Bones and Roses (13 page)

“I should have known,” she mutters. Before I can ask what she meant by that, she's turning to Bradley, seated in the easy chair by the fireplace opposite Joan and me, to ask, “When you spoke with your father, did you mention Tish would be stopping by to have a look at those rotten shingles?”

He flashes her a warning look. “Yes, but if you think Dad had anything to do with this, that's cr—”

She doesn't let him finish. “Why wouldn't I think it?” she cries, her voice rising in agitation. “He tried to kill
me
.” Her lovely, patrician face pales at the memory. “Now he's after Tish.”

“Why me?” I have my own theory—that Seraphina blabbed to him, and it was his way of warning me not to probe any further—but I want to hear Joan's.

She turns to me. “He must think you saw something the other night.”

“The fact is, I didn't. Which I'm sure the police conveyed to him.”

“Douglas never takes anything at face value. He sees ulterior motives where there are none. He probably thinks you were only withholding information because you planned to blackmail him.”

Bradley says sharply, “Mom, no. This has gone far enough.”

She jumps to her feet and starts pacing back and forth on the Navajo rug in front of the fireplace, too distraught to listen to reason. Though I, for one, am not dismissing what she has to say. What if she's right? “You don't know him the way I do! You don't know how his mind works!”

“He's my dad. I think I know him pretty well.”

“You only know what he allows you to see. I kept the worst of it from you when you were growing up.”

“Mom …”

“I was married to the man for thirty-five years. You think I don't know what he's capable of? My God, all the times I turned a blind eye. Not just to the other women but the shady dealings, the way he bullied people—
me
most of all.” She whirls around to face her son. “I should have divorced him years ago. The only reason I didn't was because of you, my darling.” Her hard expression gives way to a tender one. “I wanted you to have a father you could look up to.”

He gets up and goes over to her, putting his arm around her shoulders, saying in a gentle voice, “Mom, I know you're upset, but you need to stop this. Dad's not perfect, no, and he hasn't always done the right thing, but he's not a monster. You shouldn't be putting ideas into Tish's head.”

“I'm sorry if I upset you, my dear,” she says to me when she's regained her composure. “It's just that I would never forgive myself if anything were to happen to you because I hadn't spoken up.” Bradley flashes her another warning look. She takes heed this time and rearranges her features in a semblance of a smile. “But let's put all that aside for now. Why don't I make us some tea?”

“Tea would be nice,” I tell her.

She excuses herself, and Bradley sinks down next to me on the sofa with an audible exhalation. He closes his eyes for a second, rubbing his eyelids. “I know this isn't easy for you, either,” I say.

“It's not just my parents.” He looks at me. His eyes deliver the same high-voltage shock of blue, but I notice they're bloodshot. “Genevieve and I broke up. She flew back to New York this morning.”

“Really? Wow, that—I'm surprised to hear it. You seemed so close.” I put on a sympathetic face because I know it's wrong to feel happy at the expense of someone else's misery.

“I'm not my father's son, if that's what you're thinking,” he says, his mouth thinning in a cheerless smile. “I never cheated on her. It's just that she wants to get married and start a family.”

“And you don't.”

The expression on his face tells me I guessed correctly. “Not now. Maybe someday.” He sighs. “She said she was tired of waiting, and I don't blame her. She has a right to want what she wants.”

“It goes both ways.”

“True, except I still feel like the shit who broke her heart.”

“It's not like you pretended to be someone you weren't. You met at a field hospital in Afghanistan, not a singles' mixer. She must've known you weren't a white-picket-fence, soccer-dad kind of guy.”

He grimaces in response, and I don't know if it's because of my bald assessment of him or because he finds the notion of living the suburban dream so abhorrent. “Yeah, and she was okay with it at first. But things change. You start out wanting one thing and end up wanting another.”

“I get it. I'm not sure I'm cut out for that life, either. I can't see myself with kids.” Or marrying Daniel. “It's not that I don't want them or think I wouldn't make a good mom, but I have my hands full just taking care of my brother. Speaking of which, if you'll excuse me, I have to see about keeping him out of jail.” I step out onto the deck to make a call after I've explained the situation.

“I'm on my way,” Ivy says when I tell her why I'm calling. I don't mention my own scare; that can wait until later. Right now the most important thing is making sure my brother returns home safely. My biggest worry is that he'll end up in the hospital psych ward, the threat of which, unlike that of his going to jail, is very real. Last time he was there on a seventy-two-hour hold—the maximum length of time by state law they can keep someone who isn't deemed a danger to society or himself—he was disoriented and depressed for weeks afterward. “I shouldn't be more than ten minutes.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thanks. I owe you.”

