House of Smoke (57 page)

She isn’t sure; but if she’s wrong this time she’ll err on the side of caution.

She goes into hiding. She takes the essentials out of her office and apartment and rents a motel room on upper State under a false name. She leaves the Rooster parked outside her office and rents a car from Hertz, paying in cash so there won’t be a paper trail. And she sleeps with her gun, loaded, under her pillow.

The most important thing she did was to call Saperstein the day after the murders were committed and give him the list of telephone numbers on Rusty’s bill that had 805 prefixes. Most likely they were calls to Bascomb; but there’s the off chance some were to the secret financier as well (although Frank was the go-between and Rusty wouldn’t normally have known who that person was). She also asked Saperstein to look into another specific bank account and see if there were any big deposits made around the time the dope deal had gone down. A real wild hare, but she has to check everything out. It’s her life on the line now, from the moment she crossed Wes and Morgan’s threshold.

Laura had called; hysterical, of course. The message had been on Kate’s service, one of the few she’d returned. Had Kate heard? Laura wanted to know. Did it mean anything?

First she had to calm Laura down. That took several minutes. After Laura got herself under control—more or less—Kate answered that the cops had been right, that Frank had been in partnership with some heavy organization, maybe the Mexican Mafia, maybe some other group, they had taken him out and secured their situation by killing Wes as well.

Laura went for it—eagerly. She was sick of the whole affair, too. So what if Frank hadn’t committed suicide? He had been a bastard, put her in jeopardy, almost got her killed. He’s dead, it’s over.

For you it’s over, Kate thought as she hung up the phone.

But not for me.

“Santa Barbara County Sheriffs Department. How can I help you?”

“This is Sergeant Lane Wilcox of Orange County Sheriffs, in Santa Ana, ID number B-3386. I’m investigating that double murder down here in Newport Beach. One of the decedents was on bail from your facility on a drug-trafficking charge, awaiting trial. I need some basic information regarding his arrest and booking.”

“One moment,” the operator says. “I’ll connect you to jail records.”

Kate waits while the connection is made. She’s calling from the office of a client, one of the larger law firms in town. She doubts her call will be monitored; but just in case, she doesn’t want anyone to be able to directly trace it back to her.

“Jail Records, Officer Garcia. How can I help you?”

She repeats her request to him, hoping he won’t ask her to give him a number at the Orange County Sheriffs Office that he can call her back on. He doesn’t—her knowledge of procedure and professional tone gets her through.

“Hang on a minute,” he says. “I’ll punch it up.”

It doesn’t take long.

“Okay, I’ve got it,” he says. “What do you need?”

“Time and date of arrest,” she begins. “Officers who made the arrest. Who logged them in, the usual. The names of the officers who were in command that night, and who was responsible for assigning them to their cells—Bascomb and Gillroy. Watch commander, whatever. And if there was any unusual cell-transferring that night.”

“I can do that,” he answers. “Give me your fax number.”

“Let me give you a number in Santa Barbara,” she lies smoothly. “I’m on my way up now to interview Gillroy’s lawyer. Send it to me at his office, I’ll be there within an hour.” She crosses her fingers.

“His lawyer.” He hesitates. “Yeah, his lawyer would be entitled to this,” he decides.

“Thanks. Appreciate it.”

She hovers at the fax machine. The documents come out, a page at a time. She reads each as it emerges. One piece of information in particular catches her eye. She trembles as she reads it.

It’s what she was hoping for—and dreading, too.

S
APERSTEIN HANDS KATE A
thickly packed manila envelope. She tears it open and takes out the contents, quickly skims through them.

“Everything you wanted?” he asks.

“And more.” Jesus. “Thanks.”

They’ve met halfway, at the Dupar’s in Thousand Oaks, freeway close. He wolfs down the last bite of apple pie. She isn’t eating—she was too nervous before he arrived, and now she’s too upset and scared. And angry.

“On me,” he says, grabbing the check for his pie and coffee. “I’ll bill you,” he indicates the envelope. “It won’t be too bad. Louis has done favors for me.” More seriously: “This is a big pile of shit you’re stepping into. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

He dumps some bills on the table, stands up. “See you around. Call if you need any clarification.”

