Retribution (34 page)

Hubie sat back. "There're no easy answers. I'll ask around. I don't need to tell you we're a long way away from building a case, even for arson."

John stood, closing the album and replacing it. Hubie put it in an evidence bag and tagged it, then dropped it unceremoniously in the bottom drawer of his desk.

Valenzuela arched an eyebrow at him. "And I don't need to tell you we've got a bad feeling about this, and to watch your girl like a hawk." He reached forward to his in-tray and pulled out a folder. "You didn't see this," he said lowly, his cigar working in his mouth. He opened it and spread out a few photos.

John leaned over his shoulder and the impact of what he saw made him reach out and grip the edge of the desk. "My God."

Clearing his throat, Hubie shuffled the photos together and closed the folder cover over them. "Autopsy report shows no sign of sexual activity or molestation. She had had a drink or two, but that's about it."

"Who was that?"

"Dinah Woolsey, daughter of one of south country's big monied families. She was well-liked, divorced— ex actually died a year or two ago, so we're not looking at him— and she did not leave a good-looking corpse even though she died young. I've managed to keep the media away from this, but I don't know how much longer I can keep it under wraps." Hubie shoved himself to his feet. "Let me walk you downstairs to the front desk."

The squad room had begun to fill.

In the stairwell, Hubie put his hand on John's elbow, and brought him to a stop. He lowered his voice. "You still have a gun?"

John nodded.

A look of guilty relief swept over Valenzuela's round face. "Good."

The detective continued down the stairs. John followed. "I don't want Charlie out there, on this."

"I wouldn't do that to you, Ruby, you know that. There's not enough evidence to think of Valdor as a suspect yet."

"But if I can find a pattern…"

"Then I'll find him for questioning." They hit the landing, and the noise and clamor of the front desk area reached them before they came out of the stairwell.

Hubie's cigar sagged for a moment at the sight of cameramen, well dressed reporters with mikes, and lighting technicians swarming the reception area. Someone shouted, "There's Valenzuela!"

Like a tidal wave, they surged forward. "Lieutenant! It is true Dinah Woolsey was found dead two days ago?"

"Tell us if this is a vampire cult that killed Dinah Woolsey."

"Lieutenant, do you have any suspects yet?"

Hubie put his big square bulk in front of John, muttering "Go back upstairs and out the back way."

Unnoticed, John backpedaled and then came to a dead halt as one blonde, determined reporter from the county news channel called out, "Valenzuela, can you comment on the rumor that local painter Charlotte Saunders, whose house and studio were gutted by fire this morning, has been painting intimate details about unsolved murders? That her work has been inspiring a serial killer?"

Valenzuela's lower jaw dropped. "Where in the hell did you pull out a rumor like that?"

Ashley Lowe lowered her mike and smiled faintly at the lieutenant. "My sources are confidential."

Someone to the back of the crowd snickered. "Probably the same call from the Finley family we all got… hoping for new leads on her abduction and assumed murder."

A reporter for the largest paper in the country called out, "Is it true you've brought Charlie in for questioning? If not, are you aware of her whereabouts now?"

That prompted a flurry of new shouts and questions.

Hubie coughed in shocked response. He put his shoulder to the crowd, his gruff voice hard to catch above the din. "Get out of here now, Ruby."

John sprinted up the stairwell, knowing that, no matter what he did now, Charlie was out there.

He slept in the rental car. He had parked it down by the beach at Dana Point, in a small seaside area, relatively isolated and alone, watching the leaden waves of the Pacific roll in and out until even his frantic mind began to grow sleepy. Then he crawled in the back, curled up uncomfortably and cramped, and slept. He woke when the sunlight streaming in seared his face, and he looked up to see it was almost midday. He got out of the car, stiff and aching, and went to the concrete block bathroom, which stank and gritted under the soles of his shoes. The toilet flushed hesitantly. The water in the sink ran clear and cold. He splashed it and looked at himself in the mirror.

The face that stared back at him reminded him of a five-day gambling binge, trying to break an unlucky streak.

Valdor leaned on the cracked basin.

He stared back. After long moments, he took out a comb and straightened his hair. Then began a careful if limited ordering of his shirt and jacket. The one-day growth of beard he could do nothing about, but it gave him a trendy Hollywood look. He rasped his fingers across his chin.

The chips were down. He had nothing to lose any more.

Valdor turned his collar down and smoothed it. Charlie Saunders would pay, one way or another.

It was one of those rare days in May, when the skies were interrupted by fluffy clouds crossing their shocking blue purity and the air remained crystal clear over the Laguna coastline. Mountains, in slate-blues and faint reddish-browns, framed the horizon view of the golf course, which he could faintly see. Over the balcony of his hilltop home lay the wild slopes of the canyon… the small villagelike environment below, in reality the clever shell of the Wood Chip Celebration, open-air booths with roofs and stages and platforms built into a labyrinth whimsically hugging the foot of the hill. In little more than a month, that village would burgeon with artists and their wares of everything imaginable, and at night, music from different local bands would drift up the hillside. But it was the other view which drew him, farther away, like a Shangri-la beckoning him with its cultivated tranquility.

The greens on the course had just been clipped and prepared for the upcoming tournament, tee times were open and on time and the duffers had all gone to play somewhere else. He'd taken the day off and had already been out.

He'd even gotten a hole in one.

He sat, relaxed, on the patio, overlooking those verdant acres and listened to the ice cubes tinkle pleasantly in his glass as he sipped his Scotch… the finest one he had, not the social bottle… and thought about taking in a second round. He had time. Relatively speaking.

Yet the perfection of the day was something he wanted to savor a bit longer before trying to stretch it. He crossed his legs at the ankles as he put his feet up on the patio table and lay back even more comfortably in his chair.

