Paige ran in the evening along the well-lit clay path down by the river, smelling the damp, mist-wet ground, pushing herself harder and faster, trying to develop enough clarity to begin to chart the next act of her life. She was trying to view herself not as a victim, but as a work in progress.
One thing was damned sure. Chandler wasn't coming back. He was part of her past. If Paige intended to go on, she needed to establish some goals and pick up a more positive attitude.
It was November, on a Friday, almost seven months to the day since Chandler had died, and Paige was about four miles into her run, when she finally decided that she had to get out of Charlotte. Everywhere she looked there were painful memories. The restaurant where she and Chandler had gone to celebrate after they'd bought the house; the movie theater where they'd held hands and talked afterward about having a baby; the parks where they'd walked and shared their feelings. Even the dry cleaner that kept losing his favorite shirt. There were also her friends who still treated her like a broken thing. The constant reminders of what she'd lost were everywhere, and when she saw them, they would drive her to the ground, where she would curl around her grief like a wounded animal.
She knew she had to leave. But where should she go? Where could she start her new life? Paige hadn't gotten to that part yet.
But her runs allowed her to stop marinating in Chandler's death, and if only for an hour, she was finally focusing on the future. She knew she would never find anybody to replace Chan, but she had to get on with life, had to reclaim what was left of Paige Ellis.
So, on that Friday, she finally made the decision to leave. It was an important first step.
When Paige returned from her run, she saw Bob Butler's car parked under a streetlight in front of her house. She slowed her pace as soon as she saw the gray Crown Victoria with her sad detective slumped in the front seat, waiting.
Right after Chandler died, she had looked forward to Bob's visits. They had pushed her out of the early stages of grief and forced her to contemplate the future, even though that future only encompassed the gristly act of vengeance.
Bob and Paige had pledged to catch the bastard. But lately, as her mind steadied and her emotions stabilized, she was beginning to have second thoughts.
Bob Butler had shown her how lack of closure could poison you. Bob was living proof of what could happen if you let yourself wallow in grief. She could still see the remnants of who he had once been, but his emotions had calcified. He was lost inside his Bible. There were fewer and fewer things that entertained or interested him. Where once there had been a lively enthusiast, she now only saw the skeletal fragments of what she thought was his former self. Paige was determined not to let that happen to her.
Worse still, despite his monumental, even heroic effort to find Chandler's killer, it was clear that Robert Butler was getting nowhere. This quest was all tied up in his emotions about his dead wife. This manhunt was something they were doing more for him now than for her. She could almost chart his failure in the stoop of his shoulders and the lower angle of his chin.
With no new breaks in the case to report, they often ended up giving their weekly meetings more weight by lapsing into long psychological discussions about loss and death. It was a subject where Paige still had no sense of proportion. They were both just venting.
She slowed and stopped a few hundred yards behind the gray sedan, and for an instant, had an urge to take off and ditch him. Catching Chandler's killer was no longer the sole answer for her. Vengeance had become a destructive emotion that kept her wallowing in despair.
But for the moment, they were still mired in it, so she jogged up to his car, stuck her head in the open passenger window.
"What's up, stranger?" she said, through a smile she didn't feel. "I think I'm finally getting somewhere," he said. "Get in and listen to what I just found out."
Chapter 22
I'D BEEN SITTING IN THAT DAMN CLUB CHAIR FOR almost an hour when I finally heard Mickey D pull my Porsche into the garage. I heard them talking and laughing, then heard Mickey walking down the drive. He's short and wears Cuban heels, so when he walks his shoes clack; it's easy to hear him coming and going. His car is a piece-of-shit Camry, and to keep up appearances, Evelyn makes him park it just around the corner. Subtle as the Gay Pride Parade, these two.
Then Evelyn entered the house. I saw her walk down the hall to get her car keys out of the dish in the kitchen. She looked in the den and saw me pounding down scotch shooters, slumped in my chair, but she didn't bother to acknowledge my presence. She walked right past. But that's okay, Evelyn, 'cause you're about to get your wheels cleaned.
Evelyn passed the doorway again, heading out. This time she didn't bother to look in at all. I heard her unlatch the back door and walk into the garage. She started the gold Mercedes and pulled out.
I rocketed up out of my chair, and still clutching the bottle of scotch, I grabbed my gloves, my pre-packed backpack of fresh clothes, and a box containing the now-loaded.45. Then I followed her into the garage. I waited until she'd cleared the drive, then climbed into the Porsche and checked to make sure the lovers hadn't left the gas tank on E. Then I followed her.
My hands were shaking as I drove. I don't know if it was from anticipation, excitement, or fear. It took us about forty minutes, with the traffic, to get to her hair salon in the Valley.
I knew once I stepped out of the Porsche and started to do this, there would be no turning back. I couldn't approach her wearing a ball cap, dark glasses, and a plastic raincoat, aim a.45 at her through the window of the Mercedes, then get cold feet and say, "Sorry, just kidding." This would have to be, as they say in show biz, a one-take master.
It was about four-fifteen when she pulled in and parked behind Salono Bello. The hair salon is located in a strip mall on the north end of Van Nuys Boulevard. The guy who does her hair is a narrow-hipped sword dancer with a hair transplant. His name is Mr. Eddy-not Eddie, not Ed-Mr. Eddy. I love this shit.
I parked a block away in an alley and walked up the street to a spot where I could see her getting out of her car. I couldn't do the deed right then because, at that exact moment, some Mexican delivery guy was all involved in unloading boxes from his rusting van.
I found a spot up the street where I was out of sight but could see the parking lot and Evelyn's car. I opened the backpack and put on my leather gloves, then pulled the baseball cap low. I opened the bag and took out the plastic raincoat. The clothes I was wearing were old, and even though I had the raincoat, I was planning on dumping everything after the shooting to defeat paraffin tests and blood splatter evidence.
Then I settled down out of sight in some heavy bushes and watched the back of the hair salon. Salono Bello was a little too far out on Van Nuys Boulevard for its upscale clientele. Liquor stores and rundown apartment complexes were closing in on the strip mall, surrounding it like graffiti-painted savages.
Mr. Eddy had told Evelyn he was giving up his lease and moving to a shop on Lankershim. I was glad he hadn't gotten around to it yet. This area was a perfect setting for a carjack murder. The politically correct way to describe the block would be to say it was "mixed." A better description would be to say it was being totally overrun by ethnic assholes.
I continued to watch the parking lot behind the hair salon. It was late in the afternoon and there were only three or four cars there. The sun sets early in November. My guess was around five o'clock. I figured that since Evelyn was getting her two-month dye-job, she wouldn't be out until after dark-around six. The parking lot should be empty by then. I kept telling myself, Relax, Chick, this will work out fine.