Demolition Angel (23 page)

As soon as Starkey walked through her door that night, she regretted agreeing to let Pell come to her home. She scooped magazines and newspapers off the floor, policed up a Chinese food carton, and fretted that the air smelled. She tried to remember the last time that she had cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom, but couldn’t. There was nothing in the house to drink except gin, tonic, and tap water. You could write your name in the dust on top of the television. She grabbed a fast shower, dressing in jeans and a black T-shirt, then made a half-hearted attempt to make her house presentable. The last guest that she’d had was Dick Leyton, almost a year ago. He’d stopped by to catch up with her, and stayed for a drink.

You really should get a life, Starkey. Maybe they sell’m at the Best Buy
.

Whatever Kelso thought, Starkey had a good feeling about the investigation. Having her hands on the Miami bomb had been good for her; it was concrete and real and had led to her learning something new, something she would not have otherwise known, about the Silver Lake bomb. Maybe Kelso and the others couldn’t see it, but Starkey was a bomb tech; she believed that the pieces added up, and now she had another piece. She was anxious to see if Claudius would yield anything useful, and was encouraged by Hooker’s report from the postproduction facility. She also felt that there was more to be had from Dallas Tennant.

Starkey set up the laptop on her dining room table, figuring that was the best place for them to work. She had plugged it in and turned it on when she heard Pell’s car turn into her drive.

When she opened the door, he was carrying a pizza and a white bag.

“It’s the dinner hour, so I thought I would bring something. I’ve got a pizza here and an antipasto. I hope you didn’t make something.”

“Crap. I’ve got a duck baking.”

“I guess I should’ve called.”

“Pell, I’m joking. My usual dinner is a can of tuna fish and some tortilla chips. This will be great.”

She brought the food into the kitchen, feeling doubly embarrassed that there was nothing to drink. She wasn’t even sure she had clean dishes.

“You don’t drink gin and tonic, do you?”

“Maybe some tonic without the gin. Where’s the computer?”

“It’s on the table in the dining room, through there. You want to eat first?”

“We can eat while we work.”

Starkey thought he was probably anxious to leave. She found that her glasses were spotted, and hoped he wouldn’t notice. She filled two glasses with ice and tonic. She felt a fierce urge to add gin to her glass, but resisted.

When she turned to hand him the glass, he was watching her.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got half veggie, half pepperoni and sausage.”

“Either way is fine, but thanks. That was thoughtful.”

Just hearing the words come out made her groan to herself. The two of them sounded like a couple of social misfits on an awkward first date. She reminded herself that this was work, not a date. She didn’t date. She still needed to go to Best Buy to pick out a life.

As she got out plates and silverware, she considered telling
him what she had learned about the joint tape, but she decided against it. She would wait until she heard from Janice Brockwell. She told herself that then she would know whether or not she had something, but part of her didn’t want Pell to dismiss her discovery out of hand the way Kelso had.

They divided the antipasto and pizza, then brought their plates and glasses into the dining room. They put two chairs together, just like in Bergen’s office, then Starkey signed on to Claudius. She sat with an uncomfortable awareness of his proximity, then edged her chair away.

“Maybe we should eat first. So we don’t get grease on the keys.”

“Let’s not worry about the keys. I want to see if anyone responded.”

Starkey shifted her chair next to him again, and they opened the door into Claudius.

With Bergen, they had posted three messages, two expressing enthusiastic admiration for Mr. Red, one asking if the rumor that Mr. Red had struck again in Los Angeles was true. This last message had drawn several responses, one of which reproduced a story from the
Los Angeles Times, but
most of which doubted Mr. Red’s appearance, citing his recent criminal blast in Miami and growing status as “Urban Legend.” One poster compared Mr. Red to Elvis, suggesting that pretty soon he was going to be seen working in every Denny’s in America.

Starkey used the mouse control to advance from message to message, reading, waiting for Pell’s grunt, then clicking to the next message. As she concentrated on the bizarre nature of the posts, her awareness of Pell lessened until he reached across her and abruptly took the mouse.

“Hang on. I want to read the last one again.”

In the moment when his hand covered hers, she drew away from him as if she’d received an electrical charge, then felt
herself flush with embarrassment. She covered it by taking back the mouse and asking a question.

“What did you see?”

“Read it.”

Starkey reread the message.

“You think he’s Mr. Red?”

“No. He’s making the joke about buying Modex, but Mr. Red mixes his own. Red wouldn’t expect to buy it, he would buy the components. What if we post back to this guy, making a joke of our own, saying something like we don’t have any Modex, but we could probably help him out with some RDX?”

“Throw bait on the water.”

“For him, and anyone else reading this stuff.”

Pell turned the keyboard and shifted in his seat. His knee touched her knee, his right arm touched her left. Starkey didn’t jerk away this time; she let the touch linger. She glanced at Pell, but Pell seemed lost in composing the message. Pictures flashed in her mind:
She touches his arm, their
eyes lock, they kiss
. Her heart pounded, thinking about it.
She takes his hand, leads him to the bedroom, he sees her scars
.

Starkey felt sick to her stomach and eased away.

I’m not ready for this
.

She stared at her pizza, but couldn’t eat it.

