She walked into the pharmacy and bought a pack of cigarettes. Stepping outside, she tore through the cellophane and lit one. Lena had never been a regular smoker. Half a pack eight months ago when things got really tough with her last case. She drew the smoke into her lungs and blew it out into the cold night air.
But her eyes were locked on that black Audi. Dobbs and Ragetti had burned down three years before she ever got near RHD. Yet the look they had given her was the same one she gave them. Recognition. They had read her as a cop the moment they saw her. The moment they got out of the car. It went with the job-something you learned on the beat wearing a uniform. Us and them.
She took another pull on the cigarette.
Seeing the two ex-cops felt like a bad omen capping off a rough day. A sign of what things could be like for her if she fucked up. Hitting a diner in Hollywood on a Sunday night. Landing hard after a long fall.
She took a last drag on the smoke, flicking it into the torrent of rain and watching the fire go out as she climbed into her car. Pulling out of the lot, she turned up Sunset heading for the freeway ramp to downtown.
The drive took twenty minutes. When she entered the cafe and didn’t see Ramira, she ordered a cup of the House Blend and found an empty table with a view of the door. Before leaving the house she had managed to reach Bobby Rathbone, who agreed to meet her at midnight. She had an hour to kill, and wanted to spend it reviewing her day and what it actually yielded.
She lifted the top away from the cup and held her face over the steam. As she took a short sip and felt the hot brew warm her stomach, she opened her notebook on the table and pulled out her pen.
Jane Doe, aka Jennifer McBride, had been abducted and murdered by the same man.
She knew this now and had the evidence to support it. A man calling himself Nathan Good. She knew what he looked like, had a rough idea of his age and build, and unless he ditched it, knew the make and model of his car. The condition of the woman’s body matched the horror found in the garage he rented on Barton Avenue. SID would probably confirm the match within the next twenty-four hours.
But she also knew that Nathan Good was profoundly twisted. And everything that she had seen today indicated that Art Madina was right to conclude that he had a medical background. Everything she saw pointed to a depraved individual. A motherfucker with brains.
She checked the door. When she still didn’t see Ramira, she turned back to her pad and skimmed through the notes she had made last night after meeting Justin Tremell and his father.
People with money pay other people to do the heavy lifting. There was no doubt in her mind that for everything Nathan Good had done, he was a paid player.
This was about Justin Tremell. The rich bad boy trying to right the wrongs of his past. The kid who got married, had a son, and didn’t want his father or anyone else to find out that he was still a piece of shit and doing a young prostitute. The kid under fire with the unusually steady hands who claimed that he didn’t know Jennifer McBride. That the witnesses who saw him with her were mistaken because he spent the entire night with his wife and son at home.
She thought about those steady hands. Nathan Good’s depravity cut against the way Justin Tremell handled himself during their interview. She thought about both of them for a long time. Tremell and Good were approximately the same age. Paying Good whatever he asked for wouldn’t have been an issue in his life.
But this was also about the woman who cast spells. The woman calling herself Jennifer McBride, who met Tremell, knew exactly who he was, and probably figured that she could make some real money. Maybe enough to get out of bed. And the fifty grand in her checking account wouldn’t accomplish that goal. It wouldn’t come close.
As Lena tossed it over, she realized that no matter how much progress she was beginning to make, her questions still outweighed her answers. And no matter how much time she’d given it, she still didn’t understand how Joseph Fontaine fit in. The Beverly Hills doctor had known McBride was dead before they even told him about the murder. When asked about his relationship with the young prostitute, he hid behind his assistant, lied, and threatened to call his attorney.
Fontaine was involved. She just couldn’t see it yet. Couldn’t put it together.
She checked her watch and looked up. Ramira was walking through the front door. Actually, it was more of a breeze than a walk. And as he spotted her and approached the table, she knew in an instant that her drive downtown would bear little fruit. Forty-five minutes ago, the crime beat reporter had sounded panic stricken. All that appeared gone now.
“What do you have to say, Denny? Why are we here?”
“Let me order a cup of coffee.”
He was stalling. Trying to come up with an excuse and save himself. She didn’t know who was worse, Ramira or Klinger. Both were chewing up time she couldn’t afford to lose.
“You can have mine,” she said.
“It looks cold.”
She shook her head in disappointment. “You said you were in trouble. It’s a Sunday night, and it’s been a real long day. Tell me what happened. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Ramira’s face reddened and he finally sat down. “I’m sorry, Lena. I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”
She gave him a long look. “You said we needed to talk. You said that you had information about the murder. You were specific. That’s why I came.”
“I didn’t say anything over the phone. All I said was that I wanted to meet.”
“That’s right. And you were talking about the victim. The woman in the trash. This is a murder investigation, Denny. It’s more important than your next story. If you’re holding something back, then you’re committing-”
“I’m a reporter, for Christ’s sake. Back off, Lena.”
“I don’t care who you are. If you’re holding out and you print the story, I’ll bust you.”
“I don’t know anything,” he said.
She pushed her coffee across the table. He stared at it for a while, thinking something over. Something that appeared deep and troubling enough to cloud his eyes.
“You’re fucking up, Denny.”
“When I called I thought that I knew something. But since then I found out that I don’t.”
“Knew what?” she said.
“Nothing. I was on the wrong track.”
“About what?”
He paused a moment-the clouds back in his eyes.
“About what?” she repeated.
“Who she was,” he said. “I thought I knew, but I didn’t.”
“Who did you talk to? Who said you were wrong? Who knew enough about it to say that you were wrong?”
He shook his head and remained silent.
“Does this have anything to do with that book you’re working on? Who’s feeding you information? Is it Klinger? What about Senator West on the commission?”
Ramira seemed surprised. “What about him?”
“Is he your source?”
“Source for what? West gets along with the chief about as well as you do. You should know that better than anyone over there. Listen to me: I made a mistake and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I brought you out tonight.”
He pulled the cup of coffee closer and took a long swig as if he needed it. As if the brew was strong enough to bring the sun out in the dark of night. Lena watched him lower the cup, then remove his glasses and wipe the lenses with a napkin.
“You said your life was in the balance,” she whispered.
He shot a blind gaze her way before slipping his glasses back on. He looked tired. Road weary. After another hit of coffee, he reached into his pocket for his pad and pen.
“I was wrong,” he said. “But as long as we’re here, is there anything you can tell me about what happened today on Barton Avenue? Anything on the record I can use? We saw that piece of plywood come out of the garage. Paladino won’t let anyone get near his clients. He took them away and said they don’t live there anymore.”
She bit her lip, staring at the man. “This is about more than who the victim was,” she said. “More than thinking you know something and finding out that you don’t. How did you put it on the phone, Denny? I’m in trouble, you said. Big trouble. I’m trying to save my life. I’ve got information about that body you found in Hollywood. Only now you don’t have the information. Now you’re making excuses and hoping I won’t see through your smoke.”