Rage Factor (12 page)

“Did you stop dating?”

The woman looked down at her daughter sprawled on the sofa.

“I don’t like anyone telling me how to live. Marty said my attorney’s security people would take care of it. Then another message came, threatening Sarina. I haven’t dated since. When I need an escort, Marty Ahrens, my agent—who’s sixty-seven and happily married—takes me. But mostly Sarina and I go as a ‘couple.’” She mussed her daughter’s hair, then smoothed it.

Sarina flinched. “Mother drags me to these boring awards banquets.” She switched the TV channel to the morning news. “Pretends I’m along for
her
protection.”

Dixie glanced at the desk clock and decided to squeeze more of the details from Belle, who would no doubt be miraculously available now that Dixie knew the worst. She could phone while the dentist performed atrocities on the kid.

“I’ll need the address for Sarina’s appointment,” she said. “We can talk more later.”

Joanna’s spike heels tapped softly across the carpet to the desk. As she dug through a snakeskin handbag and withdrew her address book, Dixie wandered toward the television, now practically silent. Apparently Sarina wasn’t enthralled with local news.

The girl slipped off the couch, opened a closet, and removed a huge black denim bag, along with a gray poncho.

“Sarina, you’re not wearing those clothes.” Joanna jotted an address on the hotel notepad.

Sarina fingered the shirt collar. “I like these clothes.”

On the television, a reporter was broadcasting live from a crime scene that looked like Memorial Park. Too many cops to be a simple mugging. Dixie glanced around for the remote control.

“That
color
, Sarina. It’s so drab. Can’t you wear something perkier? And your hair—!”

“My hair’s fine.” A catch in the kid’s voice made Dixie look up. Shoulders rigid, mouth tight, Sarina stood facing away from her mother. Moisture glinted in her eyes. “This color is
me.
Decidedly unperky.”

Joanna opened a bottle of nail polish. “Sarina, you’re not leaving until you put on something less depressing.”

“I like depressing.” The girl stamped across the carpet, jerked open the bedroom door, and closed it behind her, muttering something that sounded like “Codswallop!”

Dixie found the TV remote and punched up the volume.

“—Lawrence Coombs, acquitted yesterday of sexual assault, was discovered early this morning in Memorial Park by a woman walking her dachshunds. Coombs had been sexually assaulted and beaten. Doctors say he is conscious and in fair condition.”

Sonofabitch!
Dixie barely suppressed a Texas cheer—and instantly felt mortified at her elation. Vigilante justice was not a good thing. Still, if more rapists had to endure the sort of pain they dealt out—

Then she recalled the two women arguing at the Suds Club. Could there be a connection? Regan had been scared, Clarissa plenty angry. And at least one of the pair had a strong, protective man who might believe the jury let the rapist off way too easy.

The newscaster cut to a rerun of Lawrence Coombs strolling from the courtroom yesterday. Recalling what he’d said to Brenda, Dixie couldn’t muster any sympathy for him.

The bedroom door new open. Sarina flounced out.

“We’ll be late,” she told Dixie. “No time to say hello/good-bye. We’re late, we’re late, we’re late.”

The girl had slicked down her hair with gel until it snugged wetly around her head and had pulled a red sequin beret over it. A bright purple boa, draped over the gray poncho, hung to her knees. Multicolored bracelets laced up both arms. She strode to the front door, swung it wide, tossed her head with that same theatrical movement her mother used, and swept into the hall.

She slid a glance back at Dixie. “I can do
perky.”

Joanna, studying her own fingernails, hadn’t noticed.

The whole idea of a sports car with automatic transmission seemed ludicrous, but Dixie was glad for it, since her clutch foot was still not completely dependable. She liked the feel of the Porsche, the leather seats and snazzy curved dash—like sitting in the cockpit of the single-engine airplane Parker had taken her family flying in. With her clumsy cast, Dixie managed to weasel out of the flight without coming off a wimp in front of Ryan. She’d sat in a plane’s cockpit before, though. As a kid, she’d dreamed of being another Amelia Earhart—free, adventurous, daring. That was before she learned how much she hated flying.

She did like driving, though, and the Porsche Targa was a honey. Sliding into the early morning traffic from the hotel parking lot, she eyed Sarina.

