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  We ate in silence except for the sounds of silverware clinking on china plates.

  “It’s delicious.” It was. The best breakfast I’d had in years. Filling and tasty. Not in that order.

  “Thank you.” It was just something for her to say. I’m sure she meant it, but her mind was in another place. I cleared the table, rinsed the dishes, put them in the dishwasher. Soft sobbing came from the next room. When it subsided, I went in.

  “I’ll pack everything up now and leave in a few minutes.”

  “You don’t have to.” Her eyes said otherwise. She appreciated what I was doing in trying to find her daughter’s killer. Of course, she didn’t know the whole truth and nothing but. She also would be just as glad to have me out of there and get her son back, if it wasn’t too late. Not because of me, but because of where life had taken him.

  I wondered about Warren. Where was he coming from? Why all the anger directed at me? Just a symbol of the white man? Or was there more? I hoped to see him on my way out.

  Didn’t take long to pack up. I took several of Teddie’s letters, put everything else back the way I’d found them. Packed up Pilar’s letters and took those. Mrs. Matson walked me out to my rental car.

  “I won’t come back. I held up a handful of Teddie’s letters. I’ll either mail them back or send them with Rita.”

  Her eyes smiled. “I thought you and Rita might be seeing each other. She didn’t say. But I figured—”

  I was almost ready to ask her permission. What was the point? Rita could make her own decisions. So could I.

  “I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused.”

  “Isn’t you. He’s been goin’ bad for a long time. Nothin’ I can do about it.” She put her arms around me. “If I don’t see you again, I thank you from my heart for what you’re doing trying to find my daughter’s killer.”

  What could I say? Guilt stabbed at my gut. I felt nauseous. Hoped I could hold breakfast down. As I drove out toward the main drag, I scanned for Warren. No sign. I pulled into an alley and vomited my guts out. It wasn’t breakfast. It was my life.

  I didn’t know what the Weasel had wanted the info for. Didn’t even know who Teddie Matson was when he’d come to me. What was I to do? But I was also stupid. Hadn’t even made the Weasel fill out the standard contract forms ’cause it seemed like such an easy cash case—no forms, no IRS report, the better to pay the mortgage or the plumber with.

  My dad was right. I was a fuckup. Never took things seriously. I was paying for it now. I wasn’t the only one. That was the killer.

  Pockets of rioting flared and exploded on the way home. It wasn’t confined to South Central as the Watts riots of ’65 had been. These fires engulfed large parts of the city. Ugly. Very ugly.

  I waited in a long line of cars at one of the few open gas stations for a fill up. The radio blared riot news. Everyone was blaming everyone else. Mayor Bradley blamed Police Chief Gates, who blamed Bradley. The city council blamed both of them. No one took responsibility.

  I was glad to pull into my driveway. Something was wrong. I could sense it. Baron’s familiar greeting wasn’t there. I threw it in park; jumped out before it stopped moving.

  The backyard gate was locked from the inside. I jumped it. No time for the latch. No Baron. No barking. No nothing.

  Heart beating double time.

  The Firestar in hand.

  Safety off.

  Why am I acting this way?

  Paranoid?

  Crazy?

  Check Baron’s favorite spots.

  Behind the garage.

  Nothing.

  Run on the other side of the house.

  Nothing.

  Smell something funny.

  Burnt almonds.

  Silence.

  Deafening, deadening silence.

  Check the trashcans.

  There, behind the cans.

  A paw.

  Bloody.

  Jesus!

  Baron.

  Dead.

  Mangled.

  Slit across the throat.

  Ice cream.

  Smells like burnt almonds.

  Cyanide.

  Must’ve been one hell of a lot to smell up the yard.

  Melted ice cream on Baron’s jaw.

  Cyanide laced ice cream.

  Blood on his paws.

  His?

  His killer’s?

  Goddamn it.

  Goddamn you God.

  Do you exist?

  Are you the Devil?

  Evil?

  Why?

  Damn.

  Damn.

  Damn.

  A note stuck into Baron’s hide with a nail.

