Lalla Bains 02 - A Dead Red Heart (20 page)

I dug a bottle of ibuprofen out of my purse and dry-swallowed a couple. As I saw it, there were three people who were linked to Billy Wayne. One: Grace worked at the restaurant next to the grimy alley where Billy Wayne had been murdered. Two: Mr. Kim was a Vietnam freedom fighter and liaison for the Americans until he came to the U.S., and Billy Wayne had been in the Far East with the Marines, hadn't he? Had the two crossed paths somewhere other than Modesto? Last: Brad said it was a cop. Why, oh why, did he have to infer that Caleb was involved and then die before we could get the truth out of him?

All of it was giving me a headache, and my scraped elbows were starting to sting, so I hit the buzzer and asked for Pippa Roulette.

Shocked at my disheveled appearance, Pippa listened to my brief account that I'd fought off a mugger. I left out Del, Grace, the missing notebook, and anything else that might make her think twice about supporting my cause.

She hustled me into the elevator for the second floor offices and an all-purpose emergency kit. Pulling open cabinets and drawers she found and extracted enough gauze, antibacterial spray, and Band-Aids to wrap up a Volkswagen. Taping the last of it onto my elbow she motioned for me to follow her into the hallway where she buzzed the duty officer.

"Wait here," she said pointing to the plastic chairs in the hallway. Then she slipped inside and I sat down to wait. I was beginning to feel anxious about involving Pippa in my illegal activities. But before I got the nerve to stand up and call off this chancy escapade, the door opened and she motioned me inside.

"I might have neglected to mention you to the duty officer," she said, "but he'll be taking a break so he won't know you're here. Ten minutes, okay?"

She set the box down on the smooth surface of the Formica counter top. The box was smaller than I would've thought. She took off the top, and we looked into the clutter of note-sized paper and the tightly penciled scribbling of an erstwhile poet.

Pippa gave the scraps of paper an exasperated sigh.

"Can you give me an idea of what you're looking for?"

"Something to tell me why he was murdered?"

"Can you narrow that down a bit? We now have seven minutes."

Her voice, I noticed had an edge to it. Couldn't blame her, since what we were doing was illegal. "I suspect it's going to be about as easy as his sign out in front of the new Chili's. It said, 'All of you smiling, is it dark in there?'"

Pippa sighed again. "I see what you mean. Well, I said I'd do this, so let's start digging." She picked up one of the snowflakes. "What about this one? Does this mean anything to you?"

I held the snowflake up and turned the delicate paper round and round as I read. "Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing –'"

"This is what he wrote and glued to your car? It's 'The Raven,' by Edgar Allan Poe."

"I don't recall anything like this. The ones he left under my windshield were always sweet."

"Then why something like this?"

"You mean miserably dark? I don't know." I picked up another one. "'My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose' Tears? Depressed, I guess."

I shuffled through the paper snowflakes, reading one, then another. I saw a pattern developing; that of a lonely man whose communication skills had receded into this—a handful of pain, hope, and despair. He must've been very depressed when he wrote these. But why send them to me? I'd ignored him, then had Caleb reprimand him, only to have him die at my feet without ever understanding why, or how, anyone could have hated him so much that they would want him dead.

"How long can I stay here and look at them?"

She looked at her wristwatch. "Five minutes left."

"Can I make a copy of a few?"

"Sorry, ID key is required at the copy machine, and that would blow our cover. Can you just write a couple of these down?"

She handed me a ruled note card and pen. "So what did he say to you before he died, I mean, besides, 'The more there is, the less you see?' I hate to speak ill of the dead, but it just sounds crazy."

I put my hand on top of the closed box of Billy Wayne's obscure poetry and looked at her under the harsh glare of a bare overhead lightbulb. The light cast heavy shadows on her lovely young face, and for a moment I thought her demeanor less than friendly, maybe even menacing.

I shook my head. Bad lighting. And besides, I'd promised myself not to allow Del's paranoia to infect my good opinion of Pippa. And I was sure that I'd been wrong to think the worst of Grace, because no matter what she did, or didn't do in the parking lot, I also knew she'd saved me from something much worse.

"I guess I was putting too much into what these snowflakes might reveal."

She nodded thoughtfully and I felt something shift, and we were back on easy terms. She lifted the box out of my hands, put the rubber band with its identifying tag around it, and left it on the table for the duty officer.

After she saw me safely to my car, I cranked up the A/C, and with my sweaty armpits held akimbo, put the car in reverse, and pulled out onto G Street. Going east I cut over to 11th and headed back for the freeway, wondering what the ambitious Pippa might be willing to do if it meant she could make detective before Byron. World peace aside, Pippa Roulette had ambition written all over her pretty face. Yes, if I were her, I'd befriend Lalla Bains, climb over Byron's back, and make detective in record time. Besides, unlike poor Byron, I was sure she could pass the detective's exam in one take.

I took one hand off the wheel and reached over for my bag and cell phone to call Caleb, then pulled it back. No, not the cell phone. If Del could listen to my cell, then so could someone else. Brad had said it was a cop. Cops have connections to listen in on cell phones. Now I was paranoid, and rightfully so. I had to see Caleb in person.

I was passing cars, weaving in and out of traffic, driving too fast, but anxious to get to Caleb. I'd leave out the real reason why I was at the police evidence room, and just tell him I was there to talk to Pippa. Maybe tell him about the mugger, but leave out the theft of my notebook, then ask him if he could call in a favor with the military police to see if there was any possible connection between Billy Wayne's tour of duty and Mr. Kim.

