The First Cut (22 page)

“Wait a second.” She held her hand up to her companion. The TV was broadcasting something else. Something new. It was shadowy and dark, filmed from far away and at night but she recognized that place. It was the bridge where they’d dumped Frankie’s body. That was her and John, tossing Frankie’s body down the hill. That was her running away.

She put her hands over her mouth. She ran from the bar.

Pollywog ran after her. “Hey! Where ya going?”

She stumbled and bounced off a wall, rounding a corner onto a side street. She heard Pollywog running after her. He caught up.

“Leave me ’lone.”

She stumbled again and fell. She tried to stand and he grabbed her, trying to steady her.

Nearby, she heard sounds of a party on a rooftop. People were talking and laughing.

She wrenched herself from his grasp and staggered forward. She reeled around. Walls seemed to soar crazily on either side. She was in an alley.

“Where you gonna go like this? You can barely walk. I live around the corner.”

She pushed him. “I tol’ you t’leave me ’lone. Go!”

He grabbed her arm. “Baby—Yo!”

He jumped back as she vomited.

A woman passing on the street stopped and poked him in the arm. “You heard her. She doesn’t want you here.”

“I’m gone. You don’t need to tell me twice.” He turned the corner and disappeared.

The woman grabbed Pussycat’s hair and held it away from her face. “That’s okay. Get it all out.” She rubbed her back. “That’s good, sweetheart. Don’t be ashamed.”

Pussycat finished and leaned against the wall. She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Thanks,” she slurred.

The woman was younger than she sounded. Maybe in her twenties. She was petite and slender with blond-streaked hair cut in a fringe down her face. She was tanned, like everyone who lived at the beach.

“No problem. Been there, done that. More times than I want to think about.”

Pussycat started tottering from the alley.

“Where are you going?” The woman followed her.

“Home.”

“You can’t drive, sweetheart.”

“Don’ worry ’bout me.”

“You know, I used to drink like that. I just came from an A.A. meeting. It’s still going on over there on the roof of the Elk’s Lodge. Let’s go over and we’ll get a cup of coffee.”

“You’re nice. I’m gon’ be okay. Th’s m’ ride.”

A black Hummer with broad tires barreled toward them, turning to block the street. The passenger window rolled down. John Lesley leaned toward it and said, “Get in.”

Pussycat opened the back door and clambered inside.

“Wait a minute,” the woman told Lesley. “Does she know you?”

“It’s ’kay,” Pussycat mumbled.

“This is my wife. We had a little tiff tonight. I’ve been driving all over looking for her.”

“Thanks. G’bye.” Pussycat almost fell out when she leaned to pull the door closed. “Bye now. G’bye.”

The woman leaned against the open passenger door window. “This is none of my business, but there’s an A.A. meeting going on right up the street. It’s a great group of people. I don’t need to know your wife to see that she has a problem. I’ve only been sober for a month, so I’m sort of fired up about sobriety.”

“Sober for a month? Congratulations.”

From the backseat, Pussycat saw him smiling his snake smile. So warm. Friendly, as if he wouldn’t hurt a flea.

Her stomach roiled, but she held it down. At least everything had stopped spinning. She reached to stroke his neck and shoulders. “Baby, I’m tired. I jus’ wanna go home. Thank you, lady, but I don’ drink like that. I really don’t. Tell her, baby. I don’t have a drinkin’ problem. I was jus’ upset.”

He glanced at Pussycat then met the woman’s eyes. He winked at her. They were conspirators now.

“No, baby,” Pussycat pleaded. “Le’s go home. Please. Le’s go home.”

“Where did you say this meeting was?”

“I can show you.”

“I couldn’t trouble you like that.”

Pussycat started screaming. “No! Take me home!”

“It’s no trouble at all. It would be my pleasure.”

“If you’re sure it’s no problem. Okay. Climb in.” He flipped open the door and he offered his hand. “I’m Bill Binderman.”

“I’m Lisa Shipp.”

“Nooo!” Pussycat cried. “Lisa, get out!
Please.
He’ll kill you! I beg you! I beg you…”

Pussycat couldn’t open the door. He’d activated the childproof locks. The Hummer wrenched into the street, tossing her back.

He grimaced as he glanced into the backseat. “Sorry about that.”

