Wendy Hornsby - Midnight Baby

I headed down to the bay and found a parking place in front of the library on Bayshore Drive. The sun had burned off most of the morning haze, leaving only a thin yellow pall of smog that accumulated at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains in the distance. The air was clear enough that I could see Catalina in sharp outline across the water.

Barefoot, I walked along the damp sand, sipping Coke, tossing bits of zucchini high into the air for diving seagulls to catch. Water lapped gently against the arc of shore, rocking the big boats that were moored on the far side of the bay. On that far side, I could see the mouth of the canal where the Ramsdales, and Martha, lived. Or had lived. Bright red and pink geraniums and vivid trailing bougainvillea contrasted with the green moss that climbed the gray cement bridges and clung to the seawall. I dug my toes into the fine sand, remembering how slimy that moss felt below the waterline.

When the zucchini was all gone, a pair of gulls hovered overhead, ever greedy for more.

George killed Randy. Ever greedy for more.

I sat down on the sand, and the gulls landed nearby, watching me, creeping closer, eyeing my hands and pecking at each other the whole time. I found a broken shell and drew two columns in the sand, one for George, one for Elizabeth.

When I saw them as competitors, pecking at each other as the gulls did, it all began to make sense in a corrupt way.

George acted. Elizabeth reacted. And Hillary, caught between them, ran away in fear for her life. I could see how her running could work to Elizabeth’s advantage. As long as she wasn’t identified.

I was thinking about Randy, about how no one seemed to give a damn about him, when the pager on my belt buzzed. The readout said two, as in code two, come with lights and sirens. I stood and brushed off the sand. The gulls walked close beside me until I slam-dunked the Coke cup and the empty zucchini bag into a trash can. When it was clear I had no riches to offer, they abandoned me.

The drive back downtown, following the shoreline, took less than ten minutes. At the police station the desk officer had me escorted through a linoleum maze to a far and dingy remove from the bright water out front.

Mike and Sergeant Mahakian came out of a side cubicle, laughing, to greet me.

Mahakian looked me over with rude scrutiny. He turned to Mike. “You win. She looks fine.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I asked, nonplussed to be the butt of something here.

Mike took my arm, squeezed my biceps. “Remind me not to tangle with you.”

“Mike,” I hissed. “What?”

“You neglected to tell me you broke George’s nose last night.”

“I knew I’d connected pretty well. I didn’t think I’d broken anything. Is he okay?”

“His eyes are nearly puffed shut and he’ll need to get wired together before he can smell the roses again. Other than that, he’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling the heat rise in my face. “I only wanted to get away. I didn’t mean to maim him.”

“What did you use?” Mahakian asked.

“Mike’s flashlight.”

It was Mike’s turn to blush. “No war stories, okay?”

I shrugged. “Why did you page me?”

Mahakian moved a step closer. “I understand Metrano assaulted you last night.”

“He grabbed me.”

“Did he use a weapon of any kind?”

“Not really. He used the flashlight to break my car window.”

“Were you in the car at the time?”

“Yes, I was.”

Mahakian and Mike exchanged smiles. “Got it.”

“Now what?” I demanded.

“We want you to file charges against Metrano under the new stalking law,” Mahakian said. “We can make a case he’s been following you around. We’ll throw in assault with a deadly weapon, malicious mischief two counts – the boat and the tires – to see if we can talk the judge out of granting bail.”

“Isn’t murder enough?” I asked.

“We don’t have enough to charge him with murder, or even manslaughter,” Mahakian said. “Will you do it?”

“What if he files assault charges against me? I came out better than he did.”

“Don’t worry, Maggie.” Mike put his big arm around me. “I’ll come visit you.”

“I really don’t want to tell a judge what I was doing at the Ramsdales’ last night,” I said.

“Yeah, you might take some heat. But think of it as your social duty.”

“Let me talk to George and I’ll do it,” I said.

“No way,” Mike said with force. He walked back down the hall and closed the door of the cubicle they had come out of.

“Is he in there?” I asked.

Mike crossed his arms. “You can’t talk to him.”

“There’s your answer, Mike. No way.” I fluffed my hair away from my neck and turned on my heel. “I have things to do.”

Mike followed me a few steps. “Do you want George back out on the streets?”

“Yes.” I wheeled on him, and expressing the heat and frustration I felt, I said, “If that’s what it takes. I want to know what happened to Hillary. I have had enough goddam standard police procedure. If I have to beat the crap out of George to get it, I want his story. It will be a whole lot easier to get at him on the streets than in here with all you fucking Boy Scouts.”

“Tsk,” Mike said, embarrassed by my outburst, I think, but keeping up his us-guys-know-it-all facade for Mahakian. “And she went to Berkeley with all the other liberals. We don’t beat the crap out of suspects, Miss MacGowen.”

I didn’t say anything. I turned and marched down the hall toward the arrow that said rest rooms, looked for the door with the skirt picture on it, and burst through. In a white heat, muttering obscenities, I threw my bag on the counter and reached for a handful of paper towels. That’s when I saw her reflection in the chrome towel holder: Leslie Metrano huddled on the floor with her back against the blue tile wall. Her face was mottled with patches of flaming red and dead white.

I wetted the towels and dropped down beside her on the cold tile floor.

“What are you doing in here, Leslie?”

“I have no place else to go,” she said, raising her cheek from her knee. “The ladies’ room downstairs is full of bag ladies.”

“You waiting to see George?”

She shook her head.

“You can go home.”

“Never. Thanks to you, I know how George got the money to buy that house.”

I handed her the cool, wet towels, and she wiped her face with them, making it a uniform flame color. She wore her official Bingo slacks and a white shirt with a hand-knit sweater over it. She looked very young, and very frightened. And there was something else, some emotion that purred below the surface like a tiger stalking prey.

“Can I do anything for you?” I asked. “Get you some coffee?”

“No.” She dried her face on the sleeve of her pink sweater, smearing what was left of her blush and mascara. “I’m okay. They asked George if he wanted a public defender, but he told me to go hire him some big hotshot. I called our business lawyer, and he only reminded me we haven’t paid our bill. I thought I would sit in here for a while and think things over.”

“Do you mind if I’m here?” I asked.

She shook her head again.

“I know some attorneys. Maybe I could give one a call.” She looked up at me with clear eyes set in puffy flesh. “You told me you have a daughter.”

“Yes.”

“If she was taken from you, would you help the thief?”

“I would castrate him first.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“How can I help you, Leslie?”

She leaned her head back against the wall and smiled up toward the ceiling. “Got a knife?”

This encounter was so surreal, two angry women sitting on the bathroom floor of the police station, with the source of their anger in an interrogation room down the hall. I opened my bag and took out a pack of gum that had been there for God knows how long, and offered it to Leslie.