Broken (4 page)

“Aw,” I
said, clasping my hands together under my chin. “My hero!”

“Shut
up.”

I took a
breath. The hairs on the back of my neck were suddenly standing up. I had the
feeling I’d missed something. “Does this seem strange to you?” I asked.

“What?”

“If your
wife took your kid and left town, would you be satisfied as long as you knew
that they were safe?”

“I don’t
have a wife or a kid.”

“Stretch
your big detective imagination,” I said.

“I get
the idea this kind of dispute is typical for them,” Dan said. “So maybe he’s
used to it.”

“Maybe,”
I said. “But the money…”

“What’s
he paying you?”

“Thirty
thousand dollars.”

Dan’s
eyes widened slightly. “
Thirty thousand
? You’re serious?”

“Yeah. I
don’t know what the going rate on this kind of thing is, but that seems pretty
excessive.”

Dan
opened his desk drawer and started looking through it. “I have his number in
here somewhere. I’m calling him.”

“No,” I
said, a little too quickly. Dan looked up in surprise. “I mean, it’s his money
to spend, and he can afford it. I’m sure it’s a normal kind of expense for
him.” I was sure of nothing of the kind. The truth was I wanted Davies’s money.
Well, the real truth was that I
needed
the money. I didn’t have the
luxury to want it.

“All
right,” Dan said. “If you get the idea something’s not right, call me. I’ll put
cops on it. Deal?”

“Deal.”

He took
the .38 off the desk and put it back in his desk drawer.

“What
would you have done if I’d shot myself?” I asked.

“Do you
really think I’d hand you a loaded gun?” He shrugged.

I
laughed. Of course it hadn’t been loaded. After a moment, Dan laughed, too.

“Look,
the last time we spoke…” I began.

“Forget
it.”

“No. I
was horrible to you. I’m sorry.”

He
looked at me for a moment. “All right.”

“
All
right
? That’s it?”

“I
really can’t imagine what you went through,” Dan said. “Maybe if I had I could
have been a better friend to you and kept you from…” he looked at my sunken
cheeks and shook his head. “From this.”

“Nobody
was going to keep me from this,” I said quietly.

“Maybe.
Maybe not.”

We sat
in silence for a moment, then Dan decided to take a poke at the elephant in the
room. “Have you heard from him recently?”

“He sent
a card on my last birthday.”

He
nodded. “You send it to the lab?”

“No. I
just added it to the collection.”

“Nevada,”
he began, his tone angry.

“You
think the Laughing Man is going to leave fingerprints on a card? Or his DNA?
Maybe he was nice enough to lick the envelope for us? Be serious.”

Dan
sighed. He knew I was right. “What did the card say?”

“It had
two kittens on the front, one with his arm over the other’s shoulder. Inside it
said, ‘Have a purrfect birthday.’ See, they’re mixing ‘purr’ and ‘perfect,’” I
explained.

“I got
the humor,” he said. “Did he write anything?”

I
thought about lying to him, but what was the point of that at this stage? “He
wrote, ‘Miss you.’ And he drew the face, of course.” The Laughing Man always
drew the face. That horrible, laughing face.

Dan’s
lips were pressed tightly together. I didn’t need to ask what was going on in
his head. Dan was a good cop. Honest. By the book. But if he ever caught up
with the Laughing Man, there was never going to be a trial. The Laughing Man
wouldn’t live long enough to see the inside of a courthouse. Hell, he probably
wouldn’t live long enough to see the inside of a patrol car.

“All
right,” Dan said finally.

“I haven’t
been watching the news lately,” I said, “but I take it he’s still inactive?
Seems like you’d have sent someone over otherwise.”

Dan
nodded. “He’s been dark for three years. I don’t know how he does it.”

“How he
does what?”

“How
does he resist the urge?”

“It was
never about compulsion.” I shrugged. “It was just a game for him. That’s all.”

“You
told me that once before,” Dan said. “I didn’t believe you then.”

“There’s
your proof,” I said. “He stopped killing because he lost his playmate. He lost
me
.
Now he has nobody to…” I trailed off.

“Nobody
to play with?”

“Yeah.”

“There
are other cops out there, you know.”

“I was
the only one he ever respected.”

Dan
snorted. “Sick freak.”

“Him or
me?”

Dan
stared at me for a moment. “Maybe don’t answer that,” I said.

He took
in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t
know,” I said. “Work the case, I guess. Go toss her condo. Look for clues.”

