ONE MONTH TO MIDNIGHT- Chapter 3

FRIDAY, AUGUST 5th

IN RUDY JUAREZ’S OFFICE, Dent sat in an orange shell-shaped chair listening to Rudy read through Celeste Parks’ case-file and craving a hit of scotch. It wasn’t until Rudy came to the toxin that thoughts of scotch receded from mind.

“Natural toxin? You mean like snake venom?”

“Or a spider or plant. Stimulates the body into producing large amounts of coagulants that kept the victim from bleeding to death immediately.” Rudy flipped a page. “Said toxin was injected through two holes at the base of the victim’s neck, perfectly spaced.” A photo showed Celeste Parks’ neck enlarged about three times with a ruler beside it.

“Looks like a vampire bit her.”

“A little. We’re running more tests, get a better bead on the toxin.” Rudy flipped another photo in front of Dent, this one showing the pentagrams. “The incisions are in fives, forming pentagrams. Eighty pentagrams with four radii off the belly button. The numbers are either divisible by or into twenty and I believe there’s a twenty-based number system. Regardless, there’s obviously some logic attached to the perp’s methodology, perhaps witchcraft or Satanism.” Rudy returned to his notes. “Victim blood-alcohol was point-one-one. Also found traces of cocaine. Abrasions on her wrists indicate she was cuffed.”

“Any sign of rape?”

“Well, the victim apparently was planning on sex . . . a diaphragm and spermicidal jelly were found in the vaginal cavity. But there’s no evidence of sexual intercourse whatsoever. No clues on the drink glasses and the fiber sweep netted nothing useful. Tent stakes are high-quality, get them at any good camping supply store and nothing yet from the shower.” Rudy closed the folder. “If Parks’ story checks out like you think, then what?”

Dent shook his head, feeling scotch-thoughts rising in the back of his brain. “We’re checking M.O.’s with Gideon Pope at the Bureau. Got a date book I’m working through, see if anything comes up. Story’s been leading off every newscast, so maybe someone’ll call saying they saw something.” Standing up, he said, “So far, though, we’ve got nada from that.” Dent shrugged. “We keep working and see what happens.”

Rudy followed Dent out. “Why don’t you come by for dinner next week. Carmen has a girlfriend she’d like you to meet.”

“Maybe in a couple weeks, Rudy, I’ve got this case and a lot of work to sort through and progress reports—”

“Put it off and come over. Carmen’s girlfriend is supposed to be a real dish.”

Dent smiled. “Maybe when things calm down.”

“You know . . . that’s just what you’ve been saying since it happened. You need to get over it, Vince, put it behind you. It’s been nearly a year.”

“I know how long it’s been, Rudy. And right now, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Rudy frowned, shaking his head. “Yeah . . . yeah, you always say that, too.”

A HASTILY SCRIBBLED NOTE taped to Dent’s phone said McClain had received a tip from a bartender at an upscale La Jolla bar called George’s and was on his way over, so . . .
For the next hour, Dent methodically dialed his way through Celeste Parks’ date-book, leaving messages on machines, talking to people. Trying to keep his mind off the image of a cinnamon-colored Buick LeSabre coming up over the hill and down Narragansett, the sun glinting off a chrome bumper. Re-living standing on the lawn, suitcases in hand, Gloria at the trunk of the car. Dent would dial a number, talk to someone and scratch the name off the list. Hang up and in his mind’s eye see the LeSabre weaving, see the little Christmas tree deodorizer swaying from the mirror. Dial another number, leave a message and remember yelling at Gloria, her head down in the trunk as she reached for the bottle of Napa white. Remember dropping the suitcases and running towards her, screaming, “GLORIA!”

McClain slumped into a chair and threw his feet on the desk. Frowning. “Friggin AC in my truck’s on the fritz and it’s like two hundred degrees outside. Feel like I’m driving a black tank in the middle of a friggin Iraqi heat wave and it’s probably gonna cost two-hundred frigging bucks to fix the thing because, of course, the warranty was up seventy-frigging-six miles ago.” McClain shook his head. “Anyway, dude, I spoke to a Julian Bennet, the bartender at George’s who called in. Says Mrs. Parks was there Wednesday night until after nine. Remembers she had a coupla tequila sunrises.”

“She come in with anybody?”

“Doesn’t think so. Says she stepped onto the patio to have a cigarette. Then some dark-haired dude in an Armani suit took a couple more sunrises to the patio. On her tab. Mrs. Parks paid the bill and Bennet doesn’t know if they left together.”

“What’s the guy look like?”

“Bennet didn’t get a good look.”

Dent said, “I’ve been to George’s, it’s a little place. Tell me how this guy stood right in front of Bennet and got two drinks without the guy getting a look?”

McClain shrugged. “According to Bennet they were busy that night. Says he wasn’t paying attention to anything but pouring drink. Mrs. Parks was a regular, sat at the bar when she got there, so that’s why he remembered her.”

“What about a waitress working the patio?”

“Yup. Name’s Andrea Rice. But guess what? She’s in Australia. Flew out yesterday.”

Dent drummed his fingers on the desk. “Alright. See what you can do about tracking her down. Maybe she’s on some tour or sightseeing expedition and we can get a hold of her. Maybe she and the Australian authorities can do up a composite. Will Bennett do one?”

