Return of the Nomad Read online

  “Sure did.”

  “And?”

  “And we’re getting coffee in the morning,” I replied.

  “Everything all right?” He looked up from sipping and narrowed his eyes at me.

  “Everything’s all right.” I told him and lifted my glass. “Salud!”

  He raised his. “Cheers, friend. Welcome back to L.A.”

  After that, things got a little hazy, though I remember there was more beer involved, and more whiskey chasers.

  Chapter Two

  I woke around nine the next morning. I rolled out of bed and wandered out of Archie’s guest room. My feet thudded on the hardwood like my head as I padded through his spacious, painfully bright apartment, with the help of a few walls and the back of the sofa, and into the kitchen. The smell of bacon and coffee beckoned me all the way. As I staggered in, Archie lifted his eyes from the morning paper and smiled. He jerked his head at the coffee pot.

  “Want a cup?”

  “More than I can currently express.”

  I lowered myself carefully into a chair at the table and let him do the honors. “Two sugars, please.” He put on a show of mixing the coffee and clanged the spoon loudly on the side before scraping his chair on the floor and dropping the spoon in the sink. I glared at him. He grinned.

  “Feeling a little fragile this morning? Perhaps you’re getting the flu. Or it might have something to do with the twelve beers and half a bottle of Jameson’s you downed last night, before you developed an urgent need to drink tequila shots.”

  “Fuck you,” I replied without much rancor as I grasped the mug in my hands and sipped gingerly. “Oh, also…”

  “What?” he said to the paper, as he opened it again.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Thanks, I’m trying to give it up.”

  “Funny.”

  I had not slept well. Quite aside from the amount of booze I had consumed, which I felt sure Archie was exaggerating, the conversation with Pam last night had been playing on my mind. There was nothing special I could put my finger on, but neither could I let it go. I scowled at Archie.

  “What are you doing today? And how are you so chipper? You were drinking. I saw and encouraged you.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I switched to water when your encouragement became bilingual and you started on the tequila.” I grunted and he went on. “I’m heading to the station around ten. I’m on this weekend. I’m going to see if I can make some headway on these damned poisonings. I can give you a ride to the bar on my way if you like?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said sourly and stood, picked up the coffee and headed back to the bedroom to get ready.

  “So nice having you here!” He called down the hall after me.

  * * *

  Archie dropped me off at five to ten outside the bar. I lit up a Marlboro Red to pass the time. I took a drag and let it out slow, watching the smoke dance on the morning air. As I watched it, I recalled the conversation I’d had with Archie and Jimmy the night before, remembering Pam, and the parts of our childhood we’d shared. It was odd to think back. It wasn’t something I allowed myself to do that often. One of the reasons I got out of L.A. was the constant reminders of my parents. The memories of weekend excursions to the museum or the park. Dinner out. Their offices. Our home. It was hard to move on.

  Ten o’clock came and went, and it was ten thirty and a couple cigarettes later when I decided to call. She didn’t answer. I ignored the feeling. After another fifteen minutes, I called time on the exercise and decided to head over to her apartment.

  I arrived at her apartment block at eleven. It was one of those Spanish Colonial Revival affairs. The main entrance was closed, so I leaned on the buzzer a while. There was no answer. I didn’t have long to wait before someone came out the door and I skirted in before it could close. Inside, it was airy and sparsely decorated, with a variety of palms and ferns scattered around a wide, marble entrance hall. I decided to take the stairs at the back of the lobby, two at a time to the fourth floor. I figured I’d be faster than the elevator.

  I reached her door and rapped a little tune on it, but there was still no response. I looked around. There were no peeping Toms or Sallys, so I pulled my lockpick set from my back pocket. It’s one of those things I never leave home without.

