Bad Memory Read online

  If trying to find out what information Jessica had about the Devil’s Drop murders was the reason for the break-in, the next question was, how did the intruder manage to gain access to the trailer? She had used her key to unlock the front door. The lock hadn’t been jimmied, and the door hadn’t been busted. Jessica found a miniflashlight in her bag and shoved the gun into the waistband of her jeans. She opened the door, stepped outside, shined the flashlight on the lock, and inspected it. There were some superficial scratches, metal on metal, left by years of the teeth of the key trying to find the lock. Maybe a picklock set had been used to gain entry on this occasion, but the lock wasn’t damaged in any way, clearly hadn’t been forced.

  Jessica pointed the flashlight at the ground around the trailer entrance. The beam showed several overlapping shoe prints, all different sizes, different treads, some more defined than others. A mix of prints left by herself, Dylan, and Sylvia. Even now, a light breeze sent swirls of dust in the air, disturbing the prints and making it almost impossible to identify if anything had been left behind by the intruder.

  She removed the Glock from her waistband and held the gun and flashlight in front of her as she slowly circled the tin can she called home. She checked each of the windows as she went, making sure they were closed and locked. When she reached the rear of the trailer, Jessica suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. Beyond the backyard’s chicken wire fence, she knew there was nothing but miles and miles of empty scrubland, stretching out toward distant mountains. The streetlight didn’t reach this far back, and, right now, all she could see was inky blackness straight ahead, the flashlight’s beam illuminating no more than ten feet in front of her. She stood with her back pressed against the cool metal of the Airstream and listened for the sound of another presence, but other than an electrical hum in the air and her own breathing, the silence was as thick as the darkness that surrounded her. She completed the rest of the circuit around the trailer and confirmed no windows had been left open or unlocked.

  So how had the intruder gotten inside her home?

  Jessica’s own key had been stashed in her bag the entire time she was in Vegas. Sylvia had a key, the one she used to access the trailer with fresh towels and bedsheets when Jessica wasn’t at home, but she kept it on a chain with her house keys, so it was unlikely she’d misplaced it.

  Then Jessica remembered the third key.

  It was taped beneath one of the potted plants by the door to Sylvia’s house. There were begonia and dead nettle and viola and coral bells. The spare key was hidden beneath a vibrant and vigorous fuchsia plant. Its purpose was to provide access to the trailer in the event of the tenant accidentally locking themselves out or losing the key, especially if Sylvia wasn’t at home or it was too late for her to be disturbed. She’d had the third key cut after one of the Airstream’s previous inhabitants got roaring drunk one night; lost his keys, cell phone, wallet, and dignity; then decided to wake an extremely pissed Sylvia in the middle of the night to gain access to the trailer so he could promptly pass out.

  Jessica made her way toward the house and lowered herself onto her haunches next to the assortment of plants on either side of the front door. There was no sensor light for visitors, so she laid the gun down and used the flashlight to locate the fiery pink and purple leaves of the fuchsia. Then she carefully lifted the heavy terra-cotta pot and looked underneath. There was no key. She lifted the begonia and the dead nettle and the viola and the coral bells, and she inspected the base of each of the potted plants in turn. Again, she found nothing.

  The key was gone.

  26

  JESSICA

  Tuesday morning. Three full days and change until Rue Hunter’s execution.

  Jessica still didn’t know if the woman was guilty or innocent, if her memory was as scrambled as she claimed it was, or if she was playing Jessica like a Steinway piano. But she was sure that what really happened at Devil’s Drop was only just becoming clear now. And, more than thirty years later, Jessica suspected some folks still weren’t telling her the full story.

  Following last night’s discovery about the missing key, she had endured a restless night. There was no security chain attached to the trailer’s door. No chair she could wedge under the doorknob. Hell, there wasn’t even a proper doorknob even if there had been a chair. In the end, she’d settled for dragging her suitcase in front of the door, a makeshift barrier constructed of plastic, cotton, and denim that would offer no real resistance to an intruder but would at least alert Jessica to their presence if anyone did attempt to gain access.

  It didn’t work. She tossed and turned for most of the night and eventually gave up on sleep around dawn, damp with sweat, bedsheets discarded on the floor, her mood as dark as the new day was bright.

  The commute to Los Feliz did nothing to boost her spirits. Jessica arrived at Pryce’s apartment complex at 9:56. Four minutes to spare until his twenty-four-hour deadline expired. Dionne buzzed her into the apartment complex lobby, and Jessica dumped the murder book in the mailbox as agreed.

  The return to the neighborhood had reminded her of the station wagon that had been parked near the coffee shop when she’d met with Pryce the day before, and she made a mental note to ask Dylan if he’d been in LA when she saw him later.

  Back in the truck, Jessica pulled out her cell phone and searched for the number for the prison in Chowchilla. She needed to quiz Rue Hunter about Lucas’s clothing and ask her about Tom Lucchese. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel impatiently and waited for the call to connect.

  “Central California Women’s Facility. How may I direct your call?”

  “I’d like to speak to Rue Hunter, please. One of your inmates.”

  “Are you a family member?”

