Move to Strike (11 page)

“Very nice,” Paul said. “But it’s only May.”

“I’m a food designer, and sometimes we do setups months in advance. I have a studio, but the natural light’s really nice in this room for this dining-table setup, especially since it’s overcast.”

He went back to it. “Ice cream?”

“Oh, mashed potatoes don’t melt. It’s not all done with mirrors these days.”

She picked up a bottle, walked over to the table, and began to spray the carrots and the turkey. “Thanksgiving, here we come,” she said. “Yum, yum, yum.”

“Smells terrible.”

“Looks glossier than butter.” She cast a critical eye on her handiwork. “Perfect.”

“Who do you work for?”

“Magazines. Local ad agencies. Anyone flashing a wad of bills. I’m a freelancer.” She tasted the soup and cooed with satisfaction. “This, I plan to eat. Otherwise no need to cook it.”

“Do you know a lot about photography?”

“Nope. I have a photographer on his way over in about twenty minutes. I move the food around. Make different displays, individual settings featuring different dishes. Add candles, fruit, bits of fern. Dry ice for that steamy effect. That kind of thing. I leave the f-stops to him.”

“What’s this particular job?”

“These guys I know are trying to get a film produced. They’re putting together a series of stills in storyboard form to go along with the script to take to producers. Like a sales piece. The film’s called, ‘Declaration of Dependence,’ and it’s about this woman who has an affair with two men at the same time.”

“French, huh?”

She laughed. “In fact it’s written and directed by two computer geeks from Palo Alto. Anyway, one of her lovers lives in the past, somewhere around the late eighteen hundreds. I love that era, the clothes, the food, everything. I would fit right in.”

Paul could picture a flouncy little bustle adding a voluptuous generosity to her narrow hips. Like so many women these days, Jan fell on the scrawny side of his taste. Well, maybe that was to be expected from someone who confused ice cream with potatoes. “Where does this food fit into the story?”

“A crucial scene takes place around a big American holiday feast. The two men duke it out over the ice cream.”

“Then I have to question the frittata.”

“Background in soft focus. Ambience. Also my dinner.”

“A lot to do for just a storyboard, isn’t it?”

“They promised to use it as the proposal cover art with a credit printed right there on the front. And as with everything a freelancer does, you’ve got to believe it’s going to land you big money later or you would never kill yourself for the nickel you’re getting this time.”

“You don’t work nine to five, I guess.”

“Wish I did. I could use a steady income. I spend lots of time diddling with my portfolio and going on interviews, although maybe it’s time to close up that part of my life and move on. You wouldn’t believe the pressure on a woman in this town. I mean, I’m almost too old for Hollywood.”

She didn’t look more than thirty. Since when did that become old? “What’s your age got to do with how good your food looks?”

“First part of every job is getting hired.”

“You’re attractive. I think you know that,” said Paul.

She flushed prettily. “You’re going to think I was aiming for that compliment, but I wasn’t. Anyway, if I do look good, credit my surgeon.”

“You wouldn’t be talking about Dr. William Sykes?”

“Sure. He sculpted my nose, plumped up my weak chin, and threw in a mini-lift when I turned thirty. God, it bugged him to see a woman get those character wrinkles.”

At thirty?! However, Paul had to admire the guy’s ability. You would never know, just by looking, how much was her real face and how much was fake. “I understand you and Beth Sykes are old friends. How did you two meet?”

“We’re fellow desert rats. Grew up in Yucca Valley back when Beth and Daria were the Logan girls. You know the area?”

“No.”

“East of San Berdoo, near Joshua Tree, where hot always means hot as hell. The Logan house didn’t even have air-conditioning. Maybe that’s why we became friends. At least we had it in one of the bedrooms. Beth and I ran around together as kids. People sometimes took us for sisters, said we looked alike, which I never could see. We went with our families up to Big Bear Lake, drove too fast and raised hell when we were teenagers, then ran away looking for greener pastures. We’re both older than Daria by four years, and we stayed close. Beth grew up fast. You could say Daria never grew up.”

“You see Daria?”

“Sometimes, when I visit Tahoe. Beth stays with me whenever she comes down to LA.” Her tight cheeks pulled together as she pursed her lips. “Naturally, I’m flattered she chooses me over a hotel. She could afford to stay anywhere.”

“Is she down here often?”

“Now and then.”

“What do you do when she’s visiting?”

