Johnson raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘He was a detective too?’
‘Come on,’ Goodman urged. ‘It’s possible, isn’t it, Mick?’
Johnson brooded silently. The last thing he wanted was to re-frame Nikki Roberts as a victim. But he had to admit Goodman’s theory was at least possible.
‘Can we keep an open mind on this? That’s all I’m asking,’ Goodman pleaded.
‘OK,’ Johnson conceded grudgingly. ‘But open minds gotta work both ways.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that we don’t know Roberts wasn’t behind this. She’s still a possible suspect,’ Johnson insisted. ‘How about this scenario? Roberts secretly hated Lisa Flannagan.’
‘Why?’ Goodman asked, genuinely baffled.
‘Lisa was a gold digger. A homewrecker. Maybe Roberts disapproved of her lifestyle.’
‘Come on, man,’ said Goodman. ‘That’s weak.’
‘Is it? We know Lisa aborted Baden’s baby. Roberts can’t have kids, remember?’ Johnson went on. ‘That’s a big deal for women.’
‘In your vast experience of female emotion,’ Goodman quipped.
‘Maybe she’s so jealous, so mad about the baby thing it drives her over the edge,’ said Johnson, ignoring him. ‘Makes her crazy. Homicidal.’
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Goodman decided to end the conversation before Mick’s conspiracy theories got completely out of control. ‘OK, OK, open minds on both sides. What do you say tomorrow we start talking to Dr Roberts’ patients? I’ll take half, you take half?’
‘Fine.’
Johnson’s car finally pulled up. Goodman waited as he heaved his unfit frame into the back of the Toyota.
Deciding to strike while the iron was hot in this rare moment of accord between them, Goodman stuck his head through the open window.
‘One last thing, Mick. Is there any personal history between you and Nikki Roberts?’
Johnson grinned. The question seemed to amuse him.
‘Anything I should know about?’ Goodman pressed.
Leaning back in his seat, Johnson closed his eyes, an amused smile still playing on his alcohol-flushed face.
‘Goodnight, Lou,’ he said, closing the window. ‘Sweet dreams.’
Nikki drove for a long time after she left the police station.
She didn’t want to go home, but she didn’t know where else to go, so she took the 10 freeway all the way down to the ocean and cruised blindly up the coast. Memories of Trey played through her head on a continuous loop.
The first time Doug brought him home, whippet-thin and as dirty as a stray dog, shivering from withdrawal. Nikki’s heart had gone out to him right away, just as Doug had known it would.
‘Hey, Nik. This is a friend of mine, Treyvon. D’you think the chicken can stretch to three?’
From the beginning, Trey had drawn Doug and Nikki even closer together, their common compassion for this poor, broken boy strengthening their love bond and cementing them as a team.
She thought back to Trey’s graduation ceremony out in Palos Verdes, after he’d completed his full sixteen-week detox program, dancing with Nikki to Nina Simone’s ‘Feeling Good’.
Nikki had caught Doug’s eye over Trey’s shoulder and smiled. Doug smiled back, and she’d felt so happy, so full of love for him and the miracle he’d helped happen for this sweet boy he’d come to love as his own.
It was a beautiful memory. But it had been ruined by what had happened since, slashed and mutilated and destroyed, just like Trey. And Lisa.
A million tiny cuts. Then one, final, fatal stab to the heart.
Doug’s death, and the shock of everything she’d learned afterwards, had been the final stabs to Nikki’s heart. So deep, so wounding, she’d believed for a while that she wouldn’t survive them. But she had. She’d survived, and picked herself up and carried on. And she was still carrying on, even in the midst of this new nightmare.
Torture and terror.
Murder and lies.
I ought to call Trey’s mother, Nikki thought, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her own grief was still so raw, so real, she couldn’t cope with anyone else’s. Perhaps that was selfish, but it was the truth. She knew her own limits.
She drove on for a long time. By the time she got home it was late, very late, and she couldn’t remember where she’d been. That was happening a lot lately. The driveway lights were on, triggered by a timer, twinkling merrily as if all were right with the world. Locking her car, Nikki walked up to the key panel by the front door and was about to tap in her code when she noticed that the door was ajar.
She froze. Today was Monday. Her housekeeper, Rita, came on Mondays. Had she forgotten to close the door properly when she left? It had never happened before. Not once in six years. Rita was extremely reliable.
Someone must have broken in.
Nikki’s heart pounded.
What if they were still inside?
She contemplated getting in her car and driving away. Calling the police. Asking for help. But then an unexpected emotion took over: anger.
This is my home. My sanctuary. I’m not going to be afraid here. I refuse.
Pushing the door open wide, she turned on the hall lights. ‘Hello?’ she called loudly. ‘Is anybody here?’
She walked from room to room, making as much noise as she could, like a hiker hoping to scare away mountain lions. ‘Hello?’
After a few minutes, she exhaled. No one was here. And as far as she could tell, nothing had been taken or touched. In fact, the house looked spotless. It must have been Rita after all.
Pouring herself a large nightcap from the whiskey bottle in the pantry, Nikki went up to bed, proud of herself for not having given in to her fears. Only once she was undressed and slipping between the sheets did she notice.
Her wedding photograph.
The silver framed picture of her and Doug she kept propped on her nightstand, despite the pain it caused.
It was gone.
LANA
Lana Grey tossed back her Titian hair and gave Anton Wilders her signature smolder as she delivered the last line.
‘Because I said so, Rocco.’
Lana leaned forward, her ample bosom threatening to spill over the top of her Victoria Beckham dress at any moment and into Anton’s lap. ‘Because. I. Said. So.’
‘Scene,’ a bored voice called from behind her as the stage lights went back up. Lana didn’t care about the bored voice, or the ennui on the faces of the USC interns hanging around the set, hoping against hope that the great director would remember them.
He won’t, Lana thought triumphantly. He’ll remember me. I nailed that audition. Anton Wilders is going to relaunch my career with a bang.
What