Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) (26 page)

“The whole thing only lasted a month.”

“And you never saw her again?” Pasco.

Kendra has given some thought to denying the recent meeting had taken place but knows there are witnesses and telephone records. She composes herself, lets them know this is painful but she is forging ahead in the interests of justice.

“Nadine called me on October 30th. I know because I checked my cell phone to make sure,” and although Kendra wants to add
I'm sure you did, too
she restrains the impulse. “We met for a drink at Melvyn's. She told me she had some kind of incriminating emails from the police chief in Desert Hot Springs, Chief Marvin, and did I want to show them to my husband so he could use them in his campaign.”

“Why did she think that could help your husband?” Detec­tive Escovedo asks.

“He was working for Mary Swain and I guess Nadine thought something like that might embarrass her.”

“What did you say?” Detective Pasco asks.

“That Randall wouldn't be interested.”

“Did she tell you anything else?” Escovedo.

Kendra hopes they think she's deciding whether or not to come clean but she's already made the decision. This is just stage management. “She told me . . . and I couldn't believe this . . . that she might try to embarrass Chief Marvin in public.”

“Did she threaten you in any way?” Escovedo again.

“Absolutely not. She had nothing against Randall or me. She was angry with the police chief. She told me they had an affair.”

“What did you do then?” Detective Pasco asks.

“I left the restaurant and drove home.”

“Did she contact you again?” Detective Escovedo asks.

“She sent me a video of her dancing naked. It was mortifying. My daughter could have seen it.”

“Do you think she was implying anything?” Detective Pasco asks.

“Honestly, I have no idea what that was about. Nadine was a pretty unhappy woman. She seemed kind of unbalanced.”

Detective Escovedo asks: “Did you tell your husband?”

“Immediately.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said it's not a threat so . . . ”

“It was a threat,” Detective Pasco says.

“He thought maybe she just wanted to start seeing me again.”

The detectives look at each other. Kendra takes a sip of her iced tea. She clinks the ice cubes in the tall glass.

“Is that what you thought?” Detective Pasco asks.

“I was just completely weirded out by it.”

“Why didn't you report it?” Detective Escovedo asks.

“Honestly?”

“We'd like that,” Detective Escovedo says.

The icy plunge: “It's nearly Election Day and this was not going to help my husband. I don't know if you've heard but he's in a tight race.”

The pair is silent for a moment. Kendra hopes this is caused by shock at her forthrightness. It's remarkable, she reflects, what a powerful weapon the truth can be, as long as it is used sparingly.

“But when someone is making veiled threats,” Detective Pasco says “It's always good to notify the police.”

“You're right,” Kendra says. “We probably should have. But it's impossible to control leaks. I don't mean to imply you two . . . ” Detective Escovedo shakes his head, of course not! “But there are people who'd probably like to embarrass my husband. You understand.”

Now the tears arrive exactly on schedule, and not off a specific revelation, but as a result of the accumulated indignities and general stress, tears announcing that this woman, this baton twirler, singer of pop tunes and chirpy political wife has taken all she can take from these messengers from a far shadier world than the one in which she dwells. The detectives pause. They're accustomed to waterworks. Detective Pasco reaches for a packet of tissues she keeps in her pants pocket for these occasions and hands it to Kendra who removes one and dabs her eyes, careful to allow her mascara to run a little. Between sniffles she says, “When I learned it was Nadine, I flipped out.”

They wait to see if Kendra will pick up the thread but the only thing forthcoming at this moment is sniffles. Detective Escovedo presses ahead: “Did you have any contact after she sent you the video?” Kendra shakes her head no.

“Nadine was a good person,” she manages to choke out. “Just confused.”

“She didn't deserve what she got,” Detective Pasco says, “And neither did that poor clerk.”

Kendra collects herself, blows her nose. “Do you have any idea who might have done it?” It doesn't bother her that she's heard that line in a hundred television shows. She expects the detectives have heard it, too.

Detective Pasco informs her they have a few leads. Kendra tells her interlocutors she'd like to help them any way she can and they should not hesitate to call. Detective Pasco tells her they'll be in touch. As they stand to leave, Detective Escovedo asks: “Do you have any idea who killed those two people?”

Kendra quickly responds “Of course not.” Wonders if she should have played it differently, been quiet for a moment as if stunned by the question. But her voice remains strong and her gaze sure. “Why would I?”

