left-hand corner. Holding my breath, I opened the envelope and pulled out the enclosed card. It was embossed with the senators initials. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor, but I left it for a moment as I read the note:
Dearest Christina, please forgive my crass behavior of some days past. The sole purpose for my late visit was to apologize for my former actions, but I fear even the best of intentions are often waylaid when emotions flare. Thus I say now, it was wrong of me to involve you in problems that are not your own. You must put the death out of your mind, for I could never forgive myself if something untoward happened to you.
That was it, just
another
apology for the nocturnal visit that had so rudely torn me from the precipice of ecstasy and thrust me back into the abyss of celibacy. Not that I was resentful or anything. But if he didn't want me to investigate, why hadn't he said so at Caring Hands?
I scanned the rest of the card for more, but there was nothing else. Just his grand, sweeping signature. I read the words again, though, and noticed that the word “death” was a little blotchy, as if he had altered it.
Mulling, I bent to retrieve the fallen paper. It was a check. For ten thousand dollars.
My heart jolted. My eyes popped. I lowered myself to a kitchen chair and did a little careful breathing.
After that I did a lot of pacing—through the spanking-clean living room back to the spanking-clean foyer. Intothe spanking kitchen, back to the foyer. But no matter how many times I looked, the check was still there.
It was mine for the taking. What would it hurt? Rivera wouldn't care. He had already dumped me. There would be no impassioned speeches about accepting money from the devil. No explosive arguments about my bad judgment. No absurd questions about where I had been.
Sespe. I shook my head. What on earth made him think I had gone to …
But suddenly my mind clicked away from sprawling notes and mouth-watering checks.
Sespe, Rivera had said. I had heard something on the radio about a death in a little town called Sespe.
And the senators note—it almost looked as if it had originally said
deaths
instead of
death.
Holy shit
, I thought, and quit my pacing.
Someone else had died.
12
They say love makes the world go around…. I haven't been dizzy for a long time.
—
Mr. Howard Lepinski,
willing to take a spin
DIDN'T GET TO BED until well past three a.m. that night. But even then I couldn't sleep.
There had indeed been another death. A drowning. It had taken place in Sespe, a sleepy little town best known for its production of a work boot called Ironwear. It was fifty miles from where Kathy Baltimore had died.
Emanuel Casero had been on his way home from the pub on Wednesday night. Friends said he was a bit inebriated. They had offered to drive him home, but he opted to walk, as he always did. This time, however, he never reached his destination.
A passing jogger had found his body facedown onSespe Creeks rocky shore at 5:47 on Saturday morning. There was no sign of foul play.
No. No sign. Just a drowning. Everyone had liked Manny. He was a joker, a good time. He'd been a member of the Yellow Jackets bowling team and a staunch supporter of the Republican Party.
Uncomfortable thoughts rolled around in my head like fractious bottles of nitro.
A staunch supporter.
Although I had searched the Internet for some time, I found nothing to suggest that Casero had worked for Senator Riveras campaign. Still, it seemed spookily coincidental.
I stared at my ceiling, willing myself to sleep and failing miserably.
It has been said that there are no coincidences. On the other hand, there must be thousands of “staunch” Republicans in California. Eventually they were likely to die. Casero's death probably had nothing to do with Kathy's.
But if that was the case, why had Senator Rivera sent me the note?
Was it really to apologize? Or had he sent it with the express purpose of dropping a hint
Dearest Christina, please forgive my crass behavior of some days past. The sole purpose for my late visit was to apologize for my former actions, but I fear even the best of intentions are often waylaid when emotions flare. Thus I say now, it was wrong of me to involve you in problems that are not your own. You must put the death out of your mind, for I could never forgive myself if something untoward happened to you.
That was it, just
another
apology for the nocturnal visit that had so rudely torn me from the precipice of ecstasy and thrust me back into the abyss of celibacy. Not that I was resentful or anything. But if he didn't want me to investigate, why hadn't he said so at Caring Hands?
I scanned the rest of the card for more, but there was nothing else. Just his grand, sweeping signature. I read the words again, though, and noticed that the word “death” was a little blotchy, as if he had altered it.
Mulling, I bent to retrieve the fallen paper. It was a check. For ten thousand dollars.
My heart jolted. My eyes popped. I lowered myself to a kitchen chair and did a little careful breathing.
After that I did a lot of pacing—through the spanking-clean living room back to the spanking-clean foyer. Intothe spanking kitchen, back to the foyer. But no matter how many times I looked, the check was still there.
It was mine for the taking. What would it hurt? Rivera wouldn't care. He had already dumped me. There would be no impassioned speeches about accepting money from the devil. No explosive arguments about my bad judgment. No absurd questions about where I had been.
Sespe. I shook my head. What on earth made him think I had gone to …
But suddenly my mind clicked away from sprawling notes and mouth-watering checks.
Sespe, Rivera had said. I had heard something on the radio about a death in a little town called Sespe.
And the senators note—it almost looked as if it had originally said
deaths
instead of
death.
Holy shit
, I thought, and quit my pacing.
Someone else had died.
12
They say love makes the world go around…. I haven't been dizzy for a long time.
—
Mr. Howard Lepinski,
willing to take a spin
DIDN'T GET TO BED until well past three a.m. that night. But even then I couldn't sleep.
There had indeed been another death. A drowning. It had taken place in Sespe, a sleepy little town best known for its production of a work boot called Ironwear. It was fifty miles from where Kathy Baltimore had died.
Emanuel Casero had been on his way home from the pub on Wednesday night. Friends said he was a bit inebriated. They had offered to drive him home, but he opted to walk, as he always did. This time, however, he never reached his destination.
A passing jogger had found his body facedown onSespe Creeks rocky shore at 5:47 on Saturday morning. There was no sign of foul play.
No. No sign. Just a drowning. Everyone had liked Manny. He was a joker, a good time. He'd been a member of the Yellow Jackets bowling team and a staunch supporter of the Republican Party.
Uncomfortable thoughts rolled around in my head like fractious bottles of nitro.
A staunch supporter.
Although I had searched the Internet for some time, I found nothing to suggest that Casero had worked for Senator Riveras campaign. Still, it seemed spookily coincidental.
I stared at my ceiling, willing myself to sleep and failing miserably.
It has been said that there are no coincidences. On the other hand, there must be thousands of “staunch” Republicans in California. Eventually they were likely to die. Casero's death probably had nothing to do with Kathy's.
But if that was the case, why had Senator Rivera sent me the note?
Was it really to apologize? Or had he sent it with the express purpose of dropping a hint
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