“Okay.” It had been a long time since Horace had taken a woman to a movie, years. “I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me where to pick you up.”
“Cool,” she said.
“See ya.”
“Yeah.” She hung up.
Horace held the phone to his ear for a few seconds, imagining she was still there. Then he remembered the woman in Catalina and called Striker. Like Sadie, Striker answered on the first ring.
“It’s me,” Horace said. “I took care of the Catalina job.”
“How can I believe you?” Striker spoke softly, but there was no hiding the anger there.
“I say it’s done, it’s done.”
“Like the Kenyon woman?”
“Yeah, like that. You got a problem with the way it was handled, I’m sorry, but she’s dead and there’s no way it can come back on you.”
“She’s dead alright. I took care of it about half an hour ago. Unfortunately, I think she picked your photo out of a mug book.”
“What the fuck you talking about? I put a clip into her chest.”
“You shot up Maggie Nesbitt. She’s married to that guy on television. The one with the grey hair and that fucking dimple stuck in his chin. The one sounds like a Kennedy.”
“No way.”
“Margo Kenyon spent the evening with the Long Beach Police Department. Afterward, she drove her Porsche into the bay. The divers will pull her out in the morning.”
“You’re shitting me?” Horace couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was the Kenyon woman he’d killed. He couldn’t make a mistake like that. Couldn’t.
“And you’ve got another problem. That albino fuck’s gonna hand the case over to Billy Wolfe. Anyone else would shelve it. But Wolfe’s different, dangerous.”
“You said if the albino and his partner were out of the picture, the case would die a slow death. What happened?” Horace felt sick. He took a couple deep breaths.
“You there?” Striker said.
“Yeah.”
“Wolfe’s got a wife and kid. Do the kid before Wolfe gets his teeth into this thing.”
Fuck, a kid, is what he thought, but, “Okay, e-mail me the details,” is what he said. Then, “About the Kenyon woman, it was her I did. If there was some cunt at the cop house claiming to be her, she was lying.”
“The news guy identified the body. It was all over television. Don’t you watch?”
“Not if I can help it.” Horace felt like his head was going to explode.
“Never mind. It’s taken care of. On this other, check your e-mail, then do it tonight if you can.”
“Sure.” Horace didn’t think Striker had heard, because he’d already hung up.
Horace booted up his computer, logged on. Calm, he told himself as he opened the message. His heart was racing. A pain started in his temples. How in the world could he have killed the wrong woman for Christ’s sake? He’d been following her for a bloody week before she’d disappeared. He knew what she looked like.
The message flashed on the screen centered, all in caps.
WOLFE AND WIFE SEPARATED. WIFE LIVES WITH 2 YEAR OLD JIMMY AT OCEANVIEW TOWERS. 1701 ON THE SEVENTEENTH FLOOR. ACCIDENT! SEE ATTACHMENT!
Jesus wept, the boy was only two. Horace bit his lip as he opened the attachment. It was a copy of a newspaper clipping. The story about the body behind the gay bar. The woman’s name was Margaret Nesbitt. Married to the guy who did the six and eleven o’clock news.
He called Striker back.
“Yeah.”
“Something screwy’s going on. You got an address for the news guy, Nesbitt?”
“110 Ocean. It’s in the Shore. A duplex. He lives on top.”
“You had that real fast,” Horace said.
“You wouldn’t have told me the Kenyon woman was dead unless you believed it. Find out what’s going on, but be discrete.”
“You got it.”
“And don’t forget the boy.”
“Don’t worry.” But Horace was worried. Two years old. It was enough to make your stomach turn.
A twenty minute walk along the dark beach and Maggie was between the sea and the Olympic pool. She looked out toward the pier, dark under there. She thought about Darley and Theo. They’d helped her, but she shivered when she remembered that disappearing bottle of wine.
Then she trudged up over the sand, toward home.
Only it wasn’t home anymore.
It was a risk going there, someone might see her, but not Nick. He’d be at the station. He might miss his Sunday magazine show to identify his wife’s body, but the news was sacred to him. He’d be at his desk, wearing that blue blazer. He’d be heartbroken, but he’d do the news.
And then there was Gordon. She hated deceiving him as much as she hated deceiving Nick, maybe more. Nick had his work, his friends, family. Gordon didn’t have anyone, except maybe Jonas, for a shoulder to cry on. She wished there was a way she could tell him.
Close to the duplex, she came up the alley behind, was about to take the stairs, when she remembered the newspapers on the garage floor. Nick was a newsman and he wasn’t stupid. If he saw those papers like that, he’d know she’d gone through them. He’d want to know what she was looking for and he’d find it.
Maggie tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Inside she turned on the light. There were no windows, so there was little danger anybody would see. They’d have to be close enough to see light coming out from under the door, a risk she had to take.
The papers were where she’d left them. For a second a flash of anger rippled through her. Nick never failed to park his precious Mercedes in the garage. But her Mustang, that was too much trouble. Maggie took a breath, pushed her anger away. It was stupid. Her job here was to put the papers back the way they were as quickly as possible and get out and that’s what she did.
Outside again, she took the back stairs, careful to step over the fifth step because it squeaked. At the top, she found the key under the mat where she’d expected it. A quick breath and she opened the door. She eased it closed, locked it. The house was dark, but enough light seeped in from the apartment building next door for her to see her way around.
Bedroom first. She stopped at the door. The bed was rumpled. The place smelled of sex. Nick was fastidious, he’d never leave an unmade bed. Not ever. That girl must have been in it when he’d gone to the station. Where was she now? Would she be back soon?
She closed her eyes for a second and examined her feelings. The affair must have been going on for some time. How come she wasn’t hurt? Maybe she hadn’t been as much in love with Nick as she’d thought.
She went to the closet and pulled out her flight bag. Then to the bottom bureau drawer, Nick’s drawer. She fished under his ski sweaters, found the pistol. She didn’t know much about handguns, but she knew about this one, a Smith amp; Wesson Sigma nine millimeter automatic. Nick’s plastic gun. Better than a Glock, he’d boasted. Seventeen rounds in the mag, plus one in the chamber. Just point and shoot. And Maggie knew how to do that, Nick made sure of it by taking her to the range more afternoons than she could count. It was the only gun she knew, but she knew it well.
She checked to make sure he’d chambered a round. He had. She dropped it into the bag. Nick would miss the gun and undoubtedly report it stolen, but that couldn’t be helped. She wanted protection now, tonight.
Gordon Takoda stepped out of the shower, pulled a towel from the rack and dried his hair. Despite the shower, he felt like he hadn’t slept in a week. Losing Maggie had been as bad as losing Ricky.
