Hangman

“Chris, I can’t tell you over the phone. How soon can you return to L.A.?”

“Shit! What time is it?”

“Around six.”

“Fuck!” The sound of something crashing over the line. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! When did this happen? Yesterday?”

“Yes. Chris, I’ll fill you in once you’re in L.A. How soon can you get here?”

“I’m two hours out of Vegas. I drove in, so I don’t have my plane. By the time I get to McCarren and into LAX, I wouldn’t make it before eleven or so. Driving would take five to six hours…fuck! Let me see if I can lease something at the local airport. I’ll call you back.” Donatti disconnected the line.

Decker put down his cell and drummed his fingers on his desk, waiting for further information. But his mind was on a particular thought.

I drove in, so I don’t have my plane.

I drove.

Lots of empty land and deserted highway between California and Nevada. The vast, unpopulated tracks that cut through the Mojave, with their infinite miles of nothingness, had always made for fertile dumping grounds.

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_f363d75e-208f-55c1-b533-28d5c7825cdc)

EVEN THOUGH IT was beyond happy hour, the bar was packed. ICE was one of those trendy restaurants with its walls and ceilings composed of lit-from-behind panels of pastel colors that changed hues over the course of an evening meal. The tint of the moment was aqua, giving the place the appearance of an igloo. The temperature inside sure could have used a little of the North Pole’s arctic blast. The day had been unseasonably hot and yucky. Even though Marge had dressed for the heat in beige linen pants and a white cotton blouse, she felt sticky, like her clothes had been taped to her body. Over the phone, Sela Graydon had said that she’d be wearing a gray suit, red blouse, and black pumps, so the woman was easy to spot.

The lawyer was draped by a mane of brown, wavy hair that fell to her shoulder blades. Her pose was head down, eyes staring at the bar top, with her chin in her hands. She was being chatted up by a thirtysomething man with a gilding of blond stubble. Every so often, Sela would lift her head, make a swipe at her eyes with her fingertips, and then lower her head and continue to stare at nothing. Marge wriggled through the crowd and snagged the seat next to hers. “Sela Graydon?”

The woman glanced up at Marge’s face. “You’re the police?”

“Sergeant Marge Dunn. We spoke over the phone. Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”

Sela bit her lip but didn’t say anything. The blond man extended a hand to Marge. “Rick Briscoe. I work with Sela at Youngblood, Martin and Fitch.” Marge took his hand in the briefest of shakes. “I didn’t think she should be alone.”

“Nice of you.” To Sela, Marge said, “How about if we take a corner table. Little more private.”

Sela looked around. “They’re occupied.”

“My partner, Detective Oliver, is saving one for us.”

“Go ahead, Sela,” Rick told her. “I’ll wait here until you’re done. I’m working on the Claridge depositions anyway. Just give a holler if you need something.”

Sela nodded, slid off the stool, and stood up, her height being around five four. Marge brought the lawyer over to table where Oliver was nursing tonic water. He introduced himself and asked if she was hungry.

“No…” She sat down and tears leaked from her eyes. “I can’t think about food. Kathy called me, asking me to come over. I said of course, but I don’t know why. I’m still in shock. I’m sure I’m not going to be any help to her.”

“Kathy is Adrianna’s mother?” Oliver asked for confirmation.

“Yes, sorry. She’s almost like a second mother. It’s going to be so awful.”

“Sometimes the best thing to say is nothing,” Marge told her. “You spoke to Adrianna this morning.”

“I didn’t speak to her,” Sela said. “She left a message on my cell.”

“The call was almost two minutes.”

“She left a long message.”

“What about?” Oliver asked her.

“I wish I could tell you all of it.” A big sigh. “The truth is that sometimes Adrianna kind of rambles and I don’t pay attention. Actually I deleted it before I heard all of it.”

“What was the gist?”

“Something about us getting together tonight because Garth is out of town, but not that his presence would stop her anyway ’cause he’s always gone. Then she started saying that it’s good that he’s gone, and if she was really smart she’d ditch him because he was a drain on her emotionally and financially. And he never appreciates a single thing that she does for him and there were lots of fish in the sea and blah blah blah.” Wet tracks were streaking down her face. “I erased the message when I got to blah-blah-blah part.”

Oliver said, “You called her back, Ms. Graydon.”

“Is that a statement or a question?”

Marge said, “We have her cell phone, so we know you called her back.”

“I did call her back. I left a very short message. I was busy tonight. How about we meet for brunch on Sunday. It’s always easier dealing with Adrianna in the daylight.”

“Meaning?” Oliver asked.

Sela’s smile was achingly sad. “Don’t take this the wrong way. I loved Adrianna with all my heart. But sometimes…especially if she’s feeling low…she has trouble knowing when to stop.” Again, she wiped her eyes. “She was never a mean drunk…but she could get careless with her words.”

“Can you give me an example?” Marge asked her.

“Let me think how exactly to say this,” Sela said. “When Adri-anna drank too much, she started giving advice—that I needed to get out more, that I needed more exercise. She’d try to fix me up with people I loathed. I knew she was tipsy but I could tell that she was saying what she really thought. It got on your nerves.”

Marge nodded.

“She could be really ridiculous.” A flush had come to the lawyer’s cheeks. “I don’t mean to sound snobby, but we’re in different places. And Adrianna kept on equating our stations in life. I didn’t care about that. But even when she wasn’t tipsy, she would say things. Like the time I was complaining to her that I had overbooked a couple of clients and I didn’t know what I was going to do. So instead of being sympathetic, Adrianna said to me, ‘Oh, you have clients. Isn’t that cute.’ I swear I wanted to slug her.”

The table fell silent.

“Oh God, that’s awful of me!” Sela started to cry. “She could be difficult, but she was also the nicest person in the world. I really loved her.”

Marge put a hand on her shoulder. “Of course you did. You were close. And close people know how to push each other’s buttons.”

“It’s horrible that she died in such a tragic, brutal way,” Oliver said. “But you’re not required to extol everything she’s ever done. Mean people die, too.”

“She wasn’t mean, she was just careless.”

“She could be a handful,” Oliver told her. “Her own father said so.”

“She didn’t get along with him.”

“We gathered that. What did they fight about?”