Living with the Dead

ROBYN



Miss? You wanted out here?”

“J-just a sec,” Robyn said.

She stared at the police station steps. Another precinct, ten miles from the last, chosen at random from a phone book when she stopped to catch her breath, certain she’d finally lost Adele.

As it turned out, she’d only temporarily misplaced her. When Robyn tried to hail a cab, she’d seen Adele step from a side street. She’d changed course then, taking another route into a busier commercial area, cutting through such a crowd she even stopped saying “excuse me” as she shouldered her way past people.

She’d lost Adele then. She was certain of it. There’d been no sign of her for two blocks. Then, seeing people pouring from a matinee, she’d merged with the crowd and jumped into one of the cabs waiting at the curb.

It was then, after she’d given the police station address to the cabbie, that she’d finally relaxed, resting her cheek against the cool window and closing her eyes as her heart slowed.

Adele Morrissey, at the police station, asking to use her cell phone. The cell phone with the photo Hope thought was responsible for Portia’s murder. A photo of Adele Morrissey.

How had Adele found her at the station, when no one knew she’d been going to that one? Impossible . . . and therefore the first sign of Robyn’s mental collapse. The second had been Adele Morrissey, paparazzo, chasing her with a gun. Both, however, paled in comparison to this—absolute proof that she had gone mad.

After losing Adele in the crowd, after watching for anyone following the cab, after sending the poor driver on a roundabout route, who was standing there on the steps of the police station even before she got there?

Adele Morrissey.

Robyn squeezed her eyes shut and prayed she’d open them to see only a young blond woman who resembled Adele Morrissey by a trick of the light and a panicked mind.

A bang on the window sent Robyn jumping, bills falling from her fingers. There stood Adele, reaching for the handle.

Robyn smacked the lock shut and dropped two twenties over the seat. “Drive. Please, just drive.”

He looked at her in the mirror. Then his gaze lifted to the rearview mirror as Adele circled behind the car.

“Please. She’s got a gun. Drive!”

He spun from the curb.



WHILE THE CABBIE had been quite willing to take her away from the armed girl yanking on his car door, his sympathy meter expired after a couple of blocks. He pulled to the curb with, “You get out now,” and jabbed his finger at the sidewalk, to which Robyn had responded by reaching over the seat and taking back one of the twenties.

“Crazy bitch,” were his parting words as she closed the door.

There had to be a logical explanation for what had happened. She hadn’t imagined Adele—the cabbie had seen her, too.

Obviously Adele had been following Robyn to get that photo. She’d killed Portia for her phone. Then she’d discovered Portia had sent the picture to Robyn . . . and Robyn took another photo of her near the murder scene. So she’d followed Robyn to Judd’s house. As for how she’d found Robyn today, obviously it had something to do with that young man who’d hurt Karl. A partner, maybe Judd’s killer.

As for how he’d found Robyn, she wasn’t dwelling on that, no more than she’d dwelled on how Karl found her the day before. It happened.

Adele and her partner must have seen Robyn get into the cab and Adele followed her. After the incident at the first police station, Adele figured out that Robyn was trying to turn herself in. Once she’d realized which precinct Robyn was heading to, she’d gotten there first to stop Robyn from surrendering while she still had that cell phone.

Problem was, Robyn didn’t have the phone. Otherwise, she’d have tossed it to Adele, gotten to the police safely and told her story. Somehow she doubted telling Adele she’d lost the phone would solve the problem.

As for why Adele was willing to kill for a photo, Damon would say that motive wasn’t important. The important thing now was to get the hell away from her.



YOU’RE PRETTY DAMNED PLEASED with yourself, aren’t you, Bobby?

Robyn hadn’t heard Damon’s voice since she’d seen Adele at the first police station. Now she’d finally relaxed enough to imagine what he would have said.

She was pleased with herself. She’d called for a cab, requesting pickup a block over. She’d ordered the taxi to a cluster of hotels where she used to visit Portia for lunch. When it had dropped her off at one, she’d gone inside and taken the walkway to a second hotel. Out the lobby doors, into a new cab and off again.

