“So why’d she come back here after all these years?”
She studied Guy. He was arrogant and could often be irritating, but there was something likable about him as well. And he was very good at what he did. She could use his powers of observation and keen logic.
“My friend,” she said, “that is exactly what you and I are going to find out.”
Chrystaclass="underline" Before
Friday, October 6
12:21 P.M.
God, this place is spooky. And quiet. So quiet I can hear every car on the highway, the way they take the curve too fast, bump over the centerline. Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.
Okay, Jude’s instructions. Follow the driveway past the little shingled house, and—
There it is. Eric’s house. Only he didn’t spend much time there those last few months. His folks were always fighting, and Eric was always crying in the kid boxes. Lots of fighting going on back then. Devon Wynne and her boyfriend till he beat her up so bad and they threw him out and he went to live at Westhaven. And then Forrest beat up Bernhard before they threw him out. I remember crying that night because even though I was just a little kid I knew the good times were over and bad stuff was gonna happen. Sorta the way I’ve felt all the way up here, only there haven’t been any good times and the bad stuff that happened here was years and years ago.
Wish I hadn’t come, though. Wish I hadn’t got pissed off by Jude’s “you’ll never get away with it” talk and decided to show her.
So show her, Chryssie. Get a move on—
Oh my God! I don’t believe this.
One of them hawks sitting real still on the power line and the tree branches meeting over the driveway. I’ve drawn that! Over and over, with different angles and light, while I sat on the phone letting men fill my ears with garbage. Drawn it without knowing it was a real place.
Was I trying to remember?
Tuesday, October 10
The clatter of the small apartment’s air-conditioning unit competed with a siren on the street. Rho ignored both, transfixed by the wall of charcoal drawings in Chrystal Ackerman’s living room. They were all landscapes: some of the desert, others of the mountains, but the best were reminiscent of Soledad County. The one she focused on was of Cascada Canyon. She recognized the utility line where a long-tailed hawk perched and the avenue of trees that arched over the curving dirt track.
Behind her, Guy Newberry said. “What a waste.”
“She had talent, didn’t she?”
“With training and effort she might’ve been really good.”
Rho indicated the canyon scene. “Recognize this?”
“Of course.”
There had been a message at the substation that morning from Ronald Stevens, the Clark County detective, saying his court order had come through and he was free to enter Ackerman’s apartment. Did Rho want to be on hand for the search? She immediately asked Ned Grossman for permission to fly to Las Vegas, then called Guy and told him he’d be welcome to join her on the trip. It was irregular, she knew, to allow a civilian — let alone a journalist — to come along, but she suspected that Grossman would understand should he find out. Besides, Guy had offered to save the department money by paying for a rental car.
From the moment she spotted Las Vegas from the air, the visit had taken on a surreal quality for Rho. Mostly low and flat, it sprawled in the middle of the desert, golf courses and parks contrasting with the surrounding barren terrain. But what caught her attention were the buildings that reared up near its center like an overblown Disneyland: the fabled Strip, spiritual home to America’s dreams of instant wealth and all the things that luck would shower upon those it favored.
In the airport the electronic tones of slot machines were disorienting. At one of them a man pleaded with his wife to stop playing, as their plane had already boarded. “But I’m winning!” she protested. After he dragged her away Guy went over and dropped a coin into the machine, which refused to give up its bounty. He grinned at Rho and shrugged, clearly stimulated by the charged atmosphere.
It was early afternoon and the outside temperature was in the eighties. Rho’s sweater felt prickly against her skin. The air was clear, the sunlight pale, as if both had been refined for the pleasure of visitors. Even the rental car was faintly perfumed — a scent that made Rho roll down her window, even though Guy had put on the air conditioner.
Ackerman’s street, Paradise Road, extended north from the airport, past the University of Nevada Las Vegas campus. Her building resembled an old motel and stood defiantly between two more imposing and luxurious structures. Stevens, a tall black man with horn-rimmed glasses and an obvious toupee, was already there with a locksmith. Within minutes they were inside. The apartment was a basic furnished unit with beige walls, worn dark brown carpeting, and cheap appointments. Its postage-stamp balcony faced a parking lot and the next building. Its only distinction was the wall of artwork.
Now Rho heard Stevens rummaging in the drawer of a small table next to the sofa. “No cards, no letters, no address book,” he said. “Your victim must’ve been one lonely lady.”
She turned away from the wall and went to the kitchen. The cabinets contained cheap glassware and dishes; there were few utensils, fewer pots and pans. Bags and boxes from fast-food outlets were crammed into a trash can under the sink, and the fridge held nothing but jug wine, a tub of margarine, two containers of yogurt, and three apples. A loaf of bread in a basket on the counter had grown mold.
There were two bedrooms, one of them empty, the other in chaos. Unmade queen-size bed, clothing heaped on the floor and hanging over a chair, empty wineglass and coffee cup on one nightstand. The closet was full of clothing ranging from basic jeans and tees to skimpy sundresses.
As Rho was checking the bathroom Guy came in, holding an ashtray. “Marijuana roaches,” he said.
“Doesn’t surprise me. There were roaches in the Mercedes too.” She closed the door of the medicine chest, lifted the lid of the toilet tank and saw nothing concealed there. “All in all I’d say Ackerman led a pretty solitary life. She mainly ate takeout, drank cheap wine, and smoked dope. Judging from her clothing, I doubt she got dressed up and went out on the town. She slept alone, at least at home — no condoms here and that other nightstand’s got enough dust on it to prove nobody’s set anything there in months.”
“So she just sat in this apartment and took phone calls and drew pictures.”
“Except for when she was turning tricks for clients like Sean Bartlow.” She went back to the living room to look for the phone. Stevens indicated two instruments, one white and one beige, at either end of the sofa. The white phone had an answering machine hooked up to it.
“Must be her personal line,” he said. “She’s got nine messages.”
Rho went over and hit the play button.
“Chrys,” a voice that she recognized as Sean Bartlow’s said, “some cop in Soledad County, California, just called me. She said you abandoned my car on the coast highway. What the hell happened? Call me.”
“Chrys.” Bartlow again. “Come on. I know you always check for messages. I need to talk with you.”
“Ms. Ackerman, this is Cerini Jewelers. Your watch is ready.”
A dial tone.
“Chrys, this isn’t funny! I’ve got to do something about my car, but that cop knows the plates I put on it are stolen, and she said something about a felony. I’m afraid to call her back till I talk with you.”
“This is Hillcrest Dental, calling for Chrystal. You’re due for a cleaning. Please call to schedule.”