Boulevard (26 page)

“Going to shut up now?! Going to shut up?!”

She was never going to shut up. She fought to break free—trying with everything she had to somehow get out from under him. But he was too strong. The pillow was coming down harder. She needed air. She couldn't scream any more. She couldn't breathe any more. He kept pushing harder. Air. She had to have air. And once she got it, she would scream and scream and scream until someone came.

Air wasn't coming. She struggled, but he had her pinned. Her fingers spread out fighting the pain. Then they felt something. The steak knife in the sheets. She hated this asshole. He killed Paul and now was going to kill her. She lifted the knife—and drove it into Lodge's back. His mouth popped open with an awful groan, and he let go of the pillow and reached back to take the knife out. Casey gasped for air. Lodge was still stretching for the knife—but before he could get to it, Casey did. She pulled it out and then rammed it in again. And again. And again. And again.

She slid from under him and scrambled off the bed. Blood still oozed out of Lodge's back onto the bed. Her hands were covered in blood. She hated herself. She was fifteen and a murderer. But she had to get out. For her—for Paul.

Casey stood at the bathroom sink. The bar of burnt-orange Neutrogena getting slimmer as she scrubbed the blood off. She threw water on the back of her head, cleaning off the blood from when Lodge slammed her into the backboard. It would be dawn soon, and it seemed like she'd been washing up forever. The one thing that asshole was right about—no one would believe her—no one. And there was still blood on her—Lodge's, Paul's, and her own.

She cleaned everything off she could, then washed down the area around the sink. She looked at herself in the mirror. There was water all over her face, but no blood. She pushed her hair back looking for more. Only water.

She headed for the door. But then stopped. Casey looked over at Paul. Her last look at him. She kneeled down beside the bathtub. More than anything, she wanted him back. For an hour—ten minutes—
one minute
—just to tell him what a jerk he was. They could've gone off together. He didn't have to do this. Why did he abandon her like this? But also, she wanted that minute to tell him how he was everything in the world to her. She leaned over the red water, put her lips to his cheek, and said, “I love you.”

Casey opened the door a crack and looked down the hall. No one. She found a door that led to the driveway. She glanced up at the Marlboro Man, cool, calm, and together—completely unlike her—and started running. Down the hill and into Hollywood.

As she finished telling her, Casey lifted her head and saw Dragon looking at her with a look she had never seen on Dragon before. Of confusion or shock—both, maybe … But of course Dragon would look that way—how often does the girl next to you tell you she killed someone?

“He deserved it, right?” Casey said.

“Definitely,” Dragon said softly.

Casey then felt an emptiness, a loneliness in every pore of her body. But telling everything somehow made her feel the tiniest bit better. She was very tired and the chair was nice. So soft, so comfortable.

54

C
asey woke up when someone dropped down on the green chair's arm. She opened her eyes to see Dog-Face. Where was Dragon?

It was pouring outside, and Dog-Face was soaked. Water from his coat ran down the chair to Casey's jeans.

“What's that?” Dog-Face said.

Casey didn't answer. She was too tired.

“Over there,” he said.

Casey looked at the counter and the UCLA cutie was letting Dragon make a phone call. Dragon saw them, hung up and came over.

“Calling in late for school?” Dog-Face said.

“Yeah, right.”

“Who you calling?”

“What is this?” Dragon said, sounding angry.

“I just asked who you calling?”

“I called the hospital where Mary is.”

“But you didn't talk to anyone?”

“You paranoid or what?”

“Wha'd they say?”

“I got a machine. The message said it's too early to call patients.”

“And you really thought they were gonna let you speak to her?”

“Yeah. Why not?” Dragon got pissed. “I tried something. It didn't work, so what? Hey, I don't need this.” She looked over at Casey and headed for the door.

Casey rubbed her hands over her face, pushing the heels of her palms into her eyes. It was starting all over—the same people, the same shit.

When Dragon reached the glass doors, she looked back at Casey.