“Thanks. I will.”

She spreads the papers out on the table, carefully begins digesting them. It’s mid-afternoon—the restaurant is almost empty. Middle-aged waitresses in uniforms dating back to the fifties (down to the crinoline under the puffed-out skirt and the lace handkerchief pinned over the left breast) wipe tables and gossip. Kate signals to one with a raised finger.

“A pot of tea, please.”

“Anything to eat? The boysenberry pie’s nice and fresh.”

“No, thanks. Just the tea.”

Her stomach is churning. If she ate anything it would bring on nausea—reading this material is making her sick to her stomach.

It’s all here—Saperstein’s done a thorough job. Names, dates, places. Transaction records, bank accounts, stock ownership, property—everything.

Now I have it, she thinks. Now what the fuck do I do?

“What’re you going to do with this?” Carl looks off, his eyes clouded with cataracts.

“I don’t know.”

“This is incendiary material.”

“Tell me about it.”

They’re sitting outside his unit at the convalescent home. It’s late afternoon; the sun is low, it’s getting chilly. Carl wraps his sweater tighter against his body, but the cold doesn’t go away.

“They’ve come after me before,” Kate says gloomily, “and that was before I had any proof.” She taps the package of documents sitting on the table between them. “You don’t think they’d do whatever it takes to stop this from coming out?”

Her doctor took the bandages off her face earlier in the day; she’ll still wear the protective shield in physical situations. She rubs her face with both hands, being careful as she feels the fresh pink skin that’s newly formed over her healing cheekbone. All the shit that’s happened to her has taken a heavy toll. She’s exhausted—there are large dark circles under her eyes, and the color is drained from her face. She’s run out of steam, just about, she feels like it’s all fumes she’s going on now, adrenaline and fear.

“I have no doubts,” Carl agrees. “The question is, how can you use it so they can’t?”

“Go to the district attorney?”

He shakes his head vigorously. “There’s no evidence of criminal activity in this stuff.”

“But—”

He cuts her off impatiently. “There’s stupidity, by the carload. There’s venality, manipulation, lies. But there’s nothing in here—” he pokes his finger at the documents—“that’s against the law.”

She slumps in her chair. “Maybe I should go to the
News-Press
,” she thinks out loud. Laura’s weekly,
The Grapevine
, would be where you’d normally go with material like this, but that’s the last place she can take this stuff.

“Do you have a friend there? Someone you can trust?”

“No.”

“Then it’s iffy. They do love a juicy scandal—they are a newspaper, after all—but they’re also part of the establishment, they’re not going to print anything this explosive without corroboration, and then you’re exposed again.”

“They’d never come after me once I’ve gone to the newspaper!” she exclaims. “They couldn’t.”

“At this point what do they have to lose?” he counters. “Three people have already been killed, what difference would one more make?”

“You don’t have much faith in our public institutions.”

“No, and for many good reasons. Years of them.”

She fingers the documents. This is scary.

“So what should I do?” she frets. “I’ve got to do something, for self-preservation if nothing else.”

“You’ve got to find a piece of incontrovertible evidence. Do you remember the Watergate hearings?”

“Yeah. I was in high school.” She would have been about Wanda’s age. Full of passion and commitment, like her daughters are now.

“The smoking gun,” Carl says. “That was what that one congressman kept saying—‘I’m not going to vote to impeach the President of the United States without a smoking gun.’ Well, they found one, and that gave them the excuse they needed to get rid of the sonofabitch. You have to find the same thing.” He taps the documents again. “So far you haven’t. Because that’s everything. All the rest is commentary, as the wise old man said.”

“You’re the only wise old man I know.”

“And I’m no goddamn help to anyone anymore.” He bangs the arm of his wheelchair. “I’m a frigging prisoner in this thing!” he rails. “I couldn’t help an old lady cross the street.”

“You listen to me,” she says. “You give me good counsel.”

“Big deal.”

“It’s a lot.”

“It won’t do you any good out there.” He points in a nebulous direction.