  “‘Let sleeping dogs lie—who wants to rouse ’em?’—David Copperfield/Charles Dickens.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Checked out the garage first. No sign of the killer. I covered Baron with a tarp from the garage. Gun in hand, I went in the back door. Service porch—nothing. Kitchen. No sign he’d been there. Breakfast room, living room, den, bedrooms. Nothing. Bathrooms. Nada. Didn’t look like he’d come into the house. I was glad of that.

  He was toying with me. Teasing me. The question was, who was he? Was it a he? Craylock—I wouldn’t put it past him. Besides, the Weasel wouldn’t know the Dickens quote. Or would he? I’d underestimated him once. Shouldn’t do it again.

  House secure, I went to talk with the neighbors.

  “Didn’t see a thing,” Mrs. Fraley said. “I wouldn’t even be home if not for the troubles.” If Mrs. Fraley didn’t see anything, I doubted any of the other neighbors would have. She knew everything about everyone in the neighborhood. Probably knew I was shacking up with Rita. It was there in her eyes, if not on her tongue. Even when she wasn’t home she had antennae out that gave her the lowdown on everyone’s lives. Hers was the first house north of mine. After checking with her, I went to the Timmerman’s on the south. They hadn’t seen or heard anything either. Neither had anyone else.

  Three-fourths of the neighborhood were home due to the riots and no one had seen or heard a thing. Maybe it was the Invisible Man.

  I picked up the ice cream container with a Kleenex, only touching one small part of the rim and slipped it into a plastic bag. I put it in the outside freezer, careful how I opened the door so all the bottles I was saving on top of it wouldn’t topple. Grabbed a shovel from the garage and dug a hole behind it for Baron. Wrapped in the tarp, I laid him in the hole and stood over it for a few moments of silence. My eyes teared—something that didn’t happen often. I loved that dog and he loved me, in a way no person ever had. I didn’t know if anyone ever would. Now I had two missions: find Teddie’s killer, and find Baron’s.

  Burying him in the yard probably wasn’t legal. But I knew the response I’d get from any city authorities—can’t come out. The riots. I tried a couple of vets’ offices. Closed. The riots. What else could I do? I wasn’t about to let him rot behind the garage until sanity returned.

  I went back in the house, grabbed the gin-laced lemonade from the fridge. I needed a drink and it was the handiest thing. I picked up the phone. Dialed. It rang and rang. I was just about to hang up when someone answered.

  “Lab.”

  “Yeah, hello,” I said, polishing off a lacey lemonade. “Is Mary Kopeck there?”

  “Not in today.”

  “Is she home?”

  “She’s out in the field.”

  “Today?” I didn’t mean to sound surprised. It just came out that way.

  “She’s dedicated.”

  “Can you tell me where she is? I need to talk to her.”

  “Who is this? Is this official business?”

  “It’s Duke Rogers, I’m a—”

  “Duke Rogers, yeah, I remember her talking about you. I guess it’d be okay. You know that last major turn before Coldwater turns down into the valley?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s a little arroyo on the west side of Coldwater. That’s
where she is.”

  “Thanks, I know the place.”

  Grabbed my keys, headed for the door. Near it, on the floor, was a chewed green tennis ball. Baron’s favorite chew toy. I was about to pass it by, head out the door. Instead, I bent down. Picked it up. It was still moist from his chewing. I didn’t throw it out. Set it on the hall table. I hadn’t cried since I was eleven years old—since I stopped collecting butterflies. I bent my head and sobbed for the second time in an hour.

  Traffic was light. Not a lot of people venturing out. It took me about twenty minutes to get there. Cars were parked up and down Coldwater where cars didn’t normally park. People sifted dirt in screened boxes. Others scooped at it with spoons or soft brushes. A uniformed cop stopped me.

  “Are you part of the forensic team?”

  “I’m here to see Mary Kopeck.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.” He looked nervous. Itchy. Hoping for some action. Hey, the action was somewhere else today. I was the only one he’d get to have fun with. Before I could respond, Mary saw me. Saw my distress. She let me wriggle a moment longer, then came over, half-eaten sandwich in hand.