  Thirty seconds later, I heard the click of the latch and pushed my way in, not knowing what to expect. I closed the door behind me. I was in a small, pleasantly decorated living room. There were two dark blue calico armchairs, a couple of bookcases that, as well as books, held pots with ferns and flowers. A small dining table by the window held a bowl of fruit. A patch of sun lay across two yellow bananas, three green apples and a large, orange pineapple. It was Pam’s kind of place. I could imagine her in here, cooking, singing, dancing to Cher the way she used to. Hair flips and all.

  Only it was very quiet now, and very still. And directly in front of the door, where the large, open bay window overlooked the street below, and through which the sun now leaned across the fruit bowl, there, in front of that window, was a couch overturned on its back. A patchwork blanket that I figured had been draped over it lay crumpled on the floor. A heavy pine coffee table stood on its side. And in front of the coffee table, on the floor, there was a pool of blood. Lying in that pool of dark blood was the lifeless body of my friend.

  My eyes scanned each frame of the scene as they moved across the room. My brain processed each one into cement blocks, which slammed down on top of each other inside me, one after another, trapping my feelings, my urges to scream, underneath them. My voice came as a whisper.

  “...Pam.”

  I moved quickly to her, knelt beside her and checked her pulse. There wasn’t one.

  My skin crawled and I felt myself go cold inside. The grief could come later, the pain, maybe the tears, if it was dark enough. But not now.

  Not now.

  Dead inside, as dead as Pam was, I began to inspect the body.

  Her face was pasty white, and it looked like the blood on the floor had come from a wound in the back of her head, but I could see also that there were stab wounds in her torso, around her left breast. I glanced around for a weapon, but couldn’t find one in the vicinity of the body.

  Marks on the rug told me where the coffee table had originally sat. It was now lying on its side, and I could see thick blood caked on one corner. I stood and moved to the open window and inspected it. I saw that it was not just open, but some of the panes had been smashed. I checked the floor under the frame. No glass. I leaned out the window and levered my body to look down. There was shattered glass out on the street. My forehead wrinkled. I pulled my phone out of my jeans, found Archie’s number in my contacts and called him. It rang a couple times before he answered.

  “Goldman.”

  “Archie, it’s Ana.”

  “Hey! How’s the reunion, you having a good time?”

  “She never showed up. I’m at her apartment. She’s been murdered.”

  There was total silence, then, “What? Holy sh… Send me the address. I’ll be right there.”

  I hung up, forwarded him my location, then continued my search. I was dimly aware of feeling nauseous, but ignored it and forced myself to think.

  If someone had broken in, it was in the same way I had entered the apartment. It sure as hell was not through that smashed window. I stood in the living room, scanning every surface again, beginning to collate intel.

  Though the furniture was messed up, it didn’t look like anything had actually been taken. The TV was still on its stand with a Blu-Ray player and about a hundred movies and TV shows lined up alphabetically underneath. There was a fancy computer on a desk up against the wall. In fact, as I looked around, I became aware that there were quite a few valuable items that were very much still in their place.

  I moved across the living room to the bedroom to check if anything was missing from there. The bed was made and the drapes were open, but as I crossed the room to the ches
t of drawers, I could see from the state of it that someone had rifled through her jewelry box. It was a long time since I’d seen her, so I didn’t know what she had. It wouldn’t be surprising if some of the pieces had been lifted, but I couldn’t be sure.

  In the corner of the room, I noticed her vintage Martin electro-acoustic guitar. I knew it had been handed down to her by Jimmy, who’d gotten it from his dad. If it had been a burglary gone wrong, the intruder didn’t know much about the value of vintage guitars.

  I checked in the bathroom and then in the kitchen, but there was nothing to be found in either.

  As I went back into the living room, my gut was telling me there was something, more than one thing, that wasn’t right in the apartment. Beyond the obvious, the inhuman, empty body lying on the floor, something I couldn’t put my finger on precisely, something flickering in my peripheral mind, told me the whole scene looked staged. I scanned the room again. There was no purpose, I told myself; no purpose to the overturned sofa, the coffee table... They didn’t make sense and I felt a hot coal of rage in my chest at that thought.

