Demolition Angel (28 page)

John read through the new posts and found that they were no longer only about him. Many were about Starkey, some saying that the former bomb tech and poster girl of the bomb crank crowd was now in charge of the investigation. It was like she had her own cheering section.

John scrolled through the thread of posts until he came to the last one:

John wondered what Kia had heard that made him think Mr. Red had tried to kill Starkey. Did these people shit rumors when they woke in the morning? John snapped off his computer and sulked. These people were out of their friggin’ minds. Starkey was becoming the star and he was becoming … the other guy.

After he calmed down, John rebooted the iBook and dialed on to his site in Minnesota. When he had the software he wanted, he hacked into the local telephone company and downloaded Carol Starkey’s address.

The bathroom window was louvered glass, dark green and pebbled, one of those narrow windows from the floor to the ceiling that you opened to let out the steam from your bath. It had probably been in the house since the fifties. He used a shim to slip the latches on the screen, set it aside, then worked out the first piece of glass. The first was the hardest; he anchored the pane with a loose strip of electrician’s tape so it wouldn’t fall, then worked it free using a screwdriver and his fingertips. When the first was out, he reached inside, groped around until he found the lever, then opened the window. After that, the other panes came easily.

John Michael Fowles took out enough of the panes to make an opening about two feet high, then stepped through the window and was inside Carol Starkey’s home.

He took a breath. He could smell her. Soap and cigarettes. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the feeling of being here in her personal place. Here he was in her house, her home. Here he was, smelling her smells, breathing the air she breathed; it was like being inside her.

First thing John did was take a fast pass through the house, making sure there were no dogs, no guests, nothing that he hadn’t foreseen. The air conditioner running made him edgy; he wouldn’t be able to hear a car pull in, or hear a key slipping into a lock. He would have to hurry.

John unlocked the back door in case he had to leave fast, then returned to the bathroom. He pulled the screen back into place, latched it, then replaced the panes. That done, he gave himself a longer moment; he took a deeper breath. The bathroom counter was a clutter of jars and bottles: Alba Botanica lotion, cotton puffs in a glass jar, soap balls, a basket of dusty pinecones, a blue box of Tampax Super Plus, an LAPD coffee mug holding a toothbrush and a wilted tube of Crest. The mirror above the lavatory was spotted and streaked; the grout between the tile dark with fungus. Carol Starkey, John thought, had not paid attention in Home Ec. He found this disappointing.

John looked at himself in Starkey’s mirror. He made a wide monkey smile, inspecting his teeth, then considered her toothbrush. He put it in his mouth, tasting the Crest. Mint. He worked it around his teeth and gums, brushed his tongue, then put it back in the jar.

He moved through the living room, shooting a quick peek out the window to check for her car. Clear. He sat on the couch, running the flat of his palms along the fabric. He imagined Starkey doing the same thing, their hands moving in unison. The living room was no cleaner than the bathroom. John was particular about his personal grooming and thought it reflected poorly on the character of people who weren’t.

He found her computer on the kitchen table, its modem plugged into the phone line there. The computer was what he wanted, but he passed it now, moving through the kitchen to her bedroom. The bedroom was dark, and cooler than the rest of the house. He stood at the foot of the bed, which was unmade, the sheet and duvet mounded like a nest. This bitch lived like a pig. John knew it was crazy. He knew it was insane, that if she came home now, he would either have to kill her or pay a heavy price, but, Jesus Christ, man, here was her FUCKING BED. John took off his clothes. He rubbed his body over the sheets, his face into her pillow. He flapped his arms and legs like he was making a snow angel. He was hard,
but he didn’t want to take the time for that now. He climbed out of the bed, rearranged the mound as it had been, then dressed and returned to the kitchen.

John came prepared for both PC and Macintosh, but was still disappointed to find that she used a PC. It was like the sloppy house; it spoke poorly of her.