“Doggie, you can be such an asshole,” Casey said, leaving the chair.

She'd rather be out in the rain with Dragon, than inside and dry with Dog-Face. Any day.

55
Jimmy

J
immy could hear the shower running. He stretched under the blankets and looked around the hotel room. It was almost as if no one had been here last night. Two unopened Pellegrino water bottles were on the dresser. The TV armoire door was sealed tight, and so was the mini-bar. But he
was
here—and he couldn't believe that the woman you hope—pray—dream—will be in your arms—actually was. That your imagination doesn't match reality. She wanted to be with you as much as you with her. That her skin was softer than you could have imagined, her kisses had more heat than you could've imagined.

When they were making love, for a second, he felt a sharp pain between his shoulder blades—her nails. Digging in. Not letting go. She apologized, but she didn't have to—if he had nails that weren't so short, he would have done the same thing. And for the first time that he could remember—when he woke up he didn't hear the same chorus he heard every morning for years—I hate my life. It was gone.

Jimmy didn't want to check his beeper. He did it anyway. He rolled onto his stomach, and stretched his arm down to the carpet to retrieve the pager. To see what misery awaited him, what was going to be the boot to kick him out of heaven.

A message. Shit. He pushed the button to retrieve it, then he felt a weight on his back. Erin. With her hair still wet, and wrapped in a towel, she lay on top of him. Her legs matching his, her head on his back, her lightly freckled arms draped over his.

“Forget the beeper,” she said.

“My dream.” He let it drop back to the rug.

“I'll make a deal with you,” Erin said.

“Accepted.”

“You haven't heard it yet.”

“I still accept. What is it?” Jimmy said.

“We turn off the pager. Turn off the phone, bolt the door and just stay here.”

“Till when?”

“Till the hotel runs out of food.”

She kissed the back of his neck, then his shoulders, and then the top of his head. He turned and found her lips.

She slipped off.

“Better check the beeper, detective,” she said.

He pushed the button.

“What's it say?”

“My deep cover.”

“You have one? On this case?”

“I should have told you, but …”

“But never tell
anyone
about a deep cover,” Erin said.

“You're not anyone. I'm sorry. Her name's Robin English and she's hanging out with the street kids. She's new, couple of months out of the academy, so nobody knows her face.”

“How's she doing?”

“Don't know. But she wants to meet tonight.”

They pulled onto Sunset. Rain was crashing down, slowing the traffic to a crawl. Jimmy glanced to the side and saw Erin staring out the window.

“You okay?” he said softly.

“Just thinking. You know, about Rick.”

“What are you gonna tell him?”

“For now, that I worked all night, and had court in the morning. It wouldn't be the first time. Only usually, I sleep on the benches outside the third floor courts.”

“It's tough.”

“The writing's been on the wall for a while. It wasn't going to last. But sure, it's still tough.”

She lit a smoke. And Jimmy knew he had to deal with it too. But strangely, he sort of knew the way it would all go down—there are people you know forever but don't ever truly know—his dad for example, and then there were others you just know everything about. Dani was like that. She wasn't going to do cartwheels when they broke up, but in her heart she would get it. And in Jimmy's heart, he prayed that she would get out of all this shit which was making her so unhappy. Become that teacher, maybe even in LA. Then she could still chase the dream, and if the stars miraculously lined up, he might see her in a sitcom or even a movie. Someone as great as Dani deserved someone like her, who was her age, and ready to go the distance. And maybe he'd get a birth announcement from her some day. Was it going to be easy—no way—he could already feel all the pain and heartache, but they both knew what they had was never going to really last.

Erin ran her palm down the side of his face, maybe reading his mind. He nodded, and then dialed his cell to check in with Charles. He gave Jimmy the latest: Tulip's murder.

Jimmy felt it like a punch. She was a good kid. Yeah, she was a tough street kid, but in her own way she was a sweet, nice girl. He told Erin and it hit her, too. Anyone who spent more than two minutes with Tulip would have the same reaction. She was a ruby in the muck, so of course, some asshole greases her.