  Archie arrived with the crime scene team and the Medical Examiner about five minutes later. The uniform boys began to put up the tape while the CS guys climbed into their plastic suits and pulled on their latex gloves. This was not tragedy, it was science. I watched as they methodically went about, placing small yellow evidence markers like a path around the apartment, a road map toward death. Their solemn, professional faces made me feel sick. This was really happening.

  Archie was talking to me. Maybe he’d been talking to me for a while, holding my arm.

  “You okay?”

  I looked at him, focused on him. “Sure.”

  He stared at me for a second.

  “You want to go home, go home. You don’t need to be here.”

  “I do need to be here. I’m okay.”

  He gave my arm a squeeze. “Go outside. Get some air. You’re probably in shock.”

  He went and joined the M.E. over by Pam’s body. I knew he was worried about me, but I’d seen death before. I’d deal with that later. Right now I just wanted to understand what the hell had happened here. So I followed him over and listened to the M.E. spieling.

  “... can see staining of the wood and what looks upon primary inspection like brain matter on the corner of the table over there, which leads me to believe, and remember, this is just initial postulation, that she either fell, or more likely, judging by the wound, was pushed into the table, probably killing her.”

  “What about the stab wounds?”

  “Inflicted post mortem, see how there is no bleeding? I’ll know more once I get the body back to the morgue. There is bruising here on her upper arms, which would be consistent with her having been pushed.”

  Archie nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, thanks, Doc. Let me know as soon as you have something, will you?”

  She sighed. “I wasn’t planning to keep it to myself, Detective Goodman. Okay, let’s get her on the gurney.”

  I cleared my throat and gave Archie a nod as they lifted Pam’s body onto the trolley. Archie joined me.

  “Guessing you heard that.”

  “Most of it. So she most likely died from the blow to the head. And the stab wounds were inflicted when she was already dead?”

  “Looks that way. The wounds are shallow. Seems the blade was inserted very precisely, but with little force, between the fourth and fifth intercostals. But there was very little bleeding. Most of this blood came from the head wound. It’s very odd. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Right now, I’ve no idea what it means.” He took in my appearance again and sighed. “Ana, you should not be here. Are you okay?”

  “Stop asking me that. What’s your next step here?”

  “Well…” He grimaced. “Notifying the family.”

  The room seemed to rock for a moment. “Shit,” I said and held his arm. “Jimmy...”

  “Yeah, Jimmy.”

  I took a deep breath and blew out. We stared at each other for a moment. Finally, I said, “You want me to come?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

  Chapter Three

  We arrived at Jimmy’s house around lunchtime. The heavens had, quite fittingly, opened up, and, in spite of having driven, we got soaked the moment we stepped out of the car.

  It was a two story detached affair, slightly dilapidated, but with a warmth about it that said it was a home, not just a house. Maybe that was just my take.

  Archie, hunched into his shoulders with his collar up, rapped his knuckles on the door. After a few moments, it swung open and Jimmy stood grinning at us.

  “Hey, guys! What a great surprise! What y’all doing here? Come on in. Don’t stand there gettin’ wet! Come on in.” He moved aside and hurried us in through the door. “Can I get you guys a drink? I think I’ve got—”

  Archie cut him short. “We’re good, thanks, Jimmy. I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.”

  A dead silence settled on us and we stood staring at each other. Jimmy swallowed a couple of times. “Well, sure, okay. Come on in anyway, sit down. What’s going on?”

  He moved into the living room, where the shadows of raindrops were trickling down the brightly painted walls. He gestured at a worn out old sofa next to a fireplace and perched on the arm of a chair opposite. We sat down, next to each other, like judges about to pass sentence. Archie cleared his throat as I took pity on him and began to explain.

  “You know I called Pamela last night?”

  He nodded, frowning.

