Slow Squeeze (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 2) Page 27

  Greenwood sat on the ground and slid his legs under the fence so that they dangled over the edge of the cliff. He leaned his upper body against the fence and watched the ebb and flow of the surf below, hypnotically flowing in and out. He sat that way for several minutes, feeling the warm sun on the back of his head and neck, listening to the gulls cry, watching the water, until a busy trail of black ants caught his eye.

  They marched in a dense line across the ground on his right. Their destination was the underside of a flat rock that lay on the slope just beyond the fence before the cliff dropped steeply. Greenwood watched them industriously working. He drew his finger in the dirt across the ant trail, careful not to mash any of them. The ants paused at the schism, then started running wildly in larger and larger circles. Before long, the trail had been repaired and the traffic flowed smoothly again. Greenwood smiled.

  He held onto the fence with his left hand and slid his rear on the ground until he was closer to the rock that was the source of the ants’ attention. It was about a foot long and six inches wide, with an uneven bottom edge that tipped away from the ground. He stretched to reach the rock and managed to get his fingertips beneath the edge. He flipped it over and watched it roll down the cliff, gathering speed, until it bounced into the ocean with a satisfying splash.

  Underneath the rock was something that looked like a small mouse. Ants swarmed it. Greenwood watched with interest. He found a twig on the ground and poked it, scattering the ants. He poked it again and then saw a hot pink fingernail and almost lost his balance. He inched down the cliff, holding onto the fence with his left hand, his back almost flush with the ground, and gingerly grabbed the finger. Ants crawled up his arm and over his pants. He flung the finger behind him and quickly pulled himself up with both hands on the fence rail. When he was standing, he started swatting at ants that crawled over him.

  A sea gull that watched the commotion from the air landed and began walking toward the finger, which had fallen about ten feet behind Greenwood. Greenwood ran at the bird, waving his arms and shouting. The bird hopped a few feet away and stood his ground and was soon joined by another.

  Greenwood pulled out one of the Ziploc bags that he had shoved inside his pocket before he left the police station and closed it over the severed finger, which still had ants crawling on it. He shook his hand, trying to shake the ants off, then slapped one hand against his pants, changed the bag to the other hand, and slapped the free one. He walked quickly back to the bungalow, holding the closed bag away from his body, and stepped back down the road toward the main building, slapping his legs and shaking his arms. A curious gardener watched him. Greenwood stopped and looked for the ants that he was certain were covering him. There was nothing there. He nodded to the gardener with dignity and kept walking.

  He stepped into Mr. Stanford’s office. The manager looked at him with a patronizing smile.

  “Mr. Stanford, I’m sorry to say that the bungalow has to remain blocked off for another few days.”

  “Chief Greenwood, this is unacceptable.”

  Greenwood took a step closer and held the bag toward him. Mr. Stanford gave the bag a look of irritation that changed to horror.

  “I’ve found more evidence there. I can’t take the risk of disturbing the area.”

  “Where was that?” Mr. Stanford pointed a reproving finger at the Ziploc bag.

  “On the cliff, under a rock.”

  Mr. Stanford leaned heavily back into his chair.

  Greenwood left the building and chuckled to himself on the way to his car. He got in the driver’s side, then got out, unlocked the trunk, dropped the finger in, and gingerly closed the trunk lid over it, putting a safe distance between himself and Barbie’s extremity.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Lorraine’s head bobbed with the motion of the bus. She slept, dreaming she was at work at the insurance company in Salt Lake City. The office smelled of diesel fumes, like a bus. She brought a medical claim up onto her computer screen and determined whether to pay, suspend, or deny each line item. Claim after claim rolled before her. She should have paid some but denied them all. Then she was at the front door of her apartment. She unlocked it and Spooky, her cat, ran out. She called, “Charlotte! You home? Charlotte!” as she walked through the apartment. In the bedroom, she saw the empty closet. She ran out of the apartment and saw Spooky run into the path of an oncoming car.

