The Devil's Redhead (33 page)

He eased back into the shadows then made his way downhill to his car. He drove along the now familiar, winding county road to Oakley, past the sprawling ranches, the recent subdivisions, circling a strip mall twice, making absolutely certain no one trailed behind. Pulling down a narrow side street with parallel fences towering on either side, he eased halfway down then stopped, waiting for the headlights of a trail car to appear behind him. None did. He listened as the streetlight hummed overhead, noticing a cat perched atop a nearby garage, cleaning itself. Putting the Dart in gear again, he drove to the alley's end, turned right and pulled into the lot of the same all-night grocery he'd come to that first night out, the one named Cheaper.

The place was lit up like an emergency room. Insomniac shoppers, many obese, all of them white, milled in and out. Within fifteen minutes Cohn's Lexus arrived, pulling up next to the Dart. Abatangelo waited, again to check for anyone following, then stepped from his car into the backseat of Cohn's.

The car smelled new, with a hint of pipe tobacco thickening the air. Cohn turned sideways behind the wheel, offering a pained look that, combined with the play of shadows across his face, accentuated its angles and made him look almost skeletal. Waxman sat in the passenger seat, gripping his elbows, arms folded across his midriff as though to contain an upsurge of bile. He was wearing the same shabby tweed jacket and Oxford button-down shirt as earlier, the collar frayed and hanging open; apparently he'd lacked the time to knot a proper bow tie. He looked strangely naked without it.

Neither man looked directly at Abatangelo, preferring instead to acknowledge his arrival with sidelong glances and thin smiles. The tension compressed the space inside the car, making it feel as though their faces were pushed together. Abatangelo nodded to Cohn, then turned to Waxman. “Good to see you in one piece,” he offered. “Things go like you thought?”

Waxman hesitated, glancing out the window at the bright storefront. “They gave me a little tour first, walked me through the rooms, showed me the bodies. The mother and child in particular. I watched as some technician inserted a needle in their eyes, withdrawing ocular fluid. The detectives, they asked me how I felt about it—the murders, I mean, not the bit with the needle.”

Abatangelo flashed on what he'd overheard a cop say once about a witness. Shaken well, ready to use. “It's part of the process, Wax,” he said gently. “Messing with your head.”

“Well, yes,” Waxman said, waving off the show of concern. “They were remarkably well informed, by the way.”

“About?”

“You,” Waxman said.

Abatangelo chuckled. “I assume you're not surprised by that. I'm not. This they, who are we talking about exactly?”

“There were three of them,” Waxman said. “The lead detective's very sharp. Older guy, tall, thin, homely. Could play Ichabod Crane in the local repertory. His partner is a little chunkier; you can smell the coffee on him from across the room. Holds an unlit cigarette the whole time, tells you he's trying to quit. It's a very clever distraction.”

“Wax—”

“There was a narc there, too, young guy—suede jacket, sharkskin boots—natty little goon. Said he worked on some sort of task force out here. An absolute, unmitigated asshole.”

“He threatened you.”

“He kicked me,” Waxman admitted. “In the leg.” He glanced at Cohn and Abatangelo sheepishly, then shrugged. “He threw a tantrum, called me names.”

“Let's get back to well informed,” Abatangelo suggested.

Waxman nodded. “They brought up your name almost instantly.”

Cohn seemed indifferent to this news, which was hardly a surprise. Or maybe it's his game face, Abatangelo thought, at the same time wondering what the lawyer and the reporter had found to talk about on the ride from the murder site.

“You showed them the message above the phone,” Abatangelo said.

“Of course I did.”

“And they said?”

“If you'll wait, I'll tell you.” Waxman, irked, adjusted his glasses. “Apparently they knew Ms. Beaudry lived out there. They tied you two together from the start. They knew about your recent release.”

“Gee, there goes another secret.”

“I told them about the story that's running tomorrow, gave them a draft. It's going to be published within hours. I could hardly withhold it.”

“I never suggested you should.”

“I don't expose sources,” Waxman said, his voice rising. There was a disagreeable edge in it, too. He looked out at the market again.

