About Face (20 page)

“She was the one with the capital in the first place,” Wes said, finishing the thought I'd been groping for. He laid out a theory about large sums of money, made by Silicon Glamour in some shady way, needing a place to go, a place with a respectable cover. I tried to follow, but my eyes were dropping as if pulled shut by enormous weights.

“You're a bad influence, Wes,” I mumbled.

“Now, that's not true, Billy. First of all, I'm not the one getting cold-cocked in the jaw. Second, you'd get no sleep at all tonight if it weren't for me.”

I was gone by the time he finished the sentence.

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The next day started slowly. Very slowly, and only then because Rita called at noon, jolting me out of cavernous sleep. It took me some time to realize where I was and how a telephone worked.
Actually, first I had to ascertain
who
I was.

Rita said the master tape of the Algoplex film, along with ten VHS copies, was ready. She'd edited out references to Alissa and added an R.I.P. for Rod at the end.

“Thanks, Rita. I'll take them down to Mike. You're a hero.”

“Right, so why don't
you
stop trying to be one? Amused as I am by your new Godfather accent, I don't want you to become completely unintelligible.”

“I've got to go. It's time for my medication.”

When I went into the kitchen, I found out that I'd missed an earlier call from Mike. Apparently he had more bad news about the company. I called him back, but he wasn't in. I was still woozy enough to let Wes talk me into staying on the couch and watching another movie while I waited for Mike's return call.

It came toward the end of the afternoon. He'd just met with one of Rod's original investors, a guy named Carlisle, who wanted to pull out. Mike's voice was strained. “This could be curtains, Bill. It'll put more shares up for grabs and you-know-who will get them. He said Sylvain didn't meddle, it was just that he'd invested in Rod and now Rod's gone.”

“We can talk about it more in person,” I said. “I've got the master tape of Rod's film, if you want to pick it up.”

“Uh, let's see, can you bring it down? I've got a couple of quick stops to make, then some things to take care of at Rod's house before the service tomorrow. Can you meet me there in ninety minutes or so?”

I wasn't crazy about getting in a car, but I agreed. Wes made some scrambled eggs and I thanked him for missing work and being such an excellent nurse.

I swallowed another Vicodin, and, after swinging by Rita's house for the box of videotapes, pointed the Scout down Guerrero to Interstate 280.

Darkness had crept over the city. I turned on my lights and swayed with the curves of the freeway. The autumn time change had just befallen us and the road was a river of lights as people returned home. This time of the year gave me a primal-eclipse kind of feeling, as if the world was coming to end. The Vicodin added to the furry twilight dream. My tongue compulsively explored the gap on the back right side of my lower teeth. I tried to stop, but as soon as I forgot to think about it, my tongue was back in there. Voids are hard to leave alone.

The yellow tape had been removed from Rod's house. His Volvo sat in the driveway. The house was dark for the most part, with a single light on in the entry hall. I didn't see Mike's sports car, so I wondered if Rod's mother was there. I knocked on the door and pressed the bell. It rang forlornly, unanswered. I pressed it again and then commanded the front door to open. It did not click in response. But when I pushed at the door, it swung inward.

“Hello?” I called, setting the box of videotapes on a table inside the door.

Only the hall light was on. I waited. To my right were the dining table and cabinet, hulking in the dimness like sleeping animals. The house was silent. I kept still, listening harder. Then I could hear it, a distant buzz. No, it was a roar: my own coursing blood.

I moved down the hallway, and with a rush the sensation of finding Rod returned to me. I wondered if I should leave myself so out in the open, fingered by the light from the entryway, while the rest of the house was obscured in darkness. Yet I stayed where I was. As my eyes adjusted I made out the leather sofa of the living room, the hearth, the vase, the side table. All were just as they had been that night.

A sense of dread burrowed into my gut. I scanned the living room for a poker or some kind of weapon. The air around me
was dense, a fog of darkness, like a thing waiting to pounce. If a weapon was hidden in that fog, I couldn't find it. I felt paralyzed from doing anything but going forward to whatever I would find in the kitchen. I moved as if in a trance, feeling myself a helpless observer, able only to follow the viewfinder down the hall. My steps were short, sliding, silent save for the intermittent whine of a floorboard.

