K is for Killer (29 page)

The bruises on her body formed a pattern of dark, overlapping lines that suggested she'd been pounded with a blunt instrument. The weapon turned out to be a rag-wrapped length of lead pipe that her assailant had tossed in the bushes on his way out. The patrol officer had spotted it when he arrived and left it for bagging by the crime scene investigators, who showed up shortly afterward. Once the officer secured the scene, we moved out onto the small front porch, standing in a shallow pool of light while he questioned me, taking notes.

By then the alleyway was choked with vehicles. A stutter
of blue lights punctuated the darkness, the police radio contributing a deadpan staccato murmur broken up by rasping intervals of static. A clutch of neighbors had assembled in the side yard in a motley assortment of sockless jogging shoes, bedroom slippers, coats, and ski jackets pulled on over nightclothes. The patrol officer began to canvass the crowd, checking to see if there were any other witnesses aside from me.

A sporty bright red Mazda pulled up in the alley with a chirp of tires. Cheney Phillips emerged and strode up the walk. He acknowledged my presence and then exchanged brief words with the uniformed officer, identifying himself before he moved into Danielle's cottage. I saw him halt on the threshold and back up a step. From the open door he did a slow survey of the bloody scene, as if clicking off a sequence of time-lapse photographs. I imagined the view as I had seen it: the rumpled bedding, furniture knocked sideways and toppled. In the meantime, Danielle had been wrapped in blankets and shifted onto the gurney. I stepped aside for the paramedics as they brought her through the front door. I made eye contact with the older of the two. “Mind if I ride along?”

“Fine with me, as long as the detective doesn't object.”

Cheney caught the exchange between us and gave a nod of assent. “Catch you later,” he said.

The gurney was eased into the back of the ambulance.

I left my car where it was, parked to one side of the alley behind Danielle's house. I sat beside her blanket-covered form in the rear of the ambulance, trying to stay out of range of the young paramedic, who continued to monitor her vital signs. Her eyes were bruised and as swollen as a newly hatched bird's. From time to time I could see her stir, blind with pain and confusion. I kept saying, “You're
going to be okay. You're fine. It's over.” I wasn't even sure she heard me, but I had to hope the reassurances were getting through. She was barely conscious. The flashing yellow lights were reflected in the plate-glass storefronts as we sped up State Street. The siren seemed somehow disassociated from events. At that hour of the night the streets were largely empty, and the journey was accomplished with remarkable dispatch. It was not until we reached the emergency room that we heard about the multicar wreck out on 101.

I sat out in the waiting room for an hour while they worked on her. By then most of the accident victims had been tended to, and the place was clearing out. I found myself leafing through the same
Family Circle
magazine I'd read before: same perfect women with the same perfect teeth. The July issue was looking dog-eared. Certain articles had been torn out, and someone had annotated the article on male menopause, penning rude comments in the margin. I read busy-day recipes for backyard barbecues, a column of readers' suggestions for solving various parental dilemmas involving their children's lying, stealing, and their inability to read. Gave me a lot of faith in the generation coming up.

Cheney Phillips walked in. His dark hair was as curly as a standard poodle's, and I noticed that he was impeccably dressed: chinos and sport coat over an immaculate white dress shirt, dark socks, and penny loafers. He moved to the reception desk and flipped out his badge, identifying himself to the clerk, who was frantically typing up admissions forms. She made a quick phone call. I watched while he followed her into the treatment room where I'd seen them take Danielle. Moments later he stepped out into the corridor, again in conversation with one of the ER doctors.
Two orderlies emerged, maneuvering a rolling gurney between them. Danielle's head was swaddled in bandages. Cheney's expression was neutral as she was rolled away. The doctor disappeared into the next cubicle.

Cheney glanced up and saw me. He came out into the waiting room and took a seat next to me on the blue tweed couch. He reached for my hand and laced his fingers through mine.

“How's she doing?” I asked.

“They're taking her up to surgery. Doctor's worried about internal bleeding. I guess the guy kicked the shit out of her as a parting gesture. She's got a broken jaw, cracked ribs, damage to her spleen, and God knows what else. Doctor says she's a mess.”

