Vertical Coffin

Chapter 30

I immediately hit star-69, but the number was blocked. Alexa was already under enough stress, so I didn't tell her about the call. Instead, I got in touch with Tony. The chief promised to run a phone check on my line and to increase the patrols in our neighborhood, keep an eye on our house.

I was almost two hours late getting to Jo's house off Alameda, in Glendale. It was in a middle-class neighborhood full of small one-story houses and duplexes. It was nine-thirty in the evening as I pulled slowly up the street, looking for her address. I spotted the number painted on a mailbox and turned into the narrow drive of a nondescript painted brick house. There was a black Navigator parked in the driveway facing the street. As I was setting my hand brake, a very pretty woman with black hair and long legs stormed out of the rear of the house, carrying a laundry basket full of clothes. She threw the basket into the back of the SUV and slammed the door. When she came around to the driver's side, I could see a mask of fury on a beautiful, structured face dominated by high cheekbones. She motioned for me to back up, then jumped into the Navigator, started the engine and blasted the horn angrily.

"Okay, okay, I'm trying," I said to my dash. I fumbled the key into the ignition and backed out into the street.

The Navigator came out of the driveway like a getaway car after a 7-Eleven robbery. She whipped the wheel right, squealed rubber, and roared away up the street.

I pulled back into the drive, parked, then went up to the front door and rang the bell.

Nobody answered. I rechecked the address. No problem there. I looked around the front yard. It was neatly trimmed, but bland. The flowerbeds were organized, but mostly planted in white. Colorless. The brick house was gray with white paint on the sparse wood trim. It was a square, uninspired structure. The whole feeling of the place was clean efficiency. No energy had been wasted on frills. A brick shithouse, I thought.

I rang the bell again. Still nothing. So I walked around to the rear.

The backyard was small. Two recliner sun chairs and a portable Jacuzzi with wood sides sat out on the lawn. There was a utilitarian concrete patio that held a coiled hose and a flower potting area.

The back door was ajar. I knocked loudly, then called out, "Jo. It's Shane."

No answer.

I was beginning to feel alarmed. Sheriffs were getting shot, Alexa was being threatened. Who was the angry woman who had raced out of the driveway in the Navigator, almost hitting me?

I checked my gun, but left it in the holster and entered Jo Brickhouse's sparse kitchen. It was neat, but like everything else colorless and efficient. Lots of stainless steel.

I moved into the living room. Wood floors, plain walls, Danish Modern furniture, which always struck me as the ultimate triumph of form over function.

As I passed through the dining room, I could hear someone crying down the hall. Large, wracking sobs.

"Jo, it's Shane," I yelled out again, and the crying abruptly stopped.

"Just a minute," she called, in one of those fake brave voices. "Go wait in the den."

I turned and went into the den, which was really just an alcove off the living room. More Danish Modern furniture, gray upholstery, white walls. No art. All the warmth of a G. E. refrigerator. Her desk, on the far side of the little nook, was piled high with Vincent Smiley printouts.

I decided not to futz with it, but to let her pass out the paper. A minute later I heard her in the bathroom running water. Then her footsteps came down the hall. When she walked into the den her eyes were rimmed red and badly swollen.

First Alexa, now Jo. My female karma was in serious retrograde. "You okay?" I asked.

"Dandy," she said sharply, to cut off further discussion.

"You don't look dandy," I pressed, thinking even as I said it: Don't get into this, Shane. Whatever it is, you can't solve it.

"Where were you?" she snapped. "You were supposed to be here two hours ago." She was pissed at the pretty, black-haired woman in the SUV, but she was taking it out on me.

"I had to deal with something at home," I said.

"Really?" Focusing more anger. "Well, that can happen I suppose. But it never hurts to call. It's why we all carry beepers and cell phones."

"Who was that who almost took off my front bumper pulling out of here?" I asked, thinking again: You don't want to know} Shane. Don't get into this.

"That was Bridget."

"Who's Bridget?"

"Somebody I'll probably never see again." She said it so bitterly that it sounded like a curse. Then, little by little her composure began to crumble. It started with a slight lip quiver, then spread upward, eventually crashing her entire face. She hiccupped a loud sob at me, spun and ran out of the den, up the hall, leaving me standing alone.

Again, I had the same strange feeling that I knew her from somewhere before, but where the hell was it? The feeling was circling close, just out of reach. I tried to pin it down. Sometime, a while back. It was something about her build, or the way she moved. What was it about those muscular arms, those developed calves and thighs?

Then it hit me.

"Son-of-a-bitch," I said softly to myself.

I went out through the kitchen into the backyard, then crossed to the small garage and opened the side door. Parked inside was a department black-and-white. I walked around to the far side and there it was.

Jabba the Slut's yellow-and-black Screamin' Eagle Deuce.