Now she was walking toward music and the hum of voices. Some sort of street concert, she presumed. Where there’s a concert, there are police. If Adele wasn’t going to let her get to a police station, she’d find another way to turn herself in.

But, as people always said, there was never a cop around when you needed one. The concert turned out to be a small street festival on a road lined with shops boasting free hearing tests, Alaskan cruises and the lowest pharmacy dispensing fees in town. The music she’d heard? A live polka band. A seniors’ fair, with a shocking lack of police presence.

Seemed she’d need to hail another cab. It was a good thing she was turning herself in because, at this rate, she’d run out of cash. L.A. cabs were not cheap.

Her chances of getting one on this street were nil. It was blocked off for the festival. So she set out in search of the nearest busy road or pay phone, and walked two blocks, finding neither. Then, as she glanced down a quiet side street, she laughed. There was an LAPD bike patrol officer stopped in front of a parked car as he drank from a water bottle. Another bike was propped against the mailbox behind him. Twenty feet away a second officer was walking into a restaurant.

Apparently she’d just needed to stop looking for a cop and they’d be everywhere.

She took a deep breath, then strode toward the drinking cop, his helmet swaying on the bike handles. He was in his thirties, light haired, with ears that would favor a longer haircut.

“Officer?”

He capped his bottle.

Robyn waited until she was close enough to speak without shouting, and said, “I’m Robyn Peltier.”

His thick lips pursed. He pulled off his sunglasses, but his eyes remained as blank as the dark lenses. Great. Even with an introduction she couldn’t get recognized.

“Detective Findlay is looking for me,” she said as she stopped in front of him. “He wants to talk to me about Portia Kane’s murder.”

With that name, recognition hit. He glanced past her, as if looking for his partner, one hand sneaking toward his gun belt.

“Can you take me to Detective Findlay? Or call a car?” A weak smile. “I guess that bike isn’t built for two. I know this isn’t the best way to turn myself in but . . . it’s a long story.”

His hand moved away from the gun, taking his radio instead. He lifted it to his lips, then motioned for her to wait, as if she might wander off. Again he glanced behind her, still hoping for his partner. She thought of suggesting he handcuff her to the signpost, but from his expression, he might take her up on it.

He made the call. On reflex, Robyn glanced away to give him privacy, feigning great interest in the nearest closed store. The officer asked for Detective Findlay, giving the precinct, explaining that he had—

A blow hit Robyn in the shoulder, knocking her off balance. She recovered, twisting to see the officer standing there, mouth open, her shock reflected back in his face. Why had he hit her? His hand rose to his chest and she followed it to see a dark stain spreading across his breast. His eyes met hers, then his knees gave way.

As Robyn reached to catch him, a figure stepped from behind a parked car, gun rising. Adele Morrissey.

Robyn dove as the gun went off. An awkward drop, more of a fall, and she hit the pavement hard, skidding hands out, skin peeling from her palms, pain disappearing under a burst of agony from her shoulder. She saw blood spreading across her sweatshirt. Shot. Oh God, she’d been shot. That’s what she’d felt, the bullet passing through the officer and hitting her.

Another explosion of pain, this one in her side. She rolled as Adele slammed her foot into Robyn’s ribs again. Robyn tried to jump up. Then she saw the gun, pointed at her head.

“All you had to do was give me your cell phone, Robyn,” Adele said, her voice as high and light as a child’s. “How tough was—?”

Robyn grabbed Adele’s pant leg and yanked. As Adele staggered back, Robyn flew to her feet, her shoulder flaring again, the pain excruciating. Adele regained her footing, gun going up—

Robyn slammed her fist into Adele’s arm. Not much of a hit, but the movement startled Adele. She released the gun and it fell, skidding across the pavement.

Robyn started to run for the gun, but Adele was closer. She looked around, hoping to see the other officer. No sign of him. Seeing the alley Adele must have come out from, she raced toward it.