Black Current Page 8

  After several minutes of silence, Mike pulled up at the curb. “Let me have another look at that note, will you?”

  When I handed it over to him he stared at it for a moment, then rubbed the piece of paper between his fingers and thumb. “Know what? I think I was right the first time. This is a joke. Just a nasty sick joke.” His voice had taken on the mean-deputy edge I heard every once in a while, the one he probably used with meth dealers and cattle rustlers.

  Mike’s anger was different from mine. It was slow and hot, and came from somewhere deep inside. Once it started to burn, it was nearly impossible to put it out.

  “A joke. But why?”

  “Who knows? Run it through the shredder. Want me to do it for you?”

  “No. I’ll do my own shredding, thanks.” I gave him a questioning look, but he just handed the note back, pulled onto the road, and stepped on the gas.

  I was silent as we drove down into the town, bound up in my own thoughts—my own selfish thoughts. Thank goodness I remembered Bill Dawson as Mike angled into a parking spot near my office.

  “Mike, how’s your dad? Is the cancer still in remission?”

  “No.” He cut the engine. His hands dropped into his lap. “Dad still looks pretty good. But we heard from the doc last week. The cancer’s spreading.”

  “Oh—I’m so sorry! I wish—wish I could do something.”

  “You’re still one of his favorites. He always asks after you.”

  “Not in front of Mandy, I hope.” And I meant that. Mandy Blaine was nice, actually. Nicer than me.

  Mike tapped the steering wheel. “Mandy … hasn’t met him.”

  “Why not?”

  He looked out the window. “Dad thinks … well, he thinks you’re still in the picture.”

  “What?” I stared at him. “I’m still in the picture but I haven’t bothered to come up and see him? How dare you let him think that.”

  “I was going to tell him.” Mike looked away. “But lately … I don’t feel like handing him any more disappointments.”

  “Where is Bill? Is he still at your sister’s in San Luis Obispo?”

  “Trudy moved him back up to the ranch for the summer. That’s where Dad wants to be. She’s up there with him, her and the kids.”

  “Mike? You tell Bill he’s getting a visitor, soon. And I might as well warn you, I’m not playing along with your game. If I have to, I’ll tell him the truth about us.”

  I slammed my way out of the pickup. Mike got out to help me, but I’d already dropped the tailgate and wrestled the injured bike to the ground.

  * * *

  It wasn’t till an hour later, when I was ensconced at my table in the kitchenette, that I realized what I’d done. Too embarrassed to talk, I texted Mike: Sorry. Easy for me to say how things should be done when it’s not my own family.

  I closed my eyes and thought about the note. I didn’t buy Mike’s conclusion that it was nothing more than a joke, not after three years. But it was possible his other idea was right: somebody down at the PD was trying to distract me, to get me to back off the Rasmussen case. And under any other circumstances, that was something I wouldn’t have allowed.

  Yet this was different, personal. After all, distraction or not, it was possible the note told the truth.

  I needed to focus my efforts on discovering what had happened to Brodie. My brother came first. So, it was decided. I’d have to phone the Rasmussens in the morning, and tell them I couldn’t take on the case.

  I stared blindly at the papers strewn across the tabletop. Had my brother been murdered? If so—if it took me a lifetime—the killer would pay.

  Just look at me, I thought. I’m opposed to the death penalty. Convinced it makes barbarians of us all. But if you handed me my brother’s killer, I swear to God: I’d return his head to you on a plate.

  * * *

  “Miss Jaymie? What’s going on?” Gabi tapped on the kitchenette door. I seldom shut it, and she probably guessed something was up.

  “What do you want?”

  “Please, open the door. I got something to tell you.”

  “Just say it.”

  “OK.” I heard Gabi give a loud sigh. “A girl called. She wants to see you.”

  “What girl? Did she have a name?”

  “Miss Jaymie, even a dog has a name. The girl, her name is Taryn. Her last name, I couldn’t get. It’s like the noise a woodpecker—”

  “Taryn Tactacquin.” I got to my feet and pushed back my chair. “I’ll phone her. I’m not taking the Rasmussen case, so there’s no reason for her to come by.”

