I stepped to the railing and stood beside her, looking out. “You didn’t do me any favors, either. The few friends I had left after the divorce — they’re gone.”
“Shit happens, O’Donnell. It happened to me, starting with the murder of your ex. Still an open case” — she turned to look at me — “but I have my suspicions.”
“Knock it off. You know I didn’t do it. You were wrong.”
“And you made a mess of that crime scene. My so-called partner — a racist prick — reported that the muddled evidence was my doing, that the arrest was wrongful and incompetent. So, I was denied training for detective status. I lost overtime privileges. Got crappy shifts. Then my husband dumped me — said it was my drinking.” She paused and looked away. Her voice dropped as she said, “Worst part, he got custody of our daughter. My little girl.”
I blew a low whistle. “Sorry. That’s rough.”
The story had drained her swagger. I heard the tinge of fear in her words, in her uncertain future, as she explained how her standing with the police force had continued to sour. They made it clear they wanted her out. She decided to leave on her own terms and quit. Trying to start over, she opened a private investigation service. “Not much business yet” — she shook her head — “so I’m doing security at the convention center.”
I shrugged. “It’s a plan.”
“It sucks.”
Clark appeared in the doorway. “Ready, Jazz.”
With a parting smirk, she went inside.
So did I. Closing the glass slider, I noticed that the front door of the house was wide open, as if Clark had already trudged through with several batches of prints. But he was standing at the dining table with Jazz, telling her, “Light load today, just this portfolio. Take it in your van; I’ll follow in the Bentley.”
“Got it.” After signing a receipt, she took the portfolio from Clark, and they headed toward the door.
“Pink fluff!” bellowed Edison.
Exasperated, Clark asked me, “Can you take care of him?” Before I could answer, Clark walked out to the courtyard with Friendly and shut the door.
“Now,” said Edison.
I turned to him. “You just finished a whole tub of the stuff.”
“And now I’d like you to try some. It’s quite delicious.”
I wanted to leave. But I’d been told to give him the VIP treatment. Plus, I’d been wondering if the trifle was as good as it looked. So I played along.
Edison wheeled himself into the kitchen and waited behind me as I tugged the refrigerator door open and removed one of the containers. I popped the lid, grabbed a spoon from a drawer, and gave it a taste.
“Get out,” I said, amazed. It was fabulous.
“Didn’t I tell you?”
I wolfed a few more spoonfuls, then stopped myself, returning the trifle to the fridge. “Thanks, really, it was great.” I stepped to the sink to rinse the spoon.
“Give me that.” He grabbed it. Locking eyes with me, he licked my spoon lewdly. When finished, he sat back, whirling the spoon. “Let me ask you something. What do you think of my Clark?”
“Nice guy. Seems attentive to your needs.” I grinned.
“And he’s hot.”
“Isn’t he though?” With an edge of bitterness, Edison added, “I’m not stupid, Dante. I know what you’re thinking: I’m just a vapid old rice queen.”
I assured him, “I would never say such a thing.”
But that very thought had crossed my mind.
Driving back to Little Tuscany that evening, I hoped that Edison would not be alone at the house, that Clark would have returned from the convention center. He might be in the mood for a drink. He might ask me to join him. I was off the clock and felt no obligation to wear the insipid Sunny Junket uniform, so I wore tight black jeans and a leather jacket — surefire date bait.
Winter nights in the desert could be cold, and the bright, perfect day had already turned gray and windy. Clouds piled up beyond the mountains to the west, rushing the sunset. The dusk disappeared into a starless, moonless darkness.
As the Camry reached the top of the narrow drive, its headlights skimmed the parking court, which was empty. Peachy — I’d be solo with Edison. When I got out of the car, I took note of the landscape lighting and, finding no problems at the front of the house, checked along both sides, which also seemed fine. However, the most elaborate lighting could be seen only from the rear deck, and due to the embankment, the safest way to get there was through the house.
I rang the doorbell. After half a minute, I rang again. A minute later, I punched in the code and entered, calling, “Edison?” All was quiet.
The interior lights were on, as programmed. At a glance, there were no signs of trouble, and I thought Edison’s afternoon nap might have drifted into the evening. But he had been expecting me, so I decided — with a chilling sense of déjà vu — to do a walk-through.
When I entered the kitchen, my knees went weak. I grabbed the doorjamb to steady myself as the room seemed to spin beneath me. Edison had fallen backward, crushed beneath the refrigerator, which had toppled onto him, covering his lower torso. The scene was a nightmarish shamble, with Edison pinned in the mangled metal frame of his wheelchair. The refrigerator was still running, its condenser humming, its door flung open. Raspberries, whipped cream, and tub after tub of pink fluff were scattered everywhere, oozing across Edison’s chest. From his mouth, blood had gushed and was beginning to blacken, puddling with Melba sauce on the hard, white terrazzo floor.
This time, I knew better than to kneel in the mess and try to help.
This time, I knew better than to phone 911.
This time, I beat a path out the door and ran to my car.
Shaking, I fumbled to start the engine, then backed up to turn around, when I noticed headlights bouncing up the narrow drive. Running through my options — fuck me, there weren’t any — I stopped the car and got out while Officer Friendly pulled her van in next to me, followed by Clark in the Bentley. The wind had picked up, rattling the palms in the black sky.
Friendly got out of the van with the portfolio she was guarding. With a flashlight, she swept the surroundings before proceeding. The beam slid up my backside. “Hngh,” she grunted. “Nice ass, for a white guy.”
Trying to keep things buoyant, I said, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You damn well better.”
Carrying a box of files from the Bentley toward the house, Clark asked, “Did you check out the lighting?”
“Uh, look,” I said. “There’s something you need to know. Inside. It’s bad.”
Clark and Friendly glanced at each other, then rushed into the house. I followed, telling them, “Kitchen.”
“Holy fucking Christ,” said Friendly, stunned by the grisly scene.
Clark dropped the files and stared numbly at his husband.
“Jesus.”
“No signs of intrusion,” said Friendly, giving me a suspicious look.
I said, “Edison asked me here tonight. This had to be an accident. Why would I...?”
“Then why didn’t you report it? You were leaving.”
Clark blurted, “I knew it.” He had moved over to the print racks and held up one of the plastic sleeves, empty. “The Hockney. It’s missing. It’s worth more than this clown makes in a year—”