  “No, I’m not. But I’m employed by her sister to investigate her case.”

  “Are you her lawyer?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m a private investigator.”

  “In that case, this is a prison; it’s not a hotel. We can’t just page you through to a room.”

  “So how do I speak to her? It’s important.”

  “There’s a process.”

  “What process?”

  “You submit a request for telephone access to an inmate, and we review the request.”

  “How long does this process take?”

  “It depends.”

  “The inmate is being executed on Friday.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that. But we still have a process. I can take your details and submit a phone call request if you’d like?”

  Jessica huffed a sigh, left her details, and killed the connection. She put the truck into drive and headed for I-5 and Hundred Acres. As she drove, Jessica called her old boss, Larry Lutz, on hands-free mode. She needed to hear a friendly voice. The call connected, and Larry’s familiar Brooklyn accent filled the truck’s cab on the speaker system.

  “Hey, Jessica! How’s my favorite PI?”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls. I’m good, Larry. How’s the agency?”

  “Not the same without you. When you coming home?”

  She smiled. “Maybe one day. Just not yet.”

  Every time she spoke with Larry, he asked when she’d be returning to New York. Jessica had sold her father’s house, quit her job, and taken off soon after Tony had died. She couldn’t face being surrounded by painful memories, so she’d spent more than two years trying to outrun her grief instead. Recently, she’d begun to feel the pull of home again. She missed the noise and bustle and dirt and grime and the unrivaled charisma of her city.

  As if reading her thoughts, Larry said, “You know there’s always a job for you here, don’t you?”

  “You replaced me, remember?”

  “Yeah, well, we can always make room for a little one. Seriously, kid, you sound down. Like you got a touch of the blues. You sure everything’s okay?”

  Jessica sighed. Larry knew her too well. She told him about the Devil’s Drop case, how
she’d upset Pryce and Dylan’s dad, how even Ed Crozier had reservations about her digging up the past.

  “What do you think, Larry? You think I’m doing the right thing?”

  “Trust your gut, Jess. It’s never let you down in the past, and you ain’t never been scared to ruffle a few feathers to get the right result.”

  “I guess.”

  “Tell me something,” he said. “Why’d you take the case on?”

  “At first, it was about the money and the thrill of the investigation.”

  “And now?”

  “Now it’s about what it should have been about right from the start.”

  “Which is?”

  “People. Those who need answers. That’s what you always taught me, huh? We do what we do to help people who can’t find those answers for themselves.”

  She thought of Rue Hunter, Rose Dalton, Patty Meeks. They all needed answers. The events at Devil’s Drop had denied each of them, in their own way, the chance to share the kind of mother-daughter moments most families take for granted—college graduations, weddings, special birthdays. Just like Jessica. She’d grown up believing her mom had died in a car accident when she was a baby, before discovering last year the truth was way more sinister. She knew she’d never have closure, not really, but at least Jessica had some answers.

  “I think you got this, kid,” Larry said.

  “Thanks, I guess that’s what I needed to hear.”

  “You take care of yourself. You hear me?”

  “I will. Speak soon.”

  Jessica ended the call and pressed her foot down harder on the gas.

  Three days and change until Rue Hunter’s execution.

  A woman’s life—and possible death—depended on her, and Jessica knew time was fast running out to find out the truth.

  27

  PRYCE

  Pryce and Medina ate a late breakfast at the same place on the Eastside where they’d had a late lunch the day before, only this time they both opted for the challah french toast rather than the Cobb salad.

  They finished their food, wiped their mouths with paper napkins, and ordered more coffee. Pryce glanced at his watch and realized the tiny hand had moved only three minutes since the last time he had checked.

  “You worried she won’t show or just admiring your fancy timepiece?” Medina asked.

  “I need to pick up something at the apartment and drop it off someplace very soon. But, mostly, I’m worried she won’t show.”

  Marie Conlon had reluctantly agreed to the breakfast meeting after her identity had been inadvertently revealed by the wannabe knight in shining armor at the Raeberry. She’d refused to discuss Holten further with Pryce and Medina at her place at work. The two pool-playing muscle heads had then suggested the detectives both leave without even finishing their drinks.

  At twenty-two minutes past the hour, twenty-two minutes later than agreed, the door to the diner opened, and Marie Conlon walked into the room like a welterweight might enter the ring—prepared for a fight and determined to win. Small and capable. Still dressed plainly in jeans, a tee, and black ankle boots.

  She spotted the detectives at a table in the rear of the room. Wove past other diners and took a seat facing them.

  Pryce said, “Thanks for coming, Marie. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

  “I almost didn’t. Part of me hoped you’d both have left already.”

  “So why come?”

  “I knew you’d keep hounding me at my bar if I didn’t show. I figured this way, at least I could get it over and done with. Like pulling off a Band-Aid real fast. Not pleasant but necessary.”

  “I’m glad you did decide to meet with us,” Pryce said. “We’ll make it as painless as possible.”

  “You know, I’ve been waiting twenty years for you to show up asking questions about Charlie. Still doesn’t mean I want to talk to you, though.”

