Scars (Nevada James #2) (Nevada James Mysteries) (3 page)

Chapter 3

The local
news was running a story on the Laughing Man copycat when I turned on the
television the next morning. This time I caught the clip of myself getting into
my car. It only ran once, fortunately. Hopefully that meant the media had
accepted the idea that this wasn’t a real Laughing Man case, which should cause
interest in me to drop like a stone. I watched the rest of the story and shut
the television off. I’d need to make a note to do a better job brushing my hair
the next time there was a chance I might wind up on television. I didn’t look
like the wreck I’d been back when I was drinking, but I didn’t look especially
good
,
either.

I’d
slept through two text messages, both of them from Dan Evans asking whether I
was all right. I dashed off a quick reply that everything was fine. Knowing
Dan, he was going to want to check in with me when he got back from Santa Fe. I
didn’t mind. It would give me a chance to pester him about the case files he
hadn’t given me.

Being
unemployed and having very few friends and nothing to do gave my days a certain
empty flexibility that was both good and bad. While I had no responsibilities
and nowhere I needed to be, I also tended to get extremely bored. I had considered
trying to get a job, but my name carried a certain notoriety that made that
difficult. Ever wondered what happened to Nevada James, the famous detective
who lost her mind after the Laughing Man beat her half to death? She works at
Macy’s now. Let’s go stare at her. There was also the fact that I hadn’t
exactly quit my last job; the SDPD had fired me. Not that I’d given them much
of a choice. I’d tried going back after I’d gotten out of the hospital three
years ago, but the phrase
bull in a china shop
came to mind. If the bull
was rabid, anyway.

I spent
a few minutes looking through the motel window for anything suspicious, then
drove to the Denny’s down the street for eggs and hash browns. I had simple tastes.
On a day I was feeling really wild I might add some pancakes to the mix, but
that was about all I ever did for breakfast.

My phone
buzzed again as I was heading back to the motel. It was Jason London, a cop
from Narcotics I knew from A.A. Narcotics guys didn’t always get out clean, and
Jason had been one of the unlucky ones. Percocet and cheap whiskey had been his
thing.
Busy?
the text read.

I pulled
the Mustang over so I could type without crashing into the back of another car.
You all right
? I didn’t particularly enjoy it, but swapping phone
numbers was part of what the group did.  If someone had to make a choice
between using and calling someone else for help, calling was always better.
Even if it meant calling me, which I doubted was anyone’s idea of a good time.

Fine.
Friend asked to meet with you.

I
frowned. That wasn’t normal, and the timing couldn’t have been a coincidence.
Reporter?

No.
Old friend needs some help. Will you meet?

Why?

Favor.

Don’t
recall owing you favor.

Please?

I
thought it over. I wasn’t a social person, and the only helping people I’d done
recently was slipping homeless people twenty-dollar bills when they weren’t
looking. Then again, all I had to look forward to today was going back to my
room and watching daytime television. Getting out for a little while would
probably be good for me. It wasn’t like I’d be too polite to get up and walk
away if I got bored with the conversation.

Fine
,
I sent back.
When?

Lunch?

Where?

Contradino’s.
1:00 okay?

Done.

I put my
phone back in my jacket pocket. Maybe I needed to change my number. I’d done
more talking and texting in the last few months than I had in the entire three
years previously. Then again, for a lot of that three years I hadn’t even known
where my cell phone
was,
and I’d been too drunk to care. Living in the
21
^st
century wasn’t going to kill me.

Contradino’s
was an Italian place in Point Loma, a neighborhood in the southwest tip of the
city. It wasn’t far from the house I’d been renting in Ocean Beach, and it was
easy enough to find. As usual, I checked the rearview mirror more often than I
needed to as I was driving, looking for any cars that might be following me. If
I’d been doing that a year ago I’d have thought I was being paranoid, but that
was before the Laughing Man had walked into my house seconds before Chandler
Emerson started torturing me to death. He was out there, somewhere, and even if
he wasn’t watching me every day, I was sure he was never very far. Maybe one of
these days I’d be able to make him. If I saw the same man too many times in one
day in a city of over a million people…well, that might be a very interesting
day. It was why my Glock was never more than an arm’s length away.

