I sat up and turned on my light. I pressed the little button on top of the radio to see the time setting for the alarm: three a.m. I listened to the music; I opened the drawer at the bedside table and lifted the pink angora sweater. There she was, silver, shining, and upon inspection, fully loaded. Was she still my secret or had the same person who reset my radio alarm inspected my chest of drawers and discovered my gun?
There I sat, radio playing, knees raised under the covers, light on, and gun in hand, with my arms on my raised knees. In a relaxed position, I kept my eye on the bedroom door and my ears open. Hadn’t I wanted to think about it? Now I could. I wouldn’t be going back to sleep. My alarm was always set for six-thirty; the only time I had touched it was after unplugging the clock-radio some weeks before.
How interesting that I didn’t shake. I didn’t call Bodge Scully, though I intended to call him later. I made a mental note to ask him for his home phone number.
This wasn’t the first time in my life I was dealing with a very big X factor, the ever-present missing link that haunts the practice of law. Which, incidentally, is not for sissies. It isn’t strictly criminal law that takes courage. My instincts were charged with warnings and all I lacked was the facts. I didn’t know what it was, who it was, or why I was experiencing this. I knew there wasn’t anything I could do except proceed and figure it out. I had no option now. Somehow, this had come to me.
In the early-morning hours, when the sun had risen and the house was bright, I did my inspection, gun in hand. The doors and windows were secure. I looked in every closet and corner, walked around the backyard, went out to the front sidewalk to get the newspaper... yes, gun in pocket. I was thinking that if someone saw me he could have me committed. When I told people about this, they might suggest that I have regular visits to someone who could straighten me out. But what excuse Would Bodge give me for the new time setting on my radio? Shorted wire?
Bodge was one of the first people I was going to check out. I said that prayer: Please, God, let him be okay. I didn’t feel suspense — I believed Bodge was genuine and trustworthy. Roberta was sharp; Roberta trusted Bodge, and she was no patsy.
I took my shower behind a locked door with a gun on the toilet seat. I felt more scared than ridiculous.
I lose weight easily. I reminded myself not to become frantic; this was a slow upheaval and I was going to take care of myself, bolster myself, keep up my strength. I didn’t know what I was up against or where it was going. Had I known, I would have fled.
Dressed, primped, and ready for work, I drove to the office and unlocked the door. The stale smell of old cigarette smoke and dust assaulted my nostrils and I became annoyed with Roberta and Peggy. I paused to remind myself I was irritable. I considered going back to cigarettes — no one would ever blame me. I did private counsel on myself to stop the panicked, erratic thinking. I needed both good sense and Roberta on my team.
Peggy didn’t come in until nine, which gave me a little time. I picked up the phone to call Tom.
It was his machine. I pitched my voice carefully.
“Hi, Tom, it’s Jackie. I’m at work and the client I rushed in here for is late. I thought I’d give you a quick call and thank you for the dinner. I would have called from home earlier, but I overslept... never even heard my alarm. I’ll be tied up all day and most of tomorrow, so I wanted to be sure I thanked you. Later.”
Done.
I called Chelsea. “Hi, doll-face,” I said.
“Hey, the lawyer. How are you?”
“Fair. Is Mike already gone?”
“You want Mike?” she asked, laughing in disbelief. “You aren’t trying to get him back, are you?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Hey, Jackie, you okay?”
“I have a stumper on my hands and I need a detective.”
“Case?”
“Oh yes, a case,” I said. A case of the heebie-jeebies. “Is he there?”
“In the shower. I’ll go dry him off.” The phone went plunk as she laid it on the kitchen counter. I heard the girls in the background, talking about what was on the back of a cereal box. They were seven and eight years of age, a fun time of life with children. I leaned my head in the palm of my hand and fought envy; it hit me sometimes this suddenly — like the feeling I get in my stomach when I drive over a bump. The kind of feeling that would make Sheffie say, “Again! Do it again! Turn the car around and go back and do it again!” Except it wasn’t good. Or fun.