  Lorraine started awake. It was bright sunshine outside. The bus drove through a landscape of low hills covered with tender spring grass, yellow wild mustard, and California golden poppies. The pollen made Lorraine sneeze. She got up and went into the bathroom of the rolling bus. The toilet seat and floor had been fouled with drops of urine from careless fellow travelers. She knelt down on the false floor and hung her head over the toilet and vomited. She staggered back to her seat, opened her purse, took out one of the many plastic prescription bottles, removed four pills, and swallowed them with diet cola from a can that sat near her feet. She picked up a package of Twinkies, ate half of one, then put the remaining half back into the package.

  She craved dense unconsciousness but began to dream again as soon as she fell asleep. She was dressed in high heels, glittery stockings and a tight, shiny tube dress. Purple. She was with Charlotte at the bar where they had first met. Charlotte had taken her to have her nails done that day. The acrylic nails felt thick and odd on her fingers but gave her hands a seductive length that she couldn’t stop looking at. She and Charlotte danced, and the other women watched them, and Lorraine felt conspicuous and uncomfortable and excited and sexy all at the same time. Charlotte ran her hands down Lorraine’s hips in the tight tube dress and Lorraine became aroused.

  Then she was at the bar and her friend Barbara’s face was close, looming in front of her eyes, blocking out everything else, and she was saying, “Something about her I don’t like. There’s something about her…” over and over again, and Lorraine was fascinated with the fine vertical lines in her lips. Then Lorraine’s father’s face was in front of her. Lorraine stared at the large pores across his nose. He had his big hand around her thin wrist. She tried to twist away from him but he held tight, hurting her, calling her names, telling her to leave, that she wasn’t welcome in their home. Then he started pulling off the fake fingernails, leaving her real fingernails torn and bloody underneath.

  Then his hand turned into Charlotte’s. She was lying on her back in bed wearing that purple negligee of sheer chiffon and slick satin. She was pulling Lorraine toward her, saying, “You’d do it if you loved me, darlin’. Show me you love me.” Then Lorraine was holding gardening shears. She snapped the shears closed, and Charlotte’s finger flew in an arc onto the floor.

  “Hey,” a voice said. “Hey lady.”

  Lorraine started awake. A young man with goofy long hair that stood at a forty-five degree angle from his head was shaking her shoulder.

  “Hey. You all right? You were moaning. You must have had a major dream.”

  Lorraine pushed her damp hair out of her face. Her forehead was slick with perspiration. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  He looked at her oddly, then returned to his seat across the aisle.

  Lorraine shook her head, trying to shake the dream from it. She sneezed at the pollen in the air, her hand working a diamond and sapphire ring on her finger. She became aware of the action and released the ring as if it were hot. She reached for the can of cola near her feet and jumped when she saw an acrylic nail on the floor next to it. Another lay on top of the Twinkies package. Another was in her lap. She looked at her hands. Two others dangled from her fingers. Her own nails were bloody and torn. She covered her face with her hands and began to sob.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Chief Charles Greenwood was studying the colorful plastic-topped push pins scattered across a large map of California that hung on a wall of the Las Pumas police station. Each pin pierced a small flag of paper that had a date and time scribbled on it. A hand-lettered sign was tacke
d above the map: LORRAINE SIGHTINGS.

  “Another call for you, Charlie,” Marion said from behind her glass-walled dispatcher’s office. “Newspaper.”

  “I’m not talking to any more of those people. We’re trying to get some work done here.”

  Jerry Kosnowski was seated at his desk, talking on the telephone to someone who reported seeing Lorraine. “Thanks for calling. Bye-bye.” He hung up the phone. “This one’s in Chula Vista, Charlie. Way down by the Mexican border.”

  “The last one was up in Humboldt County. Now, how the hell could she get from the Oregon border to the Mexican border in half an hour?” He looked at Kosnowski accusingly.

  Kosnowski raised his hands. “I don’t know, Charlie. I’m just taking the calls.”

  Greenwood grimaced. “I’ll mark it down. Notify the Chula Vista authorities.”

  They heard the back door screen open and slam closed. Heavy footsteps started down the hallway, then veered left into the kitchen. The refrigerator door opened and slammed closed.

