Chapter 11

Tuesday, December 20

The bed wasn’t too uncomfortable, even though it was a fold-out. I had remembered to bring my own pillow, so I don’t know why I woke up early, but I did. It was still dark.

Actually, I do know why I woke up. The dream I was having was tiring me out, and I had to wake up to rest. I was at a big crowded house party with Victoria, who didn’t know anybody except me. She wanted a glass of wine, but I couldn’t find a glass, even though everyone in the place was drinking and there were dozens of cupboards and pantries full of every other kind of glassware. I finally found two little flower vases I thought might suffice, but then I couldn’t find any wine, even though there had been dozens of bottles sitting around while I was looking for glasses. I searched for what seemed like hours, and when I finally made my way back through the crowd to where I’d left Victoria, she was gone.

I was exhausted, but I decided I’d better shake it off. There were only five days left until Christmas, and I was feeling homeless. And if I was homeless, where did that leave my cat? I hated the thought of her coming to my window and finding no one there. She’d probably go back to Sierra, which was probably the best thing for her, anyway. Sierra had maternal instincts. I was beginning to think I had no instincts at all. Hell, even in my dreams I couldn’t figure anything out.

:: :: ::

David was in the kitchen making coffee when I went in around six thirty. He looked very cozy in a white terry cloth bathrobe. His hair was still damp and curled in cute little ringlets all over his head. I’d just thrown on some sweats. I hadn’t had a shower yet.

“Sleep okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, thanks,” I said. “Did you?”

“As well as I ever do,” he said, “which is not very well. I’m a midnight pacer. But it’s not all bad. I get some of my best writing done in the middle of the night.”

He opened the cupboard over the dishwasher and pulled out two mugs, one that said “Caesars,” and one that said “Harrah’s.”

“Black, right?” he asked. He filled the Caesars mug and held it out to me.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Taking a sip, I walked over to the vertical blinds covering a sliding glass door. I peeked between two slats.

“The backyard,” David said. “Such as it is.”

He yanked on the chain, and the blinds slid aside. In early morning half-light, I found myself staring at a bare concrete patio and a backyard surrounded by a cinder-block wall. The patio was dotted with clay pots. Some were broken, and the rest had the remains of dead plants in them. A dry birdbath stood at the edge of the patio, and beyond that lay a dead lawn surrounded by half a dozen dead trees, even more dead shrubs, a bed of dead rosebushes, and a little arbor covered with a dead vine. It was without exception the most extinct backyard I had ever seen.

“God! What happened?”

“I stopped watering.”

“Sorry. Stupid question,” I said, but it actually wasn’t. The front yard had a happy-looking shade tree, some nicely trimmed shrubs, and a lawn that obviously got mowed regularly.

“It was Rebecca’s backyard,” David said. “She did all the landscaping. Did her best to make it look like home.”

“So—when she left, you just—”

“I’m not proud of turning off the water, but I was angry. The trouble is, it only takes a couple of weeks, and wham!” He shrugged. “It looks like I’ve been doing atomic testing.” He yanked the chain again. “So I keep the blinds pulled.”

“Do you still love her?”

“Copper, I’ve got to get to work.”

“Yeah. Just keep those blinds drawn. That takes care of everything.”

“Copper—”

“I’m sorry, David,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, you did,” he said. “But it’s okay. I do compartmentalize. Makes life livable.”

I could have kicked myself. Here was a nice guy who had invited me into his private space, and I was picking on him for things I knew nothing about.

:: :: ::

It felt odd to have David Nussbaum’s house key on my key ring, and even odder to have made plans to have dinner with him. And the oddest part about it was that it didn’t seem odd at all. It felt easy and comfortable and nice. Like I had a real friend.

Of course, that nice feeling got shot to hell as soon as I got to work. Ed Bramlett was lying in wait for me next to the mail room, which was packed with all the people checking their boxes on their way to their cubes.

“So you’ve hooked up with Dave Nussbaum!” he practically shouted. The mail room crowd instantly fell silent. I’m sure I turned red, but I didn’t say anything. I just pushed past him and headed for my cube.

“We had a pool on who the lucky son of a bitch was going to be, and I won!” he called after me. “Fifty bucks, just in time for Christmas! I owe you one, blondie!”

Fortunately, Chris Farr was in the mail room crowd.

He was right behind me when I got to my desk.

“I’m sorry, Copper,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, “but you’re not the one who should be apologizing.”