I hit my brakes in time to avoid climbing up the rear end of a Ford F-150 behind a long line of red taillights. Too impatient to handle the stop and go that it would take to get around a fender-bender, I got off at Carpenter, gunned the engine and sped up the overpass and down the ramp onto the freeway. Ha! The clogged mess was behind me and the road was mine again.

I punched the gas pedal and was pleased to feel the big engine sink its teeth into the pavement. I was tearing along the dotted line when I looked over to where I'd left the card and pen on the seat. All that heavy braking had tossed everything to the floor. I could reach it if I stuck my arm way over, snag it with my fingertips.

I looked up to check the road in front and also my rear view mirror.

All clear.

I bent over, leaning as far as I could and made a swipe at the items on the floor. Damn—missed it!

Popping up again, I checked traffic, and with the road clear, I reached down and gleefully snagged the card.

And as luck would have it, the pen rolled a bit closer. One more stretch should do it.

I looked up for a quick check in the rearview, then checked out the front.

You know what they say about seeing your life flash in front of you when met by the possibility of sudden death? It was all true.

I'd drifted across the far right lane, crossed two lanes into on-coming traffic and was heading for the other side. I knew better than to jerk the wheel and send the big Caddy careening back across the lanes. Instead, I tapped the brakes, gripped the wheel between both hands and gave it a quarter turn to the right. It was enough. I scraped along the edge of the berm for a few minutes, bounced once and came to a stop. Whew!

Just as I was congratulating myself for avoiding yet another disaster, I saw a black and white roll up behind me, lights flashing.

It was the California Highway Patrol, and there would be no getting around this one. My luck had just run out.

I sat where I was, watching his lights churn in time to my miserable heartbeat. It was now obvious that I was soon going to have that one special phone call. He was checking his computer for priors, and whether I might have a warrant out for my arrest. By now he knew my name, age, height, date of birth and the fact that I'd already had all the comedy clubs my poor driving record could handle and that my insurance was expired.

I mutely handed over the requisite information, including my expired insurance card and waited. I wasn't surprised when he asked me to get out of the car and then politely asked for permission to look inside.

"I lost my pen and paper on the floor," I said, as he shoved back the driver's side seat to wave his flashlight around on the floor. I thought it would help to add, "That's when I leaned over to retrieve it. I must've bent the wheel too far over and accidentally sailed right across all those lanes." Why was I bothering to explain myself?

He stood up, looked me over, then nodded agreeably and asked if I'd pop the trunk.

"I have to do it with a key," I said, pulling the keys out of the ignition. "These old classics have temperamental latches."

We walked to the rear where I inserted the key to the trunk, lifted the lid and got the surprise of my life. I squeaked once, and then reached out a shaky hand. But before I could touch him, the officer grabbed my wrist.

"Stand back, miss." He then put two fingers on the neck of the body and shook his head. Weak-kneed, I slumped against the bumper and stared unhappily at the body. I covered my mouth to choke back the cry, then turned away and promptly vomited.

"You know this man?"

"He's a friend. Del Potts. Works for the newspaper," I croaked, wiping my mouth with my shirt sleeve. "I saw him less than an hour ago. Are you sure he's dead?"

The trooper had a tight hold on my arm, though at the moment I wasn't sure whether it was to keep me from falling over or to make sure I didn't run for it.

"Can you tell me how he got into your trunk, ma'am?"

"I—I don't know. No. I can't." Had someone knocked me out to kill him and then used my keys to stuff him into the trunk?

The officer turned me around, cuffed me, and I can honestly say was actually gentle when he shepherded me into the backseat of his cruiser.

"I was coming to see you," I said to Caleb.

Caleb nodded to the deputy, and the door to the holding cell closed behind him. He waited until the door-lock clicked shut behind him, then reached out and pulled me to his chest. I rushed to sob out my story, and this time vowed not to leave anything out.

I told him everything, finding Del waiting for me at the police evidence building, the attack, and finally, Grace Kim bending over me. "I swear to you I didn't kill him. I don't want Pippa to get in trouble because of me."

"It's not a problem. Pippa didn't remove anything from Evidence, and we'll leave it at that for now, okay? Your lawyer has already been here, you'll be released into my custody, that is, if you'll do as you're told."

"Of course, I will," I said, all too happy to comply.

It was Caleb's reputation, not mine, that swayed a judge to release me on bail.

Outside, I inhaled the sweet perfume of freedom. My dad stood quietly waiting by his truck. He set down a small suitcase with my things in it. He said, "Our new lawyer will be contacting you tomorrow."

"Dad, I'm awfully sorry, but I had nothing to do with this."

He nodded. "If you really want the bait to stay on the hook then you've got to stick it on good."

My mouth sagged open, not really expecting that his quote would connect to this, or any other problem, they seldom did. But he also didn't give an attribute with his quote. I waited. When it didn't come I asked, "So, Socrates, Euripides? Walt Disney?"

"Me," he said. "Take care of her, Caleb."

Nothing I said was going to make a difference now. Once again I was a disappointment to the only two men who mattered.

Caleb carried my suitcase into the house and then dropped it onto his polished tile entrance. "The guest room?"

I looked down the hall and nodded at the open door to his bedroom. "Please, can I sleep with you?"