Red Light (29 page)

Merci looked over at Tim.
She didn't like him hearing this kind thing. He was chewing the gorilla's hand,
paying her and the voices no apparent attention whatsoever. She fast-forwarded
through the heavy breathing, thought of the
Clockwork Orange
scene where
they do it fast to the William Tell March. But on Patti Bailey's tape it didn't
seem funny, it just seemed disgusting.

Woman
: "This is Patti Jo Bailey about to tape-record
William Owen of the Orange County Sheriff Department. He's the sheriff. I'll
try to get him to say his name so you'll believe me, but that's not going to be
easy. I got to be cool. He's not a drunk like Ralph Meeks. I'm going to try on
Meeksie again, but I couldn't ask him more about that farmer without making him
mad and suspicious. He made it sound the first time like he was responsible for
the farmer getting almost murdered, losing his eye, getting all those stitches
and his teeth knocked out. When I get everything on tape I can get, I'm going
to play it for them and start spending all my new money. Far out. I'm turning
this on as soon as he knocks, so there might be some sex and sex talk. Bill
won't say much, and he's always in a hurry, but his voice should be enough for
proof of what he's doing. Oh, yeah, this is July twenty-fifth, nineteen
sixty-niner. The first entry on this tape, Meeks, was July ninth."

Tape hiss. Off.

Knocking on door.

Woman
: "Who's there?"

Man
:
"Jerry."

Woman
: "Jerry who?"

Man
:
"Open thefuckin' door, Patti."

Door opens.

Woman
: "Hey, sweetie. '

Mon in."
Man
:
"Hello."

Door closes.

Woman
, flirtatiously: "You don't look like a Jerry to
me."

Man
: "Not everybody looks like their dog,
either."

Woman
: "I'd say maybe
a ...
say, a Bill Owen."

Man
: "Bullshit. Never heard of him."

Woman
: "I'm just playing with you, sweetie. Just
'cause you're the big bad sheriff doesn't mean you got to be soooo uptight. Go
with the flow. What's this, our fifth or sixth date?"

Man
: "Sheriff? You must be loaded. Beats me what
date this is."

Woman
: "Want a drink?"

Man: "No
time."

Woman
: "What'
ll
it be then?"

Man
: "The usual."

Woman
, flirtatiously: "And what could that be?"

Man: "Go
sit on the bed. Just do
it."

Woman
: "There's the little matter of money." A
shuffling sound, the faint crackle of paper.

Woman
: "Fifty big ones. Where's your big one?" A
zipper, the jingle of a belt, a man's groan.

Merci
hit pause again. Supervisor Ralph Meeks, Sheriff Bill Owen, and their party
girl, Patti Jo Bailey. What a cast. What a dismal thing to listen to. Bailey
had enough to blackmail the living daylights out of them. She seemed ditzy
enough to try.

Merci tried to match Bill
Owen with the July twenty-fifth entry in Bailey's date book. Hard to say. There
were eight entries on the page.

12TI/3CQ/4:30BK/6MO/9CS/11 MH/midED/lFC

No BO, or SBO or SO to go by.

She tried to match Ralph
Meeks with the July nine page and struck out there, too.

4TN/5SO/7AL/9TU/1 CO

No
RM, SM, nothing close. She tried reversing the letters but that didn't work.
She tried adding one, or subtracting one, but that didn't

Or maybe they'd never
seen Patti Bailey in their lives and she was just stoned out enough to think
she could manufacture a blackmail against well-known men. Not likely—the john
didn't protest when Patti called him Ralph or Meeks. And the Owen character
didn't put up much of a fight over being called the sheriff.

It would be easy enough
to voiceprint them, she thought, if you could get some old news video from 1969
and run the track against tape. Gilliam could do that. But old news programs
might be a problem. Orange County didn't have its own news channel then. The
L.A. stations didn't pay much attention to what happened behind the Orange
Curtain. Most people didn't have video recorders or players. Studies did.
Colleges, maybe. But Colin Byrne would get the old broadcast if they were
gettable.

Even if the voices
didn't belong to the men that Bailey said they did Merci knew what she was
looking at.
I'm going to play it for them start spending all my new money.
Far out.

With an attitude like
that, Merci thought, you were headed for a lot of trouble.

She studied the date
book. All she could really say for sure was it was full. Bailey was turning an
average of five tricks a day, and those were just the regular johns. She
studied the initials and wondered they were legit or coded. There were a few
phone numbers, but not many. On the very small chance that the numbers would be
the same thirty-two years later, she dialed a few: the Escobar family of
Tustin. the Millers, All-American House painting, a fax signal that screeched
in her ear.

It didn't matter.
Merci had her connection between law enforcer and Patti Bailey—Sheriff Bill
Owen. And since Owen was tight with Meeks, and Meeks implied he'd arranged to
have Jesse Acuna beaten, it didn't take a genius to do the addition: Owen.