Jason
London was sitting in a booth near the door when I walked inside the restaurant.
He was in his mid-forties but looked older. Substance abuse had done a number
on his skin. He looked better than he had been when he was using, but had
developed salt-and-pepper hair since then that wasn’t doing him any favors.
Some people just couldn’t win.

Next to
him sat a woman I guessed was in her sixties in a dark, three-button pantsuit.
She was overdressed for Contradino’s, which was more of a plastic tablecloth
kind of place. She’d have stood out in a crowd regardless, though. About a
third of the left side of her face had been badly burned at some point,
probably at least a decade ago. The scars had healed well, and it looked like
she’d had a world of expensive plastic surgery done, but there was a point with
burns where all the skin grafts in the world were never going to make you look
normal again. Whatever had happened to her, she’d never had a chance.

They
stood up as I neared their table. “Nevada,” Jason said. “Thank you for coming.”

“I
wasn’t that busy,” I said. I looked at the woman. “Nevada James.”

She
extended a hand and I shook it. “I’m Anita Collins. It’s so nice to meet you.”
She had a warm, singsong-y voice that made her sound like someone’s grandmother
in a Disney movie.

“Collins…”
I said. “Have we met before? Your name sounds familiar.”

“You’re
probably thinking of the Collins Foundation,” she smiled. “I’m the Collins.”
She had such a joyful lilt in her voice I nearly checked the window to see if
any birds were going to come sing us a song while we ate. None had appeared so
far. It was still early, though.

If I’d
been in the habit of admitting things, I’d have had to admit I was surprised
that this was who Jason had wanted me to meet. The Collins Foundation was the
parent group of a dozen or more charities in San Diego County. They funded
everything from women’s shelters to hospital expenses for sick children. Their
name was printed on the jerseys of a local high school soccer team, if I
remembered correctly. They’d funded the program after budget cuts had nearly
eliminated it. I’d never met Anita, but it was no surprise I recognized her
name. Half the population of San Diego had probably heard it at one time or
another.

“Why
don’t we sit down?” Jason asked. “I ordered you a Diet Coke.”

I didn’t
bother looking at the menu; I wasn’t all that hungry yet after my breakfast.
The soda was more than I’d need. Anita sipped a glass of iced tea and regarded
me for a moment. “You look healthier than I expected, dear.”

I
nodded. “You thought I’d look half dead? I used to. You should have seen me three
months ago.”

“She
looked like she’d crawled out of a grave,” Jason said to her.

“It
would be closer to say I was crawling
into
a grave,” I said. “It seemed
like a good idea at the time.”

Anita
smiled at me. “I hope I didn’t offend you, dear. I’m just so pleased that
you’re better.”

That was
the second time she’d called me
dear
. If she hadn’t sounded like she was
going to whip out a magic wand and start granting wishes I’d probably have
thrown something at her. “You didn’t offend me. I saw the papers after the
Laughing Man came to my house. Nothing about how they described me wasn’t
true.”

“The
Gazette
called you a degenerate alcoholic,” Jason said.

“See?” I
asked Anita. “Who says you can’t believe everything you read.”

She
smiled just a bit. “You’re very frank,” she said.

“That’s
because I don’t care. Life’s too short to go around pretending I’m not a
complete fuck up.” Jason’s eyes widened a bit. “Sorry,” I said. “I mean, a
complete
screw
up. I’m not really used to making polite conversation.” I
shrugged. “So why am I here?”

Anita
glanced at Jason, who nodded. “You know who I am, obviously. You know who my
husband was, then?”

The
waiter came by to take our orders. Jason ordered pasta. Anita ordered a side
salad. I decided against eating. When the waiter was out of earshot I said,
“Adam Collins, if I remember right?” She nodded. “Half your charities have his
name in them, or…”

“Stephen
Collins is the other name. My son.”

