She thought. “I don’t know. . . . Anyway, I’ve got eight new major corporate accounts to clear paper on. Used to be only tax season was like this.”
She shrugged and stood. Behind her, the pelicans began a dive in formation.
When we reached the door, she said, “Have you seen Detective Sturgis lately?”
“I saw him a couple of days ago.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Fine.”
“What a nice guy. How does he deal with this kind of stuff constantly?”
“Not every case is like Shwandt.”
“Thank God for that.” Her skirt was in place but she tugged at it, smoothing the thin fabric over hard, narrow hips.
“Are you sure you want to leave early, Lucy? We’ve gotten into some pretty disturbing stuff.”
“I know, but I’ll be fine. Talking about it’s made me feel better.”
We left the house and walked across the footbridge to the front gate. I turned the bolt and we stepped out to Pacific Coast Highway. This far north of the Malibu Colony, coastal traffic was thin—a few commuters from Ventura and produce trucks rattling down from Oxnard. But the vehicles that did pass were speeding and deafening, and I could barely hear her when she thanked me, again.
I watched her get into her little blue Colt. The car fired up and she gave the wheel a quick turn, peeling out, burning rubber.
I went back inside and charted the session.
Fourth session. Once again, talking about Shwandt’s crimes, the trial, the victims, but not the dreams that had brought her to me in the first place.
I’d mentioned them the first time, but she changed the subject abruptly and I backed off. So maybe the dreams had ceased as she got some of the horror out of her system.
I started some coffee, went out to the deck, and watched the pelicans while thinking about her sitting in the jury box for three months.
Ninety days in a toxic dump. All because she didn’t eat meat.
“Pure vegetarian,” Milo had told me, over his glass of scotch. “Save The Whales sticker on her car, donates to Greenpeace. Naturally the defense had the hots for her.”
“Compassion for all living things,” I said.
He grunted. “Defense thought she’d be too knee-jerk to send that piece of shit to the apple-green room.”
He gave an ugly laugh, drank his Chivas, and ran his hand over his face as if washing without water. “Bad guess. Not that he’s likely to eat cyanide soon, what with all the paper his lawyers are churning out.”
He was pretty much drunk, but maintaining. It was 1 A.M. and we were in a half-empty cocktail lounge in a half-vacant high-rise office building downtown, a few blocks from the Hall of Justice where Jobe Rowland Shwandt had held court for one-quarter of a year, leering, giggling, picking his nose, squeezing blackheads, rattling his chains.
The press turned every twitch into news and Shwandt luxuriated in the attention, loving it almost as much as the pain he’d caused. The trial was a rich dessert for him after a ten-month banquet of blood.
The Bogeyman.
The more repulsive the testimony got, the more he smirked. When the death penalty verdict was read, he yanked his crotch and tried to expose himself to the victims’ families.
“No fish,” said Milo, putting his glass down on the bar. “No eggs or dairy products either. Just fruits and vegetables. What’s that called, a vegan?”
I nodded.
The bartender was Japanese, as were most of the patrons. The bar food was soy-flavored trail mix, cucumber and rice wrapped in seaweed, and tiny pinkish dried shrimp. Conversation was low and polite, and even though Milo was talking softly, he sounded loud.
“Lots of do-gooders are full of shit, but with her you get the feeling it’s real. Real soft-spoken, gentle voice; pretty but she doesn’t make a thing out of it. I knew a girl like that in high school. Became a nun.”
“Does Lucy seem nunnish?”
“Who’m I to say?”
“You’re a pretty good judge of character.”
“Think so, huh? Well, I don’t know anything about her love life. Don’t know much about her, period, other than that she’s having bad dreams.”