Beware Beware (29 page)

“What do you remember?” she asked, hesitant and gentle.

“Enough. Where is he?”

“He's in my room,” she said. “We didn't know what to do with him. He passed out almost as soon as we got home, but we didn't want him to slip away in the morning. Isaac was an eagle scout. He tied him up with some of your shirts.”

I laughed at that, but I was feeling pretty grave. “I guess we should go relieve Isaac.”

Isaac was asleep in Lori's desk chair, but the second we touched her door his posture bolted to that of a soldier's. His hair was messy and there was a sweaty sheen to his complexion. I hadn't seen him since his run-in with Winfred, and I was pleased to see that his face was recognizable, handsome still, the patches of puffed and healing skin lending it a roughed edge he couldn't have dreamed of a week ago.

Cautiously, I followed Lori into the room, where Jamie was lying on the floor, naked, it looked like, with a throw blanket over his hips. He was tethered to a corner of her bed in a way that was anything but erotic. There was a big bruise sprawled across one side of his face.

“Waste of a bed,” I said.

“I didn't want to get too relaxed,” Isaac said. “We figured we shouldn't let him leave.”

“And I wasn't going to let him sleep in
my
bed,” Lori said sharply. She was almost shuddering with anger.

“When you came in…” I thought about how to phrase the question, and I hesitated, aware of Isaac listening from his perch five feet away. “I remember what he was trying to do. I don't remember if he was successful.”

“He wasn't,” she said firmly. “We walked in on him trying to put on a condom. He was sitting on your bed, completely naked, trying to tear open the wrapper.”

“Ace timing,” I said.

“It looked like it might have taken him a long time. He was really out of it. I watched him for, like, ten seconds without saying anything. I was standing there looking at him, then looking at you, making sure I wasn't just intruding, and the whole time he was trying to open the condom like it was really hard or something.”

“What was I doing?”

“You weren't doing anything,” she said. “You looked dead. It was really freaky.”

“Did I have anything on?”

She turned red, though she looked more angry than embarrassed. “Just on top, and your shirt was unbuttoned all the way down.”

My stomach clamped like a fist and I sat down on the edge of Lori's bed. “I'm sorry you guys had to see that,” I said, trying for a feeble laugh. “So, what did you do then?”

“It took me a minute to figure out what was going on, but then I screamed.”

Isaac jumped in. “I was right behind her and at first I thought we just walked in on you. But when she started yelling I thought, ‘Oh Jesus,' and was getting ready to whale on him when Lori just attacked.”

“Attacked? What did you do?”

“I hit him in the face with my purse. Isaac has a nice camera I was carrying for him. It's maybe broken now.”

“Did he fight you?”

“No. He just kind of looked confused, and he didn't talk. It almost seemed like he didn't notice me. He was really out of it. At one point he just kind of keeled over, so Isaac dragged him out of the room and we decided I'd stay with you while he watched him.”

“Thank you,” I said. Then I pulled her to me and hugged her, tightly, pressing my head into the inward curve of her stomach. She softened in my arms, and stroked my head, combing my hair with her gentle fingers. “Thank you, Lori,” I said again.

I thought I might cry then, felt the motion of hurt and disgust roil deep inside of me, ancient, permanent, and profound. But I didn't. I willed myself to stay calm, to yield my emotions to the balm of shock, and to take stock of the scene instead. Jamie had tried to make me a victim, but all he did was give me deeper access to the truth of things than I'd ever had before. I stood up and walked back to my room.

I was aware of Lori trailing behind me as I stooped down and picked up his jeans off the floor. He hadn't had a bag, or even a sweater, so I went straight for his pockets and turned them inside out.

Various dude detritus—a leather wallet, loose coins, car keys, cell phone, ChapStick. Then there was an extra condom, and in the same pocket, two small Baggies, one with powder, the other with tablets, both the same chalky white. This was the fun pocket, then, his own little rape kit.

