Self-Defense (58 page)

“I just spoke to your second ex-wife,
Kelly. She told me you haven’t worked for the company for over a year. She told
me the company belongs to her father, and that since the divorce you’ve been
persona non grata there. That’s why the company’s insurance doesn’t cover you.
That’s why you’ve got an answering machine instead of a secretary. She also
told me you stole computer records and that’s how you get addresses of places
to crash. Along with lots of other things.”

“Oh, boy,” he said, backing toward the
doors to the house. “It’s a divorce case. You believe her, you’re as stupid as
she is.”

“I know,” I said. “There are two sides to
every story, but Kelly says there are court records that document your drinking
and your violence. Not just to her. You beat up your first wife too. And she
says it’s also public record that you threatened your father-in-law and tried
to run him down with your car. That you put your older girl, Jessica, in the
hospital with a broken jaw.”

“An accident. She—” He shook his head.

“Got in the way? Of what, your fist? Same
way Kelly did when you ruptured her spleen? All accidents, Ken?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. They’re all
accident-prone; runs in the family.”

“Ken, where’s Lucy? Is she locked in her
room because you convinced her she needed to be for her own safety?”

He slumped. Gave me a helpless look. Then
he grabbed the glass and threw it at me. I ducked but there was no need, he was
way off.

“Get the hell off my property!”

“Or what? You’ll call the police? Lucy’s
up there and I’m going to get her.”

He spread his arms and blocked the door.
“Don’t mess with me, asshole. You have no idea.”

“Oh, yes, I do. That’s the point, I know
exactly what you’re capable of. After your father-in-law fired you, you started
flying down here. Not to get to know Lucy and Puck but to get rid of them. So
you could have total access to the trust fund. Lucy’s share of the interest is
twelve thousand a year. At a conservative five percent return, that means a principal
of almost a quarter million. Times four sibs is a million bucks. You contacted
Puck first, learned about his heroin habit, and fed it. Learned from him about
Lucy’s sleep patterns and her daily routines. The way she came home, ate
dinner, and nodded off watching PBS with a glass of apple juice. You started
harassing her with hang-up calls. Stole a key to her apartment from Puck,
checked it out, fooled with her underwear—that was the fun part.”

He cursed.

“A few days later, you let yourself in and
put something in the juice—something with short-term effects. She mentioned
feeling drugged a couple of times. After she went under, you came back, turned
on the oven, and stuck her head in. Then you played hero. Waiting long enough
for the sedative to wear off, calling the paramedics and driving her to the
hospital. Adding the note and the rat shit a few days later just in case her
anxiety level wasn’t high enough. The plan was to get her out of there and
under your control, and Milo and I played into it perfectly. Though if we
hadn’t, I imagine you would have found a way to volunteer. Instant family,
huh?”

He pressed himself against the doors.
Planting his feet. Fists clenching and unclenching, sweating alcohol and his
gingery cologne.

“You couldn’t kill her outright,” I said,
“because two young sibs dying that close together, all that money at stake,
might have tipped someone off. Like Milo. The key was to get close to Lucy so
you could choose the time and make it look like an accident—poor sleepwalking
girl takes a tumble down the stairs. Puck made it easy for you with his
addiction. He never went to New Mexico. By the time you made that call
imitating his voice, he was dead. You didn’t even have to be a good mimic.
Embrey didn’t know what he sounded like. And when you called your father to
tell him Lucy had tried to commit suicide, you spoke to his assistant. But Lucy
couldn’t stop worrying about Puck, so you went with her and discovered the
body—Mr. Hero again. Puck never stood you up. He showed for that appointment,
though I’ll bet it wasn’t dinner, it was a dope gift. Unusually strong stuff.
He was probably shooting up before you closed the door, dead a few seconds
later. How’m I doing so far?”

“Okay,” he said, fighting to sound cool.
“I think you’re a little confused, but come on in, we’ll talk about it.”

“Two sibs down, one to go? Did Jo really
fall off that mountain or was that your maiden voyage in family planning?”

He shook his head as if I were being
silly. Then, twisting the handle, he hurled himself through the door and tried
to slam it on me. I pushed. His weight worked in his favor but his middle was
exposed through the door crack, and I shot my fist forward and knocked the wind
out of him. My follow-up didn’t land solidly because he’d stumbled and fallen
back. Forcing the door open, I dove on top of him, pinning him.

A woman behind me said, “Get up, you
idiot, or I’ll kill you.”

Stunned, I obeyed. Ken came up swinging
and I warded off his clumsy drunken blows.

“Turn around.”

A slender form, orange-lit by a chandelier
dimmed low. Holding an automatic a lot bigger than the one Graydon-Jones had
brought to the pit. Looking comfortable with it as she came closer.

“Stand still, asshole,” said Nova.

Ken took a blind swing at my head. I
pushed his hand away, and he fought to regain his balance.

Nova said, “Cut it out. Don’t waste your
energy.”

He said, “Goddamn asshole.”

“Later. Clean yourself up. Look at you,
you’re a mess.”

He wiped his lip.

“Fix your shirt.”

He stuffed it into his waistband.

She had clear authority. The kind that
imprints early? The scars... young for a face lift. But not for patching old
injuries?

“Clean yourself up,” she said. “Take an
upper, then come back and give me a hand.”

He complied.

“Big sis?” I said. “Hi, Jo.”

Silence. That same smug smile I’d seen at
Sanctum.

“One pair against the other,” I said.
“What are we talking about here? Going for the gold in sibling rivalry?”

She chuckled. “You have no idea.”

“Must have been tough,” I said. “Daddy leaving
your
mother for
their
mother. Then she got so depressed, she escaped
to Europe and left you behind. With
him,
of all people. You and Ken end
up locked in a dinky little cabin while the other two get to stay in the big
house.”

