Freezing

Marie paused. ‘Have the nightmares started again?’

‘Not really, they’re just infrequent, that’s all. Can I finish your berries?’

Marie pushed over her half-eaten bowl of fruit. ‘Why don’t you come up to my place when things get bad?’

‘That’s just running away.’

‘I thought you’d say that, which is why I brought you this.’ Marie pulled a small plastic bag from under the table and handed it over. The bag was emblazoned with the name Rite Aid, the local pharmacy.

Jayne pulled out the package inside: night-lights, pack of two. She smiled. ‘Thanks.’

They sat in companionable silence until the wind picked up enough to blow out the candles. ‘You want coffee?’

‘No, darling, I’ve got to go. I’m judging the student exhibits at the Garden Expo in Pasadena tomorrow, so it’s an early night for me.’

Jayne saw her mother down to the driveway where Marie’s sleek, sky-blue Mercedes 450SL was parked behind her truck. As she walked back up the stairs to her door, she looked at the much-maligned cacti and laughed to herself. They did look like sentries; totally unapproachable and silent.

After Jayne cleared up, she locked the sliding door and went to bed, banishing all thoughts of real people as she pressed the Play button on the cassette deck resting on her bedside table.

She didn’t hear the man on her front doorstep when he smashed one of the cactus pots. The measured reading of Gaudy Night had taken her into a rare dreamless sleep.

DAY TWO

Wednesday

SIX

Eric’s voice was quiet. ‘Here he comes.’ He stepped away from the door of the Suburban to allow Scott to get out. They had been waiting for the owner of the body shop on Magnolia Boulevard, Al Corso, to finish locking his office so they could question him a second time. When Corso saw them advancing, he came to a standstill and threw out his hands, causing his nylon briefcase to wave around.

‘What? You not done with me yet?’ His tone was aggressive and resigned all at once. ‘I answered all your questions, didn’t I?’

‘Yeah,’ said Eric, resting an arm on his shoulders and pulling him toward the Suburban. ‘We just didn’t like your answers so much, Corso. Thought we’d give you another chance.’

They reached the vehicle and Scott opened the back door. Corso looked at each of them, then his shoulders slumped and he got in. Eric hopped in next to him while Scott got in the driver’s seat and closed the door. The door locks thunked closed.

Eric used a friendly tone. ‘Mr Corso, are you familiar with the term “obstruction”?’

The body shop owner held up his hands. ‘Look, I told you what I know.’

‘No . . . you told us you had a van in here for bodywork but that you didn’t get its license plate number.’

‘That was true!’

‘But you remembered that it was a California plate?’

‘Yeah?’ Corso sounded tentative.

Eric punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Don’t get nervous, Corso! I’m just reminding everyone of what you said when we interviewed you.’

The man tried to laugh but he looked nervous.

‘So it was a California plate but you didn’t get the number,’ Eric rejoined.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And you said that you couldn’t remember if it was a vanity plate or a regular one.’

‘So?’

‘I wondered if you knowing that we’re looking for this van because it’s at the center of a Federal murder investigation might help jog your memory?’ Eric smiled at him.

Corso’s voice came out at a slightly higher octave. ‘Murder?’

Scott leaned around from the front seat. ‘And not just murder. We have evidence to suggest that the guy driving the van cut people up into pieces.’

‘I-I-I didn’t know about any murder! The guy didn’t look like a murderer.’

Eric was calm. ‘The guy who brought the van in.’

‘Yeah. I told you, he was just a nobody, maybe forty years old, nothing weird about him.’

‘And he paid cash.’

‘Everyone pays cash!’

‘Let’s talk about the other cash.’

‘What other cash?!’

‘Come on, Corso. We know he paid you hush money. And don’t pretend you haven’t been in this business long enough to note the plates even before you start working on the cars. Come on. How else do you think we found you? LAPD gave us your number ’cause you’ve handled stolen cars.’

‘But this one wasn’t stolen.’

‘How do you know?’

Corso looked crestfallen; he’d walked straight into the trap Eric had laid. He sighed. ‘OK, fine, look. Look. I’ve got a contact at the DMV. He checks plates for me because of all the problems I had with the cops. I’ve been trying to go straight, OK? I only just got the place out of Chapter Eleven.’ He appealed to Eric.

‘I don’t want to hear your bankruptcy sob story, Corso. Tell us about the plate on the van or we’ll be telling LAPD that you’re hacking into Department of Motor Vehicles files.’

‘OK, OK! The plate was like I said, California. It was clean.’ He unzipped his briefcase and pulled out a sheet of paper. He ran a finger down the page, then read out a license plate number.

Eric nodded at Scott, who was writing it down. ‘So if it was clean, why the hush money?’

Corso shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The guy just pulled out the cash – three hundred dollars – and I knew exactly what it was for. I didn’t want to take it but he said, “Remember, I know where you live.”’ Corso looked indignant. ‘I took the money, OK? I’ve got kids to feed, a mortgage.’

‘Get out, Corso.’ Eric’s words were punctuated by the sound of the door locks lifting.

‘Wait! What about the LAPD? What’s going to happen?’

‘Just get out.’

Corso looked at Scott for a reprieve but he was focused on his cell phone. The body shop owner got out of the car, shoulders still slumped, clutching the unzipped briefcase to his chest.

Scott spoke as he dialed. ‘I’m calling the plate in.’

Eric moved up to the passenger seat and read the notes Scott was making on a pad.

As soon as Scott ended his call, Eric asked, ‘The van’s registered to a woman?’

‘Well, the plate that Corso gave us is registered to this woman. But he didn’t check that the van actually went with the plate. Lance just ran the woman’s name through NCIC. No convictions, no arrests. Allegedly living at an address in Woodland Hills since nineteen ninety.’

‘You thinking the perp comes out here from Georgia and borrows her plate to cover his tracks after he gets hit on the freeway?’

Scott looked grim as he turned the ignition key. ‘All I know is, this is the only van we’ve found that matches the drunk’s vague description and needed repair to its back doors since Monday.’

The FBI office on Wilshire was in a multi-story building constructed in the 1970s when concrete blocks and tinted, deeply inset windows were in vogue. Only the barricades at the front curb hinted that a warren of government offices lay behind the unremarkable exterior. Inside, Elevator Number 2 was moving silently upwards, carrying Steelie, Jayne, and Special Agent Weiss.

Weiss had cleared the anthropologists through Security after they arrived from the visitor parking lot but as the elevator reached and passed the fourth floor, where Scott and Eric’s office was located, Jayne and Steelie