Schultz poured him a cup of coffee, then left him drowning in sorrow and official paperwork. Told him if he had any questions, to ask Cale.

Straight on to Jordon, the Ford pa.s.sing miles of skeletal forest poking through carpets of compost and detritus. A leaden sky held storm clouds, and the air, though clean, looked dirty. Whipping down the highway, Schultz made it in less than an hour. He managed to get there before the official building closed.

He went through the property tax files, which listed the names of the owners of residences.

No Justice C. Flatt.

A dead end.

Hitting your head against a wall.

A solid, hard, flat wall. As in a solid, hard, Flatt wall.

Justice C. Flatt.

As Wells had stated, Justice Flatt was a weird name. Probably made up by some psycho.

Flatt.

Conjuring up images of being one-dimensional . . . robotic . . . emotionless.

Ironic because Ophelia had left her husband for someone she had deemed pa.s.sionate, impetuous, spontaneous.

Or was something amiss?

Had Brian Wells found out about his wife's dalliances on the Net? Was he trying to woo her back, using this Flatt character? Or could he have been trying to get even with Ophelia for straying over the wires?

Was Flatt a deliberate play on words?

A husband's final declaration?

You want pa.s.sion, baby, I'll give you pa.s.sion. Pa.s.sion from the man you labeled pa.s.sionless.

Still, Schultz didn't figure Wells as a killer. The deputy had gone through all the pockets of Ophelia's coat, including the small inside slit. The slit where he had found the credit-card receipt. It wouldn't have made sense for Wells to leave that.

Unless he wanted to be discovered.

Flatt.

Justice C. Flatt.

C. Justice Flatt.

C. J. Flatt.

Now, why did that name look familiar?

And then Schultz remembered.

C. L. Taft. Or better yet-C. LTaft. A little anagramming with LTaft, and guess what name popped up?

Quickly, Schultz looked up all the Tafts in Jordon. No permanent resident by that name. Next he called a local Realtor. A brief introduction along with an explanation of the situation.

"Has anyone using the name of Justice C. Flatt or Charles Lawrence Taft rented a house here in Jordon?"

The Realtor informed him of a C. L. Taft. Could that be the man Schultz was looking for?

Yes, that very well could be the man.

Walking out of Fred's Cafe, Schultz held a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his gloved hands. The day was fiercely cold but less cloudy, the sky thin strips of gauze rather than sheets of anodized gunmetal. Cale was bundled up in a parka. Joe wore a leather jacket and earm.u.f.fs. He looked like Barney Fife.

To the boys, Schultz said, "After Ophelia rejected Charles Lawrence Taft, the boss got an idea. If he couldn't get her as Taft, maybe he could get her using an alias. He knew Ophelia was a chat-room fan. Figured he could woo her online if not in person. Hence the name Justice. Because this relationship was the just one."

"Or so he thought," Joe said, pointing a finger in the air.

"The man didn't have a clue," Schultz answered. "He thought he could waltz into Ophelia's life as this Justice character and everyone would live happily ever after. He had meant to surprise her. Just show up and say, 'Guess who lover boy really is?' But then Ophelia dumped this hara.s.sment thing on him. Taft was completely freaked. He had no idea how much Ophelia hated him as C. L. Taft."

Cale said, "So he had to kill her?"

"He hadn't started out with the idea of killing her, no," Schultz replied. "He showed up at their designated meeting spot. When Ophelia saw Taft, she freaked. Spat in his face and told him she never wanted to see him. He asked her to hear him out. She said no. They went back and forth until a physical struggle ensued. He pushed her. She hit her head on something sharp. Taft panicked, dumped her, and left."

"What about his lawyer alibis?"

"They checked out," Schultz said. "He did make the calls but intended to use them as alibis. 'Cause Ophelia was already dead when he made them."

"Then why give himself a three-hour dead period, Jimbo?" Cale asked.

"Didn't want too perfect of an alibi," Schultz said. "Tell you the truth-because it wasn't absolutely perfect, I almost bought it."

Joe said, "All kinda sad, ain't it."

Cale said, "Ain't that the truth."

"Brian Wells was right about one thing," Schultz said. "These chat rooms. Nothing but an electronic Lonely Hearts Club. You don't know who the heck you're dealing with. Ophelia Wells was one naive gal."

The three men sat in silence for a moment.

Cale said, "It's a pi-tee-ful thing." He fidgeted, looked a little sheepish. "You know, I was talking to Mr. Wells . . . 'bout transporting the body back . . ." He blushed. "I suggested he might want to bury her here. Kenton's a heck of a lot prettier than St. Louis."

Schultz said, "You didn't!"

"I did indeed."

"What did he say?" Joe asked.

"He said . . . that he thought it was a very good idea." Cale rubbed his nose. "Now, you two stop looking at me that way. I offered him a super discount rate."

Schultz broke into chuckles, shook his head.

Cale said, "You gotta admit, Jimbo. Kenton is prettier than St. Louis."

Schultz scanned the scenery. The sun had broken through the smoky sky, round patches of brilliant blue peeking through the clouds like sets of azure eyes. He inhaled a breath of sweet, crisp air. He admitted that Kenton was prettier than St. Louis. Threw his cup in a trash container and said, "Okay, Joe. Time to get back to work. Go see Mrs. Dillon. She needs help getting the pilot light lit in her stove."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Suppose it's better than dealing with bodies. Though with Mrs. Dillon, it's hard to tell if she's dead or alive."

Cale said, "Gonna see y'all tonight at Fred's? Thursday-night football."

"I'll be there," Joe answered.

Schultz pondered a moment. "Thursday night . . . Patty's book club is on Thursday."

Joe said, "So you'll be there?"

