Cicero's Dead (13 page)

“Yeah?”

“You have a fascination with evil, although you’re
not particularly evil yourself, but you’re not entirely good either. You’re
comfortable in the fallen world you inhabit and if you weren’t a private
investigator, you might be a policeman, which would be inconvenient because you
don’t like the police. You prefer outlaws as long as they follow the code.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t know, but it’s something you intuit,
isn’t it?”

“I’m impressed. You nailed me.”

“We’re both investigators, in our own way and like
you, I’m intuitive. You have kind eyes, which is why people are drawn to you.
You suffered a fair amount during your childhood, so you try to help people,
yet curiously, you’re addicted to pain and that’s what keeps you connected to
your work. At some level, you’re aware of all this but you don’t really like to
go too deep which, ultimately, could be your undoing.”

“Thank you, Doctor. How much do I owe you?”

Ms. Snow laughed. “It’s what you owe yourself, my
dear. I am merely the facilitator.”

I let out a long deliberate sigh. “Let’s get back
on topic.”

Alexandra turned to Jade. “Your mother felt
abandoned by your brother. She used to phone him constantly, and would be very
sad when she couldn’t reach him.”

“That afternoon, she called him five times.”

“Codependency is a deadly addiction.”

“Ms. Snow,” I said, “what was the problem in their
relationship?”

She shrugged, took a moment and replied. “She was
racked with guilt over something, only I don’t know what.”

Jade listened intently, her long fingers fussing
with the buttons on her blouse. “A couple of months before Richard got arrested
for the home invasion, his attitude toward mother completely changed.
 
He’d always been the one to defend her
when I’d complain, and, of course, I’d been the one to defend Cicero when
Richard claimed he was a lousy father. Then suddenly, he started calling
Dominique a bitch, giving her the cold shoulder when she’d try and talk to
him.”

“How was he after his release?” asked Ms. Snow.

“He never talked about being locked up and at
first, he seemed okay. He went to school, dated girls and hung out with his
friends, but that faded and he slowly became withdrawn.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s with his unsavory new boyfriend.”

Ms. Snow mulled this over and replied. “One last
thing, and then we have to bring this to a close.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Are you aware that she met with your brother
after the funeral?”

Jade, stunned, shook her head. “I thought she flew
straight back.”

“Yes, but only after the meeting. When she got
back here, she was devastated. All I could gather was that it hadn’t gone well.
After that, she mostly stayed in her room and a week later, she shot herself.”

Jade, trembling, asked, “And you’ve no idea what
happened between her and Richard?”

Ms. Snow shook her head. “Did you know she was
seeing a therapist?”

I nodded. “Yeah, it was in the coroner’s report, a
woman named June Iverson.”

“She’s a sharp lady. I’ll call her and tell her
you’re on your way over.”

“Thank you,” said Jade and hugged the older woman
whose robin’s-egg blue eyes were suddenly teary.

I didn’t buy it and I knew why. The key piece was
still missing. We still didn’t know what drove the stake between Richard and
Dominique. On our way down in the elevator, Jade was silent. I put my arm
around her and gently kissed the top of her head.

Chapter III – Caught Red Handed

While we were talking to
Ms. Snow, I’d turned my phone off. Now, standing in the sunshine, I listened to
my messages. Bobby said he was all set for the afternoon, and Brad said that he
was bored and needed some action. Audrey had a good lead on one of her adultery
cases, and Tony wanted me to call him immediately.

“Where are you?”

“Pacific Heights. Why?”

“I’ve been asking around. Karsagian isn’t overly
suspicious of you.”

“Cuz he’s a freakin’ prince.”

“He did say his boys fucked with you.”

“They shoved me around a little, but apart from
Sergeant Jansen having a hard-on for me, that was it.”

“Don’t mind him, he hates the world.”

“And?”

“The shit’s running real deep on this one, so
let’s get together when you get back.”

“You’ve heard something?”

“I hear a lotta things, Nick. Just watch your
ass.”

“Always do.”

He hung up and I called Cassady.

“Hi, Baby,” she said. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. How’s Maleah?”

“They’re cool with her staying for a few weeks
‘til this blows over.”

“Okay, good.”

“It is going to, right?”

“It always does, eventually.”

She hesitated and I could sense her fear. “Relax.
It’s gonna be fine.”

“She’s with you, isn’t she?”

“Yeah.”

“Just remember, I’m the one that loves you.”

“I know, Honey.”

She hung up and a sudden swirl of emotion rippled
through me. Even though I held it in, Jade sensed it as we headed for the car.

“That was your wife, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“You really love her, don’t you?” Her eyes seared
into me.

“Of course I love her.”

“Does she know I’m with you?”

“She knows.”

“Is she threatened?”

“She has confidence.”

“I’ll say.”

Jade shook her head and we got in the car. Despite
my attraction, her arrogance was beginning to gnaw at me.

June Iverson’s office was about ten blocks away on
Fillmore, near Green Street. We were starving and stopped at a frankfurter
place near Union, and ordered Polish dogs and coffee. The food was delicious
and we sat outside and watched the world go by. It was mid-afternoon and
already there was a chill in the air. At ten to three we arrived at June
Iverson’s office and entered the waiting room that she shared with two other
psychologists. Three patients looked up as we entered, but really didn’t want
to acknowledge us, much less each other, or, presumably, themselves.

