“What then? Surely, you don’t think I’d ever reveal to anyone where I got it? You couldn’t have so little trust in me, not as close as we’ve been.”
“I trust you.” He spoke in a low voice. It never failed. Rochelle the Bitch always got what she wanted, when the real Rochelle could not.
“The toys,” she said.
“We need to discuss dosage.”
“Sure thing.”
“And you can’t say a word to anyone.”
“You know I won’t, Blond.”
He looked over his shoulder and smoothed the shellacked sweep of hair across his forehead. “Come on, then.”
She’d won. At least, Rochelle the Bitch had won. As she followed him to the lockers, she caught a glimpse of her ass in the wall mirror. She must have been out of her mind to wear white.
The toys would soon be hers. And not a moment too soon.
Rikki
We’re almost there, and I’m still trying to deal with the look I got from Lucas when I left, as if he knew something I didn’t. I’m also trying to figure out what to say to Blond Elvis, how to scare him enough to tell me the truth—about Lisa, about Julie. Hamilton leans back in the passenger seat and says he’s going to put on some music. Instead, my CD case in his lap, we talk nonstop about Killer Body and Julie Larimore.
I tell him everything except the nagging suspicion I’ve had since I woke up at after three in the morning, sweat-drenched and chilled to the bone. I can’t say anything until I have more than intuition to go on. But I do have more. I have Tania Marie’s convincing story, her impassioned eyes haunting me with their guileless honesty. I have what Lucas revealed about the Killer Body code of ethics and what it would cost Julie Larimore to break it.
Hamilton calls me a “lead foot,” but I know he’s okay with my driving. He seems relaxed, as if he’s gotten a good night’s sleep, and I think, with only a little remorse, that whatever he did after he left the casino must have been good for him.
Our first stop after leaving the harbor is Roberta Matlock’s gallery in Los Olivos. She’s as drifty as she was the first time, moving back and forth between clarity and ambiguity. She greets us, carrying a large magnifying glass. With her gray hair spread out over a long black tunic, she looks like the Good Witch in a fairy tale.
“You can tell what I’ve been doing,” she says with a laugh. “Didn’t realize how much stuff I’ve collected.”
“You haven’t found the news story yet?” I ask.
“Not yet. I’ve been concentrating on the yearbooks. Once I remember her name and the dates she was in my class, it will be easier for me to find the newspaper. It just takes a heck of a long time.”
I accept a cup of tea from her. Hamilton declines. I can feel his doubt, even when Roberta tells us she remembers where Julie and her sister were raised.
“It was sold years ago,” she said. “The current owner is renting it out.”
“Do you know who lives there now?”
She shakes her head. “He’s not a patron of the arts, I’m afraid. I’ve seen him a couple of times at the market.”
“We could drive out there.” It’s Hamilton’s way of telling me he wants a smoke and an excuse to get out of here. In the car, he fumbles for a cigarette, lights up and pulls down the window. “We can find the story faster ourselves.”
“You never know,” I say.
“Are you sure a little girl named Julie ever shot her father?” he says. “Are you sure the child that Matlock woman remembers was really Julie Larimore?”
“No,” I admit. “But even a possible lead is better than no lead at all.”
Having had his fix, and knowing how much I hate it, he tosses the cigarette out the window.
“Have you smoked forever?” I ask.
He flashes me a sour look. “For about six months when I was fifteen. Then, after my divorce. It’s only temporary.”
“That’s good.”
