“How gallant of you to verify, A.”
“Just wanted to make sure you weren't too worn out from the party.”
“Me? Never. On the contrary, bursting with energy. I shall prepare comestibles- pasta with clams, Caesar salad, fruit of the vine.”
“The woman cooks, too.”
“Oh,
At 9:30 I put on an Andrew uniform: gray shirt, baggy gray pants, the same tweed sportcoat. The same cologne.
Starless night, a washed-slate sky, the air reeking of wet paper, damp around the edges.
I took La Brea to Sunset. The boulevard was rife with spandex and leather, delusions passing as hope. East of Western it changed: darkened buildings hemmed by shadow-strewn corners, everything murky, grubby, too quiet.
I drove automatically, slowly, as if riding a track, reached Lyric just after ten o'clock, and climbed the winding road, now stripped of cars.
Rondo Vista was mortuary silent. Zena's garage was closed and one car was parked in front of her house. Fifty-eight T-bird. Pink with a white top, faded and scarred.
Had to be hers.
The same faint light from her window. Setting the mood?
I parked and headed for the door. The covered pathway was dark, the dead spider plants shuddered in the night breeze. Feeling an inexplicable pang of first-date anxiety, I groped til I found the key in the pot, resting atop a mound of bone-dry planter's mix.
Music from inside.
Electric guitars played slowly.
Beautiful, dreamy music.
“Sleepwalk,” by Santo and Johnny.
Zena setting the mood. I remembered the song from my childhood. She hadn't been born when it hit the charts.
I unlocked the door, expecting to find her downstairs in the bedroom, maybe some kind of cute note directing me to the stuffed animals.
She was right there in the living room.
Lit by a single pole lamp with a weak blue bulb.
Theatrical.
Nude, on the sofa.
She reclined, one arm extended along the top of the couch, like Goya's “Naked Maja.” Wide-eyed with eagerness, her tiny white body perfectly formed, pearly in the steely light. Nipples pink and erect, oversized for the small, white breasts, black hair sprayed static. Her legs were spread just enough to offer a view of bleached-blond pubic patch. Her other arm rested on her flat, smooth belly.
I smelled clam sauce but the lights were out in the kitchen.
No preliminaries. How to get out of this-
“Hi,” I said.
She didn't speak. Or move.
I came closer, was inches away before I saw the ligature around her neck. Copper wire, biting into the slender stem, so tight it had been invisible.
Wide, wide blue eyes. Not seductiveness. Surprise, the final surprise.
I turned to run, was caught by the elbows from behind.
A knee in the small of my back sent a jolt of pain up my spine and made my legs give way.
Then hands around
57
Milo's driver was named Ernest Beaudry and he was coal-black, maybe thirty, handsome, impassive, a devout Baptist, with a bristly mustache that looked laser-trimmed and an eighteen-inch neck turned to asphalt by shaving bumps.
The car was a blue unmarked Ford, same model as Milo's but newer and much cleaner, parked in the West L.A. station lot. Beaudry stayed close to Milo as they approached it, held the door open for him.
“Some service, Officer.”
Beaudry didn't answer, just shut the door and got into the driver's seat.
He managed the car skillfully. Driving was one of his favorite things. As a kid he'd fantasized about becoming a professional race driver til someone told him there were no black ones.
The police radio was on, reciting that night's epic poem of coded violence, but Beaudry wasn't listening. Turning out of the lot, he headed for the 405.
“Downtown?” said Milo.
“Yup.”
As they got on the ramp, Milo said, “So what's this about?”
No answer, because Beaudry had none, and even if he had, he was smart enough to keep it zipped. The 405 was clogged with nighttime airport traffic and they barely moved for a while.
Milo repeated the question.
“No idea, sir.”
A few car lengths later: “You work for Chief Wicks?”
“Yup.”
“Assigned to the motor pool?”
“Yup.”
“Well,” said Milo, “all these years on the force and I never got driven before. So this is my lucky day, huh?”
“Looks like it.” Beaudry let his left hand sink to the driver's-door handrest as he one-fingered the wheel.
Traffic started moving.
“Okay, I'll just sit back and enjoy this,” said Milo.
“There you go.”
Sturgis stretched his legs and closed his eyes. They cruised slowly but steadily.
Nice and easy- then Beaudry heard, “Shit- Jesus.”
Rustling motion on the passenger side. Beaudry glanced to the right and saw that Sturgis was sitting up.
“Oh- Jeesus, I can't-” The last word was guillotined by a gasp and Beaudry saw Sturgis slump, one hand on his barrel chest, the other fighting to loosen his tie.
“What's the problem?”
“Stomach- chest- probably just gas… the shit I had for dinner- oh, man, here's another
Sturgis sat up again, suddenly, as if pierced by something. Gasping, rasping, yanking the tie loose but holding on to the limp fabric. Clutching the left side of his chest. Beaudry heard a button pop and plink against the dashboard.
“You all right-”
“Yeah, yeah- get the hell over to Parker, maybe they've got a- no… I dunno- oh
