“Now that you’ve explained things to me, I have something to concede,” I said. “You ready for it?”
Mike looked up at me, skeptical. “Three in one day is over quota.”
“Yeah? Well, I think you were right. From the beginning, it was a simple heist. And I don’t mean the shooting of Wyatt Johnson.”
Chapter 30
Casey’s plane was early. I had only been waiting for half an hour when she came down the ramp. I took her carry-on bag from her and put my arm around her narrow waist.
“How was your weekend?” I asked.
“Boring,” she said. “What happened here?”
“Not much.” Give her time to decompress. “Your new room is ready. Lyle is bringing down your furniture.”
“Bringing?” She lit up like Vegas. “He’s coming?”
“And…” I drew it out, corrupted by Mike. “Stacy and Lisa are riding down with him. They’re setting out right after school Thursday and spending the entire weekend.”
Casey was happy beyond words. I was delighted to have brought her such good news about her best friends, but I was also thinking that three fourteen-year-old ballerinas would be a houseful, even for a weekend.
Just as I stepped onto the escalator, Casey gripped my arm. “Can they come to school with me Friday?”
“If it’s okay with Mischa.”
“Wouldn’t it be fantastic if they applied? They could live with us all the time.”
Fantastic just would not come out of my mouth.
“Except,” she said, struggling to pull something out of her backpack, a new sort of light in her eyes, “Dad got me this.”
She handed me a slick brochure from a very fine professional ballet company. There was an application attached. Young Dancers Program. In residence. In Houston.
I wanted another shot at enthusiasm for running a dancer’s dorm in my home. In South Pasadena.
All I could think to say was, “It’s expensive, Casey.”
“Dad wants to pay. He says he’s been doing a lot of business in Houston. He could see me more often.”
Fighting back tears, I put the brochure into my bag. “We’ll look into it.”
The condo was quiet. Mike and Michael had gone to the movies. Casey took her shower and went straight to bed. I dumped the contents of Casey’s suitcase into the washer before I turned on the kitchen television to watch the replay of Ralph’s Sunday afternoon interview. It was a rerun; Baron Marovich had stood up Ralph, too. I was deciding between opening a bottle of wine and going to bed when the call came.
“Maggie?” Jennifer Miller sounding fragile. “I’m at Parker Center. Will you come and get me?”
The request hit a wrong chord. Usually people call on friends or family after a police experience. I was neither. “Surely someone in your firm would come if you called.”
“Please. I don’t trust anyone else. And I really need to talk to you. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
I didn’t trust her, didn’t fall for the tremor in her voice. I simply wanted to know what the next act would be.
Right after I told her I would come, I paged Mike. I didn’t know where he was, but his pager went off in the bedroom. I followed the sound, found the pager still attached to the jeans in the pile of dirty clothes he had left next to the hamper. At that moment I decided to buy him a pocket telephone and an answering machine for his car phone.
I needed to go, but I wasn’t about to leave Casey in the house alone; I’ve seen too many movies to fall for that one. I called Guido.
“Do you still have company?” I asked.
“Who wants to know?” He was oddly suspicious.
“I need a babysitter. Do you know a nice couple I might engage?”
“No. I’m a singleton. Will that do?”
I said, “Admirably. It won’t be for long-Mike should be home soon.”
When he came, Guido gave me only token argument about going out alone. I was headed for police headquarters, I reminded him, what could be safer? He did try to stall me, though. I knew he was hoping Mike would come home so he could tag along with me. Guido needs regular adventure.
Company would have been nice, but I was afraid that Jennifer would skitter away if I didn’t come alone. I prepared myself for several contingencies. The belt of my pants didn’t fit right when I was ready to go, but I felt up to the challenge.
Downtown Los Angeles becomes a ghost town at night, especially on weekends. Still, there was a sparse crowd on the tight-budget lawn in front of Parker Center. The demonstrators were long gone, their turf taken over by families waiting for their loved ones to make bail after weekend peccadillos.
I parked in a well-lighted passenger-loading zone right on Los Angeles Street, tempting fate and the traffic officers by opting for security over legal details. Jennifer had been watching for me. I had no more than locked the car when she burst out the front doors of the station and came down the wide walkway at a run.
I was back in the car with the motor running when she slipped into the passenger seat. As she reached for her seat belt, I watched a shudder pass over her.
“I hate that place,” she said. “Thanks for coming.”
“Did they book you?”
Taken aback, she asked, “For what?”
“Arson comes to mind.”
“They only asked questions. Can we go?”
“Sure,” I said. “Tell me where.”
“Hancock Park. Las Palmas and Third.” She directed me to head out Wilshire.
“Glad to see you intact,” I said. “And with both shoes.”
She glanced at her hiking boots and seemed puzzled. The boots fit with her jeans and plaid flannel shirt, the cap pulled low over her short hair. The night was warm for hats and flannel, the day certainly had been.
“Where have you been?” I asked, weaving through light traffic. I saw no one behind me.
“I needed time to think.” She sat up and looked around, got her bearings before she slouched back down and closed her eyes. “My parents have a place at the beach. I took a lot of long walks, did a lot of thinking.”
“And?”
“I came to some conclusions about what’s essential. The bottom line-every line-is this: I have a son to raise. I’ll do whatever is best for him in the long haul.”
“Which is?”
“You’re a mother. What would you do?”
“In your place? Leave town, start over.” I thought of Tyrone’s words. “Get clean again.”
“That sounds easier than it is.” She pulled her purse up onto her lap. It was big and soft-sided, full. When she opened it, I put my left hand on my belt, watched her root out a pack of gum, put a stick into her mouth. She wadded the wrapper and dropped it into the open purse. “I have worked so hard to get where I am. Think of yourself, Maggie. Can you imagine abandoning everything you’ve accomplished and starting over?”
“I’ve done it before,” I said. “I could do it again if I had to. The world is full of possibility. You might surprise yourself, Jennifer.”
She took a deep breath, tested a small laugh. “I’ve had all the surprises I need for a while.”
“Am I taking you home?” I asked.
She said, “Yes,” while looking out the window and not at me.
I knew her address, on Avenida Mariposa in San Pedro. San Pedro is a long way from Hancock Park, where she was directing me. She told me when to turn off Wilshire. I put on my turn signal, but before I left the lights of Wilshire for some dark side street, I reached over and lifted her purse off her lap, weighed it. It was light, but I threw it into the backseat anyway.
“Why’d you do that?” She seemed nonplussed.
“Too crowded up here. Need a little room to move around.” I slowed, watched the street.
“When you came to my office Friday,” I said, “I wondered how you managed to find me. I’ve only been in town a few days. I’m not in the directory. Hell, I’m not even on the building directory yet. So, I went through the short list of people who might have told you: Baron Marovich and Roddy O’Leary knew. So did Ralph Faust.