Black Current Page 7

  “Yes. Dr. Steinbach. I hate him!”

  “What did he do?”

  “He told Skye his whole future was at stake. I don’t know what all he said, but in the end Skye was convinced. He told me to get an abortion. I didn’t want to, but with him not wanting the baby … and after I did it, it was too hard for us to be together. We kind of drifted apart.”

  “So you split up. That must have been tough.”

  “It was. It felt bad when we were together and then it felt bad when we were apart. The thing was—I don’t know, I felt like Skye had sided with his grandfather against me.” She bit her lower lip. “He did, at least for a while.”

  “What do you mean, for a while?”

  “Nobody else knows this. But in February we got back together. Skye told me he was sorry.” She turned and met my gaze. “It didn’t feel the same as before, I’m not saying it did. But it was … it was all right.”

  “Are you sure nobody knew you and Skye got back together? How about his friends?”

  “I don’t see how they would. We never met here in SB. We’d go to Summerland or Carp, to the beaches down there.” Her expression relaxed and she smiled. “It was cold in February, but we didn’t care. The beach is great in the winter, you have to cuddle, and no one’s around.”

  I returned her smile. The kid was hard not to like, but I had a job to do. “There’s something else I need to ask you.”

  “OK. But then I do need to go eat my lunch. I’m taking the beginners out at twelve-thirty.”

  “The evening Skye died. Where were you, between five and nine?” I didn’t take my eyes from her as I waited for the answer.

  But Taryn didn’t hesitate. “Babysitting at the Kleins’ in Sycamore Canyon. I do it every Friday, four-thirty to midnight. Mr. Klein runs the Laugh Track Comedy Club, and his wife helps him out on Friday nights. You can call them if you want.”

  “Thanks. Now, I guess you’d better go. I’ll walk you down to the beach.”

  We descended single-file down the narrow asphalt path leading to Leadbetter. “Since we’ve got a minute, there’s something else I’d like to ask. Did any of Skye’s friends resent him? He had it all, didn’t he—looks, smarts, athletic ability. Personality, too. Some people would have been jealous.”

  Taryn stopped so quickly I bumped into her, then caught her elbow to keep her from falling.

  “Nobody said anything like that. But sometimes I thought…”

  “Yes?” I realized I was still gripping the girl’s elbow, and let go.

  “It’s silly, but there was this triangle. There’s a girl named Vanessa Hoague. She’s had a crush on Skye like forever. And then there’s Porter, Porter Logsdon. Port likes Vanessa, but Vanessa likes Skye. And Port is supposedly Skye’s best friend. At least, he used to be.” She turned and continued on down the path, and I followed.

  “I know who they are,” I said to her back. “Skye got them their volunteer positions at the aquarium, right?”

  “Yeah, he told me about that. You know, my dad goes to the aquarium a couple of times a week, for work. Usually he goes in real early, before the aquarium opens. But sometimes he’s there later, after it closes. One time he saw Porter throw a starfish real hard against the wall. Dad said he was showing off for Vanessa.”

  “Oh, very cute.” My ears had pricked up. “You said your father goes there?”

  “Mm-hm. Dad’s got a food distributorship. He stocks the snack bar.”

  We stepped off the path, onto the sand. “Taryn, just now you said Porter used to be Skye’s best friend. Did something happen between them?”

  “I’m pretty sure it did. Skye wouldn’t talk about it. But I think—”

  Just then a flock of kids raced up like sandpipers from the water’s edge. “It’s time! Taryn, can we go in now?” they clamored.

  She smiled as several of the kids grabbed her by the arms and pulled her toward the water.

  “Two minutes, guys. While you’re waiting for me, brush off the sand like I showed you, and help each other into your wetsuits.” She turned back to me.

  “I think something bad happened, something connected to Vanessa and Porter. It was before Skye and me got back together. But I really don’t have a clue what it was.”

  * * *

  “So you took the guy up on the one-night stand.”

  “I did.” I switched the phone to my other ear. “Thanks for the rec, Zave.”

  “Anything for you, Princess.”