“Wax, what—”

“You protect a source,” Waxman continued, “because the target of your story might retaliate. Whistle-blowers, insiders, they take a great risk coming forward.”

“You handed me up,” Abatangelo guessed. He looked out the back. “They follow you?”

Waxman bristled. “Of course not, Christ—”

“You want to talk about retaliation?” Abatangelo said, facing back around. “Police aren't the only thugs here, Wax. Felix Randall, his hoods. Some Mexicans hellbent on blood from the looks of it. Cops are known for their tactical leaks. Bad enough they're gonna tie me to this. Now you're telling me that's the least of my worries. I'm public record. What else did you tell them?”

“They already knew,” Waxman protested. “Everything.”

“So you confirmed it.” Abatangelo groaned. “And what do you mean, ‘everything'? What the fuck is ‘everything'?”

“You were willing to be openly named to begin with.”

“You said it would help with credibility if I wasn't.”

“Yes. Yes. But that's no longer true.” Waxman looked to Cohn, hoping for an ally. Cohn regarded him with an indifference that bordered on loathing. “The police are set to hand out your name to the next guy who stumbles along. Trust me. Some low-level corker working cop shop out here in the Delta somewhere. If I don't identify you, someone else will.”

In a bid for self-control, Abatangelo laughed softly and looked away. The truly galling part, he thought, was that Waxman was right. At first he'd been perfectly willing to have his name made public. Being named had swagger, it'd flush somebody out, they'd come looking for him, asking who the fuck he thought he was. He'd only relented when he realized the benefit to remaining unnamed, given Shel's likely reaction to his exposing Frank. All that seemed obscenely irrelevant now. Even so, this smacked of betrayal—not so much what Waxman had done as the way he'd confessed to it. The squirming, the bluster, the milky eyes.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Enough on that. Now did they respond to the message above the phone?”

“I was getting to that,” Waxman snapped. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Look, I'm sorry if I seem back on my heels. It's just … you're insinuating that I was there to feed them some cooked-up version of events.”

Cohn, sensing a need for a different tack, stepped in. “Any sense the detectives think this Frank Maas character killed the three people in that house?”

Waxman put his glasses back on. “If they do, they didn't share that with me.”

Abatangelo said, “It doesn't make sense, Tony.”

“It doesn't?” He turned a little, the light catching his eyes briefly, making them glisten within the shadows veiling his face. “This is a guy you yourself described as a sociopath. Your girlfriend, after getting the shit kicked out of her, ran back to him.”

“Not to him,” Abatangelo said.

“Oh, Christ. To what, then?”

“To protect me.”

“From this Frank character.”

“I don't think so,” Abatangelo said. “Not from the note she left. I think she meant the people Frank was in with. This Felix Randall guy.” It came out rushed, unconvincing. “Look, Tony—”

“As long as we're dwelling in the land of I Don't Think So,” Cohn interrupted, “I'd say my guess is as good as yours, and my guess is she came back, this Frank character was lying in wait, as they say in the penal code, and he went off all over again. He made this thing look like a burn, just like he did with the Briscoe kids. Now he's on the run. He's got the woman he loves with him. That woman's either going to love him back or die. If she isn't dead already.”

Abatangelo thought it through. It was possible, he supposed. The problem was, it also meant there was no hope.

“I don't see it that way,” he said quietly. “It doesn't explain the message above the phone.”

Cohn snorted with disgust and turned to Waxman. “Anything else?”

“They implied,” Waxman said, “that they have information to the effect that Dan and Ms. Beaudry had gotten back together.”

“What information?” Abatangelo asked.

“I don't know, but whatever it was, it suggested the involvement wasn't strictly romantic. They think you're back in the trade.”

“Then their information's lousy.”

“One of the detectives suspected the murders were meant for the two of you, retaliation for some drug deal gone wrong.”

Cohn closed his eyes and murmured, “Lovely.”

“That's the way it's set up to look,” Abatangelo countered. “These cops, they're not really that stupid. They were playing you, Wax.”

“Yes, well,” Waxman said. “Another detective, the narc I mentioned, came up with a different theory. He suspects you're the killer.”

