Trust Me (8 page)

CHAPTER 15

⍫

Jeff felt weird.
It was the kind of weird that usually a drink would fix, or something, but he didn’t think so. Not this time. It was like, once he got started, he didn’t trust how it would end up. This feeling weird, though, he was getting tired of it. A week now he’d been waiting for it to go away and it just wouldn’t lighten up.

“Jeffrey?” Goddammit. Now what?

“Yeah, Mom. I’ll be right out.” Maybe he was sick. He looked around. He’d grown up in this room, but now it was just “the guest room” and didn’t look anything like before. It seemed smaller, too. Now he was a guest, already feeling that he had overstayed his welcome.

“Jeffrey? I’m going to the market—is there anything you want?” His mother was in the hallway, on the other side of the door. He got up and opened it.

“Hi, Mom. You want me to come with you?” She was still pretty, he thought, her hair in a bun and her face smooth except for the lines at her eyes and a pain there that was more pronounced than ever before.

“Are you going to go like that?” With her hint of a German accent and a disapproving glance.

“Jesus, Mom, it’s hot out there.” He was wearing gray trunks, a tee shirt, and sandals.

“No, it’s all right. Fine, fine, come along then.” She turned to go. He threw on a pair of slacks and a real shirt and joined her in the kitchen.

There were three huge dogs in the kitchen, jostling each other to be closest to his mother as she walked around the room gathering her keys and purse and shopping list. The dogs were excited because they thought they were going for a walk.

“No, babies, not now. Maybe Jeffrey will be nice and take you for a walk later.” It made him crazy, the way she called them her babies, these big dumb strays she kept adopting. Christ, the amount of food they ate. Here he was, thirty-one years old, staying much longer than he intended at his parents’ house. Staying in the guest room most of the time. Doing little chores. Walking the idiot dogs. But when he thought about going back to his apartment in the Canyon, he just couldn’t see it. He felt too weird.

⍫

The morning after he’d run out of gas coming home from Pop’s, he’d finally called his parents. It was Friday and he had slept until ten, then gotten up and straggled to the kitchen. In the cupboard was a can of peaches. He fumbled with a nearly useless can opener for a moment before he finally got the top off and then took the can and a spoon over to his desk. When the peaches were gone, he found some aspirin in his desk drawer and downed them with the heavy syrup. He could already feel the sugar fix coming on.

He had punched the speakerphone button and a dial tone blared out into the room. His parents’ number was pre-programmed on his landline. When he heard his father’s voice after the first ring, he picked up the handset in such a hurry that it clattered on the desktop.

“Dad. It’s me. I’ve been out of town. I just found out. I’m so sorry—how’s Mom?”

“Not so good.” It was his father’s usual “don’t bullshit me” voice. “What’s going on with you? Can’t you even return a phone call?”

“Hey, I’ve been screwing up. Things are all screwed up. I’m sorry I was out of touch. In more ways than I can explain.” It sounded lame but it was all he had to say.

“Look, Jeff . . .” Calling him Jeff instead of Jeffrey—that was a good sign. It meant that the old guy was lightening up. “Why don’t you come stay with us for a few days? I think your mother would appreciate it.”

“Okay,” he found himself saying, “I think I’ll do that. I’ll see you soon.”

His father said, “Good,” and then hung up.

Beach traffic noise came in from the street through the window. He thought about his sister. When they were kids they had been inseparable. Young Jeff and his little sister. She had turned into such a straight arrow, and he had gone the opposite direction. They seemed to have grown apart, but they still talked on the phone occasionally. He had saved her life once, pulled her out of the ocean during a rough summer swell. For a long time after that he was the protective big brother who could do no wrong. He had lost that status some years ago, he realized, and now she was gone. With his elbow on his desk, he rested his forehead in his hand and shook his head back and forth slowly. Christ, he thought, it’s all coming apart.

⍫

“Jeff. Are you here, or are you flying around in space somewhere?” His mother’s voice startled him.

“No, Mom, I was just thinking about Marilyn.”

“That’s good. I don’t want you doing any of your funny stuff here in our house. It’s bad enough what your father does.” She had that lips-pursed look of disapproval again. Jeff hated that look.

