Act II

 

Once the national tip line went live, information flooded in from every corner of the country – information with wildly varying degrees of credibility and relevance.

 “My brother used to run a coffee shop, and he said Pete Raynor ate at this coffee shop while he was in college. Good tipper.”

 “Well, back in 1997, Pete Raynor rented my aunt's vacation houseboat on Lake Mead. He seemed so nice and quiet...”

 “Shut-up, man! It's recording! Umm, yeah. Pete Raynor borrowed my dad's saws, and brought them back all covered in blood and stuff! It was soooo messed up!”

 “The man you're looking for, he used to come to all our plays – we run a community theater in Stockton – and he was really quite lovely. He gave a sizable donation to the friends group, and used to hang out with the crew and help build sets... oh, I don't know. It just seems so out of character.”

 “Pete Raynor is the biological father of Michael Jackson's children. I have a baby blanket and a soiled gym sock you can test for DNA.”

 On and on and on went the messages, and Cindy Thomas was determined to listen to every damned one of them until something turned up.

 Inspector Warren Jacobi might have thought it was pointless, that nothing good ever came from a tip line, but he understood the need to feel useful. At Lindsay's empty desk, he had set Cindy up with some headphones and digital voice files and turned her loose. Who could say for certain that she wouldn't root out a clue?

 For his part, Jacobi was nearly climbing the walls waiting for a call back from Oregon State Police about a missing rental car. He clicked his pen, stirred his tea, closed his eyes and tried to breathe himself calm. It wasn't working; with every look across to his partner's desk, with every reminder of the woman who should be sitting there, Warren Jacobi knew the urge to murder a man.

 As for the rental car, it was a genuine lead and he very badly wanted to fly to Oregon and run it down himself. A month ago, Pete Raynor walked into the LAX Hertz office and signed out a 2009 Ford F-150 truck.

 The rental was open-ended, with all charges accruing to a pre-paid credit card, so the airport Hertz hadn't seen a problem – until Pete's mug was all over cable news last night for kidnapping a cop.

 After the manager contacted police, the Ford's GPS signal was traced to the Coos Bay waterfront this morning. At last word, the state cops were surrounding the area, and Jacobi waited anxiously for an update.

 “Damn this,” he whispered.

 Just as he laid his hand on the phone receiver to call and pester the Oregonians again, the extension light blinked and the phone trilled beneath his fingers.

 He snatched it from the cradle, barked his name, and listened intently. Jacobi's eyes went cool, and his jaw twitched.

 Across the desk, Cindy Thomas shut off the tip line recordings and removed her headphones.

 “I see,” Jacobi said. “Call me as soon as you identify the body.”

 Cindy rocketed out of her chair and nearly tripped over her own feet. She scowled at Jacobi and raised a shaky finger.

 “Body?” she whispered. “Oregon found a body. Was it…”

 “No! No! No.” Jacobi waved his hands and shook his head. “White male. Blond, early twenties. Divers found the rental Ford by an abandoned dock. A dead man – with no identification on him – was belted into the driver's seat. It looks like the truck’s been underwater for several days.”

 Cindy stuttered out a sigh. She sat on the edge of the desk, hand over mouth, and tried really hard not to cry from relief, and from guilt. Pete had, in all likelihood, killed that man for some reason and ditched his body, but all Cindy could think was, “Thank God it wasn't Lindsay.”

 Jacobi tapped her on the wrist. “I'm sorry. Didn't mean to scare you.”

 Cindy shrugged and tried to smile. “That can't be helped. I'm gonna freak out every five minutes or so until she's home safe. You may as well get used to it.”

 “There's no point in getting used to it. Before we know it, Lindsay will be back here annoying me and doing… whatever she does to you,” Jacobi awkwardly promised.

 Cindy inferred something saucy and her eyes went wide. She blushed and bit her bottom lip.

 Jacobi fudged up his mouth and wished he had put that differently. He tried to change the subject by asking whether Cindy had found anything useful among the tip line messages.

 “I don't know. Some calls from idiotic attention-seekers, or old acquaintances angling for TV interviews,” she admitted. “Several people just called to say what a nice guy Pete was, or seemed to be. He tipped well, he was polite, he supported local theater -”

 Cindy stopped short and reviewed that message in her memory. Something about Pete donating money to a community theater group and building sets with the crew just seemed so... wholesome.

 'Wholesome' might not equate to 'incriminating,' but Cindy was going to go nuts if she just sat there listening to phone calls. Everyone else had something to do, some angle to work.

 Jill was hunkered down with the feds and a representative from Interpol, coordinating case files and cross-referencing background information about Pete, including properties, taxes, and possible international bank accounts.

 Claire was busy with the autopsy of Officer Henry King – Pete's most recent victim.

 Jacobi and Snow were checking their own leads, both local and out of state.

