Naked Addiction (31 page)

Chapter 50

Goode

A
s Goode was driving up to Jake’s house, he saw the kid get into his Saab. Goode quickly called Stone, who luckily was parked down the street a ways.

“Don’t worry, “I’m already on it,” Stone said, adding that he would follow Jake to his destination, which, as they both suspected, was his lab at UCSD. “I just got the warrant for the house and was about to go in, so you can head ahead inside and get started.”

Fletcher and Slausson were waiting for Jake in the UCSD parking lot near his building, where they surprised him as he was getting out of his car. Stone was right behind them. Jake tried to play innocent, but it didn’t take them long to find his latest meth cocktail in the lab. He’d stored the raw stuff in the refrigerator in an opaque plastic orange juice jug. It was all ready to be cooked up, just as soon as the nerds left for the night to play video games.

Meanwhile, Goode started his own search. In a trash bag in the garage, he found a hoard of empty boxes of generic Sudafed, which contained pseudoephedrine, the main ingredient used by meth cookers. Because the law limited consumers to buying cold medicine containing no more than nine grams of the stuff, Goode figured Jake must have driven all over town to collect enough to make just one batch. Jake obviously knew what he was doing.

But the coup de grace, the king of all dot connections, came after Goode picked the front door lock. He went into the bathroom, opened the lid on the toilet tank, and was delighted to find a nine millimeter pistol in a plastic Ziploc bag.

Bingo.

Jake’s fingerprints would surely be on the gilded box, on Tania’s coffee table, and, in case there was any doubt, on the gun that shot the bullet into Keith’s head. Plus his hair in the neck wound and the cigarette butts.

His ass is mine.

While Slausson and Fletcher were taking Jake down to the station to book him, Stone drove back to join Goode at Jake’s place, where they decided to hold the long-awaited news conference. It was always good to show the public that the law was cracking down on serial murderers, especially when they were also meth manufacturers. The local patrol officers helped out by keeping the media from entering the house.

A throng of reporters, including Ready Rhona, huddled together with their cameramen on the sidewalk and front lawn at Jake’s, while Goode and Stone waited inside for the mayor, Chief Thompson and Lieutenant Wilson to arrive. There were so many reporters and cameras, they spilled out into the street, where they were joined by curious neighbors. When the natives started getting restless, Stone told them it would be just a little while longer.

“What’s taking so long?” one of them called out. “Justice delayed is justice denied.”
  “Not tonight,” Goode retorted. “Be patient. We promise it will be worth the wait.”

Once everyone arrived, the chief told the press about Jake’s lab bust and said he would also be charged with the recent series of murders, which would make him eligible for the death penalty. The crowd cheered.

Some arrogant reporter named Jerry from the
Sun-Dispatch
was there, looking very put out.

I wonder where Norman is. Probably still giving TV interviews at the Glider Port,
Goode thought, chuckling to himself.
Jerry must be jealous of Norman, the cub reporter, for getting so much attention, but hell, he deserves it after all he’s been through.

As the press conference was breaking up, Goode saw Maureen standing behind all the cameras. Her house was right around the corner, after all.

“Hey bro, what’s up?” she said as she approached. She smiled with a trace of the trademark Goode family sarcasm, to which he responded in kind. 

“Nice of you to call me back. Where have you been the past three days?” he asked, and not all that nicely. “Obviously you heard what’s been going on?”

Maureen rolled her eyes. “Hey, hey, calm down and I’ll tell you. I saw the helicopter at Black’s, but I didn’t know you were involved until I was driving home and saw you standing up there in front of all these cameras. My famous big brother. What a scene,” she said, moving in to hug him.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he said, still waiting for an explanation on her whereabouts.

She pulled back but kept her hand on his shoulder. “Listen, I didn’t tell you because I knew you wouldn’t approve, but Mitch and I hooked up last weekend. We decided to fly to Tahoe for a little love excursion, so I’ve been out of town. I was listening to what you guys said at the press conference and I could not believe this all happened in my neighborhood while I was gone. Did you know I dated that Keith guy a few times? I knew all those girls from the Pumphouse, too. Talk about freaky.”

