Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📕

would have come already. The conversation was interrupted by buzzing from the kitchen intercom. Catalina was calling from the cottage, something she rarely did.

“I think I see someone in the patio looking into the kitchen,” she said when he answered. “Maybe you check.”

Slipping into the kitchen, he turned out the light and looked through the window. He saw nothing moving.

“What is it, Cal?” came the call from the dining room.

“Nothing,” he called back. “Catalina wants something.”

He took the .38 from the cabinet by the rear door, from the back of the highest shelf where neither woman could find it or reach it. He loaded it and walked out the rear door into the patio. Standing silently in the dark, he listened for sound, watched for movement. Yes, something was there. He couldn’t see it, but sensed it, something pulsing, the nightlife too quiet. He stood dead still, hoping Angie would stay put so he could hear anything that moved. He spun the chamber, wanting it to be heard. Whether it was a housebreaker or a murderous ex-husband, he would be unlikely to carry a gun. Gil had needed only hands to kill Willie. He glanced up to the second floor of the cottage and saw the curtain fall back into place. Catalina had heard the gun clicking and that was enough for her. Had she really seen something? She’d said “someone,” which would rule out critters, though the neighborhood was full of them, possums, skunks, raccoons, coyotes, and it was close to dinner time for night critters.

If it was a someone it was likely to be Gil. The man at the gun store was right: Los Feliz is a quiet neighborhood, nothing dangerous about it, not at all a good place for prowlers, too many dogs and children and comings and goings, patrol cars cruising Glendale and Los Feliz Boulevards. He stood motionless in the penumbra, the pistol pointed in front of him. If someone was in this patio he had to have entered from the slopes on either side of the house, not from the front, for the gates were locked. He saw Angie at the kitchen window, her silhouette clearly visible. More silence. Why no crickets? Bizarre.

Suddenly there was rustling and movement on the southern slope, twigs breaking, a shadow in the moonlight. He hadn’t thought of a flashlight. He didn’t move, and silence crept back in. He walked to the slope and saw footprints rising to the top. No animal. Someone was up there. More rustling and then the shadow was gone.

“I could ask for a postponement,” he told her next morning as they were dressing, “ask the judge to reschedule.” He’d already called the police, and they were sending a patrolman to investigate.

She finished brushing her hair. “And what would you tell him: that your girlfriend is jumpy? Is that good enough for a postponement?”

He smiled, but it wasn’t funny. They were both jumpy, hadn’t slept that well. “Maybe we can get them to put a watch on the house while I’m gone.”

“Or I’ll bring back one of the security men with me from the temple. For a couple of days, we’ll manage.”

“If it was Gil, he’s risking a lot. They’ll send him back to Folsom.”

“Maybe you scared him off with your gun. At least I know where it is now. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Have you ever fired a gun?”

“What do you think?”

He went to her and took her in his arms, her small body reaching only to his shoulders. She shuddered, and he pulled her tight, kissing the top of her head. They stood for some time like that. “You won’t need it. We’ll get you all the protection you need. Three days at most and I’ll be back.” He lifted her head and kissed her.

Chapter 40

“Larry wants you,” Phil MacPherson called across the newsroom. “He’s agitated. Better get in there.”

She looked up and saw him waving his arms like a monkey in a glass cage, a sign that meant whomever you’re talking to, hang up and get over here. Fast! As it happened, she was on the phone with someone she’d been trying to reach for days for comments about the federal court verdict in the great transportation conspiracy. This better be good, she thought, hanging up, pulling down her skirt and starting toward McManus, fast but not too fast. She was in a bad mood, no question. The Chicago verdict sickened her.

He was standing. “Temple of the Angels,” he said, brusquely. “Salazar is already there for photos. Verducci has gone from the hall of justice. Let them handle the details. The obituary is being updated. I want a full background story from you. Full! Get going.”

“Sorry, Larry. You forgot to tell me what happened.”

“I thought that’s why you were on the phone. Someone got Sister Angie.”

She waited for more, but that was it. She ran out, grabbed her purse and a notebook, decided a cab would be faster than a Times car and she wouldn’t have to look for parking. She took the elevator down from the third floor, hailed a cruiser on Spring Street and told him to take the tunnel to Echo Park.

Someone got Sister Angie—what did he mean exactly?

“You don’t want me to take Temple, lady, more direct?”

“Too much construction, take Second Street.”

“To the park?”

“The Temple of the Angels.”

“Ah.”

He’d swung around and was heading west toward Second.

“You wouldn’t be a reporter, would you?” He was looking at her in the rearview mirror, staring more at her than at the street. “I heard the news on the radio. Helluva thing. She was good for this town. Place will be mobbed. Might not be able to get you close.”

He pushed a button, and they heard an excited voice on KHJ. Sister Angie attacked by her ex-husband, who apparently got into the building through the kitchen with vagrants having breakfast. The police had him in custody. Still no report on the condition of the victim.

Normally it was