Jayne and Steelie - 01 - Freezing (5 page)

All the electrical equipment hummed, faded, and came back to life as another brownout swept over the neighborhood.

‘Hope you weren't working on anything important,' Jayne said, with irony.

‘Just bring me that generator. In fact –' Steelie stretched her arms above her head – ‘let's take that as a sign and get out of here.'

‘Yeah. Let's lock up.'

Jayne replied to Gene's email, then the two women moved through the building, turning off lights and locking the safe that held X-rays and original photographs that would later be returned to families. At the front, they closed the Venetian blinds over the windows, flipped the switch for the sign outside, and activated the alarm.

‘Keep watch, Fitz,' Steelie said to the office plant as she stepped out the door and locked it behind her.

It was still hot outside but the light was mellowing, the sun beginning to consider a descent somewhere behind Griffith Park's looming hills. Steelie and Jayne were both heading in that direction; Jayne to her apartment facing the Silver Lake Reservoir and Steelie to her cottage in Atwater Village.

They pulled out of the Agency's parking lot, one vehicle white and rumbling, the other dark and nimble, to join commuters for whom San Fernando Road was just a way to avoid a particularly hairy part of the 5 Freeway. They were halted next to each other at the first traffic light and Jayne could hear Steelie's radio, tuned to the all-news station: ‘
It's slow-and-go on the Golden State Freeway this evening, folks
 . . .' She smiled at her friend before the light turned green.

FIVE

S
cott drove East on Beverly Boulevard, frustrated that none of the body shops on Eric's list had so far generated a lead on the van. One shop owner merited a second visit; that was on for tomorrow. He turned on the radio and then glanced at it as he registered a female voice that evoked Hollywood movies from the 1940s. He could hear two other people's voices, both wholly American, one apparently a chef and the other seemed to be a landscaper, which fit with what Jayne had told him about the regulars on a particular LA radio program. This had to be ‘Weekends with Prentis'. He upped the volume for his introduction to Jayne's mother, who was requesting that a caller put her question.

Scott heard the caller's astonished gasp as he glanced in his rearview mirror to change lanes. The small white car behind him indicated at the same time and Scott accelerated to get in front. The studio guests were chiming in.

Theme music and a voice advising that this episode of ‘Weekends with Prentis' had been a repeat drowned out any other comments Marie might have had, leaving Scott trying to picture a woman who would tread so close to the political edge on a show that was ostensibly about food and plants. But Jayne had told him that her mother's ability to cast a spell over people had, so far, kept her out of trouble. Apparently, the spell wasn't just due to her looks, which Jayne had described as ‘like Catherine Deneuve, but browner.' Scott remembered how Jayne's voice had sounded on the phone when she'd said that; rueful humor laced with a wistfulness that betrayed how unaware Jayne was that she could have been describing her own looks.

Realizing he'd almost missed his turn, Scott hung a quick right on to Spring and continued down to the light at 2nd Street. He noticed the white car was still behind him and making the same right turn. Now it was pulling over to the curb and two Skid Row residents were approaching it. Scott's traffic light clicked to green, so he pulled left, made his way to his building and turned into the underground parking lot, the gate lifting and then closing behind him.

As he went up the elevator to the fifth floor, his thoughts picked up where they'd left off: how good it had been to see Jayne in the flesh, not just hear her voice coming down the phone line. The physical attraction mattered and it had produced the same pull he'd experienced the night they'd first met in Quantico's noisy basement bar, to the point that he'd almost forgotten he was at a crime scene with Eric and a convoy of Critters. Eric. Scott smirked as he got out of the elevator. His partner had picked up on something right away, though he'd held off raising it until Scott had been on the verge of leaving to meet Jayne for lunch.

Scott unlocked the door to his apartment and went in, activating down-lights as he walked into the kitchen. He stepped around the packing boxes on the floor so he could pull out lasagna from the freezer and turn on the oven. Then he leaned against the counter, remembering how Eric had tried to arrange his face into an appropriate expression after he'd overheard Scott ask Jayne to lunch.

Eric had opened with: ‘So. How long has this been going on?'

Scott had tried to sound blank. ‘Nothing's going on.'

‘Then it's been a whole lotta nothing.' Eric paused. ‘Was it going on while you were with Mindy?'

‘
Mad
Mindy?'

‘Was she that one?'

‘Yes, she was.'

‘OK, Callista then. Or whoever you brought to Angie's fortieth. Was it going on then?'

When Scott didn't answer, Eric burst into laughter and slapped his thigh. ‘I don't believe it! Jayne's been the one this whole time? Y'know, I always wondered why you dated such lightweights. It was weird, man. Angie and I used to talk about it – oh shit, Angie! I can't wait to tell her!'

Scott pointed at him. ‘Don't tell Angie anything. Plus, Mindy and Callista – and Helen for that matter, who was a rebound thing and you know it – were
not
lightweights when it came to my wallet.'

‘That's because you kept giving them consolation prizes every time you missed barbecues or bowling or whatever those kind of chicks plan.'

‘Tapas . . . for couples.'

‘Spare me. Anyway, it's not your wallet that's in danger with Jayne.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

Eric shook his head. ‘I've never seen you look at someone the way you looked at her this morning. And I've seen you look at a lot of people.'

Scott frowned. ‘How did I look at her?'

‘It was a little . . . wolfish.'

Scott grimaced. ‘That can't be good.'

‘Yeah, you might want to work on that.'