  “It’s okay, officer. He’s got big feet, but I don’t think he’ll mess anything up.” Mary’s face was covered with soot and grime, the badge of her profession. Her long brown hair was pulled into a bun on top of her head, a couple wisps dangling on each side, and buried in a funny looking green Robin Hood hat.

  “Very funny,” I said, as she led me to the site she was working.

  “Wood rats built a nest out of twigs, leaves and bits of human bone.” She took a bite of her sandwich. Crunched it gleefully. “Looks like the bums, er, excuse me, the homeless individuals that lived here had dinner one night—feasting on one of their own.” She dug dirt from her fingernails. They were medium length, black top and bottom. Almost looked in fashion. When I’d first met her I asked her why she didn’t keep her nails shorter. “Got to be able to pick up those bone fragments,” she had said.

  She showed me the charred bones and badly decomposed body of a man, flesh ripped from his arms and thighs. She turned him over for me to get a better view.

  “They would have felt at home with the Donner Party.”

  “Passionate society we’re living in. Legacy of the sixties,” she said, taking another bite of her sandwich. “No one’s responsible for anything. There are no moral laws. Everything’s relative.”

  She must have seen the look in my eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I get on my soapbox every once in a while. I see too much.” She sat down, so did I. She offered me a sandwich out of a cooler.

  “No thanks. How can you eat with him staring up at you?”

  “You get used to it. Hell, I don’t even wash my hands.”

  I supposed if I’d had to I could do it too. But I wasn’t out in the bush. Didn’t need to. And I wasn’t that hungry.

  “What brings you out here, Duke? Slumming?”

  “Someone killed my dog. Poisoned, I think.”

  “Baron. No. He was the greatest dog. He—”

  “I—”

  “I’m sorry. You must be in a lot of pain.”

  “Enough.”

  “Remember though that life goes on.”

  I winced.

  “I know it’s a corny cliché. But people talk in clichés. Keeps their lives normal.” She put the sandwich down, put her arm around me. “You want me to take a look at him.”

  “I buried him. There was ice cream on his mouth. A half-eaten container on the ground near him.”

  “You think that held the poison?”

  “What else? Wasn’t my brand of ice cream. I thought maybe you could come look at the container. I didn’t bring it with me. Thought it would melt and maybe change composition.” I handed her the piece of paper with the sleeping dogs message. She studied it.

  “Looks like it came off a laser printer. Probably a Panasonic—the kind a lot of libraries use. But it’s hard to tell here. Mind if I hang onto it.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “There’s also another couple notes maybe you can look at. Another case—I think.”

  “Sure, I can look ’em over.”

  I searched my pockets. Realized I didn’t bring Teddie’s and Pilar’s notes. “I don’t have them with me.” My heart started thudding harder. I could feel the blood rush through my veins. In my eagerness to get to Mary I hadn’t thought to bring the evidence. I’d fucked up again.

  “I can drop by after I’m done here, look at the ice cream and the notes. Sometime this evening.”

  I took the garage key off my ring. “If I’m not home, the container’s in the outside freezer. In the garage.”

  “Where’ll you be, out bracing the bad guy no doubt.”

  “No doubt. Except I don’t know who the bad guy is.”

  I thanked her and started heading back to the road.

  “I’m sorry, Duke, really sorry,” her voice trailed off after me.

  Craylock’s black Beamer wasn’t in the driveway. I pulled around the corner. Walked back to his house and nonchalantly down the driveway, past a security company’s sign. Alarm system. My Navy training would help here. I’d brought a set of tools from the car. It was easy to jimmy the lock on the alarm box. The system looked pretty rudimentary. As long as it wasn’t a pulse system that would send a signal to the alarm company if the phone line was cut it wouldn’t be a problem. It didn’t appear to be that kind. He didn’t want to spring for the cost. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I played with wires. Snip-snip. A done deal.

  Getting inside was a cinch. I had the seen the kitchen before. Nothing new to report. Made my way through the house. Quiet. I could hear my own breathing. The blood rushing in my ears.

  The living room was a sight. Photos of Laurie everywhere. Huge blowups. Some framed. Some poster sized, unframed. Laurie walking down the aisle of a market. Laurie getting into her car in the morning. Laurie sunbathing in her backyard.

