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“Like now, I said, ‘I had another dream about you.’ Just like you and I talked about, you know? And he said, ‘What are you trying to do to me, Tule? You warning me or something? Don’t you know I can break your neck with one hand?’”
“Aw, jeez. What did you say to that?”
“I said, ‘Oh, baby, you don’t mean that.’ And then I scampered away. He threw a cup at me. Missed. Hit the wall, though.”
“Does he hit you, Tule?”
“No. Not really.”
“Do you want to get out?”
“Maybe. No. No, this is my chance. I just needed to talk to you.”
“I’m here, sweetie. I’m just glad you’re okay. On a positive note, he’s doing what you want him to do.”
“Meaning what?” she asked. Then she whispered, “Wait. I hear him.”
She listened to his footsteps on the teak floors, heard him call her. “Tuuuuule. Tuuuuuuule. Where are you, baby?”
She was breathing with her mouth open, staring at a pair of chartreuse stilettos by the light of her phone. After a minute, she said, “You still there?”
“Of course. What’s happening?”
“He’s gone now,” she said. “Big house, you know. Lotta, lotta rooms. You were saying?”
“I was saying, his ticker is a time bomb. Keep doing what you’re doing. But if you get afraid, Tule, get out. Or at least, dial it back for a couple of days.”
“Yeah. Sure, Les. Thanks for listening. I’d better go. Make him some lunch. Do a little bikini dance.”
He laughed, said, “That could do the trick.”
She laughed too. “If only. I’d dance until he dropped dead. I’ll call you soon.”
“I’m always here.”
“Hugs and kisses,” she said. “Bye-bye.”
“Bye-bye.”
Tule sighed, then turned off the phone and went back to work.
Chapter 43
JUSTINE AND PRIVATE investigator Christian Scott were in a fleet car on their way to Our Lady of the Pacific, the sixth on their list of ten schools within a five-mile radius of Jack’s house. They had been canvassing schools all morning and it was now almost two in the afternoon.
Scotty wasn’t surprised that they hadn’t turned up any leads.
“When I was a motorcycle cop, things were black-and-white. Speeding. DUI. Collisions. This is so…random.”
Justine said, “It’s a place to start, Scotty.”
“Ah. The famous square one.”
“You got it. And psychologically speaking, I agree with Sci. Teenage boys like fire. It’s sexy. It’s exciting. They set fire to buildings, to their enemies, to toilets—you name it, a boy has set a match to it. A car-bomb spree is more sophisticated than the norm, but it fits the profile. And that’s why we’re going where boys are.”
The private high school on Winter Canyon Road was surrounded by grassy hills and native foliage. The buildings were plain stucco over cement-block construction with attached pergolas supporting large, blooming bougainvillea.
Justine parked in the faculty-only lot, then she and Scotty crossed the busy school yard and entered the cool of the main building. They found the headmaster’s office at the end of a long, sky-blue corridor.
