D is for Deadbeat (25 page)

“This is Lovella,” the glum voice said. “I got this note to call you.”

I took a deep breath, inventing as I went along. “Right,” I said. “I thought we should touch base. We really haven't talked since I saw you in L.A.” I sidled around my desk and sat down, still trying to catch my breath.

“I'm mad at you, Kinsey,” she said. “Why didn't you tell me you had Daggett's money?”

“To what end? I had a cashier's check, but it wasn't made out to you. So why mention it?”

“Because I'm standing around telling you I'm married
to a guy who'd just as soon kill me as look at me and you're telling me to call the rape crisis center, some bullshit like that. And all the time, Daggett had thousands of dollars.”

“But he stole the money. Didn't Billy tell you that?”

“I don't care where it came from. I'd just like to have a little something for myself. Now he's dead and she gets everything.”

“Who, Essie?”

“Her and that daughter.”

“Oh come on, Lovella. He couldn't have left them enough to worry about.”

“More than he left me,” she said. “If I'd known about the money, I might have talked him out of some.”

“Yeah, right. As generous as he was,” I said drily. “If you'd gotten your hands on it, you might be dead now instead of him. Unless Billy's been lying to me about the punks from San Luis who were after him.” I'd never really taken that story seriously, but maybe it was time I did.

She was silent. I could practically hear her shifting gears. “All I know is I think you're a shit and he was too.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way, Lovella. John hired me, and my first loyalty was to him . . . misguided, as it turned out, but that's where I was coming from. You want to vent a little more on the subject before we turn to something else?”

“Yeah. I should have got the money, not someone else. I was the one who got banged around. I still got two cracked ribs and an eye looks like it's all sunk in on one side from the bruise.”

“Is that why you freaked out at the funeral?”

Her tone of voice became tempered with sheepishness. “I'm sorry I did that, but I couldn't help myself. I'd been sittin' in some bar drinkin' Bloody Marys since ten o'clock and I guess I got outta hand. But it bugged me, all that Bible talk. Daggett never went to church a day in his life and it didn't seem right. And that old fat-ass claimed she was married to him? I couldn't believe my eyes. She looked like a bulldog.”

I had to laugh. “Maybe he didn't marry her for her looks,” I said.

“Well, I hope not.”

“When did you see him last?”

“At the funeral home, where else?”

“Before that, I mean.”

“Day he left L.A.,” she said. “Week ago Monday. I never saw him after he took off.”

“I thought maybe you hopped a bus on Thursday after I left.”

“Well, I didn't.”

“But you could have, couldn't you?”

“What for? I didn't even know where he went.”

“But Billy did. You could have come up to Coral's last week. You might have met him at the Hub Friday night and bought him a couple of drinks.”

Her laugh was sour. “You can't pin that on me. If that was me, how come Coral didn't recognize me, huh?”

“For all I know, she did. You're friends. Maybe she just kept her mouth shut.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Maybe she wanted to help you out.”

“Coral doesn't even like me. She thinks I'm a slut so why would she help me?”

“She might've had reasons of her own.”

“I didn't kill him, Kinsey, if that's what you're getting at.”

“That's what everyone says. You're all wide-eyed and innocent. Daggett was murdered and nobody's guilty. Amazing.”

“You don't have to take my word for it. Ask Billy. Once he gets back, he can tell you who it was for sure, anyway.”

“Oh hey, sounds great. How's he going to manage that?”

There was a pause, as if she'd said something she really wasn't authorized to say. “He thought he recognized somebody at the funeral and then he figured out where he'd seen 'em before,” she said reluctantly.

I blinked at the telephone receiver. In a quick flash, I remembered Billy's staring at the little group formed by the Westfalls, Barbara Daggett, and the Smiths. “I don't understand. What's he up to?”

“He set up a meeting,” she said. “He wants to find
out if his theory's right and then he said he'd call you.”

“He's going to
meet
with her?”

“That's what I said, isn't it?”