“Everything. We hit the museums, the beach, first-run movies, plays at the Ahmanson. Tahoe’s a small place, and she and Bill have lived up there for a long time. She gets stir-crazy. Of course, Chris was a big lure, too. He went to high school down here, and then to Pomona College. He was only a freshman. God, it’s terrible about Chris. I watched him grow up. He could make you laugh at anything.”

“Was Chris why she came that weekend he died?”

“No. In fact, I kidded her about it. It seemed like she never came anymore unless she could see Chris, but this time she promised we’d just spend some time together doing girl things. She got here late on Thursday. We shopped all day Friday and hit the beach on Saturday. I don’t think she talked to Chris while she was here. I don’t think she even knew he was getting on a plane to visit his dad in Tahoe.”

“Do you know if Chris ever chartered a plane before on his own?”

“I don’t know, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he had. He was a gutsy kid.”

“So were you with Beth Sykes on the night of May eighth?”

“We went to the Hollywood Bowl to see Shania Twain. Kicked up our heels with the other cowgirls.”

“You two went alone?”

“That’s right.”

“No men.”

“Don’t look so suspicious, Paul. Women do get out on their own in this century. Beth, she’s—she was— married.”

“How was their marriage?”

“How’s any marriage? Theirs lasted a long time, longer than I ever expected.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Bill was quite a catch. Fun, ambitious, smart. Had a lucrative practice, even then. I’m sure a lot of women were interested in him.”

Paul wondered if Jan Sapitto might be among them. “You think he was unhappy with his wife?”

“Not at all. I hope I’m not giving that impression.”

“Did you like Bill Sykes?”

“I did, although sometimes I think he saw himself in competition with me for Beth’s attention.”

“Ah, a jealous type?”

“He doted on her.”

Once again, Paul wondered about the feeling behind her words. Wasn’t it possible Jan resented her friend’s good luck just the smallest bit? “How late did you stay out that night?”

“Not too late. Midnight or so. Then we crashed here. Most of Sunday is missing, until the phone call came late in the day about Chris. We were sitting outside on the deck having a margarita. Beth went into shock. She couldn’t reach Bill, but she was in no shape to fly that night. I gave her Valium and put her to bed. Then the next morning, I was packing clothes in her suitcase, getting ready to drive to the airport. The phone rang again. This time it was about Bill. God! It’s so unfair that this should happen to Beth.”

She knew who he was and why he was asking the questions, and she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he thought she had already prepared her answers before he came. Her description of spending time with Beth sounded very pat and remarkably similar to the story Beth had told Nina. On the other hand, if the women had talked about it, it wouldn’t be surprising they might use similar language. “You went up with her that morning?”

“I did, until Daria could take over. She needed someone with her.”

“You said Beth went into shock at hearing about Christopher?”

“She fell into a million pieces. She adored that boy. They both did. Bill thought Chris was going to save the world. Chris didn’t even get to live long enough to let his parents down. Do you have any kids, Paul?”

“Never got that lucky,” Paul said, but he didn’t mean it. He had never wanted kids. You loved them and they left you or died on you. It never came out right.

“What made the plane crash, Paul? What do you think?”

“Bad judgment, the NTSB is saying.”

He tried to read her expression. She looked like she wanted to say something and was biting her tongue.

He waited for it to come out. But she got herself under control.

Paul got up to leave. “One last question,” he said.

“Anything,” she said, and there was a question in her eyes, a little smile there just for him.

“The woman with the two lovers. How does she do that?”

“You mean have a relationship with two men?”

“I mean with men in two different centuries.”

“Doesn’t matter what year it is, the same old excuses work,” she said. “Doing anything for lunch? Because as you can see, I love to experiment in the kitchen. It’s the place I feel most free.”

“Thought you had a guy coming over. Your photographer.”

“Women are so flaky, and he has a cell phone.”

He imagined experimenting in the kitchen with her, then shut the thought down. Jan Sapitto would want much more than he could give her in one afternoon. “ ’Fraid I can’t make it,” he said, truly sorry. Walking out to his car he wondered what the hell he was doing, passing up an invitation for making whoopee on a gourmet kitchen island.

He would drive back up north this afternoon. He wanted to make a stop in Carmel to see Susan, in addition to making an unscheduled visit to the business before heading back to Tahoe. Then he would look at the forensic evidence and police reports, interview an ex-patient of Sykes’s who had sued him, and check in with the NTSB to see how they were doing with their investigation of the plane crash.

He got back on the freeway still smelling Jan’s soup. His stomach had settled and he was definitely hungry now. Instead of messing around in Jan’s kitchen, he was engaged in this war with traffic again.