“Hey, I’m the last one to pass judgment on the people struggling with booze.”

“It’s a miracle my wife ran into you tonight,” Lesley said. “I’ve wanted to get her to a meeting for months.”

“Sometimes it takes something like this. You’ve gotta hit bottom, you know?”

“Lisa, you’re an angel. It’s like an angel reached out and touched us.”

Pussycat curled into a fetal position and sobbed.

T W E N T Y

V
INING HEADED HOME ON THE NARROW AND TWISTING PASADENA
Freeway—the first modern freeway in the United States. Leaving affluent Pasadena and South Pasadena, Vining’s route took her through solidly working-class and poor neighborhoods northeast of downtown L.A. She exited at Avenue 43. Turning north at the Taco Fiesta stand, she headed into Mt. Washington.

Known as “the poor man’s Bel Air,” the hilly, artsy neighborhood of winding streets and woodsy cottages had been among the few where Vining and Wes could afford a spacious house with a view and good public schools. The view wasn’t remotely as grand as the legendary “city to ocean” sights from the Hollywood Hills. From Vining’s house, the lights of downtown L.A. were partially hidden behind a hill, but she had a direct shot of the County USC Medical Center and the Alameda Corridor—railroad tracks that went all the way to the Port of Los Angeles in San Pedro. Unglamorous during the day. At night, the lights twinkled as brightly as those seen from Mulholland Drive.

Wes had correctly predicted that Mt. Washington, with its neighborhood feel and quick commute to L.A.’s civic center, would be discovered. Of course, he had long ago abandoned it for the ultra-trendy Calabasas, where television executives built McMansions with horse stables. Vining had held on to the 1960s cliff-clinging house on a quiet cul-de-sac. It hadn’t been easy to keep up with the maintenance and taxes, but she wanted Emily to have the stability of growing up in the same house and keeping the same friends through the same schools. Something Vining and her younger sister Stephanie had not had with their much-married mother.

Vining turned onto Stella Place, not activating the garage door opener until her house was in sight. She used to click it when she entered the street so the garage would be open by the time she reached it, but that gave an intruder ample time to slip inside. One of her many concessions to T. B. Mann.

The houses on her street were not bunched together. Patches of chaparral-covered land separated the homes on either side. There were no houses on the steep hillside directly below. She’d always liked the privacy and quiet. Now she appreciated the lack of places for someone to hide and the clear view of anyone approaching from any side.

Like just about every neighborhood in California, Vining’s was in transition because of the booming real estate market. A year ago, the elderly couple who lived in the house on the corner had cashed out. The house was part of the same 1960s development as Vining’s. New owners from the San Fernando Valley had razed it and were building a big, modernist structure of curves, angles, and steel.

At the end of the cul-de-sac, a couple from out of state had razed one of the other original homes and bought a neighboring vacant lot. From the terrace off Vining’s house, she could see the large Tuscan-inspired home they’d set into the hillside and the pool and patio beneath. All that was visible from the street was painted cement walls inlaid with tile, sand-hued pavers, and massive iron gates—the first to sprout up in the neighborhood.

Vining had formally met the couple once. Since then, they waved and said hello in the manner that nowadays stood in for neighborliness. When they told Vining what their occupations were, she said “That sounds interesting,” having no clue what they were talking about. Something to do with new ventures, technology…Whatever they did, it appeared to pay them lots of money. Vining and Emily were the only native Californians they’d met, which Vining found curious. Just about everyone Vining knew was born in or near the San Gabriel Valley. Vining was the only police officer they’d known personally. Somehow they made
her
feel like the outsider. They did not invite her to their large parties. She repaid the favor by not calling the police when the racket went on too long. The cops usually broke up the gatherings, but the call out wasn’t on her account.

Wes had been prescient. The neighborhood had been discovered. Realtors now pestered Vining to sell. She and her remaining longtime neighbors joked about it. She’d learned her boxy, low-ceilinged, stucco house was a “midcentury gem” in “highly desirable, historic Mt. Washington.” The value of her home had skyrocketed. For her, it was funny money. She’d never tapped into the equity. Short of paying for Emily’s college education or a catastrophic event, she never would.

