The Face of Death

Pain and rage and an almost unbearable desire to kill something evil. Callie answers for me.

'We're the best, honey-love. The very best.'

Cathy stares at us, and I feel 'seen,' blind or not.

'Okay,' she whispers. Nods. 'Okay.'

'Cathy, do you want protection?' I ask.

She frowns. 'Why?'

'I . . . we're after this guy. At some point, he's bound to know it. Maybe he even wants us to be after him. It might reopen his interest in the past.'

'In me, you mean.'

'It's possible. I know he promised if you did what he said he'd leave you alone, but he's really not to be trusted.'

She pauses, thinking, for the longest time. The moment seems to hang forever. She ends it with a shake of her head.

'No thanks. I sleep with my gun under my pillow. I have a hell of an alarm system.' Her grin is humorless. 'And I kind of hope he does decide to come pay me a visit. I'd be happy to blow his ass away.'

'Are you sure?'

'I'm sure.'

I glance at Callie, and the unspoken goes between us: We'll get a car parked in front whether she wants it or not.

She takes another sip of coffee. Lukewarm by now, I'm sure. 'Do me one favor?'

'Anything,' I say, meaning it.

'When this is over, let me know.'

I reach over, grip her hand.

'When this is over, I'll have Sarah let you know.'

A pause, and then she squeezes my hand, once.

'Okay,' she says again.

She pulls her hand away, reaching for strength.

34

I ' M GAZING OUT  THE PASSENGER - S I D E W I N D O W; I'D ASKED Callie to drive so that I could think. We'd discussed the visit with Cathy, tried to pick apart the mystery of the shield and his stupid word game. We'd gotten nowhere.

I feel exhilarated and disconnected and let down, a cocktail of excitement and unreality. I am exhilarated because we are in motion. We're on the hunt, and we know things we didn't know before. I'm let down by the questions that continue to stack up without answers to go along with them.

The unreality hit me on the way to the car. Last night, while reading Sarah's diary, I met Cathy Jones for the first time. She was a new cop, healthy, dedicated, flawed, more good than bad. Human. Meeting her today at her home, seeing her as she's become--it's like knowing the end of a story you haven't read all the way through yet. Like traveling in a time machine.

My phone rings, startling me from my reverie. I glance at the caller ID, see it's Alan.

'What's up?' I answer.

'Something interesting,' he rumbles. 'Something maybe good for us.'

I sit up straighter. 'What?'

'Well, I'm standing in front of the Langstrom house. And you know what? It's still the Langstrom house.'

I frown, perplexed. 'I don't get it.'

'I got together with Barry. We were going over the case file--and I have some thoughts on it, by the way-- and I just wasn't feeling it. I decided I needed to see the scene. Even if it is ten years later.'

'Sure.'

'Barry has a lady friend in the Hall of Records and also knows some woman in the phone company.' I can almost hear Alan rolling his eyes. 'To make a long story short, we find out that the house is currently owned by--get this--The Sarah Langstrom Trust.'

'What?' The surprise in my voice is sharp. Callie shoots me a look.

'That's what I said. I figured, okay, maybe the parents were a lot better off than we thought. Maybe there's a future happy ending here, Sarah's going to come into a lot of money. Turns out that one is true, but the other isn't. The Langstroms did okay, definitely in the higher percentile of upper-middle-class. But they weren't rich rich, you know?'

'So?' I ask, waiting for the explanation-as-punch-line.

'So, it turns out that the trust was set up by an anonymous donor after the Langstroms were murdered. Someone who was supposedly a big fan of the late Mrs. Langstrom's work.'

'Wow,' I say, meaning it.

'Yeah. The trust doesn't have any physical location, just a lawyer named Gibbs who administers it. He won't give up the name of the donor right now, but he's not being an asshole. Just abiding by the rules of the bar.'

'We'll have to get a subpoena,' I say, still excited. 'An art fan? That hits pretty close to home.'

'That's what I thought. Anyway, Gibbs kept on proving he's not an asshole. He said that as long as we got something in writing from Sarah saying it was okay, and he could verify it with her on the phone, he'd let us into the house. We drove over to the hospital and saw her.'

'How is she doing? How did she react to the news?'

An uncomfortable silence that communicates an uncomfortable shrug. 'She was pretty shook up about it. She wants to see the house. I had to promise her we'd take her soon to get her to stay in bed.'

I sigh. 'Of course we'll take her.'

'Good. So, we got her okay, got her on the phone with Gibbs, and then the lawyer brought us over here. Guess what?' He pauses for emphasis. 'The place hasn't been entered since the Crime Scene Unit released it ten years ago.'

'Are you kidding me?' I can't keep the disbelief out of my voice. Callie gives me another look.

'Nope. The only stuff missing are some things from what was Sarah's room. Maybe the perp came back and took some souvenirs.'

'Give me the address,' I say without hesitating.

I get it and hang up, excited.

'Tell me,' Callie says, 'or I'll sing the national anthem, here and now, with gusto.'

This is a threat. Many things about Callie are beautiful. Her singing voice isn't one of them.

Malibu, I've always thought, is a mix of the rich and the lucky. The rich are the ones who can afford to buy homes in this desirable, notfar-from-the-ocean community today. The lucky are the ones who bought before prices put most homes out of reach of the average bear.

'Beautiful,' Callie observes as we roll down the Pacific Coast Highway.

'Sure is,' I reply.

It's just after lunch, and the sun has decided to make an appearance. The ocean is to our left, broad, blue, the world's immovable object and unstoppable force all rolled into one. You can love the ocean, and many do, but don't expect it to love you back. It's too forever. On the right the hills are crisscrossed by the snaky, windy streets that lead to various Malibu homes and neighborhoods. Lots of green as a result of the rains, I note. Not good news for the upcoming fire season.

We find our turnoff and after ten minutes and a few false starts, pull up to the given address. Alan and Barry have remained outside, Alan standing and listening as Barry leans up against Alan's car and smokes and talks. They see us and approach as we climb out.

'Nice,' I remark, looking at the house.

'It's a four-bedroom,' Barry says, consulting a notepad, his own Ned. 'Three-thousand-plus square feet, three full baths. Bought twenty years ago for about three hundred thou, worth about a mil and a half now, and fully paid off by the mystery benefactor.'