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“We
are
in the Old West,” Jovanic shouted back.

They drove a couple of miles before the house came into view, standing alone in the desert landscape: a low-slung, boxy structure, hiding behind a pink concrete-block wall nearly as tall as Jovanic himself. The road ended there.

Claudia appraised the wall. “I hope she didn’t have a Rottweiler.” Jovanic switched off the engine and slipped the keys into his pocket. “If she did, I hope someone’s been feeding it, or we could be lunch.”

Once-white gravel covered the yard on their side of the wall. It was tan now, coated in desert dust. Only a few palm trees and yucca plants grew around the house, and the weeds poked through the rocks. The property seemed to have been minimally maintained. Just a house, not a home.

Jovanic had picked up a search warrant to allow them to enter the house. He took it from his pocket, adjusted his shoulder holster and kissed Claudia on the tip of her nose, which made her ridiculously happy. “Wait in the Jeep until I check it out.”

For once, she didn’t feel like arguing with him.

The wrought-iron gate was fastened with a heavy padlock and chain; spikes topped the fence. Jovanic rattled the gate loudly. “Hellooo, anybody home?”

No snarling guard dog bounded out to greet them; no one appeared at the door to see who was making all the racket. In fact, the place had a distinctly deserted air. Jovanic returned to the Jeep. He opened the tailgate and grabbed a pair of bolt cutters and a crowbar-like tool from behind the back seat. He applied the bolt cutters to the chrome-steel padlock and the lock body fell to the ground, allowing the gate to swing open. “Helluva lot easier than climbing over that fence,” said Jovanic, picking up the bolt cutters and motioning Claudia to join him.

She followed him inside the yard with an amused laugh. “Now, that’s a sight I’d like to have seen.”

Aside from the modern wooden shutters at every window, the house had a certain Fifties retro look. They took the cement path around back. Claudia circled the pool and climbed up on a rock at the rear of the yard, gazing over the top of the block wall. Miles of sand and tumbleweed stretched in every direction, bounded by the San Jacinto Mountains to the north.

“No neighbors anywhere close,” she noted.

Jovanic was looking at the scattering of insects and dead palm fronds floating lazily on the surface of the murky blue water. “I don’t think she came out here to host block parties.”

The modern design of the spa and its rock grotto placed it as a much newer addition to the house. “I bet it’s romantic at night with the spotlights on,” Claudia remarked. “When it’s clean, of course.”

“After what probably went on in this pool, I’d want all fresh water.”

“I could’ve gone all day without you planting that thought in my head.”

They circumnavigated the house and found it sealed tight enough to frustrate the most enterprising peeping tom. Arriving back at the front door, Jovanic took his weapon from its holster and waved Claudia behind him.

“Let’s make sure no one’s home before we go barging in.”

Claudia backed up to give him room to retreat. He hammered on the front door, his knock booming like thunder in the silent desert. After a few moments of total silence, he holstered his weapon, took the crowbar tool and went to work on the door.

It swung open almost immediately, and holding the Smith & Wesson in front of him with both hands, he slipped quietly into the house.

It wasn’t until he called out to her, after he’d cleared the place, that Claudia realized she’d been holding her breath.

A short hallway opened onto a spacious living area with wood-beamed ceilings and mission-style furnishings. The house smelled as musty as an unsealed tomb. Jovanic immediately pulled back the shutters and opened the patio door. A warm breeze wafted in with the light, freshening the air and giving them a better view of the room: whitewashed walls and a glass-enclosed fireplace, woven Native American rugs. Not quite what she had expected, Claudia thought with surprise.

There was an enormous flat screen, high-definition television system with speakers big enough to provide surround sound for an entire theater. DVD and VHS players suggested that Lindsey usually brought along her own entertainment.

Jovanic laid the search warrant on a side table and re-holstered his gun. “What do you think?”

“All it needs is a bunch of out-of-date magazines on the coffee table. Feels like a waiting room.”

“Yeah, but waiting for what?”

“I’m not sure I want to know.”