“Yeah, and I'm already thinking of ways you can repay me.”

Last time she bailed me out of a tight spot—literally, in that case; I'd needed her to crawl behind a heavy piece of furniture at a client's house, which was too narrow a space for me, to retrieve a diamond ring its owner had dropped—I had to watch back-to-back episodes of
Hoarders
in repayment. “Okay, but I'm warning you, I'm all stocked up on crazy. Pizza's on me, but can we make it
The Deadliest Catch
instead of
Hoarders
?” I'll take king crabs over cockroaches any day.

“I'll let you know after I've assessed the situation,” she says.

I step back inside just as Joan walks in from the kitchen carrying a tea tray. It holds a pot of tea under a quilted cozy and her best china teacups and saucers, sugar bowl and creamer. There's even a plate of shortbread. It's such a thoughtful and motherly gesture, it brings tears to my eyes. My own mom wasn't the tea-tray type—a mug and Lipton teabag was more like it—but it's a reminder of when I had a mom who cared about me.

I'm on my third cup of tea, still waiting for the call from the mechanic at the Arco station, before Ivy gets back to me. I'm relieved when she reports that my brother is neither under arrest nor “under observation.” “They said he was free to go, but I didn't think we should leave until you got here.”

“Why, what's wrong?” I start to tense up again.

“Nothing. But you might want to talk to Jordan. God knows I'm not getting anything out of Arthur.”

I feel another pulse of alarm. “Is he okay?”

“Physically he's fine.”
Mentally not so much
. She doesn't have to say it.

Bradley gives me a ride back to the Arco when my Explorer is ready for pick up. “Listen, about my mom,” he says when we're alone, “don't let what she said get to you. She's upset and it's affected her judgment. My dad isn't the madman she's painted him to be. He'll make mincemeat of you if you're negotiating a business deal with him, but otherwise he's perfectly harmless.”

“Good to know.” I keep my voice light. I don't dare reveal my own suspicions regarding his father until I have evidence to back them up. Part of me hopes I won't find any. Because it would only complicate matters. How can I entertain fantasies about a man whose dad is out to kill me?

After he's dropped me off, with a kiss on the cheek and squeeze of the hand, I unconsciously bring my hand to my mouth as I'm walking away. I can smell his scent on my fingers, buttery with a hint of vanilla. A second later I jerk my hand away, embarrassed to realize it's not from him but the shortbread I ate.
Get a grip
. I'm acting like a schoolgirl with a crush. Next I'll be saving the wrappers from gum he chewed and doodling the name “Mrs. Bradley Trousdale.”

Fifteen minutes later, I'm pulling into the parking lot at the municipal building on Center Street. I walk into the police station to find Ivy and my brother seated in the waiting area, such as it is—it consists of a half dozen beige molded-plastic chairs, the kind you see in hospital cafeterias, set in a row against the wall between the vending machine and bullpen. Arthur only glances up at me before going back to whoever he's texting—his friend, Ray, probably—his shoulders hunched and thumbs moving in a flurry over the keypad on his phone. Ivy gives me a wan smile and points in the direction of the bullpen, from which Jordan James is just now emerging.

I go over to him. “Jordan.”

I must have caught him at the end of his shift because he's wearing street clothes: jeans and a black
Iron Man
sweatshirt that doesn't disguise his non-
Ironman
gut. He puts a hand out, traffic-cop style, to stop me before I can say another word. “If you're here to accuse me of police harassment, you can save your breath. He approached us, not the other way around.”

“Did he give a reason?” I keep my voice down in case Arthur is listening in.

“All he said was that he'd done ‘something.'” Jordan makes air quotes with his fingers. “He didn't seem too clear on what exactly it was. We ran a background check. No outstanding warrants.”

“I could have told you that. It's just that he sometimes gets … confused. Was there anything going on at the time? You know, like an accident or altercation he might have witnessed.”

“Nope. Me and Angie, we were coming out of the Mickey D's over on Ocean when he came up to us. At first I thought he was just another tourist. They're always asking directions, to the Boardwalk or aquarium or what have you, like we're the freaking chamber of commerce. But your brother? Shit, that was a new one for me.” He shakes his head, smiling to himself, then leans in to add, “I'd get him checked out if I was you. He ain't playing with a full deck, if you know what I mean.”

