Blood Defense

FORTY-THREE

When I got back to my car, I sat there for a few minutes. I needed time to recover. I couldn’t stop seeing the image of him pounding that phone receiver on the counter with wild-eyed fury. As much as I feared what it meant, I loved that fury. It was my fury, and I’d carried it by myself for so many years. And now, finally, there was someone else who felt it, too, someone who knew I told the truth, who believed me. I felt vindicated. I felt strong.

But I knew that was the face of a man who could stab two innocent women to death. As much as I wanted to believe he was innocent, the evidence kept stacking up against him.

After a few minutes, my head cleared enough to drive. Ordinarily, I hate the drive from downtown. It’s long and monotonous. But now, the boring normality of it brought me back down to earth. Freeway therapy. By the time I passed the Hollywood exits a half hour later, I was feeling pretty steady. But I knew I couldn’t talk about what’d just happened. I’d regained my balance, but only just. If I had to relive any part of it now, it’d totally derail me. So I did what I’d always done since childhood: I shut it all out. I spent the rest of the ride back thinking about what else I had to get done before the trial started.

When I got back to the office, Michelle smiled and held up a hand for a high five.

“You know I hate high fives, Michy.” Because when I miss, it feels so lame.

“Oh, cope.” We slapped hands and I managed to hit hers pretty squarely.

“What are we celebrating?” Other than the fact that I’d nailed the high five.

“Russell Kitson will talk to you if you get out there right now. He’s in the Valley.” Michelle handed me a Post-it with the address.

“Hey, Alex,” I called.

He came out of his little room. “You don’t have to shout. I’m only nine feet away.”

“Let’s go hit up the photographer.” He went back to his office to pack up. “Did anyone come by with that phone?”

“Not yet. But it’s only three thirty.”

I decided I’d asked enough of Beulah for one day and let Alex do the driving. As he headed up the onramp to the freeway, the sky was a dull gray. But as we moved north and east, the sun broke through, and by the time we made it to the San Fernando Valley, the sky was almost completely blue. Just a few wispy clouds floated above us.

Alex got off the freeway at Winnetka and headed north for another five miles. He made a series of turns into a bland, suburban neighborhood and finally pulled up in front of a two-story Tudor-style house set at the top of a steep driveway. As we hiked up to the front door, I noticed that the large picture window was covered with a heavy blackout drape.

When a young woman in heavy makeup, a kimono short enough to wear to the gynecologist, and stiletto heels answered Alex’s knock, I knew what kind of photographer-or, rather, videographer-Russell was. The girl ushered us in and pointed to a man sprawled on the couch near the front door. He stood up when we walked in. Russell was at least six foot four and thin as a Flexi straw, with long, greasy black hair. A nose ring with a real-looking diamond rested on his left nostril, and several chains with a variety of medallions hung around his neck, which was covered in multicolored tats. When we shook hands, I noticed he wore leather bracelets and heavy silver rings on every finger. The word overkill probably never came out of his mouth.

We followed him past the set-a dungeon that featured a rack suspended from the ceiling, a chair equipped with leather straps, the requisite four-poster bed-with handcuffs, of course-and I even spotted a red rubber ball on the pillow. A man in an executioner’s costume-leather head covering and all-sat in a rocking chair next to the bed, scrolling on his cell phone. Two women in G-strings and nothing else watched a cooking show on the television a few feet away. Just another day in a sleepy bedroom town.

As we took seats in the dining room, I saw Russell check me out. There was nothing lascivious about it. He was just scoping out the inventory. He offered us a drink, but I declined. I didn’t even want to risk bottled water here. Russell looked more than a little stoned, with eyes at half-mast and a voice that sounded like a tired lawn mower.

I thanked him for meeting with us and jumped right in. “How’d you meet Paige? I assume you knew her before you met Marc.”

“Yeah. I’ve known Paige for about five years. Back then I only did print ads, online ads, that sort of thing.”

“She never did porn?”

“No. I tried to bring her over. It’s good money. But she wasn’t into it.” He pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his vest pocket and held it out to us. We shook our heads. He lit up and took a deep drag. I could practically hear his lungs screaming.

I was hoping he could give us a line on who Mr. Perfect was, so I asked if he knew of any boyfriends who were married-and generous.

He shook his head. “Uh-uh, Paige didn’t do the married-man thing. At least not that I ever knew. Only guy I ever saw her with was a guy in the industry. Used to pick her up at the shoots sometimes. Drove a motorcycle.”

“You happen to know his name?” I asked the question with zero hope.

Russell tipped his head back and stared through the smoke that circled up toward the ceiling from his cigarette. “It was weird… like, Cloud… Rain… no. Storm. Yeah, that’s it. Storm… Cooper.”

At last. I couldn’t believe I’d finally gotten a name. But… “Seriously? Storm Cooper?” He nodded. I looked at Alex and we did a mental fist bump. “Did you know him at all?”

He pulled on his cigarette like it was a joint, holding in the smoke till the very last second. “Not really. We didn’t talk. Maybe like ‘Hey’ and ‘See ya.’ I just remember because I dug the name.”

I asked a few more questions about Paige, and a couple about Marc, but we’d gotten all there was to get from Russell. I thanked him for his time. He took another drag and stood up. “Not a problem. Well, gotta get back to the salt mines.” Russell gave us a salute. “The porn must go on.”

I tried not to make a face. As he walked us to the door, one of the girls was getting hoisted onto the rack. Another girl in thigh-high black-vinyl boots picked up a whip.

Russell opened the door. “Such a bummer what happened to her. Never would’ve thought someone that sweet could end up that way.” He shook his head. “Fuckin’ world we live in.”

A whip cracked behind him. “Yeah, what a world.”