The Hell You Say (31 page)

“He may not come home this evening. He often doesn’t.”

I glanced at him. Guy shrugged. “I’m fond of Peter, but there’s nothing serious between us.”

“That’s good, because if I’m right, and you’re wrong, Peter is going to jail for a long time.”

He stared out the windshield at the apartment house. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

“I don’t know.”

His mouth curved wryly. “That’s honest -- if indecisive.”

I said, “I want to trust you, Guy, because I like you. But I’ve been wrong about people before. I don’t want to end up with my heart carved out.” Literally or figuratively.

We sat in silence for minutes more before Guy said abruptly, “We’re wasting our time.

Did you want to grab dinner?” He started the Miata’s engine.

Stakeout Rule #1. Bring your own car or rent your own car. Do not rely on other people and their dwindling patience for your ride.

“Thanks, no,” I said. “I’ve got to get back.”

There was another way to do this, I realized.

* * * * *

I nearly dropped the can of salmon I was opening for my supper.

The shop was locked for the evening. That meant my visitor was probably one of two people -- and that didn’t sound like Velvet’s knock.

I set the can on the counter, wiped the fish oil off my hands. I opened the door. Sure enough, Jake stood there. Clearly this wasn’t a social call.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he said, brushing past me.

I was pretty sure he was not referring to the missing food groups in my evening repast.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Guy was just helping me --”

“Yeah, I know what that faggot Snowden is helping you with. What part of stay the fuck out of it don’t you understand?”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with your investigation,” I said angrily. Which was not true, although as far as I knew, Peter Verlane had not materialized on the cops’ radar so far, so technically I was not trespassing on Jake’s turf.

That’s what I told myself, but it didn’t fly as well with Jake.

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“You’re not that stupid,” he said. “Then again, maybe you are. I go to the trouble of lying -- of falsifying police reports -- to keep you out of this shit, and you turn right around and walk back into it.”

My heart slipped into heavy, slow punches against my rib cage. “Give me a break,” I said. “You didn’t lie to protect me. You lied to protect yourself. You never asked me what I wanted. And I sure as hell never made you any promises about what I would or wouldn’t do.”

His finger jabbed the air, punctuating his words. “Stay. Out. Of. It. Or this time, bad heart or not, I will throw your ass in jail.”

“No, you won’t,” I said. “You wouldn’t want to risk anyone discovering the connection between us.”

His face changed, grew ugly, dangerous. “Are you threatening me?”

I hadn’t been, but like an ember in dry grass, a self-destructive impulse flicked to life in my mind.

“My existence threatens you.”

He shoved me back, hard. I crashed into the hall table, knocking it over, smashing the jar of old marbles I had collected. Glass balls skipped and bounced along the corridor. I landed on my back, my head banging down on the hardwood floor.

I lay there for a second, blinking up at the lighting fixture, taking in the years of dust and dead moths gathered in the etched-glass globe. The silence that followed was more startling than the collision of me and the table and the floor. I heard Jake’s harsh breathing and a marble rolling away down the hall -- which seemed pretty damned appropriate, since I’d apparently lost all of mine.

He bent over me. Probably safer to stay submissively on my back, but I got up fast, knocking his hands away. It was a protective instinct and maybe not a wise one. I hadn’t had time to inventory what, if any real damage, I’d sustained.

Weirdly, neither of us spoke. There was plenty to say, but no words.

Jake stared at me. In his eyes, I read the urge to knock me down again, to punch, to kick, to silence, to destroy. His hands were clenched by his side. I felt light-headed with anger and outrage -- and yeah, maybe a little fear. He could probably kill me by accident. My heart was tripping in my throat.

I was afraid if I tried to speak I would cry. From rage.

He swallowed once, dryly. He looked sick.

“I won’t tell you again. Stay out of it.”

He went, shutting the door quietly behind him.

