April Smith - Good Morning, Killer

“My sole concern is in walking you out of that courtroom. If we can’t go down the Juliana road, we’ll find another way. But as I said, I think she can help you and it’s important.”

I thought about it for several silent moments until Devon picked up one of the model cars and began spinning its wheels.

“Is that a Porsche you’ve got there?”

He nodded and spun some more. “A Boxter S.”

“Why don’t you have a Barracuda?”

“My clients give these to me. I guess I never had a client who owned a Barracuda.”

I waited. Finally I told him: “All right. You’ve got one now.”

His eyes rose.

“Call Juliana and ask if she wants to testify. The best thing for her would be to make that decision herself.”

“Thank you,” Devon said, and a palpable tension left the room.

I sucked the warm, half-empty water bottle.

“How much will the prosecution give us on Andrew?”

“His statement, which is whatever they decide it should be. We can’t depose him until the trial. In other words, not much. They sent over a preliminary list of witnesses”—he tossed me a copy—“including someone you know from the Bureau, Special Agent Kelsey Owen?” “Kelsey is going to testify against me?”

“She is being subpoenaed.”

“Holy cow.”

“What does she have on you?”

“I don’t know!” I was really fried. “Nasty voice mails. Obscene gestures. That I’m an asshole because I didn’t want her taking over my case?”

“There are two sides to every asshole.”

I chortled. “The jokes are getting better.”

“That’s good.”

Devon had taken out a paintbrush and opened the little doors and was dusting the interior of the Porsche.

“How are you going to prove your theory that Andrew was trying to kill me?”

“Investigate him and everyone around him. I’ve got a string of great PIs who work for me — former cops, an ex — financial reporter who’s very good on the computer stuff. We’ll look at everything — his marriages, cases. I’m intrigued by that bank robbery.” “You mean what was going on in the police department at the time—”

Devon was nodding. “—that made that particular heist so damn important to everybody.”

“And the people he works with at the Santa Monica police?”

“Everyone, at least going back five years. Their wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, kids, vendettas, paybacks, who owed what to whom, their mortgages, car payments, bank accounts.”

“Follow the money,” I suggested.

“That’s my credo,” Devon affirmed. “The sign on my wall.”

Afterward, waiting for the elevator, a soundless voice cajoled me, Why didn’t you tell him about the Sandpiper motel? It’s a private matter that would not be usable in my defense. How do you know, aren’t we talking about Andrew, who he is? Devon would have discarded it, and I didn’t want to see that, his cynical dismissal. What you don’t want to see is your own face in his mirror— but the voice was silenced as the bronze doors of the elevator parted and my reflection split in two.

I never did tell Devon — and maybe it was a mistake — how our modest plan to drive up the coast to Cambria had to be postponed three times due to one or the other’s work emergencies, and how each time I was relieved. How I’d been afraid, after not knowing Andrew very long, that cutting loose on the open road would be a lot different from the occasional night at his dad’s house or my apartment, taking us further away from the security of our professional identities, safely cocooned in LA. Twenty miles out of town I was already wondering at the individual who had apparently shed his detective’s shield for the persona of some petty delinquent.

“If it’s good to you, it’s gotta be good for you,” Andrew had said, cracking a beer he’d dug out of the cooler.

“You’re crazy.”

“Just now figuring that out?”

He smiled, drank, put the icy can between the tight thighs of his jeans.

“I have complete confidence in your ability to drive,” I said brusquely, to show no fear. “Under normal conditions.”

“If you’re nervous we can go back.”

“I’m good.”

He shrugged. “You won’t be the first, baby. Usually they don’t make it past that big rock over there.”

“Who’s the one who is nervous?” I inquired.

“Who?” he asked, completely baffled. Obviously, not him. He was taking the curves out of Leo Carrillo Beach at sixty, palming the wheel with one hand. “Be glad we’re not on the Harley, Miss Feebee Chicken.”

“Sorry, but I have a strong survival instinct,” I said, and pried the beer from between his legs, giving it an extra twist against his bulge.

“Do that again.”

“Later. Maybe .”

I let the brewski trail behind us out the window while he whined, “Oh man, what a waste!” and thought, My sentiments exactly, figuring I was on a one-way weekend pass with yet another unreconstructed sixteen-year-old male.

Oh well, at least the sex would be good. I undid my sandals and put bare feet (pedicured for the occasion) up on the warm dashboard; the road had turned straight and the sun was flat on our windshield as we shot north past Oxnard, Santa Barbara and Goleta, picking up local oldies stations that carried blaring news of used car sales and bluegrass festivals. When we passed a sign for San Francisco, he flashed that irresistible grin and said, “Why not?” and I laughed because I guess I was relieved he liked me enough to imagine heading north forever, leaving those cocoons behind all busted open, our friends and supervisors left to guess who in hell was in there, anyway?

“It’s because I grew up in Long Beach.” I was trying to explain why heading in a northerly direction always made me feel positive, while going south on the freeway was vaguely nauseating. “Not good memories.”

Andrew glanced over. “No pressure, you don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s okay. I was brought up by my mom and my grandfather, who was with the Long Beach Police Department. He was a lieutenant.”

“So we’re both from cop families,” announced Andrew with mock elation. “Equally screwed up.”

“Did your dad take you around in the squad car?”

“Sure, but mostly we hit the bars.”

“Seriously?”

“I used to do my homework in the Boatyard while Dad had his complimentary afternoon rosé. Ate in the kitchen with the Mexican help. No, listen, I thought it was very cool. What about your grandpa? Nice guy?”

“Not really.”

“So your mom was—”

“Lost.”

“And there was no dad in the picture?”

“No dad in the picture.” That seemed the simplest way. I squinted at the horizon to steady the queasiness in the gut that sprang even at the memory, like a tapeworm. “My dad was from El Salvador. My grandfather didn’t like him much.” “Got it.”

“It was the fifties. White girls didn’t have brown babies. Even light brown. Even light -light brown, passing for white.”

“One more generation, and everybody in LA is going to look like you. Ana, you’re beautiful,” Andrew said. “I’m sorry to say it, but Grandpa was a jerk. Didn’t know what he had in his own house. I can only imagine — what was your grandfather’s name?” “I called him Poppy.”

“—what Poppy must have thought of you becoming a Fed.”

I laughed. “I think he was in shock. I was supposed to be a teacher.”

“I can see you as a teacher.”

I shook my head. “No patience.”

“Do you like kids?”

“They’re kind of a foreign country. What about you?”