He booted the laptop, expecting the usual array of personal icons to appear on the screen, but was surprised to find only one. It hit him then, and John laughed out loud; Starkey didn’t know a goddamned thing about computers. When Tennant told them about Claudius, Pell must have set her up through the feds. She probably didn’t even know how to work the damned thing.

It only took moments after that. John hooked his Zip drive to the laptop, installed the necessary software to copy her files, then uninstalled the software to remove all traces of what had happened. Later, at the hotel, he would open her files to confirm the screen name that she used on Claudius.

Now, he was inside her house. When he had her screen name, he would get inside her mind.

Starkey dropped off Hooker at Spring Street, then turned toward home. She stopped at a Ralphs market, where she picked up a roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and some diet soda. When she was waiting in line, it occurred to her that Pell might not drink soda, either, so she picked up a quart of milk, a bottle of merlot, then added a loaf of French bread. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a dinner guest. When Dick Leyton dropped by that evening a year ago, he’d only stayed for a drink.

The traffic moving out of downtown was brutal. Starkey wallowed along in it, feeling stupid. She hadn’t planned on asking Pell over and hadn’t thought it through. The words had just spurted out, and now she felt obvious and embarrassed. Once, when Starkey was sixteen years old, a boy she barely knew named James Marsters had invited her to the junior-senior prom. On the day of the dance, Starkey had put on the gown she was borrowing from her older sister and thought herself so fat and ugly that she was convinced James Marsters would run screaming. Starkey had vomited twice and had been unable to eat anything all day. She felt like that now. Starkey could disarm a case of dynamite wired to a motion sensor, but things like this held a different potential for destruction.

She was late getting home. Pell was already there, parked on the street in front of her house. He got out as she pulled into her drive and walked over to meet her. When she saw the
expression on his face, she wanted to reach for her Tagamet. He looked like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be here.

She got out with the bags.

“Hey.”

“Help you with those?”

She gave him one of the two bags, telling him about Bakersfield as she let them into the house. When she told him that a man was seen at Tennant’s shop who could have been the same man making the 911 call, Pell seemed interested, but when she described the suspect as a man in his forties, Pell shrugged.

“It’s not our guy.”

“How do you know it’s not our guy?”

“Mr. Red is younger. This is Los Angeles; everyone here wears sunglasses and baseball caps.”

“Maybe our guy isn’t Mr. Red.”

Pell’s face darkened.

“It’s Mr. Red.”

“What if it isn’t?”

“It is.”

Starkey felt herself growing irritated at Pell’s certainty, like he had inside information or something. She thought again of telling him about the joint tape, but she still wanted to wait for Janice Brockwell.

“Look, maybe we shouldn’t talk about it. I think we’ve got something good here, and you’re shitting on it.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t talk about it.”

They put the two bags on the counter near her sink. Starkey took a deep breath, then faced him, squaring off as if she was about to ask to see some identification. She decided that the only way to survive the evening was to get it out in the open.

“Tonight is a date.”

She felt stupid. Here they were, standing in her kitchen, and she pops with that like it was a confession.

Pell looked so uncomfortable that Starkey wanted to crawl into the oven. He searched her eyes, then stared at the bags.

“I don’t know about this, Carol.”

Now she felt humiliated; three inches tall and kicking herself for being such an ass.

“I understand if you want to leave. I know this looks stupid. I’ve got to tell you, I
feel
really stupid right now, so if you think I’m as stupid as I’m thinking I am, I wish the hell you would leave.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“It’s only a date, for Christ’s sake. That’s all it is.”

She stared past him at the floor, thinking this was the biggest botch job anyone could imagine.

Pell started taking things from the bags.

“Why don’t we put these things away and have dinner?”

He worked for several minutes while she stood there. Finally, she pitched in, taking the things from the bags, putting the milk in the refrigerator, taking freshly washed plates and silverware from the dishwasher. Some date. Nobody was saying anything.

