Laguna Heat

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “I’ll have to lapse into the colloquial in order to get my point here across with as much brevity as possible,” he said, then fumbled in the box on his desk for a cigarette. Shephard lit it, and one for himself. Hannover squared himself in the chair. “We are fucked. Mayor Webb called me at home last night and we had a long talk. God, can that woman talk. To put it bluntly, Shephard, she’s terrified, both personally and professionally. She herself received”—Hannover broke off the sentence to scoot forward, pick up a slip of paper, and wave it at Shephard—“thirty-six telephone calls between nine and noon today. All from horrified citizens wanting to know what is happening in their quaint little seaside town. And in turn, she asked me that same question. Shephard, you’re familiar with the fate of Inca bearers of bad news?”

  “They were beheaded.”

  “I felt quite like one of those unfortunates today when I tried to explain to her that we haven’t even established a motive as yet. Luckily, we’ve progressed as a civilization since the times of beheadings. Instead, there has been a subtle improvement, which allows the offending messengers to erect a temple of truth or a cloud of smoke, as necessary, to trumpet or obscure their position. Of course you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  “A press conference.”

  Hannover drew deeply on his cigarette, then looked at it. His voice was deep and smoke-choked. “You’re going to handle it, Shephard. Two of the three networks are sending news crews, the Times, Register, Pilot, and all the local papers will be there. You don’t look happy.”

  “I don’t like reporters. And they don’t like me.”

  “I can understand that. But as detective in charge, you are the best man for the job.”

  “What about Pincus in Community Relations? It is his job.…”

  “No one believes Pincus,” Hannover said glumly. The Community Relations Office had been his idea, a “liaison between the department and the community it serves.” But the recently hired Pincus had turned out to be lazy, happy, and deeply indecisive, turning calls over to the chief rather than fending for himself. “The Times won’t even talk to him anymore. So it’s your show, Shephard. I know the press kicked you around a little up in L.A., but I’ll tell you right now that the Orange County press is a different animal. Not so … carnivorous,” he said, pleased with his word choice. He smiled at Shephard briefly. “I want to give you some basic parameters between which you should stay.”

  While Hannover talked about parameters, Shephard’s mind wandered back to reporter Daniel Pedroza of the Times, who had hounded him so thoroughly after the shooting. He had become like a shadow, waiting for Shephard outside the station when he arrived at work, lingering in the parking lot at quitting time, tying up his phone line with innumerable calls, filing a mountain of stories. The stories called the integrity of Shephard and of the entire department into question. When Shephard quit returning the calls and refused further interviews, Pedroza had even showed up at his house one night. In fact, the night after Louise had said she was leaving him, and Pedroza had asked if they might talk about some “more personal aspects” of his post-shooting trauma. Shephard had hurled a near-empty wine bottle at the reporter, then read the next day of his “violently irrational” behavior. Pedroza hadn’t mentioned the wine bottle.

  Even Daniel Pedroza, however, was no match for the ACLU lawyer who had grilled Shephard at the inquest. The attorney had implied that the murder of Shephard’s mother had stamped upon him a deep and malevolent hatred for “alleged criminal types.” Deep in the bowels of L.A.’s City Hall, sweltering in the late September heat, Shephard’s heart had pounded with such anger that he was sure it was being picked up by the reporters’ tape recorders.

  “Are we clear on those?” Hannover was asking. “Play them back, Shephard. It’s important we present a united front at this point in time.”

  “Stress that the killings of Algernon and Creeley may be connected, or may not be. We don’t want to arouse any more fears than we have to. Don’t mention the threats, the eyelids, or the voice on the answering machine because we need something to use on a suspect. Stress again that the force has redoubled its efforts, and that a task force is working around the clock to bring a suspect under arrest. Remain calm, polite, and assured at all times. Pass out the Identikit sketches in case any of the local papers haven’t seen them. And insist on makeup for my forehead because I’m sure to sweat under the lights.”