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“I’m not comfortable with this, Adrien,” Chan said when he returned my phone call early Tuesday morning. “Why exactly do you want this information?”

“I’m curious.”

“Why wouldn’t you ask Jake to nose around, if that’s all it is?”

“First of all, because he doesn’t have time for it. He’s too busy with his big-league cult-murder case. Secondly, as you probably know, the situation between us is awkward these days.”

A lot more awkward than Chan knew.

But he said gruffly, “Okay. But promise me you’re not planning to do something stupid.”

Like he thought I actually planned ahead when I wanted to do something stupid? I said, “Paul, it was just curiosity. Jesus, if it’s that big of a deal, don’t tell me.”

He sighed. “No, I got the intel for you. Oliver Garibaldi owns a second home in Bel Air.

Do you have a pencil?”

I stopped doodling little devil faces on the pad in front of me, and took down the address.

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

“You can pay me back by not misusing this information. Jake will have my balls if you get into trouble.”

“He’ll only find out if you tell him,” I said. I thanked him again and rang off.

One last try, I thought. One last effort before I gave up and took my lame-ass story to the cops and let them try to sort it out -- whether it compromised Jake or not.

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* * * * *

I parked far down the shady street and prepared to wait, sitting low in the Forester, baseball cap pulled over my face. When there were no cars or people around -- which was most of the time -- I used my binoculars to watch the front of the house -- not that there was anything to see. Trees effectively blocked most of the windows.

I listened to Rufus Wainwright’s Poses a couple of times. After the fourth time, I wished I’d brought some other CDs.

No one came, no one went. No sign of life anywhere. The neighborhood was a quiet one, reminding me of Lisa’s home in Porter Ranch, though here there was no pretense at being rural. The houses all sat well back from the street behind tall gates and vigorous foliage.

After a couple of boring hours that knotted up my back and gave me way too much time to think about things I didn’t want to think about, I drove to a gas station, used the restroom, and stocked up on bottled water, chips, Ding Dongs, and mini doughnuts. The tune from “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk” was playing in my head as I paid a small fortune for my repast. Like Rufus, everything I liked these days seemed a little bit strange and a little bit deadly.

When I drove slowly past the Garibaldi estate, the iron gates were wide open. A blue sedan was parked in the circular front court. I kept on driving, parking far down the opposite end of the street. I pulled out my binoculars.

Total void. I couldn’t see anyone. I swore. Talk about the world’s worst timing…

Was there a back entrance to the estate? The problem with one-man surveillance was that I didn’t dare leave except when the call of nature got too loud. And I wasn’t quite dedicated enough to the cause to try pissing into a bottle.

A cleaning van roared up, blocking my view of the house. I started the engine and drove still further down the street, parking on the opposite side this time. I knew I was pushing my luck. If I stayed positioned on this street much longer, the cops would be checking me out. Even if the cops didn’t bother with me, I couldn’t afford to attract my target’s attention. The afternoon wore on. My patience wore out.

The ring of my cell nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. I found the phone, verified the caller ID. Lisa. That could wait.

Time for another pit stop. I returned to the gas station convenience store. Resisting the lure of comic books and Jawbreakers, I gave Guy a call.

“I need your help,” I said. “Feel free to say no.”

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He said dryly, “I think you know I’m not going to tell you no.”

“It involves doing something illegal.”

He was silent.

“The thing is,” I said, “if I’m right, then there’s a chance you can clear yourself with the cops.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“We could both wind up in jail or dead.”

He said at last, “I take it you’re going ahead with this plan whether I help you or not?”

“If you won’t help, I’ll try to think of another way.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said. “What is it you need me to do?”

Thirty minutes later the Miata pulled into the convenience store parking lot, and I climbed in. After I had directed Guy where to drive, he said, “Why don’t we call the police?”

“We will, if I’m right. I want to make sure first.”

“Isn’t that for the police to determine?”

I didn’t want to explain to him that I’d pretty much used all my wild-goose-chase credits with the cops on Sunday.

