The Blue Hour (5 page)

Merci thought very
briefly of Phil Kemp's endless and asinine comments, his touches and gestures
and jokes. It wasn't like she hadn't warned him a million times. It was simply
that he wouldn't listen and she'd gotten tired of putting up with him. Tired of
him getting away with it. It said right in the rules you couldn't do that. Now
two other deputies—women she barely knew—had come forward with similar
complaints. Had she started some ugly movement? Which was worse, putting up
with Kemp or standing up to him? Merci willed away those thoughts because they
were counterproductive and troubling. It was good to be here, where none of that
mattered.

The
doctor explained the procedure. Merci and Danielle would stay in the waiting
room while Kamala was put into a deep hypnotic state. Then they would be
allowed back in and Merci could take part in the conversation, make notes or
tape-record it. Danielle would say nothing: more than two interlocutors might
confuse Kamala, or even break down the hypnosis. Kamala would be brought out
feeling relaxed and remembering what was said and done while she was under. It
would take twenty to thirty minutes at the most. Merci sat in the waiting room,
made brief small talk with Danielle, then read through the last entries in the
notebook where she kept a running log of her investigations. A lot of her
initial-contact work was recorded in the little floppy books with the blue
covers, and when she had a few minutes of down time she'd review, ruminate and
brainstorm, hoping to chip something loose, see something she hadn't seen
before, or see it in a new way. She liked that the notebook was not department
issue, but rather a personal item she chose. She had twenty-six of them at
home, filled with her writing. She always carried one in a right-side
pocket—coat, shirt, even pants, it didn't matter—a companion to the Heckler
& Koch so heavily invested on her left.

She took a minute to
make notes on her conversation with Hess in the impound yard, following them
with a sentence that she underlined:
Stubborn old guy and dying of cancer.
She looked at it and lined through it with the black pen, deciding that it
wasn't up to her if he was dying or not, and it probably wasn't good policy to
assume so.

She'd heard through
the grapevine that he was doing chemo and radiation and that one of his lungs
had been cut out. The last thing the old cop needed was his partner treating
him like he was good as dead. Plus, Brighton had put him there to watch her as
well as help her. Any fool could see that. Hess was Brighton's eyes and ears,
so why aggravate them any more than you had to? Joan appeared in the doorway and waved them in.
"She's down good and deep."

Merci followed her
into the consultation room. The lights had been turned down and the blinds
angled to admit little sun. There was a desk in one corner, bookshelves on two
walls. In the middle of the room was a couch with three recliner chairs facing
it across a coffee table. Kamala Petersen sat in the middle chair, tilted back
like a man getting a shave, her hands crossed peacefully over her stomach,
nails perfect, eyes closed. With her flawless makeup and attitude of repose she
could be the newly dead, Merci thought.

"Kamala, Merci
and Danielle are back with us now," said Joan Cash.

"Hi,
guys," said Kamala, her voice faint but clear.

"Kamala
and I were talking about waves just now. It didn't take us long to find out we
both love waves. Long, gentle never-ending Pacific waves. We've both
bodysurfed."

"They
scare the daylight out of me," said Merci.

"I
think they
're
groovy," said the
makeup artist.

"They
can be very relaxing to contemplate," said Joan.

"Ah, Merci...
would you like to talk about a week ago? Last Tuesday night? That would be
August third. Kamala, I'll be right here but you can go ahead and talk to Merci
just like you were talking to me. Okay?"

"Sure."

Merci took out her notebook and pen. "Kamala,
you told me last Friday that you worked at the Laguna Hills Mall the week
before. Why did you call me?"

"I
saw on TV that a woman had disappeared from the mall? She disappeared the same
night I was working there. It really like bothered me. And I remembered that
I'd seen
a...
a
...
rememberable
man the night
she vanished. And that was why I called you.

"Merci looked at Joan, who mouthed to her:
go slow...

"So
you saw this man Tuesday night of last week. Tell
me
why you thought of him when you learned that Janet
Kane
had disappeared."

A few
seconds passed before Kamala spoke. "He was
kind
of...
strange
looking. I would use the word
startling.
He
was
standing in the parking lot
when I left. It was dark but I
saw
him
in my headlights. He was looking at his car in a
very
interesting way. Now, I saw him only for maybe two
seconds
or three? As long as it takes to
see someone
in
your
lights?
And
then again for maybe two seconds right when
my car
went by him. And he made an impression on me.
But I forgot
all that until I heard about
the woman."

"What time did you see him?"

"It
was about nine."

"All right. Now,
you said this man was strange looking. You said he was startling. Describe him
to me now, in as much detail as you can."

Kamala exhaled.
"Blond hair, long. Golden. Goldilocks. Dark eyes. Mustache. Neither tall
nor short. Average build. He was wearing a full-length coat, like a duster. A
light one, cotton, probably. Like a cowboy would wear."

Merci pictured the
long-haired, long-coated man. A long beat. "Age."

"Twenties, maybe
early thirties. And his eyes, when I got up closer? Because I could see them in
the headlights? They looked wet and sad. He looked like a model. I mean a male
model, not a female. He looked like a model that was my first impression. I
notice faces. And it seemed strange to me that I could notice this much about
him when I was driving past him. But I think things happen for a reason, and so
I noticed him for a reason."

