What he needed was a drink. But he wasn't drinking, because he suspected that if he started to medicate himself with scotch, he would slide effortlessly into alcoholism. He didn't need that. He'd arrested enough boozehounds on the street. He was damned if he would become one of them.
He sure needed something, though. There was probably another dogfight going on at Billy Turro's place, but even he wasn't reckless enough to venture into a dead-end street in Watts after dark. It was dicey enough just going there in the daytime. He always packed two weapons when he went, his off-duty 9mm and a snub-nosed.32 in an ankle holster. The.32 was lighter than the.38 left near Eddie Valdez's dead, outstretched hand, and it was street-legal, unlike the.38, which had been treated with acid to burn off the serial numbers. A throwdown, untraceable.
Of course, the gun didn't need to be traced if he was going to spill everything to some damn shrink amp;
He rubbed his head, wishing he could remember what he'd told her. Vaguely he recalled saying something about Valdez and the parking garage, but whether it was the truth or his cover story, he didn't know.
He had a bad feeling, though. It was based mainly on the way she'd been looking at him after the session. Like she was trying too hard to act normal. Like she was sizing him up, taking his measure. Or measuring him for a prison jumpsuit, maybe.
Jail would be a death sentence. Cops didn't survive hard time. If he went down for Valdez, he was finished.
There was a half-empty bottle of scotch in the cupboard over the kitchen sink. He almost surrendered to the temptation to open it. Instead he found himself reaching for the phone. He called a familiar number and let it ring until Evelyn answered. "It's me," he said without further identification. "You free tonight?"
"Availableyes. Freenever."
"You know what I mean. Come on over. And bring that thing."
She arrived an hour later. She wore a raincoat and boots. When she opened the coat, she revealed black underwear. "Ta-da," she said with a smile.
He fucked her without ceremony, starting on the living room floor and proceeding down the hall into the bedroom. He did her doggie style, like always, watching the tattooed butterfly between her shoulder blades flutter as her shoulder muscles flexed. She was maybe thirty-five, but she worked out and stayed trim, maintaining the body of a college girl. Not that Brand had had many college girls. He'd attended a community college at night, working a delivery job during the day, a schedule that had left little time for partying.
Still, he liked to think of her as a college girl, one of those rich-bitch USC babes whose daddies gave them a Porsche for their eighteenth birthday. He thought about that as he turned her on her back and thrust his crotch into her face. She gave first-rate blow jobs. When he'd got his rocks off for a second time, he asked her about the thing.
"I got it, tiger," she said in that half-seductive, half-amused voice of hers. She retrieved her coat and produced a dildo from the pocket. He used it on her, pushing in hard and deep, making her wet all over again. She let out the usual noises, which might've been an act, but he hoped not. For the finale, she put the dildo in her mouth and faked another suction job while her nimble hands massaged his cock. He came all over her fingers, and she laughed. "Three times in one nightyou're a stud."
Afterward she smoked a joint she'd brought with her, which he declined to share.
"You're a funny kind of cop," she said as she dressed to leave.
"Who said I was a cop?"
"I asked around."
"I'm surprised you came back."
"Your money's as good as anybody's."
He paid her five hundred dollars, which she carefully folded and slipped into her boot.
"I'll call you," he said for no reason as she left the house.
"Anytime, tiger."
He felt relaxed for the first time that day. He had problems, but they could be dealt with. He just had to figure out a plan. There was always a plan, always a way out. He would have to think, that's all.
Just think.
Chapter Fifteen
Midnight, and a phone was ringing.
Robin swam up out of sleep and groped for the phone on her nightstand, fumbling it off the cradle, pressing it to her ear. She heard a dial tone. Somewhere the ringing continued.
Her cell phone. In her purse, on the bureau.
She got up, blinking away the last tug of sleep, and found the phone. "Yes?"
What she heard in reply was a recording. "You have a collect call from an inmate at a California Department of Corrections facility. The name of the inmate is amp;" The recorded voice was replaced by the inmate's voice saying, "Justin Gray." The recorded message continued. "If you wish to accept, press amp;"
Robin needed a moment to process this information, then another moment to find the correct button on the lighted keypad.
Justin Gray's voice crackled over the earpiece.
"Yo, Doc Robin. How's tricks?"
"Justin, why are you calling me?"
"Why not? Always fun to shoot the breeze. Hope I didn't wake you."
"Shouldn't you be in your cell at this hour?"
"I'm in my cell at every hour. Got a jail phone in here. All the comforts of home. See, they gotta give me a phone, or my First Amendment rights would be violated. Us cons gotta have access to communication with the outside worldeven us ultra-bad boys in the high-power ward. Besides, this way the hacks don't gotta drag their sorry asses out of the control booth and escort me out of my cell. They don't like to mess with me. I'm a dangerous individual."
"How did you get my cell phone number?"
"It's on your business card. I swiped one from your office a while back."
"You should be asleep."
"I don't sleep much. Night's the best time for me. It's so quiet and dark. I can move in the shadows. Silence 'n' violence, babywhat I live for."
"You're not moving in any shadows now, Justin."
"Got that right. But I still don't sleep much. Bad dreams, you know."
She was surprised to get a straightforward response. "Do you have bad dreams often?"
"They come and go."
"What do you dream about?"
"The ones I killed. The girls."
"What about them?"
"How they must've suffered. And how, you know, now that I'm in here amp;"
"Yes?"
"I'll never get to do it again. Really pisses me off."
She released a breath, angry at herself for having been suckered in. "Justin, I don't want you calling me."
"That's the sort of thing that could hurt my feelings. Mess me up, do all kinds of serious psychological damage."
"I'm serious. My patients call me to set up an emergency appointment, that's all. I don't do therapy over the phone."
"Don't flatter yourself, college girl. I'm not calling you for help. Just checking in, saying hi. It's what friends do."
"Not at midnight."
"If you're sleepy, maybe I can chat with Meg instead. I bet she's a night owl. Her and me got along real good, that time we met."
"Don't talk about her."
"I don't know, Doc. She's a fine piece of snatch, all right."
"Justin"
"Hey, hey. Chill, Freud. Sorry if I offended. I guess it's wrong for me to be making crude remarks about a virginal young maiden. Except I got news for you, Doc. She ain't no virgin."
"I don't need to hear this."
"Hey, it's no bullshit. I can tell these things. Got a sixth sense about 'em."
"She's not even dating," Robin snapped.
"Not that you know about. I tell you true, Doc, these kids today start early. She's wettin' her whistle, all right. I bet she's gettin' more action than you."