Schultz nodded. "Yeah, I'll be there."

MALIBU DOG.

"Malibu Dog" is one of my first

humorous stories. It serves up a nice

dish of cold justice.

STUBBORN AND MEAN ARE A LETHAL COMBINATION, a perfect case in point being Conroy Bittune-an old coot of sixty, as skinny and dried up as a stick of jerky. He was a wiry man with small brown eyes, thin lips, and a mouth full of brown-stained teeth. His cheeks were never without wads of chewing tobacco, giving him a stale smell and his scrawny face a pouchy appearance. I've always wondered how he managed to talk and chew without choking. Conroy was retired, having earned modest money doing something for the IRS. He was and always had been short of friends, so no one in the Estates was surprised when Conroy bought himself a companion-a pit bull named Maneater.

I was as close as you could call a friend to Conroy, which meant we were on speaking terms. He and I were next-door neighbors in a condominium complex called the Sand and Sea Estates. The development consisted of one- and two-bedroom boxes built above one-car garages. The units were framed with the cheapest-grade lumber, drywalled with the thinnest plasterboard, and roofed with layers of tar paper. The interiors were equally chintzy. The ceilings were finished with cottage-cheese stucco, and the floors were nothing more than low-pile carpet over cement slab. Who would buy such junk? Fact was, the condos were snapped up faster than flies around frogs.

Why?

Not only did the condos grace the golden sands of Malibu Beach, but they were also granted private beach rights. That meant residents of the Estates could romp in the blue Pacific without mixing with the public riffraff. The units sold for six hundred grand and upward, depending on location and size. Of course, Conroy Bittune's little bit of paradise sat on the choicest parcel of land-a corner spot that allowed a view of the famous Malibu sunsets.

Me? I'm a lowly tenant, paying my out-of-town landlord eight hundred a month for the privilege of residing there. I came out to the Estates during one of my college term breaks to visit a friend. I was instantly entranced by the endless horizon, the splashy sunsets, the nighttime sky, sometimes as black as tar winking with millions of stars. Five years later, the ocean still has me under her spell. I earn my living as a handywoman, keeping my rent down by doing free repairs on my unit and a couple of others that my landlord owns.

My connection with Conroy was tenuous. One Sat.u.r.day morning, his sink pipe burst, spewing water in his face and all over his ultramodern compact kitchen. He came banging on my door at seven in the morning, waking me up, demanding that I do something.

Conroy never asks, he demands.

Being an easygoing gal, I took his harsh tone of voice in stride and went next door. The pipe repair took all of five minutes-a loose joint-and just to show what kind of sport I was, I didn't even charge him. He never did thank me, but from that day on, I was the only one in the complex whom he never threatened to sue. We never became friendly enough to carry on a true conversation-the kind with give-and-take. But I would condo-watch his place when he went away on vacation, which was about four times a year.

One Friday afternoon, Conroy showed up at my door, beaming like a new father as he presented me to the pit bull. The dog was white and black, seemed to be molded from pounds of muscle, and had teeth like razors.

Conroy spat a wad of tobacco into my geranium box. Still chomping his Skoal, he said, "Don't need you no more, Lydia." He spat again. "Meet my new watchdog, Maneater."

The dog was on a leash and, by way of introduction, bared his fangs.

"Lookie at this, Liddy."

Conroy smacked the dog soundly across the mouth with a rolled-up newspaper. The pit bull let out a menacing growl but didn't budge. Conroy hit him again and again. The dog never moved an inch. Then Conroy pried open Maneater's mouth and stuck his nose inside the gaping maw. The dog endured the ordeal but wasn't pleased. And Conroy? He just stood there, smiling wickedly.

"Now you try to pet him, girl," he told me.

Slowly, I raised my hand toward Maneater's scruff. The dog snapped so hard, you could hear an echo from his jaws banging shut. Only quick reflexes prevented me from becoming an amputee. Conroy broke into gales of laughter that turned into a hacking cough, sending bits of tobacco over my threshold.

"Cute, Conroy," I said. "You're going to win loads of friends with this one."

"Don't need no friends," Conroy answered. "I need a good guard dog. One that'll attack anyone I say to attack. One that'll protect me with his life no matter how I whop the s.h.i.t out of 'im."

"That's why you bought a dog?" I said. "To whop the s.h.i.t out of him?"

"For protection, Liddy," Conroy said. "Now look at this." He looked down at the dog. "Nice, Maneater, let her make nice!"

He turned to me and said, "Go ahead and pet him now."

"Once burned, twice shy, Conroy!"

"Go ahead, Liddy!" His smile bordered on a smirk.

Call me irresponsible, but I reached out for the dog again. This time he was as pa.s.sive as a baby, moaning under my touch.

"Amazing," I said.

"Now, if you tell him to be nice," Conroy said, "it won't mean a thing. He only responds to my voice, my words. That's what I call a well-trained dog."

"You trained him?" I asked.

"Of course not, girlie!" More laughter mixed with coughing. "I spent six months looking for the choicest breeders, another six sorting through litters to find the perfect pup. Look at 'im, girl. Broad chest, strong shoulders, ma.s.sive forequarters, a jaw as powerful as a vise. Look, look!"

I looked.

Conroy spat, then continued. "Before he was even weaned from his mama's t.i.t, I hired the best trainer money could afford. And now he's all mine. Perfect dog for the perfect man."

I gazed down upon Maneater's mug. The pleasure of my company had worn off, and he was growling again.

"I don't know, Conroy," I said. "A dog that mean. He could get you into lots of trouble."

"Bull p.i.s.s." Conroy spat. "You know how them thieves are. They see Malibu, they think money, money, money. Well, let them burgle the other condos! No one's gonna touch my property unless they wanna be hamburger."