Silence, and then, “Are you all right?”
“Physically, yes,” Justine said. “The rest I’m trying to figure out.”
“Then you’ll come see me,” Hayes insisted. “I can fit you in … how about tomorrow afternoon, four?”
“Perfect, and thanks,” Justine said, and hung up.
She went into the shower, stood there under the beating hot water, trying to take hope from the fact that she’d soon be able to talk to someone about what had been going on in her life. In the meantime, she told herself she had to have some purpose for the rest of her day, or she’d surely drive herself guilty, bitter, and quite possibly crazy.
Drying off, Justine forced herself to make a list of options.
She could return to Guadalajara, find Adelita Gomez, figure out her relationship to Captain Gomez, if any. But that idea made her almost breathless, and she realized she feared Captain Gomez almost as much as she did Carla, the big woman in the jail cell.
That left, for today, anyway, the Harlows’ charity, Sharing Hands.
After drying her hair and dressing in yoga pants and a USC Trojans sweatshirt, Justine got her laptop, sat on the floor in her living room, and called up the Sharing Hands website. Tom and Jennifer Harlow dominated the charity’s home page, heads touching, hands clasped, shooting the camera fetching looks, as if they’d been interrupted in a moment of deep intimacy but were still darn happy to see you.
Indeed, at first glance, Justine had trouble understanding that this was actually a website for an organization that benefited orphans. But then she saw that in the background of that photograph of the Harlows, there was a jungle landscape with a clearing and a bright-white school building.
Reading through the rest of the site, which showed orphanages being built and happy children gathering around one or both Harlows, Justine was struck by the scope of what they were trying to do, how many children they were trying to help, and the gentle, respectful request for money to fund that vision that appeared on every page: “Help Our Hands Share.”
And a PayPal button. They made it that easy.
Justine decided to check the California attorney general’s site for any complaints about the charity, and found none. She consulted several online charity watchdogs. Sharing Hands received exemplary reviews for transparency and innovation, as well as gushing praise for the actors’ involvement. Several reviews also noted the Harlows’ decision to keep back fifty percent of all raised money to build an endowment for the non-profit, much the way universities do to ensure that scholarships and other good works continue far into the—
A tremendous crashing noise out in the street in front of her house tore her away from the computer.
Joy and Luck went nuts, racing across the living room and up onto the couch below the front window, howling and barking. Justine got up, looked out through the blinds, and saw Jack’s Touareg smashed into the side of a black Trans Am.
Jack was holding a gun on a man who was obviously bleeding to death.
Chapter 91
MY IRISH LUCK that two of my favorite LAPD detectives were sent to investigate what had happened in front of Justine’s house. Lieutenant Mitch Tandy and Detective Len Ziegler were the same duo who had attempted to railroad me for my old girlfriend’s murder. I kept things professional, answered every question straight, told them I’d been with the mayor and Chief Fescoe that morning, that I’d driven to Justine’s to check on her, and what ha
d happened during the attack.
“He said he was hired?” asked Lieutenant Tandy, a tough little guy in love with tanning beds.
“He said it was a job,” I replied. “I asked who hired him. He died.”
We were standing in Justine’s driveway. She stood off to the side, holding Joy and Luck on leashes, taking in the swarm of crime scene investigators and patrol officers who’d taken over her neighborhood.
“Convenient, he croaks like that,” said Detective Ziegler, a former swimmer gone to pot, with big shoulders and a Milwaukee tumor where his waistline should have been. He looked more and more like a walrus every time I saw him.
“For who?” I asked, already knowing where this was leading.
“You,” said Ziegler, who also seemed to approach everything in life through the prism of conspiracy theories that crystallized out of his head in all sorts of illogical shapes and sizes.
“You know, Len, for once I agree with you,” I said. “It was extremely convenient for me that he died and I didn’t. Sorry if I don’t apologize for that.”
Tandy gave a flick of his hand, calling off the conspiracy walrus. “Any idea who’d want you dead, Jack?”
I was unnerved to come up with multiple possibilities, Carmine Noccia, No Prisoners, whoever took the Harlows, and my own brother among them. But what good would telling these guys do? I’d just be asking them to stick their nose in affairs I’d rather keep quiet.
“No,” I said at last. “I’ve been doing nothing lately but spreading good cheer and doing good deeds. Ask anyone.”
“Right,” Ziegler said. “You’re a regular Thom Harlow.”