Dream a Little Death, page 9
“How does a gun wind up in the lost and found?”
She said, “It looks like a prop. I told the guy it was mine, from my Divine in Pink Flamingos act.”
“And he just handed it over?” I said.
“Naturally.” Tigertail gave me a wink. “Don’t you remember? Back in Coney Island I was a snake charmer. Drive safely now, Dreama. No talking, and for heaven’s sake, no texting!”
Tigertail was going to be some mother.
As for me, well, I needed a drink. A vacation. And an umbrella. What I had was a trench coat, a beanie, and a gun. I put them on, said my goodbyes, and headed out into the cold, wet night.
Chapter 17
When I saw those lights flashing in my rearview mirror, my first thought was, this is turning into a bad comedy routine. My second thought was Vlad the Impaler had fixed my busted taillight, and I hadn’t been talking on the phone, or speeding, or tailgating. Which made me kind of anxious. Not that I had anything to hide.
Except, perhaps, for the brown paper bag on my front seat.
The 101 was quiet, but given the pounding rain, it still took a couple of minutes to get over to the shoulder. I tried to stay calm. There was always a chance that I wasn’t the one he was after, and that when I got out of the way, he’d just pass me by.
Surprise.
I was the one.
“Roll down the window!” came blaring over the loudspeaker.
I had to hurry. I kept my left hand on the wheel, where he could see it, and used my right to surreptitiously swat the brown paper bag onto the floor. If I’d had time, I would have kicked it under my trench coat, but no such luck, there he was, coming up on my left, a man in uniform, a man with a problem.
“Evening, sir!” I said. “How are things?”
He was all heavy brows and dead eyes, like the sadistic cop Matt Dillon plays in Crash. “License and registration.”
I handed them over.
He studied them, then asked, “Where are you coming from?”
“Echo Park. A friend’s house. Medical emergency.”
“And before that?”
“The Mayan. Lucha Vavoom. You should go sometime. It’s totally fun.”
He wasn’t about fun. “Where are you headed?”
“Back home. To Venice.”
“Do you know why I stopped you?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you realize it’s a crime to evade the police and that I could haul you off to jail right now?”
He didn’t wait for me to answer.
“Were you not aware of me signaling to you a mile back?”
“I had to get over to the side,” I said. “I was trying to be careful. I’m not the greatest driver.”
Good one, Dreama.
“Have you been drinking this evening?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Is that a brown paper bag I see? On the floor, near your coat?”
“Brown paper bag?” I looked down. “Huh.”
“If I opened it up, I wouldn’t find an open container, would I?”
No, Officer, you would find a gun that was recently used in a probable attempted homicide, and was pilfered from the crime scene just this evening by my canny pregnant accomplice.
He pulled a flashlight out of his belt and shined it into my eyes.
“Ow!” I turned away. “Was that really necessary?”
Guess he liked asking the questions.
“Step out of the vehicle,” he said.
It was very disorienting. All those cars whizzing past, engines throbbing, tires screeching, lights flashing and blinking. Also, I was getting soaked.
“Put your hands on the hood.”
As I placed my hands on the hood, several things occurred to me at once.
Good thing I hadn’t bothered with a car wash.
My beanie was angora, which shrinks when wet.
If he patted me down, I was going to sue.
If my mother hadn’t spent the $3,000 Miles gave her for the Guns N’ Roses photo, she could bail me out.
Then the light went off.
This cop hadn’t made me open the brown paper bag. Or cuffed me. Or charged me. Because he had nothing to charge me with. This was a setup. Somebody was sending me a message.
Lieutenant Hepworth. I’d been avoiding his calls. And he’d said he’d be keeping tabs on me.
Then another light went off.
Uncle Ray had a lot of friends on the force. Maybe he was the one keeping tabs on me.
“I’m going to let you go,” the cop said. “I don’t want to see you again. Tonight, or ever. I hope I’m making myself clear. Drive safe now.”
I was still kind of edgy when I passed downtown and transitioned onto the 10. Traffic was heavier now, and I wanted to be home. Home, where I was being watched by the L.A.P.D. Home, where someone had broken into my bedroom. Home, where someone had stolen $40,000 from under the mattress. Okay, maybe home wasn’t sounding all that enticing right now. In any case I was stuck in the wrong lane behind a stream of cars that were exiting on La Brea. I merged into the middle lane, then the fast lane. And that was when I realized I was being followed again.
It wasn’t a cop car this time.
It was a white van.
Did you know there are entire websites devoted to white vans? I didn’t either until a bald man sitting next to me at the D.M.V. a few years back told me. Apparently, a disproportionate number of kidnappers, rapists, and road ragers favor white vans. My gardener, Jovani, has a white van. It says, “Green Thum [sic] by Jovani” on the side in big black letters. Not that I suspected Jovani of anything other than your run-of-the-mill misanthropy.
I was still holding out hope that despite being glued to my rear bumper this particular white van had nothing to do with me. But there was only one way to find out for sure. I zigzagged back across the two lanes I’d just traversed.
Shit.
He was still behind me.