Starkey put the chicken and mashed potatoes to one side, wondering what she should do with them. They looked pathetic in their foil and plastic containers.

“Maybe we should heat them.”

Pell put his palm on the carton with the chicken.

“Feels warm enough.”

Starkey got out plates and a knife to cut the chicken, thinking that she should have gotten stuff for a salad. She felt thoroughly dispirited, which Pell seemed to read. It made him look even more awkward.

He said, “Why don’t I help? I’m a pretty good cook.”

“I can’t cook worth a shit.”

“Well, since it’s already cooked, you probably can’t mess it up too badly. All we have to do is put it on plates.”

Starkey laughed. Her body shook with it, and she feared she might cry, but she refused to let herself.
You were always a
tough girl
. Pell put down the food and came to her, but she held up a hand, stopping him. She knew that doors were opening. Maybe because of what had happened to Charlie Riggio; maybe because she had seen the tape of the events in the trailer park; but maybe just because it had been three years and she was ready. She thought, then, that it didn’t matter why. It just was.

“I’m not very good at this, Pell. I’m trying to let myself feel something again, but it isn’t easy.”

Pell stared at the chicken.

“Damnit, why don’t you say something? I feel like I’m stuck out here all alone and you’re just watching me.”

Pell stepped closer and put his arms around her. She tensed, but he did nothing more than hold her. She allowed it. Slowly, she relaxed, and when her arms went around him, he sighed. It was as if they were giving themselves over to each other. Part of her wanted it to grow into more, but she wasn’t ready for that.

“I can’t, Jack.”

“Shh. This is good.”

Later, they brought the food into the dining room and spoke of inconsequential things. She asked him about the ATF and the cases he had worked, but he often changed the subject or turned his answer into a question.

Later still, when the dishes were cleared and cleaned and put away, he stepped away from her, still awkward, and said, “I guess I should go.”

She nodded, walking him to the front door.

“I hope it wasn’t too awful.”

“No. I hope we can do it again.”

Starkey laughed.

“Man, you must be a glutton for punishment.”

Pell stopped in the door and seemed to struggle with what he wanted to say. He had been struggling for all of their time together, and now she wondered why.

“I like you, Starkey.”

She felt herself smile.

“Do you?”

“This isn’t easy for me, either. For a lot of reasons.”

She took heart in that.

“I like you, too, Pell. Thanks for coming by tonight. I’m sorry it got kinda weird.”

Pell stepped through the door and was gone. Starkey listened as his car pulled away, thinking that maybe a little weirdness was good for people.

Starkey finished straightening the kitchen, then went back to her bedroom, thinking to get undressed and crawl into bed. She decided the bed was a mess, so she stripped the sheets and pillowcases, stuffed them in the wash, and put on fresh. Her whole damned house was a mess, and needed to be scoured. She showered, instead.

After the shower, she checked her messages at work, and found that Warren Mueller had called. His was the only message.

“Hey, Starkey, it’s Warren Mueller. I ran that crappy picture you faxed past the old man at Tennant’s place. He couldn’t tell one way or the other, but he thought they kinda looked alike, white guy around forty, the hat and the glasses. I’m gonna have our artist work with him, see if we can’t refine the picture. We get anything, I’ll fax it down. You take care.”

Starkey deleted the message, then hung up, thinking that their picture might be crappy, but everyone was seeing someone who looked more or less like the same guy, and nothing like Mr. Red.

Starkey decided that she might as well check Claudius. She went back into the dining room, turned on the computer, and signed on. She reread the message boards, noting that AM7 had responded to their post about RDX with a long, meandering story about his time in the army. Several other
people had responded also, though no one offered to buy or sell RDX or even hinted that they knew how. A lot of people were posting about her.

Starkey was reading when a message window appeared on her screen.

WILL YOU ACCEPT A MESSAGE FROM MR. RED?

A tingle of fear rippled up her back. Then she smiled because it had to be a joke, or some Internet weirdness that she had no chance of understanding.