“He shouldn't be doing that by himself. Why didn't he notify the police?”

“Because he doesn't want to make a fool of himself in front of them. Suppose he's wrong? He doesn't have any proof, anyway. Just a hunch is all and even that's not a hundred percent.”

“Do you have any idea who he was talking about?”

“Uh-uh. He wouldn't tell, but he was pretty happy with himself. He said we might get some money after all.”

Oh God, I thought, not blackmail. I could feel my heart sink. Billy Polo wasn't smart enough to pull that off. He'd blow it like he did every other crime he tried. “Where's the meeting taking place?”

“What makes you ask?” she said, turning cagey.

“Because I want to go!”

“I don't think I should tell.”

“Lovella, don't do this to me.”

“Well, he didn't say I could.”

“You've told me this much. Why not the rest? He could be in trouble.”

She hesitated, mulling it over. “Down at the beach somewhere. He's not dumb, you know. He made sure it was public. He figured in broad daylight, there wouldn't be any problem, especially with other people around.”

“Which beach?”

“What if he gets mad at me?”

“I'll square it with him myself,” I said. “I will
swear
I forced the information out of you.”

“He's not going to like it if you show up and spoil everything.”

“I won't spoil it. I'll lurk in the background and make sure he's okay. That's all I'm talking about.”

Silence. She was so slow I thought I'd scream. “Look at it this way,” I said. “He might be happy for the help. What if he needs backup?”

“Billy wouldn't need back up from a
woman
.”

I closed my eyes, trying to keep my temper in check. “Just give me a hint, Lovella, or I'll come over to the trailer and rip your heart out by the roots.” That, she heard.

“You better never tell him I told,” she warned.

“Cross my heart and hope to die. Now come on.”

“I think it's that parking lot near the boat launch. . . .”

I banged the phone down and snagged my handbag. I locked the office in haste and ran down the hall, going down the back stairs two and three at a time. I'd had to park my car at the far end of the lot and once I got to the pay booth, there were three other cars in front of mine. “Come on, come on,” I murmured, banging on the steering wheel.

Finally, it was my turn. I showed the attendant my parking permit and shot through the gate as soon as the bar went up.

Chapel is one way, heading up from the beach, so I had to turn right, take a left, and hit the one-way street going down again. I caught the light wrong at 101 so that delayed me. I didn't want to miss this one. I didn't want to show up two minutes late and miss the only chance I might have. I pictured a citizen's arrest . . . me and Billy Polo saving the day.

The light turned green and I crossed the highway. Two blocks more and I reached Cabana where I took a right turn. The entrance to the lot I wanted was all the way around the bend near Santa Teresa City College. I got a ticket from the machine and threaded my way along the perimeter of the lot. I scanned the parked cars, hoping for a glimpse of Billy's white Chevy. The marina was on my right, the sun reflecting starkly from the white sails of a stately boat as it glided out of the harbor. The boat launch itself was at the very end of the parking lot, through a second parking gate. I pulled a second ticket and the arm went up. I found a slot and left my car, proceeding on foot.

Four joggers passed me. There were people on the boat dock, people on the walk, people by the snack shop and the public restrooms. I broke into a trot, searching the landscape ahead of me for some sign of Billy or the blonde. I heard three hollow pops in quick succession dead ahead. I ran. No one else was reacting, but I could have sworn it was the sound of shots.

I reached the boat launch, where the parking lot slants down into the water. There was no one in sight.
No one running, no one leaving the scene in haste. The air was still, the water lapping softly at the asphalt. Two pontoon piers extend into the water about thirty feet, but both were empty, no boats or pedestrians in sight. I did a three-sixty turn, surveying every foot of the area. And then I spotted him. He was lying on his side by a boat trailer, one arm caught under him awkwardly. He struggled, gasping, and turned himself over on his back. I crossed the macadam rapidly.

A man in cutoffs had come out of a snack shop and he peered at me as I went past. “Is that guy okay?”

“Call the cops. Get an ambulance,” I snapped.

