glared at the money suspiciously, and the two of them talked softly for a while. He watched carefully, but Maeve seemed to be okay. He was actually proud of her willingness to approach someone so obviously around the bend. He did the same on principle now and then, but he had never found it did much good for anyone.
In the end the woman took the money, and Maeve came back a bit chastened.
“How was it?”
“Well.” She paused and took a deep breath. “She’s into, like, visitors from other dimensions, and even has a name for where I come from, really strange. Bagnidor-grizzle, or something like that. I wonder if it comes from TV.” She took another deep breath and rested her head against his shoulder. “Can’t they do anything?”
“Hon, she’s out in the fresh air. She’s living in whatever world she can make for herself, instead of some miserable institution. I can’t even begin to work out the moral ambiguities. Can I borrow your cell?”
He’d forgotten his promise to check in with Steelyard, and he owed it to him to report his belief that the local goths were pretty unlikely perps. A recorded voice at the number Steelyard had given him referred him to another number.
“Steelyard.”
The policeman’s voice sounded strangely subdued, as if he’d just gone a dozen rounds with somebody a lot bigger than him. “This is Jack Liffey. You asked me to call, and said maybe we’d swap information.” He told him about the goths, and Steelyard took it all in without comment. “Do you any good?”
“Jack, you’re two cards behind. Can you come to Ellery Drive?”
“I’m five minutes away.” He remembered that that was Steelyard’s mother’s address, on the very flank of the hills and not far from Averill Park, real middle-class territory. He wondered if Steelyard still lived there. “I’ll be there.” He himself had grown up only a few blocks closer to the water, as the crow flies, but then his family had moved farther down on the working-class flats, into another world.
“Whoever the fuck this guy is,” Steelyard told him, “he’s hit Dan and me both now. Hard.”
Five
Come Home to Roost
They drove up just as three technicians in white smocks, and laden with bags and boxes, bustled out of the house and headed down the grass toward a big panel van that said CRIME SCENE UNIT in letters so big it looked like they were trying to sell it. Jack Liffey wondered, not for the first time, how it would feel to see something like that parked in your driveway. It would certainly perk up all your neighbors.
“Should I wait out here?” Maeve asked.
“Don’t tell me you’re not curious.”
She made a face. “I may be, but the last time I got caught up in one of your cases, mom grounded me for twenty-to-life.”
“Mea culpa. That was a mess. But this one shouldn’t come home to roost.”
It was what she wanted to do anyway, so she followed him up the lawn toward the big Norman-style house with its parabolic front window, thick stucco walls, and steeply pitched roof—waiting forlornly eighty years or so for the Norman snowstorms to reach San Pedro. It really belonged in Beverly Hills, he thought, with all the other rich men’s fantasies, although this was almost into the local hills, where San Pedro’s doctors and lawyers retreated at night if they didn’t actually drive into the hills. The heavy wood door stood open, but he knocked and shouted hello as precautions.
Eventually a stocky Latina with a police badge on a chain around her neck showed up.
“I’m Jack Liffey. Ken asked me to come over.”
She nodded. “I’m Detective Ramirez, his partner. He’s in the basement.”
He introduced Maeve, and they all walked inside on a noisy paper runner on the floor, and then down steep stairs. It was one of the few houses he’d ever seen in LA with a full basement, obviously built well before the dread of earthquakes had set in. Maeve hung back a bit, but he figured her pluck would catch
In the end the woman took the money, and Maeve came back a bit chastened.
“How was it?”
“Well.” She paused and took a deep breath. “She’s into, like, visitors from other dimensions, and even has a name for where I come from, really strange. Bagnidor-grizzle, or something like that. I wonder if it comes from TV.” She took another deep breath and rested her head against his shoulder. “Can’t they do anything?”
“Hon, she’s out in the fresh air. She’s living in whatever world she can make for herself, instead of some miserable institution. I can’t even begin to work out the moral ambiguities. Can I borrow your cell?”
He’d forgotten his promise to check in with Steelyard, and he owed it to him to report his belief that the local goths were pretty unlikely perps. A recorded voice at the number Steelyard had given him referred him to another number.
“Steelyard.”
The policeman’s voice sounded strangely subdued, as if he’d just gone a dozen rounds with somebody a lot bigger than him. “This is Jack Liffey. You asked me to call, and said maybe we’d swap information.” He told him about the goths, and Steelyard took it all in without comment. “Do you any good?”
“Jack, you’re two cards behind. Can you come to Ellery Drive?”
“I’m five minutes away.” He remembered that that was Steelyard’s mother’s address, on the very flank of the hills and not far from Averill Park, real middle-class territory. He wondered if Steelyard still lived there. “I’ll be there.” He himself had grown up only a few blocks closer to the water, as the crow flies, but then his family had moved farther down on the working-class flats, into another world.
“Whoever the fuck this guy is,” Steelyard told him, “he’s hit Dan and me both now. Hard.”
Five
Come Home to Roost
They drove up just as three technicians in white smocks, and laden with bags and boxes, bustled out of the house and headed down the grass toward a big panel van that said CRIME SCENE UNIT in letters so big it looked like they were trying to sell it. Jack Liffey wondered, not for the first time, how it would feel to see something like that parked in your driveway. It would certainly perk up all your neighbors.
“Should I wait out here?” Maeve asked.
“Don’t tell me you’re not curious.”
She made a face. “I may be, but the last time I got caught up in one of your cases, mom grounded me for twenty-to-life.”
“Mea culpa. That was a mess. But this one shouldn’t come home to roost.”
It was what she wanted to do anyway, so she followed him up the lawn toward the big Norman-style house with its parabolic front window, thick stucco walls, and steeply pitched roof—waiting forlornly eighty years or so for the Norman snowstorms to reach San Pedro. It really belonged in Beverly Hills, he thought, with all the other rich men’s fantasies, although this was almost into the local hills, where San Pedro’s doctors and lawyers retreated at night if they didn’t actually drive into the hills. The heavy wood door stood open, but he knocked and shouted hello as precautions.
Eventually a stocky Latina with a police badge on a chain around her neck showed up.
“I’m Jack Liffey. Ken asked me to come over.”
She nodded. “I’m Detective Ramirez, his partner. He’s in the basement.”
He introduced Maeve, and they all walked inside on a noisy paper runner on the floor, and then down steep stairs. It was one of the few houses he’d ever seen in LA with a full basement, obviously built well before the dread of earthquakes had set in. Maeve hung back a bit, but he figured her pluck would catch
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