Rage Factor (21 page)

“Out of what?” Belle said, but Dixie motioned her to let the kid talk.

“Okay, I’m right in the middle of a kick-ass project, a ten-minute Frankenstein spoof—I’m not expecting an Oscar for it, but, hey—nine zillion hours and we’re down to the last hundred frames before edit. Only Mother gets weirded by this anonymous fan and drags me to Houston.”

She sprang from the chair.

“‘I
can’t leave’
I tell her. Does she listen? Does my mother ever listen? Her head is soundproof. To top it, I can’t even tell her
why
I can’t go. She goes bonkers when I mention a career in f/x. Arguing with her is like trying to blow out a lightbulb. So I’m stuck.”

Crossing her arms tight across her chest, Sarina strode behind the chair and paced.

“Make the best of it, I decide. I swing a meeting with Alroy Duncan, only to make it work I need my mother distracted. We’re at the airport, I see the valentines and remember she gets distracted every time one of those cards shows up.”

She turned to Belle and dramatically threw her arms wide.

“Only the whole thing backfired. You hired Sherlock here, and now you’re going to tell Mother what a jerk I am. When Dad hears about it, even
he
won’t back me up on taking an apprenticeship.”

During Sarina’s explanation, Belle had dropped quietly into her chair. “You mean this whole stalker thing was a … a …
hoax
, so you could sneak around town—”

“I wasn’t sneaking around, I was—”

“Sit down,” Dixie said. “And go back to the beginning. Tell us about the cards you sent while you and Joanna were still in L.A.”

“What cards?”

“The cards that frightened your mother enough to stop dating,” Belle said. “Frightened her enough to want you watched every minute you weren’t in school.”

“I don’t know any more about that than you do.”

“You didn’t send them?” Dixie persisted.

“No. I …
NO
! I’m not the creep who’s coming on to her. I just picked up on his idea and used it.”

Belle glanced at her watch and punched a button on the desk phone.

“Ms. Grimm, page Blackmon at the courthouse, will you? Tell him to take over. I’ll be there as soon as I get free.” She looked at Sarina. “Stalking is a felony offense, which means you could have more crap coming down on your head than either of your parents can shovel off. If you’re telling the truth about not sending the cards in LA, then
maybe
I can keep this from turning into a worse mess than it already is. Sarina, give me a reason to believe you.”

Head down, the girl tapped rapidly at the sides of her jeans, thinking about it.

“I can’t prove I didn’t send the other cards. But I didn’t.”

Belle heaved an exasperated sigh and buzzed the receptionist again.

“Ms. Grimm, would you bring two cups of coffee and—” She looked the question at Sarina. “Juice? Coffee?”

“Just water.”

Belle relayed the order, then released the intercom.

“Sarina, you know where our law library is located.” She pointed to a door. “I’d like you to sit in there for a few minutes while Dixie and I talk.”

The girl slouched out of the office.

“I hope there’s no back door to that room,” Dixie said.

“There is, but I keep it locked.” When the receptionist arrived with the drinks, Belle sent her into the library with Sarina’s water, then opened a drawer and extracted a packet of sweetener. “What made you suspicious of her?”

“Mostly a hunch.” And peanut butter.

“You think she’s telling the truth about not sending the LA cards?”

“I don’t know. I want to believe her. But she grew up in a world where the line between reality and make-believe is damned hard to see.”

“If she’s telling the truth, then we still have a stalker out there.”

“No reason to think the stalker’s in Houston.”

“And no guarantee he isn’t.”

Dixie wouldn’t argue, since the odds could go either way. “What did you find out about Alan Kemp?”

Belle retrieved a fax from her in-box and read from it. “Alan and Joanna are distant blood cousins. Their great-great-grandmothers were sisters, and the family evidently stayed pretty tight. Most of them live right in East Texas. Alan and Joanna went to the same schools and both were active in drama. After college, they drifted apart. Kemp’s syndicated radio show has a substantial audience.”

“Were you able to find out how recently he left Brussels?”

“We’re still digging. I’ll have more information later today.”

Belle sipped her coffee, magically preserving her lipstick. Dixie was always amazed at women who could eat, drink, and smoke without so much as a smudge.

“So where do we go from here?” Dixie asked.