  “Don’t call me princess, it’s sexist.”

  “Oh, it’s sexy all right. Especially if you’re wearing that blue satin nightie I—”

  “Zave? I’m at the office.”

  “Then I stand corrected. Standing up now, for your information. What are you wearin’ under those old jeans of yours?”

  “I’m going to hang up now.”

  “Go right ahead. But then you won’t hear what I have to say.” Playtime was over. Zave’s tone had switched to all business.

  “I’m listening.”

  “What I hear is, you’re rubbing the cat the wrong way. Causing sparks, and some hissing.”

  “Let me guess. Would that be Dr. Steinbach you’re talking about?”

  “You’d know better than me. Point is, the attorney who called in the first place, the one who gave you the job? He’s not happy with you. Said his client wants you to take a hike.”

  “Maybe his client would like to pay me a very large sum of money to take that hike.”

  “Jaymie? I’m not so sure this is a joke.”

  “You’re right, it’s not. The victim’s parents have asked me to take on the case. They don’t trust the PD’s conclusions, which for some reason coincide with Rod Steinbach’s. And neither do I.”

  “Steinbach’s an eminent biologist, Jaymie. A member of the National Academy of Sciences. You’re not talking about some crook here.”

  I hee-hawed into the phone. “You’re the guy who trusts nobody.”

  “Trust is overrated. But listen, girl. You’re stepping into the middle of a family feud. What’s in it for you?”

  “What’s in it for me?” I pushed away from the kitchen table and walked to the back window. The dark pink curtain of bougainvillea draping the block wall filled my view. “Respect, for one thing. I solved the Solstice Murders, but people are saying that was just luck. And…”

  “And?”

  “Zave, listen. Skye Rasmussen’s death was no accident. I’m pretty damn sure of it.”

  “How so?”

  “He was young, strong, and athletic. Somehow I doubt he tripped over his own feet and tumbled into that tank.”

  “Hm.” Zave was quiet for a moment. “Jaymie, I think I need to massage some sense into you. My place at eight?”

  I closed my eyes. I could almost feel Zave’s charcoal satin sheets caress my skin, and taste that smooth dry sherry he liked to sip in bed.

  “Don’t try to distract me, Zave. I know all your tricks. When I’m good and ready, I’ll give you a call.”

  * * *

  Someone had left the irrigation running throughout the night, and the courtyard was warm and wet as a glasshouse. A snail, late to bed, glided down a big Ensete banana leaf on a glistening trail of slime. Another hot day was in store.

  Two objects awaited me outside the office. One was a lustrous apricot rose slipped into a soda bottle. I lifted it to my nose. Spicy, sweet. The tag read, Tango for Two. So, the temperature was rising.

  The other object was an ordinary white envelope, the kind you’d buy at a grocery store. It was wedged into the slit where the screen door met the frame.

  Holding the rose in one hand, I stuck the corner of the envelope between my teeth, held back the screen door with a shoulder, and unlocked the door with my free hand. Inside, the office was still warm with the heat of the previous day. I set the rose on Gabi’s desk and dropped the envelope down beside it.

  I was about to walk away to open the windows. But my eyes skipped back to th
e letter.

  It was corny, almost. Comical. The letters of my name, J Zarlin, were glued in the lower right-hand corner of the envelope. They’d been cut from a magazine. I flipped the envelope over: the back was sealed shut.

  When I’d first picked it up, I’d assumed it was from the landlord. A notice about termites, blocked drains, or deadlines for rent. But now something told me I was looking at bad news.

  I sat down in Gabi’s chair, rummaged around in her top drawer and located a letter opener.

  The single sheet of paper was cream-colored. Thick and textured, it was of better quality than the envelope. I unfolded it. And for several seconds, I couldn’t breathe.

  Your brother did not kill himself.

  What are you going to do about it?

  The words were hand-printed with a black pen. I stared at them, stunned. Who—and why—

  My mind went blank. Then a river of rage flooded my brain.

  I shoved the chair back and it crashed to the floor. “Brodie,” I cried out. “What did they do to you?”

