“The police called me yesterday afternoon. I’m going to the morgue to see her now.”
“The freeways through downtown can be confusing. Do you need directions?”
“I mapped the route on GPS. I want Laycee to know I’m here for her. She’s not alone. And I need to make the arrangements to bring her home to Atlanta. To bury her.” He turned away.
I touched his shoulder. “Are you okay to do this right now?”
“I have to be. I want to talk to the police again before we leave. Someone is going to explain to me how my Laycee ended up dead in Jarret’s bed and why he’s not under arrest.”
“If you need anything—help with local arrangements or someone to talk to—you have my number. Feel free to call me.”
Forrest thanked me then said, “You were a good friend, Liz, the best girlfriend Laycee ever had. It broke her heart when you moved away. If you had stayed in Atlanta, Laycee would still be alive.”
His comment stung but I left him with an encouraging hug, and then went back to my car with my head down. Poor guy. Laycee had lied to Forrest about everything—her reasons for coming to Los Angeles, who she was with, and especially why she and I no longer spoke. So much for love or loyalty.
Dancing my fingers under the hot door latch, I slid into the cooking interior and cranked up the air conditioner to high. As soon as I got home I called my office answering service for messages (none), and then checked in with Stan upstairs. His “just a few more days” estimate on completing the master bath tested my thin patience. I changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Enough was enough on the shower situation.
“Time to reassess and take action,” I said to Erzulie, waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.
Even if the tub and shower in the spare bathroom were in rusted and nasty shape, with some effort, cleanser, and bleach, maybe I could clean them up enough to use until Stan finished the master. I unloaded the washer and put my laundry in the dryer, packed a bucket with cleaning solutions and rubber gloves, and then went upstairs for some manual labor to clear my mind.
The bathroom at the top of the stairs shared a common wall with the master bath. To the left of the landing was my bedroom door; to the right, doors to the two bedrooms over the kitchen and dining room. I had planned to use the spare bedroom in front for a guest room and make the back bedroom a combination walk-in closet and craft room. If I ever decided to take up a craft. When I arranged the downstairs and my bedroom, I shoved the extra boxes into the spare bedrooms without paying attention to what I was putting where.
I opened the guest bathroom door and set the bucket on the small sink to the right. I could do this. First I had to move out the boxes of clothes stacked against the walls and in the tub. If the back room was going to be my closet, then the boxes of clothes should go in the guest bedroom to be unpacked. I lifted a box from the top and carried it through the hall.
Fueled by nervous energy and the desire to accomplish my goal, I moved seven boxes out of the bathroom and into the guest bedroom while the earsplitting screech of Stan’s drill rang from the master suite. Setting the last box near the window facing the street, I stopped for a break and glanced outside.
A blue Caprice pulled up in front of the house. Carla Pratt got out of the driver’s side in slacks and a white blouse. She lumbered up my brick path with her gun holster and handcuff pouch visible for the entire neighborhood to see. Perfect.
I made it halfway down the steps before the doorbell rang. Erzulie darted past me up the stairs, and then darted back at the sound of Stan’s drill. The last I saw of her was a tail disappearing under the sofa.
When I opened the door, Carla stood on the porch smiling. “Did I come at a bad time?”
Yes. This is a bad time. Any time is a bad time. Go away. “No, not at all,” I said. “I’m unpacking boxes upstairs. What can I do for you?”
“May I come in?”
Chilled air poured out of my house. Unless I wanted to cool down all of Studio City on my dime, lingering half in and half out wouldn’t work. I wasn’t about to sit on the front porch in the heat, talking to a gun-toting detective in full view of the neighbors.
“Sure. Come on in.” I led her to the living room. She sat on the sofa. I crossed my legs Indian-style on my white Camden chair and faced her. “How is the investigation going? Did you zero in on the origin of the symbol yet?”
Carla’s brows shot up.
“Everyone knows about the symbol, Carla. I wouldn’t be surprised if the tabloids posted it online by now. I heard that Ira Ryback e-mailed a photo from the murder scene. His source called the design witchcraft.”
“What would you call it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Let’s not play coy with each other,” Carla said. “You and Mr. Garfield shared a fascination with the occult during the Darcantel investigation.”