Jericho Point (12 page)

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Authors: Meg Gardiner

BOOK: Jericho Point
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‘‘Sure you’re all right?’’ I said.
Grabbing the handhold above the door, he pulled up onto the seat. ‘‘Getting in this car’s going to bust my shoulders someday. Big high SUV—it’s like rock climbing.’’
Ping, right between the eyes. ‘‘Oh.’’
He slammed the door.
On the drive home he leaned back against his seat, staring out the window. He didn’t want to talk. The black river had risen on him again. Outside my house he headed straight for his car, parked down the street.
‘‘Shall I come over?’’ I said.
‘‘Your family’s here. Stay.’’
Ivy spilled over the fence, dark in the twilight. He stopped on the sidewalk by the Mustang. In the fading light he looked far older than twenty-eight. I brushed a lock of his hair back behind his ear.
‘‘I know. I’m acting like an open sore,’’ he said. ‘‘Sorry for getting snarky about the Explorer back there.’’
‘‘No problem. Sorry I kept you from breaking the guy’s knee.’’
‘‘Yeah, it would have made a good headline. ‘Sweaty Shaun Gets Bent.’ ’’
‘‘I didn’t know you recognized him,’’ I said.
‘‘Not every day I get kicked by a reality-show reject.’’ He arced around to face me. ‘‘You know Ricky Jimson was the judge who called him Sweaty Shaun, right?’’
‘‘I remember. And I know where I’ve seen him before. Yesterday, in the Jimsons’ four-by-four outside Sanchez Marks. Banging the gong with Sinsa.’’
He thought about it. ‘‘I just got stomped by a jealous boyfriend. This keeps getting worse and worse.’’
I held out my hand. When he took it, I hitched up my skirt and straddled his lap. He wrapped his arms around me. My feet dangled behind him.
‘‘Wish I had a wand I could wave,’’ I said.
‘‘Nothing to be done. You play the hand you’re dealt.’’ He breathed. ‘‘Though sometimes I think an ordinary deal would have been good.’’
He never admitted that the hit-and-run had ravaged his life. He coped and kept going. He had survived. And if his legs didn’t work right anymore, then he’d use the wheelchair, or crutches, and do the things he could. So the wreckage didn’t always seem that bad. But at times like this tenacity didn’t cut it. I could have cried.
But I didn’t. I laughed. ‘‘Boy, you are a riot.’’
‘‘I am?’’
‘‘Jesse Matthew Hotshot, Wiseass, National Champion, Cut ’Em Off at the Knees in Cross-examination Blackburn. As if you really wanted to be ordinary. Fat chance.’’
He tried to keep the long face, but I’d caught him out. He rolled his eyes.
‘‘Once a year, that’s all I ask,’’ he said. ‘‘Ignore my moping for five minutes.’’
‘‘Maybe on your birthday.’’
Headlights caught us. Marc Dupree’s silver Ford truck pulled up, pinning us like teenagers caught breaking curfew. I hopped off Jesse’s lap and smoothed my skirt down. Jesse shook his hair out of his eyes.
Marc parked and cut the lights. Brian got out and walked past us, poker-faced, whistling. Marc followed. His gaze was cool.
Jesse watched him. ‘‘Officer, I swear she looked eighteen.’’
Marc snickered and walked through the gate. Jesse got out his car keys. The moment was gone.
When I went inside, Brian was foraging through the fridge. He pulled out a hunk of cheese, sniffed it, and started cutting off the blue bits.
‘‘Things okay?’’ he said.
‘‘That’s Roquefort. It’s supposed to be that color.’’ I didn’t want a go-round about the afternoon’s events, much less my love life.
‘‘Jesse doesn’t look so hot.’’
‘‘Long day.’’
He continued cutting. ‘‘How much weight has he lost?’’
I leaned back against the counter, saying nothing.
‘‘Ev. Is he all right?’’
I couldn’t hide it. He put down the knife. He pulled me against his chest and hugged me.
‘‘I’m scared,’’ I said.
11
Monday morning broke gently. The storm had passed, and the sky spread satin blue above the mountains. When I stepped outside, the air tasted crisp. I drove out to Goleta, where Allied Pacific Bank sat at the corner of an undistinguished strip mall. I walked in and asked to speak to the manager.
Bianca Nestor had a brisk stride crimped short by her skirt. I handed her the SBPD crime report.
‘‘I think the thief opened a checking account here, under my name,’’ I said.
‘‘Nasty business.’’ She peered at the police report. ‘‘We’ll check into it, and all pertinent information will be provided to you. It usually takes ten working days.’’