Later, after they unloaded the groceries, he told his mother he was going to run the dogs up at the park. It was late afternoon and all she said was, “Be home for dinner. You know how your father is about that.” He rounded up the dogs and their leashes and shepherded the beasts into his mother’s station wagon.

An hour later he arrived home just in time to join his parents for dinner. His father was already seated at the end of the dining room table, his hand curled around a snifter of brandy. The man’s face was red and he stared down into his dinner as if he had been served a plate of earthworms. Jeff glanced at his mother—her lips were compressed to a pair of thin white lines as she brought his plate and then sat down.

His father took a long draught of the brandy and then resumed staring at his spaghetti, moving his head around as if he were inspecting something for minute flaws. He poked delicately at a meatball and then looked up accusingly at Jeff’s mother.

Jeff began eating. He was used to this, but tonight had an extra intensity to it that he was determined to ignore.

“So, Jeff,” his mother began, “did you know your sister was going to meetings?”

“Meetings?” he said with his mouth full of pasta. “What kind of meetings?”

“I don’t know what kind of meetings.” She primly wiped the corners of her mouth.

“Bullshit.” His father glared across the table. “Bullshit meetings where everyone sits around and blames their parents for everything.” He resumed the inspection of his meal.

Jeff’s mother said, “She started going with her friend Kathy. She liked going.” She, too, stared down at her food, taking little birdlike nibbles without looking up.

He took a few bites of salad and watched out of the corner of his eye as the old man drained his bourbon. He thought,
The old boy’s mean as a snake tonight
.

A string of curses hissed from his father’s mouth. “Goddamn fucking son of a bitch.” He twirled his fork in the spaghetti. The strands were too short—Jeff’s mother always cut them that way.

“After thirty-five years of marriage, you’d think I could get my spaghetti the way I like it.” He slurred as he spoke and then slammed his fist on the table. There was a silence. It seemed to last for a long time. Jeff stared off at the wall and thought about how good Janet had looked, and pictured her taillights receding in the night as he pulled the Audi over to the curb, the gas tank empty.

Suddenly there was a motion. His mother picked up her glass and flung iced water across the table. His father flinched as the ice struck him. A slice of lemon bounced off his cheek and landed in the spaghetti. Drenched, the old man scowled for a moment and then started to get up, his open hand raised as if to strike across the table. His chair clattered to the floor behind him.

Jeff jumped up from his position between his parents, one hand out to keep his father at bay. “Oh no, goddammit, not while I’m around.” His father looked up at him from a half-standing position, gave a barely perceptible nod, and walked out of the room. “Jesus, Mom.” She gave a small shrug and resumed eating. They finished together in silence. Jeff cleared the table. “You okay?” he asked her. She nodded. He said, “Good, ’cause I’m going out for a while.”

CHAPTER 16

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He backed the Audi out of his parents’ driveway, changed gears and headed toward Crescent Heights Boulevard.
A drink sounded like a good idea. No, he thought, a drink is a bad idea. The two things hung in the balance, tilting, for the moment, just slightly in favor of Let’s Not Drink. He wondered how long he could keep it that way.

It was past eight but still light out. Daylight savings was a weird thing, Jeff thought. It should work the other way around.

He decided it was time to go to his apartment and headed west on Olympic. He didn’t have to stay there, just go check things out. He had left the cash and the gun hidden in the waste basket—that hadn’t been such a great idea. Of course, he hadn’t meant to stay away for so long. A day or two, maybe, but now it was Friday already, a week later.

It was dark when he reached the Canyon. He parked on the next block over and walked to his place—he didn’t really know why. Something didn’t seem right but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He climbed the stairs and heard music. It was coming from the apartment across from his. He could see his neighbor, Liz, through the screen door. She had a bathrobe on and a towel around her hair and a glass of wine in her hand.

“Hey, stranger, what’s going on?” She came up to the screen door and grinned. Once in a while they would get together late at night, like each was a consolation prize for the other after striking out at the bars.

“Not much, Liz. How’re you doing?” Actually, she was a great consolation prize. He wondered why he hadn’t tried to spend more time with her. Probably just because they were neighbors. After all, she was right there. Too complicated.