“You never know,” Detective Pasco says

Kendra smiles as if to say I know you're just doing your job and all of us want to catch whatever monster did this. After showing her visitors out and gently closing the door behind them Kendra pours a third glass of Zinfandel and sits at the kitchen table. She reflects on her performance and concludes it went well. For not a single moment did she feel compromised in any way. The house is quiet. Her pulse rate feels normal. Realizing she does not actually need the wine, Kendra pours the contents of the glass back in the bottle and places the bottle in the refrigerator.

Driving to school to pick up Brittany, she examines her reflection in the rearview mirror and after daubing her eye makeup with a tissue, concludes she is holding up relatively well. Then the gossamer membrane that barely restrains her roiling emotions bursts and she begins to sob with such force she has to pull to the side of the road. She thinks about Nadine: whether she had a family—they'd never talked about it—whether a death notice would appear in the paper to recount her life as something other than a murder victim, who would claim the body and if there would be a funeral. If there were some way to find out she would. And send money to defray the expenses. It was the least she could do.

At school Brittany asks why she's late and Kendra says a friend of hers had a problem and she was helping her deal with it. Brittany spends the entire ride banging away on her computer and doesn't look up. For once, Kendra is happy her daughter does not want to talk.

 

 

S
eated in the window of Palm Springs Koffe on North Palm Canyon Drive, Jimmy waits for Cali and Arnaldo. As a personal favor, they've agreed to brief him on the investigation. He's got several work files he needs to review, drops in the stream of endless domestic complaints. Jimmy thinks there would be a lot fewer failed marriages if a visit to the District Attorney's office were mandated for all couples considering the nuptial state. They could see the sheer volume of former spouses gunning for each other and perhaps reconsider their own decisions. But he knows that won't happen. People are going to do what they're going to do.

While he waits, he checks his phone messages. There's one from his landlord asking him whether he wants to extend his lease on the trailer and another from a robocall service reminding him to vote. The third message is from Coral, the woman who works at the animal control center in Indio. No idea what she wants, that's a call he can return later. He's on his second iced coffee when his colleagues arrive. Cali sits with Jimmy while Arnaldo orders their coffees at the counter.

“Did you know your sister-in-law knew one of the victims?”

“She told me.” He doesn't mention his visit with Kendra.

“We talked to her,” Cali says. “She's a piece of work.” Arnaldo joins them, placing Cali's coffee in front of her.

“Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth,” Arnaldo says, settling into a chair. “This is turning into the case of the century. Con­gressman's wife and chief of police both banging a murder victim? Someone should write a book about it.”

“I want Anne Hathaway to play me in the movie,” Cali says. She and Arnaldo laugh. Jimmy doesn't find any of this amusing. Maybe if he was being allowed to work the case he would.

“I like Hard for this,” Arnaldo says.

Jimmy nods, looks at Cali. Pushes aside his resentment for a moment and remembers the other night, the way she moved the strand of hair out of her eyes when she was looking at the
Book of Dogs
.

“Is that what you think?”

“I'm with Arnaldo.”

“Glenn Korver's with us,” Arnaldo says. Jimmy looks at Cali. She nods. And now it starts, the tightening of the muscles in the neck and upper back, the shallowness of breath, the pressure in his head. Why does he care? Why is he still attached? Where is the freedom from the craving to matter in the world?

Breathe in one, two. Breathe out, three, four.

“Sorry you couldn't work the case with us,” Arnaldo says.

Cali says nothing. She offers a what-can-I-do arch of the eyebrows.

Jimmy rises, nods and walks out. Arnaldo calls after him in a bantering tone but Jimmy does not turn around. He's not even tempted. On his way to the truck, he passes a blonde cocker spaniel, a miniature dachshund, and a pair of black standard poodles. He does not ask for permission to photograph any of them. He will regret this as soon as his emotions are back under control.

 

Although the motor of the pickup is running and the air conditioner is on the vehicle is still parked in a lot just off of North Palm Canyon Drive. Jimmy had thrown his meditation cushion in the back seat today on the off chance he would have some time to try sitting in the desert. Instead, he had spent his first five minutes back in the front seat pounding it with his fist like a punching bag. When he was through channeling his copious frustration, he leaned back, breathed deeply with his eyes closed. He had tried to access the state of beginner's mind Bodhi had told him about but found it to be a territory into which he could not cross. Meditation is fine, but when it comes to taking the edge off, there is nothing like beating the shit out of something. He has been visualizing Arnaldo and Cali floating away in a pink bubble and the image is a balm to his scabrous feelings.