Carrying a sack of groceries in one arm and Kissick’s notebook in the other, Vining entered the house from the garage into the laundry room, setting off the prealarm. She punched the codes to deactivate then realarm the house. She set the groceries on the kitchen sink but held on to the notebook. The small lights that switched on automatically at dusk lit the family room, small dining area, and living room. The house was quiet.

The television in the family room was not on as her grandmother was not there, as she normally was, dozing in the La-Z-Boy. Vining knew as much, not seeing the baby blue Olds in the driveway. She thought Granny was going to stay until she got home and found her absence disconcerting.

Next to the pile of mail on the kitchen table was a small plant. It looked like a tomato seedling with strands of raffia tied into a bow around its terra-cotta pot.

“Em?”

A plastic florist fork stuck into the plant soil held a three-by-five card. On it was a photograph of a husband and wife realtor team and a cheery note.

“Emily…”

Vining walked through the family room and living room. The drapes over the sliding glass doors were open. Vining caught her reflection against the darkness outside. She clicked off the lamp on an end table. Her image disappeared and the city lights came into view.

Emily was probably in her room downstairs, but the quiet emptiness of the house rattled her. She quickly went into her bedroom and stashed the notebook under the bed, not wanting Emily to happen upon the crime scene photos. She turned and headed for Em’s room.

Her cell phone rang. The display said the call was from Emily.

“I’m in the darkroom. I heard you turn off the alarm and now you’re stomping all over the house.”

Vining exhaled. “Hi, sweet pea. Where’s Granny?”

“Her doctor called and said she had an opening. Granny asked if I minded and I said I’d get a ride home with Aubrey’s mom. She went by Trader Joe’s and I bought a California roll that I ate for dinner. I’ve been in the darkroom ever since. I know where the guns and ammo are and how to use them. This place is alarmed like I don’t know what. I’m fine.”

“That’s all you had for dinner? One California roll?”

“Mom, why are you stressing? You didn’t even sleep in your bed last night. Is working on the Frankie Lynde murder doing a number on you or is it something else?”

“I expected Granny to be here, that’s all.”

“Like Granny’s going to protect me.”

“She’s another person in the house. It matters.” Vining realized her voice was strident.

He’s moved on.

Vining took a deep breath.

You’ll draw him out, but not now.

“Mom, I babysit for people. I’m capable of staying by myself. I’m fourteen.”

“Yes, you are. You’re a young lady now. I’ll come down.” She ended the call.

Walking back through the living room, the windows’ black eyes made her feel exposed. She yanked the cord to close the drapes and made busywork straightening the folds. The Lynde investigation wasn’t doing a number on her. Working it energized her. But it was the messenger. Through it she’d learned how deeply T. B. Mann had seeped into her life, how indelibly he had stained it. It could not stand. She refused to live this way.

Returning to her bedroom, she took off her ankle holster and put the Walther under her pillow. It had been her sole companion in bed from the day she was able to get up and load it, out of sight of her caregivers, after she’d returned from the hospital.

In the kitchen, she took off her shoulder holster, removed her Glock .40, and ejected the clip. She hung the empty holster on a hook beside the back door. The gun she put into a cabinet inside an empty box of Count Chocula cereal that resided between Emily’s box of Cheerios and Vining’s full box of Count Chocula. The clip she stashed in a drawer behind tea towels. The other firearms in the house were formally secured. The Walther and the Glock were her working weapons. They had to be nearby in case she needed them.

She went down the stairs off the kitchen to Emily’s floor, which was the former rumpus room. After she and Wes had bought the house, they’d made full use of it, installing a pool table, Wurlitzer jukebox, and wet bar and having friends over most weekends. Sliding glass doors opened onto a concrete slab patio that was perfect for barbecuing. Fun times. Wes wanted the toys when they’d split and she hadn’t objected.

When Emily turned thirteen she laid claim to the space. Wes did a great job of transforming it into a bedroom and workroom for her.

Vining saw that Emily had closed the plantation shutters and was glad. Beyond the patio, the backyard was ragged hillside, surrounded with a chain-link fence marking the property line. The yard was not as secure as Vining would like. The neighbor’s cat often triggered the motion lights. Emily argued for a black Lab, but Vining resisted this new responsibility and expense. Plus pet dogs were unreliable for security as they were easily placated or eliminated. What Vining coveted was the surveillance cameras she saw at Iris Thorne’s house.