forty-five
SOMETIMES THINGS ARE RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE and you don't see them.
Five roses were on my doorstep when I arrived home a little after eleven. I took a larger vase and added them to my growing collection. Then I called Zack. I wished he could come over, but hearing his voice was comforting.
After straightening up the house and washing a few dishes left from breakfast, I packed a suitcase for the weekend and remembered to take an extra outfit for the Shabbat Kallah my mother was preparing for our family and a few of my close friends. My last Shabbat before the wedding, the last time I'd be going to my parents' as a single woman. Zack and I would be staying in a hotel the night of the wedding. After that, we'd be here until the house was ready. I hoped Isaac would respect our privacy.
In my bedroom I worked for an hour on my manuscript, but thoughts of Trina intruded. I had located her mother. I had located Charlie, who had put me in touch with Melinda. Now Trina was in a hospital bed, refusing to believe that Jason had tried to kill her. I had accomplished nothing and I still had unanswered questions about Aggie's death.
I looked at the books I'd picked up at Mike's yard sale.
Alcoholics Anonymous
and
A Practical Guide to
Kabbalah.
I leafed through them, wondering if I had missed anything. I turned the texts upside down and shook them.
Of course, there was nothing there, aside from a sprinkling of dust.
I drove to Santa Monica, where a sweet young Iranian woman chatted while she brought me close to tears as she waxed my legs and other parts. From there I drove to a nail salon near my apartment and relaxed with a magazine while my feet soaked in a tub of warm water.
There was an article about Britney Spears and her recent, short-lived marriage. The upcoming Michael Jackson trial. Another Hollywood celebrity divorce and speculation about kinky revelations. The upcoming Martha Stewart trial. The prospects for John Kerry in next week's Super Tuesday primary races . . .
Kinky . . .
Mike had said something that first day. What was it?
I shut my eyes. He'd been talking about his relationship with Randy. He liked Randy's TV. They exchanged DVDs. He hadn't really believed that Randy had killed anyone, but then the police asked Mike questions about Randy and a woman he may have killed six years ago.
Turns out Randy was into kinky stuff.
I opened my eyes and removed my feet from the tub. Grabbing a towel, I wiped my feet and slipped them into my shoes.
“Something wrong?” the manicurist asked me. “Water too cold? Too hot?”
I told her the water was fine, gave her five dollars, and promised I'd be back.
Mike was scraping old paint off the frame of the front window when I arrived. He was wearing his headphones and I had to yell to make him hear me.
“I figured I could make a few bucks until my agent gets me something,” he told me after he'd climbed down from the short ladder. “What's up?”
“When I talked to you the other day, you mentioned that Randy was into some kinky stuff. What did you mean?”
Mike laughed, but his face reddened. “He had this tape. A good thing Randy's dad didn't take it. He would've had a heart attack, or his wife would've killed him. It wasn't exactly PG rated, if you know what I mean.”
“How did you happen to have it?”
“It was with his other stuff, things his dad didn't want. In a bag of clothes Randy was probably getting ready to give to the cleaners. I guess he didn't want Doreen to see the tape.”
“You watched the tape?”
“A couple of days ago. I thought it was
The Truman
Show.
That's what the cover said. But that ain't Jim Carrey.” He laughed again. “Some guy, some woman. The woman looks drugged. I only watched a minute. It's not my thing. To be honest, I was surprised Randy was into that. He never struck me as the type.”
I tried to keep my voice calm. “Do you have the tape?”
Mike nodded. “I'll probably toss it.”
“Would you mind giving it to me?”
He looked surprised. “Yeah, sure.”
I'd been cautious on my way here, checking my rearview mirror and executing several extra turns to make sure no one was following me. Now I felt exposed and vulnerable. Following him into the building, I waited outside his open door and caught a glimpse of general slovenliness.
He returned a minute later and handed me the tape. “What do you want it for, if you don't mind my asking?”
“It may be evidence of a rape.”
“Jeez.” His face turned pale.
“You mentioned a bag of clothes? What kind of clothes?”
“T-shirts, socks, a couple of shirts. One of the shirts has a bunch of rust stains. It's a nice shirt. I was thinking of taking it in to the cleaners to see if they can get the stains out.”
Trina was sitting up and eating Jell-O when I saw her. She had phoned me just as I was leaving the Hollywood station after dropping off the videotape and the shirt. Connors was on his way downtown to have the shirt tested for blood and other trace evidence.
She was feeling better, she told me. The doctors thought she might be able to go home later today or tomorrow.
“I've been thinking about what you said, Molly. About Jason. Were you telling me the truth, that the journal is gone?”