McClain nodded. “But I don't think it’ll be worth a lot. Says he can’t remember what the guy really looked like. Guy’s a friggin pinhead.”

Dent turned his head, gazing out the window at the El Cortez. On the sidewalk below, a meter maid was talking to a uniformed cop, smiling and laughing a lot, opening and closing her ticket-book. “Why don’t you see if Mister Magoo will sit with Mister Jackson anyway. Make a pretty picture so I can show the Lou we’re doing something.”

*

“ . . . and I know he’s in there,” a brunette in jeans and a blazer was telling the secretary as Dent topped the stairs at the third floor of the San Diego Museum of Man, “because I saw his goddamn BMW in the lot.” The brunette with her back to Dent, facing down an older gal with steel gray hair.

The older gal saying, “And I’m telling you, Ms. Blackfoot, he’s not here. If you wish to make an appoint— Now wait a minute, you can’t go in there.”

Dent watched Ms. Blackfoot make a beeline for a door marked Dr. Frederick J. Newhouse, Curator in polished bronze. The secretary bounced from her seat—surprisingly fast for an old gal— and grabbed Ms. Blackfoot’s arm. More surprising still was Ms. Blackfoot’s deft evasion and the hard shove that sent the woman back into her wheeled desk chair and rolling into the wall as the brunette threw open the office door and entered.

Ms. Blackfoot’s voice saying: “Newhouse? Newhouse, you better not be hiding in here you crooked asshole.”

The old gal looked over at Dent. “If you need something it will have to wait.” Rushing into the office, she said: “I’ve already buzzed security, Ms. Blackfoot, I want you to know that.”

Dent drifted toward the office as Ms. Blackfoot’s voice said: “Good, call the cops, I don’t care. I just want a couple words with the sleaze-bag.”

“I told you,” Old Gal’s voice said, “Dr. Newhouse is not here . . . Excuse me, Ms. Blackfoot . . . Excuse me . . . You can’t just go opening his drawers— please stop . . . Don’t do that!”

From the doorway, Dent watched Ms. Blackfoot pull papers from the desk, glance at them and toss them on the floor. He had a clear view of her now, the dark complexion and hair pulled away from her face in a ponytail showing off high cheekbones.

“Asshole’s probably got them locked in a safe at his frigging ranch house.” She threw another handful of papers on the floor. “Asshole.”

Jingling keys announced the security guard’s arrival, a black guy with a walkie-talkie in hand.

“Where is she?”

“In here, Roger,” Old Gal called. She looked over at Ms. Blackfoot. “You can stop now, Ms. Blackfoot . . . Whatever you’re looking for isn’t here.”

Ms. Blackfoot glanced at another handful of papers and threw them on the floor. Roger the security guard circled the desk, reaching for her arm . . .

“Touch me,” Ms. Blackfoot said in a low menacing voice, “and your balls are table coasters.”

Roger the Security Guard looked at Old Gal, who shrugged, and Roger backed off.

Dent watched Ms. Blackfoot glare at the papers on the floor before she said, “You tell the crooked SOB I’ll be back.” Dent got out of the way as she stalked past, catching a whiff of some delicate perfume he was trying to identify as she slung a satchel purse over her shoulder and stormed to the head of the stairs. Descending, her voice echoed in the stairwell: “Asshole!”

Dent smiled . . . Now there’s a woman with fire in her belly . . . watching Old Gal and Roger the Guard pick up papers, just the tops of their heads visible over the desk. He knocked on the door jam. “San Diego PD? I have an appointment with Dr. Newhouse.”

Old Gal peered over the desk. “Dr. Newhouse should be back any—wait, there he is.”

Dent turned to see a guy in chinos, polo shirt and a smug half-smile emerging from a side-door.

He glanced at the stairwell and back at Dent. “I gather you’re with the police?”

Dent flashed badge. “Dent, Homicide.”

“Yes, Mrs. Thoreau told me you’d called.” Newhouse entered his office. “Gwen, I’ll take care of those papers while the detective and I talk.” He waved at a chair. “Excuse me a moment, Detective.”

Newhouse followed Roger and Mrs. Thoreau out. Dent heard them speaking in hushed tones as he sat glancing at all the stuff on the walls: a tomahawk, spears and shields, animal skins with stick-figure pictures. Beside Newhouse’s desk was a headdress on a stand, the kind chiefs in the movies wear, feathers red and white, with little black spots here and there. The whole headdress was maybe six feet long. He was admiring it up close when Newhouse’s voice said,

“That’s a Cheyenne war bonnet.” Newhouse stood beside Dent and nodded at the war bonnet. “Its owner was White Buffalo, credited with vanquishing 63 foe-men. He died in 1875 at a godforsaken place called Arroyo del Diablo. The black spots—” gesturing with a tanned hand “—are White Buffalo’s blood, killed by a U.S. Cavalry officer by the name of Jacob Sullivan-Smits, one of the butchers of Sand Creek.” Newhouse shook his head. “To the point, Captain Sullivan-Smits claimed the bonnet as a trophy and it was part of the Sullivan-Smits’ estate at the time his granddaughter died. I’m helping her heirs find a buyer. The offer includes Sullivan-Smits’ journal.”

“Why’re they selling it off?”

