Black Current

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  For Thor,

  now and always

  THE PIÑATA SONG

  Dale, dale, dale,

  No pierdas el tino,

  Porque si lo pierdes

  Pierdes el camino.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Isla Vista: May 1969

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Postscript

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Karen Keskinen

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Isla Vista: February 1970

  The four are dressed in black from head to toe. Though the night is warm, they wear balaclavas. Overkill, Rachel thinks, too dramatic. Like being an actor in some kind of ancient Japanese play. They glide past a lush front garden and she smells something blooming in the night: sweet, tropical. What in God’s name is she doing here?

  Aragorn carries two Molotovs, one in each hand. Frodo declined to carry one at the last minute, claiming an allegiance to nonviolence. And that’s fine by her, but Rachel guesses he’s just afraid.

  The names—it’s ridiculous, the names Aragorn insists on using. In case they’re overheard, he says, because everyone knows there are spies in the movement. Aragorn, Frodo, Galadriel. She’s supposed to be Arwen. It’s from The Lord of the Rings, that book all the guys are reading these days.

  Aragorn’s in charge, there’s never been any question of that. Following his orders, the women each carry a bottle of wine. They are handmaidens: reverting to a traditional role. Rachel’s been reading about something lately, women’s lib they’re calling it … it’s exciting, real. Not like this little boys’ game.

  “Step back!” Aragorn hisses. They do as he says, pressing against a dust-choked hedge. Up ahead, a patrol car slides across the street on the prowl.

  “The pigs are crawling all over Isla Vista,” Frodo mutters. “Because of last night.”

  “Yeah.” Galadriel smiles. “They didn’t like seeing a bank getting burned.”

  Aragorn sets the Molotovs down at his feet, and sticks out a hand. “Arwen. Give me a swig.”

  Rachel obeys, handing him the half-full bottle. He tips back his head and drinks, and when he leans down to kiss her, she tastes the sour red wine on his lips.

  They are lovers, and she returns his kiss readily, smelling and tasting him in the dark. They’ll make love after, in her cramped room on Sabado Tarde. For the first time she wonders, is that why she’s here?

  Aragorn steps back out on the road, and the others follow. Maybe, Rachel thinks, maybe he isn’t worth it. Because this whole charade is beginning to feel stupid and wrong. Dangerous, too. Even so, she remains by his side.

  They move through the streets, then halt a few doors down from the La Playa Rental Agency office. The blinds are all closed, the narrow two-story building is empty and dark. They’d scouted it earlier in the day. Everything’s going as planned.

  “OK, remember. You women watch out for us, here in the street. Frodo, you stand guard at the side of the building. I’ll toss the Molotovs from the back. When you see me come out, everybody scatters. We run in four different directions. Got it?”

  Rachel senses the anticipation, the exhilaration of the hunt in Aragorn’s voice.

  Aragorn and Frodo take off. In less than a minute, Rachel hears the shattering of windows. The sound is muffled, not as loud as she’d expected. And then the two men reappear around the side, Frodo in front, both running hard. Aragorn waves everyone on, and they split.

  Rachel walks away quickly, not wanting to run in case somebody notices her. Just before she turns the corner, she looks back. Already, the window at the front of the building glows a wavering orange.

  Rachel doesn’t hear the screams of the one trapped inside. She doesn’t hear a thing.

  Chapter One

  It was early, just past seven, and I was the first tenant to arrive at the bungalow court at 101 West Mission. I wheeled my bike over the curb and up the steps, glancing at the seagull-spattered plaque near the bottom of the board. JAYMIE ZARLIN, SANTA BARBARA INVESTIGATIONS—SUITE D. Yep, that was me.

  A giant fern frond patted my cheek with dew as I pushed my way down the path. Next time I’d need to bring a machete. The courtyard was a jungle these days, the giant bird-of-paradise plants towering over the huddle of stucco offices. The landlord had fired the gardener, informing the tenants it was that or raise the rent, take your pick.

