Dream a Little Death, page 20
She looked at me. Paused. Swallowed hard.
“Yeah,” I said. “Now you get it. Fatty may not have known Miles, but he sure as hell knew Pee Chee.”
And Destiny knew exactly what that meant.
Pee Chee and Miles.
Miles and Pee Chee.
It was impossible to say where one of them stopped, and the other began.
Destiny picked up her cell phone, punched in a number, waited a minute.
“Hey.” She grabbed one of the pillows, clutched it to her chest. “I know. Me, too. How y’all been doing?” She glanced at me, then stepped out of the room.
While she was gone, I checked my phone. Two calls from Lieutenant Hepworth, but no message.
Destiny was back a couple of minutes later.
“Blood isn’t exactly thicker than water,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“That was Floyd Sims I was talking to.”
Floyd da Gangsta. Fatty’s cousin. They recorded together as Cuz Til Death, not that it worked out that way. “I thought he and Fatty hated each other.”
“They do,” Destiny said. “Why else do you think he told me where Fatty was?” She handed me a piece of paper with an address on it. “Don’t make me regret this.”
As I left, Tootie leapt at me from inside her cage, rage rolling off her in waves so strong you could smell them.
I tried not to take it personally.
Chapter 37
By the time I returned Cat had Lisa Chen eating out of her hand.
“I love your wife!” the latter told me. “Have a great evening! See you soon!”
We got back into the car. “She seems to have recovered quite nicely from losing a $7,350,000 sale.”
Cat said, “Let’s just say Lisa Chen has layers.”
As it turned out, the middle-aged woman had led a wildly misspent youth in the San Gabriel Valley, one sorry vestige of which was a half-finished lace garter tattoo that Cat would be filling in this Sunday at 9 a.m. sharp, leaving our now ex-broker just enough time to set up for an open house later that afternoon.
I told you.
Some people have a gift.
“Did your mother actually sleep with Prince?” Cat asked.
“I’m not allowed to comment. She signed a non-disclosure agreement.”
“She needs to write her memoir,” said Cat.
“What do you have on for tomorrow?” I asked.
“Wednesday?” Cat flipped down the mirror and touched up her eyeliner. “Nothing special. Work.”
“What do you think about taking a little road trip?”
She pulled out a pot of gloss. “Just you and me?”
“Yeah.” I got into the turn lane. “I was thinking we’d pack a picnic and I have that nice blanket and we can stop and look at the scenery, maybe take a hike.”
“You have the arrow,” Cat said.
I took the left.
“Listen, it sounds awesome.” She smacked her lips, flipped the mirror back up. “But it’s going to be a busy day. I have two hips back to back, which I try not to do because I hate being hunched in the same position for hours at a time. And then this Snapchat exec who wants to get me into bed even though I’ve made it perfectly clear I loathe facial hair is coming in for an old school hula girl. Can it wait until Monday?”
Unfortunately, it couldn’t.
Which is why I hit the road by myself the following morning.
It was clear and sunny in Venice, but before the day was out I’d be at an elevation of five thousand feet, so I deposited my beanie, my puffer, and my white goat hair après-ski boots into the trunk. Not that I anticipated a pleasant afternoon of sipping hot toddies by the fire. But it’s good to be prepared. In any case, I had an important stop to make before getting to my final destination. And that one was at an even higher elevation.
The freeway was backed up from downtown to El Monte, but once I hit the 210, it was wide open. Not much to look at as you venture into the Inland Empire, aside from the San Bernardino Mountains rising to the north, and a vast expanse of tract homes where there used to be orange groves and chicken ranches. And what looked like a gargantuan six-pack of Miller Lite parked on the side of the freeway, which turned out to be the tanks at the MillerCoors brewery. They offered tours, but only on weekends.
Just past Fontana, where the Hell’s Angels was founded in the 1940s, I stopped to get gas. Then I headed up into the mountains. Ten minutes later, the windows were fogged. I put on the defogger, which rattles. I turned on the music to drown out the defogger, but I couldn’t get any stations because of the static. And I was freezing. I cranked the heat, then checked the thermometer. Two degrees below zero, which was impossible. One more thing to fix.
