Chapter Eighty-Nine

It took Furyk twenty minutes in relatively light traffic to get to Studio City. The street he drove down slowly was not the most expensive in an area that housed both Hollywood moguls and wannabe stars who still waited tables while waiting on their big break. The small street was tree-lined but served as a cut-through for morning and evening traffic trying to avoid the tie-ups where the major canyon roads intersected Ventura Blvd. The houses ranged from untended woodsy affairs to post-modern chic. The cement driveway he pulled into ended with a quiet exclamation point at a house that was remarkable for its flawless upkeep. Modest in size and boxy in its plain stucco walls, the paint was meticulous from the window trimmings to the numbers on the mailbox. Pots of plants along the windows made up for sparse but clean landscaping. The trees were equally infrequent and in the summer it got hot inside. In the early fall of Southern California, it could go from 90 degrees to below 50 in a day. The house would struggle to keep its occupants comfortable.

Furyk cut the engine. They had not spoken since sitting in front of the nail spa. Merrill had been deep in thought, her changing expression and unconscious gnawing on her knuckle telegraphing the shifting perspectives and conclusions she wrestled with. He waited until she looked over at him.

“I know you loved Carl. But he wasn’t a particularly good man.” She said nothing, but that included not objecting. “You didn’t kill him, and you’re not a fool for trusting Margolin.” Blaming herself was necessarily part of her thought process, he knew. Now he had to drop the bombshell.

“The man who shot Felicia – who killed her in your kitchen and watched her bleed to death – he was shooting at you first. He was there because Margolin either sent him or told someone else who sent him. They wanted her dead, and if you weren’t going to take the fall for your husband’s death, then they want you dead too.” He waited a moment, letting it sink in. She didn’t look away and he connected the dots for her. “Margolin wants you dead.” She appeared on the verge of tears, but held them back. Anger had made her stronger.

“Why, why exactly? Because he and Carl were being…being….pimps or something?” The word sounded childish coming out of her mouth, out of place like a slang term she’d heard on television late at night and was trying out. “As horrible as that is, why would it mean…I mean, why would he want to kill me?” Her voice was rising and bewilderment was replacing the anger. Furyk wanted the anger to dominate.

“Whatever he and Carl were into, it wasn’t that simple. Whoever sent Cordoza to your place had pull. And they must have a lot to lose if they’re willing to take that risk.” Furyk didn’t mention the attack at his own house the night before. “That means you’re in danger. You’re going to stay here a few days. I’ll call or come over as much as I can, but I need to find out what’s going on. I’ll need you to tell me things, too. I’ll have some hard questions.” Somehow that sounded more ominous than talk about death and murder. Merrill nodded.

Furyk unlocked the car doors with the power switch on his side and got out. He went around and opened the door for Merrill. She stood resolutely, though not entirely convincingly, and walked with him up the swept and weeded walkway stones. From inside, they could hear the sound of music, Middle Eastern music. The smell she had thought was from some blossom she couldn’t identify in the yard resolved into a powerful fragrance of spice and cooking meat. Her mouth watered and she realized she hadn’t eaten since early the previous day. Before they could knock on the door, it burst open and Hamid stood beaming. He’d raced home from the gas station across from Furyk’s sandwich shop, leaving his idiot nephew in charge for an hour and hoping it wouldn’t lead to an explosion or shoplifting spree. At least four children under the age of 7, one woman in her middle 30s, and three ancient dowagers whose true age was indeterminable, peered from different angles around Hamid. Furyk could barely get out a greeting when the women reached around and pulled at Merrill. Speaking a mix of English and Farsi, they launched into a detailed description of what was cooking on the stove while they ushered her in.