A Stranger Lies There (17 page)

Now the area was windless and silent. I parked and got out of the car, searching for that familiar imprint upon the mountain. The mountain stared back down at me, offering nothing. It grew in solemn ranks, each more imposing than the last. My eyes swept its surface, back and forth and up and down. But I saw only hard, faceless dirt. I felt my heart drop into the dust at my feet, then the sun crashed into the mountain and ripped open on its jagged peaks, and I screamed until my throat was as raw and parched as the desert around me.

CITY

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Dusk now, the city in shadow, recovering from another long hot day. I was parked across the street from Deirdre's clinic. Streetlamps flickered to life. Traffic lights had that weird, watery luminance when the last minutes of daylight float in the atmosphere before evaporating into the night sky.

An hour earlier, I'd ended up at Nate's on Palm Canyon Drive. I almost ordered a whiskey, but didn't want to start down that road. Settled for a ginger ale instead. The place had been pretty quiet. I watched the bartender polish glasses so I wouldn't have to face myself in the mirror above the bar. Tidwell's words kept coming back to me, though I tried to force them away. Maybe he was right. Maybe Deirdre couldn't deal with the possibility that my past was about to pounce on us. Or that she would lose me in the process, not just physically but emotionally. Either way, I wouldn't be there. All the things she'd overcome by herself, maybe she just didn't think she could do it again.

Deirdre had grown up in New York, where she was sexually abused by an uncle while still in grammar school. It had continued for a few years, until she reached junior high, and the repressed shame and guilt eventually caught up with her. Her sister died in Deirdre's senior year of high school. She stopped caring about herself after that. Heroin dulled the edges of her ravaged self-esteem, and her early and mid-twenties were consumed by the addiction before she'd finally cleaned up and moved across country to this desert. I'd come out here about the same time, both of us fleeing demons we'd so far been unable to shake. We used to laugh that maybe they couldn't stand the heat. But we both knew what it really was, and now, in my stubbornness, all of it had been lost.

The ginger ale in front of me had turned to water, the ice melting and sending condensation down the sides of the glass. It was slippery and cold in my hand as I turned it back and forth. The news about Turret took everything out of me. With no focus for my anger I was impotent. I went over the interview at the police station, then thought of how quickly they'd finished with Deirdre's car. Her keys were sitting next to my glass on the bar, and I knew then what I had to do. I left without touching my drink.

The palm trees along the sidewalk rustled in the breeze that came down off the mountain. An empty paper cup skidded on the pavement past the car. It had little company, with vehicle and pedestrian traffic beginning to thin out as evening descended. I'd give it a few more minutes. I felt raw and scraped out, as if my insides had been scoured with steel brushes. There was no getting around the fact that if I hadn't left last night, Deirdre would still be alive. Probably getting off work right about now, her long hair blowing in the breeze as she glided down the sidewalk.

She gets in the car and sits beside me, shutting the door to seal in the silence. Her warm hand rests on my arm, and I hear her whisper, “Stay with me, Tim. Here. Now.”

I took Deirdre's spare keys from my pocket as I approached the clinic. Once inside, I locked the door behind me. The alarm whistled faintly, waiting for someone to key in the proper code. I had less than a minute before it would go off in a keening blare that would alert the police. On several previous visits here with Deirdre, I'd observed her punching in the code on the alarm's keypad. I couldn't remember the actual numbers she'd used, but I was fairly confident of being able to recall the pattern once I saw the keyboard.

Hurrying to a small closet a few feet in, I opened the door and found the green alarm control panel. Hoping the code hadn't been changed since the last time I was here, I tried it out. The whistling stopped and the LCD screen told me I'd been successful.

Relieved, I went to Deirdre's office without turning on any lights. I closed the door before switching one on. There was a wedding photo of us in a gold frame on her desk. A casual picture taken by one of the guests, showing us dancing arm in arm. Deirdre had a loopy grin on her face, her hands on my back clutching both of her shoes. Her bare feet were on top of mine as I struggled with the dance steps, all five-foot-ten of her leaning into me. I picked up the picture and smiled, remembering that perfect day. My thumb caressed the smooth glass in front of her image. Putting it back, I went straight for the file cabinet in the corner, used another of Deirdre's keys to unlock it. The current client files were in the top drawer, about ten of them she dealt with personally. I removed the top page from each, which listed personal information like addresses and telephone numbers, stacked them in the automatic document feeder and turned on the machine. While it warmed up, I opened the second file drawer and saw that it held previous patient files, going back about six months, and I prepared to copy those too.

Everything I thought could be useful, about forty files in all, I copied. It went quicker than I expected with the automated machine, and I was done in about twenty minutes. After recollating the files, I found an empty folder for the copies. Before I left, I grabbed our wedding picture and included it with the documents in the folder, switched off the lights and reset the alarm.

Outside, I turned around to lock the door behind me. As I did so, the picture of me and Deirdre slid out of the folder and clattered on the pavement. I was afraid it had broken, but found that it was okay when I picked it up. I locked the door, knowing I'd probably never return. Back in the car, I put the sheaf of papers on the seat beside me with the photograph on top. As I drove away, the streetlights slid over the picture frame's glass and reflected into my eyes.

There was a Denny's next door to the motel off the freeway. I ordered the first thing I saw on the menu, not caring what it was. It was strictly for nourishment, fuel for the following day, and I didn't really taste any of it. I sat at the counter and watched the waitresses scurry back and forth. The cooks behind the order window worked methodically over hissing clouds of steam and sizzling grease. It brought back the time I'd spent working in the prison kitchen, first doing post-meal cleanings, then the cooking itself. I'd been out a long time, but it didn't feel that way.

