A Stranger Lies There (18 page)

“Oh. Yeah. Cool lady. I don't think she's too happy with me though.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you know how it is. I blew her off the last couple weeks. Nothing personal, man.” He started singing again.

This was a waste of time. Maybe when he was sober. “Yeah, okay. Thanks for your time.”

I hung up without waiting for a response, completely discouraged. One out of six, but I was luckier with the last few, getting three other people to meet me later in the day. The final call I made was a disappointment, though, to Patrick Reed, the kid from the fountain. His phone was disconnected. With the rapport Deirdre had obviously shared with him, it seemed more likely that he would give her name to a friend in need. I jotted down his address so I could try his place in the evening.

After filling the car with gas, I set out for Banning, about fifteen miles west on the interstate. Most of the city pushed up against the San Bernardino Mountains north of the freeway, except for the sprawling Sun Lakes retirement community on the other side. The San Gorgonio Inn was an older place visible from the freeway, and I made a few rights into the parking lot. It was hot and still, and the mountains rose up in different shades of brown against the blue sky. Eventually, the smog from L.A. would get pushed out here. I sat against the hood of the car, sweating, keeping an eye out for someone who might be looking for me. It was a few minutes to ten. On the second floor walkway I saw a man in a white shirt and pants pushing a cleaning cart. He stopped it in front of one of the rooms and glanced my way. Looked at his watch and came down the stairs, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket as he approached.

“You the guy I just talked to?”

“That's right.”

“I forgot your name.” He was in his thirties, Caucasian, with a short beard, and very thin.

“Tim.”

He nodded, took a cigarette out of the box. “It really sucks. I been thinking about it all morning. She was a good person.” He sounded matter-of-fact, maybe a defense mechanism against the hardships in his life.

“Thanks for seeing me.”

“No problem,” he said, patting his pockets. “You got a light?”

“Sorry.”

“You mind coming to my car?”

“Sure.” I followed him to the edge of the lot, toward an old Pontiac with weathered paint and peeling vinyl on the roof. He stopped when he saw the flat tire in the back.

“Ahh, hell. Musta been that metal I ran over on 18th.”

I looked at my watch. “You need help with the spare?”

“It'll have to wait till later. But thanks.” The windows were all rolled down, and he leaned over and reached in for the cigarette lighter. When it popped out, he lit his cigarette and tossed the lighter onto the seat. I saw duct tape and burn marks on the vinyl.

“You were going to tell me how she died,” he said, blowing smoke out of his nose.

“The police think it was an accidental overdose.”

The cigarette stopped halfway to his mouth.

“I don't,” I said.

He nodded, taking a puff.

“It looks like you agree with me.”

“I'd be surprised. What was in her system?”

“Heroin.”

He pondered that, tapping ash onto the pavement. “So someone else put it there?”

“That's the only other explanation.”

“Why?”

“I'm trying to find that out.”

“What do you want from me?”

“You heard about the body they found the other day, right?”

“Yeah. In North Palm Springs.”

“It was on our property.”

“Whoa. I didn't know that.”

“Deirdre didn't know him. But we'd been talking about the possibility that maybe he knew her. Through one of her clients.” He studied me, not saying anything. “You know, like a recommendation.”

“Not from me. Maybe to the clinic.”

“No. They'd have to have her name.”

“I wish I could help.” He dropped his cigarette on the pavement and ground it out. “But I don't see what one would have to do with the other.”

I didn't feel like getting into it. “I don't know. I had to start somewhere.”

“I gotta get back.”

I walked with him over the hot concrete, toward the motel and my car.

“How did you find me?”

I hesitated. “Your file.”

“I figured. My life's an open book anyway.” He turned to look at me. “I reported someone last week. Smelled ammonia in one of the rooms. I don't know if that helps.”

“Drug lab?”

“That was my assumption.”

“What happened?”

“They carted him off in the back of a police car.”

“You didn't know the person, did you?”

“No.”

