you guys."
"We
miss you. It's chaos out there on the freeways. Be careful."
CHAPTER
TEN
T he rain heaved down and made freeway lakes in the low
spots, cars planed off the asphalt or into each other. Merci couldn't see dick
out the windshield even with the wipers pegged and the defroster on full blast.
All just water and red lights and the roar of rain on sheet metal three inches
from her head. It took over an hour from the sheriff building to Aubrey
Whittaker's apartment in San Clemente. Zamorra left headquarters after Merci
did but got there first.
He
was already inside, standing in the living room, still wearing his black
overcoat, watching the storm roil the Pacific. She saw a pink shiver of
lightning branch into the dark water. She flipped on some lights, Aubrey's dry
cleaning hooked in one of her hands, hangers digging into her fingers.
"Okay,"
she said. "A black wool and Orion mix garment, possibly a sweater, knit
cap, gloves or muffler."
"I'll take the
kitchen," he said. "It's been bothering me." So be it. She hit
the bedroom lights, placed the dry cleaning on the bed, slid open the mirrored
closet door, then hung the clean clothes at one end. Starting at the other end,
she began taking out hangers three or four at a time, laying them on the bed.
Merci,
not a good judge of the cost of clothing, estimated several thousands of
dollars on the first twenty hangers—dresses by designers of whom she was only
vaguely aware. A smart red leather outfit with gold buckles on the straps still
had a price tag attached! $1700.
The most Merci had
ever paid for a dress was $335 a little over two years ago. It was long, black
and simple, worn just once.
The smell of perfume
wafted up as she lifted the hangers. After dresses came the skirts, then the
blouses, then the more casual tops. On the other side of the closet were coats
and jackets, pants, some frankly provocative leather and vinyl items. Merci
wasn't sure how they were put on. She wanted to be able to imagine herself in
such a thing, but couldn't.
You don't touch. You don't kiss. You don't dream.
A scared, sexless
cow, she thought: There're worse things to be, aren't there? Maybe she would be heading up the Homicide Detail by age forty.
She had an urge to
try on some of Aubrey Whittaker's clothes, just see how they looked. The red
leather getup would be the one. She ranked this among the top ten most stupid
ideas she'd had in her life. Banished it. Banished it again.
The sweaters were
folded and stacked on the left side of the top shelf. Black cashmere, black
cotton, black angora. No black wool. On the right-hand part of the shelf she
found some knit caps and berets, pairs of knit gloves and three mufflers. Lots
of wool there, but only the gloves were black, and no Orlon in the mix
according to the labels
She checked the dry
cleaning next. Nothing that matched what the lab had found.
Then she searched the
laundry basket in the corner: lots of underwear and clothes but no wool. She
noted the shoes and boots, the sandals and slippers, the 240-count box of
condoms beside the leather thigh-highs. What a thing to do for a living,
thought Merci. She figured that Aubrey Whittaker had probably spent more time
in sexual intercourse in one year than she herself would in her whole life. She
felt about this, in indefinite ways.
You don't plan. You don't dream. You don't do anything.
The dresser on the
opposite side of the room contained more underwear than Merci thought one woman
would ever own. You name it. Aubrey had it. But the socks were cotton or
cotton/Lycra. The athletic clothes were more of the same.
Underneath the Lycra
shorts in the top drawer she found a stack of opened mail. It looked like
mostly greeting cards. She sat in the chair in the corner and turned on the
reading lamp next to it. She checked for return addresses on the colored
envelopes, none. She checked the postmarks—Santa Ana. They were addressed by
hand in small, neat print that immediately sent
"We
miss you. It's chaos out there on the freeways. Be careful."
CHAPTER
TEN
T he rain heaved down and made freeway lakes in the low
spots, cars planed off the asphalt or into each other. Merci couldn't see dick
out the windshield even with the wipers pegged and the defroster on full blast.
All just water and red lights and the roar of rain on sheet metal three inches
from her head. It took over an hour from the sheriff building to Aubrey
Whittaker's apartment in San Clemente. Zamorra left headquarters after Merci
did but got there first.
He
was already inside, standing in the living room, still wearing his black
overcoat, watching the storm roil the Pacific. She saw a pink shiver of
lightning branch into the dark water. She flipped on some lights, Aubrey's dry
cleaning hooked in one of her hands, hangers digging into her fingers.
"Okay,"
she said. "A black wool and Orion mix garment, possibly a sweater, knit
cap, gloves or muffler."
"I'll take the
kitchen," he said. "It's been bothering me." So be it. She hit
the bedroom lights, placed the dry cleaning on the bed, slid open the mirrored
closet door, then hung the clean clothes at one end. Starting at the other end,
she began taking out hangers three or four at a time, laying them on the bed.
Merci,
not a good judge of the cost of clothing, estimated several thousands of
dollars on the first twenty hangers—dresses by designers of whom she was only
vaguely aware. A smart red leather outfit with gold buckles on the straps still
had a price tag attached! $1700.
The most Merci had
ever paid for a dress was $335 a little over two years ago. It was long, black
and simple, worn just once.
The smell of perfume
wafted up as she lifted the hangers. After dresses came the skirts, then the
blouses, then the more casual tops. On the other side of the closet were coats
and jackets, pants, some frankly provocative leather and vinyl items. Merci
wasn't sure how they were put on. She wanted to be able to imagine herself in
such a thing, but couldn't.
You don't touch. You don't kiss. You don't dream.
A scared, sexless
cow, she thought: There're worse things to be, aren't there? Maybe she would be heading up the Homicide Detail by age forty.
She had an urge to
try on some of Aubrey Whittaker's clothes, just see how they looked. The red
leather getup would be the one. She ranked this among the top ten most stupid
ideas she'd had in her life. Banished it. Banished it again.
The sweaters were
folded and stacked on the left side of the top shelf. Black cashmere, black
cotton, black angora. No black wool. On the right-hand part of the shelf she
found some knit caps and berets, pairs of knit gloves and three mufflers. Lots
of wool there, but only the gloves were black, and no Orlon in the mix
according to the labels
She checked the dry
cleaning next. Nothing that matched what the lab had found.
Then she searched the
laundry basket in the corner: lots of underwear and clothes but no wool. She
noted the shoes and boots, the sandals and slippers, the 240-count box of
condoms beside the leather thigh-highs. What a thing to do for a living,
thought Merci. She figured that Aubrey Whittaker had probably spent more time
in sexual intercourse in one year than she herself would in her whole life. She
felt about this, in indefinite ways.
You don't plan. You don't dream. You don't do anything.
The dresser on the
opposite side of the room contained more underwear than Merci thought one woman
would ever own. You name it. Aubrey had it. But the socks were cotton or
cotton/Lycra. The athletic clothes were more of the same.
Underneath the Lycra
shorts in the top drawer she found a stack of opened mail. It looked like
mostly greeting cards. She sat in the chair in the corner and turned on the
reading lamp next to it. She checked for return addresses on the colored
envelopes, none. She checked the postmarks—Santa Ana. They were addressed by
hand in small, neat print that immediately sent
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