I feel myself stiffen. I've heard every slang word and phrase there is. “Wacko,” “a brick shy of a full load,” “a screw loose,” “bats in the belfry,” to name a few. People who wouldn't dream of using the n-word feel no such constraints in making slurs about the mentally ill. I stare at Jordan for a couple of beats before saying, “Do me a favor. If it happens again, give me a call before you take him in. Even if he tells you he mugged an old lady or robbed a 7-Eleven.” I hand him my business card.

“Sure. If the little green men from Mars don't get to him first.” Jordan snickers at his own joke.

I glance past him into the bullpen, where I notice his female partner, Officer Ruiz, eyeing him with a look of contempt. She doesn't have to be within earshot to know he's being offensive. I'm sure she's been the recipient on more than one occasion. “It might interest you to know my brother has a genius IQ,” I inform him, in a frosty voice. “That stands for ‘intelligence quotient.' Look it up.”

Pretty weak compared to my epic putdowns of yore—like the time I told this creep who'd followed me out of a bar and then pulled out his thing that he'd have to show me more than that if he wanted me to scream, as opposed to howl with laughter—but it has the desired effect. Jordan narrows his eyes at me, his pitted cheeks reddening. He may be dumb, but he knows when he's been insulted.

I'm utterly spent, my head spinning and gait unsteady as I make my way back to Arthur and Ivy. I've had more drama in the past few weeks than most people experience in a lifetime, and it's not over yet. I still have to get my brother sorted out. Then find out who wants me dead and why.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The following morning I get a call from McGee. He has something he wants to show me, he says. I suggest we meet at the Starbucks in Harborview Plaza. Minutes later I arrive to find him waiting for me, sipping a coffee at one of the tables in back. It's ten o'clock, between the morning rush hour and when the first class at the Pilates studio next door lets out, so we're the only customers.

“What have you got?” I pull up a chair after I've grabbed a latte.

“Good morning to you, too,” he says grumpily. He recently quit smoking (his third attempt), so he's even crankier than usual. In keeping with his mood he looks like a bad acid flashback wearing an ill-fitting plaid sports coat over a faded orange T-shirt from the 1999 Burning Man festival and khakis that have seen better days. He tears open a sugar packet, stirs its contents into his coffee, and repeats the process, before finally reaching into the shopping bag on the floor next to him. He pulls out a manila envelope, sliding it across the table toward me. “It's all there—police reports, coroner prelims, insurance claims for both the Vuković girl and Mr. Martinez.”

I feel my pulse quicken. “Anything jump out at you?”

“Nothing that would have warranted an investigation. Tox results were clean. Seems neither was a habitual drug user. And there's nothing in the coroner prelims to suggest foul play—as in no injuries that were inconsistent with the official cause of death.”

I stir my latte until the foam starts to deflate. “What about a chronic health problem? Something that could've caused an accident. You know, like epilepsy. Or alcoholism,” I add on a dry note.

“Nothing that showed up.”

“So, in other words, the autopsies are a dead end.” I wince at my unfortunate word choice. “What about the police reports? Were there any eyewitnesses?” I ask, hoping the newspaper articles I'd read had gotten it wrong.

He shakes his head. “No one who came forward, at any rate. Cops questioned Martinez's next-door neighbor, a Mrs. Ida Garvey. She said she didn't see or hear anything unusual.”

“Doesn't that strike you as odd?”

“That an eighty-seven-year-old lady who was probably hard of hearing and blind as a bat didn't notice anything strange? No. As for the Vuković girl, it was late at night and she was driving on an isolated stretch of road.”

“Did they ever find out what caused the accident?”

“The claims adjuster for the insurance company was only able to determine what
didn't
cause it. It wasn't due to mechanical failure and it didn't appear another vehicle was involved. Based on the skid mark pattern she wasn't exceeding the speed limit, either. It was a heavily wooded area, so the best guess was she swerved to avoid hitting a deer and lost control of her car.”

“But you don't think it was that.” I note the preoccupied frown he wears.

“There was one thing. The rear fender had some scratches with secondary paint on them.”

I feel like I just swallowed something cold on an empty stomach. “Do you think there's anything to it?”

He shrugs. “They could've been old.”

“Or she was forced off the road that night.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Maybe. I'm getting a bad smell. She had a perfect driving record, not so much as a parking ticket, and even though the car was old, she'd kept it in tiptop condition, routine tune-up every year, got it washed every other week according to her roommate. First car she'd ever owned. It was her baby. If those scratches were from an old fender-bender, seems to me she'd have taken it in for repair.” He hands me a color Xerox of a photo showing the damage to the fender on which streaks of blue paint were clearly visible. “And what kind of gardener falls from a ladder? Guy like that, I bet he could climb a ladder, with a chainsaw in one hand and full bucket in the other, in his sleep.”