I tried to make it fit, but couldn't. “Thanks anyway.” We stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “I appreciate your time.”

He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. “When's the funeral?”

“The police still have her. I could call you.”

“Do that. I should be there.”

The rest of the day I spent circling the fringes of the valley. I stopped at the nature preserve midday to kill some time. It was dusty and still, completely deserted in the heat of the afternoon. I sat on a bench surrounded by palm trees, listening to the silence. At a mobile home park in Desert Hot Springs I'd learned nothing. The lady had fanned herself with a newspaper and spoken of how much she looked forward to her meetings with Deirdre. She didn't know what she would do now. I'd left more dejected than ever. Took Dillon through the Indio Hills, past Sky Valley to the preserve. Before I knew it, an hour was gone, and I headed down to La Quinta, where I met another recovering addict who had nothing more than sympathy to give me. Palm Desert was the next stop, with the same result. Afterward, in no hurry to get home, I found Palm Canyon Drive. It wound through Rancho Mirage and Cat City on its way to Palm Springs. Landscaped retirement communities glistened on my right. On the left, rocky foothills rose up in stunted heaps.

Patrick Reed's place was on Palm Canyon Drive, near the outer edge of the city. An ancient looking little apartment complex, nine units arranged in a shallow U formation around a flower and weed infested courtyard. It was done in the traditional southwestern style, with adobe colored walls and faded pink roof tiles. A Subway sandwich shop was right next door.

I parked in the street out front and went into the courtyard, headed for number 6. A large horsefly darted in front of my face. I batted it away. There were cactus and wildflowers crowding the walkway, baking under the late afternoon sun. Overgrown weeds threatened to choke off the area. A dry fountain stood in the middle of the courtyard, its discolored surface crumbling and flaking away. The place was empty and silent except for the buzzing flies, and seemed straight out of an old western.

Going up to the door at number 6, I noticed an old cat, gray and dusty, sprawled in the meager shade beneath a wilted rosebush in front of the apartment next door. It panted tiredly, one milky eye following me warily.

I knocked on the door in front of me and waited. No answer. The unit didn't seem abandoned; there was a partially closed curtain in the window and I peered through the crack in the center. Too dark inside to see anything, so I tried next door, whose window was also closed and curtained against the heat of the day. The residents would probably venture out later, like the nocturnal wildlife that lived in the area.

This time the door was answered by a short, thick Mexican woman. She stared out at me from her dim living room. The cat at my feet darted into the house, but she didn't seem to mind. I heard faint music inside and smelled grilling meat, which made me realize how hungry I was.

“Sí?” she asked.

I inquired in Spanish whether she knew the man next door and told her his name. She nodded and said yes, he lived there, but couldn't tell me when he'd be back. When I thanked her, she closed the door quickly, eager to shut out the intense heat.

At the Subway I bought a sandwich and sat down facing the window. Kept my eyes on the street outside. The only customer in the place, I ate slowly and began to relax from the long day. But I'd be ready if I caught sight of anyone who might be Reed.

When I'd finished the sandwich, I got up to refill my drink. I turned away from the window momentarily, and almost missed a young man walking by outside. Rushing out of the store, I just caught him going into the courtyard: thin and medium height, short, unkempt hair. He wore a T-shirt over dusty blue jeans and battered old sneakers.

“Excuse me, are you Patrick Reed?” I asked from right behind him.

Startled, he turned around, looked me up and down. “Yeah, that's me. But I don't want anything, man. I'm off that shit.”

“I'm not here to sell you anything,” I said, then hesitated. “I'm Deirdre's husband. I need to talk to you.”

“Deirdre?” he asked uncertainly.

“You haven't heard?”

“Heard what?”

“She … she's dead.”

“Dead?” He put his hand on his forehead and rocked back on his heels, clearly surprised. “How? I just saw her the other day.”

“Can we sit down or something? I need to ask you a few things.”

“I can't believe it.”

“You live here?” I asked, nodding at the apartments.