  Suite D, be it ever so humble, was down at the back. I wheeled my old Schwinn to the steps and reached into my pocket for the key to the cable looped to the banister. And halted in my tracks.

  An elegant rose, poised like a ballerina with her toes in a bell jar, stood on the top step. The soft pink was pristine, the petals flared. A little white tag on a string dangled from the stem.

  Mike Dawson.

  My heart hip-hopped like a rabbit. The rose could only be from Mike. He’d stopped being mad at me for nearly skipping town.

  There were two men in my life, and sending roses just wasn’t Zave’s thing. Zave was about as romantic as a coyote, and besides, we were just friends. Other than Zave and Mike, there was nobody.

  So it had to be Mike, who was dating another woman now, who was, as he’d put it himself, “moving on.” At one point, in anger, I’d told him that moving on was just fine by me.

  Standing there alone in the courtyard, gazing down at the late-summer rose, I admitted the truth: it wasn’t fine by me, not at all. I missed the guy, missed the way he talked and laughed and rocked back on his feet.

  Hell. I even missed the way he ignored me half the time, obsessed over sports on TV, and worked himself up to a low rolling boil for reasons that escaped me.

  I cabled the bike to the banister and floated up the steps—if you can float in jeans and a T-shirt—unlocked the door, then bent down and picked up the jar. I carried it inside and placed it on the desk.

  I opened the shades, the windows, and the door to the kitchenette at the back. Only then did I allow myself to bend down to the rose and take a deep breath. A sweet perfume teased my brain. I held the tag between thumb and forefinger, and read:

  Por Gabi—“Friendship”

  Por Gabi? What the! Right then and there, the Mike Dawson daydream popped like a big overblown bubble.

  Since when did my assistant have a suitor? As far as Gabi Gutierrez was concerned, the male of the species was no-good, down-low, nothing but trouble. I shifted the jar to the center of the desk blotter. Gabi’s blotter, her desk. My station was the kitchen table in the back room, which was where I was now headed. Not to waste my time daydreaming, but to get some work done.

  In fact I’d been busy since the conclusion of the Solstice Murders, busy with the sort of work I preferred. I’d located two child
ren abducted by parents involved in custody squabbles, one a four-year-old being used as a pawn. And I’d tracked down and recovered a developmentally disabled young woman who’d been lured into a cross-country road trip by a pair of abusive teenagers. The punks had narrowly escaped kidnapping charges.

  Now I began to sort through the stacks of paper, clearing the table and my mind, so I could focus on what mattered.

  * * *

  “Hola!” Gabi banged open the door at eight on the dot. In spite of my lingering chagrin, I was gratified to notice a Rosarita Bakery bag peeking out from her giant purse.

  “Morning.” I watched as she went to her desk.

  Gabi noticed the rose all right—who wouldn’t, the flower practically purred for attention—but she parked her purse on the chair, removed the paper bag, and walked on into the kitchenette.

  “Buenos días, Miss Jaymie. How about a croissant today? We gotta fatten you up, maybe I should get you two every morning, huh?”

  My, wasn’t she sweet. And now that I thought about it, Gabi had been uncharacteristically agreeable for over a week now.

  No doubt about it, something was up.

  I continued to observe my personal assistant (her choice of title, not mine) as she opened the cupboard over the sink, took down a pair of pink Fiesta ware plates, and positioned a paper doily on each.

  “Gabi.” I couldn’t stand it anymore. “What’s with the rose?”

  “Huh?” Her expression remained serene.

  “Come on. Don’t say ‘huh.’ And don’t say, ‘what rose.’”

  “I did not say ‘what rose.’” She ripped open the bakery bag. I’d skipped breakfast, and the sight of the pastries almost made me pant.

  She filled the carafe at the sink, then started the coffeemaker. “I see the rose, OK? I just don’t have no time to look at it yet.”