Goode nodded and sighed. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did know. So, now you can understand why I was so worried. You really scared me,” he said quietly. It was just like her to do that—run away from him when she knew he wouldn’t like something she was doing.

“Well, I hate to admit it, but I guess you had a right to worry this time,” she said, pausing. “Look, why don’t we have dinner in the next couple of days and you can tell me all about it. I’ll call you.” Turning to leave, she gave him a little wave.

Still reeling from all the adrenaline flowing through his body, Goode drove back to the station to take care of some loose ends. Jake was in custody and they were going to get all their ducks in a row before interviewing him in jail the next morning. They had him cold, so it was really just to fill in some holes.

After running around for five days on very little sleep, he needed to try to come down slowly. Once he got home and had a beer or two, he knew he’d crash with exhaustion. Then he remembered Alison was at his place. He wasn’t looking forward to dealing with that situation.

Goode went home after filling out about ten million reports to find Alison sitting on the couch, reading one of his crime novels.

“Hey, I saw you on the news,” she said, grinning

“Yeah,” he said, heading into the kitchen to grab a beer. He didn’t feel much like talking.

Alison must’ve picked up on his mood. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said.

Relieved, Goode settled back into the couch and tried to settle down. There he’d been, following the escort service, the gang-bang, the drug-ring and the frame-up theories, thinking it was a male murderer because of the sperm, then a female, then a male again, but not for the reasons he’d originally assumed. He had to give himself a little credit, though. He’d figured it out in just five days.

Nonetheless, he’d been chasing the wrong suspects, ignoring the basic rule that the guy who finds the body always remains a suspect, and for some reason, he hadn’t seen all he should have in the evidence. The chief and the lieutenant made a big deal out of his work at the press conference. Still, he couldn’t help feel that the praise rang empty somehow. Of course he’d played it to the media like he’d known the truth all along. But inside, he knew he’d been on the wrong track for days. And it bothered him.

It was also disappointing he hadn’t been able to save Clover Ziegler from herself. Three people—actually four now—were dead and Goode had been as successful in preventing her from taking a dive off that cliff as he had been in stopping his own mother from jumping. History kept repeating itself and there was nothing he could do to stop it. But at least Clover hadn’t taken Norman with her and Maureen had come out of all this unscathed.

Goode had worked for years to get to Homicide, and now that he’d proven himself, the transfer was just a matter of paperwork. Still, he felt confused. You know what they say: Be careful of what you ask for, you might get it. He’d expected to be more excited.

Maybe I’m just tired. I’ll probably feel better after I take a few days off.

When Alison emerged from the bathroom, her curly hair was wet, her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were bright. She was wearing one of his flannel shirts and a pair of his running shorts. At any other time, she would’ve been a welcome sight.

She put a hand on his shoulder, and he was touched by her concern. “I can see it on your face,” she said. “You’re being too hard on yourself.”
She’s sweet for trying to make me feel better, but she doesn’t understand. I want to wallow in my mistakes for a while.

He got up and went to the kitchen to get another beer, then sat in the chair so she couldn’t sit next to him. He was too tired to deal with their limbo-land situation.

Norman’s words echoed in his head:
Some people just don’t want to be saved.

Goode wavered over whether he should try to talk to Alison about what was really bugging him, even though he wasn’t exactly sure himself.

“You know, even if Seth didn’t kill anyone, I still think this was largely his fault—him and his bad behavior,” she said. “He got everyone killed with his selfishness, arrogance and his kinky libido. I sure hope he gets what he deserves.”

“Yeah,” Goode said. “Me too. Unfortunately, his rich dad has hired him a big fancy lawyer who probably plays golf with most of the judges. I’ll do my best to make sure he doesn’t get off easy, though, that’s for sure.”

