tomeubanks.com

                                            CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

                                        Escape from Sleep

8:10 a.m.

The speedometer on the Olds twiddled at ninety coming across Broadwell Dry Lake. Reggie's shirt stuck to the back of the seat. It was already eighty degrees outside. He didn't want to turn on the air conditioning, because I.Q. had dropped off to sleep the minute after they threw a few things in the trunk and drove off.

We might have the rest of the day before they come looking for us....But the motorhome–maybe I should go back and get it. No, they'd hear us for sure. That kid was setting me up. If Ivan is right and he didn't kill Jackie, the set-up meant the cops. No, there was no going back now. What about going to the cops first? Dumb idea. Worry about the motorhome later.

Up since two-thirty in the morning, going on four hours sleep, the heat dulled his senses, but his mind raced through the call he'd made to Joe Cox at his room ten minutes ago using Josh's cellular phone. He let Cox know about seeing Kenny, but didn't tell him the exact location, only that he was seen out by the dry lake. It seemed to make sense to him. He didn't ask why. In return, without going into too much detail because of the confidentiality surrounding his contact with Tooley in Vegas, he told Reggie that Josh had been set up for a rape that probably didn't happen. But he also said John Quinn had been involved in the politically motivated set-up. He didn't argue with Cox, but he knew she wasn't lying. Something happened to her that night. Maybe Josh had nothing to do with it, but...and then he remembered what Brenda said...and the crickets he heard over the phone...and the mud.

* * *

The shower was a mistake. He'd been up since one-thirty yesterday and all he wanted to do was sleep. Dutch had just gone outside to smoke, when the phone had rung. The monotone voice didn't sound like Reggie Thomas. Sounded like somebody ready to jump from a bridge. Joe asked if he was all right. He said he was just tired. So he hadn't slept either. He said he saw T.J., but that he couldn't say exactly where. Joe pushed it enough to where he gave him a general area–some place called Broadwell Dry Lake–and he seemed reluctant to tell him that. It made sense, too. The wilderness book, the camping gear. T.J. was stalking Reggie. Maybe he thought Reggie killed Jackie. Did he know something Joe didn't? No. T.J. was wrong. Or maybe T.J. knew Reggie didn't kill her and he wanted only to frame him. A horrible thought breezed by then. He let it blow away.

Joe wanted to reciprocate with Reggie, but he didn't want to break the confidence with Lee. Reggie needed to know that Jackie wasn't raped–at least by Josh. As an afterthought, he let him know that he was right about Quinn–he'd lied to them yesterday at the playhouse. It was his idea to set up Josh with the phony rape. Joe hoped he hadn't gone too far with that information. Without the connection to Lee and Tooley and the details of the scheme to find out Lucilva's plan, it was unlikely Reggie could figure this all out anyway.

Leah called to him from Lakeview Drive. T.J. called to him from the dry lake. Rendquist called to him, too. But the loudest call was from Sleep.

He went to the bathroom, splashed icy cold water on his face, then went out onto the balcony where Dutch stood smoking another cigarette, flipping through a newspaper draped across the rail.

"Going to be around awhile?" Joe asked.

"Over at the theater, yeah. What do you need?"

Time, Joe thought. "Check in on Teddi for me. She's pissed about your gig over there, so don't expect her to be too friendly. I have to arrange for Jackie's body to be taken back to L.A."

"Sure, guy."

"Anything in there about Jackie?" Joe asked. Dutch shook his head. Joe glanced down. He was reading page three. A headline over the far right column read: Congressman Hall Talks Energy. Lee had mentioned Hall last night. "Let me see that." Dutch handed over the paper disinterestedly. Joe read the short three-inch piece. Nothing important. Just that as a member of the House Energy Committee he was working to bring jobs to his constituency through various unnamed energy projects. Then in his sleepless state of mind, disconnected information plugged into his brain.

"That scrap of paper Quinn found in the mayor's trash," he said to Dutch.

"Huh?"

"The piece of paper. What did it say?"

"Something about a proposal to Chris Paley, why?"

"And those letters?"

"You mean R-E-S-S-M-A."

"No, the other ones."

"There weren't any other ones. There was a three-letter word–Doe."

D-O-E, Joe spelled to himself.

"What? You got something, guy?"

"Maybe. We'll talk later."

"Wait a minute, now. If you got something–"

"Later, I said."

"You don't have to jump down my throat."

"Sorry."

They stood at the rail a moment without speaking.

"You're still pissed off for not telling you about Teddi, aren't you?"

"Forget about it."

