He didn’t feel like a lucky man, certainly not the lucky man the doctor in the St. Joe’s ER kept telling him he was. She was tall, this Dr. Baggett, over six feet, given to hunching to downplay it, and also given to repeating herself. “You are a lucky, lucky man,” she said, her eighth and ninth “luckys.” He knew they were the eighth and ninth because Lorena was trying to distract him from his pain by counting them off discreetly on her fingers. The searing puncture wounds were an infection risk, but the dog had chomped the meaty end of his forearm and Waldo had gotten away without either the lacerated flexor tendon or fractured ulna Dr. Baggett feared. The dog had had all its shots, too; the first thing the doctor did was tell Lorena to step outside and call the Roses to ask. Paula, incredibly enough, had been snippy about it.
The X-rays, the MRI and the rest of the attention kept them there past midnight. Arm in a sling, Waldo was finally released with detailed instructions for keeping the wound clean and prescriptions for both oral and topical antibiotics and Percocet for the pain. He could live with counting all the medication as one Thing, but the sling had to be a second, and he had few Things in L.A. to shed. He silently resolved to discard his two pairs of underwear and go commando until his arm healed, if he didn’t come up with a better idea before bedtime.
They had waited until they were through at the hospital to call Cuppy and let him know that they had Stevie in hand and could bring her in to the station for a conversation tomorrow. “No way,” the detective said to Waldo. “I’m talking to her tonight.”
“Give her a break. She’s been through a lot.”
“Tonight, or it won’t be a chat, it’ll be an arrest.”
All Waldo wanted was one of those Percocets and some sleep. He wasn’t getting either soon. “Meet you at the Roses’ house in an hour. Stevie’ll be there.”
Cuppy said, “Forty-five,” and hung up.
Waldo didn’t want Lorena on the phone with Paula again, so he dialed Joel’s number himself and told him.
Lorena said Stevie deserved whatever trouble Cuppy was about to bring down but Waldo still felt protective and talked her out of finding a twenty-four-hour pharmacy and getting the scrips filled first. As recompense he let Lorena, who was beyond fed up with the Things at this point, win both halves of the argument about exempting the new ones: he agreed to treat the medicine as he’d treat food (that is, intrinsically not a Thing), and the sling as he’d treat a cast (that is, a temporary bodily extension and thus not a Thing either), even though the latter was a blatant cheat.
Lorena pressed the button on the Roses’ call box and the gates opened right away. At the top an unfamiliar blue Lexus was parked where the EMTs had tended to Waldo hours before. Joel Rose stood in the doorway. Lorena said, “What’d you do with the puppy?”
“In the laundry room. He’s useless now.”
Lorena said, “Good,” and walked past him and toward the living room.
Joel muttered, “That was a three-thousand-dollar dog.” To Waldo he added, offhandedly, “Sorry, by the way.”
It was past midnight and everyone else looked rumpled and exhausted, but the woman in the living room with Paula was fresh as a sun shower and dressed like she’d stepped out of a window on Rodeo Drive. Waldo’s heart sank. This was Fontella Davis, the celebrity lawyer, whose collaboration on the Pinch case he’d enjoyed only slightly more than tonight’s with the Presa Canario.
Joel told Waldo, “Fontella and I are on a couple of boards together: City of Hope and Esperanza.” Waldo recognized these as a chain of cancer hospitals and an immigrant rights group, respectively. “We thought it would be smart to have an attorney here.”
“Hey,” Waldo said, “you’re looking for someone to handle a dog-bite case, you couldn’t do better.”
Paula said, “That’s not—”
“I know what she’s here for.”
Davis said, “Delighted to see you again, too.”
Joel was thrown by the tension. “Is there a problem?”
Waldo and Davis measured each other. Waldo shook his head and Davis said, “No.” Then she said, “We should talk to Stevie before the police get here.”
Lorena spoke up. “Wait—first this dog thing.”
Joel said, “We bought him yesterday. He was just supposed to be a barky dog. “
“It’s fucked up.”
Paula said, “I know—we should have gotten a rescue dog instead of buying. But they didn’t have anything this big at the shelter we went to. We’re offsetting it with a contribution to Dogs Without Borders.”
“I don’t give a shit about that. I’m talking about Waldo could have been killed. What are you doing with a big fucking monster like that?”
Joel said, “Paula’s been a wreck since the thing with Stevie’s teacher. She’s been terrified to stay in the house alone.”
Waldo said, “You might be safer with a gun.”
Paula and Joel exchanged an eye roll. Paula said, “I’d think a former law enforcement officer would be aware of the statistics.” She spelled it out for him. “People purchasing guns ostensibly to defend their homes, only to end up with the wrong person getting shot?” She left the room to get Stevie.
