J. Black - The Survivors Club

“Excuse me,” Tess said to Nussman. She walked out to meet Barry Zudowsky.

“There was a Dom Derring listed,” Barry Zudowsky said, his voice low. “But the credit card was canceled almost two years ago. You think it’s your guy? DeKoven?”

“Sounds like a made-up name. He applied for it and used it for that one purpose,” Tess said.

“Unless there were others.”

Tess nodded. Time to show Nussman the photo lineup.

She had a good feeling.

Dom Derring —a made-up name.

Michael DeKoven acting cute.

Obvious.

Zudowsky produced the photos.

“Do you recognize any of these men? Could one of them be the man who bought the mountain lion?”

The woman stared at the pictures for a long time. “No, the guy who came here was blond.”

“Just look at their faces. Hair can be dyed. Do you recognize any of them?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Sorry.”

Driving back, Detective Zudowsky said, “I guess that’s that. He’s not your man.”

“Maybe, maybe not. He could have paid someone to buy the mountain lion.”

“You really think that happened?”

“I do.”

“Why would anyone do that ?”

“He wanted a mountain lion kill.”

“ Why? ”

Tess said, “He wanted it to look like Farley was killed by an animal. He had his reasons—it was a game.”

“A game.” He looked straight ahead.

She knew what he was thinking.

She’d tell him what she suspected. Might as well. He’d have something to yuk it up with, with his buddies. And so she ran it down for him, that DeKoven had likely killed an ex-cop named George Hanley, Peter Farley, and his own father, Quentin DeKoven. She told him about Hanley’s investigation.

“So this, uh, Hanley, wrote all this down? He called it an investigation? You said he was retired.”

“He was a homicide cop for twenty years.”

“He was how old?”

“Sixty-eight.”

“Uh-huh.” He did not look at her. “So you’re saying this was a game he played, finding people who survived accidents, then killing them?”

“That’s the theory we’re working under. He got the jump on Mr. Farley, maybe knocked him out in some way, and put him in with the lion.”

Zudowsky kept his eyes on the road. “The lion probably wouldn’t attack him even then, from what I’ve heard.”

“He would if he’d been starved.”

Silence. It hung there like the dust over the graded dirt road.

Finally Zudowsky said, “I just don’t see how your theory hangs together. I can’t see someone doing something like this. It’s much more likely that Farley was attacked by a mountain lion. It could happen, if Farley was bent over his bike. That’s what happened north of here. We’ve had two attacks of mountain bikers, and they’re both fairly recent.”

Tess said, “Did anyone do a tox on Peter Farley?”

“I don’t remember seeing anything about one. His cause of death was pretty obvious.”

“Also, I wonder if there were any marks on the body from the cage.”

“DNA wasn’t at front of mind when you’re dealing with an obvious mountain lion attack. Plus, there wasn’t enough of Farley to identify him except for his wallet, bike, and his vehicle parked at the entrance.”

Tess said, “I would like to find that cage.”

He said nothing.

Tess realized that his respect for her had run out, along with professional courtesy.

Just before they split up she said to Barry Zudowsky, “I’m going to ask you to do me one favor.”

To his credit, he didn’t roll his eyes. But he said nothing.

“I’d like to pair Ms. Nussman with a sketch artist. The person who bought the lion is key.”

Zudowsky said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

When he got back in his car and drove away, she thought she’d never hear from him again.

CHAPTER 31

It wasn’t until Jaimie was up drinking tomato juice (she swore by it for a hangover if there wasn’t any menudo around) and squinting at the car coming down the hill—Marisue Jennrette’s Armada—that she realized she hadn’t canceled lessons for today.

Shit.

Felt like a crushed box in the road. But she went out anyway, squinting against the harsh sunlight, and met Marisue and her daughter as they were getting out.

Shielding her eyes against the glare, her brain throbbing in her skull, Jaimie said, “I can’t teach today. I’m sorry.”

“What?” said Marisue. Like she’d been told the sky was falling. She always was a bitch.

“I’m sorry, but my brother died. I’m just getting ready to go to his funeral,” she lied.

“Michael?”

“No, Chad.”

“Chad? Why didn’t you call me? It’s fifteen miles to get here, and I’ve got a lot to do today. I’m working on the flower committee at the Chamber of Commerce!”

God, her head! Jaimie pressed a thumb into her left temple. “I’m sorry. But it’s just this once. My brother, you know? My brother is dead.”

“Fine.”

The woman said it the way Jaimie always said it, the way women said it to men. If that’s the way it’s going to be, fine. Just fine. And by the way, fuck you.

Well fuck you, too, she thought.

After Marisue and her chunky untalented daughter drove off the property, Jaimie walked back toward the house.

Her dogs followed her up onto the steps. They milled around while she opened the door. They stood there, chastened, while she told them to stay outside.

She went to bed. She slept. When she woke up, it was early afternoon. She heard rocks pop off car tires—someone else coming. She hoped it wasn’t Michael. Or Brayden. She wasn’t up to that today. She just wanted everything about what happened in Laguna Beach to just fricking go away.

She got up, not bothering about her wrinkled clothes, her tank top and jeans. It was a truck like any other around here, a white Ford. But she didn’t know this particular one.

She opened the door and the dogs milled around.

The two little terriers, the black lab. The two mutts, one of them spotted. The coon hound.

The truck bumped along the road toward her.

Six dogs, not seven. Jaimie was missing the familiar blue-gray, white, and black—her prize.

Her consolation prize.

Adele was missing.

The guy was just a guy, looking at various pieces of land around here. He asked her if she knew of any. “Just a couple of acres, kind of like a homestead,” he said. He had an open, friendly face. Straw cowboy hat. Jeans, denim shirt. Your average middle-aged guy who maybe grew up rural and now wanted a small place of his own in God’s country. She’d met a million like him. He was way too old for her. But she wasn’t thinking about sex right now. Just get rid of him. Adele was missing. She had to be around here somewhere. But she could be hurt. Not like her not to come when she was called.

Jaimie scanned the yard as he talked, bending her ear with useless babble. On and on and on, as if he enjoyed boring her to death. When all she wanted to do was find Adele. She tuned him out, her eyes searching the grassland, hoping to see some light blue and black and white. Looking for Adele. Maybe she was in the barn. Maybe…

She wished the guy would just get in his fucking truck and go.

He didn’t seem to get the hint. She told him about a place up the road where she’d seen a FOR SALE sign. Just go , already.