“She looked awful,” I said. Belatedly I could feel the blood drain away from my brain. Clamminess and nausea filled me up like a well. Ordinarily I'm not squeamish, but Danielle was a friend, and I'd seen the damage. Hearing her injuries cataloged was too vivid a reminder of the suffering I'd witnessed. I put my head down between my knees until the roaring ceased. This was the second time I'd found myself fading, and I knew I needed help.

Cheney watched with concern. “You want to go find a Coke or a cup of coffee? It'll probably be an hour before we hear anything.”

“I can't leave. I want to be here when she comes out of surgery.”

“Cafeteria's down the hall. I'll tell the nurse where we are, and she can come get us if we're not back by then.”

“All right, but make sure Serena knows. I saw her back there a little while ago.”

The cafeteria had closed at ten, but we found a row of vending machines that dispensed sandwiches, yogurts,
fresh fruit, ice cream, and hot and cold drinks. Cheney bought two cans of Pepsi, two ham-and-cheese sandwiches on rye, and two pieces of cherry pie on Styrofoam plates. I sat numbly at an empty table in a little alcove off to one side. He came back with a tray loaded down with the food, straws, napkins, plastic cutlery, paper packets of salt and pepper, and pouches of pickle relish, mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise. “I hope you're hungry,” he said. He began to set the table, arranging condiments on matching paper napkins in front of us.

“Seems like I just ate, but why not?” I said.

“You can't pass this up.”

“Such a feast,” I said, smiling. I was too tired to lift a finger. Feeling like a kid, I watched while he unwrapped the sandwiches and began to doctor them.

“We have to make these really disgusting,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because then we won't notice how bland they are.” He tore at plastic packets with his teeth, squeezing gobs of bright red and yellow across the meat. Salt, pepper, and smears of mayonnaise with a scattering of relish. “You want to tell me about it?” he said idly while he worked. He popped the lid on a can of Pepsi and passed an amended sandwich to me. “Eat that. No arguments.”

“Who can resist?” I bit into the sandwich, nearly weeping, it tasted so good. I moaned, shifting the bite to my cheek so I could talk while I was eating. “I saw Danielle last night. We had dinner together at my place. I told her then I might see her tonight, but I really went by on a whim,” I said. I put a hand against my mouth, swallowing, and then took a sip of Pepsi. “I didn't know if she had company, so I sat there in the car with the engine running, checking it out. I could see she had her lights on, so I finally
decided to go knock on her door. Worst-case scenario, she'd be with some guy and I'd tiptoe away.”

“He probably saw your headlights.” Cheney had eaten half his sandwich in about three bites. “Our moms would kill us if they saw us eating this fast.”

I was bolting food down the same as he was. “I can't help it. It's delicious.”

“Anyway, keep talking. I didn't mean to interrupt.”

I paused to wipe my mouth on a paper napkin. “He must have heard me, if nothing else. That car makes a racket like a power mower half the time.”

“Did you actually see him leaving her place?”

I shook my head. “I only caught a glimpse of him as he was walking away. By then I was on the porch, and I could hear her moan. I thought she was ‘entertaining' from the sounds she made. Like I'd caught her in the throes of passion, maybe faking it for effect. When I saw the guy out in the alley, it occurred to me something was off. I don't know what it was. On the face of it, there was no reason to think he was connected to her, but it seemed odd somehow. That's when I tried the knob.”

“He probably would have killed her if you hadn't showed.”

“Oh, geez, don't say that. I was this close to leaving when I spotted him.”

“What about a description? Big guy? Little?”

“Can't help you there. I only saw him for a second, and it was largely in the dark.”

“You're sure it was a man?”

“Well, I couldn't swear to it in court, but if you're asking what I thought at the time, I'd say yes. A woman doesn't usually whack another woman with a lead pipe,” I said. “He was white, I know that.”

“What else?”