This infernal, everlasting traffic jam, he thought, giving in to his annoyance. A Cutlass Supreme dashed up the on ramp beside him, too close, the bastard! He put his hand to the horn and raced to beat him. As the car came close enough to breathe on he suddenly thought, shit, what am I doing? Risking my life, and for what?

He dropped back, and in that moment of weakness, that single moment when he didn’t stubbornly insist on winning, the Cutlass smelled his frailty and pressed in for the kill. He had one last thought as he tried and failed to drop out of the competition for space on the ramp, that they were in the grip of a shared insanity, this aggressive foolhardiness, barreling along at seventy miles an hour, traveling through space without regard for place or time . . . when he heard a crash, felt his leg crack, and heard someone howl like a baby. . . .

PART TWO

He is in the dream, his right hand pushing the knife
into the murderer’s back, watching for the murderer’s
terror, but the murderer is laughing. The murderer is
glad to die.

He’s surprised and lessens the pressure for a moment. He wants the murderer to turn around and
fight. But the head turns away from him, back to
face the cabin door.

The cold moves over them.

The murderer leans toward the door and then
pushes back against the knife, wanting to get it over
with. The wind presses against them both. The
murderer laughs and laughs.

He can feel the shaking of the body, the quick
spasms. He reaches around with his left hand and
claps his hand over the laughing mouth. The lips of
the murderer are warm and his breath is like a
breath of fire.

His hand burns.

CHAPTER 8

TUESDAY NIGHT, THE night before the transfer hearing, Day Thirteen in stir, always a total nothing even when Nikki was outside, and she’d just used up all her telephone time listening to Daria carry on. Somewhere in the middle of her fake good cheer and maddeningly trivial gossip, Daria had passed on one piece of real news. Aunt Beth had come out of the blue and offered to take care of the rent arrears. They weren’t going to lose their home after all. “It’s just like I told you, Nikki,” Daria had said in that infuriating way she had, all roses and cupcakes and Girl Scouts. “Things have a way of working out.” Well, they had worked out one more time, rescuing them from the gutter for now, until the next big crisis and the next bad boyfriend came along.

On the bunk, arms tucked behind her head, trying to block out the noise, Nikki fretted. The racket, the three roommates, even the clothes that were too tight across the crotch, obviously designed for some squat toad, didn’t bother her as much as not having the telephone right there so she could talk to somebody. She wanted to call Bob, tell him about the people here, the things she had heard. She wanted him to tell her that his mom would get her out tomorrow, that she would be going home. She missed the Net, and her guitar. Daria had some kind of new job starting tomorrow and would be getting home exhausted and she wouldn’t be there to make sure Daria ate something hot.

A shout from somewhere nearby made the hair on her arms stand straight up. She still couldn’t believe she was in Juvie. She kicked off her shoes and there was something wet like beads of sweat or tears on her face that she wiped away with her hand. Until all this shit came down, she could have passed for a normal person. From now on, she was blighted.

Well, maybe she did belong here. Everything in her life had changed a long time ago. The world was just catching up to how much she had changed along with it. Up until she was ten years old, she had fit in. She joined Brownies and learned to knit with the other girls, even though Daria bought her the wrong-sized needles and yarn that was too fine.

Then came the night her father didn’t come home. She was in fifth grade, Mrs. Bennett’s class, the best speller, the best out-loud reader. She loved her teacher, who had black hair that came down into a low point over her forehead, forming two mirror-image question marks on the sides of her face. She liked doing well just to see Mrs. Bennett smile.

When he didn’t come home after work, Daria had kept his dinner warm in the oven until it charred. Then she called everyone they knew on the phone. Then she had sat up all night on the living-room rug shivering, without even bothering to light the fire two feet away.

Nikki had waited under her bed. She had thought that if she hid there and wasn’t so obvious about waiting, he would not be too afraid of how much they needed him to come on home.

But she went to sleep. She hadn’t even been able to do that right.

Another noise zigzagged her mind back to Bob. If only she could reach him. She liked him because he didn’t think like the other kids. He was like an alien, never fitting in but so cool about it, like he had something special going for him or was planning to return to his home planet and just didn’t give a shit about Earth. She knew he was younger; it just didn’t matter. He had confidence in himself.

He was her only friend, in fact, except for the Net and the bands she listened to at night.

Not that she’d ever let him know that pathetic fact.

The lights went out, and she pulled the covers over her. Last year, she had still been trying to fit in, going to dances and stuff like that. She yawned, thinking about Scott. What a difference between a friend and a boyfriend. Scott was a boyfriend, an ex-boyfriend actually at this point since he hadn’t even bothered to call and see how she was doing. A boyfriend who pushed you around and taught you things.