“I know that.” He moved inside the cube. “And I don’t think an apology is enough, anyway. The situation has gone way beyond that. I just want you to know that I’m aware of it and—”

He paused and looked at me for a moment. He had a naturally happy face, but right now it looked pretty glum.

“Copper, you’ve got grounds for a sexual harassment case, and I’ll support you if you want to begin doing something about it.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks, but—” I hesitated, but I couldn’t hold myself back. “I just wish Ed would eat shit and die.”

Chris didn’t say anything for a minute or two. He just stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Copper, can you hang in until after the holidays? Things’ll be different then, I promise.”

It was what I’d been planning all along, so it wasn’t difficult to say yes.

“And in the meantime, you can have more time at lunch if you want. So you can eat off campus, I mean. If it helps.”

I couldn’t see why anything would change after the holidays, but Chris seemed to know what was going on. And longer lunch hours! I wasn’t going to complain about that!

Five minutes after he left my cube, Chris came back.

“You still want to do that movie review?” he asked.

“Sure!” I said.

“Great! It’s screening tomorrow morning at ten at the Village Square over on West Sahara. You can go directly there in the morning. If you make it in here by one, that’ll be fine.”

As soon as Chris left, my office phone rang.

“Copper Black?” asked a woman’s voice. “This is Heather Vetra. Victoria McKimber’s partner. I met you at the Sekhmet Temple—”

“Oh!” I said. “Yes!”

“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Have you got some time this afternoon?”

I hesitated.

“It’s about Victoria,” she said. “I know who killed her.”

Whoa. This was a woman who got straight to the point.

“Shouldn’t you call the police?” I said.

“I want to talk to you first. In person.”

I hesitated again, debating whether I should meet with Heather or call the police myself.

“Okay,” I said finally. “Where?”

“My rig’s parked at the Silverado RV Resort,” she said.

“Your rig?”

“My trailer.”

After confirming that the Silverado RV Resort was next door to the Silverado Casino where I’d first met Victoria, I agreed to meet Heather at her place at five thirty.

As soon as I hung up, my cell phone rang. It was Michael.

“What’s going on, Copper? Are you coming home tonight?”

“I think I’ll stay with my friend this week,” I said.

“Oh,” Michael said. I knew he wanted to say more. I could almost feel him biting his tongue.

“Hey, I’ll come by this evening,” I added quickly.

“Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

I agreed to dinner after telling Michael I had an appointment after work and I might be late. Then I called David to let him know he was on his own. Damn. The day was not turning out the way I thought it would. Again.

I managed to leave work a few minutes early, and when I pulled through The Light’s security gate onto Bonanza Road, I noticed a silver Lexus pull out behind me from a parking place on the street. It followed me onto Interstate 15, where I shrugged off the notion that it might be tailing me. Stop being paranoid, I told myself, and I turned on the radio. Traffic was moving nicely, and it looked like I’d make it to the Silverado RV Resort with time to spare.

Down around Spring Mountain, I revised my prediction. A sea of red taillights stretched in front of me, and traffic slowed to a crawl. Time to escape, I told myself, and I eased into the right lane, exited, and continued heading south on Dean Martin Drive.

I was making good progress when I caught sight of a silver Lexus in my rearview mirror. Was it the same one I’d noticed earlier in front of The Light? Once again, I told myself to stop being paranoid.

I paralleled the freeway as I closed in on Blue Diamond Road. I had just stopped for a red light at Russell when—wham! My head slammed against the headrest. Something had hit me from behind! I looked in my rearview mirror. It was the silver Lexus.

As soon as the light turned green, I crossed the intersection and pulled off the pavement. The Lexus pulled in behind me. As I watched in my rearview mirror, both doors opened, and a man emerged from each. Both were wearing raincoats, gloves, and sunglasses. It wasn’t raining, not even a little, and the sun had already gone down. They started walking forward, one on either side of the Max. They’d gotten about as far as the side door when I broke out in goose pimples. These guys had followed me, rear-ended me, and now they were surrounding me. Maybe I was paranoid, but just as the one on my left reached for my door handle, I stomped on the accelerator. The Max lurched forward, spitting out a spray of gravel as it jumped back onto the pavement. Fortunately, the road was empty as I careened back into the traffic lane and shot forward. In my mirror, I caught one last glimpse of the two men, backlit by their own headlights. One of them was talking into a cell phone.