I wasn’t happy for Michael that he had a second chance. I wanted to be, but I wasn’t. I was happy for Chelsea, though. She deserved a couple of sweet little girls. And I was pleased for the girls; they had a good mom and their good mom had somehow turned that jerk into a good dad.
“Jack,” he said. “What do you want? I’m naked.”
“You must look stupid,” I said.
“I have on a towel; what do you want?”
“Go in the other room. I got a complicated problem and I need your help.”
“My help?” he asked, filled with surprise. “Ohhh. My help?” I had, naturally, never let him into my life in any way if I could prevent it. He tried to be helpful after Sheffie died; I couldn’t bear it, and pushed him away.
“You, specifically. And don’t give me a hard time. I need you.”
He was smarter than he looked. I heard the phone do that kitchen-counter plunk again, heard the girls, and heard Michael. “Chelsea, hang that up — I’ll get it in the bedroom.”
She would not be told what to do, which was what I loved about her. “What is this?” she said to me.
“Let me talk to Michael, doll-face. Maybe I can fill you in later. Okay?”
“Jack,” Michael said. Chelsea’s receiver clicked off.
“Okay,” I began. “You know I’m tough.”
“Come on, will ya. I’m cold!”
“Some funny stuff is happening to me,” I said in a rush. “When I got back from L.A. that Sunday night, I found someone had been in my house. He didn’t do anything except lie down on my bed and lift the toilet seat. One morning there was a bunch of flowers tied together with a shoelace on my back steps. Last night I got home late and my radio alarm had been reset to go off at three a.m.”
There was silence for a long moment. “Yeah?”
“All the doors and windows are locked; nothing is damaged, missing, or upset. The first time, that Sunday night, the back-door dead bolt had been opened, possibly with a key. I have new locks now and it doesn’t appear that anything was jimmied.”
“Who are you seeing, Jack?”
Nuts. It would have to be, right? This was why I was calling, so why try to pretend it wasn’t? I was slow to answer because I had spent so much time trying to convince myself that it couldn’t be Tom, all the while thinking it must be. I hated the idea that he would be the most likely.
“Got a pencil?”
“Go.”
“A guy named Tom Wahl who changed his name from Tom Lawler — spelling, L-A-W-L-E-R. Formerly of L.A.; a psychologist who was once terrorized by a man he testified against. His wife and daughter were strangled and he firmly believes it was the man, though the accused was a patient in a state or county hospital at the time. Tom himself was a suspect for a while... a short while. He was cleared. No indictments. Later, the same patient, a man named Devalian, was convicted on arson charges for a fire that occurred while he was hospitalized, which Tom believes proves he was able to get in and out of the hospital to do a crime.”
“So? How does he seem?”
I was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know,” I said.
“Come on,” he demanded, impatience in his voice. “Since when don’t you know?”
“Too good to be true. I don’t believe it; he’s like a god — good-looking, smart, sensitive, somewhat manipulative, and —”
“Jack,” he interrupted, “what does it usually mean when something is too good to be true?”
I stopped myself and took a breath. “
It isn’t true.” My voice sounded tired.
“What do you want?”
“Some L.A.P.D. stuff. I got press stuff from Janice Whitcomb at the office, but I want some police stuff. Find out about this case. The cases.”
“Jack, Jack,” he whined. I pictured him, as I could remember so well. He was freshly showered and still looked scruffy; he could somehow look unshaven and tousle-haired fresh out of the barber shop. “You want me to go do file research on some guy because you found your alarm reset and your toilet seat up?”
“Maybe a photo?”
“A photo of the guy you’re seeing... because why?”
“There’s been a body found out here.”
“Yeah? So?”
“The woman was youngish — twenty-nine — had been mysteriously missing for four years, and there were no suspects. Her best girlfriend thought her behavior indicated an affair. This is a small town, Mike. Small; I mean everyone knows who’s in bed with everyone every minute. She was strangled, buried fully clothed with her wedding rings on.”
“Yuk,” he said. I heard him thinking. “No motive?”