Pell, oblivious, said, “What do you think?”

HOTLOAD

“It looks good.”

Starkey glanced over and saw that he was rubbing his eyes and squinting.

“You okay?”

“Pretty soon I’m going to need reading glasses, then a cane.”

“I have some drops, if you want.”

“That’s okay.”

They posted the message.

“Anything else?”

“Just wait and see, I guess.”

Pell closed the laptop.

“I don’t want you to think I’m telling you what to do, but could I ask you to run another NLETS search on the RDX? See if we get a hit on anyone other than Tennant?”

“I already did, and we didn’t. The only name that comes up is Tennant.”

“We’ve already gotten what we’re going to get from him.”

“Maybe from Tennant, but not from Tennant’s case.”

“What does that mean?”

“I reread Mueller’s case notes again. It’s clear that he didn’t need to find Tennant’s shop or recover additional explosives to make his case, so he let a lot of stuff slide. His interview notes indicate that he didn’t spend much time with Tennant’s landlady or Tennant’s employer. He had pictures of the three cars Tennant destroyed and the statement from the kid who stole the cars; that was all he needed. If he blew off the other wits, there still might be something to find.”

“That’s good thinking, Starkey. That could pay off.”

Starkey realized that she was smiling at him, and that Pell was smiling back. The house was silent. With the computer off, Starkey was all the more aware that she and Pell were alone. She wondered if he felt that, too, and suddenly wished for other sounds: the television, the radio, a car on the street. But there was only the two of them, and she didn’t know what to do with that.

She abruptly cleared the plates, taking them into the kitchen.

“Thanks again for the pizza. Next time has to be on me.”

When the plates were in the sink, she returned to the dining room, but didn’t go to her chair. She didn’t offer more tonic, and hoped that it was apparent that she wanted him to leave. Pell looked like he wanted to say something, but she didn’t give him the chance. She wedged her hands in her pockets.

“So I guess we’ll check back tomorrow. I’ll call you about it.”

Pell finally stood. She walked him to the door, then stepped well back from him.

“I’ll see you, Pell. We’ll catch this bastard.”

“Good night, Starkey.”

As soon as he stepped through the door, she shut it. Starkey didn’t feel better with the door closed; she felt stupid and confused. She was still feeling that way when she went to bed, where she stared at the ceiling in the darkness and wondered
why she felt so lost. All she had was the job. All she had was the investigation. That was her life these past three years. That was all it would ever be.

In his motel, Pell was staring at the computer when the monsters came. They floated up out of the keyboard like writhing segmented worms swarmed by fireflies. He closed his eyes, but still could see them, floating in the blackness. He stumbled into the bathroom for the ice and wet towels that were still in the lavatory, then lay on the bed, the cool towels on his face, his head aching from a pain so great that it left him gasping, and fearful.

He wanted to call Starkey.

He cursed himself for that and concentrated on the pain instead, on this place. He listened to the evening commuter traffic outside his window, the stop-and-go noise of people struggling upstream against the weight of the city; squealing brakes, revving engines, the rumble of overloaded trucks. It was like being on the edge of hell.

He was getting to know her, and that was bad. Every time they were together, he saw a deeper side of her, a surprising side, and his guilt was growing because of it. Pell was too good at reading people, at seeing the hidden face that all people secretly wear, their true face. Pell had learned long ago that everyone is really two people: the person they let you see and the secret person within. Pell had always been able to read the secret person, and the secret person within Starkey’s tough-cookie exterior was a little girl who was trying hard to be brave. Inside the little girl was a warrior heart, trying to rebuild her life and career. He hadn’t counted on liking her. He hadn’t counted on her liking him. It ate at him. It was growing.

But there was nothing to be done for it.

After a time, the pain passed and his vision cleared. Pell
glanced at the clock. An hour. Pell covered his face with his hands. Five minutes, maybe ten, but it couldn’t have been an hour.

He climbed off the bed and went back to the computer. The flaming head stared out at him from the screen. Pell pushed the guilt he felt about Starkey to the side and opened the door into Claudius. Her name had been on the bomb. Mr. Red wanted her. He could work that.

Pell used a different screen name, one that Starkey didn’t know, and began to write about her.

The next morning, Starkey was the first detective in the office as usual. She figured that Mueller probably didn’t get into his office at six
A.M
., so she killed time with paperwork. Hooker arrived at five after seven, Marzik drifting in about twenty minutes later. Marzik had Starbucks.

Marzik was stowing her briefcase when she glanced over.

“How’d the big meeting with the A-chief go?”

“He told me to keep the case moving forward. That was his contribution.”

Marzik dropped into her seat, sipping the coffee. Starkey smelled chocolate. Mocha.

“I hear Dick Leyton saved your ass in there.”

Starkey frowned, wondering what Marzik had heard.

“What does that mean? What did you hear?”

Marzik pried the lid from her cup, blew to cool the coffee.

“Kelso told Giadonna. He said you floated some notion about Silver Lake being a copycat. I’m kinda curious when you were planning on telling me and Hooker about it.”

Starkey was pissed off that Kelso would say anything, and pissed that Marzik thought she’d been keeping something from them. She explained about the Miami device and the difference she had found in the direction of the tape.