Shamus In The Green Room (30 page)

Knew exactly how to work it.” She shook her head. “Always so

sure of herself. So sure of how far we could push things. There

was nothing to worry about, she assured me. Expecially with

him. She knew exactly how he’d react. I could kill her, she got

it so wrong.”

I should’ve wondered why Lisa was telling me all this. She

didn’t need to. I wasn’t holding a gun to her head. If I had

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thought about it, just slowed down, taken a breath, I might

have been able to stop things from going the way they did.

But I felt like I was on a moving train, and the only thing that

mattered was getting to the end of the line.

“So did you kill her?” I asked.

“Who?”

I didn’t know who. That was the problem.

“Do you mean Maren?” she asked.

“Yes, Maren.” Did she really still think the dead woman

was Maren, or was she trying to trap me like I was trying to

trap her?

“Are you crazy?” she asked. “Of course I didn’t kill Maren.”

“You told me she never could have killed herself. That she

wasn’t the type. What happened to her then?”

“I don’t know what happened to her. She wrote me to say

good-bye and told me not to worry about her, not that I ever

did.”

Maren wrote Rafe. Maren wrote Lisa. “Do you still have

the note?” I asked. If I could just see that note, maybe I could

figure it out.

But that was when I blew it. If only I hadn’t mentioned the

note. If only I’d put away the photograph.

“I tore that note to pieces,” Lisa said, “and I put it in the

trash.”

As the words spilled from her lips, a lightbulb went off over

her head.

She grabbed the photograph out of my hand and tore it to

pieces, too.

It took a moment for Lisa to realize what she’d done. But I

knew instantly what I’d done: I’d let Lisa Lapelt destroy a piece

of evidence. And before I knew exactly what it was evidence of.

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“We’re finished now,” Lisa said, standing up.

“Nothing’s changed,” I said. “What happened all those

years ago hasn’t changed.”

“Right,” she said, getting into her freshly washed car.

Of course it had changed. Everything had changed. Now

I’d never know if it was Lisa or Maren in the picture. Now I’d

never know where Maren ended and Lisa began.

“Tell me one thing,” I said, leaning my head into her win-

dow. “Since it doesn’t matter anyway.” There was something

else I’d never know, unless I came out and asked her.

She waited a moment before starting the car.

“Who took the picture?”

She looked at me defiantly. “Rafe did.”

CHAPTER

THIRTY-SIX

Maybe. Maybe not.

But if Rafe did take that picture, he had everything to lose.

They all did—Rafe, Will, Lisa. Only Maren had nothing

to lose.

She’d lost everything already.

I left my rental behind and walked south on Torrance

Boulevard, out toward the Redondo Beach Pier.

The ocean looked cold and gray and inhospitable. I wound

my way around the horseshoe-shaped pier until I came to one

of those old viewing machines, facing out to sea. I dropped a

quarter into the slot, and peered through the lens, but even af-

ter adjusting the focus knob, I couldn’t see a thing.

They all had everything to lose. And only Maren could take

it from them.

Maybe the dead body really was hers.

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The only thing I had to tell me otherwise was a theory

about a tattoo—that, and Rafe’s word. And I already knew

what that was worth.

Back by the parking garage, I watched a girl in an old T-

shirt and baggy shorts skateboard over to a bronze statue

bust. She took a flowered lei from around her neck and

draped it over the statue, then stood around for a minute,

head bowed.

After she skated away, I went to have a look.

George Freeth (1883–1919)

He was a Hawaiian-Irish athlete who was hired by leg-

endary land baron Henry Huntington to hang out in front of

the old Hotel Redondo and demonstrate the ancient Polyne-

sian art of surfing to day-trippers. The idea was to get them to

marvel at the man who could walk on water, on a solid wood

board that weighed two hundred pounds. Well, that wasn’t the

real idea. The real idea was to get them to stick around, buy a

soda pop, a postcard, some property, maybe. They don’t call

them land barons for nothing.

I stopped to try on some sunglasses on the way back to the

car. Classic aviator, cat’s-eyes with glitter, oversize Elton John,

police, mirrored, all plastic, all $8.99.

“You surf?”

I turned around. The skater girl was back, chugging on a

can of Pepsi.

I shook my head. “I know some surfers, though.”

“Don’t trust ’em,” she said, deadpan. Then she smiled. “I

like the glasses you’ve got on.”

They were superhero frames with flames on the temples and

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spiderwebs etched onto the lenses. She picked up the same pair

and tried them on.

“No good, right?” I asked. “You can’t see a thing.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind

her ear. “I live inside my head most of the time, anyway.”

“What’s up with George Freeth?”

“He was the father of surfing in the United States. But Duke

Kahanamoku gets all the credit. You’ve heard of him, right?”

“Not really. Does he have a memorial somewhere around

here, too?” I took off the glasses and put them back on the rack.

“You should buy,” said the woman who owned the stand.

She was all covered up, like a beekeeper.

“Used to be one at the base of Huntington Pier,” the girl

answered. “But there’s statues of Duke all over. Restaurants

named after him, stuff like that. You can eat a Dukeburger for

lunch at a dozen places around here. Nobody remembers

George, though. Not enough flash.” She put her glasses back,

too. “I can find them cheaper someplace else.”

“Hey,” I said. “Can I ask you a surfing question?”

“Shoot.” She tucked the same strand of hair behind her ear.

Fine gold hoops ran all the way around the lobe, like a spiral-

bound notebook.

“What does ‘in the green room’ mean exactly?”

Her face went serious. “I’ve never gotten there. I’m still a

beginner. It means you’ve powered the cut perfectly, the wave’s

dropped over you, you’re inside it, and all you see around you

is water. It’s like being inside a cocoon. No past, no future,

only the moment.”