  Hannover nodded with approval throughout the litany, then smiled and leaned back again in his chair.

  “You’ve got a mind like a steel trap, young man,” he said finally. “And remember you’re representing the city of Laguna Beach, home of the Festival of Arts. The conference is set for four, so you’ve got about five minutes to get handsome. Just like your father, Shephard, you’re going to be a TV star.”

  The conference room was already steaming in the raw glare of the television lights when Shephard walked in. He sat down at the end of a long table, declined makeup, and broke into a sweat. Danny Pedroza sat down next to him.

  “Thought I left you in L.A.,” Shephard said.

  “I thought I’d left you there, too.” Pedroza looked at Shephard’s head. “Somebody hit you with a wine bottle?”

  “Just a hangover.”

  “I’ve been trying to get a job in Orange County for three years. You know, sun and waves and pretty girls on every corner. None of this kind of crap.”

  Shephard studied Pedroza’s smooth, youthful face, the short black hair, the pearly grin. “Me, too. But people keep killing each other and reporters keep asking questions. No end to it, I guess.”

  One of the young cadettes walked into the conference room, drawing stares and a cumbersome silence as she came to Shephard and plopped a stack of Identikit sketches down on the table. When she left, Pedroza leaned closer. “What’s this about the eyelids being snipped?” he asked in a whisper.

  “News to me,” Shephard said out loud, looking straight ahead. Where do they find out this stuff, he wondered.

  “You denying it?”

  “I never said it.”

  “Is it true?”

  Shephard considered his response as Hannover’s parameters dissolved in his mind. “What if it were?”

  “Then I’d like us to print it.”

  “The chief wouldn’t, Danny. We need something for the suspects to choke on.”

  “I can respect that.”

  “Would you?”

  “I respected that wine bottle.” Pedroza paused, then leaned closer again. “Both off?”

  The NBC director was motioning for Shephard to stand, snapping his fingers and checking his light meter. Shephard nodded to Pedroza, returned the glare of the lights as best he could, then stood.

  Looking out at the conference room, he saw only the blizzard of lights, hot and relentless, and heard the clicking of tape recorders, the shuffle of pens and pads. Shephard began his briefing, talking to the faceless crowd before him.

  “Monday at six A.M. a routine Laguna police patrol discovered the body of Tim Algernon outside his home on Laguna Canyon Road,” he heard himself drone. Good, he thought, maybe they’ll all fall asleep. “The Orange County Coroner’s office reported later that day that Mr. Algernon had expired from severe hemorrhaging in the skull caused by trauma. The trauma was caused by a rock.” Shephard continued to stare into the camera, careful not to wipe his face with his hand, as he was tempted. “The body was then doused with common turpentine and set on fire. Three days later, on Thursday at approximately three P.M., the body of Mrs. Hope Creeley, age sixty-three, was discovered in her Laguna Beach home. Mrs. Creeley was pronounced dead by reason of severe burns early the next day by the coroner. Certain similarities that have occurred in the two cases open up the possibility that the murders may have been the act of one man.” Hannover’s absurd “parameter” rang somewhere in the back of Shephard’s echoing brain. “But it is not our opinion at this time that the murders are definitely connec
ted.” He heard a low groan issue from the glare to his right, followed by a grumble from the other side of the table.

  “Investigation has led us to believe that the suspect is a white male, age sixty, medium height and slight build. Eyes are blue and hair is gray, worn longish, and a beard. He may be driving a 1964 Cadillac Coupe de Ville, convertible, red. The plates are one-five-six DSN. At this point we have not established a motive. Questions?”

  The voices blasted at him chaotically, like leaves blown by wind. They tangled all at once, repeated, dissipated to a few, then singled to one that issued from just behind the camera.

  “Do you believe the same person is responsible for both murders?”

  “We’re not sure. There is a possibility.”

  The same voice: “How good is that possibility?”