“Dark clothes, and I'm sure he was wearing hard shoes because I heard his soles scratching on the pavement as he walked away. He was cool about it, too. He didn't run. Nice, leisurely pace, like he was just out for a stroll.”

“How do you know he wasn't?”

I thought about it briefly. “I think because he didn't look at me. Even in the dark, people are aware of each other. I sure spotted him. In a situation like that, someone looks at you, you turn and look at them. I notice it most when I'm out on the highway. If I stare at another driver, it seems to catch their attention and they turn and stare back. He kept his face to the front, but I'm sure he knew I was watching.”

Cheney hunched over his plate and started in on his pie. “We had a couple of cars cruise the area shortly after the call came in, but there was no sign of him.”

“He might live somewhere down there.”

“Or had his car parked nearby,” he said. “Did she say she had a date tonight?”

“She didn't mention an appointment. Could have been Lester, come to think of it. She said he'd been in a foul mood, whatever that consists of.” The pie was the type I remembered from grade school: a perfect blend of cherry glue and pink, shriveled fruit, with a papery crust that nearly broke the tines off the fork. The first bite was the best, the pie point.

“Hard to picture Lester doing something like this. If she's beat up, she can't work. Mr. Dickhead's all business. He wouldn't tamper with his girls. More likely a john.”

“You think she pissed some guy off?”

Cheney gave me a look. “This wasn't spur of the moment. This guy went prepared, with a pipe already wrapped to hide his fingerprints.”

I finished my pie and ran the fork around the surface of the Styrofoam plate. I watched the red of the cherry pie filling ooze across the tines of the plastic fork. I was thinking about the goons in the limousine, wondering if I should mention them to Cheney. I'd been warned not to tell him, but suppose it was them? I really couldn't see the motivation from their perspective. Why would an attorney from Los Angeles want to kill a local hooker? If he was so crazy about Lorna, why beat the life out of her best friend?

Cheney said, “What.”

“I'm wondering if this is related to my investigation.”

“Could be, I guess. We'll never know unless we catch him.”

He began to gather crumpled napkins and empty Pepsi cans, piling empty plastic packets on the tray. Distracted, I pitched in, cleaning off the tabletop.

When we got back to the emergency room, Serena called the OR and had a chat with one of the surgical nurses. Even eavesdropping, I couldn't pick up any information. “You might as well go on home,” she said. “Danielle's still in surgery, and once she comes out, she'll be in the recovery room for another hour. After that, they'll take her to intensive care.”

“Will they let me see her?” I asked.

“They may, but I doubt it. You're not a relative.”

“How bad is she?”

“Apparently she's stable, but they're not going to know much until the surgeon gets finished. He's the one to give you details, but it's going to be a while yet.”

Cheney was watching me. “I can run you home, if you like.”

“I'd rather stick around here than go home,” I said. “I'll be fine if you want to go. Honest. You don't have to baby-sit.”

“I don't mind. I got nothing better at this hour anyway. Maybe we can find a couch somewhere and let you grab a nap.”

Serena suggested the little waiting room off ICU, which was where we ended up. Cheney sat and read a magazine while I curled up on a sofa slightly shorter than I was. There was something soothing about the snap of paper as he turned the pages, the occasional clearing of his throat. Sleep came down like a weight pressing me to the couch. When I woke, the room was empty, but Cheney'd draped his sport coat across my upper body, so I didn't think he'd gone far. I could feel the silky lining on his jacket, which smelled of expensive after-shave. I checked the clock on the wall: it was 3:35. I lay there for a moment, wondering if there was some way to stay where I was, feeling warm and safe. I could learn to live on a waiting room couch, have meals brought in, tend to personal hygiene in the ladies' room down the hall. It'd be cheaper than paying rent, and if something happened to me, I'd be within range of medical assistance.

From the corridor I heard footsteps and the murmur of male voices. Cheney appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Ah. You're back. You want to see Danielle?”

I sat up. “Is she awake?”

“Not really. They just brought her down from surgery. She's still groggy, but she's been admitted to ICU. I told the charge nurse you're a vice detective and need to identify a witness.”