I nodded.
“I really thought he liked me.” She sounded forlorn.
“I'm sure he did, Trina. But he was manipulating you.”
She played with the Jell-O. “He phoned me when I was at your place, about an hour after you left. He felt terrible about Randy and wanted to help. I told him about Jim, and my apartment, and he offered to put me up in a hotel until we found Jim and the package. I thought he was so kind.”
“Randy never said anything negative about him?”
She shook her head. “Why would he drug me?”
“He was afraid you'd figure out what was going on. He needed the package, Trina. He probably thought you might remember, and then he'd be able to get it.” I touched her hand. “I think he killed Randy.”
“Why?” It was a wail, not a question.
I told her. “You said you found something else with Randy's things. What?”
She hesitated. “He had a driver's license and credit cards that belonged to a woman. I don't know who she is. The newspaper clippings were with the license.”
“And you thought he stole the ID and cards?”
She looked miserable, burdened with her brother's guilt. “I wanted to return everything to her. I drove to her apartment, but she doesn't live there anymore, and I don't have her phone number.”
“Do you remember the name on the license?”
“Iris. I don't remember the last name.”
It was what I'd suspected, but now I had confirmation. I felt a wave of sadness for the dead woman.
Trina lowered her eyes. “You think he did something terrible, don't you? I saw it in your face. I shouldn't have told you.”
“Did you tell Jason about this?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Did you keep the ID in your hotel room, Trina?” If so, Jason had probably found it.
A half smile tugged at her lips. She shook her head. “I put it in a safe place.”
Jonnie looked skeptical, even after I showed her the note Trina had signed.
“I have to talk to Trina first,” she said.
“She's in the hospital,” I told her. “She had a problem with her medication.”
I gave her the phone number and checked out a rack of teddies while she made the call.
A few minutes later I followed her across the store and up the short flight of steps to the glass-encased exhibit that held Jane Powell's crinoline.
Seven Brides for Seven
Brothers.
One of Trina's favorites.
Jonnie unlocked the glass case, opened the door, and reached underneath the crinoline.
When she stood up, she was holding a small white envelope. “Is this what you want?”
I was anxious to open the envelope but waited until I was in my Taurus. I opened the flap, emptied the contents onto my lap, and picked up each item, careful to hold it by its edges.
Iris Strand. That was the name on the MasterCard and the gasoline and ATM cards.
It was the name on the California driver's license.
I looked at the photo. An oval face, thin nose, long, curly black hair. Brown eyes, five feet four inches, 118 pounds.
She was my redhead.
forty-six
Sunday, February 29. 10:15 A.M. 5700 block of Carlton Way. A man invited a woman to his house and
gave her a beer. The victim suddenly felt woozy and
lay down on a bed, where the assailant proceeded to
attack her. The suspect is described as a 33- to 34-year-old man standing 5 feet 10 inches tall and weighing 150 pounds, with black hair and brown eyes.
(Hollywood)
SHE WAS SITTING ON MY GLIDER WHEN I RETURNED from the weekend.
“Your landlord told me it was okay,” she said, getting to her feet as I pulled my roll-aboard overnighter up the steps to the porch. My free hand was holding a vase with the four roses Zack had asked his father to drop off at my parents' on Saturday night.
She was wearing jeans and the pink Ugg boots and a rust sweater that brought out the copper in her eyes that the word
brown
doesn't come close to describing. Her hair, without the gray hat or red wig, was just below her chin. The shoulder-length dark curls that I had seen in the driver's license photo and that Gloria Lamont had mistaken for Aggie's were gone.
“It's fine,” I said.
If I had checked my pulse, I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that it was a little rapid. Excitement, and some fear because it's not easy to forget a gun held to your head. It was a strange, somber reunion between two unsmiling women who were neither friends nor adversaries. She didn't say she was sorry she'd struck me. Maybe she wasn't.
“Thank you for not telling my husband,” she said. “Brian doesn't know.”
I had reached him on Friday and told him I was looking for a mutual friend from high school, Iris Strand. Could he give his wife the message?
“I don't want to complicate your life,” I said.
I unlocked the door and invited her inside. She sat in my breakfast nook, lost in her own thoughts, her foot tapping to some internal song. I put up a kettle of water and filled a plate with the cookies my mother had sent with me. I wondered what had happened to the jittery, terrified woman who had accosted me in the parking lot.
Her hands gave her away. They shook as she picked up one of the mugs I brought to the table.
“How did you know?” Iris asked.
I told her about the driver's license. “I figured Randy kept your ID to show Jason, that he helped you disappear.”