I directed Guy to a hill behind the estate. We had a better partial view of the front courtyard, though trees effectively blocked the back of the house. I could see the glint of a pool through the greenery.

“I’m not sure what good this is doing,” Guy said. “We can’t see a bloody thing.”

“We can see who comes and goes. When it’s dark we can park back on the street.”

“If they were up to anything illegal, would they have cleaners in?”

“Maybe.” I wondered about that myself. “They’re obviously getting ready for some event.”

“The whole town is getting ready for some event. It’s called Christmas.” Guy turned on the radio, and as though to illustrate his point, Bing Crosby babababooed “White Christmas.”

We listened in silence to the music. The cleaning van departed. The blue sedan still sat in the driveway.

Guy cleared his throat, disturbing my thoughts. “This guy you’re seeing,” he began.

“That’s over.”

I felt his stare. I kept the binoculars trained on the house.

“But are you over it?” he asked finally.

I smiled. I knew I was not fooling anyone. “No.”

A beat.

“Any chance of reconciliation?”

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Josh Lanyon

“No.” I could hear the anger in that one tight word and figured Guy caught it too. That was probably just as well.

He let it go.

Silence fell between us.

“If you want to close your eyes for a bit, I’ll watch,” he said after a time.

“I’m not tired.”

“No?” His tone was derisive, but there was an undertone of gentleness. I studied him curiously. I wondered what it would be like to be with someone gentle. Civilized. Someone not afraid to be who he was -- even if it was a guy with a fake English accent.

Dusk fell. Behind the tall gates and Sleeping Beauty brambles, Christmas lights winked on up and down the street -- not at the Garibaldi estate, however -- not even all red ones.

There was no sign of life at all.

“Let’s drive down.”

Without comment, Guy started the engine. We drove back and parked a few yards down from the Garibaldi estate. I opened the car door -- remembered that I had left my gun back at the gas station in the glove compartment of the Forester.

“What is it?” Guy asked. “You have a weird look on your face.”

“Huh? Uh…nothing.”

I wasn’t crazy about walking in there unarmed. If I was right, these people had very little to lose by adding one more body to the count. On the other hand, if I was wrong -- and let’s face it, my batting average was not high these days -- and I ended up getting picked up by the cops with an unregistered gun in my possession, it was going to complicate things.

“I think I should go with you,” Guy said abruptly.

I shook my head. “No. For two reasons. One, you’re the only person who knows I’m in there. Which means, if I get into trouble…”

“I take it you’ve decided to trust me.”

“And two, you haven’t done anything illegal yet. So, if I do get myself arrested, at this point, you’re still clean.”

“How long will you be?”

“If I’m not back in forty-five minutes…no, make it an hour…call the police.” I fished out a card. “Call him.”

“Riordan? That asshole!”

“He is an asshole, but he’ll come, and he won’t waste time getting here.” If simply for the pleasure of killing me himself.

“You’ve got forty-five minutes,” Guy said. “Too much can happen in an hour.”

I nodded, slipped out of the car, and started walking quickly toward the house. As an afterthought, I reached into my pocket, turned my cell-phone on vibrate.

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201

The dusk had deepened to indigo as I slipped through the gates, sticking to the fence line and the blade-shaped shadows of the trees.

There was a long pool, the water as still as black glass in the twilight. A row of cypress stood like spear points. At the far end was a strange, flat-topped marble slab. An ugly piece of modern sculpture, I thought. Then I re-thought. I moved from tree to tree till I was close enough to kneel and examine the slab. It was hard to tell in that light, but it looked like the milky white stone was flecked and veined in black -- as though ink had spilled into the cracks.

No way, I thought, against the wave of revulsion.

But as I stared at the surrounding wall of trees -- and considered the distance to the nearest house -- I realized that it was possible. I closed my eyes for a moment. Shaking off the sickness, I got up and headed for the back of the house.