"I want to talk with her."
"You'll have to shout." Watson laughed, then thought better of it. "She's-uh-dead."
One of the cameramen came in from the kitchen. He looked at Jimmy, then turned to Watson. You okay, Felix? Your lip is bleeding."
"What is it?" hissed Watson.
"T-Bone's salami is swolled up awful. He wants a ride to the emergency room."
"T-Bone can wait," said Watson. "Go get Wayne and tell him to saddle up."
"Wayne don't like tunafish-"
"I don't care what Wayne don't like. Give him a couple Viagra and tell him to do it for the home team." Watson waited for the cameraman to walk away, then turned back to Jimmy. "The night Heather was murdered, the same night, April took a swan dive out the window of her office. Eight stories, straight onto the sidewalk. TV said it was suicide, but I packed my bags and hit the road, Jack."
"Who were you afraid of? Walsh had already been arrested."
Watson felt at the gash over his eyebrow with a forefinger.
Jimmy sat beside him on the couch. "It wasn't April's idea to send Heather to the beach house. It was someone else's. That's who you were afraid of."
Watson nodded. "I saw Heather's face on the nightly news, and I knew it was a disaster. Then when I read about April the next day… Suicide? I knew her better than that. Whoever paid for Heather wanted to make sure it didn't come back on him. Tossing April onto her face was a smart move." He looked at his pure white Keds. "I should have kept going. My problem is I really like L.A. The sun and-"
"Who paid for Heather?"
"How should I know?"
Jimmy grabbed the chain again, the gold links cutting into Watson's soft neck as he tried to pull away.
"You think April was going to tell me?" groaned Watson. "We were strictly cash and carry. She had a legitimate agency, teenage talent mostly, actors and singers nobody ever heard of-"
Jimmy cut him off with a light tug, watching his eyes. Out on the front porch, he could hear Wayne arguing with the cameraman. "As soon as you saw Heather's face on TV, you knew it was a disaster. What was supposed to happen that night?"
Watson fidgeted. "Most of the girls I sent to April were strictly fun and games. A few promises, maybe a shopping spree at the Galleria or a trip to SeaWorld, and everyone has nice memories afterward. I have a good eye. April respected that. No one ever got hurt."
"Heather got hurt."
Watson didn't know what to do with his hands. "Heather was different." He peered up at Jimmy. "What are you picking on me for? Walsh is the one who killed her, not me."
Wayne and the cameraman came inside, then headed out to the pool.
"Good luck, dude!" called Rollo.
Jimmy gave Watson's necklace another tug. "Did April ever brag about her contacts in the movies?"
"All the time, but it was just talk. April always had some excuse why her kids lost out on the big part." Watson blinked "Could you please let me go? I've already got whiplash from an auto accident last month. My chiropractor says I have nerve damage."
Jimmy released him. "Did she name names?"
Watson rubbed his neck. "What names?"
"Did April ever talk about knowing Mick Packard?"
"Packard?" Watson shook his head. "Is he still alive?"
Jimmy could see that he was telling the truth. "What did you mean before, 'Heather was different'?"
Watson leaned forward, proud to share now. "There's wolves and lions and then there's the cute and cuddly animals that get ripped to pieces. Most of April's private clients were vanilla-they preferred cute and cuddly. You know, cheerleader outfits, Little Bo Peep."
Jimmy held his temper. "I've seen Heather's photo. She was no victim."
Watson nodded. "You got a good eye yourself. The malls are filled with cute and cuddly, but Heather was a special order. April wanted young but able to pass for legal. Someone experienced and smart, someone who wouldn't melt under pressure."
"You believe this guy, Jimmy?" said Rollo. "He's pimping out little kids, but he acts like it's somebody ordering a laptop with extra RAM and a CD burner. What's wrong with you, man? I'm no Boy Scout, but you-I've stepped in fresh dogshit I liked more than you."
"I'm a professional, and I was good at my job," protested Watson. "That's why April worked with me. It took me almost a month to find Heather. I must have hit every two-bit beauty contest and charm school in a hundred miles." He cracked his knuckles one at a time, wriggling his stubby freckled fingers. "Heather was worth it. Got fifteen hundred dollars for her, triple my usual rate." He shook his head. "Should have asked for more. I was too easygoing back then."
Jimmy stood up. If he didn't leave now, he was going to break the man's jaw.
Watson got up from the couch, grunting with the effort. "I got to get back to work myself. Wayne's Viagra should be kicking in soon, and I want to block out some cutaways." He spit onto the carpet. "Glad I could be of help. Just so you know, I don't mess with that chicken-hawk thing anymore. I've got a career now."
Almost at the front door, Jimmy turned around. "April must have had a secretary."
Watson snickered. "If that's what you want to call her."
"What was her name?"
"Stephanie something. I don't know her last name. She was a cow. April only kept her around to make herself look good."
"Describe her."
"What do you care about her for?" Watson shrugged. "Mid-twenties, fat ankles, lousy hair. Like I said, she was a cow."
"Was Stephanie involved in the business-the special assignments?"
"Stephanie was too stupid to do anything more than answer the phone and refill the candy dish on her desk with jellybeans and M amp;M's. Diet Pepsi and candy, and she wondered why she was fat." Watson followed them out the door, scuffing along in his tennis shoes, boneless as a tapeworm. "I was wondering-how did you find me?"
Jimmy kept walking.
"You have to tell me," said Willard, voice cracking. "You have to play fair!"
Chapter 34
In Jimmy's dream there was thunder, a pounding on heaven's gate, growing louder and more insistent… he woke up in darkness and heard someone knocking on his front door. He checked the clock, then eased out of bed and pulled on a pair of shorts. Before checking the peephole, he picked up the baseball bat he kept beside the door.
Sugar Brimley waved back at him.
Jimmy set the bat against the wall again, unlocked the dead bolt, and opened the door. "My building better be on fire, Brimley."
Brimley held up a red plastic cooler like it was the holy grail. "I come bearing gifts."
Jimmy stepped back as Brimley edged past him. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the retired cop, a combination of salt, sweat, fish, and beer.
"I don't know why you're so grumpy. It's Wednesday morning, not the weekend. You should be up anyway. What's the fun of being retired unless you working stiffs got your shoulders to the wheel?"
Jimmy yawned.
Brimley set the cooler down on the kitchen floor, then bent down beside it. His light blue trousers were soaked, stained dark with fish guts, the fabric glistening with iridescent scales, a sheath knife on his belt. His hooded blue sweatshirt was equally grimy, the neck torn. He dug into the cooler and scattered crushed ice across the floor as he pulled out a couple of yellow-striped fish, holding them up by their tails. "This one's about five pounds," he said, jiggling it, "and this little beauty is over seven."
"Congratulations."
"See how clear their eyes are? Hooked not more than a couple hours ago, one right after the other, just when I was about to give up and go home. No gaff. Netted. Just plucked from the sea, not a mark or a bruise on them. Look at them, Jimmy. Yellowjack is the best eating on earth."