Hard Rain (12 page)

DeMarco's mouth opened involuntarily. He was a homicide detective who must have seen everything L.A. had to offer, but she'd shocked him with an unconventional remark. That hadn't been her intention—she had no idea why she'd imitated Barbara. Was her subconscious trying to keep Barbara alive? Jessie didn't know. All she knew was that she had finally gotten through to DeMarco.

“Well,” she said, “do you?”

DeMarco let out his breath. “I guess not,” he said.

“She'd love it.”

“Yeah?” he said. His lips curled up, just a little.

“Yeah. You'd know that if you knew her at all.” She looked right into his eyes to see just how well he had known her.

Well enough, she saw, to make his lips curl a little more. “Yeah,” he said. “Come on to the car. We'll talk.”

They walked along the crushed stone path to the parking lot. They had to step aside to make way for another group carrying a coffin. This one was fancier, with gold-plated handles and lots of scrollwork. That'll impress the worms, Jessie thought. There was no point in saying it out loud. The only person she knew who appreciated that kind of humor was gone. She overcame the urge for one last look back.

A rabbi came hurrying up the path. It was the same rabbi, but Jessie didn't recognize him at first. He'd had the sense to change his tie.

She sat in DeMarco's car. On the scratchy radio a bored woman dispatched patrols to scenes of mayhem. DeMarco turned on the air-conditioning. “Ever been to an Italian funeral?”

“This is my first one, ethnic or non.”

“Yeah? Shit. People don't die in your circle?”

“Evidently they do.”

DeMarco looked at her. “Got me,” he said.

“Two-two-six-eight-oh La Cienega, robbery in progress,” said the bored woman. “Make that two-two-
eight
-
six
-oh. That's the Seven-Eleven on the corner.”

“Thirsty?” asked Demarco.

“Not really.”

“Mind if I?” He had a cooler in the backseat. He took out a can of beer and snapped the tab. “Ah,” he said, tipping it to his mouth. He looked at her. “You need some release at a time like this.”

“Release?”

“Make that Sepulveda,” said the bored woman.

“Instead of Pico?” crackled a voice.

“Instead of La Cienega,” snapped the woman.

DeMarco drank his beer. The man in the coverall came up the path, smoking a cigarette. A woman in a clanking heap drove up. She had four kids in the back, drinking Coke. The man got in and spun his cigarette out the window as they drove away. Sparks flew.

“Doing anything tonight?” DeMarco asked.

“Looking for my daughter.”

He didn't miss the sharpness in her tone. “Sorry,” he said. “Maybe I'm going too fast, but you're a very attractive woman.”

“It's not just the speed. You're going in the wrong direction.”

He laughed, turning toward her; at the same time he threw his arm over the back of the seat. “That's what Barbara said, too. At first.”

Jessie reached for the door handle.

“Don't,” DeMarco said. “I shouldn't have said that.”

Jessie kept her hand where it was, resting on the handle.

“It was misleading, for one thing,” DeMarco said. He reached around and opened another beer. Jessie realized her first funeral was over; now came her first wake. “She dumped me,” DeMarco continued. “I was ready to leave my wife for her, you know.”

“I didn't know. Are you happily married, Mr. DeMarco?”

“No.” DeMarco allowed a little sadness into his tone. It sounded sentimental to Jessie.

“Then it wouldn't have been much of a sacrifice, would it?”

“I've got kids too,” he said, “not just a wife.” His voice rose, more in pleading than anger.

“I don't want to hear about it, Mr. DeMarco. I want to hear about who killed Barbara and what you're doing to find my daughter.”

DeMarco turned to her, but whether he was trying to stare her down or blinking in astonishment, she didn't know, because of his sunglasses. “Shit,” DeMarco said. “Okay. But get it straight—this is a hit-and-run, not a murder. I already told you that.” He put the beer can between his thick legs and took a notebook from his shirt pocket. “No witnesses,” he said, summarizing what he saw there. “Both sides of the street have been canvased. A few people heard it. No one saw diddley. No reports of any speeders apprehended in the area. Automobile paint flakes were taken from Ba—from the victim's hair. We'll have the lab report tomorrow. Then we can start calling the body shops. Okay? That's number one.” He turned the page. “Number two: your daughter. Three days overdue on a legal custodial visit with her father. Whereabouts of father also unknown. Status: they're both on the computer.”