“
Look
for clues
? What are you now, Encyclopedia fucking Brown?”

“Give me
a break,” I said. “I don’t know anything about working a missing persons case.”

“Well,
I’m sure you’ll do fine. Have you eaten anything today?”

I hadn’t
touched any of the food at Davies’s house, and to be honest, I didn’t know how
long my last blackout  had lasted, or whether I had eaten anything while I’d
been in it. Given my body’s weakness, probably not. “I don’t know,” I admitted.

“Let me
take you out, get you some soup,” he offered.

“No.”

“Nevada,
you need to eat.”

“I’ll
get something later,” I lied.

“Promise
me.”

I hated
making promises. Dan knew that. He also knew I hated breaking them even more.
But I didn’t have any energy left to fight with him. “I’ll eat today,” I said.
“I promise.”

“Fine.
Good luck finding your clues. Give us a call if you need some help.”

I nearly
laughed at that. “You really think anyone in this building actually wants to
help me?”

“Yes,”
he said, looking me straight in the eyes. “I do.”

I tried
to think of a wiseass remark but came up with nothing. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll
call if I need you.”

“Promise
me.”

“Don’t
push your luck,” I said. One promise in a day would have to be enough for now.

Chapter 5

Todd was
still waiting for me outside police headquarters when I emerged from the
building. He drove me home, muttering quietly to himself while he did so. I let
him grumble. I no longer had the energy to do anything else. It had been a long
day and I needed to rest soon. I was rarely conscious for more than a few hours
at a time, and this morning’s activity had all but wiped me out. Looking for
clues was going to have to wait for a bit.

Back
home I thought about telling poor Todd to wait for me again, but I decided I
could drive myself around once I was ready to go. I had a few things I wanted
to do at the house beforehand, though.

The
briefcase Alan Davies had given me was stashed exactly where I’d left it. I
opened it and dumped the contents out onto the bed. The ten thousand dollars
turned out to be one stack of hundred-dollar bills bound together with a rubber
band. There was no reason to have put it in a briefcase in the first place. A
thick envelope would have worked just as well. Maybe Davies just didn’t like
this briefcase and had wanted to get rid of it.

The
bills themselves were in good condition, but they were definitely used and had
none of the crispness you saw when someone opened a briefcase full of cash in a
gangster movie. Actually seeing the money was remarkably anticlimactic.
Everything looked better on film.

I
thumbed through the stack of bills. Impressive looking or not, it was more
money than I’d seen in a very long time. And I’d earned it just by listening to
a guy talk and drinking his alcohol. It was nice work, if you could get it.

Then
there was the matter of the twenty thousand dollars he wanted to pay me to find
his family. I’d been right when I’d told Dan the money was excessive. If he
hadn’t wanted to hire a private investigator that was his prerogative, but he
probably could have hired someone to do this job for a few hundred dollars. I’d
have done it for a few thousand, to be honest. I’d been gouging him earlier
more to amuse myself than anything else. And judging from the speed with which
he acquiesced, I probably could have taken him for a lot more.

What
wasn’t Davies telling me? He had to be holding something back. I still wondered
whether he could be abusing his family. If he was, he’d chosen the wrong person
to send to find them. There wasn’t any amount of money that would make me give
up his wife’s location if she asked me not to. I’d just call Dan and he’d send an
army of police officers to Davies’s estate to tear the place apart. Or maybe
I’d leave the police out of it and pay Davies a visit myself. It would probably
depend a lot on how much I’d had to drink at the time.

I went
into the kitchen and poured an inch of vodka into a tumbler. If I didn’t do a
certain amount of maintenance, withdrawal was sure to hit me hard. I didn’t
know if I was so far gone that
delirium tremens
would take hold and I’d
start having hallucinations and seizures, and I had no interest in finding out.

It was
time to do something about the smell in my living room. I took a large Hefty
bag out of a kitchen cabinet and spent twenty minutes picking up old bottles
and moldy garbage. When the bag was full I took it outside to the dumpster. I opened
two of the living room windows to let fresh air in. I didn’t have any kind of air
freshener, but I could pick up a can of something when I went out. Maybe I
could make the place smell like a person actually lived here.