Belle looked thoughtful. Instead of answering, she said, “What did Sarina mean about an apprenticeship?”

Dixie explained their visit to Stoned Toad Productions. She tried to tell it objectively.

“You sound like you approve of what she did,” Belle said.

“Of course I don’t
approve.
But I’ll admit I admire the kid’s spunk. If she hadn’t pulled the valentine stunt, the deal with Alroy Duncan might’ve gone without a hitch.”

“But she
did
pull the valentine stunt, and she must have known how upset Joanna’s been these last two months. Somewhere deep inside, that girl wanted to hurt her mother.”

“Maybe Joanna should be spending her money on a shrink instead of a bodyguard.”

“Ouch! I’ll let you tell her that.” Belle set aside her coffee and rose decisively. “I want you to stay on the case, Flannigan. It can’t do any harm. We’re not a hundred percent certain the stalker’s not in Houston.”

Dixie couldn’t argue, since Belle’s philosophy mirrored her own.

“You’re calling the shots, Ric.” Only the job would feel a lot like training camp now, where there’s no real danger, but you act as if there were.

“Speaking of caution, get the battery checked in that mobile phone and keep the damn thing with you. I want to be able to locate Sarina in a heartbeat—at all times.”

“Done.” Dixie showed her the phone attached to her belt. With Belle Richards, you could screw up once and get off with a warning. If you screwed up twice, you might as well fold your tent and move to South America.

“By the way—” Belle plucked a sheet of paper from her in-box. “You were right about the publisher of those first cards. Only a handful of stores carry the label, all in the San Diego and Los Angeles area, including a store in North Hollywood.”

“Convenient. I hope somebody’s talking to that store owner.”

Belle nodded. “Discreetly.”

“Right. So, what do we tell Joanna?”

“Nothing, for now. Trust me, Sarina was right about the way she’d take it. I’ve seen Joanna go ballistic with much less provocation than this.”

“Weird out, Sarina would say.”

“That’s a fairly apt description.” Belle opened a narrow closet and slipped her suit jacket off a hanger.

The image of a woman weirding out reminded Dixie of something that had haunted her since the evening news.

“Ric, did you hear about the Carrera case?”

“What about it?”

“Brenda worked on that for a while. I’m wondering how she’s taking it.”

“It was never much of a case, Flannigan. The DA’s staff couldn’t put together enough hard evidence against the mother. They had to drop it. And the civil case wasn’t Brenda’s concern.”

“Have you ever known Brenda
not
to be concerned when a case she cares about goes south?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I don’t know…” The hell of it was, she
didn’t
know what she was getting at, only that she had a hunch Brenda was stressed to the max lately. Dixie had learned long ago to heed her hunches.

“Keep your nose glued to the right case, Flannigan. The Carrera woman’s disappearance—”

“Disappearance?”

“What have we been talking about?”

“You tell me. I was talking about Patricia Carrera winning custody of her son, and worrying how another failure might affect Brenda.”

“Then you missed the latest.” Belle shrugged into her designer jacket. “Carrera was scheduled to pick up the boy from his grandparents last night, but she never showed. No one has seen her since she drove away from her house a winner.”

Dixie flashed on another winner, Lawrence Riley Coombs, found raped and beaten in Memorial Park hours after he threatened Brenda Benson. Memories of her final weeks as ADA, and her own frequent bouts with rage and confusion, blipped through Dixie’s mind like strobe lights. Every time a smug felon walked away free, Dixie saw the blind lady of justice corroding a bit.

She prayed she was wrong about ADA Brenda Benson, but her hunch indicator was shooting off the scale.

Lawrence Coombs adjusted the seat in his Jaguar so he could watch the red Porsche Targa sitting across the parking garage from him. He sipped a cup of hot coffee. His mouth was no longer tender but ugly and misshapen from the stitches. Every time he looked in a mirror, he thought about the bitch who ruined his face and what he was going to do once the trial was behind him. The bounty hunter must have been pissing scared to bring her ADA friend and come after him. He appreciated their nerve, but Dixie Flannigan and friend were going to wish they’d never been born.

The anticipation filled him with energy, made his whole body hum like locusts in a balmy twilight. When the humming reached its extreme ecstasy, he would know what to do. Didn’t want to rush it.

