Psycho Logic by Craig Faustus Buck

Author:Craig Faustus Buck
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Stark Raving Group
Published: 2014-05-05T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Marylou felt like an icebox as Johno snuggled under his queen-size blanket folded four ply thick. Johno fought the lulling effect of the morning surf’s rhythm as he waited. He had parked past the house, hidden behind a curve toward the west end of the street, knowing Karl would drive east when he left for work. The sky was bleak gray and the salty air whistled.

At the top of the hour, he turned on the radio and tuned to the local news. Breaking story: porn star found shot in Laurel Canyon. The live correspondent reported from the scene in breathless tones that she could see an LAPD patrol car blocking the street.

A few minutes after eight, Dr. Karl finally left the house and drove off. Johno waited for the Lexus to disappear from view before approaching the house and ringing the bell.

Alyssa opened the door dripping sweat and wearing only a sports bra and gym shorts. She was breathing hard and he could see her ribcage expand and contract over her solid midriff. She was surprised to see him.

“I guess you heard,” she said.

“We need to talk.”

She warily stepped back to let him in.

“How about some coffee?”

“Sure.” His mouth was dry from anxiety. The thought of something hot and wet sounded great.

Johno followed Alyssa through the house. The floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the interior with light. The place seemed almost monochromatic, decorated in black, white, grays and natural wood-tones. The art matched the color-scheme with vintage black-and-white photographs and lithographs. The few paintings tended to be geometric and have muted colors. Above the fireplace was a large photo of an elderly Freud, apparently signed by him. The furniture was Danish modern. The atmosphere felt sterile to Johno, more like a museum than a home. He figured Karl had chosen the décor long before Alyssa moved in and hadn’t given her any leeway to put her stamp on the place.

She led him into a showplace of a kitchen with black granite counters, black slate floors, stainless steel European appliances, restaurant-style fixtures, and a complicated copper cappuccino machine about the size of Marylou’s 389 engine.

“Espresso or cappuccino?” she asked.

“Plain coffee’s fine,” he said.

“I’ll make you an Americano.”

He guessed Dr. Karl didn’t deign to own a regular coffee maker.

“What happened last night?” he asked.

She grabbed a handle and shifted it a quarter turn to pull the espresso filter from the elaborate machine. “You were there.”

“I mean after we left.”

“How should I know? I left before you, remember?”

She used her foot to open a trash compactor and started banging the filter assembly against its inner wall to clean out the old grounds.

“Did Karl shoot Summer Daze?”

She kicked the compactor shut and turned to him, eyes flaring.

“Of course not!”

Johno watched her carefully, searching for the telltale signs of deceit he’d learned to look for as a cop—shifts in attitude, micro-expressions, avoidance of eye contact or various verbal cues.

“Blackmail only buys you so much,” he said. “I won’t cover up a murder.”

She put the filter down on the counter.

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