Karen Jimson wanted my blood this afternoon.
‘‘Could you check right now? Please. I’m in hot water over this.’’
She drummed her fingers on the desk, turned to her keyboard, and typed, staring at her computer screen. After a minute her face pinched.
‘‘I’m right,’’ I said. ‘‘You have an account in the name of Evan Delaney.’’
‘‘No.’’ She read the computer screen. ‘‘It was closed this morning.’’
We stood up simultaneously. Going behind the counter, she questioned each teller. Finally a balding young man nodded to her. Nestor came back around, heels ticking.
‘‘I just missed her, didn’t I?’’ I said.
‘‘Nope. Mr. Evan Delaney closed his checking account twenty-five minutes before you walked in.’’
A man. Blame my parents for sticking me with a boy’s name. Defrauding me can be a gender free-for-all.
‘‘What did he look like?’’ I said.
‘‘Twenties, white. Scruffy hair, according to my teller.’’
P.J.
She glanced at me sharply. ‘‘Do you know who did this?’’
How I could still feel disappointed in P.J., I didn’t know. But I did. ‘‘Possibly.’’
Nestor walked me to the door. ‘‘We’ll have him on surveillance tape. Leave things in my hands. I’ll be in touch.’’
I headed out into the chill sunshine. Det. Lilia Rodriguez was leaning against my car.
‘‘A word, if you don’t mind?’’
I’m a rotten liar. That’s why I’m not an undercover agent, or writing
The Seven Secrets of Weight Loss
. The problem is, I get shamefaced, at least when fibbing to people I respect. Once I faked it during sex, and Jesse said, ‘‘You just blew up the polygraph machine.’’
But I didn’t need to lie to Rodriguez. I needed to convince her that I was Little Miss Honest Citizen. Which was just as bad, because nobody can answer police questions without anxiety.
Are those your toes sticking out from the ends of your feet?
Gag. Stammer.
Mine? Yes. They’re not toes smuggled in from South America. God, no.
Panic-stricken laughter.
I also needed to get across town so I could convince Lavonne Marks that I hadn’t committed grand theft.
Rodriguez was dressed in a blue blazer and khaki skirt. Her hair was suffering a cowlick. Sticking up like that, it made her look like one of the Little Rascals.
‘‘Bad checks?’’ she said.
‘‘How’d you guess?’’
‘‘Lieutenant Rome sent me a copy of the crime report you filed.’’
I made a mental note to send Rome a bouquet of weeds.
She opened her notebook. ‘‘Friday night, at the party. The fire captain describes you as ‘agitated’ when they couldn’t locate Miss Gaines’s body. Were you expecting them to spot it?’’
‘‘I was hoping they’d find a live girl, not a corpse.’’
She ran her index finger down the torn plastic sheeting on my car window. ‘‘This doesn’t look street legal.’’
‘‘If you want to find out who’s behind all this, check out some guys in a band called Avalon.’’
‘‘And where would I find them?’’
‘‘Bar mitzvahs, the veterans’ hall, maybe the policeman’s ball.’’ I gave her a rundown.
‘‘Right. Disco.’’ Her cowlick waved in the breeze. ‘‘Blame it on the boogie.’’
She closed the notebook. ‘‘Covering your tracks on the fly doesn’t work. It leaves a messy trail.’’ She nodded at the car. ‘‘Get that fixed.’’
Nuts. It was driving him nuts. The more he thought about it, the more he knew. This was the one, the big kahuna, the performance that should be getting top billing in his collection.
Hey, sweet stuff, come in here for a minute; I got something for you.
Dumb as a stump, the girl, she always had been. And upset like she was, she was easily distracted.
Yeah, it’s awesome to see you, too. Ssh, close the door; it’s too loud out there. Go on and lock it. No, leave the lights off. Little surprise here for you.
But she was crying, and over P.J., of all people.
Why do you let him get to you this way, girl? He’s not worth it.
Chicks.
In trouble? Hon, a dickhead like him is always in trouble.
Okay, right there his line could have been better, but that was the tricky thing about live performance.
No, you’re right, he’s not a dickhead. I shouldn’t have said that. I just get hot, seeing how you worry over him.
Taking her eyes off the prize. That had always been her problem, now that he thought of it. Getting distracted, falling in woo-hoo love. Which was why she was never going to make it. As anything.
Hush, girl, don’t cry. Tell me what he did to make you so upset.
And she did. Just spewed it right on out. Telling him all the details, and what she planned to do about it, which would have blown everything sky-fucking-high. Idiot. Writing her own ending, right there.