Not knowing what else to do, I headed in the direction of the Silverado. I kept checking my mirror, but there was no sign of the silver Lexus. When I reached the casino, I pulled into the parking lot near the entrance. Casinos are always crawling with security guards, and I felt safe enough to get out and have a look at my back bumper. Fortunately, the damage was minimal—just a slight dent. The tailgate wasn’t damaged, and the taillights were intact. I wished I’d caught the license number on the silver Lexus, but I began to relax. I wasn’t hurt, and nobody was following me now. It was just an accident, I reassured myself. Just a fender bender. My heart rate returned to a more normal pace as I drove over to the Silverado RV Resort to find Heather.

As I rolled through the gates, I realized that I had never been inside a trailer park before. Since the only knowledge I had of such developments was a tornado joke or two, I was under the impression that trailer parks were pretty much hillbilly parking lots set up on cheap real estate in heavy weather zones. So when I saw the word “resort” on the Silverado’s sign, I was ready to snicker. What makes a trailer park a “resort?” Flush outhouses? Storm cellars with minibars?

Well, I was as wrong about RV parks as I had been about brothels. The Silverado RV Resort was about as far removed from my notions of a trailer park as the MGM Grand is from Motel 6. The “office” was a grand white edifice with Corinthian columns and a copper dome. Through the oversize double doors, I could see a huge crystal chandelier and slick marble floors. I drove past perfectly manicured lawns and trimmed hedges as I looked for Heather’s space. I counted two water-spouting dolphins, one golf course, three swimming pools, and four tennis courts. The spaces—hundreds of them—were occupied by an astonishing array of mobile living arrangements, and none of them qualified as trashy. They were all new, and most were huge.

I was creeping along a row looking for Heather’s space when a posse of energetic speed walkers strode past me, arms and calves pumping in synchrony. They were all in spandex, they all looked like Jane Fonda, and they blew by me like I was parked. Another stereotype crushed. These were no Cheetos-munching couch potatoes. With their sleek thighs and color-perfect hairdos, these ladies were proud-stepping advertisements for the “active adult lifestyle” that I thought was a myth. I was still watching them strut around a corner when I realized I had arrived at space A-422.

I recognized Heather’s pickup. It was the same black Ford she had been driving the night I met her at the Sekhmet Temple, only now it was parked in front of a big white trailer with an awning on one side. There was just enough room next to the truck for me to pull off the street.

Heather opened the trailer’s side door before I could knock. She was holding a pink hairbrush and a tiny long-haired dog. New Age-y music was playing in the background.

“Hey, Copper,” she said. “Glad you found me okay. Come on in.”

She held the screen door open for me, and I climbed inside.

“I was just finishing up with Topanga here,” Heather continued. “If I don’t brush her every day, she starts looking like something a cat would cough up.”

As if in protest, Topanga whimpered and struggled to free herself from Heather’s grasp.

“She likes you,” Heather said, holding tighter until the dog gave up and went limp. While Heather was occupied with grooming Topanga, I checked out my surroundings. I was standing in a dining-living-kitchen area that was far nicer than my apartment. An oriental carpet covered the hardwood floor. Two candles in glass chimneys flickered on the dining table, and next to them, a little oil burner filled the air with some exotic scent—sandalwood, maybe, or patchouli.

“Have a seat,” Heather said. “I’m almost done, then I’ll make some coffee or something.”

I sat down on the sofa, which was partly covered with a fluffy white sheepskin. Next to me was a book bound in red leather. Its gold-edged pages made me guess it was a Bible, but when I turned it over, gold embossed letters read “The Iliad.”

“You’re reading Homer?” I asked, trying not to sound surprised. A bookmark with a purple tassel stuck out about a third of the way through.

“Yeah,” Heather said. “It’s all part of my grand self-improvement scheme. I’m reading all the classics.”

“Wow,” I said. “Impressive.”

“You’ve done it, haven’t you? In college, I mean?”

“Sort of,” I said, thinking back to my freshman humanities course.

“Well, you’re lucky you had a kindly professor to explain things. I thought I’d be reading about the Trojan horse, and instead I’m slogging through a bunch of bullshit about Achilles sulking in his tent because some dude stole his girlfriend.”

“Maybe you should try The Odyssey,” I said.

“I already read that,” she said. “But come on. The guy spends seven years with a sexy nymph on a private island while his wife stays home and does his job? More macho bullshit. Then he comes home, and she gives him a hero’s welcome. Please!”