They toured the renovated kitchen, where the stainless steel appliances looked new and expensive. Claudia began opening cabinets and drawers. A small stack of hors d’oeuvre plates, a few silver forks. A rack of wine glasses under a cabinet. “I hope there aren’t any bugs in here.”

“I’d be looking for snakes and scorpions if I were you,” Jovanic countered, putting an immediate end to her exploration.

She opened the refrigerator and looked inside with a low whistle. “
‘Champagne wishes and caviar dreams.’
Beluga, no less.”

“That’s good?”

“At least a hundred bucks a pop. French champagne, too. Moët Chandon.” Jovanic leaned over her shoulder, taking the opportunity to nibble her ear. “I guess Lindsey took good care of her guests.”

“As long as they didn’t get too hungry.”

“They couldn’t overstay their welcome, anyway.”

“My dad always says that guests and fish start to stink after three days.”

“Maybe Lindsey shared his philosophy. Let’s hit the boudoir.”

Not much to see. The guest room was furnished with an antique-style metal bed. Scroll work and scallops on the headboard and footboard; a rust-colored damask bedspread and pillows to dress it up. A matching nightstand with a small lamp. No dresser; empty closets. In the larger bedroom, framed prints hung on walls painted a calming tan color. White accents. Desert-theme rug. A mahogany bedroom set the color of espresso. Original charcoal line drawings of nudes by an artist whose name Claudia didn’t recognize. Tall windows, drawn shades hiding views of the back yard lanai. There was nothing of Lindsey’s personal character stamped on the place. Perhaps, as with her Brentwood apartment, it had taken its color from her flamboyant personality and only came to life when she was present. It seemed a sad commentary on her life.

Unlike the one in the guest room, the king-sized bed in the master bedroom had been stripped of linens. A stain roughly the shape of Africa defaced the mattress. Claudia turned away, repelled. Remembering the photographs Earl Nelson had shown her of the young Lindsey lying next to Preston Sommerfield, she couldn’t help feeling pity for the woman who had once been her friend. As much as Lindsey’d had the capacity to be a friend to anyone.

A walk-in closet held a selection of desert wear and a range of provocative outfits. A black spandex cat suit similar to the one Destiny had worn at their ill-fated meeting at The Grove. Skimpy leather dresses. Chain-ornamented leather, merry widows, garter belts. Five-inch spiked heel shoes, black boots. Wigs in colors that didn’t even pretend to be natural.

“Everything for the chic dominatrix,” Claudia said, taking out a dress that was far too demure for the dark company it was keeping. Pink flowered fabric, a ruffled lace-up bodice and skirt. “I wonder what this is doing in here.” Jovanic glanced up from the dresser drawer he was searching. “Maybe one of her clients was into Little Bo Peep.”

“Think there’s a shepherd’s crook to go with it?”

“I can guess where she’d put it.”

“Please don’t.”

“Never saw Little Bo Peep in one of these.”

Claudia looked over at the spiked leather collar he was holding and felt a pang. How callous were they, blithely digging into the outlandish belongings of a dead woman and making fun? She replaced the dress in the closet and told Jovanic she would check the bathroom.

The medicine cabinet held no secrets, only a bottle of aspirin, nail-polish remover and a half-filled box of cotton swabs. The old-fashioned claw-footed tub and freestanding pedestal sink offered no hiding places. “Why would they come all the way out here?” Claudia wondered aloud as Jovanic joined her. “This place is nothing special.”

He dropped to one knee and began probing the edges of the floor covering. “High-profile people like Lindsey’s clients want to avoid being seen. This is about as far out of town as they can get.”

“Lindsey once told me she was the auctioneer at a slave auction in San Francisco. I have to admit, I didn’t take her seriously.”

Jovanic unwrapped a new toothpick and sucked on it thoughtfully. “She took
herself
pretty seriously.” He straightened and wiped his hands on his jeans. “C’mon, let’s check the garage.”

“Wait a minute.” Claudia’s eyes were drawn upwards. A faint rectangular outline in the ceiling, maybe eight by ten.

Grabbing Jovanic’s arm for support, she climbed up onto the toilet seat to get a better look. She reached up and felt cold metal; a recessed ring for easy access. When she pried the ring loose and gave it a sharp tug, a small door dropped down.