Merci didn't comment
on Kamala's cosmic outlook. To Merci, the only reasons things happened were the
ones you supplied on your own. She also noted on her pad the apparent
contradiction in Kamala Petersen's story: how could she see his "wet and
sad" eyes when she was driving her car past him at night and he wasn't
even looking at her? "So the strangeness was more in the way you reacted
to him than the way he looked?"

"Well,
maybe. Now that you put it that way, somewhat."

"What
was startling about him?"

"It
was partly his appearance. But it was something else." Kamala lay still
and silent for a long minute. Then she
exhaled
rather loudly and shook her head. "This is just amazing. You guys aren't
going to believe what I just thought of. What I just remembered. Oh my
God." I think I will, Merci thought.
Because I think you liked what you saw, and I think you had a moment with him,
a little something, a look, a glance, maybe even a
word...
She glanced at Joan but the
doctor was staring intently at her subject.

"You
see,
well...
you
know ...
I didn't realize it until just a
minute ago, but the reason he seemed so strange and startling to me is because
this wasn't the first time I saw him."

Merci
thought holy shit and looked at Joan. The psychiatrist's eyebrows were raised
and a smile was forming on her lips.

"I
mean, like the first time was about a month before, at a mall in Brea. He was
walking past the pet store. The girls and I were on our way to set up. And
there he was, walking by alone, just like I saw him last week. He even had on
the same coat.
God ...
that's very
weird I just thought of it now. This hypnosis is like really strong."

Merci's
heart sped up at the word
mall
and she looked at Joan. The doctor was looking over her tented fingers at
Kamala, and she lowered her expression for a long even stare at the detective.
She mouthed,
wow!

"You just
brought a repressed memory into your conscious mind," said Joan,
matter-of-factly. She was making notes in a book of her own now. "That
memory was bothering you, and it was part of the reason you called Merci."

"I understand
that now. You're right. God, this is weird." "So, you had seen him
before, Kamala," said Merci, betraying no enthusiasm in her voice. She had
in her heart a cold and efficient place from which to work, and she always knew
where to find it. "Now, the first time you saw him, in Brea, was he just
walking by?"

"By the pet
store. He was walking slowly and he looked at me."

Of course he did,
thought Merci. And you looked back. "Did he say anything?"

"No."

"What was his
expression?"

"It was like he
thought something was funny. Me."

The psychiatrist
motioned Merci to silence. "Because of the way you looked at him?"

"That's
right."

Joan looked at Merci and
nodded.

"And how did you look
at him?" Merci asked.

A pause. "I don't
know, really. But I thought he was very handsome, like a model, and he must
have seen this on my face. And thought it was funny."

"Did you turn around
and look again, after you had passed each other?" "Yes. And he did too, and he had the
same look."

"But you didn't go up
to him?" "No." Merci dug in. "Did any of your friends go up
to him?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Way sure."

Merci considered.
"Kamala, what was he doing the second time, when you saw him that Tuesday
night? You said he was looking at his car in, quote:
a very interesting way.
What did you mean by that?"

"He had his
hands on his hips and he was looking at the car like it
had...
misbehaved. Or like he was unhappy at it."

"Did you see any
obvious problem with it? Like a flat tire or the emergency flashers on or the
hood up?"

"No."

"What kind of car was
it?"

"I think it was
either a Mercedes or a BMW, but I'm not sure. It was white? Kind of square in
the back?"

Merci made a note and
thought for a moment. "How did you know it was his car?"

"I...
don't. I didn't. I assumed it was, until just now. I
guess it could have been anyone's. He was just looking at it like there was a
problem he was trying to figure out."

Like whether or not it had
an alarm.

Merci glanced at Joan, who
was studying her with a grave expression.

"If we went back to
the Laguna Hills Mall together, could you show me were he was, and where the
white car was?"

"It was about in the
middle of the lot, in front of the
food
court.
But I could show you, sure."

Merci wrote and thought.
"Kamala, did this man see you at Laguna Hills Mall, the second time you
saw him?"

"No."

"You didn't slow down
and roll down your window, ask if you could help, something like---“

“---I did not." Dr.
Cash was shaking her head. "Okay. Okay, Kamala. Now, could you help one of
our artists draw a picture of this man?

"Yes. His face is
mostly clear to me now. Anytime you want"

Matamoros Colesceau drove his pickup through the
narrowing streets of Irvine until he reached the Quail Creek Apartment Homes.
The buildings were tan stucco and wood slat, built around grassy knolls. The
knolls had large decorative rocks arranged on them to suggest nature's balance
and harmony. The units were not built in straight back-to-back rows, but
arranged in wandering molecular-looking clusters that were supposed to promote
a feeling of privacy. They were called apartment homes, not apartments. The
place was like a gigantic beehive.

During his first two
months here, some three years ago, Colesceau had gotten lost in his own complex
four times. The many small streets all looked infuriatingly the same. There
were four swimming pools designed exactly alike. The knolls were even similar,
with like numbers and arrangements of stones. Now he could walk the grounds
blindfolded and know exactly where he was. He lived in 12 Meadowlark, a
two-level unit in the B building on the west side of the north quadrant of
Quail Creek Apartment Homes.

His
parole agent had already parked in the driveway, so Colesceau pulled his truck
into a guest space. Now he would have to walk to his front door in broad
daylight. In Colesceau's opinion Parole Agent Al Holtz was an inconsiderate
pig, but he was generally amiable and unthreatening. He didn't carry a gun,
although Colesceau knew he kept one in the glove compartment of his car.