I couldn’t make the face out in my rearview mirror. The rain was coming down too hard, my wipers were squeaking and dragging, and the defogger was barely functional. All I knew was I had to get away. We were coming up to the exit on Robertson. I took one last look in my mirror, then floored it and went squealing down and around the ramp, right into that seamy under-the-freeway zone that was home to a defunct pet boarding establishment and a gentleman’s club for people who simply couldn’t wait. Which, of course, described me at the moment.
For a split second I entertained the idea of leaping out of the car and making a break for the club, where I could mingle undetected with the businessmen clients enjoying totally nude lap dances. But I was hardly going to abandon a vintage Mercedes I’d just spent $700 on, and the valet was nowhere in sight, so I just kept on driving west, hitting only green lights, which was a good thing, except for the fact that the white van was hitting those same green lights, which was a bad thing.
I swung my wheel sharply to the left, and then, praying I wouldn’t spin out, took a hard left onto Washington. As I passed the old Culver Studios I leaned on the horn, hoping to attract attention. But nobody seemed to notice that I was driving close to eighty miles an hour on city streets with a death van on my tail. That was when I realized the streets were pretty much empty. People in L.A. stay home when it rains. This person could rear-end me and then shove me in the back of his vehicle and no one would ever know. I’d be just another statistic on the white van website.
I detoured onto Venice. The white van followed suit. Jesus. Culver City had come and gone. Mar Vista, too. Now I was racing through Palms. As I passed the former site of a Brazilian restaurant whose owner was strangled by her reality T.V. producer husband when they were on vacation in Cancun I had the fleeting thought that I should call for help. But my purse was in the back seat. As I twisted around to get it, I took my eyes off the road—for the merest fraction of a second—only to find myself up on the sidewalk and heading straight for a bus shelter advertising the latest Adam Sandler movie. I swerved just in the nick of time, my back wheels spinning on the rain-slicked asphalt, and wound up back in the street. Too bad I was facing the wrong way.
At least my course of action was clear.
I had to cross two lanes while dodging the two honking cars heading straight at me, then hurtle across the median strip, steering clear of the flowering shrubs, and then merge into the traffic heading east without killing anyone.
It was kind of seamless, to be honest.
Didn’t know I had it in me.
Unfortunately, the driver of the white van was equally skilled.
We were coming up to a red light at Centinela. There was no way I could barrel through a major intersection without getting hit. The rain was falling harder now, and the inside of the car was fogging up to the point that I could barely see. It was do or die. But I had an idea. I knew this spot. There was a guitar store on the northeast corner that Luke and I had visited when he was searching around for a vintage Gibson Les Paul Standard so he could pretend to be Jimmy Page.
I remembered that day well. There was no parking in front, and the residential streets in the area were all permit parking only, so Luke had me pull into the alley behind the store and wait while he went in to talk to the manager. After sitting there for over twenty minutes, I’d realized there was a nail salon right next door, and since I was waiting anyway, I might as well get a manicure. And—how convenient was this?—they had free underground parking.
Like I said, do or die.
The light turned green. I pressed pedal to the metal and went right, the white van pressing hard behind me, then swung an immediate right, and then another, diving down, down, down into the bowels of Happy Nail. I held my breath as I stared into the rearview mirror.
The white van barreled past me and disappeared into the pouring rain.
I don’t know how I made it home that night. I can’t remember which streets I took, or what songs I listened to on the radio, or a single thing I thought about. I suppose I was numb. And exhausted. When I saw Teddy’s car parked outside his house I felt something surge through me. Relief? Joy? Vindication? I wasn’t sure at the time.
I flew out of my car, ran up his walk, and pounded on the door.
“Teddy!” I cried. “It’s Dreama! Let me in!”
“Dreama?” he said. “What’s going on? You’re drenched!”
He opened the door wide and took me in his arms.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” I murmured into his shoulder.
That’s right.
I let him think it was him that I wanted when what I wanted most of all was not to be alone.
I told myself it was okay, given everything I’d been through that night.
But deep down, I knew better.
Chapter 18
“Dreama,” Teddy whispered. “Wake up.”
“No, no,” I murmured. “I can’t go to school. I didn’t study for the test.” I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow.
Teddy sat on the edge of the bed, and stroked my hair. “You’re dreaming,” he said. “There is no test.”
I sat up, rubbed my eyes, took a minute to remember where I was and what day it was.
Teddy’s house.
Saturday.
And just to clarify, there is always a test. The trick is to be prepared so you don’t keep making the same stupid mistakes.
“Breakfast is ready,” Teddy said. “Take this.”
Teddy’s robe was navy blue with thin white stripes. It was also the softest garment that had ever touched my skin. I pulled it on, went into the bathroom to splash some water on my face, then padded into the kitchen.
It was a beautiful day. The morning sun was streaming in through the open window. The Times was on the table, the pages riffling in the breeze. There was a jug filled with fresh daisies. And then there was the feast. A steaming French press, a bowl overflowing with raspberries, and a stack of pancakes, maple syrup spilling luxuriantly down the sides. If I hadn’t been so hungry, I would’ve felt at least a twinge of guilt. Instead, I popped a handful of berries in my mouth and poured myself a cup of coffee.