By the time I’d approached the junction to the 138, I was deep into the forest, majestic trees surrounding me on all sides, sunlight streaming through the branches, then hiding behind the clouds. Instead of going east, however, I veered west, toward Wrightwood, a tiny community nestled in the San Gabriels at the edge of the Angeles National Forest, which is where the bodies get dumped. Google it.
Day-old snow lined the side of the road as I drove through the sweet little town, with its one coffee house, still draped in Christmas lights; one needlepoint shop, with its teddy bear–themed window; and one traffic light. No one was around except for a pair of stray dogs digging through a trash can, but maybe they were coyotes. Dotting the hills were vintage log cabins, as well as newer homes with unique personalities: Bavarian ski chalet meets Clan of the Cave Bear, neo-Victorian manse with hacienda vibe, modernist A-frame/bomb shelter. Southern California is all about choice.
At Pine Canyon, I took a sharp left. The trees were now so dense you couldn’t see sky. I slowed at a dirt road marked by a jumble of signs: “Private Road,” “Private Property,” “No Trespassing,” “Road Closed.” Someone had already removed the chain and left it hanging, which I took as an invitation. As I bumped along, I saw the burned-out remains of somebody’s vacation getaway. A quarter of a mile further, a pick-up truck abandoned in the snow. And then, on my left, nearly hidden behind the towering pines, cedars, and oaks, a one-story cabin from the thirties with a shingled roof and a shallow front porch.
I pulled up in front and studied the place. The curtains were drawn and the lights were off. At the foot of the steps were two wooden statues: a six-foot cigar-store Indian, and a leaping dolphin. Didn’t seem like Ray’s taste, but people are complicated.
That’s right.
This was Uncle Ray’s cabin.
He’d bought it cheap years ago, in the bad old days when he was part of the CRASH unit, and the Rampart Division cops were just another gang. It was someplace he could lay low, away from the gangbangers, not to mention colleagues with divided loyalties. And no one knew it existed. Not even Gram.
Ray told me about it during the worst time of my life, right after Luke Cutt and I had split up. The paparazzi were camped out on my doorstep, desperate to get a shot of me crying or drinking to excess or sleeping around. Mea culpa. After watching me act out for a solid two weeks, Ray came over and handed me a key. He swore me to secrecy, then told me I could come here whenever I needed to. But I’d never needed to. Until now.
I cut the motor and stepped outside, breathing into my hands to warm them up, then popped the trunk and pulled out my jacket.
It was quiet. The birds had all gone home. The squirrels playing in the brush took one look at me and scampered away. But maybe it was the wind, which was whipping up the leaves with brutal efficiency. This was the kind of blustery day that makes you want to hole up with someone you love, not that I had such a person in my life. But today wasn’t about me. It was about Gram and Ray. They belonged together. But that wasn’t going to happen until Ray’s name was cleared, which is why I was here.
No footprints or tire tread in the driveway. I took the steps up to the house two at a time. No footprints on the porch either. I reached into the pocket of my jeans, pulled out the key, and let myself in.
“Hello?” I called out.
No one was there.
And from the looks of it, hadn’t been in some time.
The living room was kind of on the austere side, with a La-Z-Boy recliner in cracked tan pleather and a corduroy couch to match. Draped over the back of the couch was a Pendleton blanket, which looked itchy. No T.V. No jigsaw puzzle or checkers board. No books or magazines. A blue rag rug where the coffee table should have been.
I checked the kitchen. The cupboards were neatly stacked with plain white dishes. The sink was empty, as was the dishwasher. I lifted the lid of the coffeemaker. Clean and dry. Ray’s a caffeine addict, like me. If he’d been here, he’d have made coffee.
The bedroom was down the hall. The bed didn’t look particularly inviting. I pulled up the blue velveteen spread. Hospital corners. Ray had learned in the army, and taught me when I was a kid. It looks tricky, but all it takes is practice.