An indirect glow coming through a window gave the kitchen a murky light. It had been cleaned up, the scattered objects put away or taken by the police, the chairs turned upright. Mike's work, I assumed. I touched a light switch but then thought better of it. A faint smear of red still stained the linoleum where I'd found Rod. I considered searching for a knife, but the image of Rod's gashed neck made me leave the drawers alone. Instead, I stopped in front of the refrigerator. A picture of Alissa was there, her features shadowy in the indirect light. But that same smile was still on her face, unchanged, unmoved, promising all yet always just out of reach.

I returned to the hall and looked at the basement door. I could go down there or proceed to the bedroom and den. A dim light came from the bedroom door on the left. I pressed myself against the wall—if I wasn't armed, at least I could make myself harder to strike—and moved down the hall.

The tiny reading light fixed to Rod's headboard was on. I moved slowly into the room and thought about checking the closed closet door. Then I saw that the bedspread was wrinkled. Someone had been lying on it. They'd been on top only, not under the covers. The space seemed faintly warm, though it may only have been the heat from my hand.

I crossed the hall to the den. This room seemed safer, since the struggle the night of Rod's murder had not spilled in here.
The far wall was mostly windows. The same indirect light as in the kitchen filtered through them. There was not a sound in the room, not a stir in the air. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I came upon the motionless figure perched on the love seat.

Her back was straight. A gloved hand was placed on each knee. Her black skirt was pressed and she wore a tailored waist jacket. She stared at the windows, her eyes glassy. She could have been a mannequin. Bare November branches cast a quivering web of shadows across her body. My blood went cold as it occurred to me I'd found another corpse.

Then she blinked. “Who are you?” I said.

I stood a few feet away. She raised her hand slowly to her face, blocking me from view. A shiver traveled the length of her body.

I said, “You better tell me why you're here.” I wondered if she had all her marbles, or if she was the kind of oddball attracted by the publicity of Rod's murder. She was dressed as if for a funeral.

Finally the hand dropped. Her face was puffy, her cheeks rough and blemished; her age was hard to read. She turned to the Barcalounger to her right, the chair in which Rod had liked to do his reading. The seat was tipped back, as if he'd just been using it.

The woman's features remained frozen. Only her mouth moved. Barely a sound came out. “I knew him.”

“You knew Rod?”

She took in a sharp breath as she looked at me. Even in this dim light, the purple swollenness of my jaw was visible. Her head swiveled again, slowly, to the easy chair. The vacant stare returned.

“He's gone,” she whispered.

» » » » »

A car door slammed outside. I hoped it was Mike; I'd left the front door open. I offered the woman a hand. “You better come with me,” I said.

Her glance snapped over to me and, as if shaking off a spell, animation returned to her face. “I'm sorry. My name is Kim Woodson.”

She stood and met my hand with a demure shake. “Bill Damen,” I said. “How did you get in the house?”

She looked at my jaw again. “You're hurt. Have you seen a doctor?”

“Yes, thank you—”

Mike's voice came booming down the hall. “Bill! I hope that's you!”

“I'm in the den!” I called back.

We heard every footstep of his approach. I wondered if Kim had listened to my movements in the same frozen position in which I'd found her. Mike did an elaborate double take when he entered. “Who's this?”

Kim stepped forward and introduced herself.

Mike shook her hand and went straight for a table lamp. “Nice to meet you, Kim. I'm Mike Riley.”

She and I flinched together as the light burst into the room. Mike plopped himself into the Barcalounger, right at home. Kim returned to her spot on the love seat. I joined her.

Mike let out a big sigh and said, “God, what a day. You a friend of Bill's, Kim?”

“We just met.” She gave Mike a smile. “I was a friend of Rod's.”

“Oh! I see,” Mike said. “I'm very sorry for your loss.”