If she had a phone, she was so messed up tonight she might just call Scott instead. She was so bored and so scared at the same time, and the kinds of things you did with Scott put you right there on the roller coaster, too panicked about the deathfall to worry about anything else. There was something to be said for that.

Then she wouldn’t be lying here worrying about whether Daria had remembered to pay the water bill after the rent or that she was gonna be locked up forever, or about the big transfer hearing coming up.

She wouldn’t be worrying that the police would search her house and find what she’d buried in the woods behind the house.

“Back on the record,” Judge Harold Vasquez said.

They sat in the small Juvenile Courtroom in Placerville again as if two hard weeks hadn’t gone by: Nikki in her Gothic black to convey her disaffection; Nina in her black lawyer suit to lend her dignity; Harold Vasquez in his black judicial robes for the sake of authority; Daria in a black leotard under her fluffy skirt because she hadn’t read the rule book on appropriate dress for court; and Beth in a black skirt because she was in mourning. Barbara Banning’s vivid red stood out, to symbolize prosecutorial confidence. Also appearing was Barbet Schroeder of the
Tahoe
Mirror,
scribbling notes in back, Pearl Smith from the Probation Department, the clerk and reporter, and Nikki’s history teacher from the high school Nikki had attended until Bill Sykes’s death. The teacher was still in his twenties, nervous but game.

“All right,” Vasquez said. “We are very close to the fifteen-day limit specified for this minor to remain in temporary custody, so I sincerely hope you are all ready to go.”

“Ready, Your Honor.”

“We are ready, Your Honor.”

Vasquez read from the paperwork. “I have before me a verified petition to declare Nicole Zack a ward of the court pursuant to section 602 of the Welfare and Institutions Code. The District Attorney’s Office has in its discretion instituted these proceedings pursuant to subdivision (b) of section 650 and Section 26500 of the Government Code.

“Now, Ms. Zack, I’m going to speak directly to you because you are the person with the most at stake in this hearing. This petition requests that I make a finding that you are not a fit and proper subject to be dealt with under the Juvenile Court law. Before I could do that, I must conclude that you would not be amenable to the care, treatment, and training program available through the facilities of the Juvenile Court. And to decide that, I must consider five factors: the degree of criminal sophistication exhibited by you; whether you can be rehabilitated by the age when Juvenile Court jurisdiction would expire; your previous delinquent history; the success of any previous attempts by the Juvenile Court to rehabilitate you; and, last but not least, the circumstances and gravity of the offense you are alleged to have committed.

“The petition specifies that the crime involved is a felony and it contains a statement of the facts which have brought you into this court. I also have a report from the Probation Department regarding your behavioral patterns and social history. Attached to that is a Victim Impact Statement submitted by Beth Sykes, who was the wife of the decedent. Ms. Reilly, have you and your client and your client’s mother received and reviewed those reports?”

“We have.”

“Any luck locating the father?” Vasquez asked Barbara.

“Not at this point,” Barbara said. “He’s not in the system and he doesn’t have a driver’s license in this state.”

“Too bad. Now, Ms. Zack, what I’m going to do today is look at some factors which will help me decide whether or not I should follow the recommendation of the district attorney. I am going to pay particular attention to this report by the probation officer assigned to your case, which I have already read. Ms. Reilly, do you have any other witnesses you would like to have heard on this issue?”

Nina said, “Ms. Zack’s history teacher didn’t have an opportunity to speak to the probation office investigator. He’s here today. Also, my client’s mother would like an opportunity to speak.”

“Fine. Let’s start with the report.”

Probation officer Pearl Smith stood up and summarized the report for the record while Nikki twitched in her chair. Pearl had tried to find some socially acceptable threads in Nikki’s life, but hadn’t been very successful. She started with Nikki’s eleventh-grade report card, in which Nikki had scraped by with a C-minus average, a number of detentions, enough cut classes to result in a suspension earlier in the year, and a general consensus among the teachers that Nikki could not care less about her studies.

“Anything to add?” Vasquez asked Nina when this sorry record had been summarized.

“This would be a good time for me to call Mr. Edwards in,” Nina said. Nikki’s history teacher came forward and sat down, clearing his throat excessively before speaking, even more nervous than before.