“And no one ever asked questions?”

“Who was around to ask questions? The next of kin, south of the border or in Bosnia? Though Martinez had at least one brother who was living in the States, and he filed a wrongful death suit.”

I perk up at this. “Against the Fontana?”

“Nah. The manufacturer of the ladder. It went nowhere because their expert witness couldn't find any evidence the ladder owned by Martinez was defective. No probable cause, no case.”

I mull this over as McGee tears open another sugar packet, hands twitching like he's jonesing for a cigarette—or a drink—and two thirty-something women wearing Lululemon workout attire and packing yoga mats enter the shop, followed by a tired-looking young mom pushing an infant in a stroller. Yoga Lady 1 orders a skim latte; Yoga Lady 2 wants hers with soy milk. No-sleep Mommy looks like she could give a crap as long as whatever she's drinking is caffeinated.

“Do you ever miss being a cop?” I inquire of McGee when we're walking across the parking lot a few minutes later, headed for our respective vehicles. “This job must seem tame in comparison.”

“You would think,” he says pointedly.

“I meant aside from that.” I'm sure it's not every day corpses turn up at the White Oaks self-storage facility. But the fact that he's helping me proves he hasn't lost the itch. He's going to do some digging into Douglas Trousdale's background. Meanwhile, I have my own plans for Stan Cruikshank.

McGee rolls his shoulders in one of his patented shrugs. “What's to miss? I got full bennies and none of the aggravation.”

He's not going to tell the real reason he retired at such a relatively young age. Which is fine. Maybe he'll get around to it one of these days or maybe he won't. I'm not judging. We've all been there.

“One more thing,” I say, pausing when I get to my Explorer.

He narrows his eyes at me, his head thrust forward on his neck, his poor excuse for a ponytail dangling over the collar of his desert camo jacket. His shoulders are bunched around his ears as if against the cold wind that blew in with the storm clouds amassing overhead. “Just one, huh?”

“It's a simple question. I'm not asking any favors this time.”

“Nothing with you is ever simple.”

“You don't want to help me anymore that's fine. I understand. I appreciate everything you've done so far. I guess I'll just have to find a way to manage on my own.” I use the oldest of ploys—appealing to the male ego—but he falls for it.

“Fine. You win,” he growls. “Whaddya want to know?”

“What's the maximum penalty for breaking and entering?”

I finish my morning rounds after taking leave of McGee. I change the water filter at the Zakarians.' I exhaust the limits of my high school Spanish in communicating to the Cummings' gardener that he need not be so aggressive with his pruning shears (he didn't get the
Edward Scissorhands
reference, or maybe he never saw the movie). At the Martinsons' I finally find the missing hamster, posthumously, under the clothes dryer. Poor thing looks like what I scraped from the lint trap. I bury him in one of the planter boxes on the condo's deck so little Grady Martinson can place a Popsicle-stick cross on his grave like I had with the hamsters who'd died on me when I was kid. Then I head over to my brother's to pick him up for his appointment with his shrink.

On the drive to Dr. Sandefur's office, in a converted Victorian on Laurel Street, my normally chatty brother is quiet. He seems tense. “What's with you? You beg to be taken into custody and now you're worried about seeing your shrink?” I tease, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

He looks presentable at least. He combed his hair for a change and the clothes he's wearing don't look as if they've been slept in. He cuts me an anxious glance. “You're not mad, are you?”

“That you almost got yourself arrested? No, Arthur, I'm not mad. Believe it or not, I have bigger worries at the moment.”

“You mean the fact that someone was shooting at you?”

I had debated whether or not to tell him about it, but in the end I did. His mental illness has taken so much already, and I couldn't bear to have it rob us of the open communication we've always shared. “That and finding out who killed Mom. Though I have a hunch they're connected.”

“Don't be so sure,” he says darkly.

“What do you mean?”

“They're after me. Now they're after you, too.”

I don't ask who “they” are. I don't have to. “Arthur.” I try to talk some sense into him. “Whoever was shooting at me, it wasn't CIA operatives. That's all in your head. Just like yesterday when you turned yourself in to the cops.”

“I had to.” This is the first he's spoken of it. Until now he's been as forthcoming as a piece of furniture. “They were following me.” He doesn't mean the cops. “I knew it was the only way I'd be safe.”