Lorena said to Joel, “Are you on any boards about domestic violence?”
“No. Why?”
“Because I’m thinking, if you hit your wife, I won’t have to.”
Waldo said, “O-kay.” When the time was right he’d also suggest Lorena try not to threaten the clients, either.
By way of apology, Joel said of his wife, “She’s distraught. All this with Stevie . . .”
They let the thought hang and stood there awkwardly with Joel and Fontella Davis until Paula returned with her daughter. The latter was wearing loose gray shorts and a little pink tank top, probably what she’d changed into for bed. She was saying to her mother, “Nobody gives a shit what I’m wearing.”
Paula said, “This is the police.”
Stevie gestured at Paula’s own wardrobe. “Oh, is that who you dressed up for? With that stupid dashiki thing, and those beads? What are you going for—like, ‘I wish it was still the seventies so I could blow up a post office’?”
Paula said, “Fine. Maybe he’ll arrest you for looking like a hooker.”
“Maybe he’ll arrest you for wearing batik.”
Joel stepped in. “Stevie, this is Fontella Davis. She’s going to be your lawyer.”
“Hi, Stevie.”
Stevie didn’t answer. She looked at Waldo’s injured arm and rolled her eyes to tell him the whole exercise was yet another way her parents seemed intent on embarrassing her.
Davis said, “We only have a few minutes. Why don’t we sit down, and you tell me about the day you ran away.”
“I didn’t ‘run away.’ God.” She said to her father, “This is my lawyer? I am so fucked.” She flopped onto one of the sofas. Davis sat on the opposite one.
Joel said, “Let me get a couple of chairs,” and left the room.
Davis stared at Stevie until the girl offered a better answer, albeit with an attitude that made clear how much this was inconveniencing her. “All I did was call my cousin and go hang out with him, and then my girlfriend picked me up and I slept over at her house. It’s no biggie.”
“Mr. Waldo and Ms. Nascimento came over here to talk to you earlier that day. Is that correct?” Davis was actually asking Waldo and Lorena, who nodded confirmation. She turned back to Stevie. “And is it true that you hired them?”
“Yes.”
“To do what?”
“I told them I needed them to find my brother. But what I really wanted was for them to go talk to Mr. Ouelette.”
“Why did you want that?”
“Because he’s a total creep and something, like, really, really shitty had to happen to him, and I knew nobody else was going to do it if I didn’t.”
Fontella looked to Joel, who was returning with two low-backed leather chairs, probably from the Roses’ dining room. “We need to do some work before we let Stevie talk to the police.” Waldo and Lorena sat on the chairs. The Roses sat on the sofas, Joel beside his daughter and Paula next to the lawyer, who said to Stevie, “When the detective’s here, you’re not to answer any questions unless I specifically tell you to. After he leaves, I’ll teach you how to answer in a way that won’t get you into trouble. Okay?”
Stevie said, “Whatever.”
Joel said, “Maybe Paula and I should have a conversation with the officer first, without Stevie.”
Davis shook her head and said, “He’s going to want to talk to her.”
Stevie said, “Yeah, Joel. It’s not all about you for once.”
Her father said, “Don’t call me Joel.”
“Okay, Joel.”
Joel strained to keep his anger in check. “Young lady, we’re paying a top lawyer thousands of dollars to come out here in the middle of the night to keep you out of prison. Now, straighten up. Be respectful. And go change your clothes before the police get here, like your mother said.”
Stevie said, “Have another Xanax, Joel.”
Waldo got off the chair and came over to Stevie on the sofa. He crouched to talk to her eye to eye; Stevie sighed annoyance and looked at her fingernails. He said, in a softer tone than the others had been using, “I know the cop who’s coming over here today. I know him really well. You think we’re all assholes? This asshole is really an asshole. And he wants bad things to happen to you. So listen to Ms. Davis. Don’t talk unless she tells you to. And after he leaves, let her coach you. Trust me, okay?”
She finally met his eye.
Everyone else held a careful silence.
A bell rang. Joel went to the intercom, buzzed open the gates and left the room to answer the door. The others stayed quiet and listened to Cuppy introduce himself to Joel, who led him into the living room. He said, “This is Detective Cuppy.”
“I’m Fontella Davis, attorney for the Rose family.” Cuppy took a deep breath at that news and blew it out. She told him, “Stevie’s not going to be answering any questions tonight. She’s a minor, it’s late, and I’ve just met her myself. I suggest we meet you at North Hollywood Division tomorrow morning at eleven and pick this up then.”
Cuppy said, “Sure, we could do it that way.”
“Thank you.”
“Second option, she could answer a few questions here now, informally. Third option, we do this with handcuffs and a sleepover. Come to think of it, we’re not going with the first option.”