  “There are indications for and against. Speculation would be premature.”

  Then a woman’s voice, harsh and hurried: “Then it’s possible that there are two maniacs running around this town burning people to death?”

  “We haven’t ruled that out,” Shephard said, nearly choking on the idea.

  A new voice: “Was Mrs. Creeley sexually assaulted?”

  “No.”

  “Was Mr. Algernon?” A grumble from the reporters.

  “No.”

  The first voice: “You say no motive has been established. Can you tell us what motives have been ruled out?”

  “Robbery. Substantial amounts of property were left at both scenes. No property that we know of has been taken.”

  The woman again: “Then in the absence of apparent motive, we may be talking about thrill killing?”

  “That is a possibility.”

  A young man’s voice: “Mr. Shephard, do you have a witness to either murder?”

  “No.”

  “Where did you get the description of the suspect and his car?”

  “I can’t reveal that at this time.” Shephard felt a fat bead of sweat travel down his forehead toward his nose. Should have taken the makeup, he thought. The lights in front of him burned into his eyes. No wonder they use bright lights for interrogation.

  “Is the car stolen?” Good question, Shephard thought.

  “We believe so.” Then why no record in Sacramento?

  “Was the rock that killed Algernon thrown or driven into his head manually?”

  “Driven manually,” Shephard answered.

  Then the first voice: “Did Mr. Algernon and Mrs. Creeley know each other?”

  “Yes.” There was another rush of questions, which finally filtered down to one. His eyes burned.

  “Do you believe they were involved in any illegal activity?”

  “No, we do not.”

  The harsh woman’s voice again: “Romantically? Were they involved with each other romantically?”

  “No. They were friends at one time.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Still friends, I mean. Friends for a long time.”

  “Do you think that this may be the work of more than one man?”

  “We believe the suspect acted alone. It is possible that he had help.”

  The young voice: “What kind of help?”

  “We have no evidence; it is simply not ruled out at this time.”

  “Do you think it is significant that both victims lived alone?”

  “It is harder to kill two people than it is to kill one, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Then a woman’s voice, harsh and fast, from the back of the room: “Detective Shephard, isn’t it true that you resigned from the Los Angeles Police Department after the fatal shooting of Morris Mumford last year?”

  Shephard stared lamely in the direction of her voice. “Yes, that is true.”

  Her voice again: “I’d like to know if the subsequent trauma of that shooting and resignation has in any way affected your handling of this case.”

  The room was so quiet Shephard could hear the whirring of tape inside the camera, or was it the whirring of blood inside his head? He silently cursed the woman, the light, himself. The silence was lasting too long.

  “Of course not.”

  Her voice shot back quickly: “What about stress? I’m curious if stress has in any way impaired your search for what is obviously a single and very single-minded killer.” Jesus, he thought, who is she?

  “Stress? No, I don’t think it has.”

  She was on him again. “We appreciate your avid concern for the facts, detective, but I’d like to know about your feelings. This is a small town whose murder rate has quadrupled in one week. The cases are being handled by a very young detective who was recently forced to resign from a larger and more potent force. What are your feelings now? What about your fears and doubts, Detective Shephard. Do you have any?”

  The drop of sweat found its way to his nose. He wiped it with what grace he could muster, then stared toward the voice as the lights bore into his eyes. He heard the door open and quietly close. His mind began to eddy: How was Cal’s swollen eye? How much vacation time did he have after two months on the job? Was the table below him real wood or wood-look? He thought of Jane. Then he heard himself talking, slowly, conversationally, as if to a friend over the telephone.

  “Fears and doubts? Sure, I’ve got the same fears and doubts you’d have if you walked into a bathroom and found a dead person in the bathtub. It scares you. It makes you feel cursed and unclean, like you want to take a long shower or swim way out in the ocean. And you doubt if the same man did the same thing the next night in the next house that you’d get there in time to prevent it. There’s enough fear and doubt to choke on for a lifetime. As far as why I’m running this investigation, well, it’s my job. I work here. That’s all.”

