Demolition Angel (25 page)

“Did you know any of his friends or acquaintances?”

“No one ever came here, if that’s what you’re asking. Well, I take that back. One young man did come by a few times, but that was long before Dallas was arrested. They worked together, I think. At that hobby shop.”

“How long before?”

“Oh, a long time. At least a year. I think they were watching those movies, you know?”

Marzik took out the three suspect sketches.

“Do any of these look like the man?”

“Oh, Lord, that was so long ago and I didn’t pay attention. I don’t think so.”

Starkey let it go, thinking that she was probably right.

Marzik said, “That was Tennant’s only job, the hobby shop?”

“That’s right.”

“Did he have any girlfriends?”

“No. None that I knew.”

“What about family?”

“Well, all I knew of was his mother. I know she died, though. Tennant came into my house and told me that. He was heartbroken, you know. We had coffee, and the poor boy just cried.”

Starkey wasn’t thinking about the mother. Something about the boxes bothered her.

“Tennant continued paying rent to you for a year, even after he was in prison?”

“That’s right. He thought he might be released, you know, and wanted to come back. He didn’t want me to rent the house to anyone else.”

Marzik raised her eyebrows.

“Imagine that. Is anyone renting it from you now?”

“No. I haven’t had a guest in there since my last young man.”

Starkey glanced over, and Marzik nodded. They were both thinking the same thing, wondering why Tennant didn’t want to give up his apartment even when he had no use for it. If Tennant wasn’t paying rent now and wasn’t the occupant of record, they could legally enter and search the premises with the owner’s permission.

“Mrs. Reager, would you give us permission to look inside?”

“I don’t know why not.”

The guest house was musty and hot, revealing one large main room, a kitchenette, bath, and bedroom. The furniture had long since been removed, except for a simple dinette table and chairs. The linoleum floor was discolored and dingy. Starkey couldn’t remember the last time she had seen linoleum. Mrs. Reager stood in the open door, explaining that her husband had used the building as an office, while Starkey and Marzik went through the rooms, checking the flooring and baseboards for secret cubbyholes.

Mrs. Reager watched with mild amusement.

“You think he had a secret hiding place?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“Those police who were here, they looked for that, too. They tried looking under the floor, but we’re on a slab. There’s no attic, either.”

After ten minutes of poking and prodding, both Starkey and Marzik agreed that there was nothing to find. Starkey felt disappointed. It looked as if the drive up to Bakersfield was a waste, and her trail backwards to the RDX was at an end.

Marzik said, “You know, this is a pretty nice guest house, Mrs. Reager. You think I could send my two kids up here to live with you? We could put iron bars on the windows.”

The older woman laughed.

Starkey said, “Beth, can you think of anything else?”

Marzik shook her head. They had covered everything.

Something about Tennant continuing to pay rent still bothered Starkey, but she couldn’t decide what. After thanking Mrs. Reager for her cooperation, Starkey and Marzik were walking through the gate when it came to her. She stopped at the gate.

Marzik said, “What?”

“Here’s a guy who worked at a hobby shop. He couldn’t have made very much money. How do you figure he could afford paying rent while he was in prison?”

They went back around the side of the house to the back door. When Mrs. Reager reappeared, they asked her that question.

“Well, I don’t know. His mother died just the year before all that mess came up. Maybe he got a little money.”

Starkey and Marzik went back to their car. Starkey started the engine, letting the air conditioner blow. She recalled that Mueller had noted that Tennant’s parents were deceased, but nothing more had been written about it.

“Well, that was a bust.”

“I don’t know. I’m having a thought here, Beth.”

“Uh-oh. Everyone stand back.”

“No, listen. When Tennant’s mother died, he could have inherited property, or used some of the money to rent another place.”

“When my mother died, I didn’t get shit.”

“That’s you, but say Tennant got something. I’ll bet you ten dollars that Mueller didn’t run a title search.”

It would take a day or two to run the title check, but they could have a city prosecutor arrange it through the Bakersfield district attorney’s office. If something was identified, Bakersfield would handle the warrant.

