“What’d you do with Robin?”
“She’s fine–I promise. She’s in there–go see.”
“Step out in front of me.”
“Sure, but this is silly, Alex. He made me–he’s crazy–we’re on the same side, Alex.”
Another look at Coburg.
His chest wasn’t moving.
Keeping the black gun on Jeffers, I stooped and pocketed the silver one.
Maintaining a clear view of her, I managed to pull a large, upholstered chair over the bottom half of Coburg’s body. Not worth much, but it would have to do for the moment.
I walked Jeffers back to the bedroom. The door was closed. The dog stood on his hind legs, scratching at it, gouging the paint. An acetone stink came from the other side. Familiar. ..
“Open it,” I said.
She did.
Robin was spreadeagled on the bed, hands and feet tied to the posts with nylon fishing line, duct tape over her mouth, a bandana over her eyes. On the nightstand were the spool of line, scissors, nail polish, a box of tissues, and Robin’s manicure set.
Nail polish remover–the acetone.
A used emery board. Jeffers had passed the time by doing her nails.
She said, “Let me free her, right now.”
I pocketed the scissors and let her, using her hands. She worked clumsily, the dog up on the bed, growling at her, circling Robin, licking Robin’s face.
Specks of blood dappled his fur. Diamond glints of broken glass. .
.
Robin sat up and rubbed her wrists and looked at me, stunned.
I motioned her off the bed and gave her the silver gun. Shoved Jeffers down on it, belly down, hands behind her back.
“Did she hurt you?” I said.
Jeffers said, “Of course I didn’t.”
Robin shook her head.
Jeffers’ red nails were so fresh they still looked wet.
She said, “Can we please–” Robin tied her up quickly. Then we returned to the living room. Coburg’s head where I’d hit him was huge, soft, eggplantpurple. He was starting to move a bit but hadn’t regained consciousness.
Robin trussed him expertly, those good, strong hands.
The dog was at my feet, panting. I got down and inspected him. He licked my hands. Licked the gun.
Superficial cuts, no sign he was suffering. Robin picked the glass out of his fur and lifted him, kissing him, cradling him like a baby.
I picked up the phone.
Three days later, I waited for Milo at a place named Angela’s, across the street from the West L.A. stationhouse. The front was a coffee shop. In back was a cocktail lounge where detectives, lawyers, bailbondsmen, and felons drank and worked on their lung tumors.
I took a booth at the rear of the lounge, drinking coffee and trying to concentrate on the morning paper. Nothing yet on the “bad love” murders, orders of the brass till it got sorted out. Coburg was in the hospital, and Milo had been virtually sequestered with Jean Jeffers at the county jail.
When he showed up, fifteen minutes late, a woman was with him, thirties, black. The two of them stood in the doorway of the lounge, outlined by hazy gray light.
Adeline Potthurst, the social worker I’d seen on film, Dorsey Hewitt’s knife up against her throat.
She looked older and heavier. A big white purse was clutched in front of her, like a fig leaf.
Milo said something to her. She glanced over at me and replied. A bit more conversation, then they shook hands and she left.
He came over and slid into the booth. “Remember her? She’s talking to me.”
“She have anything interesting to say?”
He smiled, lit up a cigar, and added to the pollution. “Oh, yeah.”
Before he could elaborate, a waitress arrived and took his Diet Coke order.
When she left, he said, “Lots happening. I’ve got New York records placing Coburg in Manhattan during all the East Side break-ins up till the day after Rosenblatt’s death: busted for shoplifting, he was arrested in Times Square two days before the first burglary, went to court the day he shoved Rosenblatt out the window, but his attorney got a continuance. Records listed his address as some dive near Times Square.”
“So he celebrated with murder.”