  Medina said, “The bartender with the interesting blue hair didn’t even bat an eyelid when we asked if she knew someone called Marie. Did she forget your name or something?”

  Marie smirked. “A couple of cops come into a bar like mine and start asking questions, you don’t give up the answers too easily. She texted me as soon as you asked to speak to whoever was in charge.”

  “Why speak to us at all?” Pryce asked.

  “I guess I was curious. I wanted to know how much you knew about me. Turns out, not so much.”

  Pryce said, “We didn’t even know you existed until yesterday, when we spoke to Charlie’s widow. She told us about you.”

  Marie’s face flushed at the mention of Maggie, and she was saved by the timely intervention of the waitress asking to take her order. She waved away Pryce’s offer of breakfast. Just wanted coffee, no food. They all sat in silence and waited for the waitress to return with the latte and move on to another table before they resumed their conversation.

  “How long were you and Charlie having an affair?” Pryce asked.

  “I’d hardly call it an affair. More like a fling. Five weeks at most.” She stared at the table, her cheeks burning again. “I know it was wrong. The whole thing was a mess. He was a cop, and a sad cop at that, but he was a nice guy, and I guess one thing led to another. What can I say? It’s the biggest cliché in the bartenders’ handbook.”

  “There’s a bartenders’ handbook?” Medina quipped.

  Marie looked at him. “No.”

  Pryce threw Medina an exasperated look. Now wasn’t the time for dumb jokes.

  Marie turned to Pryce. “I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why now? Why are you suddenly investigating Charlie’s murder after all this time?”

  “Something came up recently that got me thinking about him again,” Pryce said. “Not that I ever stopped thinking of Charlie. But I always believed a man who’s been in prison for a very long time was responsible for his murder. I visited him yesterday, and he swore he didn’t kill Charlie. I guess maybe I believed him this time, and now I want to find out who did shoot my partner.”

  “Who is this man you met with?”

  “A former gangbanger by the name of DaMarcus Jones.”

  Marie nodded. “Charlie mentioned him a few times. He believed this Jones guy killed a young girl.”

  “Charlie spoke to you about Angel Henderson?”

  She nodded again. “Usually when he had a bellyful of booze. He felt guilty for not saving her. That was Charlie—always trying to save people.” Marie smiled sadly. “The one person he couldn’t save was himself.”

  “How did Charlie seem to you in the days before his death?” Pryce asked. “Was he acting differently? Did he say or do anything out of the ordinary? I appreciate you only knew each other for a short time, but it sounds like your relationship was fairly intense. Is there anything at all you remember that could help us?”

  Marie took a sip of coffee.

  “One night, he came into the bar, and he seemed really down,” she said. “Even more sad than usual, and he was drinking a lot more too. Double bourbons all the way. I was worried about him, so I finished early and took him back to my place. Asked him what the hell was going on.”

  “What did he say?” Pryce prompted.

  “He wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. He mentioned something about receiving a letter and how his actions had ruined lives. Said he’d made a huge mistake, and now he had to put things right regardless of the consequences.”

  “Did you ask what he was talking about? What letter? What mistake?”

  “Of course I did,” Marie said. “He just kept saying people had to know the truth. He wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

  “Did he mention any plans to meet someone? A rendezvous in Echo Park?”

  Marie frowned. “I don’t think so. But he might’ve said something about a phone call he wasn’t looking forward to making.”

  “He say who the call was to? When it was taking place? Where he would be making
the call from?”

  Marie shook her head. “He didn’t. I’m sorry, there’s really not much more I can tell you. Charlie passed out soon after. I must have fallen asleep next to him because when I woke up he was gone. It was the last time I saw him.”

  28

  JESSICA

  Hundred Acres was surrounded by a kind of barren beauty that Jessica had never really explored in the six months she’d been in town.

  Not until now.

  She drove west along the main highway until she spotted the turn for an unmarked dirt trail, then bumped the truck down off the steaming blacktop onto the rough terrain. The Silverado’s big tires navigated the small rocks and boulders and twigs and dry leaves with an easy elegance as the trail gradually rose on a steady incline.

  In town, the flat yellow landscape was punctuated by the occasional burst of green flora. Here, Joshua trees and California juniper were bunched together in dense clusters, and there were hills and mounds and strange jagged sandstone rock formations. On the higher slopes and peaks in the distance, Jessica could see tall, proud white firs silhouetted against an impossibly clear blue sky. The trail, all sand and dirt and bordered by wildflowers and desert chaparral, was just wide enough to pull over to the side to allow any oncoming vehicles to pass. But there were no other cars or trucks on this stretch of road today.

  Jessica was alone.

  She continued on the same path for another mile or so, and then the wild, hilly trail suddenly flattened out, and a large clearing appeared ahead of her.

  Devil’s Drop.

  The opening was wide enough for four or five cars to park in a row next to each other, while allowing for a respectable distance between each vehicle for the purposes of privacy that had been necessary back in the days when the place was regularly frequented by amorous adolescents. From what she’d heard from Dylan, no one visited this spot anymore, other than the occasional hiker unaware of the place’s tragic history.