Elisabeta was saying, '--high-fiber drink mix that keeps me regular and decreases the risk of heart disease.'
No accent. It was startling, bewildering, as if I'd tuned in to an interview to find Antonio Banderas speaking in a Jamaican patois.
Now she was walking over a grassy rise, a canary yellow sweater draped across her shoulders, smiling. A purring voice-over said, 'Fiberestore. For a healthy digestive system. And a healthy life.'
A smiling close-up. That face, the slightly crooked nose, those Everywoman features--if she could benefit from increased fiber in-take, so could you.
My lungs burned; I'd forgotten to breathe.
Elisabeta. In a TV commercial. Sounding as if she hailed from Columbus, Ohio.
An actress. Hired to play a part.
Which meant that Doug Beeman, my last good hope, was probably no longer my last good hope. I pictured Sally and Valentine, speeding toward that apartment this very minute. A fool's errand.
Dazed, I backed away from the screen and sat, nicking the edge of the seat and landing on the floor, the chair toppling over behind me. Still, I couldn't tear my eyes from the TV, though it had long returned to the soap opera.
The door opened briskly, and Kent Gable entered with a small entourage of suited men. Slacks, holsters bulging beneath jackets, badges gleaming on belts. Robbery-Homicide Division, right down to the assured lockstep of the loafers. Gable cocked his head to look down at me. Beneath my hands, the cheap floor tiles were as cool as death, as cool as the chill that had crawled into my bones.
'Sorry, Davis,' he said. 'Honeymoon's over.'
Chapter 35
'Why . . . ?' I cleared my throat and tried again. 'Why'd the DA have a change of heart?'
Pulling onto the freeway, Gable threw a folder over the seat back in answer.
It struck me in the chest. Since my wrists were cuffed, I had to move my hands together to flip through the pages. They looked like printed e-mails.
His partner, a wide Hispanic guy who hadn't offered a name, said, 'We went to search your place--looks like you already tossed it for us.' He didn't bother to turn around. The skin on the back of his head was visible through his shaved hair. 'And after, after we paid a visit to your work. That shared little office with the Dell computer? What did you think, that we wouldn't check all your computers?'
The top e-mail, sent from [email protected] to my work e-mail address, read, Received your inquiry. This what your looking for? Let us know if theres other informations you require. The printed attachment showed a blueprint of what looked to be a mansion. I checked the time stamp--dated six months ago.
Dread turned my voice hoarse. 'What's this, now?'
'Keep reading,' Gable said. 'It gets better.'
A reply e-mail, ostensibly from me: Can you follow people, get schedule information?
I glanced back at the blueprint. The mansion looked familiar, all right. Clear down to the Olympic pool and eight-car garage.
Flipping forward again: We dont do that. Documents only. Sorry buddy. Leave cash at drop point.
The next several e-mails were thwarted attempts, apparently by me, to secure an unmarked handgun from various not-quite-unsavory-enough sources. The final page was an online booking for Hotel Angeleno that I'd evidently made under a fake name.
Gable's eyes watched me steadily from the rearview. I was frozen with disbelief. My mouth was open, wavering but not forming words. Sally and Valentine, the only ones who believed me, were off running down a dead lead. And now there was even more to deny, the evidence so overwhelming. The first thought to cut through the panic haze was that maybe I had lost it. Was this what it felt like inside a psychotic break?
Cars zipped by on either side of us, people coming back from their lunch breaks. A petite brunette smoked and chatted on her cell phone, one pedicured foot up on the dash next to the wheel. Mexicans sold flowers at the off-ramp. Lou Reed's colored girls doo-doo-doo-doo-dooed from someone's radio.
'You really think that deleting something off your computer gets rid of it for good?' Gable's partner snickered. 'That shit's never gone. Our guy had it pulled off there in minutes.'
I said slowly, 'But my computer at home was clean?'
'So far.' Gable's eyebrows drew together. 'What's that get you? We have you dead on the Dell.'
I shook my head, looked out the window again, the sun warming my face. I was cold and hungry and more scared than I thought it was possible to get. But they'd just shown me the first chink in the armor, giving me a new kind of resolve. If I were to have a prayer at staying out of jail, I had to retrace every minute of the past nine days and find any other chinks. As quickly as they stitched together the case against me, I had to unravel it. And I had to do it in the twenty minutes before we hit downtown and I vanished into Men's Central.
A tattooed giant in an orange jumpsuit, his cuffs cinched to a belly chain, all but blotted out the end of the corridor. He had a guard on either side of him, and I wondered if there was enough room for us to pass. Gable tightened his grip on my forearm and kept me moving forward. As we neared, the prisoner made a head lunge at me, and I stumbled back. I could hear the echo of his chuckles even after we'd turned the corner.
We passed into the booking area--a few desks, the mug-shot camera and backdrop, metal benches bolted to the concrete floor. A bunch of bored deputies ate Taco Bell over paperwork. A tiny TV showed that picture of me in a blazer that my agent had insisted I take for the trade announcement after the script sale. I looked like any other asshole readying himself for a golden ascent.
A jowly deputy looked up. 'The Keith Conner guy. Can we get those fingerprints?'
'Mine are in the system already,' I said.
'Good. Then they'll match nicely. It's procedure.'
My heart still hadn't slowed from the scare in the corridor. I nodded, and he printed me expertly while Gable and his partner bullshitted with the others about some of Keith's cop movies and where they missed the mark. The deputy's thick hands manipulated my fingers this way and that. He didn't talk to me. He didn't make eye contact. I might as well have been inanimate. My few possessions were in a plastic tub, but at least I was still in my own clothes. Right now, still having my own clothes seemed like the greatest comfort imaginable.
When he was done, I said, 'I'd like to make a phone call.' Blank stares. 'I get one call, right?'
The deputy pointed to a pay phone mounted on the wall.
I said, 'I'm calling my attorney. Can I have a private line, please?'
Gable's partner said, 'Want us to send for a psychic, too, so you can commune with Johnnie Cochran?'
Through scattered laughter Gable led me around the corner into an interview room split by a Plexiglas shield with a pass-through box for documents. No lawyer beyond the window, of course, just an old-fashioned black phone on my side of the pitted wooden ledge.
'You have a criminal attorney lined up already?' Gable said. 'How 'bout that. You planned ahead.'
'No, I'm calling my civil lawyer for a referral. But our conversation's still privileged.'
'You have five minutes.' He left me alone.
His footsteps ticked away, and then conversation resumed down the hall.
I picked up the phone, punched '0.' When the jail operator picked up, I asked to be transferred to the West L.A. station. After a few seconds, the station desk officer picked up.
'Hello, this is Patrick Davis. I need to speak to Detective Sally Richards immediately. Any way you can put me through to her cell phone?'
'I--Huh? Wait a minute, Patrick Davis Patrick Davis? Didn't we just have you?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'Where you callin' from, son?'
'Men's Central.'
'I see. Hold yourself. I'll see what I can do.'
I waited through the static-cracked silence. Not all the ink had wiped off, navy blue filming the swirls of my fingertips. I touched the Plexi, leaving faint streaks.
Sally answered, 'Patrick?'
'Yes, I--'
'We're off the case. I can't talk to you, not like this. You know the pay phones there are monitored.'