Now look at the bonus he’d won with his patience. Pretty Sarina Page, daughter of the hot-shit actress.

Traffic sounds filtered through his closed window. The morning had turned crisp. He’d wanted to linger in bed, but
the bounty hunter’s day started before sunup, so now his did, too. This time, he’d orchestrate the moment perfectly. Plan his moves. Take Dixie and her sweet sidekick to some quiet location, where there’d be no interruptions from nosey, loud-mouthed reporters. No cops. Just the three of them and all the time in the world to enjoy one another’s company.

Lawrence watched the two women now, exiting the sky-walk from the Transco office building, talking as they walked. He envisioned their smiling faces tight with pain.

As they climbed into the Porsche, Lawrence started the Jaguar’s engine, his body humming exquisitely.

“I missed breakfast,” Sarina grumbled, leaning against the red brick beside Brenda’s front door as Dixie rang the bell.

“So did I. We’ll only be here a few minutes. Then we’ll eat.”

She’d decided to ask Brenda outright if she knew anything about Carrera’s disappearance. Lots of parents who battered their children were getting help one way or another, trying to work out their problems. Maybe Carrera, in a sudden flash of conscience, had decided her son was better off with his grandparents, and decided to simply get in her car and keep driving. No reason to think Carrera’s disappearance was in any way connected with the attack on Coombs. But Dixie knew she’d never shake that haunting feeling until she heard Brenda’s take on it.

It was Gail—a younger, taller, darker version of her sister—who answered the door. The separation of nearly a decade showed most in the sisters’ personalities. Brenda was work-driven, determined to make a difference. Gail’s
interests were more political, fast-lane, high-rolling. She dated a young Texas senator who had aspirations for the governorship.

“Well, hey, Dixie!” Gail had her sister’s whiskey voice. “Brenda’s already gone. Was she expecting you?” Her gaze flitted from Dixie to Sarina.

“Actually, it was you I wanted to talk to.” Not true, but not a bad idea. “You have a minute?”

“Sure, a minute, if you don’t mind talking while I dress. We’re putting together mailers today for the primaries.”

She opened the door wide, and Dixie introduced Sarina as they entered the modest but attractive home.

“Smells like banana bread in here,” Sarina commented, a hopeful note in her voice.

“Fresh from the bakery. Would you like some? I made hot chocolate to go with it.”

Sarina glanced at Dixie, then at the portable television above the breakfast bar. “If it’s no trouble.”

With Sarina happily engaged in her two favorite activities, eating and channel surfing, Gail led Dixie through the family room, filled with enough potted plants to start a nursery, to her bedroom, all chintz, ruffles, and girlie gizmos. The only unplanned clutter was a tray of makeup on the dresser and the closet door hanging open. After pulling out a green slacks suit and a white blouse, Gail shut the closet door.

“What’s up? I’ve lived with Brenda two years and you’ve been here maybe ten times, never at eight-thirty in the morning.”

“I’m worried about her. She’s lost some important cases lately, and I think she’s taking it hard.”

“Brenda doesn’t like losing any better than I do.” Gail slid the green pants on under her robe.

“Has she said anything to you about quitting?”

“Leaving the DA’s staff? No way.”

Maybe Brenda didn’t confide in her little sister. “Has she seemed distracted lately? Upset about anything?”

Gail turned her back, tossed off her robe, and slipped into a bra, snapping it in front. “Brenda’s always distracted. Always buried in a case.”

Was Gail being evasive, or had she really not noticed anything unusual? “Did she talk to you about the Lawrence Coombs case?”

“That sicko was all she talked about for weeks.” Gail eased the white silk blouse over her shoulders and turned around to button it, smiling. “After what the Avenging Angels did to him later, Bren didn’t seem as upset about losing. Maybe the court should take a lesson—let the victim decide the punishment, put a real quick stop to crime.”

Victim? “What makes you think it was Regan Salles?”

“Regan wasn’t the only woman he messed up.” She scooped the makeup tray off the dresser and headed for the bathroom.

Dixie followed, pausing to inch open the door to Brenda’s bedroom as they passed it. Clothes littered the chairs, but the bed was made.

She watched from the hallway as Gail applied black mascara to her blond lashes.