  “We arranged to meet up this morning, grab some coffee and catch up...” I sighed. “Jim, she never showed. So I went to her apartment.”

  His brows bunched together in confusion. I watched dread creep into his eyes.

  Archie placed his hand on my knee to stop me. “Jimmy, Pamela was murdered sometime between last night and this morning. Ana found her body in her apartment, after she didn’t show for their appointment. I’m so sorry.”

  I couldn’t look at him. I heard a sharp intake of breath and I just stared at the floor feeling impotent, frustrated rage building inside me. When I finally managed to look up into that kind, honorable face I had known and loved all my life, his grief had twisted it into something unrecognizable. His lower lip curled in and tears welled into his eyes. He gave his head a small shake and half whispered, “No…”

  Something made me want to explain, an irrational sense of guilt, though I was only the messenger. I spoke suddenly and my voice sounded too loud in the room. “I knew something was wrong when she didn’t show up this morning. So I called and nobody was answering. I went to her apartment block and no one answered the buzzer. So I went inside and knocked and still no answer. I managed to get inside and she was there, on the…” I trailed off. “ I’m so sorry, Jimmy.”

  His head was in his hands and I watched his shoulders shake as he sobbed convulsively. I wanted to help, but I didn’t know how, so I just sat there, useless, and watched him break down.

  After a couple of minutes, Archie leaned forwards and put a hand gently on his shoulder. “Jimmy, I’m so sorry to have to do this now, but we have to act soon, and I really want to catch this guy. So I’m afraid I have to ask you...”

  Jimmy sniffed, wiped his wet nose and his eyes on his sleeve, trying to bite back his sobs. He looked up at Archie and nodded.

  “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?”

  “No!” He was emphatic. “I mean, she’d turned over a new leaf. She didn’t hang with...” He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a shuddering breath. “She’d been doing so well.” He trailed off to wipe at his eyes with the cuff of his shirt again. “Since all of that trouble before, with her ex.”

  I shook my head. “What are you talking about, Jimmy? Doing well? What ex?”

  He had his eyes closed and he was swaying. His face was like a wet fist clenched in his pain.

  “The whole thing with the drugs.”

&
nbsp; I stared at Archie, then back at Jimmy. “Drugs? Pam?”

  He nodded, then slowly opened his eyes. “She got herself turned around, though, God bless her. My Pamela.” His eyes became abstracted. His bottom lip curled in again and he chewed on it as he tried to stop the tears spilling from his eyes. “I just—why?” He searched my face, like I might have an answer. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, Jimmy.”

  Archie sighed. “But we’ll find out, buddy, I promise you that. I know it’s tough, but can you answer a couple more questions for us? If you don’t feel up to it...”

  Jimmy shook his head. “I can do that. Whatever you need.” I watched him compose himself. The pain did not leave his eyes, but it was joined by something else, a kind of strength, or a hardness.

  “Who’s this ex that you mentioned?” I asked.

  Jimmy’s face twisted into a grimace of contempt. “Carter. A real piece of work. Pamela had been struggling, God bless her, money was tight and I couldn’t do much to help, what with the economy being what it was at the time, you know how it can be.” He sniffed and wiped at his eyes again with the back of his hand. “She was working all hours, waitressing here and there, but they were paying her in dust and peanuts. And I just couldn’t give her enough hours, you know what I’m saying? Then her rent went up.” He sighed. “So she meets this guy, Carter. He seems nice enough at first, gentlemanly when it was necessary, made an all right first impression on me. You know, courteous and pretty respectful and that. But a few weeks, a month pass and he begins to change. She’d come home from a shift and he’d be sat on the couch in the same position he was in when she’d left that morning. And if she said anything, he’d become aggressive, angry. Slowly wearing down her confidence. Then he began demanding money. Then the drugs started to appear. First the weed, but eventually he moved up to harder stuff, ecstasy, coke, then the heroin.”

  He closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his palms. He took a deep breath and went on.