When the
cleaning was done I poured myself another inch of vodka and took it into my
bedroom. I needed to lie down. I’d promised Dan I would eat today, and I would.
I’d go out and get some food soon. But first I needed a little nap. Then I’d
eat, and get to work, but first…

The sun
was going down when I woke up. I lay on my bed for a moment, torn between the
need to use the bathroom and the desire not to move. In the end, the bathroom
won out. When I was done I washed my hands and cupped some cold water into my
mouth. How long had it been since I’d actually drank any water? I couldn’t
remember. I’d nearly forgotten what it tasted like.

The
reflection in my mirror didn’t look like the me I remembered. Dan had said I
looked like a skeleton and he wasn’t all that far off. My cheeks were hollow
and I’d lost a ton of weight, but the most troublesome thing was my eyes. They
had a lifeless glaze I’d seen before, but only at crime scenes. In the eyes of
the dead.

How long
could I live like this, realistically? Six months? Nine? Another year didn’t
seem all that likely.

I made a
halfhearted attempt to brush my hair. After thirty seconds I found that I
didn’t care enough to keep at it. I looked marginally better, but I could
probably still be mistaken for a homeless person if I went for a walk downtown.

My vodka
glass was still in the bedroom where I’d left it. I was disappointed to see
that it was empty, but I decided not to fill it right away. I had some things I
needed to do before I knocked myself out again.

There
was a 7-11 at the intersection about a block away from my house. I walked there
slowly, trying to push past the weakness in my legs. Inside I picked up a box
of instant noodle soup and two cans of V-8. I needed calories if I was going to
be able to function, and this would be a good start.

When I
got back to my house I put water on to boil and drank half a can of V-8. That
would get some vitamins in me, at least, and it was easier than trying to make
a salad. When the water was ready I tore open a pouch of the soup and dumped it
into a coffee mug, then added the hot water. It smelled strangely appealing,
certainly more than any soup that came out of a pouch had a right to.

I sipped
the hot soup slowly as I went into the dining room. I had to clear more garbage
off the table to make a spot for the file Chandler Emerson had given me
earlier. It would take several more Hefty bags to make the rest of the house
livable, but the living room had been enough of a start for now. Everything
else could wait. For now I needed to read.

As I’d
suspected earlier, there wasn’t all that much in the file. The first page had a
photocopy of Heather Davies’s driver’s license. She was 34 years old, had blue
eyes, blonde hair, and weighed 128 pounds. That eliminated maybe half the
female population of San Diego, leaving me the other half to wade through. I
wasn’t going to find Heather by driving up and down the streets and looking for
her.

The rest
of the paperwork was background information. Heather had worked as a dancer at
a place called Pogo’s, which I assumed was a strip club. I’d never heard of it.
She and Davies had been married twelve years ago. They’d been legally separated
for a year with joint custody of their daughter, but there was no divorce
paperwork in the file. Maybe they really were trying to work things out. Or
maybe Davies just hadn’t included that part.

A family
tree that looked like it had been printed off of a website was included among
the papers. Several of the names, including those of her parents, were marked
as “deceased.” Others had addresses and phone numbers attached, but none lived
in California. The closest family she had was an uncle in Utah. Somehow I
doubted that was where she’d gone.

Heather’s
current address was in La Jolla, an upscale enclave just north of San Diego. I
was surprised to see that the condo itself was leased by a company called “A.
N. Davies Holdings,” and Chandler Emerson’s name was on the paperwork as an
officer of that company. Her husband was paying for the condo, then. I wondered
if that were part of the separation agreement.

Emerson
had taped a key to Heather’s condo to the inside cover of the file. At least, I
assumed it was her condo. I supposed it could be a key to
his
house and
he’d been making a very ambitious pass at me, but that seemed unlikely.

All together,
there was very little in the file I could use other than Heather’s current
address. Was this what passed for a dossier these days? It seemed like James
Bond always got more to work with.

Or had
the paperwork been presented this way because that was where Davies wanted me
to start? Was he manipulating me?

How did
cops usually work missing persons cases? I’d really only seen them on
television, and I didn’t have a sassy partner to banter with until some plot
contrivance came along and broke the case open for us. Taking a look at Heather’s
condo seemed like a reasonable place to start, though. For all I knew Heather
and Anna were both up there and this was all a huge misunderstanding.

My hands
were starting to tremble. It was time for a little maintenance. I went back
into the kitchen and didn’t bother with a glass this time. I took one good swallow
out of the nearest open vodka bottle, then chased it with the other half of the
V-8. That should be enough to keep the shakes at bay for a while, but not enough
that I was going to need a nap.