  Shephard nodded once to the cameras, then sat back down, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. Pedroza whispered “Bitch” in his ear, then stood and disappeared. Shephard’s eyes reeled from the lights. Blue dots spun and expanded, so clear and bright that they seemed real enough to reach out and touch. He clumsily removed a cigarette and someone lit it for him. A few of the reporters gathered in front of him, helping themselves to copies of the Identikit sketch, respectfully quiet. Then a stocky young blonde was standing in front of him, slipping a reporter’s notebook into her purse and staring down.

  “Tina Trautwein,” she said, “Daily Pilot. I hope I didn’t get too personal. Our paper believes in getting deeper than the headline.” Then she turned with a swirl of light hair and muscled her way through the other reporters to the door. But Shephard never saw her go through it, buried as she was by an orb of bright blue light.

  The technicians broke down the lighting tripods while the director ordered them to Algernon’s Riding Stables for an “on-location background intro.” The director lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall while his crew scrambled. “Tough job, eh, kid?”

  “Beats washing cars,” Shephard said without forethought.

  He brought an Identikit sketch to the table in front of him and buried himself in it. The last of the reporters filed out. The face seemed pleased by the way the conference had gone: it looked up at him with a wry smile that seemed to say, “Well, Shephard, I’m so happy to hear about your fears and doubts. Wouldn’t you like to know what’s next?”

  Next, he thought. Damn.

  The door closed and the room was quiet. Finally. Peace and quiet. Then he was aware of someone sitting at the far end of the table, just on the fringe of his returning field of vision. He looked at her, then to the side, as he would at night to see a distant road sign. A young woman in a light blouse, tan arms, dark hair. Shephard rubbed his eyes and sighed, prepared for neither the wrath nor the icy beauty of Jane Algernon.

  “I came to see you,” she said. After the pressing voices of the reporters, her tone sounded subdued, reasonable, even pleasant.

  “To sue me?”

  “To thank you. For … helping me break through. I don’t have a lot of pe
ople I talk to on a regular basis, so I’d kept a lot of things inside where they turned bad. You saw that, and I thank you for, well, for seeing it.”

  Across the table her eyes looked bright blue, and it wasn’t the flash dot any more.

  “You should have held a press conference,” he said wearily. “They would have seen it.”

  Jane Algernon neither smiled nor spoke. She set a purse on the table and brought out an envelope, then a small box, which she slid down the table to Shephard.

  In the envelope he found Tim Algernon’s bank statement, another snapshot of him, and a letter written to “Rita.” The box contained a tooth of some kind, yellowed, small, not sharp.

  “Buster dropped it,” she said. “He’s still a pup. The California Indians considered the teeth of the sea lion to be good luck. Good luck to you from Buster and me.”

  The change in Shephard’s spirit was fundamental: he could feel something coming into him, other things going out.

  “I let myself into your conference,” she continued. “But when that woman started asking questions, I wished I hadn’t. You handled it rather well. You said you wanted to go swimming in the ocean when you saw Hope Creeley. I knew what you meant because I do that every night. I swim in the ocean.” She stood up and walked to the door. She shifted her purse from one shoulder to the other, then back again. “I guess I could stand here all day and move this silly thing around, couldn’t I? What I mean is, I swim at Diver’s Cove at nine every night, and if you’d like to swim tonight I’d … I wouldn’t mind the company.”

  Shephard considered her loveliness, her rage, her strength, her pain, her invitation. As he looked at her, the list went on and on.

  “I’d love to be the company,” he said finally, and then she was gone.

  The California DMV in Sacramento had unsnarled its computer jam sometime during Shephard’s press conference. Pavlik had left a note on his desk in his inimitably cramped, precarious handwriting. The registered owner of the car bearing plates 156 DSN was Dick Moon of 4887 S. Coast Highway in Laguna Beach.