  “Coleman!” Greenwood bellowed. “You break that GD door and you’re going to be buying the department a new refrigerator.”

  The heavy footsteps approached the front of the station. Officer Coleman loomed in the doorway. His pug nose had grown even more sunburned during the week of bright sunny weather they’d had since the storm. He dropped heavily into the Naugahyde and chrome chair, which squealed in protest, took a long drag on his can of Coke, half emptying it, then held the can in his big paw against the chair arm. “You’ve got a bug up your butt today.”

  Greenwood shot a glance at Coleman over his shoulder. “Where’ve you been? What’ve you been doing?”

  “Following up on that purse-snatching down on the Embarcadero.”

  “That’s all?”

  “C’mon, Greenwood, get off my case. Someone has to be the law in this town. Alvarez and I are the only ones out there. You two are spending all your time trying to catch Looney Lorraine. By the way, Mayor Fox wants to know what’s taking so long. He gave me an earful when I cruised by the golf course this morning.”

  “His Mayorship can go F himself. It hasn’t even been a week yet.”

  “GD this and F that,” Kosnowski said. “That’s more profanity than I’ve heard you use in eleven years, Charlie.”

  “It’s going to get worse before it gets better,” Greenwood said.

  The front door of the station opened, and Mayor Luther Fox came in carrying the latest edition of the Las Pumas Star. He waved it at Greenwood.

  “We saw it, Lou.”

  Mayor Fox read the headline anyway. “‘Hunt Still On for Purple Negligee Murderer.’”

  Officer Coleman stood and took the paper from the mayor. “Check out this picture of Lorraine. She’s a babe. That artist rendering they had before made her look like a douche bag.”

  “They quoted Iris Thorne in there,” Kosnowski said. “Did you see it, Charlie?”

  “I haven’t had time to read the whole GD paper! What does it say?”

  Coleman read aloud, “‘Investment Counselor, Iris Thorne, Barbie Stringfellow’s money manager, had met Lorraine Boyce socially on several occasions. Thorne described Boyce’s behavior as nervous and erratic. When asked whether she thought Boyce could have murdered Stringfellow, Ms. Thorne had no comment.’”

  “Lorraine’s our murderer, all right,” Mayor Fox said. “And the public wants to know when she’ll be apprehended.”

  Greenwood held a push pin above the map. He turned to look at the Mayor. “Lou, it’s only a matter of time. Furthermore, Lorraine is only a suspect. We just want to question her.”

  “If she didn’t do it, why is she on the run?”

  “Maybe she’s afraid.”

  “She’s afraid, all right. Afraid she’ll go to the gas chamber. Keep me posted.” Lou Fox walked out of the station. The door closed by itself behind him, then suddenly swung open again when he poked his head back inside. “Did you hear? The verdicts are in.”

  “Verdicts?” Greenwood said.

  “The four LAPD cops. The Rodney King beating.”

  The room fell silent as everyone looked at Mayor Fox.

  “What happened?” Kosnowski finally asked.

  “Four acquittals.”

  “Oh, shit,” Greenwood said.

  Lorraine stood in the women’s restroom of the San Jose bus station and examined herself in the mirror. Her image doubled and looped back over itself. She ran blood-caked fingers through her uncombed and greasy hair as she studied herself with trancelike detachment. The elegant, antique sapphire and diamond ring looked out of place on her battered and dirty hand.

  Other women were using the restroom. They hurried to finish their business when they spotted Lorraine.

  She unzipped her purse, dug her hand around the many prescription containers, and located a penknife. She pulled the blade from its casing and held it near her face. She lifted a hunk of hair and sawed the knife through it, dropping the hair on the floor. She cut off another hunk and another until she’d hacked all her hair off and the stubble jutted irregularly from her head.