“None yet.”
“You think this guy —”
“No!” Then I made this whiny sound. “I don’t know if he lived here then. He told me it’s been ‘about’ four years. I don’t feel good about anything right now.”
“Break it off with him; tell him you’re out.”
“There’s nothing to break off. I had someone in my house before I had anything on, for God’s sake.”
“Oh really?” he asked, sounding surprised. “Really? Hmmm.”
“He’s charismatic; a gifted psychologist who isn’t practicing and doesn’t want anyone to know he’s a doctor who’s living the life of a carpenter.”
“Oh, right. While all the other guys are pretending to be doctors when they’re carpenters, he’s playing a carpenter who is really a doctor. Neat-o. Let me jot that down; I have some friends who need a new line. What a hero.”
“He can maintain an erection for hours,” I said.
“Oh, Jack, Jack, don’t be telling me this shit.”
“He says it’s a medical problem.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Ever heard of that kind of medical problem?” I held back from saying, “You sure didn’t have that problem.”
“Is it contagious? I could get the next plane out.”
“Come on — don’t you think this sounds strange?”
“I could get a fucking charter. L.A. Lakers, Congress, all of L.A.P.D., not to mention —”
“Am I crazy? Something’s wrong here; somebody is messing with me and I don’t know who. Something is wrong here. I wouldn’t be riled except there’s this body and no suspect and you don’t know what it’s really like to find your toilet seat up when you’re a sitter.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’m open to suggestions.”
“Get a bladder infection.”
“Huh?”
“Make an appointment with a local ob-gyn for a Pap smear and check-up. Complain a little bit about burning with urination — you might get lucky and have a quack who diagnoses you and medicates you without the legitimate infection. The visit to the doctor’s office is the important part. Imply, how you do so good, that you spent a night with Superman. In case, you know, so the town gossips can back up that you were to see the doctor. Without telling any of your secrets, you let it out that you’ve been to the Olympics with this guy. Ask the doc about this here medical problem... no need to name names. Unless, of course, you want to name me... tee-hee-hee. Okay, then tell the guy with the medical problem you overdid — you’re off limits for a week, ten days. He gets to feel like a champ and you get a break to think it out. Yeah?”
“And?”
“I’ll have a look at L.A.P.D. and see what I can find. You can interview him.”
“Interview him?”
“Well, Jack, do you want to figure this guy out or you want to escape? Sounds to me like you’ve made up your mind to figure out what’s going on.”
“That’s the problem... I’m skittish and I want to be wrong. I’m scared of something, I don’t know what or who. Mike, if I thought cooling it with this guy was going to make my problem go away, I’d do it. Unfortunately, I have a feeling it could get worse and leave me less protected. I think I have to face it. What bothers me is that there shouldn’t be any reason in the world why I’m not begging this guy to marry me — and the fact that I’m not concerns me. Something is wrong.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“What if I feel stupid about this later on?”
“Stupid and sure? Not a bad way to go.”
“What do you think I should try to get him to tell me?”
“Nothing. If he’s a wrong guy who’s feeding you bullshit, he’ll do most of the talking. Let him talk and talk and talk. Something is bound to be said that leads you to whatever next step you take.”
“So, Michael, you think I ought to talk to the sheriff? He’s like an overweight, chain-smoking Andy of Mayberry, but he keeps a real close watch on this town. He seems okay; I don’t know how to check him.”
“It’s like this. A creep is usually someone you know; you know that much — you get the same stats I get. That’s why you’re on the line, right? Because you wonder if this woman who was killed knew her killer, and you’ve got weird shit, right?”
“Suspicions. That’s all. The killer could be Andy of Mayberry, for all I know. And I’ve got a forty-five year old, brain-damaged, sweet lawn guy named Billy. And the local judge wears gold chains and winks at me... Not in court,” I was careful to add. “Out of court, he tells me I’m attractive and winks at me.”
“Nothing new there, huh?”
“I guess not. Overly friendly judges haven’t been a regular problem, though.”
