Rage (50 page)

We
both saw it at the same time.

White
Jeep, on the far end of a small parking lot on Burbank.

The
only vehicle in the lot. Signs said legal parking had ended an hour ago.

Milo
said, “Right out in the open. Take that and stick it in your BOLO. Where are
the parking nazis when you need them?”

I
pulled behind the Jeep.

He
said, “Sitting right here and no one notices.”

I
said, “There’s your invitation to search.”

* * *

Out
came another set of plastic gloves. How many did he carry? He walked around the
Jeep, checked the underbody, then the windows. The doors were locked and the
interior was empty. Clear view of the rear storage area through the hatchback
window. Nothing.

Milo
said, “In the mood for a hike?”

* * *

A
dirt trail capped the top of the dam. Thicker trees— more eucalyptus, gnarled
sycamore, wild oak that enjoyed the drought, evergreens that didn’t. Plenty of
opportunity to exit at paved paths feeding to Burbank and Victory but we stayed
on the dirt. Twenty yards in, the planting thickened even further and the trail
blackened and Milo’s penlight cast a sickly beam that died three feet in front
of us.

Rocks
and dirt and scampering bugs.

“You
came well-prepared,” I said.

“Boy
Scout days,” he said. “Made it all the way to Eagle. If they’d only known.”

* * *

We’d
traipsed halfway through the reserve, finding nothing. The excitement that had
pinged my chest when we’d found the Jeep began to fade.

We
were just about to turn back when the sound gave it away.

Low,
insistent buzzing, nearly drowned out by freeway roar.

Flies.

Milo
made use of his long legs and was there within seconds.

When
I caught up, the penlight was focused on a forty-foot sycamore tree.

Stout-trunked
thing, with spavined, mottled branches. Unlike the surrounding evergreens and
wild oaks, bare of all but a few desiccated brown leaves.

Drew
Daney, dressed in dark sweats and sneakers, hung from a low branch, feet
dangling two inches off the ground. His head was twisted to the side, his eyes
bulged nearly out of their sockets, and his tongue was a Japanese eggplant
protruding from a lopsided mouth.

Milo
aimed the light at his head. Single gunshot to the left temple. Stellate entry
wound. Larger exit. Tiny, hyperkinetic ants crawled in and out of both
openings. The flies seemed to favor the exit.

It
took awhile, but he found the hole in the tree where the slug had lodged.

Daney’s
eyes and tongue said he’d been hung first. I said, “Overkill.” Thinking about
Daney dangling, just short of safety. Clutching at the rope, trying to hoist
himself up.

Using
his big upper body. Maybe he’d managed for seconds, even minutes.

Failing,
inevitably. Feeling the life force slip away.

Milo
lowered the beam. “Look at this.”

Daney’s
crotch was a busy place. Mangled cavity, ragged around the edges where the
cotton of the sweatpants had been blasted away.

Here
the flies ruled supreme.

Milo
got closer and inspected. A few of the insects scattered but most of them
stayed on-task. “Looks liked gunshots . . . a bunch of them.” He
stooped and checked the tree trunk, lower down. “Yeah, here we go, looks
like . . . four, no five slugs . . . yeah, five.”

“Emptying
the six-shooter,” I said. “A cowboy gun.”

“Something
else in there.” He lit and peered and pointed. “Couple of rings.”

I
stepped in and saw two white gold bands specked with tiny blue gems. Same rings
I’d seen at the jail eight years ago.

Thumbtacked
to what was left of Daney’s organ.

“Drew’s
and Cherish’s wedding bands,” I said. “She made her statement.”

He stepped
away from the corpse. Looked it up and down. Expressionless.

Whipping
out his phone he called the Van Nuys station. “This is Lieutenant Sturgis.
Cancel the BOLO on missing fugitive Daney.
Daney.
I’ll spell it for
you.”

M
ilo and I moved away from the body and waited.

“Hang
’em high,” he said. “More like hang ’em low.”

He
was restless, went over and examined Daney’s sneakers. The fatal two inches.
“Couldn’t have been comfortable. Think they used Drew’s gun or Barnett dipped
into his arsenal?”

“I’d
guess Drew’s. The temptation of poetic justice.”

“Cherish
got that along with the money. If you’re already going for the irony, why hold
back?”

* * *

Considering
the need to proceed on foot up the dirt path, it didn’t take long for the six uniforms
to arrive. Then four detectives, and a white coroner’s van bearing two
investigators.

Milo
briefed one of the D’s very quickly, then came over to where I sat, just
outside the tape.

“Ready
for dinner?”

“That’s
it?”

“It’s
someone else’s problem now.”

We
had pasta and wine at Octavio’s, on Ventura Boulevard, in Sherman Oaks.

No
conversation until Milo had finished half his linguini with clams. Then: “These
rolls are great.”

“Yes,
they are.”

A
glass of Chianti later, I said, “Cherish may not have intended to, but she
helped set Rand up to be killed. Maybe all she wanted was for him to rat out
Drew, but it was a sloppy plan. She should’ve known he wasn’t smart enough to
conceal his anxiety. Her hatred for Drew overrode that.”

“Sloppiness
ain’t an indictable offense.” He broke off a piece of bread, sopped up sauce.
“Delicious.”