Slouched low in the passenger seat, the girl screwed an intricate bit of plastic to her odd high-tech toy. The thing looked like a Star
Wars
alien, all teeth and scales. The sequin
beret and feather boa lay at the kid’s feet, along with her denim bag. A scowl hardened her mouth.

“Toothache can be miserable,” Dixie said.

“I don’t have a toothache.”

“You’re going to the dentist?”

The girl squinted at her. “Totally unnecessary. My mother thinks if I miss my six-month cleaning by even a week, all my teeth will rot and fall out. Our regular guy referred us to someone here.”

Dixie supposed stars were allowed to be eccentric. Or maybe mom just wanted the kid to stay busy. As Dixie left the hotel room, Joanna had handed her a long list of local attractions to visit during the week—Museum of Fine Arts, Johnson Space Center, IMAX—and seemed to expect the list to be punched like a dance card.

Sarina fished a square of thin, rubbery material out of her bag and began molding it to the creature.

“What’s that you’re working on? Some kind of model?”

“Fire Dweller. An original, one-of-a-kind rod puppet.” She turned it so Dixie could see. “My design.”

Rotating a lever, she caused the creature’s head to swivel, following Dixie’s movements.

Impressive. The thing was incredibly detailed. She could almost imagine it shuddering to life and charging across the car to bite off her nose.

“My nephew would love that.”

“You think this is some kind of toy?” Sarina flicked the lever again and the creature’s eyes sparked briefly as if lighted from inside. “It’s for miniature work. On
professional
film.” Insulted, she turned her shoulder to Dixie, shutting off conversation.

Fine.
As Dixie maneuvered the Porsche toward the address Joanna had given her, she used her cell phone to call a friend at HPD’s Sex Crimes and ask about Lawrence Coombs.

A gray late-model Camry had slipped in behind the Porsche when they left the hotel. Dixie noticed it still back
there, not quite close enough to see a license number. She watched for it to follow them onto the freeway, but in the heavy traffic every third car seemed to be a gray Camry. Popular model. There were two in the medical tower parking lot when she pulled in.

In the dentist’s waiting room, she found a guest telephone positioned so she could watch for Sarina to emerge from the hygienist’s cubicle and at the same time keep an eye on the parking lot. The phone weighed about two ounces; it kept trying to creep over the edge of the glass table as Dixie talked to Belle. But the call was free.

“My contact at the Sex Crimes unit said Coombs was worked over pretty good,” Dixie said. “Won’t talk about what happened. Just stares out the window, eyes as empty as Saturday night beer bottles.”

“That man deserved whatever he got,” Belle said evenly.

“You won’t hear any argument from me.” Dixie hesitated. “Have you talked to Brenda?”

“It’s only eight
A.M
.—I’ve barely had my morning coffee.”

“Coombs’ acquittal hit her hard, harder than any case she’s lost in a while.”

Belle was silent a moment, then, “Benson has better sense than to be part of a revenge mob, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

That was the idea Dixie’d been resisting. “But she might know who did it.”

Any involvement could put a rude end to Brenda’s career. More important, it signaled a need for professional counseling. For ten years Dixie had walked in the same shoes her friend wore now. She knew the frustration of watching one scuzzball after another thumb his nose at justice, knew how it could eat at you. You felt responsible, even though the verdict was out of your hands. You felt embarrassed that a system you worked so hard to uphold had failed. You felt a burning rage against the judge and jury, and a raging need to see justice done, even if it meant putting your own gun to the scuzzball’s head and blasting him into the ozone. If Dixie
hadn’t walked away from the job when she did, hadn’t bottled up the bitterness and pushed it into a cold, dark chamber of her heart, she might herself have wreaked vengeance on Lawrence Coombs.

Maybe she’d given Brenda the wrong advice last night. Perhaps she should’ve recognized the level of her friend’s frustration, encouraged her to quit the system while she could still face herself in the mirror.

Changing the subject, Dixie asked Belle, “Can you get copies of those mash notes Joanna Francis received in LA?”

“Already done—but I have an investigator on that part, Flannigan. Your job is to keep Sarina safe.”

“What’s the harm in my taking a look? Find the stalker—everybody’s safe.”

“Okay. I’ll leave the copies at the front desk.”