  Chapter Six

  I stuffed the note in my jeans pocket and rushed outside, unlocked my bike with fumbling hands, and pushed my way through the courtyard to the street.

  Then I rode like a bat out of hell. I headed for the downtown jail, where Brodie had died. Where he’d supposedly committed suicide nearly three years ago. I raced through intersections, pushing the old Schwinn to its limits.

  But then, winded, I slowed. Rational thoughts crept into my shell-shocked brain. What would I do once I got there? Brandish the note? Storm in and demand to see the head jailer? I’d be hustled straight out to the street. And worse than that: someone would learn that I knew the truth, and be alerted to cover his tracks. I would tip my hand.

  I glided to a stop in front of the county courthouse and argued myself down. If I burst into the jail, I’d never find out what happened to Brodie. My hands tightened into fists. I’d never get what I now wanted, more than anything in the world: revenge.

  So I turned around and headed back up Anacapa, bending over my handlebars and pumping hard. I stair-stepped the blocks and pedaled through the stately old homes of the upper East.

  It was possible the note was bogus, I realized. The brainchild of some supremely bored person who wanted to have a little fun with me, to see Jaymie jump. Fury and despair flipped back and forth through my brain, sparking a battle of conflicting thoughts.

  I approached the Santa Barbara Mission, glowing soft pink and white in the early-morning sun. Just once, I thought fiercely as I pounded past the old lavandería and the figure of a forgiving Christ, just once in this town I’d like something to be exactly what it appeared to be.

  I rode on up the hill through centuries-old oaks to Mission Canyon. The bike slowed on the incline but my legs kept going, grinding away at the pedals. Grinding away my painful emotions. Trying to obliterate whatever had happened to my brother.

  In spite of the coolness of the morning air, I was bathed in sweat. I tasted acid, welcomed the exhaustion. Pushed on. Then, somewhere near the top of Mission Canyon, the front tire blew. I was riding on a steel rim.

  I got off my bike, wheeled the crippled thing over to a large sandstone boulder, and laid it to rest. I sat there for a while, waiting as my raspy breath slowed. A locust struck up a shrill lament in the singed August grass.

  I could walk on down, and drive up later in the day in Gabi’s station wagon for the bike. Or I could just phone somebody for help. Zave, for instance. Zave wouldn’t come himself—time was money, after all—but he’d send somebody, double quick.

  But I realized it wasn’t Zave I needed. I tugged my phone from my jeans pocket.

  “Mike.” My voice sounded cracked. “Mike, I have to ask you a question. Are you and Mandy engaged?”

  “Jaymie? Where the hell did you get that idea?”

  “Deirdre Krause.”

  “Deirdre’s messing with you. Hell, I thought you were too sharp to fall for her tricks.”

  “I—just thought I’d check.”

  He laughed. “So what’s up?”

  “I—I could use a little help.” Now I felt foolish. “I’m stuck up the top of Mission Canyon with a flat bike tire.”

  “Uh—sure. You need a lift.” Mike sounded surprised, as well he might. I never asked him for any kind of assistance. Not since Mandy Blaine had twirled into his life, and I’d slunk out like a whipped cur.

  “I’ll be there.” Now his voice was flat, noncommittal. “Just do me a favor, will you? Stay put.”

  I hung up and stared dully at a mob of glittering ants dismembering a small blue butterfly. Why the hell had I called Mike? Was it just automatic, reverting back to old memory pathways? Or worse, had I reverted to some kind of girlish dependency? On the other hand, did everything have to have a god-damned reason?

  I stomped back into the brush, pulled down my pants, and peed. Wasn’t till I stood back up that I noticed the brush was poison oak.

  * * *

  I heard Mike’s big pickup growling up the hill before it came into view. He pulled up on the opposite side of the road, switched off the engine, and climbed out. Instead of his uniform he was wearing ranch clothes, blue jeans and a work shirt.

  “So what the hell are you doing up here?”

  I was in no mood to take any lip. “Never mind. If you want to help me, great. If not, go away.”

  “Same old Jaymie.” He laughed. “You’re the one who called me.” He was rubbing it in, making the most of the situation.

