Geography of Murder (22 page)

"Will we be able to land today? The Captain said we might," asked a hatchet-faced woman with a massive bosom almost eclipsed by an equally massive pair of binoculars I recognized as Barska Zooms. I wanted to ask her what gave her the biggest backache, her tits or the Barskas, but that would have blown my tip out of the water.

"I'll ask him," I said, knowing very well Phil wasn't going anywhere near the island in this weather. Already the waves around the fiberglass hull grew more restless. Tremors through the soles of my feet reminded me of what lay all around us—unfathomable water.

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In the distance a low bank of dark clouds massed over the north shore of the island. Overhead a stream of gulls moved inland.

"Blow coming." I pointed at the savvy birds who, unlike most humans, knew enough to get out of harm's way. "If you'll excuse me I should go talk to the Captain." In the cockpit I found Phil sitting in his captain's chair, feet up on the instrument panel, picking his teeth with a toothpick.

"They getting scared of a bit of a wind?"

"Looks like more than a bit." At the same time as those words came out of my mouth, the boat rocked under me and thunder cracked in the distance.

Phil put his feet down and spun the wheel around. "Guess you called that one, boy. Go tell our guests to batten down.

They might get more than they bargained for. I'll make real seamen out of all of you yet."

I started for the steps when Phil stopped me. "Paper's true what they say about you seeing that cop who busted you for killing poor old George?"

"Poor old George was a pedophile," I said and Phil raised his eyebrows. "Or didn't you read that part?"

"He tell you that?"

"Who, Alex?"

The eyebrow went higher. "So he is..." He rocked his hand from side to side. "He's a smooth bugger, ain't he? Bet he tells you all kinds of secret things."

"We don't discuss his work. It would be unethical."

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"Can't be too ethical of a man to bop someone he arrested for murder. He came to me you know, practically begged me to give you your job back."

Since I doubt Alex begged for anything in his life I didn't believe him. But I shrugged. "I never should have been charged in the first place. Alex says I was likely drugged too, just like George. I'm lucky to be alive and not..." I swallowed past the memory of Blunt's battered, bloody body. "...Like him."

Phil nodded sagely. He glanced out at the growing mass of clouds on the horizon. "Luck has a lot to do with everything.

We better haul ass out of here. Go tell your birdy buddies to buckle up."

The storm rode our stern all the way in, but finally we discharged our grateful passengers, who, now that it was over, chattered like magpies at how exciting it had all been. I laughed with them, and told the bosomy woman with the Barskas to be sure and send me some of her pictures. I promised to post them on the Channel Charter's web site. She seemed thrilled. There's a little bit of Hollywood in all of us. In the end I got a nice fat tip which I stuffed in my back pocket and left the marina whistling as the storm riffled the hair on the back of my neck.

Since I was back early I called Trip up and suggested an earlier meet. Some of Phil's luck rubbed off and he was free. I met him twenty minutes later in the park across from the marina and we exchanged our goods—my money for his coke.

I nodded my thanks as I stuffed the packet in my jacket pocket, then—went around to find out if my car was ready. It 214

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was. The deductible cleaned me out so I was glad I'd got my blow first. The tip didn't hurt, either.

On my way out of town the storm breeched land and a banshee wind howled around me while darkness as dense and as thick as nightfall fell. I swung off the road to the 101 and minutes later pulled into the Vault's lot. There were half a dozen cars there already. With any luck there were more people inside.

I was on a winning streak. At least a dozen men crowded the bar, tossing quips and crudities around the room. The music was less raucous than at night and the Young and the Restless played on one of the TVs. All the others continued playing the hardcore porn they normally carried.

I watched a hairy giant fuck a sweet little golden boy's ass without a whole lot of enthusiasm, feeling mellowed out by the one beer I could afford. Just as well, I didn't want to be picked up for DUI. I did my first hit in the bathroom fifteen minutes into my visit.

On my second trip a whole thirty minutes later I was followed. I came out of the stall to find him leaning up against the urinal, arms folded over a broad chest I couldn't help but admire. His taut pecs and abs swelled against his cotton lumberjack shirt and the bulge between his legs tweaked my interest. He flicked an illegal cigarette into the urinal and straightened.

"Haven't seen you in here much lately," his voice was pure liquid smoke. He had eyes so blue they looked like a tropical beach. He knew me. How the hell had I ever missed him?

"Been busy," I said.

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"I've seen you with your business. It true he's a cop?"

I shrugged, unsure I wanted to talk about Alex to this stranger. "Ask him yourself."

"Oh I will. And maybe I'll ask him what his little cutie was doing flying solo while he was no doubt slaving on the mean streets of Santa Barbara."

Suddenly the guy didn't look so sexy anymore. I stared at him through narrowed eyes. "What do you want?"

He grabbed the bulge between his legs. "Maybe I'd like a taste of badge bunny."

"Badge bunny? What's that? A line you read in Playboy?"

He scowled. "You fuck the man behind the badge. Or in your case you probably get fucked, don't you?" He reached into his jean pocket and pulled out a glassine packet. "Got some righteous blow. You interested?"

Desire tugged at me, but not the kind he was talking about. I'd come in here to finish up my own product, but if I could score some of his, I'd have enough left for one more hit before I went home. Easy enough to tell Alex the storm held me up. Or the car. He didn't need to know the car had been ready early.

Then I thought of Alex. Really thought of him. His rock steady gray eyes behind the deceptive glasses that gave him a Clark Kent nebbish look, the way his mouth quirked when he suppressed a smile, the small gasping sounds he made when he came. Sounds that were all for me.

I could start lying to him, it would be easy enough, but did I want to? For this guy? For any guy?

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The bathroom door banged open and a giggling foursome stormed the small room. They rushed to the urinals and took care of business. One of them caught sight of the stranger who had propositioned me.