 Since Dr. Pam said Martha needed to rest at the veterinary clinic for a few days, there was really nothing else useful for Cindy to do but get in her car and follow her own less than wholesome instincts.

 “Promise you'll call me the instant you hear anything,” demanded Cindy.

 She shut off Lindsay's computer, grabbed her bag and started for the bullpen exit.

 Officer Tim Dietz popped up from his chair near the door. The tall, wiry patrolman was assigned to keep both eyes on the reporter, and Dietz took those orders quite seriously.

 Jacobi, startled by Cindy's abrupt departure, hollered after her. “Okay, but where are you heading?”

 “Stockton,” she called back. “I understand Pete enjoyed bad local theater.”

 ******

 

Lindsay felt the rough weave of a blanket under her fingertips and the spongy bounce of thick grass beneath her backside. She took a cautious breath, and the air smelled fresh, like May honeysuckle.

 Hesitantly, she opened her eyes, and the beauty of her surroundings nearly stole the air right back from her lungs.

 She found herself beneath a cotton candy sky of blue and pink. She sat Indian style on a red and white picnic blanket spread atop a patch of verdant clover which, in turn, grew atop a seaside bluff.

 Seems safe enough,  said her inner voice. Or benign, at least. Safe ain't even on the table.

 An orange sun dipped low over the ocean, and this western descent gave her a sense of peace and home. That sense of rightness increased manifold when she heard someone call her name.

 Behind her, trudging through cool green grass and awkwardly toting a rattan picnic basket, was Cindy Thomas.

 “Thanks so much for all the help, lazybones,” Cindy said as she dropped the heavy basket onto the blanket. “I am brimming with appreciation. Truly. Watch me brim.”

 The very sight of Cindy, sulking and barefoot in her pink sundress, made Lindsay too happy to say anything, so she just nodded.

 “I make the sandwiches, I drive all the way up here to meet you, I carry the three-ton basket, and what do you do?” the woman continued. She stood at the blanket’s edge, groaned dramatically and rolled her shoulders, as if she were Atlas newly shed of the Earth.

 “You don’t even say thank you. In fact, you don’t talk at all! You just sit there, looking vacant and smug. It’s like I’m Groucho and you’re Harpo.”

 “I like you better without the mustache,” Lindsay absently noted.

 “Oh, she speaks!” Cindy clapped in feigned delight. “Good girl.”

 “Ruff,” said Lindsay.

 “Ruff, huh?”

 Cindy clicked her teeth and took two careful steps forward. She laid a hand on her lover’s head, petted her hair and tickled her ear. Lindsay leaned into her touch and looked up until their eyes met.

 A warm sea breeze played against Cindy’s back, ruffling her sunlit hair and clothes. The hem of her pink cotton sundress brushed Lindsay’s bare arm and inspired an outbreak of gooseflesh. They stared at each other for several moments, lost in the simple pleasure of being together, alone, in a beautiful place.

 “Well, we’ve already established that you don’t fetch,” the redhead finally said. Her voice had turned softer, now more tease than taunt. “I bet you can roll over and play dead like a champ.”

 Lindsay grinned up at her. “Mm-hmm, but that’s not the trick I had in mind.”

 A smile flitted across Cindy’s lips, and she prompted elaboration by waving her hand in circles.

 By way of reply, Lindsay curled her hands around the backs of Cindy’s knees and gave each a quick, firm squeeze; reflexively, the young woman’s legs folded beneath her, and she landed squarely in Lindsay’s lap.

 Cindy flushed deep pink down her neck and chest. Her mouth formed a tight, unreadable line, and her fingers flexed against Lindsay’s shoulders. She looked away toward the western horizon.

 “Neat trick,” Cindy said through gritted teeth. “And I thought you were smug before.”

 Lindsay shook her head; she didn’t want praise, didn’t want to be thought cool or slick. She wanted and needed something much simpler, and infinitely more tangible. She touched Cindy’s cheek and, with the barest pressure, turned her face until their lips met.

 The kiss felt like a slow walk into the ocean – a warm, licking tangle that gradually turned deep enough for drowning. Their arms tightened around each other, cinching their ribs and chests and heartbeats together. Breaths quickened, hands burrowed down the back of a dress, under a t-shirt, and they tilted down to lay side by side.

 They paused to regard each other. Cindy traced a fingertip along Lindsay’s eyebrow and down the delicate bridge of her nose.

 Both laughed softly in embarrassment over how easily this always happened, how it seemed they couldn’t be in the same classroom, on the same campus, or even the same coast without falling together in a tight, magnetic smash.

 As she kissed Cindy’s smile, Lindsay experienced a glimmer of guilt, as if she were essaying something forbidden. She tried to shake it off, but it clung to her thoughts in messy strands, like melted gum on the sole of a shoe.