“Sounds addictive.”

“Better than sex, I hear,” she said, grinning.

“Aren’t you too young?”

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She laughed. “One mother is about all I can handle.”

And one daughter was more than enough for me.

I called Annie on my way home. I’d barely said hello when

she cut me off.

“It’s Roxana, Mom!” She was hysterical. “She’s coming back

for him! In three days! Mom, we’re going to lose Alexander!”

t

U n l i k e t h e r e s t o f u s , A n n i e d i d n ’ t s e l f -

medicate with chocolate. So instead of heading straight to

See’s Candies, I went to a chain bookstore in Redondo Beach,

where I spent a lonely hour navigating the self-help section (it

wasn’t like I was going to ask for help).

The titles all sounded like country-and-western songs. Was

Annie a woman who loved too much? Yes. Who needed to heal

a broken heart? Yes. A giver, not a taker? Absolutely. I plucked

them all from the shelves and dumped them into my basket.

Poems for grieving. Good. Meditations on loss. Good. When

hope can kill. There was a gruesome thought. Doors close,

doors open: better.

I knew she wasn’t going to read any of them, but maybe

she’d find the fact that I’d bought them amusing. Maybe she

could throw them at Roxana when she showed up. That would

certainly be $119.50 well spent.

Nobody answered when I knocked, so I went around to the

kitchen door, which was always unlatched, and I let myself in.

“Hello? Anybody home? Annie? Vincent? Alexander?”

The kitchen was clean as a whistle, shiny copper pots hang-

ing on a rack over the stove, colorful dishcloths folded by the

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sink, a bowl of fresh fruit on the counter. You’d never know we

were related.

“In here, Mom,” Annie called from the back of the house.

She sounded angry, which was better than hysterical. “Every-

body else is out.”

I found her in her closet, furiously grabbing clothes off

hangers.

“It’s too early for spring cleaning,” I said. “What’s up?”

Then I saw the open suitcase on the bed.

“Don’t start,” she said, without turning around.

“Annie.” There was a jumble of shoes on the floor, and a

cardboard box by the side of the bed, half-filled with CDs and

tapes.

She tossed the sweaters in her hands onto the bed and actu-

ally looked at me for the first time since I’d gotten there. “Oh,

my god, your head!”

“It’s nothing. The bandage is coming off tomorrow.”

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“A little car accident.”

“A little car accident? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was days ago. It was nothing. I’m perfectly fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” I said. “But you’re not fine.”

“I can’t do this right now, Mom.”

“Do what?”

“You know what.” She pulled open a drawer and started rif-

fling through Vincent’s socks. They weren’t organized into

pairs, so she yanked the drawer out and dumped the entire con-

tents into the suitcase.

“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself here?” I asked.

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“Sorry to break it to you, Mom, but you don’t know what

you’re talking about.”

I was waiting for the “as usual,” but I think the sight of the

bandage prevented her from going at me with full guns.

“This is only going to lead to more heartache,” I said.

“This is what I’m talking about. You. Your well-meaning

advice. You’re butting in where you aren’t needed, as usual.”

Wrong again.

“Vincent and Alexander and I are leaving. End of discus-

sion.” She went back into the closet and started in on the jeans.

“You can’t just run away, Annie.”

“We’re not running away. We’re taking a trip.”

“Annie, please.” I pushed the suitcase over and sat down on

the bed. The quilt was handmade, a present from Vincent’s

grandmother. The pattern was a star, with a mosaic of little di-

amonds radiating from its center. “I brought you some books.

They’re in the car. I’ll get them later, okay? Maybe after we’ve

had some tea. I’m going to make tea.”

“Mom, listen to what I’m saying. That woman is not taking

Alexander away from us. Not now. Not ever.”

“No one is going to take Alexander away from you, honey.”

Annie came out of the closet and knelt at my feet. She took

my hands in hers. “You don’t know Roxana. She isn’t like you or

me. This is a person who waited two entire years before telling

Vincent he had a son. Don’t you get it? She wanted him all to

herself. Then, boom, all of a sudden, her love life heats up and

she’s done with him, just leaves him behind. No notes, no calls,

no nothing. Now that that hasn’t worked out, she thinks she’s go-

ing to waltz right in and take him back, like he’s some . . . some

thing. Like he’s a piece of furniture we’ve been keeping for her.

No,” she said, holding back the tears, “I won’t let that happen.”

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“You can’t bend the situation to your will,” I said gently.

“The hell I can’t.”

“You’re not in control here.”

“I can’t believe what you’re saying to me,” she said. “Don’t

you want me to fight for what’s right?”

“That’s what the law is for,” I protested. “To see to it that

Alexander’s best interests are served. To protect Vincent’s rights

as his father.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. “Rox-

ana’s not going to wait around to hear what some judge says.

She’s going to take him and just disappear.”

“So you’re going to take him first?”

“What choice do I have?” She pulled her fingers through her

long, curly hair. She looked so young to me at that moment.

“You have plenty of choice. What about Roxana?”

“Don’t go defending her, please.” Annie zipped up the suit-

case and heaved it onto the floor. “I’m doing Alexander’s room

next.”

“I’m not defending her, but she’s his mother.”

“By accident of birth.”

“That isn’t all there is to it. She made a mistake. One mis-

take. A horrible one, I agree. But a person doesn’t lose every-

thing because of one mistake.”

“It’s not just one mistake.”

“Her child needs her, Annie.”

“He has me,” she said in a tiny voice.

Oh, my poor angel. “He needs you both.”

Doors close, doors open.

I took her in my arms, and we cried, the two of us, for what

seemed like a very long time.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-SEVEN

Later that evening, after Gambino had fallen asleep, I

wrapped myself in my bathrobe and slipped out to my of-