  I heard a sharp tsk through the door. “If you say so. ’Cause who cares if we never find out who killed that boy? Or maybe the police will figure it out. Yes I think so, just like they figured out who killed Lili Molina.”

  I opened my mouth to reply, then closed it. I wasn’t taking the bait.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “it’s too late. She’s on the way over.”

  “Great.” I got up, went to the door and opened it. “Now I get to tell her to her face.”

  “Miss Jaymie?” Gabi peered into the room. “What are you doing in here?”

  I picked up the cream-colored sheet of writing paper from the table and held it out to her. “Read this.”

  “‘Your brother did not’—” Gabi frowned, then started again. “‘Your brother did not kill himself. What are you going to do about it?’

  “Dios mío.” She stared at me, then pressed a hand to her mouth.

  * * *

  You could see Gabi approved of Taryn Tactacquin. She’d ushered the girl to the couch, not the hot seat, and now she fussed over her. “How about a Coke, mija? Diet. I got some cold in the fridge.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Gutierrez. That would be great. It’s getting hot out there.”

  “Call me Gabi. Yes, it’s terrible. The climate is changing, you know? They said on the radio it’s gonna be hot like this every summer for the rest of our life.” Gabi disappeared into the kitchenette and reemerged with a frosty Coke can. “Do you want a glass?”

  “No, thanks. What a pretty rose.”

  Gabi puffed up a little. “My boyfriend, he’s a rosarian. Almost every day I get a new rose. That one, it’s called ‘Baby Talk.’”

  “Baby talk,” I muttered. “Love is blind.”

  Gabi looked over at me and frowned. “Miss Jaymie? What can I get you, something with a little sugar in it?”

  Taryn giggled, then covered her mouth with her hand.

  “I’m fine,” I declared. “Taryn, how can I help you?”

  “I thought of something.” Her smile faded. “Something about Skye and Vanessa and Porter, about why they stopped being friends.”

  “I’m sorry, but there’s something I need to tell you.” It was time to speak up. “I’m not going to take the case.”

  “What?” She looked bewildered. “I thought you were—already doing it.”

  “I haven’t taken a retainer from the Rasmussens, or signed a contract. And now I won’t be.”

  Gabi was pretending to work on her computer. She let out a loud huff.

  “But who’s going to do it now? Somebody said the police decided Skye had an accident. Was it an accident? Is that why you’re going to quit?”

  The word “quit” stung me. But it was accurate, I supposed. “Please understand, Taryn. My decision is based on something personal that’s come up.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand, not really. But I’m going to tell you this anyway, OK? I don’t want to keep it to myself.”

  And I didn’t want to hear it, whatever it was. But I couldn’t think of a way to cut her off, short of insulting the girl. “All right, I’m listening.”

  “I think Skye and Vanessa and Porter had some kind of a fight. At that stupid party club.”

  “Party club?”

  “The Piñata Party Club—that’s what they call it. I don’t really know why—it sounds kind of lame. You have to be invite
d to go, and of course I never got invited. They started it last fall, after Skye and I broke up.”

  In spite of my decision to back off, my curiosity reared its crafty head. “Piñata Party Club? Sounds like something for children. What’s it all about?”

  “I don’t have a clue. Skye wouldn’t tell me. Anyway, he quit it in January, I know that for sure. Right before we got back together.”

  “So you think something went wrong there. Any idea where this party club is?”

  “No. But I don’t think it’s in a house. And it might be wild, really wild. That’s one reason I didn’t tell you about it before. I didn’t want to say anything bad about Skye.” She flushed. “He was a really good person, you know? But he could be—” She stopped.

  “Kind of rowdy?”

  “Actually, more than kind of.” She shrugged. “I’m not. We had a lot in common, but we were different that way.”

  “Maybe that’s one reason you two were a good match.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it was.” Taryn’s eyes welled with tears.

  Gabi jumped up, glared at me, then carried the box of tissues from the desk to the couch. “I’m sorry, mija. So sorry about your boyfriend.”

  I stepped over to the side window. The repo woman’s parrot, tethered to its perch outside the office next door, caught sight of me and shrieked its usual mantra: “Deadbeat, deadbeat!”

