Chapter 47
“CONSIDER US EVEN,” Del Rio said. He was holding a wad of paper towels to his bloody nose as I drove us back down the road toward the office.
“What are you talking about?”
“You saved my life back there. I’ve been waiting for this day.”
“Not even close. They were just messing with us. You’re delirious.”
“Shit,” Del Rio muttered.
“Why was Shelby working for Glenda Treat?” I said.
“She was your friend, Jack. I barely knew her.”
A muted ring came from my briefcase in the backseat. I asked Del Rio to pass me the phone, and he did. I opened it, saw that I had a dozen missed calls. I said hello to Colleen.
“Where’ve you been, Jack? I’ve been calling and calling.”
“I know that. I was at the spa. What’s going on?” I asked her. My jaw was throbbing, my skull was a ball of pain, my ego was messed up.
“Justine wants to speak with you.”
“Put her on.”
“I’ll warn her that you’re a wee bit cranky.”
“Put Justine on, Colleen. My mood couldn’t be better.”
Justine’s words came in an agitated rush. “The mayor got an e-mail from the son of a bitch,” Justine told me. “He said that he left Marguerite Esperanza’s running shoes in a mailbox on La Brea. The lab is going over the shoes now. Jack, where the hell are you?”
I said, “Hang on.”
There was a gas station coming up on the corner of Sunset and Fairfax. I pulled in.
“We’ve got almost a full tank,” Del Rio said.
“Use the restroom. Wash the blood off your face. Justine? You still there?”
“Blood? What happened to Rick? What’s going on? Why aren’t you in the office? What’s this about a spa?”
I got out of the car and walked to a secluded part of the Chevron’s concrete lot. I told Justine about the pool party at the “spa” and that Glenda Treat had confirmed that Shelby had worked there but not why.
“You’re a shrink; explain this to me,” I said. “Why was she a working girl?”
“Without knowing her, I don’t think I can.”
“Pretend you’re doing a profile. Just starting one.”
There was a pause. Then she said, “Shelby was a comic, right?”
“A good one.”
“Okay. Well, if you combine equal parts narcissism and self-hatred, you might come up with a stand-up comic. You might also come up with a prostitute.”
I must have groaned.
Justine said, “Was I too rough, Jack?”
“Shelby must have found out something she wasn’t supposed to know. Maybe about the Noccias.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not over.”
“I know. Jack?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you coming to the office? Sci and I have two very different approaches to the Schoolgirl case. I need another opinion.”
“Sounds like we’re making progress,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”