Starkey felt better as they drove back to Los Angeles, believing that she had something that kept her investigation alive. The A-chief had told her to keep the case moving forward; now, if Kelso asked, she could point to a direction. If she and
Pell could turn a second lead through Claudius, fine, but now they didn’t need it.

By the time they reached Spring Street, Starkey had decided to call Pell. She told herself that it was because she had to arrange a time for visiting Claudius tonight, but she finally realized that she wanted to apologize for the way she had acted last night. Then she thought, no, she didn’t want to apologize, she wanted another chance to show him that she was human. Another chance at a life. Maybe talking with Marzik had helped, even though they had mostly talked about Marzik.

Starkey saw the manila envelope waiting on her desk all the way from the door. It was like a beacon there, hooking her eye and pulling her toward it. Giant letters on the mailing label read KROK-TV.

Starkey felt her stomach knot. She could tell by the way the envelope bulged that it was a videocassette. After ordering it, she had put it out of her mind. She had refused to think of it. Now, here it was.

Starkey tore open the envelope and lifted out the cassette. A date was written on the label. Nothing else, just the date three years ago on which she died. The noise of her breathing was loud and rasping, her skin cold, and getting colder.

“Carol?”

It took her forever to look over.

Marzik was next to her, her expression awkward. She must have seen the date, recognized it.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Starkey would have spoken, but couldn’t find her voice.

“What are you going to do with it?”

Her voice came from a million miles away.

“I’m going to watch it.”

Marzik touched her arm.

“Do you want someone with you?”

Starkey couldn’t take her eyes from the cassette.

“No.”

* * *

Driving home from Spring Street, the tape was a presence in Starkey’s car. It sat on the passenger seat like a body brought back from the dead, breathing so deeply to fill long-empty lungs that it threatened to draw all the air from the car and suffocate her. When traffic forced her to stop, she looked at it. The tape seemed to be looking back. She covered it with her briefcase.

Starkey did not drive directly home. She stopped at a coffee shop, bought a large black coffee, and drank it leaning on a little counter that looked out toward the street. Her neck and shoulders were wound tight as metal bands; her head ached so badly that her eyes felt as if they were being crushed. She thought about the bad stools at Barrigan’s and how a double gin would ease the pressure on her eyes, but she refused to do that. She told herself no; she would see this tape sober. She would witness the events of that moment and her final time with Sugar Boudreaux sober. No matter how terribly it hurt, or how difficult it was. She was sober on that day. She would be sober now.

Starkey decided that the way to play it was not to race home and throw herself into the tape, but to act as if her life were normal. She would pace herself. She would be a mechanical woman feeling mechanical emotions. She was an investigator; this was the investigation of herself. She was a police detective; you do your job, leave it at the office, go home and live your life.

Starkey stopped at the Ralphs market. There was no food in the house, so she decided this was the time to stock up. She pushed the buggy up and down the aisles, filling it with things she had never eaten and probably would never eat. Canned salmon. Creamed corn. Brussels sprouts. Standing in the check-out line, she lost her appetite, but bought the food anyway. What in hell would she do with creamed corn?

Starkey fought an overpowering urge for a drink as soon as
she stepped through the door. She told herself it was a habit, a learned pattern. You get home, you have a drink. In her case, several.

She said, “After.”

Starkey brought her briefcase and three bags of groceries into the kitchen. She noticed that there were two messages on her answering machine. The first was from Pell, asking why he hadn’t heard from her and leaving his pager number. She shut him out of her thoughts; she couldn’t have him there now. The second call was from Marzik.

“Ah, Carol, it’s me. Listen, ah, I was just, ah, calling to see if you were okay. Well. Okay. Ah, see ya.”

Starkey listened to it twice, deeply moved. She and Beth Marzik had never been friends, or even had much to do with each other in a personal way. She thought that she might phone Marzik later and thank her. After.

Starkey set the cassette on the kitchen table, then went about putting away the groceries. She had a glass of water, eyeing the cassette as she drank, then washed the glass and put it on the counter. When the last of the groceries were away, she picked up the cassette, brought it into the living room, and put it into her VCR. Marzik’s offer to be with her flashed through her head. She reconsidered, but knew this was just another ploy to avoid watching the tape.