  “All right, I did call you. And if you think that means—” But then, I stopped. It was just as if you pricked a balloon with a needle: all the air went out of me, and I sat down in the dry grass.

  Mike crossed the road and stood there for a moment, gazing down at me. I’d forgotten how big he was. And I’d forgotten how stern he could look, when his eyes narrowed.

  “Jaymie—” Then he waved a hand, as if it wasn’t worth talking about. He picked up my heavy steel bike like it was a kid’s toy, carried it across the road, and hoisted it into the bed of the pickup without bothering to open the tailgate.

  “Coming?”

  For two seconds I actually thought about staying. Then I scampered across the road like a rabbit and hopped into the cab.

  Mike jammed the key into the ignition and the truck rumbled to life. “Look, I’m not going to ask.” The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

  “There’s a reason.”

  “Course there’s a reason you’re way up here with a flat tire at eight in the morning. Sure there is.”

  What did it? Being in the cab with him? Feeling safe, safe enough to think about the note in my pocket? The minute the truck began to roll, I started to cry.

  “Aw, shit.” Mike slammed on the brakes, shoved the truck into park and switched off the engine. The only sound was me, blubbering.

  After a while he put a hand on my shoulder. Then he pulled me close.

  “Sorry,” I managed to say into his chest. “I know you can’t stand it when—”

  “Never mind. I didn’t think you called me about a flat. What’s going on?”

  I couldn’t say it out loud. I’d quit bawling and didn’t want to start up all over again. Besides, Mike smelled just the way I remembered: like saddle soap, burnt grass, sun. I didn’t want him to let me go.

  I arched my back, reached into my pocket and pulled out the folded note. It was damp with sweat. I handed it to him. “I found this when I got to the office.”

  Mike smoothed open the note. He read it, turned it over to look at the back of the paper, then read it again. “Where was this exactly?” His voice had turned angry and tight.

  I moved out of his arms. “Front door. Stuck in between the screen and the frame. Mike—” I was quiet for a moment, fighting tears. “What if somebody did kill Brodie?”

  I looked over at him and our eyes met. His were black and cold, the way they got when he didn’t like what he was hea
ring.

  “It’s just a note, Jaymie. You already know what happened. Somebody’s yanking your chain.”

  “Maybe. Or telling the truth.”

  “No. Somebody’s messing with you. A real sick joke.”

  “I thought about that. But Brodie died three years ago. Why go to all this fuss for a laugh, why now?”

  He scowled. “Tell me something. What’re you working on? Anything dicey?”

  “You could call it that. Skye Rasmussen, the boy who died in the aquarium? His parents have asked me to look into his death.”

  Mike ran an index finger along the edge of his broken tooth. “Heard about that business. Hell of a way to go. But I thought it was ruled an accident.”

  “It was. A rush to judgment, I’d call it.”

  “So you’ve been poking around.”

  “A little,” I admitted.

  “A little? You’ve been jabbing a snake with a stick.” He handed the note back to me, turned the key, and started the engine.

  “OK, but who is the snake?”

  “Come on, Jaymie. You’re pretty much telling the PD they’ve got it all wrong—again.”

  The big pickup straddled the center line as it powered on down the mountain road. Why was it, I wondered, that Deputy Dawson always seemed to be telling me to back off, pull in my horns, go with the status quo?

  “No. I don’t buy it, Mike. What could Skye Rasmussen’s death have to do with this note?”

  “Probably nothing. All I’m saying is, somebody at the PD could have sent you that note to sidetrack you. To get you to back off the aquarium case. The last thing they want is for Jaymie Zarlin to go poking her nose in their business.”

  I stared out the window as we whisked by the mission. A cowled Franciscan monk was now out in front, sweeping the tiled steps with a kitchen broom.

  “Seems far-fetched. They don’t take me seriously—I’m just a pesky gnat. Anyway, I’m going to look into this letter. You know I can’t let it go.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s bullshit. You’d be playing into somebody’s hands.” He looked over and cocked an eyebrow. “And that’s not like you.”