  “Well, I had time. I read the tag, and it says it’s for you.” The heavy rich aroma of God’s great gift to humankind, coffee, filled my nose. “But it doesn’t say who it’s from.”

  “No?” She arched an eyebrow. “Maybe it’s a secret. Private. Did you think about that, Miss Jaymie?” Gabi sat down opposite me, clearing a space in the paper chaos for her cup and plate.

  “All I’m asking is—”

  She smiled sweetly, then put a thumb and forefinger to her lips and turned a pretend key.

  * * *

  At 5:15 that afternoon, Skye Rasmussen wanted the waves so bad it was almost an ache. Three texts from his buds had jumped into his phone: wind’s picked up and changed to a sundowner, the surf off Leadbetter’s running strong, and where the f are you bro? He could almost feel the sting of the salt spray and the heat of the sun on his skin.

  But first, Skye had to take care of Cruella. She was his project, his baby. He alone was responsible for the pale blue jellyfish with the lethal nine-foot-long tentacles. And baby would be getting hungry just about now.

  So Skye jammed the logbook and pen in a pocket of his baggy shorts, chained his board to the rack on his pickup, and headed out for the aquarium. Dealing with the man killer shouldn’t take long.

  He parked out on Cabrillo where it was free, answered one of the texts, then tossed his cell in the glove box and hopped out of the truck. The wind had picked up for real, and as Skye jogged down the planks of the wharf he heard the waves slap against the pilings. Excitement rippled through him. This was going to be an awesome afternoon, maybe the best all summer.

  He slowed to a walk, then stopped at the rail behind the aquarium. His gaze drifted along the golden curve of East Beach. Skye was thinking about calling Taryn and asking her to meet him at Leadbetter.

  He wanted her with him today, out on the water. She was still nervous about them being seen in public together, but they had to do it sooner or later. Skye looked down, into the churning surf.

  He’d fucked up with her, big time. But it wouldn’t happen again. Now he knew what mattered. Taryn mattered. He was getting a second chance with her, and he would make it good.

  Skye felt a smile spread across his face. Yeah. Having Taryn with him this afternoon would be just about perfect. When he finished with the jellyfish and got back to the truck, he’d give her a call.

  He turned away from the rail, walked over to the blank service door of the aquarium and punched in the code. The door popped open. Skye stepped inside and pulled it shut. Then he hurried down the corridor and into the kitchen, where the live fish destined to be food swam in small tanks. He netted six flailing mackerel and dumped them into a white bucket. “Sorry, guys. At least you don’t have a clue about what’s gonna happen.”

  The aquarium had closed to the public at 4:30. By now the staff members and volunteers would have cleaned up the facility and shut it down for the day. That was good—he was in a hurry, and the last thing he wanted was to get drawn into some long conversation.

  Skye left the kitchen and walked through the darkened halls to the room housing Cruella’s two-story-high tank. Before climbing to the mezzanine, he stopped to admire his charge.

  Supremely elegant as always, today Cruella looked irritated, somehow. Her long trailing ribbons twitched with agitation, and her big box-shaped head glowed like an alien’s.

  Skye selected a small bronze key from the collection on his ring, and unlocked the door in the mural wall. He raced up the steel stairs two at a time, then opened the lid to the tank and balanced the pail on the rim. “Sorry, guys,” he murmured again to the shimmering fish.

  Delighted to be released back to their element, the mackerel dove.

  Casually, the big jellyfish stretched out an arm.

  Mesmerized as always by the drama, Skye didn’t take his eyes off the tank as he tugged the notebook and pen from his shorts pocket.

  A minute later he heard the click of the door below, and the sound of footsteps on the steel stairs. But still he kept his eyes riveted on the jellyfish and her delicate death dance. Skye saw the embrace, the frantic struggle, and knew it was useless. He knew.

  * * *

  My cell woke me. I’d turned off the ringer but not the vibrator, and the damn thing buzzed on the nightstand like some giant beetle.