A CHP officer had walked in their direction just then and Scott had levered himself into the driver's seat of the Suburban. Eric leaned on the door so Scott couldn't close it and lowered his voice to a confidential tone. ‘So why haven't you been seeing her this whole time? And why didn't you tell me about her?'

‘Precisely so we wouldn't have this conversation.'

‘Man, you need this conversation if you haven't made a move on her yet. Five years? Really? You're lucky she's still around – and available.'

Scott's face must have betrayed him because Eric asked, with incredulity, ‘You don't even know if she's single?'

Scott covered looking away by putting the keys in the ignition. The car sounded a warning.

Eric shook his head. ‘You
really
need this conversation.'

‘I'm handling it.' Scott made to close the door.

Eric stepped away and said, ‘Just try not to screw up lunch. We've got a case riding on this.'

Scott pulled a bottle of water from the under-counter fridge in his kitchen, grabbed a fork from a box, then used a dishtowel to take the now hot lasagna in its foil pan over to the leather armchair, turned to get a view of the
Los Angeles Times
building through the wall of west-facing windows. He put his feet up on the footrest and ate from the pan.

He took in a mouthful of cold water and let it rest against the roof of his mouth where he'd scalded it earlier. He really was glad that the reunion with Jayne had been over this freeway case. If he'd seen her any sooner after transferring to LA or met her over dinner, he would have been over-eager, pushing for an answer to the question on his mind ever since his transfer notice: what kind of relationship would they have after several years of long-distance companionship, flirtation, and restrained intimacy? He swallowed and then looked at the
Times
building. It was a confirmation: he was finally in LA. And if the case slowed things down with Jayne and kept him from acting ‘wolfish', then maybe that was a good thing.

Jayne pulled her truck close to the top of the driveway fronting the redwood two-story building that housed her apartment. She climbed the concrete staircase on the left side of the building, rising above a neat lawn that held its own under an ancient fir tree. The only neighbor was downstairs and his front door was on the other side so Jayne enjoyed the sense of privacy and ownership she felt every time she ascended to her door, which was why she'd finally bought some terracotta pots for the landing and filled them with plants.

She had lived there for five years after moving out of her graduate student apartment in Westwood and refusing the tempting offer of a cottage at the end of her mother's sprawling garden. Across the street, the Silver Lake Reservoir began immediately after tall redwoods and the sidewalk. The reservoir was a clear space in LA that no one could build on and so drew a faithful crowd of joggers and dog-walkers to its edge every day. Some of the faces were familiar to Jayne but she didn't know anyone's name.

She was expecting her mother to drop by, so she left the front door open to the screen as she put together a light supper in the kitchen, which overlooked the open-plan main room. When Marie arrived fifteen minutes later, she just called out, ‘Yoo-hoo!' and swept in through the doorway. Her gold silk shirt was mirrored in golden powder glinting at the base of her throat while bronze highlights emphasized a hairstyle usually achieved only on photo shoots by using large fans. Her every move produced a melody as bangles met and dangling earrings swayed.

After hugging Jayne, Marie went back to look at the porch. ‘Darling, has it ever occurred to you that you'd get more dates if you kept something other than cacti by your front door?'

‘Is that advice about gardening or relationships, Mom?'

‘You should have something like gaura pinks. Or maybe gaura lindheimeri – you know, the white ones. Just a few pots, uneven in number.'

‘What, so I can find the man who has just one similar pot and say, “You . . . complete me”?' She faked a swoon as she crossed to the kitchen to finish preparing their roast chicken and avocado sandwiches.

‘You're so irreverent, darling. That also keeps people away.'

Jayne cut the sandwiches into triangles. ‘This gaura. Is it the wispy one you planted all over your garden?'

‘You've noticed!'

‘Then, no thanks. Too feminine.'

‘What's wrong with a little femininity these days?' Marie asked as she cast an apparently critical eye around the main room.

‘Nothing, for you. It's just not my style.' Jayne walked over with the plate of sandwiches and a wooden salad bowl. She handed Marie the salad and ushered her on to the deck facing the reservoir. The table was covered in a white tablecloth, which was decorated with numerous tea lights and drying rose petals.

As they sat down, Marie fluttered her fingers over the petals. ‘I thought you said feminine wasn't your style?'

Jayne smiled, pushing bits of avocado back into her sandwich. ‘I just like winding you up. Have some iced tea.'

Marie folded some butter lettuce and speared it neatly with her fork. ‘Steelie said you're seeing Scott.' In went the lettuce.

‘Not “seeing”, Mom – I've seen him. We've all seen him.'

‘Now, just a minute. The last time I set you up with someone – that perfectly nice teacher
and
a Venezuelan – you stated that you'd rather spend an hour on the phone with Scott Houston than five more minutes with
el profesor
. I remember that quite distinctly.'

Jayne regarded her mother. ‘Let me get the strawberries.'

Marie called after her. ‘And now this Houston is here in LA.'

‘So?' Jayne brought out the tray holding bowls of berries and a jug of cream.

‘So! I didn't raise you to be a five o'clock fish.' Marie fixed Jayne with her ‘severe' look, which consisted of one arched eyebrow while she tilted her chin up. ‘You remember the five o'clock—'

‘Yes, yes. The fish that's been sitting out all day at market and no one wants to buy old fish or whatever. I told you I don't like the commodification of women inherent in that metaphor. It's ridiculous. I'm not a piece of seafood. Nor am I on a shelf.'

‘You're up on this deck, Jayne! Most evenings, all weekend. You're hiding up here with I don't know what memories from some mass grave or other haunting you, and you've given yourself nothing for comfort other than . . .' She gestured wildly. ‘Than spiky cactus plants!'