The Murder Book

CHAPTER 16

Two new names:

Michael Larner.

Willie Burns.

Perhaps both were irrelevant, but I drove south into Cheviot Hills, located Achievement House on a cul-de-sac just east of Motor and south of Palms, idled the Seville across the street.

The building was an undistinguished two-story box next to an open parking lot, pale blue in the moonlight, surrounded by white iron fencing. The front façade was windowless. Glass doors blocked entry to what was probably an interior courtyard. Half a dozen cars sat in the lot under high-voltage lighting, but the building was dark and there was no signage I could see from this distance. Wondering if I had the right location, I got out and crossed the street and peered through the fence slats.

Tiny white numbers verified the address. Tiny white letters, nearly invisible in the darkness spelled out:

Achievement House. Private Property.

I squinted to get a look at what was behind the glass doors, but the courtyard- if that's what it was- was unlit, and all I made out was reflection. The street was far from quiet; traffic from Motor intruded in bursts, and the more distant rumble of the freeway thrummed nonstop. I got back in the car, drove to the U., returned to the Research Library, got my itchy hands on that old friend, the periodicals index.

Nothing on Willie Burns, which was no surprise. How many janitors made the news? But Michael Larner's name popped up twelve times during the past two decades.

Two citations were dated from Larner's tenure as director of Achievement House: coverage of fund-raising events, no photos, no quotes. Then nothing for the next three years, until Larner popped up as official spokesman for Maxwell Films, demeaning the character of an actress sued by the film company for breach of contract. No follow-up on how that case resolved and a year later, Larner had made another occupational change: an "independent producer" inking a deal with the very same actress for a sci-fi epic- a movie I'd never heard of.

The Industry. Given Larner's sexual aggressiveness, it was either that or politics.

The next four citations caught my eye because of Larner's new affiliation: director of operations for Cossack Development.

These were brief items from the business section of the Times. Larner's job seemed to be lobbying council members for Garvey and Bob's development deals.

Caroline Cossack shunted to Achievement House soon after Janie Ingalls's murder. Not the kind of kid Achievement House accepted but a few years later, the director was working for the Cossack family.

I'd be brightening Milo's evening.

I got home and checked my phone machine. Still nothing from Robin.

Not like her.

Then I thought: Everything's new, the rules have changed.

I realized I'd never gotten an itinerary of the tour. I hadn't asked, and Robin hadn't offered. No one's fault, both of us caught up, everything moving so fast. The two of us tripping through the calisthenics of separation.

I went into my office, booted up the computer, found the Kill Famine Tour's homepage. PR shots and cheerful hype, links to mail-order CD purchases, photo-streams of previous concerts. Finally, times and dates and venues. Eugene, Seattle, Vancouver, Denver, Albuquerque… everything subject to change.

I phoned the Vancouver arena. Got voice mail and entered a push-button maze to learn Our offices are closed… open tomorrow at 10 A .M.

Left out in the cold.

I'd never set out to exclude Robin from my life. Or had I? During all the time we'd spent together I'd kept my work to myself- kept her at arm's length. Claiming confidentiality even when it didn't apply. Telling myself it was for her good, she was an artist, gifted, sensitive, needed to be protected from the ugliness. Sometimes she'd learned what I'd been up to the hard way.

The night I'd blown it, she'd left the house for a recording studio, full of trust. The moment she was gone, I left for a meeting with a beautiful, crazy, dangerous young woman.

I'd screwed up royally, but hadn't my intentions been noble? Blah blah blah.

Two tickets to Paris; pathetic. A sudden rush of memories took hold. Exactly what I'd worked hard at forgetting.

The other time we'd separated.

Ten years ago, nothing to do with my bad behavior. That had been all Robin, needing to find her own way, forge her own identity.

Lord, rephrased that way it sounded like a pop-psych cliché, and she deserved better.

I loved her, she loved me. So why wasn't she calling?

Grow up, pal, it's only been two days and you weren't exactly Mr. Charming the last time she tried.

Had I failed some kind of test by letting her go too easily?

Ten years ago she'd come back but not before…

Don't get into that.

But at that moment, I wanted nothing but punishment. Opened the box, let loose the furies.

The first time, she'd stayed away for a long time and eventually I'd found another woman. Then that had ended well before Robin returned.

When we reunited, Robin had seemed a bit more fragile, but otherwise everything seemed to be fine. Then one day, she broke down and confessed. She'd found someone, too. A guy, just a guy, a stupid guy, she'd been stupid.

Really stupid, Alex.

I'd held her, comforted her. Then she told me. Pregnancy, abortion. She'd never told the guy- Dennis, I'd blocked out his name, goddamn Dennis had gotten her pregnant, and she'd left him, gone through the ordeal alone.

I kept holding her, said the right things, what a sensitive guy, the essence of understanding. But a nagging little voice in my head refused to let go of the obvious:

All those years together, she and I had waltzed around the topic of marriage and kids. Had been careful.

A few months away from me, and another man's seed had found its way-

Had I ever really forgiven her?

Did she wonder about that, too? What was she thinking about, right now?

Where the hell was she?

I picked up the phone, wondered who to call, swept the damn thing off the desk and onto the floor- screw you, Mr. Bell.

My face was hot and my bones twitched and I began pacing, the way Milo does. Not limiting myself to one room, racing around the entire house, unable to burn off the pain.

Home smothering home.

I headed for the front door, threw it open, threw myself into the night.

I walked the glen, north, up into the hills. Did it the stupid way- with the traffic to my back, undeterred by the rush of approaching engines, the flash-freeze of headlights.

Drivers sped by honking. Someone yelled, "Idiot!"

That felt right.

It took miles before I was able to conjure up Janie Ingalls's corpse and relax.

When I got back to the house, the front door was ajar- I'd neglected to shut it- and leaves had blown into the entry. I got down on my knees, picked up every speck, returned to my office. The phone remained on the floor. The answering machine had tumbled, too, and lay there, unplugged.

But the machine in the bedroom was blinking.

One message.

I ignored it, went to the kitchen, got the vodka out of the freezer. Used the bottle to cool my hands and my face. Put it back.

I watched TV for hours, ingested hollow laughter, tortured dialogue, commercials for herbal sexual potency remedies and miracle chemicals that attacked the most hideous of stains.

Shortly after midnight, I punched the bedroom machine's PLAY button.

"Alex?… I guess you're not in… we were supposed to fly to Canada, but we've been held over in Seattle- doing an extra show… there were some equipment modifications that needed to be done before the concert, so I was tied up… I guess you're out again… anyway, I'm at the Four Seasons in Seattle. They gave me a nice room… it's raining. Alex, I hope you're okay. I'm sure you are. Bye, honey."

Bye, honey.

No I love you.

She always said I love you.