“Who you with?” Charles said.

“Erin.”

“You guys getting anyplace?”

“For once, yeah.”

“Well hurry up. This shit's bad,” Charles said. “First the mayor's pal, then, a day later, that hustler kid Saint Paul, and now Tulip. Fuckin' Wild West time.”

“Wait a second. Paul too?”

“New case. The kid committed suicide.”

“I just heard that name.”

“Well it's too late to interview him,” Charles said.

“Where'd he off himself?”

“Your favorite spot—the Chateau.”

“And he's smoked the day after the mayor's buddy?” Jimmy said.

“I told you—it was a suicide.”

“Fuck me …”

56

I
t was leaking all over in the morgue. Jimmy thought it was bizarre that a basement could have so many leaks, but walking down the dimly lit corridor, you needed an umbrella. But almost everyone here was dead, so it wasn't going to bother them. He and Erin squeezed past a long line of parked gurneys, dodged some major puddles, and finally reached Christian's office. The radio was on and playing opera of all things. Some diva was belting it out; whatever was happening in her life, she sure felt the passion. But Christian was gone and his secretary's desk was empty too.

“Tough life,” Jimmy said. He looked up at the clock. It was ten-fifteen. “Coffee time. Can't miss that.”

He dropped into the secretary's chair and reached for the computer mouse.

“Think it's okay?” Erin said.

“He won't mind. We're buddies.”

You didn't have to be Bill Gates to figure out the morgue computer. Jimmy was sure it was this simple for a reason—if the best secretary job in LA was sitting outside the office of the president of some movie studio, this one, corpse-adjacent, had to be the worst. They didn't get the cream of the crop down here. Erin leaned over his shoulder as he scrolled through the records of each day's new arrivals.

“There,” Erin said. She pointed to the top of the screen, where Paul was listed. Jimmy clicked on his name, and the details came up.

“Woah. Jackpot.”

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” he heard behind him.

Jimmy turned around and saw Christian, Starbucks cup in hand, rushing towards them.

“I rang the bell for service, but nobody came.”

“You can't do that, Jimmy.”

Then Christian glanced at Erin. He held the look, a second more than he should, and Jimmy saw his chance. Jimmy introduced them, and Christian gave Erin his best ‘I'm interested' smile. But he put his interest on hold long enough to stretch past Jimmy and click the screen back to the desktop.

“Can't go in there, kids.”

“Why not?” Erin said.

“Because they're our records.”

“I didn't know they were restricted from the LAPD.”

“They're not,” Christian said.

“So we can see them?” Erin said.

“You can. But you have to go through channels.” He was getting a lot less interested.

“Christian,” Jimmy said, “those files—they honest?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Straight one. Are they?”

“Yeah, they're honest.”

“Then let me ask you something. A kid named Paul McCloskey—you remember him?”

“Vaguely.”

“Vaguely?”

“We do a volume business here.”

“Well, he supposedly dies the day after the mayor's pal,” Jimmy said. “And you know what the particulars were?”

“Tell me.”

“According to the sheet, not only did Paul die the very next night, but it was at the very same hotel. Different room, but same floor. That's one hell of a coincidence.”

“What are you saying?”

“You tell me—what do you make of all this?” Jimmy said.

“A kid kills himself? Happens as often as you go to Starbucks. We don't exactly send out press releases for cases like that.”

“So everything's copasetic on his case?”

“Sure.”

“You know what Paul did for a living?” Erin said.

“No idea.”

“He was a hustler,” she said.

“So?”

“So, Jimmy said, “I think it's too much of a fucking coincidence. You'd have to be some sort of idiot to believe that kinda coincidence.”

“Tough shit, Jimmy—that's the way it went down.”

“That's what the computer says, that's what you say. I'll tell you what I think—I think our boy may have died in the
same
room as the mayor's buddy. And then someone moved him.”