“Is Joanna’s L.A. lawyer doing anything at all to identify this guy?”

“Surveillance. They had someone watching both Joanna and Sarina.”

“Did you read the other notes?”

“Briefly. Why?”

“Did any of them mention a face-to-face meeting?”

“They all hint at it, saying things about destiny, divine union, that sort of thing. This last one is the most specific.”

Dixie wondered if Joanna’s change in location had fueled the stalker’s passion or merely offered a favorable time to arrange a meeting.

“While I’m chauffeuring Sarina to dental appointments, who’s guarding her mother?”

“Joanna refuses to have a personal bodyguard. Her only concern is her daughter’s safety. Until Sarina was threatened, only Joanna and her agent knew about the notes.”

“I don’t feel good about this. You know how much I hate personal protection of high-profile targets.” No matter how vigilantly you guarded a person, a determined assassin would eventually find a moment of opportunity. And nine times
out of ten the principal made the job tougher by refusing to take simple precautions.

“You’re the best insurance that girl could have for the money, Flannigan.”

“For
the money?”

“You know what I mean. Joanna’s budget doesn’t approach the national security allotment for protecting the president. I hired the best person for the job.”

“Save the faint praise, Ric. Just get me everything the LA attorney has compiled on this bozo writing the love notes. At least I only have to brat-sit for four days.” The sooner Joanna Francis and her weird daughter flew back to Glitter City, the better Dixie would like it. The longer the job, the greater the chance of something going wrong.

“Ummm, about those four days …” Belle left the sentence hanging.

“What about them?”

“Dixie, I’ve got another call—”

“What about them?”

“Last night’s rain flooded the area where part of the shoot was to take place. They’re filming other scenes while searching for a new location, but this could add a couple of days to the original time frame.”

“A couple of
days?
That would cut into the weekend.” But Belle had already hung up. “Coward,” Dixie muttered to the dead phone.

She cradled it just as Sarina emerged from the treatment room showing off her puppet to the hygienist. Sarina moved a lever, and the creature reached out one rubbery hand to stroke the woman’s arm. She laughed, obviously impressed.

In the parking lot the two gray Camrys had multiplied to three, none of them occupied. Circling the block twice, Dixie assured herself no one was following, and minutes later the red Porsche was back on the expressway headed to Belle’s office in the Transco Tower. After she picked up the file of threatening notes, Dixie intended to drop by the DA’s
office for a heart-to-heart with Brenda, maybe take the prosecutor to lunch. Eventually, Joanna’s cultural attractions list would have to be tackled, and sometime during the day, Dixie hoped to squeeze in a visit to the foot doc, talk him into removing the cast.

“Where’s Greenspoint?” Sarina asked.

“About fifteen minutes north of downtown. Why?”

“My next appointment is near Greenspoint.”

“Not another dentist?” The kid’s teeth sparkled; her gums looked pink and healthy.

“No, not a dentist.” She clicked on the radio and began punching buttons.

Dixie grimaced. Getting information from this imp was harder than milking a porcupine.

Finding a rap station, Sarina adjusted the bass and began drumming the dash.

“When do you have to be at this unspecified place near Greenspoint?” Dixie asked her.

“Eleven-thirty.”

Terrific. Time enough to stop at Belle’s office for the file, but not enough time to lunch with Brenda.

The rap song ended, and Sarina punched another button.

“—Lawrence Coombs is under police protection pending investigation of the eye-for-an-eye beating—”

Dixie caught Sarina’s hand. “Wait, I want to hear this.”

“—as yet Coombs has not given police a description of the assailants dubbed by one officer as ‘Avenging Angels.’ Meanwhile, a verdict is expected later today in the Carrera versus Carrera civil case”

“This is one wild and crazy town,” Sarina said. “Avenging Angels?”

“You don’t have violence in L.A.?”

“Violence, sure, but—”

“Isn’t Hollywood where Charlie Manson, the bogeyman of the century, ran amuck? And what about the Saldana thing? Or the Menendez murders?”

“Yeah, it’s creepville, all right. Mother fired our gardener
last year because he was ‘acting strange.’” Sarina made a leering, grotesque face framed by twisted, menacing hands. Then she changed the radio station to drum along with another song that defied rhythm.