Enter Patti Bailey.
Party girl with big ears. When Bailey played her tape she made herself
extremely dangerous. They had to pay up, or shut her up before the damage was
done. Owen again? It was the simpliest explanation.

That much made sense.
But the second layer of mystery didn't. Who took the evidence after the murder?
Who stored it? Why had they kept that evidence for thirty-two years? Most
important, who spilled the beans right into her own lap? She looked over at
Tim, now piling pillows on top of the gorilla. She thought that for an
eighteen-month-old, he was purposeful and intelligent in his work. He looked
over and smiled, a long string of drool hanging from his chin. He shrieked and
went for another pillow.

Merci turned the tape
player back on.

Car noise.

Woman
: ". . .
some of the best stuff I've ever had. I guess you got the pick of the good
stuff."

Man
: "There's a
lot of it around."

Woman
: "Ever
think of selling it?"

Man
: "It's just
for favors. For friends."

Woman
: "Whore
friends like me. So, who is this guy?"

Man
: "Just a
friend."

Woman
: "Got lots of green, like the others?"

Man
: "Plenty of green."

Woman: "You
don't
seem real relaxed tonight. Something the matter?"

Man
: "I'm fine.
I'm just tired. Double shift yesterday, make some extra. Don't light that thing
in here."

Woman
: "Then
where am
I
gonna light it?"

Man
: "We'
ll
pull over."

Woman
: "Nothing but an orange grove. Where are we,
anyway?"

Man
: "Myford and Fourth."

Woman
: "Myford
and Fourth. What's a Myford? Something to do with oranges?"

Man
: "Was a guy's
name. Killed himself with a shotgun and a rifle, something like that. Shot
himself three times. That was a long time ago."

Woman
: "Far out.
Doesn't sound like a suicide to me."

Man
: "There was a
lot of talk about it."

Car noise stops.

Man
: "Let's take
a walk. You can light the joint."

Woman
: "I
'm
good at lighting joints. You
interested in a real good light?"

Man
: "I'm always
interested."

Woman
: "I love it
when you are, honey."

Man
: "I love you,
too."

Woman
: "I'm just
a party girl to you guys."

Man
: "Who says I
can't love a party girl?"

Woman
: "Your own
way, I guess."

Static. Sounds
like the mike is rubbing against something, maybe being moved. Car doors open
and shut. Footsteps on gravel, then footsteps on dirt—a road perhaps.

Woman
: "Dark
tonight."

Man
: "Moon's
small. Just coming out."

Footsteps.

Woman
: "Walking
to China?"

Man
: "There's a
cable spool out here we can sit on."

Woman: "You
bring
your other girlfriends here?"

Man
: "Only
you."

More footsteps. A
thud, then no footsteps. A rustling sound up

near the mike.

Woman
: "I'm lighting
up."

Man: "Do
what you
want." A match flares, then puffing sounds.

Woman
, smoke-choked,
holding it in: ". . .
Just.. .
expands." Coughing, more puffing.

Woman
: "Blows my
hair back."

A minute goes by.
No conversation, just the sound of the woman smoking, and footsteps.

Woman
: "Trippy,
the way the moon shines on the water in that ditch? Lookit that. It looks like
God's pouring melted silver into the ditch. Men shouldn't walk on God's
moon."

Man
: "Nice.
Here's that cable spool."

Woman
: "Far out!
It's like a giant spool for thread!"

Man
: "Sort
of."

Woman
: "You're
kind of down tonight, baby. What's wrong? You ought to take a hit of this, just
try to get in the groove. Go with it."

Man: "I
'm fine.
This is all
I
need."

The sound of
liquid in a bottle.

Man
: "Ah."

Woman
puffs.

Woman
, holding in
smoke, letting it out: "Isn't it boss when it's hot enough to just walk
around like this, no coat or nothing? Summer's great. I feel like going down to
the beach and laying in the sun for a week. Except I gotta work. Business is
better when it's hot, gets all you guys hot and horny, makes you pay up and get
off with good old Patti. Boy, this dirt here's so soft. I got my toes in it.
Look. It's warm feeling, not like you'd think dirt is gonna be at all. Mother Earth."

Man
:
"Uh-huh."

Sound of movement.

Woman
: "Come on,
dance with me."

Sound of liquid
against glass. A man's sigh.

Woman
: "You like
me, don't you?"

Man: "You
know
I
like you."

Woman
: "Gonna
leave your wife for me?"

Man
: "Can't do
that."

Woman: "So
, you're
lovin' us both."

Man: "I
guess
that's what
I'm
doing."

Woman
: "She
know?"

Man
: "She don't
know anything ' cept how to scream and fight."