Newhouse smiled. “Before killing White Buffalo, Jacob spent a couple hours practicing his knife throwing. Cheyenne legend has it that as White Buffalo was about to die he cursed Sullivan-Smits’ children that they would never ‘walk the earth like men.’ Legend, of course, and there’s no mention of the curse in Sullivan-Smits’ journal, but an interesting fact is that many of his descendents are confined to wheelchairs. A couple generations passed before it was finally diagnosed as multiple sclerosis.” Newhouse reached out as if to stroke the bonnet before pulling his hand away. “Just a myth, but the Sullivan-Smits seem to have had enough of White Buffalo’s war-bonnet. I’m lending my considerable expertise and contacts in finding a buyer.” He circled his desk, picking up papers from the floor and tossing them on the desk. Sinking into a high-back chair, he said, “You’ve come to talk about Mrs. Parks.” Shaking his head. “A horrible tragedy. What can I do to help?”

“For starters, tell me how you two knew each other.”

“I met Mrs. Parks six years ago at a symposium in Phoenix. Since then, we’d worked together on fundraising mostly. Celeste was one of our most loyal benefactors for what we do.”

“Which is what? You’re the Curator of the museum, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I oversee the museum here. I’m also executive director of the Preservationist Society, an organization dedicated to the preservation of the Native American legacy.”

“Which does what?”

Newhouse slipped on a pair of tortoise-shell eyeglasses and began sorting papers. “In the main we locate and identify Native American archaeological sites, then petition for their closure to trespassers until they can be properly investigated.” Still sorting. “Too often, precious glimpses into the heritage of our land’s native inhabitants are destroyed by ignorant people in dune-buggies tearing up the remains of ancient enclaves and drinking Budweiser.”

“And people like Mrs. Parks supplied the money for your efforts. Like cash cows.”

Newhouse stopped sorting. “I don’t care for your tone, Detective, but it’s roughly correct. I must stress, though, that without money, items such as that pot there—” waving at a pot with black zig-zaggy lines like the ones at the Parks’ house “—might be on somebody’s balcony. A five-hundred year old pot predating Christopher Columbus’ discovery of the New World manufactured by a people, the Anasazi, who have for all intents vanished from the face of the earth growing a creeping charlie.”

Saying it like Dent should care.

Dent didn’t care. Dent said: “So when was your last contact with the victim?”

Newhouse stared at the headdress a moment. “It’s been a few weeks.”

“You remember what you talked about?”

“An off and on project we’ve been working in east Arizona— we’ve had changes to our staffing and she was afraid we’d get behind. Our permit runs out later this year.”

“Did you have a disagreement?”

Newhouse shook his head. “Quite the contrary. It was very productive. Celeste and I worked very well together.”

“Where were you Wednesday night between 11 p.m. and 3 in the morning?”

“Until after midnight, watching Letterman. Then I was in bed with my wife.”

“She’ll remember this?”

“Of course. I’m quite remarkable in bed.”

Dent frowned; he didn’t need to hear that. “Mrs. Parks had display cases full of Indian stuff. You help her get them?”

“The war bonnet being the exception, I’m not usually involved in private acquisitions.” He started sorting papers again. “She acquired her collection through antiquity auctions.”

“You familiar with the three masks?”

The sorting stopped as Newhouse looked at Dent, seeming surprised at the question. “You mean the Kwiatlu’s? Of course.”

Dent shrugged. “I don’t know if that’s what they’re called. She had three masks in a display case. Whoever killed her left with them. They a big deal?”

“Greed, Cowardice and Disharmony? Why they're fabulous. I didn’t know they’d been stolen.” Papers slipped from his fingers to the desk. “My God.”

Like somebody had stuffed the Mona Lisa down their drawers and walked out the Louvre.

Dent said, “So what’s so special about these masks?”

“The masks were commissioned by a Kwiatlu chieftain for the English admiral, Lord Albright.
They were offered as a gift at a potlatch, a celebration marked by acts of giving. The participants sought to out-do one another in generosity, also burning valuable items as sacrifices to the spirits. Anti-materialism, really. After the potlatch, Lord Albright took his masks and ships up the coast where he and his men were massacred by a rival tribe, the Tuhlingit. The masks were returned to the Kwiatlu as a rebuke by the Tuhlingit.”

All these goddamn weird-ass Indian names.

Dent said, “Phrase Indian-givers comes to mind.”

“Detective . . . the Kwiatlu were anything but Indian-givers. Sadly, around the turn of the century the potlatches were deemed a federal crime. Think about it, the act of giving articulated by white man’s law into crime. Pretty Republican, don’t you think?”

Dent said nothing; he agreed, but who needed to let a guy like Newhouse know? “Let’s say whoever murdered Mrs. Parks wanted to sell the masks. How would he go that?”

Newhouse’s brow furrowed. “I think he’d have a pretty rough go with it. See, when an antiquities house sells or buys an artifact, they keep a strict record of where the artifact was obtained, how. They also keep a description of the item itself against forgery. Now, there aren’t many places dealing in such costly and unique collectibles, so if the person who murdered Celeste tries to sell to one of the houses, you’ll find out pretty quickly who he was.”

“Can you give me a list of all these houses? I’d like to call them, let them know to keep an eye out for the masks.”

“I can have Gwen draw something up. It might take a day or so.”

“Fine. Now what about if he wanted to sell them to a private owner? An individual?”