“It must be hard for you, too,” she responded. “With the company and all.”

“Yes, there's that . . . but I loved him as a friend, Kim. He was a real buddy. How long did you go back with him?”

She waved a hand. “Oh, a ways. When he was with Inter-Dynamics.” It had been one of Rod's corporate jobs. “It's been a long time. I shouldn't be this upset. But he was so special.”

“He sure was. How well—Were you, uh . . . Well, it's really none of my business.”

Kim turned her smile on again. It had a beguiling quality, a way of lighting up her face. Her skin was a golden copper that, on its own, would have been lustrous. But it clashed somehow with her hair, a kind of streaked, shaggy blond that had seen too many colors. The patches of erupted skin over her cheeks and temples added to an impression of her having fallen from grace. So did her throaty growl of a voice and the mixed scents of perfume and cigarette smoke, whiffs of a lost glamour.

Kim seemed to be searching for words. Mike leaned forward. “Honest, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. Can I get you something—a drink?”

A newspaper clipping was clutched in his hand. I said, “What have you got there, Mike?” For some reason I didn't want him raiding Rod's refrigerator.

He held it out and exhaled another big sigh, flapping his lips. “It came in the mail today. No note or anything. I don't know what to say. I really don't.”

I got up and took the clipping. It was from a small newspaper in Arizona. A head shot was included in a story about an out-of-town woman killed in a fiery car crash. Her name was Alissa Bevins. The photo confirmed it.

I sank back into the couch, numb. “I guess that's it. Both of them are gone now.”

Kim gently pulled the clipping from my fingers. Her gloves were a tight-woven black mesh. She took one look at the story and burst into tears.

Mike rushed to her side, putting an arm across her shoulder. “What is it? Did you know Alissa?”

“No,” she sobbed. The back of a glove wiped her nose and she quickly brought the tears under control. “It's just . . . all this death. Was she important to Rod?”

Mike and I looked at each other. “Yes,” I said.

Kim drew in a sharp breath. Mike squeezed her shoulder a little more tightly. “They weren't engaged, though. In fact—”

“Did you know Alissa, Kim?” I cut in. She'd answered the question, but I posed it more firmly this time.

She covered her eyes and shook her head. Mike shot me a look that said to lay off. Kim said, “Do you know who killed Rod?”

“We're working on it,” Mike said consolingly. “We'll get them.”

“We have a good idea,” I said. I waited for her to look up at me. I was going to reel off some names and I wanted to observe her reaction. “It's a company called Silicon Glamour Associates. Trisha and Rupert Evans. In collaboration with Sylvain Partners. Possibly in collaboration with Connie Plush and Wendy Bevins. How well do you know these people?”

“I don't,” she said, in spite of the visible quivers of recognition. “But I really hope you get them if they did it.” Her eyes, still shiny with tears, zeroed in on me. “I
really
want you to. I'll help. Just tell me what I can do.”

“That's good of you,” Mike said, condescension slipping into his voice. “It's dangerous, though, as you can see from Bill's jaw. I've had some close calls myself. Here, take my card. Do you have a number where we can reach you?”

She recited a number with a 650 area code, which meant it was local. Mike jotted it down. She put Mike's card in a small purse. I noticed, as she stood, that her shoes were scuffed.

Mike's arm hovered near her shoulder. “I'll take you to the door,” he said. “Be sure to keep in touch with us.”

Kim stopped and shook my hand. She turned to look back at the room. A shudder came over her. “It's so strange to be here. I can feel him. It's like he could walk back in any minute.”

Mike squeezed her and took her down the hall. I followed as far as the living room. There was a chill in the house. My skin had goosebumps and I wanted to warm up by lighting the fireplace. I found the switch on the side of the hearth and gave it a twist. It broke off in my hand. A gust blew down the chimney and I shivered. I was starting to think the house was cursed.

“We need to talk,”
I said to Mike.

“I'll say,” Mike answered, coming back down the hall from Rod's front door. He flapped his hand. “Boy, I underestimated Rod. He sure knows how to pick 'em.”