“So if you did everything he wanted, why did you run?”
“He was wrong,” she blurted. The tears came freely. “I never wanted to see him again.”
I put my arms around her. I needed to hold on to someone.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s okay. What we need to do is get you a lawyer.”
“A lawyer? Why?”
“Because,” I said, “you need to tell the police this story. A good lawyer can make you look like his victim. Really you were. And then, if they can figure out what it was that you brought back, they can solve the murders.” I didn’t add that I would be out of it and that Sanchez would have another trail to follow.
“Will you help?” she asked in my ear.
“I sure will.” I pulled away from her then. Her whisper reminded me of other things; things I knew I should leave behind.
She smiled at me. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“Will you take this note up to Bonnie’s? She’s not there. She won’t be back from her flight until later in the morning. But at least she’ll find this.”
“Maybe you better keep it,” I suggested. “You know this thing with the cops could be kinda tricky. You don’t want to incriminate yourself.”
“I can trust Bonnie. Anyway, the letter says that I’m sorry, that’s all.”
She kissed my lips. Her lipstick tasted like chemicals.
I took the note in hand. She smiled and then leaned toward the window, huddling against the damp chill that had settled in the car. I walked down the street angling my umbrella against the wind and rain. I went up the stairs and down the hall to Miss Shay’s apartment. But I didn’t shove the letter under the door; I put it in my pocket instead. Idabell didn’t understand that you had no friends once you’d gone across the line from the law. But I’d help her.
I was happy walking alone and making my own decisions. I knew a lawyer. She didn’t care for me much but she knew her job better than most. I was free for the first time since I’d met the little yellow dog.
As I walked back down the block to my car I saw a man walking in the opposite direction across the street. He wasn’t wearing a raincoat or even a hat; that’s why, I figured, he was moving so fast through the rain.
Idabell was still resting against the passenger’s window.
“I left it,” I said.
She didn’t answer me. Pharaoh began whimpering. He wasn’t hungry for company but truly sad in his cage.
I remembered the man running down the street.
That was when I knew Idabell was dead.
She’d been shot twice in the temple, right through the window. No pulse, no breath. Her eyes were open. There was very little blood.
I don’t know how long I sat there looking at her. Pharaoh whimpered and I tried to get myself moving. But where was I going to go? I wanted something to happen: Idabell to rise as she had before from her friend’s floor; a shot to punctuate her death; anything but the pelting rain and the dog’s cries.
I drove off in a kind of daze. At first I looked for the man who’d been running. He’d disappeared, though. He might have turned left or right at the corner but I was in no condition, or position, to execute a thorough search.
There were thoughts in my head; things that I had to do. But anything I had to think about fled when I tried to catch it. Fragments of final words and prayers went through. The address of a hospital on Santa Monica Boulevard was there.
She was dead. I knew dead from World War Two. I knew dead. What I should have done was to pull into an alley and throw her into the street. That’s what I needed to do. If I reported the crime the cops would have me up on charges with the first waking judge.
I drove on while Pharaoh sang his dirge.
Finally we came to a small park that was partially secluded by a hedge. I drove up into an alley behind the park and turned to Idabell.
I tried to think of anything she might have carried that pointed to me. In her purse I found my phone number on a piece of paper. I rummaged through the bag and took out all the papers I found and her pocket phone book. Then I looked through her clothes.
The whole time I kept breathing slowly to keep my mind clear. There were no pockets on her, no identifying tags that I could see.
It was almost four. I had to act. I got out of my side and went to open her door. A gentleman, I took her out as gently as I could and lifted her as if we were dancing. She was heavy, not like in room C2.
I walked her to the park bench and laid her out there in the dark and leafy alcove. The rain muffled Pharaoh’s cries.
When I got back into the car I lowered her window so that nobody would see the bullet holes. I didn’t care if the seat got wet. Three blocks away, across the street from the hospital, I called them and reported the body in the park. My voice caught as I repeated the words to the dispatcher. Then I hung up and hurried away.
All the way back down Pico Boulevard, Pharaoh was yowling; Idabell’s death was alive in his senses and my