  I peered at the red-eyed clock across the room: 5:23 in the A.M. Old worries and habitual fears surfaced in my sleep-drunk brain. Brodie? Had something happened to Brod? The question jerked me awake.

  Brodie … but he was gone. No, not gone … I made myself say the words aloud in the dark: dead. My brother is dead.

  There would be no more urgent calls in the night concerning Brodie. And the thing was, much as I’d feared them, I’d give anything for those calls to return.

  Anyway, no good news arrived at this hour of the morning. I burrowed under the covers, and after a few seconds the cursed thing shut up. My heart had just started to slow when the groaning vibrations started up again.

  I snatched up the phone and punched it on. ZAVE, the screen proclaimed in caps. Zave Carbonel.

  “Zave? What—is something wrong?”

  “Not with you and me, Jaymie, not ever,” his sweet smoky voice growled.

  I fell back in the bed. “Mmm … so what is it … at five-thirty in the morning you just had to hear the sound of my voice?”

  “Not exactly, sweetness.” Zave paused. “Just had a call, from a friend of a friend. Jaymie, you want a job?”

  “Sure.” I rolled over on my back and let my eyelids ease down. “Maybe in a few hours or so…”

  “Jaymie? It’s now or never. They mentioned a figure: a grand.”

  Times were tough, and this month, I recalled, we were struggling to make rent. I shoved back the covers and staggered out of bed.

  * * *

  5:43. I rolled my bike out of the breezeway, then stopped for a moment to tug the zip on my sweat jacket up to my chin. The sea fog was dense. In between blasts from the foghorn, I could hear the moisture drip like rain off the fronds of the big palm on the hillside above me.

  I hopped on the Schwinn, pointed her
nose down the drive, and angled into El Balcon. I needed to hurry, Zave had explained. I cut a sharp left through the fog onto Cliff Drive, then curved down Loma Alta.

  Now I couldn’t see a damn thing. The fog absorbed the light from the streetlamps and diffused it into a yellow glow. I listened hard for traffic as I neared Cabrillo.

  The car must have been a hybrid, because I didn’t hear it until it was nearly on top of me. I swerved right, caught the curb, and found myself upended in a patch of agaves at the side of the road. The big leathery leaves cushioned my fall, but a sharp spine dug into the left side of my face. I put a hand to my cheek, pulled it away: my palm was smeared with blood.

  But I was fine, nothing broken. I clambered to my feet and stood there for a moment, blotting the mess with my sweatshirt and pressing hard to stop the bleed. Then I dragged the bike out of the gutter. Like me, it was no worse for wear.

  I rode on, hugging the curb. The bicycle made a new sound now, a sulky clank-clunk. A sea lion bellowed not far off shore. Waves hissed on the sand.

  A few minutes more and I was bouncing along the rough square timbers of the wharf. The Santa Barbara Aquarium, built on a spur pier, loomed out of the shadows on my left. Funny, I’d expected to see lights blazing, but the big two-story wooden structure was dark.

  I pedaled slowly around to the back. There was the service-entrance door Zave had mentioned, illuminated by a single yellow bulb. “They’ll be waiting for you,” he’d said. “Knock twice, pause, then three times. Somebody will let you in.”

  Then, he’d said something else. “Prepare yourself, Jaymie. The guy who called me didn’t spell it out, but I got the idea you’re going to see something bad.”

  Something bad. Well, I’d seen bad things, I thought as I dismounted and leaned the bike against the building. I’d seen chilled bodies in the morgue, one of them the body of my own brother. Nothing could be worse than that.

  Feeling like an actor in a 1930s detective flick, I knocked in code. After a minute or so the door inched open, and an eye peered through the gap. Then the door opened further. A man holding an unlit flashlight peered out at me. He was skinny and tall, slightly stooped. His pale, thinning hair was tied back in a scraggly ponytail.