“Again, you’re talking about people who’ve often bid on the same items at auction. I assure you, Detective, these masks are well known by the prominent collectors who knew Celeste. If someone offers the masks for sale, I’m certain the person will notify the authorities.”

Dent said nothing. Wondering how fast a guy would call the cops if he’d just spent two million and suddenly finds out how the seller got them, knowing he’d lose the masks and maybe the money too. “What if the murderer kept the masks? Do they have any special significance or’re they just art?”

Newhouse smiled, like he was enjoying some private joke. “These particular masks represent weaknesses in man and are more than just art. Things the Kwiatlu found evil . . . found in the English.” He leaned back, hands clasped with his index fingers pointed up and resting against his chin. “When storytellers spun their yarns, often they were in effect subtle morality plays. Dancers acted out elements of the story while lending instruction. Masks were believed to transfer the spirit into the dancer so great power and respect are attributed to the masks. Masks are intrinsic to the very nature of the Northwest tribes, who were perhaps the finest craftsmen of masks in the world. The art melded with the religion.”

Dent squinted at the Cheyenne war bonnet, trying to make sense of what Newhouse was saying. “The murderer removed her as yet un-located face and carved cuts into her body in the form of pentagrams . . . four hundred cuts in all. You see a possible connection?”

Appearing horrified, Newhouse said, “My God. But, no, I don’t know. Why?”

“Thought it was maybe some Indian ritual thing. Thousand cuts or something.”

Newhouse shook his head. “It’s not part of any culture I’m familiar with. But then, my focus is on artifacts. I could give you a name of someone who might be able to help, in case there’s something I’m missing— though the chances of something like that are quite slim.”

“Anything you can do to help.”

Newhouse pulled a sheet of blue paper from his desk and Dent thought about Ms. Blackfoot and the papers, wondering what she was looking for. “I’ll write his name on the back of this flyer.” He wrote it and handed the flyer to Dent. “I must warn you that he’s a little tough to work with, but he knows his field. He’s over at State.”

Dent looked at the name. Dr. Benjamin Stack. The paper was a heavy bond with little flecks of texture. He turned the paper over and saw an announcement for some fundraiser in late September, the location on a street called Newhouse Way, with a map . . .

“Newhouse Way?”

Newhouse smiled. “A hard-pan road out near Superstition Mountain in the Anza-Borrego desert. I have a house there on a hundred acres. I had the road graded so I took the liberty of naming it. Like the flyer? I did it on my Mac.”

“Yeah, it’s great.” Dent folded the flyer and shoved it in a coat-pocket. Laying a business card on the edge of the desk, said, “Let me know when you get that list together.” Rising from the chair, he nodded at the war bonnet. “Bet the transaction fee you’re getting for that baby’s gonna pave the whole road. Maybe get to put Freddy on the street sign.”

When Newhouse’s face got kind of pinched looking, Dent knew he’d guessed about right, thinking Ms. Blackfoot was right, too.

Guy’s an asshole.

*


EVEN OR SO BLOCKS FROM THE MUSEUM OF MAN, Flannigan's Alehouse was packed. Bad thing about the place? Lawyers. All kinds of them, all chattering like rats, discussing the next drug-dealer they were gonna get off on a bad-warrant claim or some personal injury asshole deciding how’d he spend his fee from the out-of-court settlement. The lawyer’s came for the sandwiches and salads, not because they were good but because they were cheap; Dent came because he was on the clock and wouldn’t see any cops. Sitting at the bar— a Glenfiddich in front of him, Black Magic Woman in his ears— Dent assembled the pieces of the case in his mind. He finished his Glenfiddich in three pulls and ordered another, listening to the samba beat of congas, Carlos Santana and his guitar slow-noting it through the key of E.

If the Perp knew her, knew the value of the masks, was this guy another collector? Dent tried imagining having the kind of money to buy the masks, 3 million, and couldn’t do it. Also couldn’t see setting himself up by leaving a solid connection for someone to follow. Dent thinking this sipping scotch and listening to Carlos . . .

Gotta black magic woman got me so blind I can't see—

. . . while all around him were lawyers in their thousand-dollar Versacci’s . . .

— that she's a black magic woman and she's trying to make a devil out of me.

. . . the lawyers specializing in drug-dealers, were in fact on retainer to drug-dealers, all these shallow shit-bags intoxicated on money, success and attitude . . .

Ms. Blackfoot sat off to one side, shoulder against a wooden pillar of the bar. She was smoking a cigarette and staring off into space, head moving subtly to Carlos and his beat . . .

Dent drained his Glenfiddich thinking maybe the perp simply stole the masks for the money. All the guy would need was someone interested in the masks, maybe someone out-country, Hong Kong, South Africa or Italy. Maybe Newhouse. Dent made a mental note to have McClain check Celeste Parks’ phone records, see if Newhouse’s name came up in the last week. Have McClain call the guy’s wife and verify his claim of being home Wednesday.

Marvin the bartender set a fresh one on the bar, no napkin. “Keep the tab going, Vince?”

“Right.” Dent sipped his drink and set it down. Lifted it up, making a wet ring, and set it down again. Thinking: Newhouse is an asshole.

The thought made him think of Ms. Blackfoot. She was now in conference with one of the lawyers, guy probably telling her all about his vacation villa in Belize . . . then, just like that, she raised her right hand into a fist, elbow on the bar, and slowly unfurled her middle finger like a flag; her middle finger flying free and unfettered and the guy staring at it like Francis Scott Key. Dent smiled.

