Stephen Leather - Once bitten

"What are you up to, Doc?" De'Ath asked as I returned to the lounge.

"Nothing. Nothing important," I said. "You fancy a drink?"

He looked at his wristwatch, a Seiko electronic job with lots of buttons. "Yeah, you've talked me into it. I know a place near here, come on."

De'Ath knew a place no matter where you were in Greater California. He locked the bag of knives in his trunk and we walked to a place on Sunset, a narrow bar with stools and a barman in a green and gold waistcoat and a sniffle like he had an expensive habit, if you get my drift. He brought us a couple of cold beers and we clinked glasses while the barman retreated to a tactful distance.

"So what's on your mind?" De'Ath asked eventually.

"I dunno, Samuel."

"It's the girl, right?"

I shrugged. "Sort of. Maybe. I dunno."

"You're playing with fire, man. She's facing a murder rap and you're employed by the LAPD.

Just be careful, all right?"

I nodded and drank my beer. "Can I talk this through with you?" I said.

"I'm listening."

"She's found over the victim's body, right?"

He nodded. "Right?"

"Do we know who he is yet?"

De'Ath shook his head.

"OK, so she's found over his body, with his blood on her face. He's been stabbed, but there's no knife around. There's a knife missing from the rack in her kitchen which might or might not be the same type that killed the guy, but she's got proof that the knife was never in her possession, right?"

De'Ath patted his jacket pocket. "Assuming this list is kosher, that's right."

"There's no murder weapon near the body, and the Coroner reckons the victim was killed somewhere else and dumped in the alley. Right?"

"Right," he repeated patiently.

"There was no blood on her clothes, which means she couldn't have been the one who dragged or carried him into the alley. Right?"

"That's a maybe, Doc. But I hear where you're coming from. It'd have been hard for her to have done that on her own without leaving a trail of blood and getting it over her clothes."

I put my glass of beer down on the bar. "But don't you see, no murder weapon, no blood on her clothes, she couldn't have done it."

De'Ath nodded and took a long pull from his glass. He turned to face me, wiping the froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand. "It still don't add up," he said slowly.

"What doesn't?"

"If he was dead before he was taken into the alley, why was she claiming to be giving him the kiss of life?"

"Maybe he was still alive."

De'Ath snorted. "Coroner reckons he'd have died within seconds. Long before he was dumped."

"Maybe she didn't realise he was dead. Maybe she thought she'd be able to save him."

"Yeah, Doc. Maybe. But I think we'll keep her in the cells for just a little while longer. Just to be on the safe side, huh?" He waved the barman over and ordered two more beers. "Tell me Doc, have you got a thing for this girl?"

"Give me a break, Samuel. There's such a thing as professional integrity, you know."

"Yeah, I guess so. Besides, you're probably old enough to be her father."

"What! Come off it, she's twenty-five, you know that. She looks younger, I know, but she is twenty-five."

"Yeah? So how old are you, Doc?"

"I'm thirty five, thirty six next month."

He nodded, as if unconvinced. "I always thought you were older."

"You thought I was old enough to be the father of a twenty-five year-old-girl?" I looked at my reflection in the mirrored gantry behind the bar, turning my head left and right and examining my reflection. The beers arrived but I didn't drink mine, I'd lost the taste for it. I went home.

I parked the car and let myself into the house. The quietness took me by surprise, as it always did. I still expected Deborah to be there, watching television, working out in her pink tracksuit, cooking, cleaning. Now there was just silence. I left the briefcase in the lounge and made myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

I leant against the fridge as I took a mouthful of the milky brew, feeling the vibrations shiver through my legs. The phone rang. It was my lawyer, Chuck Harrison, asking if I could go round to his office. I made an appointment for four o'clock. While I had the phone in my hand I called Peter Hardy. Peter and I arrived in Los Angeles at about the same time, me to run psychological profiles on the city's weirdos, him to write about them. Well, different weirdos most of the time, he was a reporter working for Britain's brasher tabloids, shovelling showbiz gossip and West Coast dross across the Atlantic as fast as Fleet Street would pay for it. Only very occasionally did our paths cross professionally but we spent a fair amount of time getting drunk together. We were both going through painful divorces. Painfully expensive, that is.

"Jamie," he said. "How're the animals? Full moon keeping you busy?"

"Tell me about it," I said. "And I'm fresh out of garlic." I didn't mind being teased by Hardy, he was OK. "Hey, what can you tell me about Greig Turner?" Hardy was a movie buff, always out catching the latest releases but he was also into old films in a big way. He had an extensive video library in his flat, hundreds of black and white classics, most of which I'd never heard of.

"In what context, mate?"

"Films. Some time ago, 1930s I guess. Maybe 1940s."

"What was his name again?"

"Turner. Greig Turner."

"Was he an actor, or director, or what?"

"I dunno, Pete. All I've seen is his picture. He was a good-looking guy, so I guess he was an actor."

"Was?"

"Was. Is. It looked like an old picture, he could be dead now." I fished the card out of my pocket, the card on which I'd written Turner's name. "He was in a movie called Lilac Time."

"Lilac Time?"

"That's what it said. He was sitting in a director's chair and Greig Turner and Lilac Time was written on the back."

"Yeah, OK, I'll check it out for you. Shouldn't be too difficult. I'll get back to you, OK? How's the legal battle of the century going?"

"I'm seeing my lawyer this afternoon."

"Yeah? Me too. Hey, did you ever see the film Strangers On A Train? You know, the Hitchcock movie, the one where two guys plan…"

"Yeah, yeah, you do mine and I'll do yours. Thanks, but no thanks."

"If ever you change your mind…" he said. He was joking, I knew that, but it struck a bit too close to home. When I hung up I finished my coffee and paced up and down, unable to relax. I looked at my watch. Three o'clock. One hour to get to Harrison's office. More than enough time.

I wondered what the problem was this time. I'd thought that Deborah and I had finally got the money thing sorted out, she'd made it clear that she hadn't wanted the house or the car, just cash, and Chuck had thrashed out a deal with the hard-faced cow she'd employed as a lawyer that had too many zeros on the end of it but which at least left me with a roof over my head. Six years of marriage going down the tube was bad enough, but to see everything I'd earned over the past ten years go down with it was a bit much to bear.

I took the car to a filling station on the way to Chuck's office and checked the oil and water levels and the tyre pressure and filled the tank with gas. I arrived ten minutes early but he didn't make me wait, just had his secretary usher me in and shook my hand warmly. It was, I knew, a handshake that cost something in the region of five hundred bucks an hour. He waved me to a big leather chair that must have cost him at least three hours work, after taxes, and leant back in his, steepling his fingers and frowning.

"We have a problem, Jamie," he said quietly.

"We?"

He smiled a little. "I'm on your side," he said.

"I'm listening," I said.

He nodded. "OK, we've now come to a settlement over community property, over the medical plan and over the bank deposits and insurance. The other party has agreed to the split pretty much as I outlined at our last meeting. However, I'm afraid that I now have to inform you that the other party has now decided to press a claim for cruelty."