The sound of car tires crossing the bridge connectors echoed in the canyon like a Ping-Pong game played in an empty gymnasium. Police spotlights illuminated the crisscrossed bridges in white daylight, the art deco trim of an older, unused lower bridge throwing open-weave shadows on the underside of the concrete freeway built over it. Yellow plastic police ribbon encircled a section of the canyon, crossing a creek that babbled a narrow foot of water in defiance of the drought.
“The way I figure,” Lewin said, “she was kneeling about here…” He stood near the body and bent his knees. “Then, he stood here, and…” Lewin raised an imaginary gun. “Boom. Lights out.”
Somers looked down at the body. He’d seen lots of murder victims but remembered a forgotten horror and felt that if he’d just worked harder, been more on top of his game, paid closer attention, listened better, he could have prevented this one.
Jaynie was on her back, her legs bent in a way that would have been uncomfortable in life, her arms casually dropped by her sides, her head in the shallow creek, her blonde hair flowing with the current. The bullet had made a small hole in her forehead. The back of her head had been washed down the creek. She was wearing the black-and-white houndstooth check dress she’d worn to wear to work that morning. One of her black patent leather pumps had been freed from her foot and was on the grassy bank beside her.
Somers turned to a uniformed officer. “What did those kids have to say?” He inclined his head in the direction of four teenagers huddled together on the steep canyon bank.
“They came down to neck and drink, saw her, and climbed back up and called us. They’re scared because one of the boys has a coupla cans of spray paint on him.”
Lewin squatted on the muddy bank of the creek. It was covered with short grass. “Professor, how many sets of footprints you see here?”
“Hard to tell. Mud’s soft. There’s Jaynie’s. One man… maybe two. Smooth-soled shoes.”
“I want Teddy picked up,” Lewin said. “Hey,” he called to a police photographer. “Take one from that angle looking across and I want one from the top of the hill up there.” He turned back to Somers. “That’s the jerk who messed me up last time.”
“More and more bullshit. Every time we turn around,” Somers said. “Iris Thorne is talking. Today. You notify Jaynie’s next of kin. I’m going to Santa Monica.”
“You’re the man, Professor.”
Somers knocked on the open door of Iris’s condo.
“Anyone home?” He walked across the parquet entryway into the living room, stepping over the clutter. “Iris?” The room was illuminated by a lamp that had been put back in its place on an end table, the shade crushed on one side. “Hello?”
He walked through the kitchen, checked the terrace, then walked toward the bedroom, turning quickly to check the bathroom first. The bathroom was empty. The bedroom was empty. The light in the walk-in closet was on. Something rustled inside.
Somers stood ready to draw his weapon. “Iris?”
“Who’s there?”
Somers looked inside the closet and saw Iris standing thigh-high in a pile of clothing.
“John?”
“I yelled, but… why is your door open?”
“Let ‘em in if they want in. Look. They threw every last thing on the floor.”
Somers surveyed the closet and the portable clothes rack that stood outside the door, crammed with clothes. “Why do you have so much stuff?”
“Why?” She shrugged. “Because I can, I guess.” She started digging through the pile surrounding her knees.
“Iris, I came to tell you something.”
“You got my message?”
“What message? At home?”
“At the office. You didn’t get it? Here’s what I’m looking for.” She grabbed a long nylon webbing strap and walked backward. A large canvas duffel bag popped free. She threw the bag onto the bed, unzipped it, and started packing a small mound of clothes that were piled outside the closet door.
“Going somewhere?” Somers asked.
“Yep.”
“Where?”
“The South Pacific. Sailing.”
“For long?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s why you cashed out your accounts.”
“How did you know about that?”
“At your office today.”
“Talk about life in a fishbowl. At least I won’t be under scrutiny day and night.”
“Leaving’s not a good idea, Iris.”
“It’s the best idea I’ve had in a long time.”
“The case… everything’s unresolved.”
“It won’t stay that way. You’ll find a solution, and whatever it is, it’ll be the right one. Then everything will be fine. Back to normal. Status quo. Except I’ll be sitting under a palm tree somewhere. Finally being smart.”
“Typical Iris.”
“Typical Iris, what?”
“Never lets any grass grow under her feet.”
She glared at him. “What’s your problem?”
“The going gets a little tough, and she’s outta here.”
“Where do you get off coming into my home and saying those things? You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”
She walked into the closet, bent over the pile of clothes, and threw a bunch into the room behind her. They landed near his feet.
“I know you, Iris. You left a situation fifteen years ago and didn’t care about what you left behind then, either.”