The lawyer shook his head. Said something which induced a shrug from Ms. Blackfoot before turning and shoving off from the bar.

Ms. Blackfoot dragged on her cigarette and went back to staring off into space.

In his mind’s eye, Dent saw her storming into Newhouse’s, tossing papers on the floor, cursing the guard in that low voice . . . Touch me, and your balls are table coasters . . .

Dent grabbed his scotch and started off into the sea of lawyers like a guy swimming in the Tijuana River, jostling through the toxic crowd until he got up beside Ms. Blackfoot.

Dent saying, “Guess the guy in the suit doesn’t like birds.”

Ms. Blackfoot raised the cigarette to her lips, and drew on the cigarette. Exhaling, her head swiveled a little and out the corner of her eye, she looked him up and down. Then redirected her gaze again out over the bar. “Little old to just be getting out of law school aren’t you, sport? When’d you get that suit . . . year Carter got elected?”

Dent looked at his jacket. It was a gray-green tweedy thing Gloria’d bought him shortly after they were married. “I think it’s Reagan-era.”

“First term or second?”

“The Governor years.”

Ms. Blackfoot smiled a little.

Dent said, “You know, I’ve seen you before.”

Ms. Blackfoot looked at Dent. “Been using that line since Reagan was governor, too?” Ms.

Blackfoot smiled wearily. “Listen, sport. I just came to have a glass of wine, so don’t start with me. I’m tired. I’ve had a rough day. I’m in a bad mood and I’ve had it up to here with horny lawyers, greedy money-grubbers and with all men in general . . . the notable exception being that bartender over there. Now, why don’t you go run along and talk about sports or rutting or suing people blind or whatever else lawyers talk about.”

“You were at Newhouse’s office today, right?”

A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Ohhhhh, now I remember. So what’s the story? Newhouse acquired scruples and sent you to get me?”

“What do you think?”

Ms. Blackfoot studied Dent. Turning her gaze again to the bar, she smiled. “Not a chance.” Then, sharpening the cigarette’s ash along the ashtray edge into a point, she said, “So what’s the deal? Why’d you follow me?”

“I didn’t. So happens I stop by here for the occasional drink.”

“Wait for someone to choke on their martini olive so you can sue the bar— though judging by that suit, you haven’t won too many cases lately.”

What a bitch, Dent thought, deciding he liked her. “So what’s your story? Newhouse is looking at what, sexual harassment, wrongful termination? Sharpie in the slick suit wanted a fifty-fifty split, you gave him the bird, and now you’re pissed off at lawyers in general?”

“And you’d be willing to overlook my animosity to the profession for the fifty-fifty split?”

“It’s not my type of case.”

“No? Too sophisticated? Or not enough potential for the big bucks?”

Dent studied Ms. Blackfoot studying him, thinking her eyes were a shade of green he couldn’t nail down in the half-light of Flannigan’s. “What I can’t figure’s why Newhouse crossed you. I’m of the opinion you’re not the type takes a lot of crap from a guy like him.”

Ms. Blackfoot smiled, stubbing out her cigarette, and sipped her wine. Turned on the stool, appraising Dent again. “And what I can’t seem to figure out is how a guy who seems to be a straight shooter could work for an egotistical, smooth-talking little turd like Newhouse. What are you, a real estate lawyer helping him with his stupid road?”

“Not a chance.”

“No? Not your kind of case either, hunh. So what do you do, environmental protection lawsuits or civil rights causes or what?”

“I’m a cop.”

Ms. Blackfoot stared right back, then slowly shook her head.

Dent said, “You don’t like cops?”

“No, I have no problem with cops. My father was a cop.” Ms. Blackfoot smiled. Shaking her head again. “The suit. The suit should have tipped me off. Very stereotypical old-timey cop. Well done.”

Dent shrugged.

Ms. Blackfoot said, “Why’d you follow me?”

“I didn’t.”

“You just happened to be at Newhouse’s, then here. Pure coincidence, right?”

“I come here sometimes. You came here. It’s coincidence running into probability.”

“So I’m supposed to believe you’re a cop who likes to hang out with lawyers. Some kind of cop-to-lawyer outreach program? You’re leading the touchy-feely part of the program?”

Dent smiled. “I’m a guy who likes to drink alone.”

Ms. Blackfoot studied Dent, a lie-detector type of studying, with her eyes flicking between his— left eye, right eye, left eye, right— until she suddenly smiled, extending her hand. “Lucy Blackfoot.” Her hand was semi-rough and the grip firm.

“Vince Dent.” Dent looked up as Marvin the Bartender said to Ms. Blackfoot: “Miss? Guy there wants to buy you a drink.” Marvin yanked a thumb over his shoulder at a lawyer-type with a deep tan smiling at Ms. Blackfoot. Lots of perfect teeth. Marvin said, “You want it?”

“Tell him no thanks, I'm a big girl, I can buy my own drinks.”

Marvin nodded. “Had a feeling that's what you'd say.”

Lucy Blackfoot looked at Dent. “What were you doing at Freddy’s?”

“I wanted to talk with him about Celeste Parks. You know her?”

Lucy Blackfoot’s eyes pinched with surprise, maybe suspicion. “I know Mrs. Parks. Why, she hasn’t done something, has she?”

“You don’t know?”