“Free psychoanalysis,” she said. “Sit down
on that couch—on your hands, keep your butt on your hands.”

“Such gratitude. I saved your life.”

“Gee, thanks.” She laughed. “What have you
done for me today?”

Meaning it.

A part of him—genetically. Raising
selfishness to an art form.

I thought of the way she’d tended her father.
Absorbing his sexual comments. Changing his diapers.

Jocasta. Turning his Oedipal joke against
him, secretly.

Lowell so estranged from his own child
that he didn’t recognize her.

The scars remnants of the fall down the
mountain. New face....

Nova.
New person.

“Anyone with you when you fell off that
cliff?”

No answer.

“Wouldn’t have been Ken, would it? He
tends to damage women. How can you be sure he didn’t push you?”

A toilet flushed. Ken came out of the
guest bedroom with his hair slicked like a country kid’s on Sunday.

Nova said, “I’ll take care of him. You get
her.”

“She’s out like a light. I’ll have to
carry her.”

“So?”

He touched his lower back and grimaced.

“Do
it.”

He left and climbed the stairs.

I said, “He’s really the walking wounded,
isn’t he?”

“He’s a dear.” The gun hadn’t moved, and
she was just out of reach.

“Dangerous business being a member of
your
family. Then again, that’ll work to your advantage. Only two slices of
the pie, if you and he don’t kill each other first.”

She smiled.

I said, “Yeah, you’re probably right. You
and Kenny will find a nice quiet place, get all cozy, and give in to what
you’ve been wanting to do for such a long time. What you wanted to do to
Daddy.
Changing diapers’ a poor substitute for the real thing, isn’t it,
cutie?”

She was tough and she knew what I was
doing, but her eyes wavered for just a fraction of a second. Her grip on the
gun must have loosened, too. Because when I chopped down hard at her wrist, she
cried out and the weapon fell to the carpet.

She was a strong woman, full of rage, but
there are few women who can handle even a small man physically. That’s part of
rape and battering and a lot of the tension between the sexes.

This time, it worked out for the best.

Milo said, “Can’t talk long, got a promising
suspect on the copycats. Roofer who was working at the courthouse during the
trial.”

“Does he have a dog?”

“Big surly mutt,” he said gleefully.
“Aren’t you glad you weren’t the poor clown who had to give him an enema?”

“How’d you get on to him?”

“One of the bailiffs gave us the lead.
Says the guy used to sit in on afternoon sessions, doodle, and write things
down; always had a weird feeling about him. Asshole lives in Orange County and
has a bunch of DUI’s, Peeping Toms, and a five-year-old attempted rape
conviction. Santa Ana says their first interview was encouraging. I’m sitting
in on the next one in half an hour.”

“So it had nothing to do with the
Bogettes.”

“Not necessarily. Bailiff thinks he saw
the asshole talking to some of the girls a couple of times. Shitbag denies any
connection to them, but his room was full of their press clippings and a
videotape of a TV interview with the head harpy—Stasha. Plus sundry other toys.
That and the bailiff’s say-so is enough for us to pull those hags in for
questioning and sweat them big-time. We’re asking for a pretty inclusive
warrant before we come knocking. My bet is we find weapons and dope at that
ranch, should be able to put ’em away for something.”

“Good luck.”

“Either way, I like this bastard for Shannon
and Nicolette. Santa Ana found a hoop earring that might have been Nicolette’s,
as well as receipts for three storage lockers in Long Beach. Be interesting to
see what the scrote finds worth storing. Forensic’s still going over his place
with their vacuum cleaners; it’ll be awhile before all the fibers are analyzed.
Anyway, I wanted you to know.”

“Appreciate it. I can always use a little
good news.”

“Yeah... something else. We finally ID’d
Ms. Nova’s prints. Sorry to shatter your shrink’s intuition, but she’s not the
sister.”

“What?”

“The real Jocasta Lowell was printed when
she was a student at Berkeley. Busted at a demonstration. And again after her
body was shipped back from Nepal, so there’s no doubt. Ken
was
there
with her, by the way, so maybe he did push her off. But
our
nasty girl’s
a piece of work named Julie Beth Claypool. Nude dancer, druggie, biker babe,
bad-check artist. String of arrests back to when she was sixteen. Wrote poetry
in stir. Ken met her in Rehab, couple of years ago. Love at first bite.”

“She pushes him around,” I said, still in
shock.

“I wouldn’t doubt it. SFPD says she’s been
known to go for the whips and chains.”

“The scars,” I said. “God, I missed the
boat completely—using the Oedipal wedge to throw her off balance—maybe I wanted
her to flinch so badly I
imagined
it.”

My heart was hurling itself against my
chest wall. I’d broken out in a cold sweat.

“Talk about operating on false premises,”
I said.

“What’d you tell her, exactly?”

“That she wanted to screw Ken the way
she’d wanted to screw Daddy.”

“Well,” he said, “SFPD says she comes from
a real shitty family. Suspected incest—brothers and Dad, back to when she was
real little.”

“Oh, man. The same old story.”

“In this case, lucky for you.”

“Yeah... maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.”

Lucy said, “Are peaches okay? I’ve already
got pears.”

The woman next to her said, “Put them in,
honey. Those old people, the fruit’s good for them.”

They were standing at one of a series of
long tables piled high with groceries, along with a dozen other people. Sorting
canned goods and boxes of rice and beans and cereal. The Church of the
Outstretched Hand’s hub was a run-down warehouse.

Men and women of all ages and colors,
working side by side, quietly and cheerfully, putting together boxes for delivery
and loading them into a couple of old pickups out in back.