“You were Mr. Sour Grapes. ‘Who wants to live in Europe anyway? Who cares?’ You couldn’t see beyond your own backyard. Then you stopped writing me. I found out you got married from my girlfriend. Talk about bailing out of a situation.” She threw more clothes behind her.
“I made a wrong decision,” he said. “It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t left.”
“So it’s my fault? Nothing like taking responsibility for your own actions, huh, John?”
“That cuts both ways. Your girlfriend filled in the details you left out of your letters, about your affair with that French guy, what was his name? Poopoo? Fifi?”
“Real close, John. Loulou, a nickname for Louis. An affair. You make it sound so sordid. He was just a guy in my class. We decided not to be tied to each other that year, remember?”
“You traveled with him.”
“So what! You got married! Got married and moved away and didn’t even have the guts to tell me. Big macho cop.”
She pulled a black Chanel handbag from the pile, twisted backward, and threw it at him with a quick overhand toss. It hit him squarely on the chest then fell at his feet.
“Dropped out of school. Real tough guy.”
Somers looked down at the purse with his mouth open, then looked back up in time to dodge a taupe Coach leather clutch that sailed past his left shoulder. His face turned red. He clenched his fists. She stood staring at him, still twisted backward, her hands dug into her waist, her jaw tight and her face seething.
He took one heavy step toward her, paused, took one more, wrestled for control, then swiveled and walked to the doorway. He held on to the top of the door frame with one hand and rubbed his other hand across his face.
“You found me after fifteen years, remember? Come into my life and criticize how I live and what I do. Forget the message I left. I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone’s help. I’m the only one I can count on. That’s the way it was then, and that’s the way it is now.”
“What was the message?”
“Jaynie’s disappeared. The police blew me off.”
Somers pulled his hand away from his face. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror at the end of the hallway. His shoulders slumped. He couldn’t do it anymore.
He turned to Iris with his hands out, palms up, apologizing in advance for the bad news.
She stopped packing. “What is it?”
“Iris…”
“What! What is it?”
“Jaynie’s dead.”
Her legs gave way. She dropped onto the pile of clothes.
“She was murdered. We just found her body. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He took a step toward her with palms open but empty, without solace.
She got to her feet and waded out of the closet, waving him away. She drifted to the bed, sat on a corner, and stared straight ahead. She folded her hands in her lap and worked her knuckles, breathing hard and slow. Then her breath caught and the tears started to flow. She covered her face with her hands. “My God, my God.”
He knelt on the floor beside her and put one hand on her knee and the other around her waist.
“She wanted to pick up my car. Wanted something to do.” She wiped her nose against the back of her hand.
He went into the bathroom, pulled a length of toilet paper from the roll, and handed it to her.
She got up and walked to one side of the room, turned, walked back, then retraced her steps, back and forth, trailing the toilet paper behind her. “My God, Jaynie.”
“She was driving your car?”
“She picked me up. The TR had keys in the ignition… with her purse. I told the police. I told them.”
“Iris, tell me what you know about Alley. What you know about any of it.”
“It was supposed to be me, wasn’t it? Jaynie had the TR. We looked like sisters… what everyone always said.” She searched his face for an answer, then turned and walked with her hands limp at her sides. “What have I done?”
He pulled a chair out from the desk and flung it around to face the room. “Iris, sit down.”
She paced, her body jerking with hiccupping sobs.
“Iris, sit down.” He grabbed her arm on the next turn and pulled her down into the chair.
She inhaled tremulously.
He put his hands on her shoulders. “Iris. Trust me.”
She breathed in short gasps with each hiccup. “Should have been me. They wanted me.”
“I don’t know why you’re protecting Alley. You don’t know the kind of person he really was.”
“He really was?”
He put his face within inches of hers. “Alley was a thief.”
She sobbed. “He wasn’t.”
“Oh, no? He made trips to Mexico, passed himself off as an executive of your firm, threw money around. Big show. You know the Mexican police were going to arrest him? They think he was part of a money-laundering scheme.”
“Wasn’t a thief.” Her arms dangled at her sides and she shook her head back and forth. “I knew him.”
“Did you? Did you know he kept a prostitute? A real racehorse. She told me Alley had a couple of weird requests, but she got used to it, being a pro.”
“Sadist.”
Somers pulled a desk lamp around and turned it on, twisting the neck so that the light blazed onto her face.
She covered her swollen eyes with her hand. “Turn it off. Think you’re in some old grade B detective movie?”
“Where did Alley get the money? Did you help him?”
