Jericho Point Read Free Page A

don’t actually know that anybody fell over the edge.’’
    ‘‘No.’’
    ‘‘The thing is,’’ the deputy said, ‘‘nobody’s missing.’’
    Into the kitchen walked Toby, the man who’d let me into the house. The deputy turned to him.
    ‘‘Isn’t that so, sir?’’
    Toby scratched his nose. He was nothing but dark tan and stringy muscle, a walking stick of beef jerky.
    ‘‘Nobody said anything to me. If somebody went over, I’d have known. They’d have screamed; I would have heard it.’’
    Spoken like a landlord concerned about liability. The deputy was nodding.
    ‘‘No, you wouldn’t,’’ I said, ‘‘not with the storm, the music, the blender, the couch being torched—and besides, somebody did know. My friend told me. If I’m wrong, I’m sorry. But a woman might be out there in the water, and I couldn’t ignore it.’’
    The fire captain picked up his radio. ‘‘I’ll send the Jet Skis down the shoreline, but with this surf I can’t keep them out there for long.’’
    The deputy ran his hand across his head. ‘‘This friend of yours. Was he . . .’’
    ‘‘Wasted,’’ Toby said. ‘‘Out of his head. Not that he got that way here at the party. I mean, he showed up that way. I didn’t know him.’’
    ‘‘Where is he? Can we talk to him?’’
    ‘‘Gone,’’ Toby said. ‘‘Out the door like a shot.’’
    ‘‘What’s his name?’’
    ‘‘Blackburn.’’ Toby took a folded sheet of typing paper from his shirt pocket. Unfolded it, peered at the text. ‘‘Jesse Blackburn.’’
    I rubbed my eyes. ‘‘No, it isn’t.’’
    ‘‘Yeah, it says right here.’’ Toby handed me the paper.
    It was an e-mail from me to Jesse, giving him my new cell phone number. ‘‘Where’d you get this?’’
    ‘‘He brought a guitar. Found it in the case.’’
    Why had I thought I could keep Jesse out of this? I felt as though a landslide were starting under my feet. And it was going to take me down.
    ‘‘The man who was here wasn’t Jesse; it was his brother, P.J.,’’ I said.
    ‘‘P.J.,’’ the deputy said. ‘‘What’s that stand for?’’
    ‘‘Patrick John.’’
    Thinking, Rhymes with here and gone.
    Toby watched me drive away. He stood with the engine crew on the driveway, by the smoldering sofa. The headlights flicked across his eyes when I turned the wheel. His look seemed to say, Thanks for the trouble. Thanks for nothing.
    I drove to the end of the street, got out, and found a path between houses to the cliff. The wind buffeted me. I could see nothing, hear nothing but the cold roar of the water. It sounded inexorable.
    P.J., what happened here tonight? Were you telling me the truth?
    He knew how to tell the truth, to break the worst news. He’d broken it to me. But tonight I didn’t know whether his tangled story came from fact, imagination, or cocaine.
    Getting back in the car, I drove to his apartment building a few blocks away. The Don Quixote Arms, student squalor at its finest. It took three minutes for P.J.’s roommate to answer my pounding. His eyes were gluey with sleep, and he hadn’t bothered to remove the stud from his lower lip before bedtime. His T-shirt said, If I gave a shit, you’re the person I’d give it to. When I asked for P.J., he scratched under his armpit.
    ‘‘He doesn’t live here anymore,’’ he said.
    ‘‘Yes, he does. That’s his acoustic guitar by the sofa.’’
    ‘‘Does he owe you money?’’
    Next door the curtains fluttered. I walked over and knocked.
    A woman called from behind the peephole, ‘‘Who is it?’’
    ‘‘I’m looking for your neighbor. P. J. Blackburn.’’
    A hand drew back the curtains. I saw cautious eyes and a receding chin. ‘‘He went to a party. Over on Del Playa.’’
    ‘‘I know. Did he come home?’’
    ‘‘No.’’ She peered, waiting for me to go away. I didn’t. ‘‘I would have heard him. He hasn’t.’’
    Back in the car I slumped against the headrest,