  Boxes of negligees from Neiman Marcus. Dresses from Robinson’s. His and Hers T-shirts: Gary Loves Laurie. Laurie Loves Gary. Future gifts.

  Laurie.

  Laurie.

  Laurie.

  A shrine to Laurie Hoffman.

  A frilly quill pen sat in a holder on a blotter on an antique desk in the corner. On phony parchment paper, he’d written, calligraphy-style, the lyrics to Got to Get You into My Life, an old Beatles love song. He was in love all right. Also crazy.

  Looking at his paean to Laurie made me sick. Angry. I hoped he wouldn’t come home now. I didn’t know what I’d do. I knew what I was capable of. I thought about turning him into the cops, but I knew they wouldn’t do anything—couldn’t, until Craylock made his move. And then it would be too late. It’s a great system we’ve got.

  I gently tossed the whole house, making sure to put everything back as I’d found it and keeping an ear out for a car pulling into the driveway. A thought dawned on me. I checked the freezer. No ice cream of any kind. Looked around the house for poisons. No cyanide. No insecticides that used the stuff. Didn’t mean anything. He could be clever enough to hide the stuff.

  One bathroom had been turned into a darkroom. Pictures of Laurie hung to dry. I pulled them down. Ripped them up. I didn’t care anymore about covering my trail. I tossed the darkroom harder than I had the rest of the house. Put a match to the negatives and let them burn down to my fingers. Then tossed them on the floor. Watching all that fire glazed my eyes. Fixed me in a trance. It was cathartic. After a few seconds I stomped the fire out, but I was tempted to let it burn the whole damn house down.

  The only camera I found was a Polaroid. He must have had his other camera with the telephoto lens with him. What did that mean? He was out shooting pictures of Laurie now? His true love. Thinking about it made me crazy. I wished he’d come home. Prayed for it.

  My prayers were answered. A car drove up. I couldn’t tell if it was in his driveway, next door or out on the street. When I heard the back d
oor open, I knew.

  Footsteps quickly padded through the house. He probably smelled smoke. I stepped behind the tub curtain in the darkroom-bathroom. The door popped open. A backhanded fist swung out from behind the curtain and busted him in the jaw. He dropped the small red fire extinguisher he’d brought to save his precious artworks. The blow jolted him back into the doorjamb. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t know what hit him.

  I jumped out of the tub, the shower curtain derailing around me. He tried swinging at me. It was hard for me to defend myself, wrapped in the curtain. His swings were weak. Ineffectual. He popped me in the jaw, a glancing hit. Hardly hurt. I came back at him, both fists flying. He didn’t put up much of a defense. Kept falling back. Out the door, into the hall. Against the wall. I pummeled his belly. He gasped for air. Doubled over. I didn’t stop. Grabbed his hair in my left hand, pulled him up. Kept pounding away. Blood trickled from his nose and the corners of his mouth.

  I broke contact. He was almost smiling. I socked him in the mouth. He stopped smiling. I let him fall to the floor. He curled up, fetal-like. Got to his knees and vomited on the lush hall carpet. When he was done he sat back against the hall wall, knees to his chest. He was white. His eyes weren’t focused. Hands were shaking. He was just how I wanted him: scared.

  “How ’bout some dessert?” I said, yanking him down the hall, into the kitchen. Opened the freezer door as he fell to his knees. His unfocused eyes looked at me, questioning as best they could.

  “What’s your favorite brand of ice cream?” I landed a kick on the side of his head. He fell over. Righted himself.

  “I-I don’t eat ice cream. Too much cholesterol. I eat yogurt.”

  “What brand?”

  “Dannielle’s Proprietary.”

  That wasn’t the brand of the ice cream. Not that it mattered anyway.

  “Y-you’re crazy.” His voice shook. Hands trembled. Fear radiated out of him. I pulled him up. Walked him to the living room, pushed him down on an uncomfortable looking chair.

  “You like pets?”

  He wrinkled his brow? What was this crazy man talking about now? I walked up and down his bookshelves, looking for Dickens. Or even Bartlett’s.