Lucy said, “Know what?” bringing the cigarette to her lips, dragging—

“That’s she’s been murdered?”

—and stopping abruptly, her mouth open and smoke sifting out, swirling above their heads as she sat there wearing the clinical description of dumbfounded. “I just spoke with her last week— how?”

Dent sketched out the case.

Lucy, looking shocked, said, “I was on a dig in Arizona. I got here this morning and I’ve been so focused on my own problems that . . . Oh my god, that poor lady, I can’t believe someone would do something like that.”

“How well’d you know Mrs. Parks?”

“Only professionally. Occasionally she’d come out to the site, basically take pictures of finds and stuff. And she was passionate about Indian affairs. Wait. Is Freddy a suspect?”

“Should he be?”

Lucy stared off over the bar a moment before shaking her head. “Honestly, Freddy’s an asshole, but Freddy’s also a wimp. He’s too squeamish about blood for something like that.”

“How do you know that?”

“Freddy and I go back a bit. Here, let me give you an example.” Sharpening the tip of her cigarette into a point as she collected her thoughts, Lucy said, “Okay, last month, Freddy and I were out near the Chocolate Mountains, investigating a potential dig-site, when a coyote bolted jumped right in front of us. The coyote was hit and yanked up into the fan belt, blood and fur all over the engine compartment. It messed up the belt, and in the desert, with engines always on the verge of overheating; we’d never make it back to the highway unless we got that belt back on. Problem was, even though it was Freddy’s car, he refused to fix it. Just sat on a rock fanning himself with his ridiculous pith helmet, saying I worked for him and it was part of my job to get the belt back on.” She finished her wine. “Anyway, I managed to get the courage to get in there and re-attach the fan-belt while Freddy fanned himself and offered useless suggestions.”

“The chivalrous knight.”

“The big fat weasel. But considering that, I really don’t think he murdered Mrs. Parks.”

“Do you know about these Kwiatlu masks that were stolen from the Parks home?”

Lucy shook her head. “That’s northwest Indian. I’m southwest, mainly Anasazi.”

“How about a Dr. Benjamin Stack over at State? Is he a resource?”

“Ben’s the best, but he does Pre-Columbian. Did Freddy give you his name?”

“He said Dr. Stack might know something about the ritualized style of the incisions.”

“Maybe. Ben’s a genius. But the way you described it, it doesn’t sound Pre-Columbian to me, it sounds like witchcraft.”

Dent nodded. Figuring next he’d have to find a witchcraft expert, wondering how he go about doing that, maybe look in the yellow pages under WITCH. “So tell me,” he said, “why were you in there kicking papers around?”

Lucy shrugged. “Let’s say we’re not seeing eye to eye on something.”

“He fire you?”

“I quit.” Lucy lighted her cigarette with a book of matches labeled Flannigan’s Alehouse . . . Good Spirits, Great Spirit, little shamrocks sprinkled around the words. “We disagreed over policy. I didn’t like it so I quit.”

Lucy watching the bar. No eye contact.

“So why all the paper kicking?”

Lucy exhaled politely away from Dent before turning to regard him. “You’re not afraid to stick your nose into other people’s business, are you?” A little crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Is this line of questioning part of an investigation?”

“Basic curiosity. So why were you kicking papers back there?”

“Pardon me, Colombo, but I’m not in the habit of telling people I’ve just met about my personal business, cop or no cop. I’m funny that way.”

Not uptight about it, just matter-of-fact.

“Mind if I ask what you did for Newhouse?”

“You’re a persistent one aren’t you? Ever try sales?”

“Police raffle tickets count?”

“Bet you’re a one-man laugh riot down at the precinct house.”

Dent shrugged. “So what did you do for Newhouse?”

“Alright, you win. I’m an anthropologist specializing in the Anasazi. For the last few months I’ve headed up Freddy’s projects on the Arizona-New Mexico border.”

At that moment, Dent’s pager chirped with a number that turned out to be Lieutenant Deck, followed by 911. Excusing himself, Dent used the payphone in the bathroom.

Decker saying, “We got a guy over at Wind-N-Sea’s an apparent self-inflicted gun-shot.”

“I’m kind of busy, Deck, working the Parks case.”

“Well I got no one else, so your team’s it. Make an appearance and be done with it. Probably an open and shut suicide, you’re in, you’re out.”

Dent thought about how long it’d take to get to Wind-N-Sea and about how many times he’d heard Decker say, ‘You’re in, you’re out’. Dent said, “We got any witnesses?”

“At the present time, no.”

“So we don’t know for certain that it’s a suicide.”

“At the present time, no.”

“Unh-hunh. Alright, I’m gonna finish talking to a woman who worked for this Dr. Newhouse I spoke with today. Guy knew Celeste Parks, he’s an Indian mask expert.”

Then Dent swam back through the polluted sea of lawyers and back to where Lucy was . . . gone. Her Marlboro Lights no longer on the bar, satchel purse nowhere to be seen. He said to

Marvin, “You know when she left?”

“Soon as you went to the head.” Marvin shrugged. “Sorry, brother. That’s women.”


