with them on and off for two years— they’d probably been out with him once a month, perhaps a little more often. Say, thirty times, Anna thought, a few hours each time. He was good at it: he had an artistic eye, knew how to frame a shot and wasn’t afraid to stick his face into trouble.
His main shortcoming was a lack of focus: he would get caught by something that interested him—might be a face, or visually tricky shot, and lose track of the story.
Anna cleaned up the house for a half-hour, bored, on edge and depressed all at once, and finally dragged two old Mission chairs into the back and began sanding the paint off. She’d found them in a yard sale, in reasonable condition, and figured she’d make about nine million percent profit on them, if she could ever get the turquoise paint off them.
The work was fiddly, dull, but let her think about Jason: not puzzling out the murder, not looking for connections, just remembering the nights he’d spent in the back of the truck— the decapitated woman on Olympic; the crazy Navajo with the baseball bat in the sex-toy joint, the pink plastic penisshaped dildos hurtling through the videotape like Babylonian arrows coming down on Jerusalem.
She grinned at that memory: stopped grinning when she remembered the fight at the Black Tulip, when the horseplayers had gone after the TV lights. Or the time they taped the two young runaways, sisters, looking for protection on Sunset, the fifty-year-old wolves already closing in . . .
At seven o’clock, with the daylight fading, she quit on the sanding, went inside, made a gin and tonic. The TV was running in the background, as it always was, and as she turned to go back outdoors, she saw the tape of the guy being hit by the pig. He was getting more than his money’s worth, she thought, and grinned at the sight. Then: Jason got that shot . She stopped smiling and, still smelling of the paintstripper, carried the drink out to the canal-side deck and dropped into a canvas chair. ‘‘Anna.’’ Her name came out of the sky.
She looked up, and saw Hobart Page looking down from his second-story sundeck next door. ‘‘We’re having
margaritas. Come on up.’’
‘‘Thanks, Hobie, but, uh, I had a friend die. I just want to sit and think for a while.’’
Another voice: Jim McMillan, Hobie’s live-in. She could see his outline against the eastern sky. ‘‘Jeez. You okay?’’
‘‘Yeah, yeah. Bums me out, though,’’ she said.
‘‘Well, come over if you need company.’’ She’d just finished the drink when the phone rang—the home phone, the unlisted number. Creek or Louis, maybe her father, or one of a half-dozen other people, she thought.
But it was the cops: ‘‘Ms. Batory . . . Lieutenant Wyatt.’’
‘‘You’re working late,’’ Anna said.
‘‘We’re just wrapping up here,’’ he said.
‘‘Wrapping up? Did you find out who did it?’’
‘‘Afraid not. We did locate his apartment, not much there. Unless we get a break, we’re not gonna be able to do much with it . . . it looks like dope, or just random.’’
‘‘So you’re giving up?’’
‘‘No—but right now, we’ve got nothing,’’ Wyatt said. ‘‘We checked out the ShotShop and I think he might have been killed there. He could’ve been dropped right out the back window into the water, and the window was unlocked, which it wasn’t supposed to be.’’
‘‘Was there any blood? He was pretty beat up . . .’’
‘‘Not visible blood, but there was a roll of photo paper in the back—you know, one of those printed scene things?’’
‘‘Yeah . . .’’
‘‘Anyway, the owner said it was back there, half unrolled, and now it’s gone. Maybe he was killed on the paper, and the paper was thrown out the window. It would’ve sunk . . . So we’ve got crime scene guys looking for blood, and checking around to see if the paper’s under the pier, but even if we find it, it won’t be much. We’re looking
His main shortcoming was a lack of focus: he would get caught by something that interested him—might be a face, or visually tricky shot, and lose track of the story.
Anna cleaned up the house for a half-hour, bored, on edge and depressed all at once, and finally dragged two old Mission chairs into the back and began sanding the paint off. She’d found them in a yard sale, in reasonable condition, and figured she’d make about nine million percent profit on them, if she could ever get the turquoise paint off them.
The work was fiddly, dull, but let her think about Jason: not puzzling out the murder, not looking for connections, just remembering the nights he’d spent in the back of the truck— the decapitated woman on Olympic; the crazy Navajo with the baseball bat in the sex-toy joint, the pink plastic penisshaped dildos hurtling through the videotape like Babylonian arrows coming down on Jerusalem.
She grinned at that memory: stopped grinning when she remembered the fight at the Black Tulip, when the horseplayers had gone after the TV lights. Or the time they taped the two young runaways, sisters, looking for protection on Sunset, the fifty-year-old wolves already closing in . . .
At seven o’clock, with the daylight fading, she quit on the sanding, went inside, made a gin and tonic. The TV was running in the background, as it always was, and as she turned to go back outdoors, she saw the tape of the guy being hit by the pig. He was getting more than his money’s worth, she thought, and grinned at the sight. Then: Jason got that shot . She stopped smiling and, still smelling of the paintstripper, carried the drink out to the canal-side deck and dropped into a canvas chair. ‘‘Anna.’’ Her name came out of the sky.
She looked up, and saw Hobart Page looking down from his second-story sundeck next door. ‘‘We’re having
margaritas. Come on up.’’
‘‘Thanks, Hobie, but, uh, I had a friend die. I just want to sit and think for a while.’’
Another voice: Jim McMillan, Hobie’s live-in. She could see his outline against the eastern sky. ‘‘Jeez. You okay?’’
‘‘Yeah, yeah. Bums me out, though,’’ she said.
‘‘Well, come over if you need company.’’ She’d just finished the drink when the phone rang—the home phone, the unlisted number. Creek or Louis, maybe her father, or one of a half-dozen other people, she thought.
But it was the cops: ‘‘Ms. Batory . . . Lieutenant Wyatt.’’
‘‘You’re working late,’’ Anna said.
‘‘We’re just wrapping up here,’’ he said.
‘‘Wrapping up? Did you find out who did it?’’
‘‘Afraid not. We did locate his apartment, not much there. Unless we get a break, we’re not gonna be able to do much with it . . . it looks like dope, or just random.’’
‘‘So you’re giving up?’’
‘‘No—but right now, we’ve got nothing,’’ Wyatt said. ‘‘We checked out the ShotShop and I think he might have been killed there. He could’ve been dropped right out the back window into the water, and the window was unlocked, which it wasn’t supposed to be.’’
‘‘Was there any blood? He was pretty beat up . . .’’
‘‘Not visible blood, but there was a roll of photo paper in the back—you know, one of those printed scene things?’’
‘‘Yeah . . .’’
‘‘Anyway, the owner said it was back there, half unrolled, and now it’s gone. Maybe he was killed on the paper, and the paper was thrown out the window. It would’ve sunk . . . So we’ve got crime scene guys looking for blood, and checking around to see if the paper’s under the pier, but even if we find it, it won’t be much. We’re looking
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