“If the people who did all this know someone else knows, too, it might,” she counters.

“That’s a flimsy hook to hang your hopes on,” he tells her. “To entrust your life.”

“It’s better than nothing. And right now it’s all I have.”

“So what
are
you going to do?” Carl asks again, getting back to the root of her problem.

“Watch my ass like a hawk. The one advantage I do have is they don’t know that I know what I know—yet.”

“You’d better be super careful. They almost got you already, two times now.”

“I will,” she promises him. “Hey, fuck ’em all but six, right?” she adds in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, which doesn’t work. She stands, starts to wheel him back inside.

“Stay low to the ground,” he warns her, a bony finger stabbing her ribs. “And don’t show your hole card until the other side shows theirs.”

Watch your ass. Yeah, right. Great fucking idea. If you want to barricade yourself in a closed room for the rest of your life. How do you watch your ass and get theirs at the same time without tipping them that you’re on to them?

She has to make her move. Right now, not one day more of indecision. She has to make something happen, because she is being hunted: as of the moment she turned down the cash offer, first in Oxnard and then with Miranda, she was prey. They have her in their sights; maybe not this very minute, she’s eluded them so far, but there is a plan, and she is the focus of it—and the purpose of the plan is to kill her.

K
ATE CLEANS HER GUN.
It sits on the center of the bed in her motel-room hideout on a spread-out sheet of newspaper, to prevent staining. She’s been assembling and disassembling her weapon for years since she bought it as a cadet at the police academy, she could probably do it blindfolded like in the movies, but there’s nothing to gain by doing it that way, unless you’re making a bet with someone. If that were to ever come up she’d practice first, to make sure she could.

Smith & Wesson, model 411, .40-caliber eleven-shot automatic. Matte black finish, polymer plastic grip, nonglaring.

She removes the magazine.

She puts the safety on.

She pulls the slide back to the disassembly notch.

She pulls the slide-release lever out.

She removes the safety.

She removes the slide from the frame by sliding it forward.

She removes the guide rod and spring from the slide assembly.

She removes the barrel from the slide.

It’s a quarter to nine in the morning. She sips from a double latte she picked up at Coffee Cat. The radio is tuned to the public radio station, KCBX-FM, the
Morning Cup of Jazz
show. They’re featuring Bill Evans this morning, the
Blue in Green
album. Very mellow. It helps her chill out, stay focused:

She uses a toothbrush to apply solvent to the various parts: Hoppe’s Nitro #9. The Hoppe’s smells sweet, almost like a man’s cologne.

She scrubs the inside of the barrel with a cleaning rod and a barrel brush.

She removes the solvent from everything with a clean cotton T-shirt from a former lover. She can’t remember exactly which one.

The gun is dry.

She lubricates the slide rails with Break-Free. She lubricates the guide rod and guide spring.

She reassembles the gun:

She puts the barrel in the slide.

She returns the guide spring and rod to the barrel.

She puts the slide back on the frame.

She lines up the notch and hole, places the slide release in the hole to secure the slide to the frame.

The gun is now cleaned and reassembled.

She gets a box of bullets from her duffel bag, which had been hidden behind a pair of black spaghetti-strap three-inch high-heeled pumps in her bedroom closet. Winchester Black Talons, a bullet that has a Teflon-coated copper jacket with a nickel-plated brass case. Special bullets, to be used for special occasions, which this definitely qualifies for. This bullet, if it hits you in the arm, the arm comes off. If it hits you anywhere in the body, you die. This bullet is not for sale anymore—Winchester voluntarily took it off the market, it’s too destructive. She bought two boxes years ago, in case she ever needed the extra stopping power.

She loads the empty magazine with the Black Talons, returns the magazine to the frame. She double-checks to make sure the safety’s on, which it is.

She takes the gun and the cleaning implements into the bathroom, on the way in tossing the oil-stained newspaper into the trash basket in the corner.

She washes her hands, scrubbing them hard in hot water, getting off all the solvent and oil residue.

She has a long day and longer night ahead, so she lies down on the bed, forcing herself to sleep, quieting her racing mind.