She thumbed the safety off and pulled the trigger. She had the barrel pointing at the ground in front of Cordell, intending the blast to be a warning shot. She still wanted Cordell alive if possible.
She heard the shotgun's hammer fall, but there was no explosion of shot. Fey was confused, but when Cordell laughed she realized the weapon had misfired.
She expected Cordell to jump at her, but he stood looking at her, his hands on hips and displaying a wicked smile. She wasn't going to ask why. Pumping another round into the chamber, Fey pulled the trigger a second time. Again there was no response from the weapon.
She looked at Cordell. He was watching her, waiting. When he saw her comprehend what had happen, he lunged at her.
Fey swung the shotgun hard. Cordell stepped inside the roundhouse swing, parried the blow, and drove a hard left jab into Fey's forehead.
Bells clanged and whistles exploded in Fey's brain as she fell backward with the force of the hit. Staying with her momentum, she retained the presence of mind to roll with the blow—summersaulting completely over—to put space between her and her attacker.
She came up on hands and knees, eyes straight ahead, trying to anticipate Cordell's next move.
“I'm going to kill you,” Cordell said from where he was casually standing. He picked up the shotgun Fey had dropped.
“Apparently, not with my shotgun,” Fey said. Her voice was a croak. I am a frog lady, she thought ridiculously when she heard herself.
Cordell looked hefted the shotgun. “It’s still a good club.” He hoisted it like a baseball bat. “Bottom of the ninth. Bases loaded. Cordell at the plate looking for a grand slam.” He swung the shotgun hard, letting it go spinning away at the apex of the movement. Fey watched as it flew through the air , hit the ground, and skitter into the burnt debris of Fey's horse boxes.
“I ain’t using no gun to kill you,” Cordell said. His demeanor was casual. “What I’m gonna do is a lot more fun.”
“Why?” Fey asked, stalling, trying to get her breath back.
“What do you mean, why?”
“Why are you doing this? You didn't kill your wife ten years ago. I know you didn't kill her this time. You can walk away from this.”
“I don't have anywhere to walk. People like you took everything away from me. How are you going to make up for ten years of my life?”
“Nobody can. But what about the next ten years?”
“There won't be a next ten years.”
“Why not?”
“Because of what nobody else, but the prison doctor knows.”
“What?”
“The hellhole you call a prison gave me a disease.”
Fey thought fast. “AIDS? You got AIDS in prison?”
“Not AIDS. I punked a lot of boy-girls behind those bars—something to pass the time—but I never got no AIDS.”
“Then what?” Fey didn't care as long as she could keep him talking. Her vision was clearing and her breath coming back. Cordell thought he had all the time in the world to play with her. Hoping not to set off a reaction, Fey stood up.
“When you go to prison, there are two choices.” Cordell told her, his voice still surprisingly in control. “You’re either a punk or the punkee. The way not to become a punkee is to get big. Big and strong. I was big to begin with, but I had to become bigger.”
“Steroids,” Fey said, leaping ahead to what she knew was coming.
Cordell nodded. “You ain't stupid.”
“How did you get steroids in prison?”
“I take back what I said about you being stupid. You can get anything in prison. Steroids are no problem.”
Fey knew the question was stupid, but she was still stalling.
“What do steroids have to do with anything?” she asked. “Give yourself up. Help me crack this case wide open and walk away a free man.”
Cordell moved his hugely muscular body a step closer to Fey. She did not give ground. Even in the darkness, she could see Cordell's face was a cloud of anger. Here we go, she thought.
Cordell scream
ed, “Because the steroids gave me brain cancer. I'm going to die!” He grabbed his head with both hands as if he wanted to shake out the disease.
Fey took her chance.
Shuffling a step forward, she lashed out and drove the toe of her foot toward Cordell's groin. The big man reacted instantly, but still grunted with pain as he took the brunt of the blow on his thigh.
Fey broke contact and ran. She stumbled as she headed for her backdoor, caught her balance and sprinted.
Cordell was right behind her. He grabbed a hank of her flying hair, pulling it out by the roots. Fey yelled in pain, but refused to slow.
The back door was unlatched and slightly ajar. Fey slammed through it, stumbling again and sliding across the linoleum of the kitchen floor.
Cordell burst through the door, intent on catching Fey, and was blindsided by Kyle Craven who seemed to come out of nowhere. Cordell crashed into the kitchen refrigerator. As he rebounded, Card MacGregor appeared and drove a baton into Cordell’s solar plexus.
Air whooshed out of Cordell’s lungs and he dropped to the floor in a fetal position.
Kyle Craven bent down to help Fey to her feet. She put a hand to her head where Cordell had pulled out the fistful of hair. It came away bloody.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Are you all right?” Craven asked.
“Yeah. But you guys took long enough to swing into action.”
Craven and MacGregor had agreed to help when Fey had called them earlier in the morning. Craven had been maintaining a loose tail on Fey since she left to go to Ajax Photo Supply. MacGregor, who had grabbed the first plane from San Francisco, joined Craven when Fey headed for Beverly Hills.
Both men wanted to be in at the finish of a case with major meaning for them. Fey had known Cordell would come for her. Without police department resources to back her up, she was forced to come up with alternate manpower. Craven and MacGregor were the obvious choices—They had a stake in the case, and neither was happy with loose ends. Like most law enforcement types, they were anal-retentive enough to want to be in on the kill and put a final finish to the case.
“Cuff him,” Fey said to MacGregor, who took a pair of Smith & Wesson stainless steel ratchets out of the back pocket of his jeans.
