After she hung up, she said, “She’ll meet you tomorrow at nine A.M. Cafe Alligator.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
Later, during dinner, she pushed food around her plate and her wineglass went untouched.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“I don’t know. All the things you’ve been involved in, and this one seems to be getting to me.”
“There is a special cruelty to it. Someone that bright and talented, cut off like that.”
“Maybe that’s it. Or maybe I’m just sick and tired of women being killed because they’re women.”
She reached across the table, grabbed my hand, and squeezed it hard.
“It wears on you, Alex. Looking over your shoulder, being told it’s your responsibility to be vigilant. I know men are the usual victims of violence but they’re almost always the victimizers. I guess nowadays everyone’s at risk. The world dividing up into predators and prey—what’s happening? Are we returning to the jungle?”
“I’m not sure we ever got out,” I said. “I worry about you all the time. Especially when you’re out at night alone. I never say anything because I figure you can handle yourself and I don’t think you want to hear it.”
She picked up her wineglass, studied it, drank.
“I didn’t tell Holly what you were up to, just that you were my guy, a psychologist, wanted to learn about the center. She’s a sixties type, might have gotten scared away by the word “police.’ ”
“I’ll deal with it.” I touched her hand. “I like being your guy.”
“I like it, too.”
Looking down at her untouched food, she said, “I’ll refrigerate this, maybe you’ll want a late snack.”
I started to clear. She put a hand on my shoulder.
“If you’re up for it, why don’t we take Spike for a walk in the canyon. It’s still light out.”
CHAPTER
13
Cafe Alligator was a storefront in an old building on Broadway, central Santa Monica, ten blocks from the beach. The bricks had been painted swamp-green and a stoned-looking saurian coiled above a black sign that said ESPENSIVE ESPRESSO. CHEAP EATS.
Inside were walls of the same algae tint, four tables covered with yellow oilcloth, a pastry case/takeout counter backed by shelves of coffee and tea for sale. A fat man with a bullet-skull roasted beans with the intensity of a concert pianist. Low-volume reggae music came from ceiling speakers.
Last night I’d played Holly Bondurant’s last LP, Polychrome. Fifteen-year-old album but I recognized her right away.
In the jacket photo, her hair had been strawberry blond, waist-length, half-concealing a beautiful Celtic face. Now it was short and blond-gray, and she’d put on thirty pounds. But her face was still smooth and youthful.
She wore a red velvet maxidress, black vest, lace-up boots, onyx necklace. A floppy black-velvet hat rested on an empty chair.
“Alex?” She smiled, stayed seated, gave me her hand, and looked at a half-filled coffee mug. “Pardon my starting without you but I need my fix. Care for a cup?”
“Please.”
She waved at the fat man. He filled a cup and brought it over. “Anything else, Holly?”
“Something to eat, Alex? Great muffins.”
“A muffin’s fine.”
“What’s good today, Jake?”
“Cranberry,” said the fat man, almost grudgingly. “Orange-raisin and chocolate-chocolate-chip aren’t bad, either.”
“Bring an assortment, please.” She faced me. “It was nice hearing from Robin, too, after all these years. She used to work on all my instruments.”
Her voice was melodious and her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She talked with every muscle of her face—that animated manner you see in actresses and others who live off public adulation.
“She told me.”
“She’s still doing luthiery, right?”
“Very actively.”
Jake brought my coffee and the pastry basket and slunk back to his beans.
She picked up a cranberry muffin and nibbled. “You’re a psychologist.”
I nodded.
“The center can always use mental-health people. Times are rough financially and we get fewer and fewer volunteers. It’s good of you to inquire.”
“Actually,” I said, “that’s not what I came to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” She put the muffin down.
“Sometimes I consult to the police. Right now I’m working on a murder case. Hope Devane.”