"Oh Mary, if you're not taken I want you."

I straightened and bee-lined around the five men. "He's all yours, sugar. Enjoy." I slipped out into the bar and headed for the front door.

The rain was thundering down. I covered my head with my jacket, which didn't help. By the time I got the door to my car open and threw myself inside I was soaked and cold water dripped down my back under my sodden shirt. I threw the car into gear and drove off the lot. I would have loved to have floored it out of there, but that would have been insane given I could barely see through the sheets of water the window wipers couldn't clear fast enough. I prayed the rain would let up before I hit the freeway, but no such luck. The ride back to Goleta was excruciating. I not only had to contend with idiot drivers who didn't slow down, blasting me with their horns, and I'm sure their middle fingers more than once, but the big rigs, too. The massive transport trucks thundered past me, shaking my little Honda so violently we almost swerved onto the shoulder more than once. I was gripping the wheel so hard by the time I pulled off onto San Marcos Pass Road my hands were cramped. The rain finally let up by the time I turned onto Cathedral Oaks Road, allowing me to ease up on my death grip.

There was no Toyota in the driveway. Despite the hour, I was there before Alex.

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My high was totally gone, and the usual foggy aftermath enervated me as I unlocked the front door and stepped into the foyer. The house still smelled of my cleaning efforts.

There was another smell under it. It only took me a minute to identify it. It was Alex. He permeated his home and left me weak-kneed.

Was I seriously falling in love with this guy? How crazy was that? I couldn't do it. It would be the height of foolishness to think I could love him, and worse, expect him to love me back. That was not in the cards.
Don't kid yourself. He
couldn't love you
.

In the bedroom I stripped off my soaking clothes and dumped them in the hamper. I'd take them into the laundry room after my shower. I luxuriated under the hot spray for longer than necessary and wrapped a robe around me when I came out. Instead of getting dressed right away, I wandered into the kitchen to check out what I could make for supper.

We seriously needed to go shopping. The cupboard was getting very bare. I started a mental list of what I thought we would need and got the coffee pot set up and ready to go. No sense making it early. If Alex were held up in town he wouldn't want stale coffee when he finally got in.

I threw the laundry on to wash and settled onto the sofa channel surfing.

Waiting for Alex to come home.

God, I had it bad.

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218

Geography of Murder

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Lucy Chavez was a chunky brown-haired Anglo who
must have married into her name. She stared up at me
from behind her security chain. Her lips were a slash of
red across her pale, freckled face, and if she were five-two I'd eat a three-dollar bill.

"Police?" she said in a low throaty voice that made me think of gin joints and cool music. Not that I've been to a real one. But in the movies, ah...

"Yes, ma'am," I said and introduced us a second time, full rank and PD.

"Show me some ID."

We both held up our badges. She stared at them for several seconds then said, "Hand it to me."

I complied. She shut the door, though I didn't hear the bolt being thrown. Finally the chain rattled and the door opened again, fully this time.

"You can never be too careful." She let us in, shut and closed the door and reset the chain. Before that ritual I saw her look up and down the threadbare third floor hallway she lived on. Man, this was one seriously paranoid lady.

She made me jumpy. We followed her into a pin-neat apartment with flowered curtains and more doilies everywhere than I've ever seen. I studied both surreptitiously, without making my scrutiny obvious. I'm quite sure she would lose it if she thought I was looking at her. She couldn't have been much older than I was, but she carried 219

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herself like an old woman. She wore old sweats with slippers on her otherwise bare feet. She clutched the throat of her sweatshirt, as though fearful it would pop open and reveal something. Her skin bore the mottled whiteness of someone who rarely went outside, a complexion not at all suited to a sunny coastal community. If she ever went to a beach and exposed more skin, she'd be a lobster in minutes. I suspected she hadn't been on a beach in years. If ever.

Nancy and I sat together on the sofa, our hands folded in our laps, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

Chavez sat perched on the edge of her reclining chair, an afghan that had probably been over her knees until we knocked, lying on the floor beside her, forgotten. She watched us like a mouse might watch a cat who had just entered the room.

And we thought this woman knew something about the cold-blooded murder of two men?

"Mrs. Chavez?" I barely spoke above a whisper. "We'd like to ask you some questions, if we may."

"Of c-course. Have I done something wrong, officers?"

"No, nothing like that. I assure you this is just a routine visit," I lied. But if either Nancy or I took an aggressive stance with this on-edge woman, we'd lose her immediately.

We still might. "Are you familiar with
The Art of the Game
?

It's a taxidermy shop in Oxnard—"

"I know what it is, officer."

I was surprised and probably showed it. I looked around the apartment again. No mounted animal heads, no animal figurines of any kind. Shelf after shelf of crystal and porcelain 220

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figurines, cute little winged cherubs and angels, women in billowing gowns and ballerinas all on tip-toe filled every inch of a dozen shelves, nooks and crannies. They even covered the coffee table in front of us. I was beginning to feel like hundreds of little glass eyes were watching my every move. I thought of the mounted raven and his glass eyes.

But not one animal figurine, glass or otherwise.

"You've been to the store?"

"Yes," she said with obvious distaste. "My students wanted to go see a place like that and we were down in Oxnard for a day of touring one of the local farms, so I acquiesced."

"Students, ma'am? You teach?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

When she didn't offer more Nancy pressed her, "And what school might that be, ma'am?"

"St. Adolphus School, on Casiano Drive."

A religion based school. It fit. I imagined she would be a good teacher. Probably one of those beloved by her good students and hated by her troublemakers.

"Is your husband at home, ma'am?"

Again the distaste. "I'm not married."

I shot a glance at her left hand and if she'd ever worn a ring there is was long gone. Her flesh was wrinkly and covered with more freckles. Never or not now?