“Missed you lately,” she said. The deal was, if he came home at the end of the evening and Liz’s door was open, he was welcome to spend the night with her. Which he occasionally did, and they had fun, except it always felt strange leaving.

Strange, like he felt now. He mumbled, “Excuse me,” and turned to the door of his apartment. There was a rectangular sign on it, but he couldn’t read it because the bulb in his doorway was burned out. When he moved slightly to one side, the light from Liz’s apartment illuminated the sign. It was a thirty-day pay-or-quit notice. Great, he thought, just what I need. But he could pay the rent out of the money in the wastebasket, and cover Richard when Gary came through. No problem.

He opened the screen door and put his key in the lock. The door swung inward from the pressure of the key; he heard a snapping sound as a piece of the frame stretched and released. The doorjamb was in splinters. Something white fell to the ground. He picked it up and read, Detective Joe Greiner—Homicide Division, West Los Angeles Police Department.
Holy Christ
, he thought,
the cops have been inside
. He turned around.

“Liz?”

She turned her music down and came to the screen door. “You okay?” She took a sip of her wine.

“Have you noticed anyone around here? Looking for me?” He wondered if how he felt showed in his voice.

“Can’t say,” she told him. “I just got back from Palm Springs. Why, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing. Got a notice for late rent, that’s all. Oh well, see ya.” He went into his apartment.

He stood in the dark, holding the door shut behind him, trying to picture what he knew he was going to see. As his eyes grew accustomed to the absence of light, he could make out the disarray of things; the mattress half off the bed, desk drawers all pulled open.

He flicked on the light switch but nothing happened. Jesus, another goddamn bill to pay. He shuffled over some debris and into his kitchen. The cupboards were all flung open too. He reached above the fridge and found a flashlight, one of the big, black metal ones like the cops used. Its beam was bright and narrow. He played it around the apartment.

The place was trashed. Across the room in his closet he could see that all his clothes were on the floor. Books and old CDs were strewn about.

He walked around the desk and pointed the beam down to the wastebasket. It was empty, and the garbage that had covered the stash was on the carpet. He turned to the desk. It had been cleared entirely. In its center was his gun, serving as a paperweight for a folded sheet. He slid the note out from under the gun and opened it up.

Jeff. You should have returned my calls. 26 1/2K. Not bad. You still owe me 12. Too bad about your door. Rich.

Okay. Twelve thousand. Rent plus the bills added up to another thousand, and Gary owed him sixteen. So he had three thousand bucks, plus a few hundred in his wallet. Okay, it was still manageable. He wondered how the cop’s business card fit into the picture.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and punched in Gary’s number. The fucker better answer, he thought. All week long he had tried calling and only succeeded in getting Gary’s stupid phone message. It wasn’t really even a message, just half a minute of an old fifties tune. After the third ring he heard it again, “What’s your name, is it Mary or Sue . . .” and ending with, “Shooby-doop-bop-doowah.”

Slamming down the receiver, he put the gun in his pants and walked over to the closet area. He found a sports jacket on the floor and put it on, then flashed the beam around the room one last time and left.

CHAPTER 17

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Referring back to his list, Ron Pool noted that only four of the eight girls had families in the area.
Not surprising, he thought. The lifestyle, the sense of possibility, and the allure of Hollywood conspired to attract young women from all parts of the country to this small, quirky area in Southern California.

He picked up his office phone and dialed the first number on the list. On the second ring the other end picked up and a male voice answered, “Yes?”

Ron asked, “Is this Mr. Mills?”

“Who’s calling?” the voice was curt and aggressive.

“My name is Ron Pool. I’m with the
Times
and I’m calling to ask a few questions about your daughter.”

“Which daughter?”

“Nancy.”

There was a long pause. Then the voice at the other end of the line simply said, “Yeah. One thing. No way Nancy jumped. No way. That’s all I got. Don’t call again.” Click. End of first call. And not a very fruitful call at that. He made a notation—“sisters”—next to Nancy Mills’ name, and reflected on the father’s reaction. He wondered if it was standard fare for parents to deny the possibility of their children being suicide victims. Then he pondered the phrase “suicide victim.” Why were they called victims? Why not “suicide perpetrators”?