I found
a large envelope and counted out $5,000 of the cash Davies had given me into
it. The rest of the money I tucked under my mattress. It wasn’t the world’s
best hiding place, but it would do for now.

My house
had a garage attached with a connecting door in the hallway next to the laundry
room. I had an old Mustang Cobra parked inside, and a Kawasaki Ninja next to
it. I hadn’t been on the motorcycle in years. Balance was a critical part of
riding a bike, and I didn’t have much balance to speak of anymore. Maybe if I managed
to stay sober for a few days I could get the bike cleaned up and take it out.
It would need some work first. The battery was probably dead and I was sure it
could use an oil change and fresh fluids, but that wouldn’t take me long to do.
But what were the odds I’d ever be sober long enough to do any of that? Not
very good.

I
started the Mustang and put the envelope full of cash on the passenger seat
next to the Davies file. As my garage door rolled up I held my hands out in
front of me and watched them for a moment. They were far from steady, but they
weren’t shaking. I should be able to pass as a normal person for a few hours,
at least.

When the
garage door was open I pulled out and then waited as it rolled shut. The
Mustang’s controls felt unfamiliar to me, a little like being behind the wheel
of a new car for the first time. It had been a while since I’d driven. Most of
the things I needed from day to day were located within easy walking distance.
Well, the walking was less easy than it used to be. These days I needed to rest
after I’d gone two blocks. Three felt like a marathon.

Heather’s
condo in La Jolla was arguably closer than my landlord’s place in La Mesa, but
I didn’t want to leave the car with $5,000 in cash sitting in it, envelope or
not. It took me about ten minutes to navigate Ocean Beach’s narrow streets
until I reached I-10, and then I was headed east on the freeway.

Rush
hour was winding down but there was still plenty of traffic heading towards the
bedroom communities east of San Diego. I set the cruise control for two miles
per hour under the speed limit and concentrated on keeping the car centered in
my lane. I wasn’t drunk by a long shot, but I probably wouldn’t pass a
breathalyzer test if I got pulled over. Any CHP officer that recognized me
probably wouldn’t ticket me for a DUI, but odds were Dan Evans wouldn’t be
thrilled when his home phone rang and he was asked if he could send someone out
to pick up his former detective.

La Mesa
was about twenty minutes away. I hadn’t seen the Harrisons in a few years.
Usually I just mailed them a check for the rent, but I wasn’t about to go
deposit ten thousand dollars in cash in the bank. That was what drug dealers
did. Stupid drug dealers, anyway. Handing that much cash to a bank teller was
like saying, “I’d really like the IRS to come visit me at my house.” And ever
since 9/11, the FBI might come along with them just to check and see if you
were hiding any of bin Laden’s relatives in your closet.

The
Harrisons lived on a quiet cul-de-sac on the eastern end of the city. I knew
the address by heart but it still took me a few minutes to find their house
nestled among the perfectly manicured palm trees that lined the streets here.
Most of the people who lived in this neighborhood were retired and fairly
well-to-do financially. The place had a “Mayberry” vibe I didn’t much care for,
except for the fact that it was quiet. I was a big fan of quiet these days.

I rang
their doorbell just after 7:30, which I figured was late enough that I wouldn’t
be interrupting their dinner. A moment passed and I could hear voices and
people moving from within, and then the door opened and I saw Roger Harrison.
He looked a great deal older than the last time I’d seen him. It had been
several years, admittedly, but I was still taken aback by the change. Time
really flew when you weren’t having fun.

Roger
looked as startled to see me as I felt to see him. “Nevada,” he said softly.

“Mr.
Harrison.”

“Roger,”
he corrected me, opening the door wider.

“Who is
it?” a woman’s voice called from behind him. Mary Harrison stepped into view
and nearly dropped the glass of water she was carrying. “Nevada James!”

“Yeah,”
I said. “Hi.” I was hoping to make this quick. I held up the envelope of cash.
“I owe you guys…”

“Come
in! Come in!” Mary called, beckoning me. Roger stepped aside to make a path for
me.

“I
really can’t,” I said.

“Nonsense!”
Mary said. “Roger, go put the kettle on.”

I held
up the envelope again. “I just came to pay rent,” I insisted. “I owe you guys a
lot and I’m sorry I didn’t take care of it sooner.” I handed the envelope to
Roger, who took it a bit hesitantly. “That will cover what I owe you and more.”