“Very.”
“How did you hear about it?”
“I didn’t hear about it. I was there. Who do you think did the camerawork?”
“You didn’t intervene?”
“I was behaving like a journalist, recording reality without imposing my will or my point of view. I captured the action for posterity. What’s wrong with that?”
“Oh, please. You’re worse than they are.”
“I’m despicable,” he said with an impish grin. “Anyway, she did it to herself. She’s a needy little girl who’d do anything for attention. Why do you think she stole the test? To curry favor with Poppy. Besides which she has the hots for Troy.”
“She does not. Does she?”
“Of course. She’s all over him.”
“But he and Poppy are going steady. He gave her his class ring.”
“There’s a lot Poppy doesn’t know about the guy. The thing about Iris is she flirts with any guy.”
“Oh, Bayard.”
“Oh, Bayard, my ass. Take my word for it. The tape is dynamite.”
“What would I do with a sex tape? It sounds gross.”
“You can use it to make Austin back off. Hard evidence, as it were,” he said. “Tell him you’ll turn it over to the police.”
Her expression was skeptical. “You said he didn’t participate.”
“He’s the one who set the stage, egging the others on, which makes him every bit as guilty, don’t you think?”
“He won’t see it that way.”
“Maybe not, but how can he take the risk? What if his parents find out? That’s the crux of it right there.”
She shook her head. “Why fan the flames? I defy him and things will only get worse.”
“Not so. You need leverage so you can put the squeeze on him. If you have the tape in hand, you can put an end to this.”
“Where is it?”
“McCabe’s house. He’s pondering additional ‘edits.’ Like it’s a major motion picture and he’s up for an award.”
“Fritz won’t just hand it over to me. Why would he do that?”
“Of course not. You’ll have to find a way to lift it without his knowing. Shouldn’t be hard to do. The kid is clueless.”
“It doesn’t feel right. I can’t afford more trouble than I’m in.”
“Wrong attitude. This is just the opposite. This is your ‘get out of jail free’ card.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You know your problem? You really don’t understand what guys are about. You think you can be all nicey-nice and everything will be fine. Austin plays rough. You gotta hit him where it counts. He’s a gamesman.”
“I don’t want to play games.”
“Why not? He goes after you, you gotta knock him on his ass. Otherwise you’ll never gain his respect. Right now, he’s got you where he wants you.”
“He can’t keep it up forever.”
“Are you kidding? He’ll escalate. You think you’re miserable now. Wait until he ups the ante. Don’t you want to beat him at his own game?”
“All I want is to have this bullshit over with.”
“Exactly. Go to Fritz’s house and get the tape. If he figures it out, all the better. He can carry the tale to Austin. It’ll make Austin sweat, which would be good for him. Reveal any weakness and he’ll know he’s won.”
“I feel weak.”
“Then get a grip on yourself. You’re taking a one-down position, which is all in your head.”
Sloan stared at him for a long time and then lowered her gaze. Bayard had a point. Maybe it was time to stop playing victim and take control of the situation. She got up, snapping her fingers at the dog. “I hope this works. If not, I’ll have you to blame.”
“You surely will,” he said.
She clipped the leash on Butch. The dog rose to his feet and trotted dutifully at her side. Bayard watched as she moved down the drive toward the road. Idly, he removed the lid from the cup and finished his drink.
6
Monday, September 18, 1989
I found parking on the nearest side street, locked my car, and walked around the corner to State Street and down half a block. The vintage clothing store was called Yesterday and boasted a window full of garments from eras long past. Judging from the display, Victorian items were in high demand, along with clothing from the 1960s.
When I entered, an old-fashioned bell trilled merrily. The interior smelled of incense, ancient dust, and an amalgam of faded perfumes. The floors were wooden and creaked as I crossed the room. The shelves were stocked with shoes, handbags, and hats. Two racks were filled with cloth coats, fur coats, and fur capes. There were also hanging displays of dresses, skirts, and tops, separated into decades and lined up in the obvious order, from the smaller sizes to the larger ones. In the glass cases that divided the store into aisles, I could see women’s dainties: corsets, camisoles, garter belts, hosiery, step-ins, and brassieres that spoke to the changes in women’s bodies over the years. There was a time when female amplitude was associated with prosperity. Then there was a period when being thin meant you were disciplined, drove yourself hard, and were careful about what you ate. Now being thin is proof you have enough money to pay for personal trainers, nutritionists, and tummy tucks within a week of giving birth.
I took out a pen and a notebook, hoping to convey my fake professionalism. Iris Lehmann approached from the back of the store, looking much the same as she had in the tape except upright and fully clothed. She wore a long-sleeved lace top faintly yellow with age and a long gray velvet skirt. Peeking from beneath the hem were black leather lace-up shoes with toes so pointed they looked like they would pinch. Her hair was shorter now, auburn highlighted with streaks of red, held in place with an array of combs and barrettes. Her ears were pierced by a series of small gold rings that lined the cartilage at quarter-inch intervals. Those looked painful as well and I wondered if her fashion sense was, in part, a self-inflicted penance.
“May I help you?”
“I’m hoping so. You’re Iris Lehmann?”
She smiled, apparently anticipating something nice. Poor thing. “Yes.”
“I’m Kinsey Millhone. I’m writing a follow-up story about Fritz McCabe’s release from the California Youth Authority. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Her expression shifted from optimism to wariness. “I don’t have anything to say about Fritz McCabe.”
“Oh, sorry. I was told you and Fritz and Troy Rademaker were friends in high school.”
She hesitated and I watched her debating with herself. It must have been clear I had a few facts on my side, thus tempering any urge of hers to lie. “I knew them. I wouldn’t say we were friends. We went to Climp together my freshman year. That’s all it amounted to.”
“I understand you were expelled for stealing a copy of a test.”
She stared at me. “Why would you ask about that?”
“I did some digging through the old files. I was hoping you could fill in a gap or two.”
She squinted. “What’s your name again?”
“Kinsey Millhone.”
“And this is for the Santa Teresa Dispatch?”