He cut short the possibility of a prolonged meditation on personal responsibility and dialed the next entry. The first three digits identified it as a Pacific Palisades number. An answering machine picked up—“Hi, you’ve reached the Fullertons; we’re not available right now but please leave a message at the tone.” Ron started to leave a message but was interrupted by a woman saying, “Hold on, hold on, just let me turn this damn thing off.” There was a small click as the answering device cut out, and then the woman came back on. “Yes, who is it?”

He introduced himself and asked if they could talk briefly about her daughter.

“Well,” the woman hesitated, “she was a good girl. She had some problems but I still don’t believe she took her own life. Are you writing a story?”

“No,” he said, “I’m trying to put together a puzzle.”

“What do you mean, a puzzle? And how can I help?” Something in the woman’s voice made him decide to be candid with her.

“I think,” he told her, “that there’s more here than meets the eye.”

“So do I,” the woman said. “I was very dissatisfied with what the police had to say.”

“May I come out and speak to you in person?” He knew from experience that more would be revealed in a face-to-face conversation than over the phone.

She replied, “Yes, by all means,” and told him today would be fine and how to get to her house.

One more number to call, then he would drive out to Pacific Palisades. On the way back, he planned to stop at St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica and see if anyone had anything to say about nurse Nancy Mills.

He dialed the last number, the family of Laura Hunsaker in Woodland Hills. She was the one that a hiker had found in a ravine in Idyllwild. The one with the same drug in her system as Marilyn Fenner.

His call went to voice mail. He left his name and number and stated the reason for his call, then hung up and made a note to locate Marilyn Fenner’s family.

⍫

He had always liked the Palisades. It was neat and clean, with expensive homes and broad, manicured lawns. The streets were wide and lined with trees. Too bad the whole country can’t live like this, he thought.

The Fullertons lived in a ranch-style home on a corner lot just off Sunset Boulevard. A new Mercedes was parked in the driveway, which was lined with immaculately kept roses. Mrs. Fullerton came out to greet him as he stepped out of the Land Rover. She was a pretty woman of about fifty, hair pulled straight back in a ponytail, in jeans and a tank top. Her arms were slender and tanned. She pulled off a gardening glove and shook his hand.

“Hi, I’m Ann Fullerton.” She led him into the house. Inside, there was a smartness about the decor which matched Ann Fullerton perfectly. In the kitchen, she handed him a tray with a pitcher of ice tea and some cheese and crackers and said, “Let’s go out in back.”

They sat at a patio table on a huge redwood deck that overlooked a swimming pool and, beyond, a lawn surrounded by fruit trees and a profusion of flowers. Ann Fullerton poured the ice teas and settled back in her chair.

“It’s been a year and a half since we lost Linda,” she said, “and I still think she’s going to pop into the house any time now. Like that creepy old story about the hunting party.”

“Did she seem particularly troubled before it happened? Did you keep in touch?” he asked her.

“We were best friends. Like two schoolgirls. She kept me young. She told me everything, or at least that’s what I always thought.” Mrs. Fullerton looked out over the pool and her eyes narrowed for a moment. Ron just waited.

“You know,” she went on, “I think she did have one secret. I think she was seeing someone she didn’t want me to know about. I don’t know why. It’s just a hunch. Never occurred to me before.”

“Did she date a lot?”

“Well, she was a beautiful girl, so, yes, there were boyfriends. But not for quite a while. You see, she had had a few experiences that weren’t good, so she told me she was taking a time-out from relationships. She started going to these meetings, some self-help kind of thing, where they talked about relationships. Significant others, self-esteem stuff. Psychobabble, I called it.”

“Did you go to any of these meetings?” He helped himself to cheese and crackers.

“Yes, I did. It was very entertaining. They had a funny name—SOL, stood for Saving Our Lives. Kind of a sad acronym, isn’t it?” She smiled and shook her head. “They were all so serious. But Linda, she was upbeat all the time.”

⍫

He drove down Chautauqua toward the beach. He and Ann Fullerton had talked for a while, finishing their ice teas and occasionally just listening to the suburban outdoor sounds—birds and insects, children playing in a neighboring yard. She was beautiful, smart, and affluent. He liked her and tried to imagine her carrying the weight of her daughter’s death. And the girl had gone to SOL meetings. Now there was a coincidence.