She petted Topanga, and Topanga licked her cheek.

“I did like the part where the old dog stayed alive to see Ulysses one last time. That made me cry.” She kissed the little dog and let her go. Topanga hit the floor running, launched herself from the rug, landed in my lap, and attacked my face with her tongue. She was so quick—and I was so surprised—that she even managed to lick the inside of my mouth.

“You like dogs, I hope,” Heather said.

“Love them,” I said, easing Topanga back onto the floor.

“They beat men all to hell.”

Heather ran her hands through her long bleached-blonde hair and wound it in her fingers before she let it go. She was silhouetted by the candles on the table, and I wished I looked that good in a belly-baring tank top and low-rise jeans. How old was she? I wondered. Thirty, maybe? Thirty-five? I really couldn’t tell.

“Want some coffee?” Heather asked. “Or I’ve got some sparkling cider if you’d like that better.”

“Coffee’s fine,” I said. In fact, it sounded great. I was still feeling edgy from my experience with the silver Lexus and the two guys in raincoats.

After Heather poured us each a gold-rimmed china cup of coffee—we both liked it black—she sat down in the chair facing me.

“I think Bobby Marks killed Victoria,” she said. “Or somebody did it for him. He had motive, and he had opportunity. He also has enough money to pay a hit man and shut people up. That’s what the Beavertail doesn’t want you to know.”

“Bobby Marks, the brother of Charlie Marks,” I said, sort of as a question, but mostly just to fill the silence.

“That’s the bastard,” Heather said. “He’s a Beavertail regular. Has been since before I started working there. He always asks for the newest turnout.”

“Turnout?”

“The newest arrival,” Heather said. “The new girl, the one he can intimidate. Because he’s really a rapist. He’s just figured out a way to do it legally.”

I didn’t know what to say, but Heather didn’t seem to need me to fill in the gaps.

“It happened to my friend Tasha. She got the Marks treatment when she turned out a few years ago. A concussion and three cracked ribs. Not to mention a couple of other assaults that are supposed to be the lady’s choice.”

I looked blank, so Heather continued.

“Anal sex. Very few girls have it on their regular menus.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling decidedly ignorant. “Then why—?”

“Why does a shithead like Bobby get away with it?” Heather finished my question accurately. “The Golden Rule: the shithead with the gold makes the rules.”

Topanga scratched at the door to the front end of the trailer, and Heather got up and opened it. Through it, I could see a small hallway and a bedroom. The little dog ran through and leapt onto the bed.

“She’s spoiled,” Heather said. “That’s her bed. If I’m lucky, she lets me share it at night.”

Leaving the door open, she sat down again.

“I got the whole story from Tasha. Last Thursday, the day before Victoria’s body was found, Bobby showed up at the Beavertail around noon. His usual deal was to pick a girl, go to a bungalow, and stay as long as he wanted, sometimes all night. He’d drop between ten and fifteen grand every time he showed up, and I think there was more to it than that. I think he had Kent’s—the owner’s—head in a vise somehow. Blackmail maybe, I don’t know. Something that let him get away with murder.

“Anyway, around three in the afternoon a chair flew through the bungalow’s picture window. Tiffany—that’s the girl Bobby was with—ran outside, with Victoria right behind her. Bobby ran out after them. He was bleeding and screaming.

“Within half an hour, everything was quiet again. Tiffany was in her room. Bobby was gone. No one ever saw Victoria again.”

“He kidnapped her?”

“It’s pretty obvious he did. Bobby hated Victoria. She was always looking out for the ladies and cramping his style. Kent and Bernice didn’t like her, either, but they cut her slack because she also kept the ladies in line. It was like a cold war, always about ready to explode.” She shook her head like she was trying to get rid of the memory. “Anyway, Tiffany told Tasha that when Victoria came to check on her, Bobby grabbed a fire extinguisher and sprayed it at her. Victoria picked up a chair and hit Bobby on the head. Bobby grabbed it and threw it at Victoria, only it went through the window instead.”

“Do the cops know this?” I asked.

Heather snorted. “They could if they wanted to.”

“You could tell them, couldn’t you?”

“I could,” Heather said. “But I prefer to do things that actually make a difference. Like tell you.”

“Me?” I said.

“Yeah. The press. That’s what Victoria would have done.”

I sat there a moment, trying to feel like I really was “the press.” But the more I tried, the more I felt like an imposter. I wasn’t even taking notes.