The washer and dryer were tucked into the utility closet in the hallway. I opened the door, checked both of them. Empty. Nothing in the lint trap either. I picked up the mop. Dry as a bone. Ditto the bucket. Looked like this pit stop was a bust.
The bathroom had the feel of a Holiday Inn Express, with some wrapped soaps and a little emergency kit. I grabbed a couple of sheets of toilet paper and blew my nose, tossed the paper into the trash. Then I stopped short. Sitting at the bottom of the can was a cup from Starbucks. I bent down, and picked it up.
There was a name scrawled on the side in black Sharpie.
“Ray” was what it said.
So he had been here.
Unfortunately, I had no way of knowing when, or why he’d left the cup behind when the place was otherwise so immaculate. I marched back outside, and checked the garbage cans.
The black one was empty. The blue one was empty. The green one was full of wet leaves.
He’d been here, but not long enough to generate any garbage.
Odd.
I stood there for a minute, shivering, then went back inside and took a seat on the La-Z-Boy. I closed my eyes, leaned all the way back, nearly fell over, then popped back up. I couldn’t think in here. It was too cold. I reached over to grab the Pendleton blanket, and as I shook it out, something flew through the air and landed on the rug.
Something yellow.
A mini legal pad.
I got up, picked it up, turned to the front page.
And there was Lizeth Pimentel’s name and number, scrawled in red ink.
Okay.
This was clearly the pad Destiny had seen in the back of the Miles’s black stretch Bentley. Had Ray broken in and taken it? He could easily have tracked down the car. I’d given him the license plate number myself. But why would he have thought to do that? And if he had thought to do that, why would he have left something so potentially explosive just lying around for anyone to find?
He wouldn’t have.
Ray is not a careless person.
Which meant that it wasn’t Ray who’d been here.
Someone else had been here.
Someone who knew this place existed.
Someone who knew how to cover his tracks.
Someone who knew that if the pad were found here, along with the coffee cup, Ray would be in so deep he’d never be able to get out.
It was kind of brilliant, really. This person had covered every angle. I mean, he must’ve realized it was kind of shady that my uncle even owned this place. And here was the final nail in the coffin. This person had tipped off Lieutenant Hepworth. That was why the latter was calling me so frantically. He was probably already on his way.
I grabbed the legal pad and shoved it into my basket, then grabbed the Starbucks cup and shoved it in there, too. And noticed, as I did, that there was an order scrawled on it.
2 CH/S/L.
Double Chai soy latte.
That wasn’t my uncle’s drink.
Ray liked coffee, and he took it black, as God intended it.
That was Miles McCoy’s drink.
Chapter 38
This time of year, the sun sets close to five, which didn’t leave me much time. After locking up the cabin, I hopped back into the car and retraced my steps to the 15, periodically checking the mirror for cars that might be following a bit too closely. Such as Lieutenant Hepworth’s, for example. I wondered if he’d left the department vehicle at home and taken his own ride, like Will Smith in Bad Boys II (Ferrari) or Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon II (wife’s station wagon). Although maybe with that eye he didn’t drive. Such things can affect depth perception. In any case, I’m happy to report that no one was following me. Sort of happy. Because now there was no excuse not to continue east, toward Lake Arrowhead.
Lake Arrowhead was where I was going to find Big Fatty.
First, though, I had to navigate the Rim of the World.
The Rim of the World Highway traverses the crest of the San Bernardinos, offering panoramic views of the verdant valley below. It is also the place where buses filled with hapless tourists regularly plunge over the edge during storms. Thus, the rapid-fire series of signs reading, “Carry Chains,” “4-W Drive with Snow Tires OK,” and “No Exceptions.” Unfortunately, I hadn’t come prepared for the elements. At the first hairpin turn, my head started to swim. At the second, I broke out in a cold sweat. White-knuckling the steering wheel, I scanned the horizon for a fixed point, but we were rapidly gaining elevation, and there wasn’t one. I turned off the radio, and for the next eight miles drove in silence, eyes squinting, back hunched, up until the very moment I passed a “Chains Required” sign—to which someone had added, “Whips Optional”—and I actually laughed out loud. Two minutes later, I hit the turnoff for Lake Arrowhead.