As I ate, I went over my plans for tomorrow. I'd taken Deirdre's case files in order to begin tracking down her clients, hoping to speak to as many of them as I could about the possible identity of the young man shot down in our front yard. It was the only thing I could think to do. If both deaths were related to the area's burgeoning drug trade, I'd do my damndest to prove it. I was absolutely convinced, unlike the cops, that Deirdre's death wasn't self-inflicted or accidental.

I finished the meal and left a ten on the counter, then checked into the motel next door. The room was plain and impersonal, exactly what I needed. I sat down on the bed, looked at the phone. Didn't want to deal with it, but I decided to get it over with. Someone picked up after three rings.

“Can I speak to Allie?”

“Is that you, Tim?”

“Allie?”

“Oh, Tim, I'm so sorry. We're all just in shock. How are you doing?”

“I don't think it's hit me yet. I mean, I've had some moments, but…” I started over. “I'm going to need your help.”

“Anything.”

“Can you call anybody that may not have heard yet? I'm just not up to it.”

“Everybody at the clinic knows. I don't have Terry's number though.” Terry. Deirdre's friend from Triumph Outreach.

“I'm sure it'll be in the Rolodex on her desk in the office. I'd give it to you but I'm not at home.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I think so.”

“The news said … what happened, Tim?”

“I don't know.”

“She seemed fine.”

“She was. Allie, she didn't do that to herself.”

“I knew it. I knew she didn't.” A shaky breath. “But the police think…”

“They don't know her the way we do.”

“What about you, Tim?”

“I don't know. I'm still trying to sort it all out. First the other murder. Now Deirdre. I don't know.”

“She called me last night.”

“What?”

“I talked to her last night.”

“When?”

“You were in the shop.”

I couldn't seem to absorb the news. “What did she say?”

“She was worried about you.”

It just couldn't get any worse. Everything I'd done was wrong. “She tried to talk me out of getting involved. And I didn't listen.”

“It's not your fault, Tim.”

“I wasn't there for her.”

“It's not.” I knew she wanted to ask why I'd gone down to Indio, but she didn't. “When's the funeral?”

“I'm not sure yet.” I had to end this, now. “Allie, I may not be in touch for a couple days.”

“I understand.”

“But I'll call when I have the arrangements.”

“Okay.” A pause. “God, I'll miss her. I miss her now.”

“I know. Goodbye, Allie.”

I hung up. The phone at home was probably ringing off the hook from other friends, but they'd just have to fill the machine. I got up and turned on the TV. Went to the window and pulled the curtains. The room reflected back at me, obscuring the night outside. I switched off the lamp and stood in the darkness with the TV flickering in the background. Watched the traffic zoom by on the freeway, my reflection coming and going with the light from the television screen.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The next morning was bright and hot, and I woke up sweating to the sound of a morning news show. I switched it off, took a long hot shower until steam filled the bathroom and my skin prickled with heat. Still wet, I went into the bedroom and turned on the window air conditioner. Let the cold blast of air dry my skin and shock me into wakefulness. Then I dressed, combed my wet hair back and went down to the restaurant. I ordered a large breakfast and drank cup after cup of strong black coffee, steeling myself for the coming day.

Back in the room, I spread the copies I'd made last night on the bed, and started with Deirdre's most recent clients. The first number didn't answer. The second one was answered by a man who sounded in a rush.

“I'm looking for Michael D'Angelo.”

“You found him,” he said before speaking to someone else. “Not now, Trish.” Then he was back. “Who's this?”

“I'm sorry. This is Tim Ryder. I think you knew my wife, Deirdre.”

“Yeah,” he said, drawing it out warily. “I know a Deirdre.”

“I don't know if you heard—”

“Look, I'm on my way to work. What's this all about?”

“I guess maybe you didn't see the news.”

“What news?”

“She's dead.”

I heard a woman in the background, and his voice got muffled before he came back. “Did I hear you right?”

“You did.”

“My God! That's … that's terrible. I don't know what to say.”

“Can we talk sometime today?”

“You said you're her husband?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm really sorry. I can't … what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Maybe we could meet somewhere.”

“I guess. But I don't see how—”

“Where do you work?”

“I don't know if I feel comfortable—”

“It would really help me out. Deirdre too.”

“How did she die?”

“Can we talk about it later?”

“Well … if you can make it out to the San Gorgonio Inn. What's today?”

“Wednesday.”

“I get a break around ten.”

“I could be there then. Where at?”

“The parking lot. Don't ask for me, I'll find you. My boss is just looking for a reason.”

“No problem. I'll see you at ten.”

The next one had an answering machine, which I didn't bother with, and the one after that rang and rang. Number five picked up just before I was going to move on.

A woman, speaking very quietly. “Hello?”

“Is this Monica?” The TV was on behind her.

“Yeah.” Tired, without inflection.

“My name is Tim Ryder. I—”

She started crying. “I just saw you on TV.”

“I'm sorry.”

“How could she do this?”

“It wasn't what you think.”

She didn't seem to hear me, and her next words were loud and distorted in the earpiece. “Where were you?”

I waited until she got herself under control. “I have to talk to you.”

“Deirdre was going to help me find Cameron. I had an appointment with her and everything.”

“Who?”

“My son. I haven't seen him in five years.”

“I have to talk to you.”

“I don't want to talk to you,” she said. The next thing I heard was the dial tone. I called her back, but she didn't answer, and I realized then what I was up against. I put the phone back in the cradle, her question echoing in my mind. Found the next name and dialed.

“What,” I heard over loud music in the background. He sounded young.

“Bobby Callejo?”

“Just a sec.” He dropped the phone, and the music didn't get any quieter before Bobby answered.

“Bullet the blue sky,” he sang off-key with the music, obviously drunk, then shouted into the phone, “U2
rocks
, man.”

This wouldn't be easy. “Hey. You got a counselor named Deirdre?”