The ice cubes had all but melted and the sippin' Scotch was less than half gone, and he was contemplating getting more ice and freshening up the Scotch when a shadow fell across him.

Laverman had not heard the approach… but he had left the sliding door open, and the marbled interior floors of his spacious home were not conducive to sound. He did not startle as the shadow instantly cooled the feel of the sun.

"A nice day," the visitor said.

"Yes," he agreed wholeheartedly without looking back to see who it was, for he knew the voice well.

"I went by the clubhouse first. I saw your hole in one posted. Congratulations."

Laverman beamed. "A beautiful shot that was. It felt good all the way through the swing. I could feel how right I hit it… one bounce and it rolled right in. Sweet." He downed the last of his Scotch in one swallow and felt the mellowness bloom inside him. He set the crystal glass down on the small table by his elbow.

"Shots like that are one in lifetime."

"Not quite," Laverman replied, "but close."

A lull came in the conversation, but it was not the comfortable lull between friends… it hung there, as though it knew it needed to be filled with something, and Laverman felt his first twinge of uneasiness.

The visitor finally filled that gap.

"You called me, George."

His heart gave him one of those squeezing, painful flutters that he was all too familiar with, in response.

"I know."

He watched the course. Saw a white egret float slowly over the brook that crossed the holes and land smoothly, then walk long-legged to a dot of white among the verdure. A golf ball? An egg, perhaps. He could not tell from where he sat.

After a moment, he said, "I thought of playing another nine holes."

"You can, if you wish." Pause. "After you've begun."

"Can I?" A genuine smile of delight split his weathered face. He ran his hands through his hair.

"Why not? If it's what you want to do. It might even be easier on Louise that way."

He nodded. He reached for the portable phone at his side and phoned the clubhouse. A few terse words and he was all set.

"They have room. I can tee off in twenty minutes. A perfect day," Laverman added in great satisfaction.

"Good."

The shadow slicing across him leaned forward slightly and dropped a couple of pills by the empty crystal glass.

"Take these just before you tee off."

Laverman looked at them without really looking at them. He uncrossed his legs, pulled his feet down, and sat up, leaning his elbow on his knees, peering at the capsules. "How… long?"

"You should be able to finish your nine."

"And if I've changed my mind…."

"Laverman, we've talked about this before."

He took in deep breath. "I know."

"When was the last time you felt good enough to play?"

He did not answer. It had been days and days… weeks. He exhaled slowly.

"Days like today are rare, and will be rarer still. We've talked about this."

He let out a softer sigh. It lanced through his tired lungs and heart. It was a precursor of the downward spiral he'd fall into, a collapse from which no medicine could ultimately save him. "I know. I remember."

Laverman put out a fingertip and rolled the capsules around. He did not recognize them from anything he had been taking over the years. If he did not know better, he would almost think they had been personally manufactured for him. Perhaps they had. One of the capsules rolled away, off the table's edge, and onto the pavement. He just looked at it, caught up in his thoughts, and it was his companion who swiftly picked it up and deposited it where it belonged.

"You do not have to do this."

But he did. They had both spent many months discussing it, and they had come to the agreement. The pleasant haze of being pain free and the Scotch would dissipate soon. He gathered himself and stood. Days like this were rare indeed.

"Do you think I'm greedy?" Laverman asked.

"Of course not. We all want another day… and another, and another."

He picked up the capsules and dropped them into the pockets of his golfing pants. It was warmer now and he could change into shorts, but he did not feel like it. He was comfortable in his clothes, in his skin… it was only his decision that he felt uncomfortable about.

"No suffering?" he asked.

"No suffering. It will be quick and painless."

"Join me?"

"I'd like nothing better, but you know I can't. And I have to go to the Peppermill later. You'll be pleased to know, George, that Charlie is painting again."

"She is?" It did please him. It gave him faith in the overall continuity of things. "You'll be here for Louise."

"Tonight, of course."

He nodded. "Thank you, my friend." He walked off the patio to the side gate, where his golf cart waited, and the trail that led to the main clubhouse and the first tee.

He did not look back at his home, his friend, his life, as he went.

* * *

Wade watched him leave.

Normally, at these moments, he was alone.

But now he knew where he could go, an altar he could kneel at, one who could offer him comfort and understanding and even vision. Furthermore, he was expected.

He headed there.

He walked in the back gate of the Peppermill estate grounds. Janie's minivan was parked out front; otherwise the gallery seemed deserted. It would not be, Valdor mused, once the word of new paintings leaked out. His palms itched as if he already had the canvases in his hand. The number of them could be a problem if his Japanese buyer turned out not to be interested.

But he was not too worried about that. From the quickly scanned view he'd had, they all seemed to be interlocked, almost like animation cells, of a singular, catastrophic event. Whoever bought them would be most interested in keeping all of them together, to keep the story intact. His only worry would be shipping them out quickly, undiscovered, but he had connections for that. It would be a simple matter to take a razor and cut them from their plain stretch frames, roll them, and dispose of them appropriately.

He, of course, would follow them out of the country. From there, he could handle the black market auctioning and pay his debts. All it would take was timing and planning. He had already called and made plane reservations.

Valdor found the back door open. He slipped inside with little worry that Janie would hear him. She would have her head buried in paperwork or catalogs, as usual, her thin, freckled face squeezed into a prune-shaped expression of concentration. He climbed the back stairs to the storage loft quietly, one wooden step at a time, listening to it creak softly under his weight, knowing that the whole building creaked and stirred and murmured, and that Janie would think nothing of it.

Upstairs, he found a shipment of paintings still cartoned, box cutters lying across their wrappings. Handy tools for almost any need, box cutters. With a smile, he took one and slipped it into his pocket.