  So, what was it going to be? Was I going to spend my time searching for a person who might or might not have killed my brother three years ago? Or was I going to find out who had shoved Skye Rasmussen into a tank holding a lethal jellyfish? I stared at Deadbeat’s black scimitar of a beak.

  In a way, I supposed, it amounted to this: would I find a way to exact revenge—or to catch an avenger? I turned away from the bird and back to the room.

  Right then and there, I made up my mind. Somehow, I was going to do both.

  * * *

  I studied the buffet in the Rasmussens’ dining room. It was crammed with pictures of Skye. Sports photos, graduation portraits, snaps of him with family and friends.

  “We asked you here because there’s something Melanie and I need to tell you.” Dave Rasmussen rested his elbows on the dining table and pressed his fingertips together, forming a steeple.

  Beside him, Melanie tensed. “Skye was a wonderful son.” Her voice trembled. “He wasn’t perfect, that’s all.”

  “A normal teenager,” Dave agreed. “Skye had a good heart. And raging hormones, the usual stuff.”

  I nodded and waited for what was coming.

  “There was a girl,” Dave continued after a pause. “She got pregnant.” He cleared his throat, then rubbed at a water-ring stain on the tabletop. Melanie looked at the floor.

  “Taryn Tactacquin,” I said. “I’ve talked with her. She seems nice. But I want to hear what you have to say.”

  “So you already know who she is.” Dave met my eyes. “Maybe she is nice, we don’t really know. But her father isn’t. John Tactacquin’s a thug. He came over here, throwing his weight around—”

  “He threatened us.” Melanie leaned forward in her chair. “He came in this house and made threats.”

  “He threatened you? How?”

  “No, Mel.” Dave held up a hand. “We have to be accurate here. The man was aggressive and rude, he called Skye some bad names. But he didn’t actually threaten us.”

  “He might as well have. His attitude was intimidating.” Melanie shook her head. “Thank God Skye wasn’t home at the time.”

  I didn’t want to upset the Rasmussens if I didn’t have to. I thought about the best way to proceed. “Here’s what I’d like to know. Did Taryn’s father show up after Skye told her to get an abortion?”

  “What?” Melanie sat bolt-upright. Her dark eyes showed shock.

  “Skye didn’t—you’ve got it all wrong.” Dave shook his head from side to side. His sallow complexion had reddened. “Our son was ready to do the right thing!”

  “Is that what she told you?” Melanie’s voice rose. “She was the one who wanted the abortion!”

  “Melanie, I don’t want to upset you. But if I were in your position, I’d want to know the truth.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you realize your father intervened?”

  “Christ,” Dave growled. Melanie jumped to her feet and wrapped her arms around her middle, as if she’d been punched.

  “Are you saying Dad had something to do with—” Melanie looked at her husband. “He did, of course he did! Why can’t you ever stand up to him?”

  “Mel, come on. You know what Rod’s like!”

  “Of course I know.” Melanie sounded despairing. “I’m the one who lived under his thumb for so many years.”

  “Then you should understand,” Dave pleaded.

  I looked out the window at the Rasmussens’ pretty garden. Dwarf fruit trees: an apricot and a plum, a lemon and an orange. Raised boxes filled with lush tomato plants, here and there a hint of red peeking through. It looked peaceful out there, and I caught myself scanning for the door.

  Dave seemed to read my mind. “Let’s take this slow. Shall we go sit outside?”

  He led the way, opening the French doors to the patio. “Ms. Zarlin, would you like a cold drink?”

  “Jaymie,” I corrected. “Yes, that would be nice.”

  “There’s some iced tea in the refrigerator,” Melanie said in a dispirited tone. She sat down at the patio table and Dave went back inside, to the kitchen. “That’s my husband for you. Always sweeping things under the rug.”

  “Maybe it’s better than the opposite.”

  “Is it? Is it better?” She rubbed her eyes, then looked over at me. “Tell me, Jaymie. What exactly did my father do?”

  “It seems he persuaded Skye to press Taryn to get an abortion. He told your son his future was at stake.”

  “He had no right to do that. No right at all.”