I wanted a shower, but decided it would have to wait. I washed my face and changed out of my pajamas instead, the T-shirt and shorts Lori had wrangled onto me while I slept. I put on a clean shirt and jeans, and even a thin layer of makeup. I wanted to look like a woman in control.

I filled a glass with water and went back into Lori's room to stand over his knocked-out body. He looked dead, and that made me feel good. My feelings toward him were suddenly and wholly uncomplicated—I wanted him gone to hell.

“Guys,” I said, not taking my eyes off of Jamie. “Can you leave us alone for a minute?”

I felt Lori and Isaac hesitate, but a few seconds later, they got up quietly and left the room. They left the door a crack open, and I pushed it all the way shut.

I yanked the blanket off of Jamie, and I took some pleasure in my physical dominance over the scene. He was still asleep, his penis limp, flopped over his balls like a garden slug. I sat down in Lori's desk chair and lit a cigarette to keep me steady. Then I dumped the glass of water on his head.

He coughed and snorted, shaking his head like a wet dog. It took him awhile to notice me, longer still to notice he was bound. When he finally caught my eye, he laughed. “What the hell, Song?” he asked, but his tone was playful. “Did you tie me up?”

I shifted in my chair and tilted my head at him, disbelieving. Then I leaned back and sucked at my cigarette. “You don't remember?” I asked.

“I mean I remember
some
stuff,” he said.

I pulled the Baggie of white tablets out of my pocket. It was too much to pretend we were waking up from a romantic encounter. It was just too far from anything.

“Do you remember taking these?”

He squinted at my hand, and his eyes widened. “Let me see those,” he said.

I set them down on Lori's desk and shook my head. “Roofies? You came to my house begging for my sympathy, and you brought fucking roofies?”

“Hey, don't call them that, Song. Give me a break. I was feeling bad and I wanted to get wasted.”

“What do you mean don't call them that?”

“You're making me sound like a rapist or something,” he said.

He spoke with a straight face, solemn and sober, despite the pull of a groggy hangover. His tone was admonishing; hurt, even. Like he thought I knew him better than that.

I laughed. “What, are you kidding me? Like you weren't one prick hair from raping me less than seven hours ago?”

His whole face turned an ugly shade of red. I waited for him to defend himself.

“I don't remember much of last night,” he said. “But if you think I tried to rape you, there must be a massive misunderstanding here. I am not that kind of guy.”

“What kind of guy—a rapist?”

“Goddamnit, Song. Stop saying that word.”

“You may not think you're ‘that kind of guy,'” I said. “But the only thing you need to do to be ‘that kind of guy' is to try and rape someone.”

“I didn't try to rape you,” he said.

I picked up the Rohypnol again, and shook the bag like I was ringing a dinner bell.

“I don't remember using those, okay?” he said. “But if I did, then it would have been pretty late in the game, and it would've been for both of us, just to loosen us up. And come on, Song. You knew we were going to bed together the minute you let me in the house.”

“Maybe
you
knew that.
I
didn't. When I let you in last night, I was helping a friend in need.”

“Are we ‘friends'? Is that what we are? That wasn't exactly the vibe I was getting.”

“Jamie, if you don't know the difference between flirting and consent to sexual intercourse, I don't know what to fucking tell you.”

“I know the difference.” He was pouting, indignant. “You must have consented.”

It took longer than it should have to sink in, but it was a hard thing to understand. Jamie, in his heart of hearts, fully believed in his own innocence. He was the kind of man who despised the seedy predators snatching at joggers in the park, who heard the word “rape” and pictured women dragged by their ankles, kicking and clawing until their nails tore off.

And then I heard Daphne, explaining in her calm way why she didn't report Joe Tilley. How she didn't trust that anyone would believe her, under the circumstances.

“You didn't kill Tilley,” I said.

His eyes brightened, and he flashed me an optimistic smile. “Of course not.”

I stood up and left without another word.

 

Seventeen

I told Lori and Isaac I had to leave for a while, and ran out to my car with weak sounds of protest trailing after me. I was already rolling down Santa Ynez when I realized I had no idea where to find Daphne.