"Sure. I just wish you would."

"I will."

"Anything else you're pissed about?"

He was tempted to bring everything to a head–about Winkle's, the ice house, Paley's exhumation.

Melissa's voice snapped him out of the impulse.

"Good morning, gents."

"Damn," Dutch whispered approvingly from the corner of his mouth.

"Morning," Joe said.

Her hands were in the pockets of the terrycloth robe she wore, and her hair was wet, combed straight back. As she ascended the stairs, she was saying: "Any luck in Vegas?"

"Luck?" Joe wasn't connecting with her meaning yet and didn't really care to–he was too busy watching the way she moved up those stairs. She stopped at the top and raised her eyebrows.

"Whatever you went to Vegas for–any luck?"

"Oh, yeah, some."

She glanced at Dutch.

"Oh, sorry. Melissa, this is an old friend–and Teddi's partner–Dutch Youngblood."

She offered to shake his hand. Dutch took and kissed it. She pruned her face at Joe over the top of Dutch's bowed head, but nodded benignly at Dutch after he rose from the kiss.

"I want to thank you for getting Robby back. He and that nutty friend of his–I don't know. We got him back just in time I think."

"Turned out not to be that difficult. Really. In fact, it was Leah who found him."

"I know," she said. Her smirk said she'd just tested his honesty. It irritated him, but he let it go. But she must have seen something in his eyes, his face, that he didn't like being backed into that kind of corner.

"I knew you knew," he announced. "Can you manage to keep Robby home?"

"Yes. T.J. kind of stuck it to him; I think he'll be glad to get home. And if he isn't, I'll strap him to his bed."

Joe smiled. "He's a good kid. Make a good P.I. one day."

"Yes, well, he's made a bad choice in friends."

"That's a good P.I.'s prerequisite."

"Is it. Well. I hope I won't be included on your Christmas list."

Dutch hadn't budged from the rail. Like a tennis fan, his head swiveled back and forth between them, hanging on every word. When Joe finally realized it, he turned to him and gave him a John McEnroe glare. He excused himself, went back into the room.

"Going back today?" Joe asked.

"Well, you know, one of the problems I have is I never take time off. Got studio jobs lined up through the first of the year. I need a break–bad. But I put it off–like a trip to the dentist, you know?" She leaned on the rail, looked towards The Plunge. "So here I am. This is a resort. And Robby and I are here together, and I'm thinking maybe a little time together would get us back in sync. He's been distant. I have to show him how important he is to me."

"Sounds like a plan."

"There's one little thing, though. I need some extra cash. And Leah said there's a refund on the retainer."

Joe reached in his pocket, pulled out five hundred dollars and handed it to her. "Have fun."

Melissa gritted her teeth reflectively and said: "Seven hundred she said."

He took out two one-hundred dollar bills, held them up. "Under one condition."

"What?"

"Have dinner with me."

Melissa hesitated long enough to make him wonder if she would. "Under one of my own conditions."

"Which is?"

"I cook it."

To Joe, that meant something. He wasn't exactly sure what it meant, but he knew it was positive. He accepted.

Robby called up from the parking lot, "We going or not?" He wore swimming trunks and draped around his neck was an American flag beach towel. He held up the snorkel set. "Mind if I borrow these, Mr. Cox?"

"Go ahead."

"I better keep my promise," Melissa sighed. "Hope the water's warm."

"If not, rent a canoe and scoot around the lake."

"I don't know, Robby already set the agenda. He has some spot in mind already."

Joe looked down over the rail. Robby waited impatiently by her black Jeep Cherokee. He wondered if Robby's spot had anything to do with Jackie's being found in the lake, and if Melissa knew.

"Mom! Come on!"

She removed the robe. Joe's heart stumbled in his chest. She wore a conservative but sexy bright orange two-piece bathing suit.

"Leah asleep?"

"She's in the field already."

"Would you give this to her? I borrowed it."

"Uh, sure. Have a good time. Maybe I'll see you later or something."

She smiled. "I hope so."

He watched her all the way down the stairs and into the Jeep. As they drove away, Robby waved a suspiciously silly wave at Joe.

Back in his room, Joe dodged Dutch's questions about Melissa and him, topped his head with a Lakers cap and drove off to find the Paley Medical Center on the west side of town.

* * *

The gate was locked when Reggie pulled up to the Paley estate. I.Q. woke up and asked where they were. Reggie told him as he reached out through the window and pushed the intercom button. The odd-shaped mansion could be seen up the hill, but no vehicles were parked in the front or the side under the carport. It looked deserted. He pushed the button again.