At the first traffic light, I loosened my death grip and took a look around. I saw green trees. A brilliant blue sky. Snow-dusted rooftops sparkling in the sun. A father and a son in matching flannel shirts loading fishing rods into the back of a shiny red pick-up. It was straight out of Norman Rockwell. What could possibly go wrong?
Big Fatty’s house was on the east side of the lake, between Orchard and Emerald Bay. I’d looked it up on Trulia. Nothing but the best for Fatty. After getting out of jail, he’d retired to a 1929 lakefront classic that had been remodeled into a five-bedroom, six-bathroom “luxe meets lodge,” which included a Shrek-scaled stone fireplace, vaulted ceilings, and an unholy profusion of mahogany paneling. The pièce de résistance was the rooster-themed kitchen, which featured two refrigerators, two dishwashers, and half a dozen barstools made of Châteauneuf-du-Pape wine barrels. The house also came with its own dock and a double slip so Fatty could have his choice of vessels when he was in the mood for some recreational boating.
I parked my car at a discreet distance, then strolled down the densely wooded street, stopping directly opposite the house, which backed onto the lake. There was a flat private driveway in front, as well as a footbridge with a lily pond below. Then there were the gates. That would be the ten-foot gates with the nasty-looking metal spikes on top. There were also signs. One read: “WARNING: PRIVATE PROPERTY.” Another read: “NO TRESPASSING.” And then, for unwelcome visitors who didn’t speak English, there was a sign with a drawing of a guard dog. The specks of saliva on his massive jaw added to the verisimilitude.
For want of a better idea, I started snapping pictures, and that’s when the security car cruised by. Forgot about those guys. In neighborhoods like these, there are not only security cars cruising at regular intervals, there are cameras—mounted inside light fixtures, camouflaged by bushes, affixed to the undersides of pilasters. If I lingered too long in any one spot some nosy neighbor was going to call it in to the authorities. Consequences would ensue. This was the crucial moment. I needed to ring Big Fatty’s bell, or get a move on.
I rang Big Fatty’s bell.
“Si?” came a voice over the intercom.
“Is Mr. Sims at home? I’m an old friend. He’s expecting me.” And if he wasn’t, maybe he should’ve been. There’s no escaping Destiny—D-Low, that is.
The voice came back. “Sorry, miss. Nobody home.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back? Hello? Hello?”
I rang the bell again, but she wasn’t particularly receptive. I had several options left.
I could pretend to be a lawyer representing someone who’d left Fatty a bequest.
I could pretend to be the UPS guy.
I could pretend to have an aneurysm.
I could go down to the dock via the public access road and peek inside the house from the other side.
It was sort of a no-brainer.
I descended the steep pathway, grabbing at random branches to steady myself as the dirt shifted under my feet. The goat hair après-ski boots turned out to be somewhat impractical. No tread. Plus, they weren’t waterproof, so by the time I’d skidded my way down to the lake my feet were soaked. The boots weren’t my only problem. Unless I was prepared to whack my way across a wooded slope without a machete, then scale a fifty-foot vertical retaining wall without a harness or ropes, I wasn’t getting anywhere near Fatty’s house.
The dock, however, was unsecured. All I had to do was lift a latch and I was in. Kind of foolish actually, considering there was a fancy powerboat parked in the double slip that somebody who knew what they were doing could totally make off with. I couldn’t read the boat’s name because it was obscured by some plastic sheeting. I crouched down to get a better look, but I never did figure it out. Or get to admire the spectacular view. Because by that point I was distracted by something I saw in the water. Admittedly, I’d just read Chandler’s Lady in the Lake, but it looked an awful lot like a dead body.
I found a skinny branch, then parked myself at the edge of the water and poked gingerly, then more aggressively, at the thing that looked like a dead body. It had no heft. That was a good sign. Dead bodies have heft, especially water-logged ones. I poked at it a couple more times and then, all of a sudden, the thing that looked like a dead body shot out of the water and landed with a splat on the dock.
