“I don’t,” she said. “That’s why it’s different.”
We drove out to Culver City Champion Lanes. The place was dark and black-lit, throbbing with dance music, and crowded with skinny, young, hair-gelled types who looked like reality show rejects. Lots of drinking and laughing and ass-grabbing, twelve-pound balls guttering, a few clackering hits.
Every lane taken.
“Studio night,” said the pouch-eyed, middle-aged attendant. “Metro Pictures has a deal with us. They toss the slaves a perk once a month. We make out good on booze.” He eyed the cocktail lounge on the alley’s north end.
“Who are the slaves?” said Allison.
“Messengers, gofers, assistant directors, assistants to assistant directors.” He smirked. “The
“How long does it last?” I said.
“Another hour.”
“Want to wait?” I asked Allison.
“Sure,” she said. “Let’s play that machine where you try to fish out cool prizes.”
I spent five bucks moving a flimsy robotic claw around a pile of twenty-cent toys, trying in vain to snag a treasure. Finally a tiny pink fleece troll-like thing with a dyspeptic smile managed to get an arm caught in a pincer.
Allison said “How cute,” dropped it in her purse, and touched her lips to mine. Then we entered the lounge and took a booth at the back. Red-felt walls, moldy carpeting so thin I could feel rough cement underneath. This far from the lanes, the technopop was reduced to a cardiac throb. Allison ordered a tuna sandwich and a gin and tonic and I had a beer.
She said, “What mischief have you been up to?”
I caught her up.
“The eight-year lag stayed in my mind,” she said. “How about this: The fact that Rand was being released set something off in Malley. Does he use amphetamines or coke?”
“Don’t know.”
“If he does, that could prime his rage further. He’d know about Rand ’s release, right?”
“At least thirty days before,” I said. “So life stress made him do it?”
“We see it all the time with substance abuse patients. People fighting impulses and bad habits and doing fine. Then something hits them and they backslide.”
Murder as a bad habit. Sometimes it boiled down to that.
CHAPTER 26
Monday night, I slept at Allison’s. She had six Tuesday patients and I left just before eight. During the drive home, I tried the Daneys’ house again. Still no answer.
Family vacation with the foster kids? Homeschooling meant their schedule was flexible, so maybe.
Or had they encountered something nonrecreational?
I drove through Brentwood and into Bel Air, turned off Sunset onto Beverly Glen. Passing the road that leads up to my house, I continued north into the Valley.
Galton Street was peaceful, a guy watering his lawn, a couple of kids chasing each other, birds flittering. The noise from the freeway was a chronic, distant throat-clearing. I came to a stop half a block up from the Daney property. The redwood gate was shut and the fence blocked out everything but a peak of roofline.
I recalled how crowded the lot had been by three buildings. No room for parking, any vehicles would have to be out on the street. Drew Daney’s white Jeep wasn’t in sight. I had no idea what Cherish drove.
I nudged the Seville forward, searched for a black truck or anything else that seemed wrong. A dark pickup was parked two houses up.
Black? No, dark blue. Longer than Barnett Malley’s truck, with an extra seat, twenty-inch tires and chrome rims.
Plenty of trucks in the Valley.
I came to a stop ten feet from the gate, was about to turn off the engine when a small, beige car pulled away from the curb across the street and raced past with as much pep as four cold cylinders would allow.
Toyota Corolla, lots of dents and pocks, a few Bondo patches on the doors. I caught a split-second glimpse of the driver.
Long-haired blond woman, both hands gripping the wheel. Cherish Daney’s eyes were fierce.
She drove to the corner, came to a rolling stop, turned right, sped off.
A bit of a head start but four cylinders wouldn’t be much challenge.
Morning traffic was thin and I picked her up easily, hurrying west on Vanowen. Using a slow-moving camper as a shield, I kept my eye on the little car’s sagging bumper as it approached the Ventura Freeway East.
She chugged up the on-ramp, lost momentum climbing, and slowed. I pulled ahead of the camper, drove to the bottom of the ramp, and waited until she made it over the hump. If a cop saw me, I’d have some explaining to do.
But no cops in sight. Very few people in sight. The Corolla finally disappeared from view and I shot forward.
Cherish Daney merged nervously into the slow lane, swerved a bit as she switched to the center. One hand to her ear; talking on a cell phone. She needed a half mile to build up to seventy-five miles per, maintained that speed on the route through North Hollywood, past Burbank and into Glendale, where she exited at Brand Boulevard.
Maybe this was nothing more than a shopping trip at the Galleria and I’d feel foolish.
No, the mall wasn’t open this early. The look I’d seen on her face said she wasn’t thinking about bargains.
I stayed two vehicles behind the Corolla on Brand and drove south.
Past the Galleria. One mile, two, two and a quarter.
Suddenly, without signaling, Cherish Daney yanked the Corolla’s wheel and bumped up into the parking lot of a gravel-roofed coffee shop called Patty’s Place. A banner on the window promised
Despite all that culinary temptation, Glendale appeared skeptical- only three other vehicles sat in the wide, sunny lot.
Two compacts. A black pickup.
Cherish pulled up alongside the truck. Before she got out, Barnett Malley was at her side. He had on the same outfit I’d seen at his cabin plus a wide-brimmed leather hat. Yellow gray hair streamed over his collar. His thumbs were hooked in his belt and his long legs bowed.
Cowboy Buckaroo.
Cherish Daney was all city girl: fitted yellow top, black pants, high-heeled black sandals. Her white blond hair, loose in the car, was now pinned in a chignon.