Davis, stuck, looked at Stevie and weighed how to play it. She said to Cuppy, “Only questions about Stevie’s activities on the day of the murder. You ask; I tell Stevie whether or not she should answer. If I say stop, the interview’s over and you can do what you will.” Cuppy nodded agreement. Davis added, “And I want everyone out of the room. Just the three of us.”
Joel and Paula conferred wordlessly; then Joel said to Waldo and Lorena, “We can all wait in my office.”
The Roses started to lead them out, but Stevie said, “Hang on. I want him here.” She tipped her chin toward Waldo.
Cuppy said, “Not a chance.”
Davis said quickly, “Agreed.”
Stevie said, “Fine. Arrest me.” She held out her wrists for handcuffs.
Davis and Cuppy met eyes, gave in together. The others left the room.
The questioning played out the way Fontella directed: Cuppy posed a series of simple queries about Stevie’s day, and, with step-by-step permission from her lawyer, the girl walked through the timeline, from school hours through Waldo and Lorena’s visit, then through her phone call to her cousin Daron and his bringing her down to Costa Mesa. When Cuppy asked what they did down there, she said they watched some movie; she couldn’t remember the name but some guy had sex with a cake.
She told them how Clara Lambert had picked her up and about how she’d stayed at Clara’s house without telling anyone until today. Waldo chimed in at that point, corroborating that that was where he and Lorena had collected her earlier in the evening. Cuppy asked him how they knew Stevie would be there; Waldo said that he received a phone call from Stevie’s uncle, Daron’s father, who’d known that he and Lorena had been looking for her in Orange County.
Cuppy said he was going to need all of Daron’s information and Clara Lambert’s too. Stevie said she’d have to get it from her phone and Cuppy let her go to her room for it.
Waldo could see Fontella Davis starting to breathe easier. It could have gone a lot worse.
Stevie returned with her phone and the contact information. Then Cuppy asked her the same question Waldo had earlier. “When you were at Clara’s for so long, why didn’t you contact your parents?”
“Because we’re, like, always fighting.”
“What do you fight about?”
Stevie said, “They’re just, like, horrible. They’re, like, constantly . . . abusing me.”
Davis jumped to her feet. “Okay, we’re done.”
Cuppy said, “Wait a minute, abusing you how?”
“No. We’re done.” Davis said to Waldo, “Go get Joel and Paula.”
Waldo left the room to find the Roses. Behind him he could hear Davis telling Stevie to go to her room and Stevie snapping back, “I don’t have to listen to you.”
Waldo followed adult voices to Joel’s office and told the Roses that they could come back now. Lorena asked with her eyes how it went, and Waldo, the same way, answered that it had been a disaster.
Back in the living room, Cuppy was saying to Davis, “You’ll explain to them how child services works?”
Paula said, “Child services?”
Cuppy said to the Roses, “Yeah, they’ll be dropping in for coffee and cake. In the meantime, make sure your daughter doesn’t go running off again.”
Stevie said, “Yeah, because they were so good at that the last time,” and stomped off to her room.
Cuppy gave business cards to Fontella and Joel, said he’d be in touch and left.
The moment the door closed, Lorena turned to Paula. “So, mission accomplished: Stevie’s home, safe and sound. I’ll send you a bill. Good luck.”
Joel said, “Wait—you’re not leaving us now. We still need you. Until she’s cleared.”
Waldo cut Lorena off before she could demur. He said to Joel, “We’ll call you tomorrow.”
Lorena shot him a look but he touched her elbow. She took the cue and went with him to the door.
As they left, Joel said to Waldo, “I still want to talk to you about that other thing.” Waldo thought he must mean the dog. But Joel said, “You know: the rights to your story. I’m telling you . . .” he said, with a meaningful look, the meaning being, presumably, money.
Out on Ventura, Lorena said, “First I thought that girl was a train wreck. She’s not—she’s a carrier. Bad shit’s going to keep happening if we stay with this one. Plus she shot the guy. I know it in my bones.”
He thought of Stevie sitting on that sofa, in her nightclothes, her bare legs folded under her, vulnerable, surrounded by Cuppy’s animus, Fontella Davis’s thirst for publicity, her own parents’ uselessness. “We can’t walk away,” he said. “She’s fifteen. Who in that room do you think’s going to look out for her?”
“Nobody, Waldo. Nobody but you. Her hero.”
“Don’t start this . . .”
“Looking up at you with those big eyes. ‘I want him here.’” She gave the quote a breathy Marilyn Monroe reading. Waldo didn’t respond.
She pulled onto the 101 to head back to her house. Waldo silently nursed his own doubts about whether he was doing the right thing. What he really wanted, but knew he couldn’t say, was to spend the night in his tiny loft, where there wasn’t room for two.