2 Sisters Detective Agency(35)

“You couldn’t possibly know,” he said.

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” she said. She was standing apart from him now, brushing off her bare arms as though his touch had made her dirty. She didn’t say any more, but he could sense the rest of it. You’d be surprised what a woman can tolerate, ignore, deny. She straightened. “They asked me today if you’re beating me.”

He said nothing.

“One of the social worker types. She was very discreet,” Neina said. “She gave me a card with a number to call. Told me to hide it. Other people can see it in you now. They can see that you’re dangerous. You think perfect strangers can see it and I can’t?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he said. “Go back and sit with Beaty. I’ll be done soon.”

“This isn’t what I want,” Neina said. “I want my family back together.”

He knew she was crying, but he wouldn’t look. Jacob began sanding the box again.





Chapter 43



By the time the SWAT team had evacuated the school and handed the parking lot crime scene over to the local police, it was sunset outside the Stanford-West Academy. Baby sat on the curb with her chin in her hands, her phone for once forgotten in the handbag at her feet. Neither Ashton nor Miss Go Fuck Yourself had been among the crowds that eventually came around to gawk.

I’d offered a range of explanations about the Buick Skylark’s explosion to the officers who’d approached me as the hours passed. I’d feigned flat-out confusion. I’d claimed the car was possessed by an angry demon, or by the ghost of my deranged father. My words initially managed to shut down further explorations by the authorities of what had happened. The men and women who dealt with the scene seemed simply relieved that there had been no one seriously injured.

While I waited for another round of questioning, I stood in the corner of the lot and watched a forensic photographer unload equipment from his car. Sometimes it’s the people on the sidelines, those quiet, unobtrusive workers, who offer the most assistance when working an investigation—the photographers, crime-scene sketch artists, cleanup crews, and junior officers who work crowd control. I had learned from many years of experience looking for witnesses and new angles on my cases that these people were far more useful than the higher ranking, more “important” people involved in solving a crime.

I approached as the photographer was clipping a lens to the front of the camera hanging around his neck.

“Ma’am.” He smiled, showing bright white teeth. “How many dead?”

“None,” I said.

“Oh.” He seemed a little disheartened.

“It’s my car that exploded.” I pointed. “So I’m having a terrible day. How do you like the idea of doing a favor for a woman who could use some cheering up?”

“Depends on what it is.” The guy smirked.

“You must know some other crime-scene photographers in town, right?”

“Sure.” He shrugged. “Couple of guys I know who work up north.”

“Do you know who worked the shooting in Trousdale Estates last night? The teenager?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged again. “Why?”

“I’m just interested in those pictures.”

“You a journalist?” he asked.

“Maybe.” I mimicked his shrug. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. I’d taken some cash from the three-million-dollar bundle of trouble now hidden in my father’s bathroom. I fanned them discreetly for the photographer. “Does it matter?”

“Nope,” the photographer said. He had the money and my business card smuggled inside his chest pocket in a flash. This was someone used to making the maneuver. “I’ll get in touch.”

I headed back to the smoking wreck of my car. I knew I was in trouble when a new officer approached. He strode toward me across the lot in what was the most formfitting police uniform of the day, a pitch-black outfit that hugged his enormous muscular frame. It was obvious that Los Angeles police officers had a thing about appearances. I’d seen a number of them check their reflections in the cars around me while they guarded the wreck of my vehicle.

Officer Summerly’s name badge gleamed in the setting sun, making me squint as he stood squarely in front of me. This didn’t seem like a man who was going to be as easy to manipulate as the crime-scene photographer. He was not going to be easily brushed off with strange tales about the explosion like his fellow officers had been.

“Okay.” Summerly took off his cap and wiped sweat from his temples with a stark black handkerchief he had taken from his trouser pocket. “Let me hear it.”

“Ejector seat,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“The car is a retired stunt car,” I lied, looking at the smoking wreck. “Or it was. The car was mechanically altered in preparation for a small film that was supposed to be shot in Watkins, Colorado, in 1993. The Adventures of Leopardo Smith. You ever hear of it?”

“Wha—No.” Summerly shook his head like he had water in his ears.

“Leopardo was a spy. The ejector seat was a security measure, for if he was ever cornered by villains in his car,” I said. “There was a whole scene scheduled where a henchman would attack him from the back seat, and he’d shoot to safety. I bought the car off the lot when the film’s funding was withdrawn. I guess after all these years the mechanism exploded. Maybe the heat here in Los Angeles set off the…the ignition plugs, or whatever.” I shrugged helplessly.