Cohn opened his eyes again.

Abatangelo said, “And you laughed, right?”

“He apparently believes that you came out looking for Frank Maas, to get even for what he did to Ms. Beaudry.”

“Which he knew about how?”

“From my article,” Waxman said. “I gave them a draft, remember?”

“Wait. This theory, that I'm the killer, this narc made it up while you were sitting there? What's that tell you, Wax? It's horseshit.”

“Be that as it may,” Waxman continued, “the way this narc sees it, when Frank wasn't there, you killed the people who were, figuring blame would work back to Frank.” Turning to Cohn, he added, “That's his explanation for why the killings were made to look like a drug burn, like the Briscoe murders.”

“I'm one cold-blooded snake,” Abatangelo said.

“It's also,” Waxman added, “his explanation for why you were there earlier tonight.”

Both Cohn and Abatangelo snapped to at that one. “How'd they know that?” Abatangelo said.

“I told you, they were very well informed.”

“That's not an answer.”

“Some kind of trace on the phone out here, I imagine,” Waxman said.

“You imagine?”

“He simply said they knew it for a fact.”

“Fucking Christ, Wax. I'm not hearing this. You didn't confirm it, did you?”

Waxman shrank back a little. “As I said, I gave them a draft of the story—”

“You haven't had time to write that part.”

“I'll be phoning it in,” Waxman said, “as soon as we're done here.” His eyes hardened. “And if I were you, I might consider taking refuge in the truth for once, instead of this scamming knack for bullshit you seem so fond of.”

“You know what?” Cohn interjected sourly. “I think this is a good time—”

“You still haven't told me, Wax, what the cops said about the message above the phone.”

“Nothing,” Waxman said.

Abatangelo flinched. “Come again?”

“They said nothing about it. I brought it up, they acted like I was an idiot.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“Tell them, not me. I said the message suggests she was abducted. Some kind of trade is being arranged.”

“Exactly.”

“They laughed.”

“Wax, come on, you sold it—”

“It's not my position to sell anything. I pointed it out, I showed them my story. Once there was no longer any point concealing the fact that you were my source, everything else I proposed came off like canned crap, manufactured by you.”

“Wait, wait—”

“My guess is they think you wrote the message above the phone, intending it as some sort of smoke screen.”

“That's nuts. One minute I'm making it look like Frank did it, the next I'm trying to pin it on some Mexicans?”

“I'm just telling you what they suggested.”

“And you said?”

“As little as possible,” Waxman responded. “Though I realize you don't believe that.”

Cohn pinched the bridge of his nose. “As I was trying to say, this might be a good time for me to speak with my client alone. All right?”

Waxman reached for the door handle then stopped, turning back to Abatangelo. “I have to see it from all sides. Nothing I write will seem credible otherwise.”

“All sides,” Abatangelo said. “I'm a guy who'd come out here, clip a kid and two adults, and use the article you're writing to point the finger at Frank. Except, of course, I also wrote a message above the phone, implicating a bunch of Mexicans.”

“What I'm saying is, I have an obligation—”

“Wax, come on. We sat together, side by side, hashing out that story word for word. I didn't shove it down your throat. You asked me every damn question you wanted and I answered every single one. Now you're gonna tell me you sat there, played patsy to a bunch of fast-talking cops and not once tried to drive home the fact that Shel's been dragged off somewhere.”

“Again,” Cohn said, loud this time. “Just a minute, alone, here in the car. Me and you, Dan.”

Abatangelo ignored him. “Wax, do what you've got to do, but look at me, you look at me, I swear to God, I … did … not … use you. They did.”

“Now!” Cohn shouted.

Waxman jumped in his seat and, in the same movement, opened the car door to get out. “Of course,” he murmured over his shoulder. “I need to leg all this in to my editor, or we won't even make deadline for an exclusive.” Glancing one last time at Abatangelo, he left the car and trundled across the parking lot. Taking up position at a phone booth outside the store, he lit a cigarette and dialed, exhaling smoke into the receiver and leaning into the wall, his corduroys bagging at the knees.