“Does that mean you're looking for them?”

“It means if they're picked up for anything—speeding, running a red light—we'll hold them.”

“That's not good enough.”

“It's better than anyone else gets, at this stage. Missing children come in three categories. The biggest, by far, are runaways. Then come custodial scuffles like this one. The last, and by far the smallest, are genuine abductions.”

“But this isn't custodial. My—my ex-husband doesn't want sole custody.”

“Then he's probably off on some toot. Barbara told me something about him.”

“He wouldn't do that.”

“No? Is he a drug user?”

“I wouldn't put it that way.”

“How would you put it?”

Jessie searched for the words. They were blocked by the times she'd grown up in; by DeMarco's job; by residues of loyalty to Pat; and by loyalty to something else she couldn't name precisely: a generation, perhaps, or a culture. She added it all up; it didn't add up to much compared to Kate. “He's a drug user,” she said.

DeMarco nodded. “Then just hang on. He'll be back. I had a case identical to this once. Busted my ass from one end of the county to the other.”

“And what happened?”

“He came back. All on his own. They always do.”

“I meant what happened to the child.”

DeMarco looked surprised. “He brought the kid back. That's what I'm saying. Too much responsibility. A druggie looks out for number one. Period.”

“But it's not just that Kate's missing. It's Barbara too.”

DeMarco raised his big hand.

Jessie kept talking. “Supposing it wasn't just an ordinary hit-and-run. Supposing someone was trying to kill me.”

“Who?”

“I don't know.”

“Why?”

“I don't know that, either.”

“Do you have any enemies?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Barbara had plenty.”

“She did?”

DeMarco lowered his hand. “She mauled a lot of men in court. That makes her a more likely candidate than you, doesn't it?”

“I don't know.”

“Did she do your divorce?”

“Yes. But we didn't go to court, and no one got mauled.”

“Yeah. What color's your ex's car, by the way?”

“Blue. A blue BMW.”

DeMarco shook his head. “The flakes were green.” He closed his notebook, took off his sunglasses and picked up the beer can. Jessie smelled beer. It made her want to puke. “Hot today,” said DeMarco. “Change your mind about a beer?”

“No.”

“You don't drink?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes you do or sometimes you don't?”

“Right.”

DeMarco smiled. He had a nice smile; his eyes joined in, if that meant anything. “What about tonight?” he asked.

“No.”

The smile faded. He put the sunglasses back on. “Make that an Amoco station,” said the radio woman, “not a Seven-Eleven.” DeMarco tipped the beer to his lips. “Anything else?” he said.

“No.” Jessie got out of the car. Before closing the door, she said, “What if you're wrong?”

“I'll take you to Disneyland, all expenses paid.”

Barbara spoke to her from the grave. Jessie passed on the message. “You won't be able to afford it. I'll sue you for every penny you've got.” She slammed the door, got into her car and sped out of the lot. For a few moments, she had the strong feeling, despite her disbelief in the supernatural, that Barbara was watching her, that Barbara was smiling. Then, all at once, the feeling was gone. It never came back.

On the way home, Jessie stopped at the printer's. The posters were ready. She'd ordered two hundred. Now she didn't know why. Why not a thousand, or a million? At the time two hundred had seemed like a measured response. Jessie opened the package on the counter and inspected them. “Have You Seen This Girl?” they said in big black letters. That was followed by pictures and descriptions of Kate and Pat, a description of the car, and her phone number.

“Okay?” said the clerk.

“Okay?” she repeated. What was he talking about?

“The way you wanted it.”

“Oh. Yes, it's okay.”

“Thirty-three eighty-eight. Plus tax.”

Jessie paid. The clerk rang it up.

