“Why would a Valley cop know anything?”

“Because Draper’s girlfriend lives in the Valley. One night she calls nine-one-one, reports a domestic abuse incident. Responding unit finds her with a black eye and a bloody nose. Draper’d smacked the shit out of her.”

“You’re saying Roy is violent?” It seemed impossible. Yet she remembered the surprise of his touch as he pulled her in and pressed his lips to hers. A romantic impulse, she’d thought. Or was it? A move like that could be seen as controlling, even aggressive.

“It’s not the first time the issue has come up,” Casey said. “When he was working patrol, there were excess force complaints. Of course, anybody can throw a brutality charge. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But sometimes where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

“Why haven’t I heard about this before?”

“His personnel records are confidential. And the girlfriend didn’t press charges. The officers had the impression she was afraid of Draper. Of course, him being a fellow cop, they weren’t too keen on bringing him up on charges anyway, so they probably didn’t push very hard.” He paused, then added with a note of finality, “She and Draper broke up right after that.”

“I find this pretty hard to believe.”

“Why? Because Draper’s never hit you? You’re not his girlfriend.”

“He just doesn’t come across...”

“As a guy who’d beat up a woman? Can’t always tell about people. You know that. You deal with enough threat messages from guys who seem normal.”

“Yes. I do.” She was thinking of the quiet schoolmaster, Edward Hare.

“Anyway, just wanted to give you a heads-up. Draper’s a good guy and all, for the most part, but maybe not the best person to get close to.”

“I haven’t gotten close to him. It’s none of your business, anyway.”

“Okay, okay, don’t get your undies in a knot. I’m just looking out for you.”

“Well, quit it.” She was tired of being told who she could talk to. “I can look out for myself.”

“Right. You don’t need me. You don’t need anybody. I got it.”

He started down the sidewalk, then glanced back. “Oh, by the way, it’s probably not the greatest idea to leave the backyard gate open in this neighborhood. Not that you need my advice.”

He got into his car—his civilian car, a Mustang—and drove off, the engine burring angrily.

She didn’t know what that last crack had been about. She always kept the gate shut and locked. But when she checked, she found the gate hanging ajar, creaking softly in the breeze.

The lock had been forced. Someone had inserted a screwdriver or similar tool into the keyhole and jimmied it open.

She entered the yard, passing the lawn mower, which sat amid clumps of tall grass in need of trimming. She saw no signs of intrusion at the back door and the rear window, but on the steps to the deck she found a clump of damp earth from the garden.

The intruder had climbed the steps. Had been on the deck, directly outside her bedroom.

Last night he must have tried entering the house from the rear, but finding no windows unlocked, he’d gone around to the side. There he’d found the one window with the broken latch.

It changed nothing. She’d already known he had been in the house. But somehow the thought of him on the deck, so near to her bed...

She thought of Marilyn Diaz, surprised in her bedroom. Marilyn, who’d kept her problems from the police, who’d been so sure she could handle things by herself.

Marilyn, plucked from the surf with a plastic bag pasted over her unseeing eyes.

twenty-five

At nine-thirty she met Maura in the lobby of Richard’s building. “Manager’s waiting for us upstairs,” Maura said. “He gave me all kinds of grief about opening up. I wasn’t impressed.” She stabbed the elevator button.

“I always take the stairs,” Jennifer said.

“Stairs are for losers. This is the twenty-first century.”

“This elevator isn’t the most reliable—”

“If it breaks down, I’ll climb out the trapdoor in the ceiling and shimmy up the cable. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

The elevator rose slowly with a good deal of rattling that did not inspire confidence. Maura didn’t seem to notice. She flashed a rather tacky bracelet at Jennifer, a band of copper studded with turquoise. “Like my newest trinket? Josh gave it to me.”

“Who’s Josh?”

“My surfing busboy. Come on, girl, try to keep up.”

“You just met him last night, and already he’s buying you presents?”

“He didn’t exactly buy it. A former girlfriend left it at his place. But he did give it to me.”

“How sweet,” Jennifer said dubiously.

“I thought so. It’s amazing how a little thing like a blow job can bring out the romance in a man.”

Despite Jennifer’s misgivings, they reached the third floor without incident. The manager was standing by Richard’s door, a heavy set of keys jingling in his hand. “I shouldn’t do this,” he said.

“Of course you should,” Maura countered. “This is the guy’s sister. And I’m a big wheel in the neighborhood. You should do whatever we say.”

The man thought about contesting the matter, then seemed to decide he didn’t give a shit. With a shrug he unlocked the door.

Jennifer entered first. “Richard?”

“He ain’t here.” The manager made a phlegmatic noise. “Ain’t been around since the last time you saw him. If he abandons the place, I’m entitled to sell his stuff.”

“You’re not selling anything,” Maura warned.

“He don’t come back, I can rent out his unit. That’s all I’m saying. He still owes me for this month’s rent.”

Jennifer pulled out her wallet and found a blank check. “I’ll pay it.” She plucked a pen from his shirt pocket and filled it out. “There. Satisfied?”

“That covers March, but what about next month?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we have to.”

The manager blew out a wheezy sigh. “My luck, he’ll show up again. Just when I thought I was rid of that freak.”

Maura’s face was hard. “Get the hell out of here.”

“I should stay with you while you—”

“Go.”

He went. Maura closed the door after him. When she turned back, Jennifer caught her expression, the shocked sadness in her eyes. This was the first time she had seen the way Richard lived now.

“Pretty bad, huh?” Jennifer said.

Maura dropped her gaze. “Yeah. Pretty bad.” Her voice was small. “Is he...happy? I mean, ordinarily?”

“I don’t think he’s ever happy. I don’t think he can be.” She picked up a book from a disorderly pile, glancing at the cover. Something about government conspiracies. “Schizophrenia tends to dull the affect. Cancels out the pleasure center in the brain. The patient feels fear, rage—negative emotions. But not happiness. It’s called anhedonia.”

The book was from the Santa Monica Public Library—the main branch, some distance away. He really was more mobile than she’d thought.

“So where are these papers we’re looking for?” Maura asked.

“No idea. I’m just assuming he keeps them here. I don’t know where else they could be.”

Jennifer opened drawers in the living room and kitchen, finding nothing. From the bedroom Maura called, “File cabinet in here.”

The bedroom was neater than the living room, but the musty smell was worse. And there was another odor, one Jennifer couldn’t identify.

The file cabinet stood in a corner. Maura was tugging on the handle of the top drawer. “Locked.”

“That’s got to be where he stashed them. We just need the key.”

A thorough search turned up no keys in the apartment. “How about this?” Maura lifted a butter knife from the kitchen sink.

“What good does that do us?”

“It gives us leverage. Give me a lever long enough and a place to stand, yadda yadda.”

Maura inserted the blade between the cabinet drawer and the frame. She pushed up, straining. Jennifer thought of the lock on her gate, the tool inserted into the keyhole.