Three o’clock signaled the changing of the guard;
patients emerged from three directions in various states of distress followed
by their doctors, two of whom were women.

“Excuse me,” I said, “we’re looking for June
Iverson.”

“Then you’re looking for me,” said a middle-aged
woman with hard facial angles and a shock of bone white hair. “I assume you’re
the people Ms. Snow called about?”

Before I could answer, she turned quickly to a
freckled woman, who seemed agitated. “I’ll be right with you, Heidi.”

Heidi looked worried.

“This is certainly inconvenient,” said Dr.
Iverson. “I have to see my patient now, and I have another at four. After that
I go to the gym.”

“It’s very important, which is why we flew up from
Los Angeles.”

Irritated, she reached up and pushed her white
hair off her forehead. “All right, I’ll give you exactly fifteen minutes, so
please be back here at the stroke of five.”

“Thank you.”

Her patient looked relieved and followed Dr.
Iverson back to her office.

“Intense woman,” said Jade as we walked
downstairs.

“Indeed.”

Next we contacted Dominique’s former boyfriend
Anthony Romano. Jade, using my cellphone, left a message. Within seconds, he
called back.

“Jade?”

“Yes.”

“Your mom spoke about you a lot. Such a damn
tragedy.”

“Can we meet?”

“Where are you?”

“Near Union.”

“You’re in my neighborhood. There’s a really good
frankfurter place. I’ll meet you there in about half an hour.”

“Thanks.”

Back at the frankfurter joint, we sipped coffee
and waited.

Anthony Romano appeared to be in his late 50’s. He
was one of those jumpsuit guys, swarthy with wavy gray hair, and a thick
unibrow. His eyes lit up at the sight of Jade, but dimmed when he realized she
was not alone. He recovered quickly, though, and I bought him an Espresso.

“Your mother, she was a good woman,” he said
sipping from his cup. “We were in love. I offered her my house, my heart,
everything.” He choked up and stared down into his coffee.

Jade felt for this guy, and reached out, gently
touching his hand. He looked up at her, smiled through his embarrassment and
continued.

“I couldn’t believe it when she broke up with me.
I thought I had finally met the woman with whom I could share my golden years.
I still don’t understand what went wrong. Maybe it was her roommate, Alexandra
Snow,” he said bitterly.

“Why do you think that?” I asked.

“When Dominique first moved here, we spent three
glorious weeks together at my house. We swam, went to the opera and even did
the City cable car bit, like we were youngsters. Then all of a sudden she
decided she needed to have her own place. I know that too much too soon can
kill a relationship, so I was reasonable and said I would help her find a
place, but she moved into a hotel and, within a week, met Ms. Snow. Through all
this we were fine and then, sorry, but then your father happens. It was
incomprehensible and a terrible shock to Dominique. From that moment everything
went sideways. Although I don’t know for certain, I believe that this Snow
woman told her she needed time by herself.”

Jade smiled warmly. “Did you continue to talk, at
least?”

“I tried but it was no good.”

“Did she ever talk about my brother?”

“Sometimes, but mostly she would gaze at a photo
of him that she had.” Mr. Romano took a final sip from his cup, set it down and
his eyes drifted to a distant memory. “I still love her.” His voice quavered
and as he stood up, there were tears in his eyes. “If you need anything else,
you have my number.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“Thanks.”

Sadness had taken its toll on this man. He nodded
and headed south along the sidewalk.

When we got back to June Iverson’s building, the
waiting room was deserted. I closed my eyes and rested. Five o’clock rolled
around and two patients exited. Five minutes later, June Iverson appeared and
ushered us back to her office. Jade and I sat side-by-side on her broad
comfortable couch; she sat across from us in a straight-backed chair. The
afternoon light streamed in through plantation shutters that faced onto
Fillmore Street.

“So,” she said, “first of all, I’m very
uncomfortable with this entire situation.”

“I realize there may be issues of confidentiality,
but Jade here is Ms. Lamont’s only daughter. The family estate is basically in
her hands.”

June Iverson looked long and hard at her.
“Although the next of kin has certain rights, the right to disclosure of the
deceased’s therapeutic confidences, I believe, are not among them.”

“Ms. Iverson, I’m a detective and fully understand
client confidentiality. We wouldn’t be asking unless it was absolutely
necessary. Richard, her son--”

Jade cut me off. “--My brother is in grave danger
and we believe that you may have knowledge that can help us save him.”

Ms. Iverson frowned. “From what?”

“From a really bad guy that he’s involved with.”

“You’re referring to Arnold Clipper.”

“Yes.”

“Your mom told me about him. She’d met him on her
last trip to Los Angeles.”

I was getting tired of her coy act. “So you
understand the urgency?”