Jessie had her staple gun in the car. She drove around Santa Monica looking for places to tack up the posters. Almost every street had suitable trees or telephone poles. She passed a notice-free telephone pole at the corner of Ocean and Olympic; an empty hoarding beside a busy gas station on Pico; a notice board outside a laundromat near the beach. She didn't get out of the car; she didn't even stop. It wasn't that she was embarrassed, or even that a public display would shred her last illusions that nothing was really wrong; those illusions had vanished. She didn't want Kate splashed all over the place, that was all.

Jessie drove home. She went into the silent house, checked for messages, called Pat's machine. She put the phone down and listened to the silence. Then she looked in the cabinet where the booze was. It was still there. She looked at the bottles for a while. Red or white? Red.
Let's live a little
.

She called Philip to tell him about the posters. The posters had to go up. Maybe he'd come over and help.

“Jessie! How are you?”

“I've just come from Barbara's funeral.”

“Oh. It's terrible.”

She mentioned the posters.

“Gee, I can't come over right now. The most exciting thing has happened—someone's coming from the Museum of Modern Art tomorrow to see ‘Valley Nocturne.'”

“That's great.”

“Isn't it? I couldn't sleep a wink last night.”

Jessie said nothing. There was a long pause. Philip said, “Hey, don't worry about the posters. Just tack them up wherever you want. Everybody does. The worst they can do is tear them down.”

“That's not—”

“Oh shit, there's someone at the door. Listen, could I—”

“What about the translation, Philip?”

“Translation?” Jessie heard someone talking to Philip in the background: it sounded like Mrs. Stieffler.

“You said you'd find out what those words on Pat's blackboard meant.”

“Damnation. I forgot all about it. Shit, I'm sorry. I'll try—”

Jesse hung up. She didn't slam the phone down. She just hung it up.

Then, still in her black dress, she went out, got in the car and drove to Malibu. She started tacking up the posters, moving north to south. She ended in Venice, stapling the last one to a palm tree outside Pat's darkened house.

Jessie went home. She checked for messages, called Pat's machine. She hung up and listened to the silence. She looked inside the booze cupboard.

Much later, Jessie went upstairs and lay on the bed. Kate was crying, far below. Jessie ran down the stairs, into the flooded basement. No floor. She plunged in over her head.

12

A bell was ringing, far above. Jessie swam up, up, and opened her eyes. She was lying on her bed; the black dress clung to her damp body. She picked up the phone.

“Hello.” She cleared her throat and said it again.

“DeMarco.”

Jessie looked at her watch. 4:32
A.M.
Flash, flash. “Yes?” she said.

“I just called to say you win.”

Jessie gripped the phone with both hands. “You mean you've found her?”

“Found who?”

“Kate, of course.”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. But I can promise you that our search is going to be more active from now on. We got a warrant to search Pat Rodney's house. I'm there right now.”

“You didn't have to do that. I'd have let you in.”

“It's better this way. I don't want any screwups when we get to court.”

“Maybe I'm being stupid, Mr. DeMarco; you woke me up. But what are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the three ounces of coke we found in your ex-hubbie's drawer. Plus a few bags of weed and sundry pills we're sending to the lab. We'll have a warrant out for his arrest on trafficking charges by ten this morning.”

“God damn you,” Jessie said. “I told you he used drugs, yes, but he's not a trafficker.”

“Don't get all hot and bothered. It's just standard procedure. He can always plea bargain it down to simple possession. In return for the name of his supplier.”

“Christ.”

“What do you care? Unless you've still got a thing for him, that is.”

“Shut up.” DeMarco was silent. “You're not fooling me,” Jessie said. “I know why you did this.”

“Do you?”

“You're a bastard.”

“You're hurting my feelings,” DeMarco said. “I expected gratitude.”

“What for? I know the way you people make drug arrests—with your finger on the trigger. If anything happens to Kate because of you—”

“You're getting hysterical.”

Jessie fought to control her voice. Accusations of hysteria worked like cattle prods: they hurt and they made the cows behave. “Stay right there, Mr. DeMarco. I want to talk to you.”