*
THE DEAD GUY WAS SLUMPED over in one of those ergonomically designed desk chairs, back of the chair against the desk and the desk facing the Pacific, with a miasma of blood and brain splattered on the window and falling sun seeping through the splatters. A computer was on the desk, more blood and brains on the monitor. In the corpse’s right hand was a nickel-plate .357 Chief’s Special, resting in his lap. Gathered around the corpse were Dent, McClain, Sheila Simpson and Walt Bishop; Jerry DiGraggario in the corner inspecting a set of golf clubs.

“Who found him?”

Walt Bishop said, “Plant guy.”

“Plant Guy?” Dent said. “What the hell’s a Plant Guy?”

“Guy comes in twice a week and waters and dust the plants. Says he dusted Mirabella’s plants on Tuesdays and Fridays.”

Mirabella being the corpse.

Dent said, “You’re telling me people pay other people to dust their plants?”

“Guy talks to them too, tells them what good plants they are.”

Dent scrubbed a hand across his face. “Sheila, what’s the TOD?”

“I’m gonna guess mid-day.”

Corner of his eye, Dent saw Jerry DiGraggario pull a golf club from the bag. “Must be our week to scout the rich and the dead. Anybody know what a place like this goes for?”

Walt Bishop said, “I’m betting it goes a million.”

McClain, shaking his head, said, “The guy didn’t buy it.”

“How do you know?” Sheila Simpson said.

“Sticker in the window says: If you’d like to rent this house, call Lemontree Leasing.”

Dent nodded, impressed at McClain’s observance; having noticed the sticker himself coming in and making the same deduction. He turned, watching Jerry DiGraggario swing the club in a long, perfect arc ending over his shoulder. Swing it again. Three more times, the last one really throwing in his hips—

“Jerry, what the hell’re you doing?”

DiGraggario shrugged, sighting down the club’s shaft. “Trying out these clubs. They might show up at an estate auction or something. Check em out, pretty sweet set a Pings.”

Another swing. Graceful the way he swung it, ending over his right shoulder. Smooth.

“That’s evidence, Jerry.”

“That’s why I’m wearing my rubbers.” DiGraggario raised his hand, waggling his fingers in latex gloves. “See, no problem.”

“Would you put the goddamn club away, please.” Dent shook his head. “Look, I’m heading back to the office. McClain, did you talk to that bartender Bennet about the sketch yet?”

“He’s working the lunch shift, said he’d be by round five.”

“Okay, Walt, I want you and Arnold-frigging-Palmer here to wait until the stiff’s out, then seal the place.” Dent turned to DiGraggario. “Don’t touch anything. No clubs, no televisions, no stereos . . . You remember the time we couldn’t get that goddamned stereo turned off, with the sound on full blast?”

Outside, walking down the steps, beneath a canopy formed by the green leaves and carnelian blossoms of a coral tree, Dent thought about Jerry DiGraggario screwing with the club, thinking about DiGraggario swinging the club, the graceful arc and about Mirabella with the nickel-plate .357 in his lap . . .

Dent turned and re-entered the house.

“Jerry . . . you’re left-handed, right?”

The question caught everyone off guard, McClain, Bishop, Sheila and most of all DiGraggario, who dropped the golf ball he was dicking with. The golf ball rolled across the floor and up against the toe of Dent’s shoe. Dent looked up as Jerry DiGraggario said, “Hey, look, Sarge, that’s my golf ball, I brought it with me, I wasn’t mess—”

“Those clubs are lefties, right?”

“Yeah, sure, but . . . wait . . . you’re not calling the off-hand phony suicide gig, are ya?”

Everyone looked at the corpse— and the phone rang, freezing everyone. It rang again as Dent crossed the room and, using a hanky, picked up the cordless.

A voice saying out of the phone: “Hey, Mr. Mirabella? It’s Benny at CompUSA, you brought your laptop in this morning? Look, we got the problem worked out. Like I said, no problem, it was your Windows driver that was corrupted . . .”

Dent kept listening, knowing for certain as the guy talked that Mirabella hadn’t committed suicide because . . . No one takes a laptop to get fixed if they’re planning on killing themself.

Listening to Benny ramble and thinking: You’re in, you’re out . . . Shit.

*
DENT DIDN’T MAKE IT downtown until about six.

He wasn’t sure if it was the job, the long week, or maybe just the heat, but he’d had a headache building all day at the base of his neck, spreading out and gaining strength in pulsing thrusts. Not a hangover snake, this was more like a piston beating on the back of his skull. He fished around for the half-full bottle of Excedrin he’d bought last week, washing them down with lukewarm coffee. Then called Dr. Stack and was told by the receptionist Dr. Stack was on a field trip, said she’d have the doctor call back first thing Monday.

Dent started calling through Celeste Parks’ date-book again, making notations on a notepad. Midway through, McClain flopped into his chair with a disappointed look on his face and a sheet of paper in hand. “That was Bennett.”

“And?”

“And,” McClain said, “we did a composite and it ain’t worth dick on a stick.”

The sketch was rendered by a composite kit consisting of numerous small tiles, each selected feature individually chosen to match, and the man staring at Dent was dark-haired with a strong chin. His face was angular, as was his nose, but the parts didn’t seem to work together.

“Something doesn’t look right. Looks hinky.”

“No shit, it’s hinky. Optimistically speaking, I was hoping for more. Despite what Bennett the pinhead said. And check this: I made some calls for the waitress on the patio. Not good. Left for the outback this morning. No telephone. No radio. No nothing.”

Dent described what he’d learned at Newhouse and from Lucy Blackfoot.