No doubt my tone of voice betrayed my growing
impatience. She looked at me as her ego had a brief and losing argument with
fear and the desire to be done with it. Her nimble digits fiddled with each
other and she cleared her throat. “One day when Richard was fifteen, he came
home from school unexpectedly and heard sounds of passion coming from your
mother’s bedroom. He went in and saw her having sex with a man that he
recognized.” She looked at us both. I didn’t dare look at Jade. “He was,” she
said deliberately, “your father’s attorney, James Halladay.”

Jade sat there, the blood draining out of her
face. Rage replaced hurt and her lips pulled back into a nasty sneer, not
unlike a rabid dog. If I had scared Ms. Iverson, Jade terrified her as she
stood up quickly and fighting to control herself, hissed, “I have to go. Now.”

Jade left without looking at her. I followed her
out.

It was cold and the October evening had the feel
of winter. Jade was pale as we got into the car. I was about to turn the key
when her fingers gripped my forearm.

“Five! Five million!”

I locked eyes with her, but didn’t respond.

“If you won’t kill him, I will.” Her heart-shaped
face was hard, her sculpted lips, bloodless.

“You can’t kill him for sleeping with your
mother.”

“You’re wrong. That piece of shit is responsible
for her suicide, for Richard being so fucked up and, I’d bet every last penny I
have, for killing my father.” Her eyes were daggers of scorn, and I felt myself
flinch. “I never took you for a coward.”

I let that go and waited for her to finish.

“The islanders have a saying: A veces se dice vice
que se debe matar al hombre. Sometimes a man needs killing. Halladay’s that
man, and I’m going to do it.” Saying anything was pointless. We drove in
silence toward the airport, through heavy rush hour traffic. We’d passed
Candlestick Park before she spoke again. “Cicero would have done anything for
that man.”

“I understand how you feel and yeah, some people
do need killing. But if we can prove Halladay murdered your father, the
state’ll do it for you. He won’t fare well on Death Row.”

She stared out of the window, and hatred pushed
the breath out of her. “We have to find Richard. He’s all I have left.”

My phone rang. It was Brad and he was shouting.

“Nick, I need a fucking gun. Two hard looking
dudes rolled up in a flower van, and they’re walking this way.”

“That’s got to be Fishburne and Koncak.”

“Gun!”

“Bedroom closet. Cassady’s Beretta.”

I could hear him pound up the stairs, find the box
and grab the gun. “Those fuckers come in here and--”

“--Leave out the back and go next door to our
friends, the Montez family. They’ll hide you.”

“Fuck that. I ain’t going anywhere.”

Our bedroom window faces the street and I could
envision him folding himself against the wall, aiming through the curtains.
“Brad, get out!”

“They’re ringing the doorbell,” he whispered
hoarsely.

There was a long silence. I had to brake behind a
Chrysler 300 that stopped suddenly.
 
Someone else honked. “Brad! Are you all right?”

“They’re leaving.”

“Can you get their license?”

“No but the van’s sky blue, with a sea of
flowers.”

The relief in Brad’s voice was audible. My
knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
 
Jade’s green eyes were huge, her face taut with worry.

“Are they gone?”

“Yeah, just like my nerves.”

“Okay, wait a minute, then see if they left
anything. Be careful.”

Another long silence while Brad walked downstairs.
“Shit,” he said, “It’s an envelope addressed to you. Should I open it?”

“No, you better wait, just in case.”

“Hell, I’ll take my chances. Those guys didn’t
look smart enough to have anthrax on hand or anything real exotic.”

There was silence. Then Brad’s voice came back on.
“Oh, man. You won’t believe this. It’s a drawing of a dismembered nude body.
Got a round hole right through the middle, with a pile of what looks like
intestines, stacked up next to it. Jack the Ripper stuff. Separate head. No
eyes. Just sockets with a caption underneath: ‘I’m looking through you.’”

It seemed to take forever, but we finally got a
flight out of S.F.O and landed in L.A. around midnight. Jade was exhausted and
slept with her head on my shoulder, her breathing soft and slow. I put my arm
around her, and thought about how physical beauty and fortune had brought her
and her brother nothing but pain and misery.

We got to Bobby’s around 1:00 a.m. I phoned and
waited.

“Nick?”

“We’re here.”

“I’ll kill the juice.”

We went through the gate and the goats, like
phantoms on the hill, paid us only the slightest attention as we headed to the
front door. Once inside, Jade staggered off to the guest room. Brad was
sleeping, his elongated frame stretched out across the sofa.

“He’s kind’a freaked out,” said Bobby. “He
insisted on falling asleep with the piece across his chest.”

“Where is it?”

“On top of the fridge.”

“Did he show you the picture?”

He went into the kitchen and came out carrying the
envelope and two cans of Bud Lite.
 
Bobby’s room is like a teenager’s fantasy palace. Beautiful women occupy
his wall space along with posters of sports heroes. An ancient poster of Dr. J
palming a basketball occupies the place of honor above his bed. We sat down and
drank our beers as I looked at the picture. I’ve never tried to draw internal
body parts, but this guy had nailed it. It looked like an anatomical drawing
from a medical textbook. The eyeless head was an almost precise likeness of Ron
Cera.

“‘I’m looking through you,’” I read out loud.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I dunno. Clipper knows I’m looking for Richie.
Maybe he’s trying to tell me that he’s one step ahead.”