Hostile Witness

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 25

"A cold front is moving in. Expect temperatures in the sixties through Thursday." - Johnny Mountain, Channel 7 Weather

There is an impressive vein of concrete that winds from the hills of Palos Verdes and ends in Malibu. It ribbons through all the beach cities in between and plays host to anyone who is drawn to the ocean. Josie and Max ambled down Hermosa's portion of that mile-long bike path after they left Faye's place. A quarter of a mile from her own house, Josie stopped. A guy on a fifteen hundred dollar bike whizzed by her, intent on breaking the land speed record to Malibu. The smell of grilling onions filled the air. Lunch was being served up at The Strand Café. Four men with gorgeous bodies played volleyball with a vengeance, yet somehow unable to get their game into a rhythm. Josie could have shown them how it was done, but even a pick up game wouldn't cure what ailed her.

An ancient woman in baby-blue warm-ups and rhinestone glasses held hands with a man in purple pants and a checked shirt. Families walked together, dogs pulled their owners on roller skates, and no one minded that the weak sun left the water looking gray and uninviting - no one except Josie. Faye had knocked the air out of Josie's world, flattening it so there was no place to maneuver.

Behind her, Josie heard the scrape of skates and a chorus of giggles. She pulled Max close as a group of teenage girls went by. They had poured their overactive glands into swimsuits the size of postage stamps and laced their feet into roller blades as big as Nevada. They were oblivious to the chill, unaware that the earth was out of kilter, but they looked damn cute with their Frankenstein feet, their big tits and tiny butts.

To her left was Archer's building. His very own. It was purchased long ago when Lexi was alive and Archer thought he had the world on a string. It was one of the original three-story apartment buildings that graced Hermosa Beach before the money came in and people who could afford to tear down a bit of California history did just that. But this one still stood. The paint on the wood framed windows was peeling. Rust streaked from the metal balcony and spilled over the rose-colored stucco like mascara tears rolling down old rouged cheeks. The salt air was a landlord's bane, but there were flowers in the little bed, and tenants to Archer's liking in each apartment.

Josie looked up. She could just make out Archer's camera pointed out to sea. Hitching Max close, Josie climbed the stairs slowly letting the old dog rest at each landing. At the top she didn't bother to knock.

"Archer?"

Josie walked around a brown tweed sofa, wide enough for two to snooze comfortably on a lazy Sunday. The back was dimpled with three giant buttons covered in the same fabric. Josie's mother had a coat with buttons that big when she was young and Josie was a baby. She saw a picture once. It was the only picture she could remember where her mother was dressed up. Josie wondered about that coat. It was too frumpy for the days of hip huggers and peasant blouses; too old for someone so young and beautiful.

Archer's papa-san chair was in one corner. There was a La*Z*Boy and a low coffee table strewn with travel magazines. She looked toward the balcony. It was empty.

"Jo?" Archer stood in the bedroom, a towel around his waist another in his hands, ready to dry his hair.

"Hey." Josie stood her ground but let Max go. Archer ruffled the dog's ears and kept his eyes on Josie.

"What happened?" Archer pushed Max aside and took a few steps.

"Faye just booted me out, Archer. I'm on my own with Hannah."

Archer wrapped the smaller towel around his neck. Josie walked toward him. He held out a hand and drew her close. He was dewy from his shower; water droplets were still nestled in the hair on his chest. Josie put her head on his shoulder; her arms were caught beneath his. He had wrapped her up like a treasured possession.

"Want some help?"

"Got any problems helping me prove Rayburn was one sick son of a bitch?" She asked forlornly.

"Not a one, Jo. Not a one."