But what had he logically expected them to conclude? Was he meant to have made a plea on behalf of his brother's culpability? They would have looked at him as if he were insane, as if he were discharging some age-old fraternal pathology. And on what had he based his conclusion? It's based on what he knows of his brother and how he operates and maybe this is an extreme version but it is the logical conclusion of the Randall Duke no prisoners ethos. All of this would have been impossible for Jimmy to credibly convey. And he still isn't certain he believes it himself. But he knows it's a possibility and as long as he believes this to be so, he will not sign on to the prosecution of his former boss.

Jimmy's in no mood to drive to the office. He still can't get his mind around Hard Marvin as the shooter but with nothing to tie anyone else to the crime there isn't a lot he can do except keep his eyes open for dogs to photograph. With this in mind, he decides to stop by the animal control center and see what Coral wants.

The sounds of muffled barking greet him when he steps into the cool air of the low cinderblock building. A short young Latina with a nose ring in her left nostril stands behind the counter in the reception area. Her curly hair is cut short and a gray smock fits snugly on her stocky frame. A nametag reads “Esmerelda.” Jimmy asks if Coral is around and Esmerelda shouts toward the back of the building. A few seconds later, Coral emerges through a gray metal door drying her hands on a soiled white towel. She's short and stocky, too, like Esmerelda, and for all he knows they could be related.

“Just the man I was looking for,” Coral says. Jimmy nods hello. “You still doing that book of dogs you told me about last time I saw you?” Jimmy says that he is. “You got a camera?” Jimmy tells her he does. “Then I got a good one for you.” Coral excuses herself, says she'll be back in a minute. Jimmy turns around and leans against the counter, gazes toward the entrance. Like a pet grooming establishment, albeit one with a considerably less happy outcome for its denizens, the place exudes an animal funk, and it is not unpleasant to Jimmy.

“You writing a book about dogs?” Esmerelda asks.

Turning to face her, Jimmy says: “I take their pictures is all.”

“Why you want to do that?”

Where to begin? The threat to Hard Marvin that got him thrown off the police force. The diminishment he experienced at the departure of his ex-wife. The insidious irritation that pervaded his life, that ate away at his ability to function and led to the mandating of anger management classes. But what he says is: “Helps me relax.”

“I take pictures of all the dogs come here, wouldn't never look at them. Couldn't stop crying.”

What do you say to that, Jimmy wonders. The woman works in a place where they put down a small city of dogs each year and she's emotional? A moment later the door leading to the back of the shelter opens and Coral returns holding a squirming, rodent-like creature the size of a large rabbit. A Chihuahua.“You got one of these in your book?” Jimmy shakes his head as the dog continues to writhe in Coral's arms. “Hate to do this one but that's way the cookie crumbles, right boy?” Coral addressing the dog. Then she pinches the fur on his neck like they're pals, never mind she's planning to kill him if he doesn't get rescued. Jimmy stares at the dog, and senses that the animal knows exactly what's going on. He reaches out to scratch the dog's head and the dog nips his finger. The curses that fly from Jimmy's mouth make both women laugh.

“Fella's got some personality, I'll tell you that,” Coral says.

Jimmy pulls out his cell phone as Coral places the dog on the counter. The animal's nails click on the burnt-orange Formica surface in a mad tap dance as he tries to run over the side. Coral holds him in place by sticking a finger through his collar as Jimmy aims his camera-phone, centering the dog in the frame.

“You know that girl got murdered at the convenience store the other day?” Coral asks. “Little booger was hers.”

This brings Jimmy up short. He takes the picture then turns to Coral. “Where'd they find him?”

“Stuffed in a drawer, I heard.” Jimmy snaps another picture. “Cops brought him in. His dog tag says ‘Diablo.'” Jimmy eyes the dog, still straining to leap off the counter. Diablo has no plans to go gently into that good night.

“Think anyone's gonna want him?” Jimmy asks.

“Adults are your hardest placements. I'd say this guy's six or seven years old, so his chances don't look so good.”

“Tough luck,” Jimmy says.

“No shit,” says Esmeralda.

Coral says, “How about you, Jimmy?”

“How about me, what?”

“You know anyone might want this angry little son of a bitch?”

“Maybe for target practice,” Jimmy says, taking a closer look at his finger, where a dot of blood has appeared.