“You’re
really through with it.”

“Don’t
see any reason not to be.”

“What
about Cherish and Barnett stringing up Daney and blasting his balls off?”

“Wild
West kinda thing,” he said, spooling linguine around his fork. Some of it
dropped and he retrieved it, ate, got sauce on his chin. “And I ain’t the
sheriff of Dodge.”

“Okay,”
I said.

“We
don’t know for a fact that Malley and Cherish were behind it, do we? Guy like
Drew could make all sorts of enemies.”

I
stared at him.

He
wiped his chin with a napkin. “In any case, the Valley boys will pursue it to
its logical end.”

“If
you say so.”

“What,
you’re
not finished with it?”

“Guess
I am. Except for therapy for the girls. If Detective Weisvogel calls.”

“That
surprised me,” he said. “Given your attitude about long-term commitment. What,
she catch you off guard?”

“That
must’ve been it.”

He
dove into his food again, came up for breath. “Sorry if I’m disillusioning you,
Alex, but I’m tired.”

“Don’t
blame you.”

“I’m
talking
serious
tired. As in waking up and not wanting to get out of bed
and dragging myself through the day.”

“Sorry,”
I said.

He
picked up a strand of linguini. Sucked it into his mouth the way little kids
do. “I’ll be fine.”

* * *

Two
days later, he called.

“Daney
mighta wiped his Jeep down, but it’s a forensic trove. Pubic hairs, semen, tiny
specks of blood in the ribbing underneath the door. Also, I just got a call
from downtown. My request for DNA has been approved and will be sent to
Cellmark expeditiously. If I don’t hear back within ninety days, give a call.”

“Any
word on Cherish and Barnett?”

“Not
that I’ve heard, but I might not hear.”

“Not
in the loop.”

“The
only loop of substance was the one around that bastard’s neck. Anyway, Rick and
I are leaving for Hawaii, thought I’d call to let you know.”

“Good
for you.”

“Condo
rental on the big island, ten days.”

“Thought
you don’t tan.”

“So
I’ll sauté.”

“When
are you leaving?”

“Twenty
minutes if the E.T.D. on the board is accurate.”

“You’re
at the airport?”

“Love
this place. Two hours of security line worked by morons. I had to take off my
shoes, they tossed my carry-on, frisked me. Meanwhile, everyone else, including
a guy who could be Osama’s twin, sails through.”

“Must
be your dangerous demeanor.”

“If
they only knew.”

* * *

Detective
Judy Weisvogel didn’t phone that day, but the following morning I came back
from running and found a message from my service. I’d hoped it was Allison.
Told myself Allison had her hands full and maybe I needed some of that, myself.

I
reached Weisvogel at her downtown office.

“Thanks
for calling back, Doctor. Still willing?”

“I
am.”

“From
what we can tell, you were right. He only molested Valerie and Monica Strunk.
Valerie won’t talk to you but Monica seems okay with it. You’d be more
qualified to say but she seems awfully dull to me, pretty close to retarded. Or
maybe it’s trauma.”

“That
would fit,” I said. “Valerie was his number one choice. Monica was brought in
for backup.”

“Bastard,”
she said. “Can’t say I’m losing sleep over what happened to him.”

“How’d
Valerie take the news?”

“She
doesn’t know yet. Didn’t know if I should tell her, seeing as she still talks
about him as if he was Jesus. Damned Stockholm syndrome. What do you think?”

“Find
her someone she can relate to and ask them.”

“Good
idea. She’s got no family other than some distant cousins who want nothing to
do with her.”

“Poor
kid,” I said.

“Poor
everybody. So when can you start?”

“I’ll
come by tomorrow.”

“Terrific.
We’ve got the social workers involved and all the girls are staying at a youth
shelter downtown. Run by a Pentecostal church, but the people in charge aren’t
doing the holy-roller bit and I know from past experience that they’re
righteous.”

She
gave me an address on Sixth Street.

I
said, “I’ll be there at ten.”

“Thanks
again, Doctor. In terms of the long-term placement, if you have some advice,
we’re all open. The shelter’s good but it’s temporary. I can’t see sending them
off to new foster homes without some real careful checking.” She laughed. “Now
I’m being a social worker.”

“All
part of the job.”

“Unless
you keep it out of the job,” she said. “And I’m not ready to do that yet.”

T
hat night, Allison phoned. “I’m in the car, ten
minutes away. May I come by?”

“Of course.”

I
left the front door open. Seven minutes later, she strode in.

Cosmetics,
jewelry, hair loose and shiny. Sleek white silk blouse tucked into wine-colored
slacks. Burgundy suede sandals with tiny rhinestone bows. Tiny gold chains
across her instep.

She
took my face in both hands and kissed my lips, but it didn’t last long.

We
sat down in the living room, thigh to thigh. I held her hand. She touched my
knee.

“It
seems like ages,” she said. “Since we had any fun.”

“It
has
been ages.”

“I
heard about Drew Daney. It was on the news— something about the Sepulveda Dam.
Not a lot of details.”

“Do
you want details?”

“Not
really. You doing okay?”

“Fine,
how about you?”

“Me
too.” Her eyes dipped at the outer edges.