 Outside their embrace, beyond their perfect little world on a red and white blanket, the ambient ocean noises died away. Lindsay heard only soft puffs of breath from her own lungs, and from Cindy’s… but that sound diminished until all was silent.

 Through the quiet came a distant, sad voice. From somewhere between the pastel clouds and green clover, a crying young man begged for her attention. As soon as Lindsay discerned that voice, her ears pricked up and she focused until she could understand his words.

 “Please, let her wait! Lindsay, please just hear me out,” said the man. “After everything we’ve been through, you owe me that much.”

 Compelled and confused, Lindsay pulled away from Cindy and stood up, scanning the skies and keenly listening.

 “I know it’s been just you and me, Lindsay and Pete, stuck to each other since high school. I get that you’re curious about other things, other people, but what you’re doing with this… this girl… it’s a mistake,” the Pete-voice said. “She doesn’t know you like I do. She’s not serious about you, and you’ll never be able to count on her.”

 Cindy frowned and appeared deeply offended. She pointed to the sky and said, “That guy? Totally full of shit.”

 “She won’t last! It’s a fling, and she’ll get tired of you and move on,” he insisted. “You’ll finish your degree in May, but she’s in school for three more years! She’ll meet someone else, someone younger or with money, and she’ll break your heart. You know it’s true.”

 “Don’t listen to him,” Cindy calmly advised. “You know who he is, and you know what he’s trying to do. Everything he says is a lie.”

 With effort, Lindsay managed to turn her attention to Cindy. “But he sounds so upset. And it feels true, like I’ve known him since I was a kid,” she said, and tapped her temple. “In here, it all seems true.”

Cindy stood and pressed her palm to Lindsay’s heart. “In here, you know it’s all a lie.”

 Lindsay shut her eyes and tried to shut out the Pete-voice. “What the hell is he doing to me?”

 “Crystal blue persuasion. You saw the I.V. bag, you saw the needle, and you saw the gas, right?”

 “Yeah, I… I remember,” Lindsay agreed. “The blue stuff. Cigarette gas.”

 “You shouldn’t smoke,” Cindy said, and gestured toward the lush clover, the muted sea and sunset beyond the cliff edge.

 “You create this lovely hiding place, invite me to keep you company, and Pete comes chasing after you,” she went on. “You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to knock down things you know and build something new from the rubble. Don’t let him.”

 Lindsay eyed her girlfriend skeptically. “Is this the part where you offer me a gun?” she asked.

 Cindy snorted and smoothed her hands along the sheer sundress. “Sorry. I left all my boom-sticks at home.”

 “I love you. You know I love you like no one else ever will,” said the Pete-voice. “You and I were made for each other, and I will never – EVER – give up on you!”

 “Jesus God,” Lindsay muttered while vainly trying to plug her ears. “How do I make it stop?”

 “Obviously, hiding doesn’t work. I think you need to wake up – and stay awake.”

 Lindsay shook her head dismissively; she didn’t see how she could fight off a constant barrage of doping. “He might keep trying until he overdoses me… or gets tired of waiting.”

 “So beat him at his own game,” Cindy suggested. She tilted her head up and close, and whispered in Lindsay’s ear. “Lie right back at him.”

 Upon hearing that eloquently simple suggestion, Lindsay broke out a smile so bright, it could have set paper on fire, or signaled passing jetliners. “You’re devious.”

 “No, you are,” Cindy corrected. “What you see before you is merely a figment of your crystal blue imagination.”

 Lindsay grinned at her steadily, and kissed her cheek. “Still... you’re my girl.”

 “I am that.” Cindy planted a stout kiss on her mouth. “Now you need to shock yourself awake.”

 Cindy pointed toward the bluff. In a show of absolute trust, Lindsay turned and took off running. She didn’t stop until she cleared the edge and began to fall toward the rocky Pacific surf below.

 Her stomach lurched and the wind tore at her eyes. As the ocean boulders roared up to smash her bones, she tried very, very hard not to scream.

 ******

 

 Lindsay didn’t scream. She gasped, rather faintly, and her eyes snapped open.

 Within the first few seconds, she realized that Pete Raynor didn’t know she was awake, and hadn’t expected her to regain consciousness so soon.

 Lights burned low in the white room. A large flat screen television on a rolling stand loomed at the foot of Lindsay’s bed. On the screen, a young man (who could pass for Pete’s younger brother) pleaded for another chance to prove his love.

 Pete himself sat a few feet to her left, still in the same rigid wooden chair, but he looked exhausted. His cheeks bore stubble and his shirt was wrinkled; his black tie hung loose around his collar, and his tuxedo jacket draped sloppily across the chair back.

 With elbows braced on knees, he cupped his chin in one hand and stared at the floor.

 Lindsay closed her eyes, steeled her nerves, and took a steadying breath to combat fear and dizziness.

 Showtime.