She held her hand in front of her face and squinted at the light coming between her fingers. “Bastard. Trust me, you said.”
“Tell me what you know about Alley and I’ll leave you alone. Forever.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“What kind of a fool do you take me for? Your name comes up in every conversation. You’re onto Joe Campbell’s father. Your condo’s been trashed. Jaynie’s murdered after driving your car. Your boss insinuated you’ve embezzled money. I’ve defended you down the line, Iris. It’s time for you to do something for me.”
“How much money did Stan say was missing?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
She looked at the Rodeo Drive shopping bag and stopped crying. “Oh, really?”
“He said you broke into his filing cabinet and took the Worldco file.”
“And you believe him.”
“Tell me what the truth is.”
“You stomp in here saying how you know Iris Thorne. Bullshit.”
He put his face in her line of vision. “Iris, you’re in a world of trouble. Let me help you.”
“Did Stan say who the money belonged to?”
“Joe Campbell’s father.”
“Stan wouldn’t tell you that.”
“Joe Campbell told me.”
“Bull. Bull, bull, bull. Lie, lie, lie. Liars! All around me. Damn you!”
“Iris, clear it up for us.”
She wiped her nose on the toilet paper and glared back.
“Tell me what happened.”
“Trust you? I’ll carry it to my grave first.”
“Okay, Iris. Fine. We have plenty of time. I have an obligation to stay here anyway if someone’s trying to kill you.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her. He thought about the irony of finally being in her bedroom again when he heard footsteps. He moved his hand to the gun in a holster on his belt.
Steve entered the room, balancing takeout containers on each hand.
Somers released his grip.
“Hi,” Steve said. “The door was open, so I just walked in. Am I interrupting something?”
Iris punched out a laugh. “Steve Grant, this is Detective John Somers.”
Steve put the container in his right hand on top of the one he held in his left. He reached to shake Somers’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Howya doin’?” He walked over and kissed Iris on the lips. A casual “I’m home” sort of kiss.
Somers watched.
“I thought I’d help you pack. I brought sushi. With your kitchen messed up… anyway, there’s plenty for three.”
Steve set the containers on the dresser, opened one, took out a white rice rectangle with a slab of dark pink raw fish on top, and held it up to Iris’s lips. “The maguro’s really fresh.”
She held Steve’s hand and took a bite from his fingers.
Somers watched.
The sushi crumbled into grains of rice, pungent green wasabi, and fish into her hand. She tried to mash it back into a rectangle. She tipped the mess into the box and rubbed her hands together. “I can’t eat right now. Thanks, Steve. You go ahead.”
He looked at Somers and then at Iris’s tear-swollen face. “Maybe I should go. Looks like I came at a bad time.”
“That’s all right,” Somers said. “I’ll leave. I can see you don’t need my help, Iris, just like you said.” He left the bedroom. At the front door, he loudly said, “I’d advise you to keep this door locked,” and closed it hard behind him.
Steve asked, “What’s going on? I just came over to see if you needed any help packing.”
“Steve, I need time to think. I can’t think. I need to be alone right now.”
“No problem. I’ll be on the boat if you need me. I’ll put the food the fridge, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He kissed her on the forehead and rubbed his forefinger against her cheek. He walked out and she heard the soft soles of his deck shoes squishing on the linoleum as he opened and closed the refrigerator door and then went out the front door.
Iris sat slumped in the desk chair. Time passed. She didn’t move. After a long time, she sat up straight. She blew her nose into the damp wad of toilet paper.
“Okay. Enough.”
She got out of the chair, dropped to her knees, and started digging through a pile of books and magazines on the floor. She threw magazines across the room, their slick covers sliding on the carpet. She finally found her personal telephone book. She flipped the pages, her fingers sticky, then held a page open with one hand and punched numbers into the telephone with the other.
“Hi, it’s Iris.”
“Iris. What a surprise.”
“I have to talk to you. Can you meet me?”
“Of course. Where?”
“The office in half an hour.”
“I’ll see you there.”
Iris opened the top drawer of her nightstand and took out the blue velour Crown Royal bag and the box of cartridges. She untied the yellow braid at the neck of the bag, pulled the gun out, and loaded it. She unzipped her purse and crammed the gun inside, slipping the box of cartridges in after it. She slung the purse over her shoulder, zipped the Rodeo Drive shopping bag with the two hundred thirty-eight thousand dollars into her backpack, scooped up her keys, and jogged to the front door.
She started to close the door behind her, then flung it open, so hard that it banged against the door stop and almost slammed closed again on its own momentum.