"Yes?" Lucilva's voice. Out of breath.

"Reggie."

"I see that. What're you doing here?"

"Collecting for The Times."

There was a long pause before the gate slowly opened. He parked under the carport. Lucilva met them on the side porch with the view of the grassy area.

"Why aren't you two working?" she said in a low voice that made him wonder if someone else was inside. I.Q. stretched, oblivious it seemed to her hushed tone.

"Adams caught a kid screwing around with my loaner last night out at the hut. Couldn't get anything out of him, but we know who he is."

"So where is he?"

"He got away. And he was in love with Jackie. He's trying to make it look like I killed her."

"For God’s sake, Reggie. He killed her himself. Isn't it obvious? And he's trying to–"

"I thought about that already, but–"

"How can you be so stupid? Who else if not him?"

"I don't know."

"Look," she said, folding her arms, "couple police officers came by this morning looking for you. I said you went back to L.A., but I doubt they believed me."

Reggie glanced over her shoulder. "Who's inside?"

"No one," she answered–too quickly.

He pushed her aside, she grabbed onto his shirt, but he wrenched it out of her hand and ran for the door.

"Damn it, Reggie!" she screamed after him. "I don't want any trouble here!"

He ran through the den. It looked very different in the light of day without the eerie firelight dancing around the mirrored room. He walked through it and into the family room, found no one there, and proceeded to the end of the hall. The door to Paley's office was locked again. He banged on the door. Lucilva rushed up behind him, huffing, "I told you no one was here–what're you looking for!"

"You and Quinn and Tooley all grew up together."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Tooley was probably one of the last to see Jackie alive," he rambled, "but Quinn likes little girls."

"Does this all have some meaning for me, or are you–"

"Just shut up."

"I won't. And I suggest you and little Ivan get back to work and start cookin'."

"You don't get it. When he called here Thursday night, I heard crickets. He was on his car phone. Friday morning I noticed mud along the sides and tires of his MG. And like I said, he likes young girls. So maybe you and Quinn and Tooley all decided to keep her quiet about it. I'm sure there's more to it. A lot of dirty things going on in this town, so what I'm saying is, either you tell me the fucking truth and put this asshole away or I'm going to the cops myself."

"Are you suggesting John killed her to keep her quiet?"

"I'm saying he could’ve raped her as part of some political bullshit. Whether he killed her or not, I don't know, but it's possible, and to be honest, I'm trying to control myself. I want to kill the son-of-a-bitch."

"If I knew who raped her–or killed her–I'd've gone to the cops myself by now. What do you think I am, Mr. Thomas?"

"Only whores call somebody they fucked mister."

The slap was hard. Rocked him back on his heels.

"Get out of here!" she screamed. She pushed past him. He followed her out to the Olds where I.Q. leaned against the hood looking out over the valley.

"Nice view," he commented.

Lucilva planted herself between him and the view. "You want to cook for me?" I.Q. glanced at Reggie. "Not him–you."

"Up to you, Reg."

"He won't cook," Reggie told her, "until you tell me the truth."

"I did," she said. Her eyes flashed between them, finally settling on I.Q. "Jackie's dead. He made us keep it from you so you'd finish the deal."

"I know."

"You...." Her surprise made her step back.

Reggie grinned as big as his depressed mood would let him.

"Nice try, Lucilva."

She straightened her back, her eyes focusing on the house. They both turned. John Quinn leaned in the doorway of the den, dressed like some English professor.

Reggie's first inclination was to charge the man, let pain and suffering be his jury, but I.Q. read the situation and firmly held his arm.

"Would this be the deal out at Josh's hangar perhaps," Quinn said over-dramatically. "Fortunately for you, I'm not a narc. You'd be busted. All of you. But you have nothing to worry about." He zipped his lips.

"Why is he here," Reggie said, seething.

"Never mind."

"Why'd you say nobody was here?" I.Q. asked. He wrinkled his nose. "Who the hell is he anyway? And who dresses him?"

Reggie told him. I.Q.'s face flushed.

"You...you raped her? You–"

"Please," Quinn said, gripping his temples with his fingers, "spare me the loose accusations."

But I.Q. was around the other side of the car, ready to tear into him. Reggie stepped in his path. "Not now. I don't know for sure."

Quinn came down the steps and stood inches away from Reggie's back, keeping him between I.Q. and himself. Over Reggie's shoulder he explained in a kind, fatherly voice:

"Look, son, I did not rape anyone. I couldn't. I'll have you know that I am a teacher, and my abounding affection for young people does not include sexual assault."