I let my
brain roll that over a few times. “This would probably ring more of a bell for
me if I hadn’t spent the last three years trying to kill my brain with booze.
Remind me?”

“You
would have been very young when they were murdered.”

I paused
with my glass of Diet Coke halfway to my mouth and then sat it back down. “I do
remember this, I think. A car bomb? Early 90’s. It was some Unabomber shit.
Stuff, I mean. Stuff.”

Anita
nodded. “It wasn’t the Unabomber, but you have the right idea. My husband was a
researcher at SDSU. He was a pioneer in artificial intelligence. And then
someone put a bomb underneath our car in 1993.”

“I know
I must have read about that,” I said. “I don’t really remember, though.”

“It was
in the news quite a bit at the time. It fit the
modus operandi
of the
Unabomber, and there had even been a warning note, but the FBI ruled him out.”
She looked away for a moment. “My husband and son died in the explosion. I
survived, but…” she motioned at the burned portion of her face. “I’m sure you
were wondering how this happened.”

“I
wasn’t going to ask.”

“I don’t
mind, dear. Like you, I am also very frank.”

An alarm
bell went off in my head. Was she pointing that out to try to make me identify
with her? Or was it just that I was a remarkably paranoid person? I certainly
was
that, but… My hands were folded on the table in front of me. Hers were, as
well. I spread my hands and put the right one on my lap, shifting my weight
back in my seat. Two seconds later she did the same with her right hand and
moved slightly back in her chair. I wasn’t paranoid. She was mimicking me. It
was an old body-language technique to build rapport with someone. She was
clever. Maybe she wasn’t such a kindly old grandmother, after all.

I
thought about the case. “It was never solved, was it?”

“It was
not,” Anita said. “Which is why I asked Jason to introduce us.”

I
smirked. “Why do I think you’re about to ask me to go look for the bomber?”

She
smiled back. “Because your intuition serves you well. That’s precisely what I’m
asking.”

I looked
from Anita to Jason. He looked slightly embarrassed with himself. “Okay,” I
said. “I give up. Why are you asking
me
?”

“Because
I saw you on television last night,” Anita said. “It reminded me that you are a
person who does not give up on things easily. You did have a reputation for
being a rather dogged investigator. And also, I have been told that sometimes
you are willing to work for people…how shall I say this…in something of an
unofficial
capacity?”

There
were only so many places Anita could have found out what I’d done for Alan
Davies. I shot Jason a nasty look and he suddenly found the table’s salt shaker
worthy of his undivided attention. “Imagine that,” I said. “It’s almost like
someone here doesn’t know what we talk about in group is supposed to stay in
group.”

“Jason
didn’t tell me where you met, but one doesn’t have to be a detective to work
that out. I do have eyes.”

“That’s
not really the point,” I said. Jason now seemed to find the pepper shaker very
interesting. “What I said there never should have been repeated outside that
room.”

“Sorry,”
Jason murmured.

“He was
only trying to help me,” Anita said soothingly. “Please don’t be angry with
him.”

I
sighed. “Look, this is a twenty-year-old cold case.” I rapped my knuckles on
the table until Jason finally looked up at me. “When was the last time anyone
reviewed it?”

“It’s
been inactive since 1995,” Jason said. “It probably gets looked at once a year
or so.”

I nodded.
He was probably being generous if he thought someone was actually looking at a
case that had been dead that long once a year. “I’m sorry, but there’s virtually
no chance it’s going to be solved now. It’s been too long. There’s no crime
scene to investigate. I’m not going to discover any new evidence somebody else
missed. Unless somebody just comes out of the woodwork and confesses, I
wouldn’t even know where to start with it.”

“I think
you said something similar about working a kidnapping,” Anita noted. “And yet
you managed to work that out.”

I glared
at Jason, who looked away again. “I got lucky.”

“Maybe
you’ll get lucky again,” Anita said. “I’m a very rich woman, Detective. I can
pay you a great deal for your time.”