I knelt beside Billy, angling so he could see me. “It's me,” I said. “Don't panic. You'll be fine. We'll have help here in a second.”

Billy's eyes strayed to mine. His face was gray and there was a widening puddle of quite red blood spreading out under him. I took his hand and held it. A crowd was beginning to collect, people running from all directions. I could hear them buzzing at my back.

Somebody handed me a beach towel. “You want to cover him with this?”

I grabbed the towel. I let go of him long enough to unbutton his shirt, opening it so I could see what I was dealing with. There was a hole in his belly. He must have been shot from behind, because what I was looking at was an exit wound, ragged, welling with blood. The slug must have severed the abdominal aorta. A coil of his lower intestine was visible, gray and glistening
, bulging through the hole. I could feel my hands start to shake, but I kept my expression neutral. He was watching me, trying to read my face. I made a pad of the towel, pressing it against the wound to staunch the flow of blood.

He groaned, breathing rapidly. He had one hand resting on his chest and his fingers fluttered. I took his hand again, squeezing hard.

He tilted his head. “Where's . . . my leg? I can't feel nothin' down there.”

I glanced down at his right knee. The pantleg looked like it had caught on a nail. Blood and bone seemed to blossom through the tear.

“Don't sweat it. They can fix that. You'll be fine,” I said. I didn't mention the blood soaking through the towel. I thought he probably knew about that.

“I'm gut-shot.”

“I know. Relax. It's not bad. The ambulance is on its way.”

The hand I held was icy, his fingers pale. There were questions I should have asked, but I didn't. I couldn't. You don't intrude on someone's dying with a bullshit interrogation like you're some kind of pro. This was just me and him and nothing else entered into it.

I studied his face, sending love through my eyes, willing him to live. His hair looked curlier than I remembered it. With my free hand, I moved it away from his forehead. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.

“I'm goin' . . . I can feel myself goin' out . . .” He
clutched my hand convulsively, bucking against a surge of pain.

“Take it easy. You'll be fine.”

He began to hyperventilate and then his struggle subsided. I could see the life drain away, see it all fade—color, energy, awareness, pain. Death comes in a gathering cloud that settles like a veil. Billy Polo sighed, his gaze still pinned on my face. His hand relaxed in mine, but I held on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I sat on the curb near the snack shop and stared at the asphalt. The proprietor had brought me a can of Coke and I held the cold metal against my temple. I felt sick, but there wasn't anything wrong with me. Lieutenant Feldman had appeared and he was hunkered over Billy's body, talking to the lab guys, who were bagging his hands. The ambulance had backed around and waited with its doors open, as if to shield the body from the public view. Two black-and-whites were parked nearby, radios providing a squawking counterpoint to the murmurs of the gathering crowd. Violent death is a spectator sport and I could hear them trading comments about the way the final quarter had been played. They weren't being cruel, just curious. Maybe it was good for them to see how grotesque homicide really is.

The beat officers, Gutierrez and Pettigrew, had arrived
within minutes of Billy's demise and they'd radioed for the CSI unit. The two of them would probably drive over to the trailer park to break the news to Coral and Lovella. I felt I should ride along, but I couldn't bring myself to volunteer yet. I'd go, but for the moment, I was having trouble coping with the fact of Billy's death. It had happened so fast. It was so irrevocable. I found it hard to accept that we couldn't rewind the tape and play the last fifteen minutes differently. I would arrive earlier. I would warn him off and he could walk away unharmed. He'd tell me his theory and then I'd buy him the beer I'd promised him that first night at the Hub.

Feldman appeared. I found myself staring at his pantlegs, unable to look up. He lit a cigarette and came down to my level, perching on the curb. I hugged my knees, feeling numb. I barely know the man, but what I've seen of him I've always liked. He looks like a cross between a Jew and an Indian—a large flat face, high cheekbones, a big hooked nose. He's a big man, probably forty-five, with a cop haircut, cop clothes, a deep rumbling voice. “You want to bring me up to speed on this?” he said.