"Did he do it, Reg," I.Q. asked, his fists clenched.

"I don't know for sure. But he was at the café when the cops picked her up–"

"Why'd they do that?" I.Q. asked, getting confused.

"And Brenda said Jackie looked scared when she saw this prick," Reggie finished, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at Quinn.

"Who's...who's Brenda?"

"Works at Doone's Café," he replied simply. If I.Q. knew about his feelings for her, it might upset him again, it being only a blink in time since Jackie's death. He wouldn't understand. But this was how he got himself in trouble before with Ivan. The absence of truth.

"I like her," Reggie declared.

I.Q. backed away, shaking his head in disgust. He looked at Lucilva, then at Quinn and back to Reggie, in a way that made Reggie feel like he had in one moment put them all in one barrel and kicked it over the falls. And then he spit in Reggie's face.

"I probably deserved that." He stood over I.Q., close enough to break his neck, and found enough self-esteem to say, "But don't ever show me disrespect again or we're finished for good."

I.Q. dropped his eyes.

Reggie wiped his face on his sleeve and walked over to where Lucilva stood.

"Where's your mother?" he blurted.

"My–Oh, not this again. We've already gone through this."

"Do you know where your mother is!" he yelled.

She flinched. "Yes." She glanced at Quinn.

Reggie spoke softer, so Quinn couldn't hear. "Where?"

She heaved a sigh. "Like I said: she's dead."

"And you're sure of that?"

"Of course I am, what–"

"You were pretty young when she left."

She didn't say anything. She fell into some internal world, a world of pain. Her voice put on a slow, hollow inflection. "What're you trying to do?"

"Make a trade."

She glanced at Quinn, whose head was cocked, trying to hear their conversation. Reggie moved closer to her. Softly, he said:

"You tell me what I want to know, and I'll tell you what you ought to know."

She blinked.

There was a faint buzz from inside the house. Lucilva looked down the driveway. A woman stood at the black, iron gate pushing the intercom button, waving at them.

Reggie slunk back against the Olds.

Quinn shaded his eyes with his hand, walking forward. "Who the hell is that?"

* * *

The Paley Medical Center building sat on the back of a lot with a parking area in front. Rendquist's office was in the front quarter of the building. It hadn't occurred to him that it wouldn't be open yet. It was only eight-forty; the red and white sticker in the window said the office was open from nine to six. He peeked through the glass door, pressing his face against it, and cupped his hands around his eyes to see through the tinted window. The door moved. He pushed and it opened.

He followed the short entry hall and then turned left into a waiting area. The lights were off, but the vertical blinds were angled so sunlight shined through and lit up the blue carpet like a pool.

To his immediate left was a counter, behind which were three desks, computers, monitors, file cabinets and the trappings of a doctor's office.

Straight ahead, a hall ran the length of the office, with small examination rooms staggered on each side. Joe headed down the hall, ready to encounter a desperate druggie looking for a treasure trove of dope. Surely the staff hadn't forgotten to lock up on Friday. Maybe Dr. Rendquist came by the office yesterday before the autopsy. He might have forgotten to lock up. Still, there could be someone lurking in any of these rooms. It was times like these that he wished he were more like the TV private eyes and carried a cannon. He considered going back out and getting his shotgun out of the trunk, but he reached the end of the hall and a door marked, Private. He listened at the door. Nothing. Then, slowly, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. A foot or so into the swing, it stopped. Joe's body stiffened. Someone was behind it.

He took several steps back into the hall. "Whoever's in there, I've got a gun. Come out. Backwards. Hands up."

What if someone does come out? And they see I've got only a mouth? He put his hand in his pocket, dug around, found his Chapstick. Jammed into someone's back, it might feel like the barrel of a gun. I gotta be nuts.

"Come out!" No response. Only silence.

Chapstick in hand, he pushed against the door, but it wouldn't budge. He took a breath and stuck his head through the foot-wide gap between the door and the arch, tensing his neck and face in preparation for whatever whack his head was likely to take.

A white coat hit him in the face. He gasped. It hung from a coat hanger screwed to the back of the door.

A strong scent of cologne hit his nostrils. It was the first time he'd ever felt fear after smelling aftershave, and he let his eyes stutter around in their sockets until they found the floor.

Sitting propped against the door was a bald-headed man in his sixties with bushy eyebrows, wearing a white shirt and black trousers. The knife had been plunged to the hilt through the right side of his throat. He looked like a bloody Frankenstein, eyes bulging, tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth like a large, black slug.