“That’s good.”

Goode had made up his mind. He would tell her at least part of what was going through his head. “You know, when I was standing on that cliff at Black’s, watching Clover drag that poor reporter around with a gun to his head, all the training in the world couldn’t have helped me. Situations like that, I mean, they’re all different, and when you’re dealing with someone who has mental problems you have no idea what they’re going to do.”

Alison gave him a sympathetic smile. But pity was not what he wanted. “I’m sure you did the best you could,” she said. “I’ve seen you think fast on your feet. Look how you saved me from Tony.”

“Well, that was different. He didn’t have a gun.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t know that. I told you he could get physical. And come on, you even told me you wondered whether he could’ve killed Tania.”

“That’s true. I did.”

“So stop being so hard on yourself.”

Goode looked at Alison smiling at him and wondered how he really felt about her. He had developed a strange obsession with a dead woman because it was safe. Alison was very sweet, but he didn’t know whether he was the best person for her to get attached to. He didn’t want her or anybody else depending too much on him. He suddenly felt claustrophobic. “Alison? You know what?”

“What?” She must have guessed his thoughts because her face fell. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. Maybe there is. It’s just that, well, I was thinking you should go back to your apartment. Now that this case is all wrapped up, you aren’t in any danger. I’ve got a lot of unwinding to do and I don’t think I’m going to be very good company.”

Alison looked hurt. “Was it something I said?”

“No, no.” He tried to sound calm, but it was hard when his nerves were so raw. “I think you’re terrific, but I’m really tired and I need to be alone right now. I hope you can understand.”

“Sure,” she said. Still, he could hear the hurt in her voice. She got up from the couch and started gathering her things from the living room floor.

“Now don’t go away mad,” he said, reaching for her.

She pulled away. “Don’t.”

Alison picked up her clothes, magazines, and tennis shoes and stuffed them into her backpack. “Thanks for letting me stay here,” she said as made a beeline for the door. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Alison,” he called to her.

She stopped for a minute, her hand on the doorknob. “What?”

He tried to give her an encouraging smile, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded. All he could think about was lying down and sleeping for two days. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” she said.

Her departure left a leaden silence hanging in the air, thick with her pain and his guilt.

Goode decided to take a bath, one of those relaxation techniques they taught in the stress management class that a sergeant had strongly suggested he take some years back during one of the Miranda episodes. As the tub was filling with water, he went into the cabinet under the sink to find a new bar of soap. In the back corner, he saw the bottle of bubble bath Miranda had left behind. He’d been unable to bring himself to throw it away for the past six years, testing his reaction to it periodically when he smelled her scent again. The label was so faded he couldn’t even tell what kind it was anymore. He undid the top, took a sniff, and smiled. He’d finally reached the point where he truly felt nothing, so he tossed it soundly into the small plastic trash bin next to the toilet.

“You are dead to me,” he said triumphantly.

After cooling the bath with a little cold water, he got into the tub. The temperature was just right, a tad hotter than he could stand.

Goode leaned back, held his nose, and submerged his head under the water. As his mind replayed the images of his mother and then Clover stepping into the nothingness, he wished again that he hadn’t been so helpless to stop them. Then the words of the Camus essay he’d been reading came back to him:

It is . . . hard to be satisfied with a single way of seeing, to go without contradiction, perhaps the most subtle of all spiritual forces. The preceding merely defines a way of thinking. But the point is to live.

People defined life, thinking, and spirituality so very differently. Often, they didn’t even agree on whether life was worth living. Norman Klein was no Albert Camus, but at that moment, his words held a significance for Goode that was just as weighty:
Some people just don’t want to be saved.

Goode scooted back so his head rested against the wall, the words echoing in his head. He inhaled deeply, listening to his own breathing, and let it all out. Finally, as he visualized the guilt flowing out of his ears and into the sudsy water, his mind began to loosen and the tension slowly drifted away.