“Yeah.” Reed looked back at them, shaking his head slowly, then told me to follow him. When we got to his door, he pulled out his key and unlocked it. “Wait here, it'll be roasting inside,” he said, then offered me a soda. I held up my Subway cup, and he nodded dazedly and disappeared inside, telling me he'd be right back. He came out a few moments later with a clean shirt on and a sweating can of Coke.

We sat on the porch step, Jimi Hendrix gazing at me from Reed's T-shirt. We talked while the courtyard succumbed to the encroaching shadow of the mountain. I told him how Deirdre died, and also what had happened Sunday morning.

Reed studied the drink in his hand, which was still unopened. “Yeah. I heard some of the guys talking about that.”

“The guys?”

“I work for a gardening service. Deirdre found it for me.” He popped the top on the Coke and took a sip.

“Patrick, I'm wondering if you gave anyone Deirdre's name without telling her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone that may have needed her. Like a referral.”

“No.”

I looked away, disappointed. A man across the courtyard came outside, put a small hibachi grill on his doorstep and lit it up.

“So the guy who got killed may have known one of her clients?” Reed asked.

“Could have.”

“I can't believe she's gone. I guess I thought she'd always be there to help. You know?” he said, and it went like that for a while. As we spoke, the dwellings around us seemed to awaken from a long slumber. Windows were opened and lights came on; Reed went inside and opened his own place to the night air. Came back with a pack of Marlboros and matches. He left the door open and sat down next to me, his back against the doorframe, and pulled a cigarette out of the pack with his teeth.

“Smoke?” he said, extending the pack toward me.

I shook my head no. He lit his cigarette and took a long drag. Tilting his head back, he looked up at the sky, blowing the smoke out in a forceful rush. “I loved that lady,” he murmured. “You were lucky to have been with her.”

I gazed toward the street, where an occasional car sped past, oblivious to this quiet little world. “I know.”

Reed's eyes were shiny in the darkness, and he couldn't seem to look at me. “She really helped me out. Got me back on my feet.” He sniffled and wiped his nose. “I'm really going to miss her.”

I could barely speak. “Me too.”

“I was the guy in the fountain a few weeks ago.”

“Yeah? I think I read about that.”

“Got a bit of notoriety for it,” he chuckled. “My fifteen minutes.”

“I know the feeling,” I said, and he gave me a quizzical look. “All this shit that's happened.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Drag on his cigarette. He lit another from the first one and dropped the butt between his feet, grinding it into the dirt with his shoe. Then he looked up at me. “I know this'll sound corny, but…” I waited. “… she was my savior.”

I knew what he meant.

Reed sighed deeply, then went on. “My girlfriend's pregnant.”

I wasn't sure what to say. “Congratulations. Did Deirdre know?”

“No.” He looked down. “Didn't get the chance to tell her.”

“Well, wherever she is…,” I started, then couldn't go on. It was time to go. “Thanks for your time,” I said, standing. “And your sympathy. It means a lot.” I stuck out my hand.

Reed took it. “Can I come to the funeral?”

“I'd appreciate that,” I replied, shaking his hand. “In a few days. After the autopsy.” Saying that, I thought I'd be sick and lose the entire meal I'd just eaten on Reed's doorstep. “I'll let you know. You have a phone?”

“I'll give you my girlfriend's cell number,” he said. I handed him a pen and my Subway receipt and he wrote it down. I told him I'd be in touch, and we said goodbye.

Halfway back to my car something occurred to me. “Patrick?”

He was still seated on the step, the glowing red ember of his cigarette suspended in front of his face. “Yeah?”

“Ever hear of a band called Gravity Throttle?”

“Gravity Throttle?” He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Can't say that I have. Sorry.” Another drag from his cigarette. “Why?”

“That kid the other day. On my lawn. He was wearing one of their T-shirts.”

“You think he knew them?”

“Maybe.”

“Have you tried the Web?”

I hadn't thought about that. “Good idea. I'll do that. And I'll call you about the funeral.”