  She kneeled on the dirty hexagonal white floor tiles, opened her suitcase, and took out the slinky black cocktail dress. She pierced it with the knife, then pulled the opening with her fingers, the fabric singing as she tore it in two. She couldn’t tear the black leather miniskirt, but she was able to stab holes in it and in the mock turtleneck sweater. She gashed the patent leather of the strappy sandals. She pulled a long, purple satin sash from her jeans pocket and smoothed it from end to end between her hands, savoring the cool, luxurious fabric. She put her foot on one end of it, held it tight with her hand, positioned the knife over it, then changed her mind and released her grip. She rubbed the satin against her face and nose, inhaling deeply.

  She dropped the sash and took out Iris’s cobalt blue suit. She pulled off her jeans and pulled on the skirt, tucking her sweater into it, put on the jacket, picked up the purple sash and shoved it into a pocket.

  She gathered the ruined clothing, unsteadily straightened up, and shuffled to a large trash can. She lifted the bundle and positioned her arms over the top, then abruptly dropped the clothing. Some of it landed in the bin, but mostly it fell around her feet. She reached into the bin and grabbed an image of her own face. She opened the newspaper.

  “Nervous! Erratic!” Lorraine smashed the newspaper, crumpling it into a ball, covering her already bloody hands with newsprint. She slammed it into the trash can.

  Greenwood and Kosnowski made the half-hour drive to the San Luis Obispo bus station just before the bus that Lorraine was suspected to be riding pulled in for its scheduled stop. Many city and county law enforcement personnel, many more than were necessary to apprehend the presumably unarmed Lorraine, were already in place, hiding behind parked buses and cars and in the station so as not to make Lorraine or the other passengers suspicious.

  The ticket agent at the San Jose bus station, about a three-hour drive north of San Luis Obispo, reported that a disheveled and disoriented woman matching Lorraine’s description had bought a one-way ticket to Santa Monica. When the torn clothing and hunks of hair were found, Greenwood grew confident that he had his woman.

  The bus driver had already made one scheduled stop before the police radioed their information. However, the driver always kept count and knew that all the passengers who were continuing through had returned to the bus. He insisted that there was no one on the bus who matched Lorraine’s description. The police assured him he was mistaken and to be certain to get off the bus with the other passengers in San Luis Obispo.

  Mayor Luther Fox had illegally parked his late-model Cadillac in the bus loading area. The car’s silver color was flattering to his remaining silver hair. He briskly approached Greenwood and Kosnowski.

  Greenwood dully greeted him. “Hi, Lou.”

  Mayor Fox rubbed his hands together and surveyed the scene. “Looks like we got our murderer, huh? Good news for the cit
izens of Las Pumas.”

  “It ain’t over till it’s over,” Greenwood said.

  “But she’s on the bus.”

  “We suspect she’s on the bus.”

  Kosnowski nudged Greenwood’s thick waist. “Here it comes.”

  The bus rolled in, emitting diesel fumes. The manual transmission gears thudded dully. The hydraulic brakes gasped. The bus let out a final shudder and sigh before it stopped. The front door accordioned open. The bus driver was the first one off. The other passengers slowly filed out and were quickly ushered into the bus station.

  Greenwood kneaded the fleshy skin on his face and strained his eyes, peering into the face of each passenger. After the last one had disembarked, he looked at Kosnowski, and Kosnowski looked back.

  “Where the hell is she?” Mayor Fox walked in double time toward the bus. A San Luis Obispo police officer restrained him before he could board it.

  Several officers were already on board, checking the restroom and looking under the seats. One of them came out and stood in the open doorway. “Empty,” he said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Word of the LAPD verdicts spread quickly through the McKinney Alitzer suite. There was a television in the conference room where Iris and Art joined the other employees.

  Daytime programming was quickly preempted by breathless local news broadcasts that shifted from event to event as the city began to come apart. An angry crowd gathered at the LAPD headquarters’ bulletproof doors, just blocks away, and shouted, “No justice! No peace!” in the faces of square-jawed cops in riot gear. Mobs pulled motorists from their cars and beat them senseless. Stores were looted and burned. Police disappeared into the mass of the city like rainfall in the ocean. Firefighters were shot at by snipers. Long-simmering race-based resentments boiled over. Vigilante citizens stood in front and on the roofs of their businesses with guns. The injuries and deaths mounted.