Just then I heard the opening bars of Adele’s “Someone Like You.” Engelbart started running in circles.
“Hey, you.” I bent down to scratch him behind the ears. “It’s only my phone.” I turned to Teddy. “Do you know—?” I didn’t exactly remember where I’d dropped my basket the night before. Things had gotten pretty heated pretty quickly.
“I’ll get it for you,” he volunteered.
I took a bite of pancake. Oh, god. You could taste the tang of buttermilk.
“They hung up,” Teddy called out from his bedroom. “Hey, I was thinking of taking Engelbart for a quick trip to the dog park after we eat. Wanna come?”
This is why you have to nip it in the bud. Homemade pancakes, the dog park, and the next thing you know, you’ve moved in, you’ve bought towels together, and one day you grab his phone to make dinner reservations only to find out he’s sleeping with a supermodel and his publicist.
Then I heard a thud.
And Teddy’s voice. “What the—”
“You okay?” I called out.
Teddy came walking into the room.
With a gun in his hand.
“Look what I found,” he said. “A .38 special.”
“That’s not mine,” I said automatically.
“What are you, fifteen, and your mom just caught you smoking weed?”
“You mean hers? I wouldn’t have dared.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“C’mon, Teddy.” I stood up, walked over to where he was standing, put my arms around his neck. He shook me off, the gun still in his hand.
“Fine.” I backed off. “You want an explanation? I’m involved in a situation. I guess it’s kind of messy.”
“Messy? Pancakes with syrup are messy. My living room is messy. I want to know why you were shaking when you showed up last night. And why you were crying in your sleep. And why you asked me if I’d seen anybody trying to get into your house. In case you haven’t noticed, I care about what happens to you. I would hate to see you thinking you had to carry a gun for protection. I mean, I know your uncle’s a cop, but come on. Unless you know what you’re doing, statistics show that you’re the one most likely to get hurt.”
It was the most I’d ever heard Teddy say at once. I was floored. Maybe he had more going on upstairs than I’d given him credit for.
“First of all,” I said, “will you please put the gun down?”
He stood his ground. “I’ve already checked. It isn’t loaded.”
Wish I’d thought to do that. “Will you put it down anyway? It’s making me nervous.”
“Glad you’re coming around to my point of view,” he said, placing it on the table.
“Listen, do you really think I’m the sort of person who carries a lethal weapon in her basket?” I shot him a look. “Don’t answer that. Okay, here’s the deal. The gun was used in the commission of a crime.”
“What?”
I gave him an edited version of the story.
He responded with: “You need to hand the gun over to the police immediately. You’ve already broken the chain of evidence.”
“Under normal circumstances, that’s exactly what I would’ve done.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I’m not particularly eager to engage with law enforcement right now. Can’t we just leave it at that?”
He was silent.
“Which is exactly why a person needs friends,” I said. “Friends who have computer skills. Like you.”
He didn’t look happy. “What do you want from me, Dreama?”
“I guess I was kind of wondering if you could maybe hack into a database or something and figure out whose fingerprints are on that gun. You think they sell CSI kits on Amazon? I have 1-Click.”
He wasn’t amused.
“We’re going to find mine,” I went on. “And yours. And a few other sets.” Tigertail’s, for one. And Maya’s, of course. “But I’m looking for the prints of the person or persons who might have slipped a bullet into the chamber the night of Maya’s debut. Which would make the aforementioned crime a murder, as opposed to a suicide. Actually, an attempted murder, since she’s not dead. Yet.” I dropped two more pancakes onto my plate.
“You’re kidding, right? I mean, this is a joke.”
I sighed. “Look, I can’t go to the police. They’re the enemy right now. They’re out to get my uncle. What’s more, they think I’m involved in whatever they’re trying to pin on him.”
I wasn’t going to get into the $40,000. I’d already told him more than I should have.
“Listen, if you don’t want to help me,” I said, “that’s fine. I totally understand. It’s probably the smart move. But I’m not letting this go. I can’t.”
“Look,” Teddy said. “Even if I could do some digital voodoo and get a couple of decent prints off the gun, and then break into the NGI—”
“English, please.”
“Next Generation Identification. It’s the central information repository of the FBI—sorry, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“No need to get snarky.”
“As I was saying,” he continued, “even if I could get in there, this plan works only if this person or persons’ prints are already in the system. Without something to match, there’s nothing I can do.”
“I’m one step ahead of you!” I wiped my mouth, sprang up from my chair and ran out to my car in my bare feet. Teddy stood in the doorway with his coffee, waiting, then followed me back into the kitchen. I set two items down on the table, and smiled triumphantly.
Pee Chee’s red lipstick.
And Miles’s plastic bottle of detox tea.
I’d nabbed them yesterday at the hospital.
“Impressive,” Teddy said, getting into the spirit. “But it might actually be more useful to know who supplied Maya with the gun.”
