Sabrina turned and fixed him with a stare. An effective KEEP OUT sign. Chase knew better than to ignore it. He stepped back, literally and figuratively. “No girlfriends or boyfriends, as far as I can tell at this point,” he said. “No porn and no bad associates-now or back when. No kids out of wedlock and no early busts for anything. I was wondering whether you had any ideas…?”
Chase was a great wingman with great tech skills-though she was no slouch herself, both by training and by instinct. But the creative thinking was largely up to her. Unlike Chase, who loved only the money, Sabrina derived an erotic thrill out of gathering the information that would empower her to shatter a life forever. For her, the money was secondary. Though she admitted it was a close second. She leaned back in her chair and lightly drummed the armrests with her fingers.
“My sense is that our CEO has no sexual Achilles’ heel. He’s not the kind of narcissistic power junkie you get with politicians. But from what I saw, he made a lot of money in a relatively short time. Look into whether he got a little too ‘lucky’ with his investments.”
Chase nodded. Her instinct for the jugular was so unerring that it was almost bizarre. He stood to go.
“You can crash here when you’re ready to pack it in,” she said. Sabrina knew he never slept as well in his own bed as he did in her office.
“You staying?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll probably head home after I’m done, but thanks.” Chase left with a mock salute.
Sabrina turned back to the computer and clicked to reopen the window she’d been scanning earlier, but she’d lost focus. She closed the window and shut down. Neither she nor Chase knew how to sleep. For her part, she realized it’d started in very early childhood, with the fear of what she’d find when she woke up. What would she do wrong today? And what would be the instrument of choice-a broom? a shoe? a wire hanger? The latter was the worst. The wire raised ugly red welts, forcing her to wear long pants during the sweltering summer to hide the shame. And there was no one to appeal to. Her father saw none of it and didn’t want to know. He wanted only a playmate in his little daughter-a refuge away from the wife he’d married but never knew, and whom he now both loathed and feared.
So, in a way, going off to boarding school at the ripe old age of ten had been a relief. Or so she’d told herself at the time. Because it was obvious even to Sabrina that she was heading down a road that could only end in disaster. In the year before she was shipped away, she’d been busted for an ever-escalating series of misdeeds-from fights on the playground to shoplifting, and finally to arson. Her egg donor of a mother had gleefully agreed with the counselors that the change of scenery and enhanced discipline of boarding school would help to straighten her out. And so she’d been thrown away, a broken doll no one wanted to play with. Boarding school hadn’t been all bad, once she’d adjusted to the new order of things. But by the time she moved back home, in her sophomore year of high school, she was a “new girl”-a stranger in her own hometown. Tough as that was, after a few months, things seemed to be falling into place, she’d begun to feel like her life was getting back on track.
Until that one night. That night everything had changed.
32
I looked out through my balcony window, the steam from my coffee flowing up against the cold glass, creating a foggy circle that dripped watery tears. Outside, low-hanging storm clouds had gathered and were darkening even as I watched.
This morning, we were going to meet Simon’s parents. It was as if the weather knew.
Not that I needed to be reminded of the sadness and pain they were feeling. In fact, I’d been thinking of nothing else since I woke up, and I’d been dragging from that moment on. I finished the last of my coffee and went to my closet. I scanned the rack for a warm but respectful outfit and landed on a dark-gray wool suit and cream-colored turtleneck sweater.
The Bayers lived in Burbank, a nice middle-class neighborhood. My.22 Beretta was probably enough for the burbs. I popped it into the pocket of my trench coat, where it sagged noticeably, but since, at Bailey’s insistence, I’d finally gotten a license, I didn’t have to worry about getting busted for carrying anymore. Not that the possibility of arrest had ever stopped me.
I had to force myself to leave my room, and as I headed for the elevator, I felt as though I were walking underwater. When I got to the lobby, I found Bailey at the front door, talking to Angel. One glance told me she was looking forward to this about as much as I was.
I patted Angel on the arm and told him to have a good day, and we both got into the car.
“Did you make the notification to the parents?” I asked.
“I did,” Bailey said, swinging out onto Grand Avenue and steering toward the freeway. “But I didn’t get into any real conversation with them at the time. Figured it could wait, since Simon hadn’t been living with them for a while.”
Smart. Usually you’d get the information first and notify afterward, because once you tell victims’ families why you’re there, no one’s in any kind of shape to answer questions. But in this case, the parents hadn’t witnessed the crime-all they could give us was background information, so we could afford to allow them time to absorb the shock and talk later.
We got lucky and made it to Burbank before the rain started, but only just. Fat, heavy drops slowly began to fall as we pulled up to the Bayer house, a beige variation on the theme of small stucco houses in the tidy middle-class neighborhood.
I hadn’t noticed how close to the curb Bailey’d parked, so as I got out, I failed to notice that the mailbox was in my way. Off balance, I grabbed on to the nearest thing to break my impending fall-which turned out to be a painted metal rooster attached to the top of the mailbox. I didn’t see that the rooster was on a hinge; it was meant to be pulled up to signal the postman that mail was ready for pickup. So, of course, when I took hold of the head, it immediately bent forward, and I tumbled backward off the curb.
Fortunately Bailey’s car was right behind me, so I landed against the passenger door. Unfortunately Bailey saw the whole thing. I looked up to see her watching me, shaking her head.
“I meant to do that,” I said, and righted myself with as much dignity as possible. “Thought I’d lighten the mood.”
“It worked,” Bailey said with mock sincerity.
As we crossed the sidewalk, a youngish woman wearing army-green cargo pants and a man’s puffy nylon jacket, who seemed to be in the process of rolling out her garbage cans, stopped and gave me a sympathetic look. “That thing did me in once too,” she said, nodding at the treacherous metal rooster.
I appreciated the show of support and gave her a rueful smile.
“’Course I was five at the time,” she added.
Seriously, she couldn’t just stop while I was ahead?
Bailey covered a snort of laughter with a fake cough.
“You guys cops?” she asked, glancing from Bailey’s car to us.
I nodded. Close enough. I didn’t need to hammer home the fact that the doofus who’d just been nailed by the metal rooster had a law degree.
“You here about Zack?” she asked.
Something about the way she said his name made me pause. “You knew him?”
She settled the garbage can on the curb and brushed off her hands. “Grew up with him.” She gestured toward the small house behind her. “That’s my parents’ place. I’m helping ’em get it ready to sell. They can’t really manage it anymore. You know…” She trailed off.
I did know. It’s painful to see your parents get older, though aging is preferable to the alternative. “Were you and Zack close?” I asked.