“You can tell Dr. Sandefur all about it,” I say gently, my heart breaking for him. But he's not listening.

“They don't fool around, these people. You should know that by now.” His eyes, wide and fearful behind his Clark Kent glasses, drop to the bullet hole in the driver's side door. “Dark forces are at play.”

That much is true. Except whoever is after me isn't a figment of my imagination. The sensible thing would be to take Bradley's advice. On the other hand, if I have a target on my back, to do nothing would make me a sitting duck. I have to get to the bottom of this. Starting with Stan. He claimed to have been at work all day yesterday and has witnesses to back up his alibi, but that doesn't mean he isn't guilty of other crimes. And since he isn't talking, I'll have to find another source of information. If I could get my hands on an address book or contact list, it could lead to a former accomplice, if there was one, or a friend in whom he'd confided. It might even have Douglas Trousdale's number. Which means breaking into Stan's cabin when he's not home and conducting a search. Being a property manager, I know the most vulnerable points of entry in most homes and how to access them, and I'm confident I can slip in and out with no one the wiser. So I'm not as worried about getting caught as I am that I'll come up empty-handed.

Dr. Sandefur meets with me privately after his session with Arthur. “I think he should go in for some tests,” he advises from behind his scrolled walnut desk in what was once the formal parlor of the Victorian home before it was converted into office space. I'm immediately on guard because I know he's not talking about outpatient tests but an inpatient stay, possibly an extended one, at the PCH, which stands for psychiatric health facility, or “puff” in the vernacular of us veterans. Suffice it to say, I'm on familiar terms with everyone on staff at the “puff” in our community.

“Couldn't you try adjusting his meds and see if that works?”

“I could, yes.” Dr. Sandefur speaks in a calm, considered voice. “But I don't have to tell you it's hit or miss.” What he means is, there's no set formula when it comes to anti-psychotic cocktails; it's a constant juggling act and differs from one patient to the next. “If he's where he's being monitored round the clock, it'll give us a better picture of what's going on.” An older man with curly gray hair and eyes the brown of the leather-bound volumes lining his bookshelves and just as creased, he's nothing if not kindly. “Just for a few days, a week at most. He'd be in good hands.”

“Easy for you to say.” The staff is for the most part competent and compassionate, but every barrel has its rotten apple, and in this one it's the day supervisor, Myrna Hargrave. She never lets up, with her poking and prodding and barking of orders. After Arthur's last stay, eight months ago, he insisted she'd been out to “get” him. I don't know that it was entirely his imagination.

“It's only a recommendation, of course. But I'm sure Arthur would be amenable if you were to exercise your powers of persuasion.” His brown eyes twinkle beneath shaggy gray brows.

I sigh. Really, do I have choice when the alternative is far worse? “Okay,” I relent, “but on one condition: no Thorazine. I don't want him turned into a zombie like before. He does better on Haldol.”

Dr. Sandefur nods. “I concur.” He's a good man and the only shrink who has my respect. The others before him were too full of themselves to admit they didn't know dick-all. Schizophrenia is incurable and unknowable; it's all about damage control. Dr. Sandefur doesn't pretend otherwise.

I don't say anything to Arthur about the “puff” as we're leaving. I decide to wait until he's in a more relaxed mood. Instead I inform him that I'm taking him shopping. “It's Wednesday,” he reminds me.

“Not grocery shopping. You need new underwear.”

I can't have the nurses at the “puff” seeing him in his not-so-tightie whiteys; I'm sure Arthur couldn't care less, but I have my standards. After a trip to the Cress Avenue Mall where I buy him a six-pack of Hanes briefs, three button-down shirts, and a pair of slacks marked down half price, I treat him to lunch at his favorite eatery, the A&W on the freeway access road. He inhales a Papa burger and large order of fries chased by a root beer float, while I nibble halfheartedly on my chili cheese fries.

“I know what you and Dr. Sandefur talked about. He told me,” he says before I can broach the topic.

I attempt to make light of it. “He thought you could use a change of scenery.”

His eyes meet mine in a level look. “What do
you
think?”

“I kind of have to agree. But it's up to you.”

He stares into space for a minute, then slowly brings his gaze back to me. “All right. I'll do it.”

I'm surprised by his ready compliance. “You will? No kicking or screaming?”

He shrugs.

“I thought you hated it at the ‘puff.'” I sense there's something he's not telling me.

“I do, but that's not the point, is it?”