Well, I have something to make you feel better. Turn around and close your eyes; it’s a surprise.
Drumroll.
Okay, I’ll give you a hint. It’s a necklace.
Pause the memory. Shit, was that not the best line, or what? A necklace. He smiled, and turned to the mirror, and watched himself smile. A necklace. An E-string necklace, you fucking moron. Let’s see how it fits.
Hot, hot. He was hot. Except . . .
He didn’t get to see her reaction. And that was always the best part—audience appreciation. The silence at the end of this show left him feeling . . . dissatisfied. But what the hell. He had more good lines.
Jesse met me in the lobby at Sanchez Marks. ‘‘Got your body armor on?’’
‘‘Chain mail, crucifix, garlic. Let’s go.’’
In her office, Lavonne pointed me to a chair.
‘‘I’ve boxed three rounds with Jesse over this. He won’t stand by and let you be accused of stealing from a client. And he can’t represent you because it puts the firm in an impossible position.’’ She crossed her arms. ‘‘So give me something that renders this argument moot.’’
I handed her a folder. She put on her glasses and sat down at her desk.
She read the crime report and my credit agency file. Jesse scrawled on a legal pad. The sunlight showed how pale he was. I told Lavonne about the fake checking account at the bank. She listened, like a stone.
‘‘Is there anything else?’’ she said.
‘‘Yeah.’’ Jesse tossed the legal pad on the desk.
In black ink, he had written,
EVAN WOULD NEVER FUCKING DO THIS
. She stared at it. In spite of myself, I smiled.
‘‘Pithy as always, Mr. Blackburn,’’ she said.
‘‘Karen Jimson’s looking in the wrong direction,’’ he said.
‘‘I agree.’’
I felt an electric sense of relief. ‘‘You believe me.’’
‘‘Yes. I’ll talk to Karen.’’ She closed the folder. Her face turned rueful. ‘‘And you know which direction she will have to look.’’
‘‘My brother’s going to have to deal with it,’’ Jesse said.
‘‘My regrets.’’
Her disorderly curls gleamed in the sunlight. She looked pensive.
‘‘Something bothers me, deeply, about all of this,’’ she said. ‘‘The stolen checks and the identity theft. I think it’s possible that someone close to the Jimsons is involved in both. And I don’t mean your brother, Jesse.’’
‘‘Then who?’’ he said.
She leaned forward. ‘‘Watch out for Karen’s daughter.’’
Outside, traffic rolled past. Cars honked. Lavonne looked exceedingly serious.
‘‘I say this not as an attorney, but as a parent.’’ She nodded at the photos of her daughters, Yael and Devorah. ‘‘The girls went to high school with Sin. And I go way back with Ricky.’’
‘‘Way back?’’ he said.
‘‘Before Karen, or Charlie.’’
She nodded at a photo of her husband, Charlie Goldman: glasses, bow tie, and a gently distracted smile. He was a professor of classics at the university. Jesse and I gawped at her.
‘‘Pull your jaws off your laps. I didn’t always look like a warmed-over burrito. I was a hot chick,’’ she said. ‘‘My point is that Sin has been a handful since the day Ricky married Karen.’’
We continued gawping.
‘‘She made parents nervous. The teasing, the sexually provocative poses. The bitter-teen persona. And she leveraged the hell out of her position as Ricky’s stepdaughter.’’
I was still straining to imagine Lavonne as a hot chick. I brought myself back. ‘‘The rock heiress come to call?’’
‘‘You know the story, that Karen dragged Ricky up here to save him from his appetites. In truth they were desperate to get Sin away from Hollywood. The girl was out of control,’’ she said. ‘‘Of course, she resented moving, as she puts it, to East Buttfuck. She’s never forgiven them.’’
‘‘For moving to a mansion in Montecito? Then why doesn’t she get herself a job and move out?’’ I said.
‘‘Gilded cage. She gains control of a trust fund when she turns twenty-five. She loses it if she steps out of line, and the leash is short. Trust me, she is a miserable young woman.’’
She tapped her fingers on her desk. ‘‘She’s an instigator.Expert at manipulating . . . softer people to do her bidding.’’
I thought of P.J., her windup toy. I scooted forward on my seat.
‘‘You think Sinsa stole the checks.’’
The phone rang. She grabbed the receiver, said, ‘‘Not now,’’ and hung up.
‘‘I don’t know a thing about Brittany Gaines. But I know that this sort of thing is right up Sinsa’s alley,’’ she said.

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