She had no fixed address, and she sure as hell wasn't staying with Jamie. She knew where I lived, where I worked, and she could tap my shoulder and have me at attention any second she liked. Our bicoastal friendship had felt even-footed, despite its contractual nature. In the same city, I saw the slope of things, and wondered that I'd ever ignored it.

Then again, I'd taken the larger view with Daphne all along. I'd listened to all of her lies, and even when I'd found them out, I'd let her have the highest available remainder of my trust each time. That quantity had melted with the inevitability of a snowman, until I was left with a puddle that never looked quite human after all.

I knew she was a liar. Now I was starting to see, with mounting, awful clarity, how and why she'd lied. Jamie's visit had filled in a lot of the blanks; my mind flooded with screaming conjectures that demanded reply.

I was relieved when she picked up the phone.

“Jamie came to see me,” I said. “Where are you? We need to talk.”

“I'm nowhere in particular. Tell me where to meet you.”

My place was out, and I didn't want to bring her back to the office. I was driving down Sunset now, riding west without a destination.

“You know the Silver Lake Reservoir? There's a dog park. Meet me there on the big-dog side.”

It was the first place I thought of that might work for a private conversation in a public place. It took me a second to remember I only knew it because I'd followed Jamie there when he took his roommate's dog. I recalled the day with instinctual fondness, until the more relevant revulsion took over.

I found street parking within a block of the park and walked to the chain-link fence. It was a warm day, and the park was busier than I'd imagined. I forgot, on occasion, how many people worked nontraditional jobs in L.A. Until I started with Chaz, I'd been one of them, though more aimless, I supposed, than even the average model or screenwriter. I wondered if I were less aimless now, if I even wanted a career in private detection. I knew I'd see this case through—the moment Daphne hired me I was shot out of a cannon and had no choice but to free fall in that predestined parabola. But I didn't know how much more I could take.

Dogs prowled around the park, rolling in dirt and slobbering on each other while their owners watched in various stages of attention. I walked around the perimeter and kept one eye at the gate.

Ten minutes later, Daphne walked in, wearing tight jeans and a red silk blouse, with big sunglasses obscuring half her face. I stopped my rotation around the park, and she walked toward me, ignoring the dogs that leapt at her knees.

She was so smooth and assured, every movement in control: she smoldered evenly, like blue flame that looked cool until you melted skin to touch it. I would never meet anyone like her again.

She stopped within a few feet of me and took off her sunglasses. She looked me in the eye and nodded.

“Jamie came over last night,” I told her.

“You guys are thick as thieves, huh?”

I fished the Baggie of Rohypnol out of my pocket and let it hang like a tea bag from my fingers. “Recognize these?”

She stared at the round white tablets, her lip drooping and her tongue poised for speech. “Are those Jamie's?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Where did you…” She trailed off, and I was sure she knew the answer.

“He tried to do it to me, too.”

We sat in silence, staring at the roofies. Her hard eyes glimmered under a film of nascent tears.

“I'm so sorry,” she said. “I didn't think…”

“I got lucky,” I added. “Lori came home at a critical moment and basically knocked him out. He took some for himself, too.”

She nodded, absent, remembering. I lit a cigarette and let her wade through her thoughts.

“I don't know how you pretended so long,” I said.

“It wasn't all pretend.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“We met at a gallery,” she said. “And he pursued me pretty persistently. I thought it was annoying, but also romantic. He seemed like a nice, thoughtful, smitten kind of guy, like in the movies.”

Jamie had told me this part of the story himself, and I wondered now how I'd missed the red flags. Then I remembered: I'd seen them, even commented on them, and then I'd let him explain them away. I was attracted to him, and more simply, I liked him. I didn't know him well enough to decide anything with certainty, but on a structural level built on a series of general impressions, my mind had placed limits on the kind of person I thought he could be. It took a lot more than a concerning anecdote to uproot those fences. I wondered if Daphne had been caught off guard the same way.