She pressed the “play” button.

Color bars appeared on the screen.

Starkey sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her television. She was still wearing her suit; hadn’t taken off the jacket or removed her shoes. Starkey had no recollection of when KROK arrived on the scene; when they had started taping or for how long. They might have gotten everything or they might only have the end. She recalled that the cameraman had been on top of their van. That was all. The camera was on top of the van and had a view of everything.

The tape began.

She was pulling the straps tight on Sugar’s armor suit. She was already strapped in, except for the helmet. Buck Daggett and another sergeant-supervisor, Win Bryant, who was now retired, moved at the back of the truck, helping them. Starkey hadn’t worn the suit since that day, but now felt the weight of it, the heavy density and the heat. As soon as you put the damned thing on, it turned your body’s heat back at you, cooking you. Starkey, tall and athletic, had weighed one hundred thirty-five pounds; the suit weighed ninety-five pounds. It was a load. Starkey’s first thought:
Why do I look so grim?
Her expression was somber, almost scowling; wearing her game face. Sugar, naturally, was smiling his movie star smile. Once, not long after they had begun sleeping together, she confessed to him that she was never scared when she was working a bomb. It sounded so much like macho horseshit that she had to work up her courage to say it, but it was true. She used to think that something was wrong with her because she felt that way. Sugar, in turn, had confessed that he was so terrified that as soon as they received a call-out he would pop an Imodium so he wouldn’t crap in the suit. Watching the tape, Starkey thought how relaxed Sugar looked, and that it was she who looked scared. Funny, how what you see isn’t always what’s there.

They were talking. Though the tape had sound, she could hear only the ambient noise around the microphone. Whatever she and Sugar were saying to each other was too far away for the mike to pick up. Sugar must have said something funny; she saw herself smile.

Daggett and Bryant helped them on with their helmets, then handed the Real Time to Sugar. Sugar smacked her helmet, she smacked his, then they lumbered toward the trailer like a couple of spacewalking astronauts.

The field of view gave her the full length of the trailer, the overhanging trees, and a prime view of the thick azaleas that made a thready, matted wall around the trailer. Sugar had cut
away part of the bushes on an earlier trip out, leaving a bare spot to work through. As she now watched, they each pointed at different parts of the bush, deciding how to approach the device. The plan was for Starkey to hold the limbs aside so that Sugar could get the snaps with the Real Time.

Starkey watched the events with a sense of detachment she found surprising.

Sugar had less than thirty seconds to live.

She leaned into the bush first, using the weight of the suit to help her shove the limbs aside. She watched herself step away, then move in again for a better position. She didn’t recall that, and marveled at it. In her memory, she had not made that second move. Sugar leaned past her with the Real Time, and that’s when the camera bounced from the earthquake, not a big one, a pretty damned small one by L.A. standards, 3.2 centered just north of them in Newhall. The picture bounced, and she heard the cameraman mutter.

“Hey, was that—?”

The sound of the bomb going off covered his words. On television, it was a sharp
crack!
like a gunshot.

It happened so fast that all Starkey saw was a flash of light and the Real Time spinning lazily end around end through the air. She and Sugar were down. There were shouts and frantic cries from behind the camera.

“You gotta get this! Don’t fuck up! Keep rolling!”

The picture was small and far away. It was like watching someone else.

Daggett and Bryant ran to them, Daggett to her, Bryant to Sugar, Buck dragging her away from the trailer. One of the things they drilled into you at Bomb School was to fear a secondary explosion. When there was one explosion, there might be another, so you had to clear the wounded from the area. Starkey had never known that she had been moved. She was dead when it happened.

The tape ran for another nine minutes as the paramedics
raced forward, stripped away the armor suits, and worked to resuscitate them. In the dreams, Starkey was beneath a canopy of branches and leaves that covered her like lace, but now she saw that there was nothing above her. In the dreams, she was close enough to Sugar to reach out and touch him. Now, she saw that they were ten yards apart, crumpled like broken dolls, separated by a wall of sweating, cursing EMTs desperate to save them. There was no beauty in this moment. The tape ended abruptly as an ambulance was turning into the shot.