Rosandich hugged his briefcase and pounded it with a fist. He repeatedly intoned in cadence with his footsteps, like the lines of a chant, “Why? Why? Why? Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Why? Why? Why?” He turned off the PCH and hiked up 3rd Street, huffing as the incline of the asphalt became steeper. At Gentry, he turned left and then crossed Prospect to the park.
Even after sitting on the ground, up against the fence that separated the grass from the basketball courts, he continued his chant, berating himself for reacting badly to Janet Jenkins’s questions. He knew she was just being friendly, not nosey. But he’d been on his own for a long time, during which he’d never shared personal information with anyone. Sharing can be dangerous, he thought. Even deadly.
CHAPTER 14
Janet’s body trembled from anger, as though she’d overdosed on caffeine. The images on the photographs in Claudia Barkley’s case file scrolled through her brain like a never-ending horror slide show. Dr. Stark’s description of the woman’s injuries was the audio that accompanied the pictures. When she pulled into her driveway, she couldn’t remember anything about the traffic or the time it took her to drive from the hospital. She looked to her left at her rented home. Her empty home. Sure, her mother had been a financial and emotional burden. But they’d been a team. And when she’d been bone-weary or psychically-drained after a long day of dealing with beaten-down women, abusive husbands, and cops who had seen it all, her mother seemed to sense her mood and would revive her. Maybelle Jenkins always knew what to say when Janet was down. Janet smiled as tears ran down her cheeks. She mimicked one of the last things her mother had said to her: “Ah am fashionably thin, mah dear. That’s all the thang, ya know?” She grimaced at herself in the rearview mirror and said, “Oh, Mama.”
She carried her purse to the front door, unlocked and opened it, and then stepped inside. She lifted the throw rug she’d used to cover the blood stains in the entry, expecting to find them gone. But they were still there.
“You bastard, Brennan,” she cursed. She’d talked with her landlord yesterday and he’d again promised to get everything back to normal today. She moved to the back door and shouted, “Dammit,” when she saw the landlord hadn’t replaced the door, either. The door that Rasif Essam had broken was still nailed to the frame.
Janet placed her things on the dining room table, took her cell phone from her purse, and dialed Brennan.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Brennan, this is Janet Jenkins. I see you didn’t do the work you promised to do today.”
“I’m a busy man, Ms. Jenkins. I’ll get around to the repairs as soon as I can.”
Janet had always avoided conflict at all cost. She’d had half-a-dozen issues with Brennan and had always let him push her around. He never did work when he said he would. “When do you think that will be?” she asked.
“As I said, as soon as I can.”
“Okay, Brennan,” Janet said, her voice suddenly strident and threatening. “Here’s the deal. I’m not paying you rent until the repairs are complete. And, first thing tomorrow morning, I’m filing complaints against you with the California Consumer Affairs Department, the Housing and Community Investment Department, and the Health Department. Then I’ll call my attorney and I’ll also call the local television stations and remind them I was almost murdered in the house you own, that my mother was murdered, that you haven’t done a thing about making the repairs you promised to make. Just imagine how the blood stains on the floor and the nailed-shut back door will look on television.”
“Now wait a minute. I told you I’d fix everything good as new. You can’t get away—”
“Watch me, Brennan. I can and I will. You’d better hire a good attorney, because by the time I’m finished with you, I’ll own this house.”
Janet terminated the call and counted aloud. “One-two-three-four-fi—” Her cell phone rang. She recognized Brennan’s cell number.
“What?” she answered.
“I’ll take care of everything first thing tomorrow. What time do you leave for work?”
“8 a.m. But I think it would really be good if you had your crew here at 7:30.” She ended the call, shucked her suit jacket, and removed the packet of money from her purse. She felt its weight and decided it was time to rent a safety deposit box.
Janet replaced the cash in her purse and carried it upstairs to her mother’s bedroom. She’d slept there for the last three weeks, waiting for Brennan to fix the window in her own room. She changed into pajamas, then returned to the kitchen and reached for the bottle of chardonnay that had been in the refrigerator for months. But she remembered that alcohol and antibiotics didn’t go well together. Instead, she removed a can of ginger ale, opened it, poured a glassful, and moved to the living room. After she sat on the couch, she remembered again what her doctor had said that morning about feeling like herself again. She thought about her conversation with her landlord, sipped the soda, and scoffed. The old Janet Jenkins would never have stood up to Brennan; or to anyone, for that matter. At least, that was the way things had always been when it came to standing up for herself. She muttered, “Feel like myself again, my butt.”
DAY 11
CHAPTER 15
Janet’s first stop on the way to her office was Claudia Barkley’s hospital room. “How many times has this happened, Mrs. Barkley?” Janet asked.
The woman moaned as she shifted slightly to her left side, as though she didn’t want to look at Janet. But her eyes were swollen-shut, so she couldn’t see anyone anyway.
“We can play this game all day, ma’am, but sooner or later you’ll have to make a decision.”
“Wha…are…you…talkin’…‘bout?”
Mrs. Barkley’s jaw was wired shut, so her words were so slurred that Janet could just make out what she’d said.
“Police records show you’ve called 9-1-1 five times and been hospitalized four times.” Janet lowered her voice. “I’ll bet there have been other times he beat you when you didn’t call for help. Is that right?”
Barkley didn’t react, other than to close her swollen eyes.
“Your dead child can’t testify. You need to go to court and testify against your husband.”
The woman suddenly sobbed, which quickly evolved into a long moan.
Janet felt anger rise inside her, pushing aside any sympathy she had for the woman. “Listen to me,” she growled, “he almost killed you this time. The next time, he might do just that. Holy God, woman, at least stand up for your unborn child.”
Janet walked around the bed and watched tears leak from Barkley’s eyes. Her shoulders rose and fell in cadence with low, groaning sobs that racked her body.
“My…baby,” she moaned. “My…poor…baby.”
Janet waited.
After a minute, Barkley said something that was indecipherable.
“What was that?” Janet asked.
“Wha’…would you…do?”
“What would I do?” Janet repeated. “I’d decide to live.”