Part Two
NUMBER THIRTEEN
Chapter 25
MORNING LIGHT FLATTERED the trash dunes with a rosy glow, and seagulls screamed bloody murder as they swooped over the acres of garbage at the Sunshine Canyon landfill. Breakfast was served.
Justine pulled her Jag over to the side of the road and stared out at the landscape. I twirled the dial on her police band radio until the signal was clear. She opened her thermos, passed it over to me. I took a sip.
The coffee was black, unsugared. That’s the way Justine liked just about everything: straight up, no bullshit.
We hadn’t exchanged an intimate touch in more than two years, but sitting next to her in the close confines of the car, I found it tough not to reach over and take her hand. It had always been confusing, even when we were together.
“How’s it going?” she asked me.
Cops were picking over the dump across the road. We could hear them talking to base over the police band.
I said, “Andy Cushman has about twenty pissed-off former clients, any one of whom has the means, the opportunity, and especially the motive to kill him. So why kill Shelby instead? I’m not getting anywhere on it.”
“Sorry to hear that, Jack. But what I meant was, how’s it going for you?”
Actually, what she meant was, how was it going for me and Colleen—and I didn’t want to get into that with her. Instead I said, “I have a new case to work on. It’s heavy-duty and personal. You remember me telling you about my uncle Fred.”
“Football guy.”
“Yeah. He’s worried that some of the games are being fixed. Could result in a huge scandal, the biggest since the Black Sox in baseball.”
“Wow,” Justine said.
“I’m having dreams again,” I said.
Justine’s eyebrows lifted. I had wanted to talk to her, but now I was going to have to really talk. Tell a shrink you’re having dreams, it’s like dangling string for a kitten.
“Dreams about what?” she asked. “The same ones?”
So I told her. I described the vivid explosions, running across the field with someone I love over my shoulder, never making it to safety.
“Could be survivor’s guilt, I guess. What do you think, Jack?”
“I wish the dreams would stop.”
“You’re still funny,” she said, “with the one-liners.”
I opened the folder I had wedged under the armrest and looked at the photo that Bobby Petino had e-mailed to Justine this morning. It was a school portrait of a pretty sixteen-year-old girl named Serena Moses. She’d been reported missing last night. Serena lived in Echo Park, a section of East LA that Justine called “the red zone,” the Schoolgirl killing field.
Two hours after Serena’s parents called the police, an anonymous and untraceable call had come in to 911 saying that Serena’s body was here in the landfill.
Just then, voices came over the police radio, one sharper and louder than the others.
“I’ve got something. Could be human. Oh, Christ…”
“Let’s go,” I said, opening the car door on my side.
“No, Jack. I’ve got to do this alone. If you come with me, I’ll lose my street creds. Just hang tight.”
I said okay. Then I watched Justine cross the empty street and head toward where the police were already taping off a section of the stinking terrain.