“One would be too many. So how long has the sheriff been sheriff? More than a couple of years? Seems like if he was lifting toilet seats and resetting radio alarms and killing housewives, stuff like that would have been happening for a long time, huh? So here’s what you do with the sheriff. You tell him what’s happening, you tell him you aren’t going to tell anyone else, and ask him what he thinks you should do. Let him give you some advice, and if he doesn’t sound okay, cut him out of your problem and go somewhere else. You’ll get a feeling for him after you work with him on this. You’ve got good instincts.”
“I thought so. Till now.”
“Why now? You’re calling me because your instincts are screaming bloody murder. Your problem is you don’t want to take this transmission. You’re going to have to deal with that.”
“I’ve got a gun.”
“Well, don’t shoot your goddamn foot off.”
“I won’t.”
“Take a second shot. I didn’t tell you that.”
“You didn’t have to.” I’d tangled with him over the possession of firearms. He was opposed. Only the big, strong policeman could have a gun; these defenseless, nervous little ladies with guns were a danger to society. Why, without guns, they would merely be raped and stabbed; guns could get them shot. I took my ex-husband to the range and showed him. I told him that I would shoot and I might put in a second bullet to cancel out any legal technicality brought on by a wounded, but living, perpetrator who could build a case against me. I didn’t necessarily mean that. What I meant was that the gun was for my defense — and I would use it.
“I gotta go,” he said. “I’m freezing. Anything else?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“Be careful, for God’s sake.”
“Aw. You care.”
“I lost enough,” he said.
“Me, too.” The line was still for a moment. Mike and I didn’t talk about Sheffie; we occasionally acknowledged our pain. Mike had gotten so much smarter since we’d been divorced. He went to some trouble to establish what we both knew: My pain was worse. “There is someth
ing else — a small favor.”
“Yeah?”
“I have a couple of boxes of Sheffie’s stuff that I’ve been keeping. They’re stored in a spare room. Don’t try to understand this — it’s like he’s in the room; I’m as protective of those boxes as I was of Sheffie. Let me send them to you until I feel better. You take care of them for me.”
“Jack, you oughta talk to somebody. Really.”
“Do it for me, okay?”
“Okay. I can tell Chelsea about this?”
“Let’s not. You know how she worries.”
“Awwww,” he whined. “She’s gonna be all over me.”
“Don’t.”
“She’s gonna be on me like a cheap suit.”
“Don’t call me. I’ll call you. And thanks.”
“Hey, wait. Be sure to let it out you’re not all alone. Know what I mean? Get a lot of friends.”
“Yes, I understand.” Peggy was just coming in. “Hello, Peggy,” I said. “Thank you and I’ll get back to you later.”
Going back to my house, even in the middle of the day, frightened me. I walked around inside with the gun in my hand. That I had to go through this made me so damn mad that I might have killed anyone I found in my house. Anger, once my enemy, was becoming my friend.
The house was secure, apparently untouched and not violated. I put mailing labels on my precious boxes, took them to the car, and went to the post office. In their place I put two boxes of sheets that I had used to cover some of the ground-floor windows before I had curtains and blinds installed. In Magic Marker I wrote “Sheffie’s Stuff’ on top of the boxes. It was a test of mine: How far would my phantom go to terrorize me? Would he open my special boxes?
I decided to get my nails done before going to the doctor’s office. I had done a bad thing in insisting that Michael couldn’t tell Chelsea what was bothering me. I loved the idea that he would try, however briefly, to keep a confidence and that Chelsea would, with the stamina of a salmon trying to mate, work him over until she got it.
I was tired. I’d been up most of the night and had a full day still ahead. Roberta had called and told Peggy she wouldn’t be in. I looked at her calendar and didn’t see anything; no client appointment, no court date. Anyone is entitled to have a day off or be sick. An explanation would have been appreciated; I fought the pettiness, bitchiness that would not serve me. I had to ask Peggy to manage the office alone, and she complained that she was supposed to leave by three.