59.
My sister came by my hotel suite, bearing with her a bottle of merlot.
Now we were sitting on my bed, legs tucked under us, sipping from our glasses. Mary Lou was on her second glass and already buzzed. I was nowhere near being buzzed. In fact, my last buzz had been when I sucked the blood out of the gang-banger.
"So your case is over?" said Mary Lou.
"Yes, I suppose."
"You suppose?" she asked. "It was in the paper. The police found their man. Your name wasn't mentioned of course. Although that hunky detective had his mug on the front page. Sherbert or something."
"Sherbet," I corrected. "And he is kind of hunky, huh?"
She shrugged. "In a grizzly bear sort of way."
"Sometimes that's the best way."
"Sometimes," she said. "So why do you suppose?"
"I think we got the wrong guy."
"The detective seems to think you got the right guy."
"We're missing something, I'm not sure what."
"Tell me about it?," she said, topping off her glass. "Walk me through it, maybe I can help you."
"Perhaps you could have helped before you started on your third glass."
"You know I'm very lucid when I drink. Give me a shot. Lay it on me."
And so I did. Everything, from working through the files with Kingsley's secretary, Sara, to the multiple break-ins and the subsequent arrest.
"Other than the fact I don't agree with you tampering with evidence," said Mary Lou, "I don't see any holes here. Horton had the evidence, the files. He had the motive, and he even had a similar weapon registered to him."
"I have no doubt he killed Kingsley's client," I said.
"You just don't think he was the shooter who attacked your attorney."
"No," I said. "I don't."
"Why?"
"For one, they don't look alike."
"He was wearing a disguise," said Mary Lou, over enunciating her words, as she always did when she drank. "Anyone who's seen the video knows that was a fake mustache."
"Horton was clumsy," I said. "Sherbet and I watched Horton struggle with a trash can, and then slip and fall on his ass. He was as athletic as a warthog."
"I don't understand."
"The killer was athletic. Damn athletic. At one point in the video, he leaps smoothly over a bench�D"
"And shoots him," said Mary Lou. "Yeah, I remember that. I re-watched the video after you took this case. That stood out. Wow, you're good, sis."
I shrugged. "Still don't know who he is."
"Maybe it's not a he," said Mary Lou.
Something perked up within me. "What do you mean?"
"What about his sister? Didn't you mention Horton had a sister?"
I nodded. "She lives in Washington state and is currently recuperating from a broken ankle she suffered a month ago. She was in no condition to shoot and jump over a bench."
"How do you know this?" she asked.
"I'm not considered a super sleuth for nothing."
"Do you think Horton was working alone?"
"I don't know," I said. My gut told me no, but I didn't say anything.
"You going to drink that?" asked Mary Lou, motioning for my glass. I gave it to her. She poured the contents of mine into what was left of hers. "And, since I know you like the back of my hand, you won't rest easy until you find the shooter."
"No," I said, "I won't."
"Perhaps you won't have to wait long, especially if he has an accomplice."
"What do you mean?"
"You were third on the hit list. Perhaps the accomplice will find you."
"Perhaps," I said. "And for the record, I never rest easy."
60.
An hour after Mary Lou left the hotel phone rang.
I had been staring down at the lights of Brea, lost in my own thoughts, when the phone rang, startling me. I nearly jumped out of my pale, cold skin at the sound of the ringing phone. I answered it.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Moon?"
"Yes."
"It's the front desk. We have a fax waiting for you in the lobby."
"Thank you. I'll be down in a minute."
With the fax in hand and back in my hotel room, I hunkered down in one of the straight-back chairs and started reading. The cover letter was printed in tight, unwavering letters. Very cop-like. No surprise since the fax was from Sherbet. In his cover letter, he reminded me that the information contained within was confidential. He also reminded me that the case was closed, that he was looking to retire soon, and the last thing he needed was for me to make his life more difficult. He signed his name with an awkward happy face: the eyes were off-set and the mouth was just a long ghoulish gash, a sort of perversion of the Wal-Mart happy face. I wondered if this was Sherbet's first happy face. Ever.
The rest of the fax consisted of Rick Horton's phone records spanning the last four months. Riveting reading to be sure, so I settled in with a packet of chilled hemoglobin. I flipped through the records methodically, because I am nothing if not methodical. Anyone with eternity on their side damn well better be methodical. I read each number. I looked at dates and times and locations. Most of it was meaningless, of course, but some information began to emerge. First, Rick Horton was obsessed with his sister. A half dozen calls were made to his sister in Washington state each day. Second, Horton had made a handful of calls to Kingsley's office. In fact, eighteen calls in all. Prank calls? Or had Kingsley been in personal contact with Horton?
Next, I searched for key dates and key times and was not really surprised to discover that an hour or so before both Kingsley's shooting and the Hewlett Jackson murder a telephone call had been placed to the same unknown number. It was a local number.
I dialed the number from my hotel phone, which should be untraceable. I waited, discovered that my heartbeat had increased. I was calling the true killer, I was sure of it. In fact, I felt more than sure. I just knew.
The line picked up.
A generic voice mail message. I hung up. Maybe I should have left a nasty little message. Then again, I didn't want to scare the killer away, as ironic as that sounds.
Instead, I flipped open my address book and called my ex-partner, Chad Helling. He didn't answer. Typical. I left Chad a voice mail message asking for a trace on the cell number. Once done, I stepped back to the window, pulled aside the curtain and continued staring down at the city.