She nodded. “That wasn't his original plan.”
The plan, he told Iris after he abandoned it, the plan for which he'd been paid ten thousand dollars, had been to find the tape and arrange to have someone prevent Iris from going to the police. He hadn't anticipated that he would come to care for Iris and Aggie, that he would cringe at the thought of Aggie looking at him with horror and disgust. He hadn't anticipated being burdened by a conscience born in Rachel's Tent, having remorse.
On July 10 he hadn't yet coaxed the truth out of Iris, and she had been leaning toward pressing charges when she borrowed the locket.
“I asked Aggie why she always wore it,” Iris said. “She told me you gave it to her. I asked her what was inside, and she showed me the red thread. âIt's not the thread,' she told me. âIt's the friendship. But if it gives you courage, I want you to take it.' ”
Iris had been wearing the locket two days later when she confided in Randy and told him she had decided to take the tape to the police. He offered to drive her.
“But we never went to the station. He drove me to a wooded area and told me the truth. He'd manipulated me to confide in him, and he'd told Jason I had the tape. Even if I didn't press charges, Jason wanted me dead.” She bit her upper lip, and her eyes glistened with tears.
I imagine that even after six years it would be hard to talk about someone wanting you dead.
“I didn't believe him. I thought he was crazy. But he grabbed my shoulders and kept saying it, over and over. âJason wants you dead, Iris. You have to disappear, now, Iris. I'll tell Jason you're dead, Iris, or he'll never stop looking for you.' ” She wiped her eyes. “So I died.”
The ones who killed Aggie, the ones who killed me.
“And Randy told Jason he took care of everything,” I said. I'd had the weekend to puzzle it out. “He sent Jason the clipping about the woman's torso as proof. He stole your chart and destroyed it.” Jason had no reason to doubt Randy. He was an ex-convict, a drug addict. He was indebted to the Horton family. “But whose torso did they find?”
“We had no idea. Randy waited days for the right clipping. He said that one was perfect, because the police probably wouldn't be able to identify the victim, and after a while they cremate the remains.”
Grave endings, I thought. For the unidentified woman who had been someone's wife, daughter, mother, sister. For Aggie, for Randy. For Iris, too.
“And the timing was right,” Iris said. “I'd been staying in Randy's apartment while he arranged to get me new ID from someone he knew from prison. The next day he saw the item about the torso.”
That was when Gloria Lamont had seen her. “And Aggie?” I asked. “Randy didn't kill her, did he?”
She shook her head. “Aggie told Bramer she was worried that something had happened to me. And she was concerned about the women going to dinner at the Horton home. Bramer mentioned it to Horton, Horton told Jason. Jason told Randy.”
A sinister game of telephone, I thought.
“Randy assured Jason that Aggie didn't pose a threat,” Iris said. “He'd planned to return the locket to Aggie and tell her I'd asked him to do it for me. He told Jason he'd send Aggie a letter from me, saying I'd terminated therapy. Jason seemed fine with that. But one night not long after I disappeared, Jason phoned Randy.”
My chest tightened. “July twenty-third.” All these years I'd wanted to know. Now I wasn't sure.
“July twenty-third,” she repeated. “He said he'd been in a bar brawl and needed fresh clothes and Randy's help in cleaning up the blood in his father's car. His father would have a fit if he found out. Randy helped him. He always did. When he heard the next day that Aggie was dead, he knew Jason had killed her. But the police would never believe him. He was heartbroken. He couldn't stop crying, blaming himself.”
Iris had wanted to come back, but Randy had convinced her to stay away. Your showing up won't bring Aggie back, he told Iris. You have no evidence that Jason killed her.
“He told me I'd be in jeopardy again, that everything he'd done to save me would be pointless. He said he would be in danger, too, if Jason knew he'd deceived him. To be honest, I was relieved.”
Guilt about Aggie plagued Randy. He started drinking again, doing drugs. Then he had a scare. He joined a church and became serious about dealing with his addiction. He wanted to make amends.
A month ago he'd told Iris he was planning to go to the police.
“After all these years I was still terrified,” she said. “Maybe more, because I was beginning to feel safe. I knew Jason would find me.”
And then Randy died. She had thought about going to the police after the funeral, but had been too afraid. And she told herself that nothing she said would bring Randy back.
But she hadn't stopped thinking about him, or Aggie. He had saved her life, and Aggie had tried to.
She had planned to drive up even before I phoned. She had been trying to find the right time to tell her husband, had realized there would be no right time.
She was still afraid. “But I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of worrying every time the phone rings.”