She glanced down with a pleased smile. “Hey, Columbo, I think we’ve got something.”

It took Jovanic’s extra height to reach all the way inside the cache when they traded places. He handed down three videotapes and a notebook.

The authorship of the sprawling handwriting in the notebook was unquestionable.

“Lindsey,” Claudia said, skimming pages written in her trademark green ink. “It’s a journal.” She could see Lindsey’s need for control in the upright letters—no slant in either direction. Yet, it was the teardrop-shaped lower loops that told the truth about all the bottled-up emotion she had held. “Looks like she... hey, Joel?”

Jovanic wasn’t paying attention. “It’s a fucking pharmacy,” he said, hauling a bundle of plastic bags from the ceiling cache. A bag of white powder dropped into the sink, followed by a bag of multicolored pills.

“Coke?” Claudia asked.

He tasted it and nodded. “I’ll go get some evidence bags out of the Jeep. Maybe some of this shit can be tied back to Bostwick.”

While he inventoried their find, Claudia curled up in a corner of the living room couch and read through the pages of Lindsey’s journal. The first entries were dated earlier in the year.

Feb. 15
—
BH payments set up. He looked sick when he saw the tapes. I almost felt sorry for him.

Mar. 23
—
PF scared shitless the big shots will find out. I haven’t had so much fun in ages.

March 25
—
BH could be big trouble.

March 28
—
Got BH handled. He now knows better than to fuck with me.

April 5
—
Have the condo in Z cleaned. Should be an interesting trip.

April 10
—
Loosening them up takes some doing, but
—
wow, what a weekend!

April 30
—
Bos is a pain in the ass. Have to find a better way to control him.

The next entry came several months later.

August 19
—
That damn Bos and his dog. What a sicko. But as long as he pays the bills and brings the pills, I’ll keep him cumming (haha).

The entries became even more sporadic, but continued in a similar vein. As Claudia read, she noticed changes beginning to emerge in the handwriting.

September 2
—
Enough is enough. When it’s not fun anymore, it’s time to call it quits.

September 21
—
Why did I start this shit? It was fun while it lasted, but it’s over and it needs to be ended.

“That’s the last one,” Claudia said, tapping the date with a fingernail. “Just a couple of days before she died. And it says the same as what’s written in the ‘suicide note’. This handwriting looks pretty stressed compared to the earlier entries.”

Jovanic glanced up from counting pills. “So, what are you saying? Now you think she really
did
commit suicide?”

“No, I’m saying the handwriting looks stressed.” She heard the impatience in her voice and tried again in a gentler tone. “I’m looking at her state of mind compared to how it was earlier in the notebook. I don’t know whether she became suicidal, or she was tense because someone was threatening her, or something else. I’d need a crystal ball for that. What I do know is, there’s a definite change over the last couple of weeks.”

“What kind of change?”

“The writing rhythm was always tense, but later, the writing gets smaller and cramps up; the lower loops tighten; the slant starts leaning slightly to the left. That adds up to stress. There’s also strong movement away from the right side of the page... the right margin is really wide here, see?” Her brows knit together as she considered what it might mean. “It’s symbolic of pulling away from the future. People who are suicidal often write all the way to the edge of the page. The right side of the page represents the future, so writing all the way to the edge could be symbolic of moving toward the
‘end of the future,’
which is death. She doesn’t do that.”

“So, what do you think it means, grapho lady?”

“It could be that she was afraid. After all, look at the hint of threats. She says BH could be a problem. That has to be Bryce Heidt. Or maybe Bostwick got to be a bigger pain in the ass than she could handle.”

Jovanic put down the drug-filled baggies and came to look over her shoulder. He leaned down close, his cheek brushing her hair. “How about PF? Sound familiar?”

Claudia shook her head slowly. “Not that I can think of.”

“Let’s see who’s starring in Lindsey’s home movies.”

Bondage and discipline: Games played by powerful, educated men adopting a submissive role—a role contrary to society’s expectations; a role far removed from their everyday lives.