 “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

 Instantly, she heard the creak of Pete’s chair. He stood and stepped close beside the bed.

 “I’m sorry,” she said again, and readied herself for the touch she knew would be coming.

Pete’s fingers tickled along her hairline. She heard a clicking sound, and the television switched off.

 Lindsay opened her eyes and looked at him, this dashing, lonely psychopath who built castles just so he could burn them down. For perhaps the first time, she really saw him purely in the abstract, a man as a gaping pit of want and need, with sharpened stakes at the bottom.

 He’s a trap - a polished, handsome trap, with a barbed wire touch, a tar pit where his heart should be, and an embrace like a straight jacket,  she realized.

 Struggling only makes a snare cinch down tighter. To stand even a beggar’s chance of escape, I have to relax into the trap, make it loosen up.

 Lindsay looked to the bed rail and rattled her handcuffs a bit. “Why do I have that on me?”

 “You’ve been sick, honey,” Pete smoothly lied. “The restraints keep you from hurting yourself.”

 “Oh.” She slid her hand sideways, covered his fingers, and squeezed.

 Pete’s eyes widened, from both suspicion and hope.

 “Pete, did I… did I hurt you?” she ventured, with just a hint of hesitation.

 “It’s okay,” Pete said, in a voice feather-light and brushed with tears. “I forgive you.”

She canted her head and blinked at him. “I don’t remember why.”

 Pete smiled with all his pearly whites on display; he was clearly delighted. “It doesn’t matter. Everything will be okay – better than okay – as long as we’re together.”

 Lindsay thought about agreeing with him, just to bolster his confidence, but decided that vomiting all over Pete might just tip her hand.

 “I’m hungry,” she said instead. “And my back hurts.”

 “I’ll get you something to eat. Would you like to go back to your room now?” Pete asked, while stroking her hand. “You haven’t slept there since you got sick.”

 I’m not the sick one, Jack. My room? Christ, how long have I been here?

 Lindsay nodded and said, “Yes. Please.”

 Pete took a bright silver key from his pocket, unlocked her cuffs, and slipped them into his trouser pocket. Lindsay kept her eyes down, but got a good look at the key.

 She struggled to sit up in bed, felt weak as a kitten. Pete dropped the rails and helped her onto her feet. With his arm around her shoulders, they shuffled toward the hospital room exit, and Lindsay vowed this would be the last time they touched without violence.

******

 

Marjorie Fein, thin, blonde, and scrupulously maintained at age seventy-two, was the manager and chief patron of the Stockton Playhouse. She hadn’t expected anyone to respond to her tip line call, but she was beyond ready to discuss Pete Raynor with the nice SFPD officer and the little red-haired reporter from the Register.

 “When you first hear something like this, it’s just, like… surreal. You know?” she said.

 Cindy nodded and clicked her pen. “Boy, do I know.”

 “Pete was always so lovely, so generous to the arts – and such a mensch! He got along with the actors, the crew, everybody,” said Marjorie. “But then, I guess that’s how he evaded detection for so long. Nobody suspects the nice guy who brings donuts and muffins.”

 “Like Dexter,” said Officer Tim Dietz.

 As these were the first words he’d spoken for over an hour, Cindy kind of gaped at her cop escort. So did Marjorie Fein.

 “Who’s Dexter?” she asked.

 “Serial killer on TV. He always brings donuts,” Dietz explained.

 “Oh.” Marjorie blew air up through her platinum bangs. “I don’t watch television.”

 “Did Pete ever discuss what business he was doing in this area?” Cindy asked.

 “Well, he never really talked to me about anything other than theater business,” Marjorie said. “Come to think of it, he mostly avoided all the female crew and the actresses, too. As you can imagine, we are now quite grateful.”

 “So did Pete hang out with anyone in particular?”

“I know he talked to Kelly a lot, and Bruce, and Harrison. All the crew hands, really. They talked about builder things, I suppose.”

 And maybe other things, Cindy thought. She asked for their phone numbers, which Marjorie happily supplied.

 “You may not be able to reach all of them,” she added. “I got a text message letting me know that a few of the boys wouldn’t be back until next week. They were heading for a little wine country bender.”

 “ Like in Sideways,” said Officer Dietz.

 “Oh, I know that film!” Marjorie crowed. She took Dietz’s arm and began to regale the handsome young cop with recitations of dialogue and various bits of vintner lore.

 Cindy stepped outside Marjorie’s office, but she stayed within sight of her escort. The first call she made was to carpenter Bruce DiNallo; it rang sixteen times before Cindy heard a message indicating that Bruce’s message box was full.

 “Hmm. Curious.”

 She dialed the next number, for set builder Harrison Kohler, and got much the same result.

 “Wine country, my ass,” Cindy murmured.

 She punched in the final phone number, said a quick prayer, and reached out for help from a young actor named Kelly Unhak.  

******

 

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