  “Your father is a strong-willed man.”

  “Oh, yes. Control is what Dad is all about. We did fine, Dave and I, until my parents moved back here a year ago. I saw it coming. I knew they’d retire to Santa Barbara, and I knew Dad would run our lives from the day he arrived.”

  “But now you’ve taken a stand against him, haven’t you? By deciding to keep asking questions.”

  Melanie ran a finger under her watch strap and nodded. “Yeah, I guess we have. But see … see what it took to make us stand up to him.”

  Dave came through the doorway, tray in hand. He unloaded three tall glasses of iced tea, each decorated with a lemon wedge, and three berry tarts. “I thought you might enjoy these, Jaymie. Mel’s baking. I pulled them out of the freezer.”

  “Olalaberry tarts. Skye’s favorite,” Melanie said.

  We ate in silence. Birds chirped and sang, but underneath you could hear the muted growl of the freeway.

  “Delicious.” I dabbed my mouth with the napkin, folded it, and set it beside the plate. “Look, I’m sorry. I have to return to the subject of your father, Melanie.”

  “Whatever you need to do.”

  “Rod seems to be blocking me from speaking with Neil Thompson. What can I do about that?”

  “You could talk to Alice, Mel,” Dave suggested. “Maybe your mom can convince him to back off.”

  “Maybe.” Melanie shrugged. “Mom pretty much does what Dad wants. But I’ll try.”

  “One other thing,” I said. “There’s the subject of Steven.”

  “Steven?” Melanie’s tone sharpened. “What do you want with my brother?”

  “I’d like to speak with him, that’s all. I’m going to be touching base with everyone over the next few weeks.” I hoped my own tone was soothing, offhand. “It’s a matter of piecing together a patchwork, you know?”

  “But it sounds like you think Steven might know something,” Mel said, her voice rising. “And that’s nonsense. Just so you understand, he’s very important to me.”

  “Mel. You’re
being defensive.” Dave looked over and gave me an almost imperceptible nod. “I wouldn’t worry about Steven, Jaymie. He’s always been on Mel’s side.”

  Dave walked me out a few minutes later, closing the front door behind us. “I’ll text you my brother-in-law’s cell number,” he said. “But please, don’t tell Melanie I’ve passed it on.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Yeah!” a voice yelped inside my office. “Yeah, you fuckah, I got you!”

  I locked my bike to the railing, ascended the steps, and opened the door.

  A four-foot-ten figure, weighing approximately ninety pounds, lay stretched along the couch. Dirty basketball shoes kicked at the couch arm as the fourteen-year-old punched and swiped at her phone. “Hey, Jaymie,” she called without looking up.

  I glanced over at Gabi. She was staring hard at the computer screen, her hands curled like cat’s claws over the keyboard. When she looked up at me I could see the effort it was taking for her to keep quiet. She opened her mouth in an “O” and let out what looked like a silent scream.

  Gabi and Claudia Molina are dead opposites, that’s all there is to it. They’d bonded after the death of Claudia’s sister, Lili … for a time. Gabi still tried with the kid, but I could see her supply of goodwill was about to run dry.

  “Claudia,” I said. “Kill them all, so we can talk.”

  She nodded without looking up, but continued to grunt and yelp. I raised a hand to Gabi, advising patience. Then I went on into the kitchen for coffee.

  When I returned, the girl was still obsessing away. I knew it was a bad idea to give in to little Claudia, so I put the coffee down on the desk, walked over, and plucked the device out of her hands. “Sorry. I asked you here on business, remember?”

  “Hey! Gimme my phone!”

  “After. First, we talk. You seem to have picked up a habit.”

  “Huh? I gotta do something all day, while people are talking shit.”

  “Excuse me.” Gabi scowled. “This is a place of—”

  “Yeah, yeah. This is a place of busy-ness.”

  The kid bounced up from the couch and lunged for the phone. I was ready for her, and slipped the device into my pocket. “You’ll get it back when we’re done.”

  The police had returned Claudia’s Smith & Wesson knife, and I was reasonably sure she was packing it in her baggy basketball shorts. But the girl knew better than to take me on.