“I’ve only had Nikki this past semester,” he said. “But we have talked often before and after class. I can’t understand her general lack of interest or progress in school, because I know she’s bright. She’s a reader, with a passionate interest in history. She’s read everything I’ve suggested to her besides doing very well on her tests. She has tremendous potential, and certainly with some help she can be rehabilitated, even if she has committed a crime. It would be a tragedy for her to be put into the adult system. If she could be allowed to be on probation or something, I would be glad to act as her independent studies coordinator. I like Nikki and I want to help any way I can.”

“Thank you,” the judge said. He was nodding, but Nina knew what would come next. “Ms. Banning, any questions?”

“It’s nice of you to come to Nikki’s aid, Mr. Edwards,” Barbara said. “The two of you share a similar political philosophy, am I correct?”

“We-ell, you might say that.”

“You encouraged her to write a paper on Che Guevara advocating the violent overthrow of our system of government and you gave her an A on that paper, did you not?”

“It was a good paper,” Mr. Edwards answered, fidgeting.

“Ms. Zack is—what? An anarchist? A nihilist? A Communist?”

“A student.”

“How lucky for her that she fell under your guidance. Has she ever expressed an interest in assassination of public figures?”

“No, no . . .”

Barbara pulled out the essay Henry had been waving at Nina in his office. “Read to us from the second page of this essay by Ms. Zack, which I’m about to submit to the court. The portion I’ve marked.”

He took the essay and read. “ ‘Sometimes the only way to stop the oppression is through summary execution of political oppressors who cannot be dealt with in any other way.’ Let me explain . . .”

“Let me see that,” Vasquez said.

By now, Nina had read the essay several times. She saw in it all the grandiose arrogance that masked immaturity but found nothing evil about a young girl’s bumpy political awakening. She felt incensed enough by Barbara’s insinuations about Nikki’s work to interrupt. “She’s old enough to stick in State Prison but not old enough to be granted ordinary First Amendment rights. Is that the way it should be? Why shouldn’t she have opinions? We’re talking about her intelligence, her potential . . .”

“Exactly. Her potential to commit more murders,” Barbara said.

“That’s enough,” Judge Vasquez said. “Let me read.” He read the whole thing. When he looked up, he had a grave expression on his face. He thanked Mr. Edwards, who gave Nikki an encouraging nod as he left.

“Well, let’s turn back to the report,” the judge said. Pearl noted that Nikki had joined no school clubs, had no extracurricular activities, was not a member of a church, had no record of volunteer work, had few friends, and was not employed. As she discussed Nikki’s contacts with law enforcement and her association with Scott Cabano, Nikki slid down farther and farther in her chair.

“I’d like to call Daria Zack,” Nina said when this recitation was complete.

Daria tried to speak calmly. “Your Honor, what you’re reading and what Nikki really is like are so different that—it’s just that Nikki doesn’t fit into a conventional mold. She doesn’t join clubs or run for school president or work on the school newspaper. She’ll never make homecoming queen. But does that mean you should send her into the adult court?

“As a matter of fact, Nikki has many interests and activities. She loves to go mountain biking in the forest. She’s a wonderful guitar player and has a beautiful voice. And she is learning everything there is to know about computers. She writes poetry and she loves to read. She thinks about the suffering of so many people in this world and it makes her angry, Your Honor, but she’d never harm a fly. She didn’t kill her uncle. Even Beth, my sister, who wrote that letter to you—you’ll see that she doesn’t believe Nikki had anything to do with it. Nikki has learned to cook and balance a checkbook and help me in so many ways”—Daria started to break down but pulled herself together—“and if you’ll let her come home and remember that she’s very young and just needs a little help, then I—I will try to take better care of her. Please, Your Honor.” She wiped her eyes.

Vasquez listened seriously.

Barbara took over, making everything Daria said sound sinister, twisting Nikki again into a loner terrorist caught just in time. But Daria didn’t cry anymore. She sat with her back straight and answered the scathing questions as well as she could. Vasquez himself winced a few times. Maybe he didn’t care for Barbara’s combative style either.

“Thank you, Mrs. Zack,” the judge said, excusing Daria. “Anything else, Ms. Reilly?”

“This is a very young girl who has never been accused of a serious crime,” Nina said. “The United States Supreme Court has pointed out in
Kent v. United
States
that this short and informal hearing is at the same time a critically important action determining vitally important statutory rights of this child. I know the court will read between the lines of that report and see that there is every opportunity for rehabilitation for this child within the juvenile system, assuming she is found to have committed the felony, which is very much in dispute. Yes, she’s a loner, a reader, a thinker. That only makes her more amenable to the help this court can give.”