“You see a connection between that and the masks?” McClain asked.

“Not off hand. But let me ask you this: How much you think a museum curator makes?”

“I don’t know, forty, fifty thousand tops. Why?”

“Guy’s got a BMW, a Range Rover and a desert ranch house, he’s making more than forty or fifty grand.”

“You think this guy did her, stole the masks and he’s gonna sell them?”

“Maybe. But why don’t you run him, see if anything comes up, while we’re running a background on Mirabella.”

HOMICIDE WAS BASICALLY EMPTY by the time Dent finished his reports and a pair of memos a little after 7:30. Downstairs, in the Sally Port, things would just be starting to heat up for the regular cops— Perverts, Prostitutes and Perps on parade.

Outside, the city loomed like a great concrete-and-steel petrified forest, the windows of the tall buildings glowing like squared, molten leaves. Stepping into the slanting shadows of late afternoon, a cool breeze swept in off the water to the west and rustled his hair as he walked to his car parked beneath the lean shadow of a solitary palm tree.


*
UP NARRAGANSET AVENUE, rolling up through apartment buildings and small houses with narrow driveways, Dent saw an elderly couple walking a dog, saw a guy with a hose turn from washing his minivan, some boys sitting on mountain bikes challenging each other to a ‘speed-run’ to the bottom of Narragansett, happy people Dent viewed with a sense of detachment like a man gazing at a photograph of the moon, knowing it’s there, but what’s it really matter, it’s so far away?

He wheeled the Sprint into the driveway and killed the motor, not moving, hearing Santana doing Oyé Como Va on the radio, smelling wild honeysuckle and roses in the warm evening air drifting over from the Chiles’ yard next door. He squinted through the passenger window at a sky water-colored in yellows and oranges and purples before his eyes fell to the brown-bagged bottle of Glenfiddich on the passenger seat and Suzie Cruz’s cigarette-raspy voice cruised in with, “Alright, that’s Artist-of-the-month Carlos Santana finishing up ten in a row. And there’ll be plenty of water tomorrow for everyone at the Street Fair but don’t forget the sunscreen—”

Dent killed the monologue and trudged up the walkway to his $171 three-bedroom, one-car hermitage. Inside, Bixby was bouncing around, his tail wagging and tongue hanging.

Dent’s living room? Lots of pictures on a shelf and a good percentage of the people in the pictures dead; a dusty bottle of Napa white at one corner of the entertainment center; ten-months-thick dust coating the furniture.

Dent followed Bixby into the kitchen.

Dent’s kitchen? Dishes piled in the sink; a ten-months-old shopping list secured to the refrigerator by a Chargers magnet; a ten-months-old note saying, “Two more days till Napa!” in a woman’s hand; empty bottles of Glenfiddich across top of the fridge.

Dent fed Bixby and cracked the seal on the Glenfiddich, pouring three fingers before topping off at a whole hand. Then boarded the LaZBoy.

The first sip slid into his stomach as he flipped on the tube— CNN, a reporter talking about the impending baseball strike. Bixby came in and lay beside the LaZBoy on his back, staring upside down at flickering images on the screen.

“I don’t know how you can watch like that.”

Bixby’s tail wagged slowly. Dent took another sip, this one easier as the blue light of the television filled the darkening room, the drone of the voices, the warmth of the house, the long week and the scotch all conspiring to summon lethargy . . .


DARKNESS SUFFUSED by the dim blue hue of the Sony. Voices.

On the TV, more about the baseball strike and whether Congress would step in. Dent switched it off, padding into the kitchen, past the portrait of Gloria smiling and alive, her face done in fast, sweeping lines and hot colors, Joanie Wright’s style. Dent wondered briefly if Joanie was up and about, thought about maybe walking next door and saying hello.

Instead, he poured another round of Glenfiddich into the glass and leaning against the sink, sipped scotch while in his mind’s eye a cinnamon-colored Buick LeSabre blossomed, the LeSabre looming over the crest of Narragansett Avenue. Dent took another sip and saw the swaying Christmas tree deodorizer. Another sip and he heard his own shouts. Not loud enough, they’d been far from loud enough against the LeSabre’s racing motor and the squeal of braking tires clawing at pavement, the squeal suddenly replaced by the crash of metal slamming into metal and flesh, the crunching crash tearing through his mind every bit as vividly as it had that day and binding with the scream of Gloria’s dying. Dent tilted his head back, sucking scotch down into his belly and trying not to hear that screaming in his head, Gloria’s scream, that sharp, drawn-out, ten-months-long-gone scream starting high, rising higher and—Snick—cut off.

Dent drained the last of the scotch. With two hands to control the shaking, poured more scotch . . . The Buick LeSabre crests the hill . . . pouring until scotch rose to the rim of the glass . . . Sunlight glints off the chrome and a Christmas tree deodorizer sways like a pendulum back and forth, back and forth . . .

Dent guzzled the scotch, get it into his blood stream fast as he could, get as much alcohol up into his brain stem, drown out the sights.

. . . Gloria’s head down in the trunk as she wrestles for the bottle of Napa white . . .

The sounds.

Squeal of braking tires . . . Long scream cut off . . . SNICK . . . and then silence . . .

Dent guzzled scotch, vainly trying to obliterate the memory from his mind before the screams came, before that long last terrible scream.

Before the dying.