by Stuart Woods
“I’ll try and remember that.”
“We’ve got some good people here who could offer you therapy while you’re waiting,” Villiers said. “Why don’t I make an appointment for you?”
Chris shook her head. “Thank you, no. If I thought my condition were permanent, I’d jump at the chance for therapy, but I’m finding my own ways to live with this, with the help of some friends. I don’t want to get used to being a blind lady.”
“As you wish,” Villiers said. He touched the back of her hand. “What’s this? It wasn’t there before.”
Chris recoiled and covered her left hand with her right. “It’s a sort of tattoo. I’m going to have it removed.”
“Why don’t I take you down to the dermatology department, and we’ll get it looked at.”
“Yes, I’d like that,” Chris said enthusiastically.
“Take my arm,” he said.
Villiers steered her down the hall to the elevator and pressed the call button. “Are you getting out of the house at all?” he asked.
“Yes, from time to time. I’m certainly spending more time at home than I used to, but I don’t feel comfortable going out unless I’m with someone I trust, someone who understands my condition. You see, I’ve sort of kept it a secret.”
“I see,” Villiers said, leading her onto the elevator. He waited until they had exited on a higher floor to speak again. “I hope you’re not cutting yourself off from your friends.”
“You have to understand, Dr. Villiers…”
“Paul; please call me Paul.”
“Paul, in my business to be disabled is not to work again. You remember how quickly I was dropped from a film when I was injured?”
“Yes, that made me very angry.”
“I was angry too at first, but then I had to look at it professionally. When a film starts principal photography it’s on a very tight schedule, and every hour of work counts. A studio or a producer can’t hire a cast with thirty speaking parts and maybe a hundred extras, plus a director and crew, and then leave them idle while one person recovers from an injury. In retrospect, they were right. If they’d waited for me they’d have lost a lot of money.”
“I see. Here’s Dermatology.”
A young man in a white coat looked up from some paperwork. “Hi, Paul.”
“Hi, Jerry. Let me introduce my patient, Chris Callaway. Chris, this is Dr. Jerry Stein.”
Stein stood up. “Hello, I know your work, and I’ve enjoyed it.”
“Thank you,” Chris said.
“Jerry,” Villiers said, “Chris has acquired a tattoo that she’d like to get rid of. Can you help her?”
Chris held out her hand.
Stein pulled her closer to his desk light and looked carefully at the tattoo. “Amateurish,” he said. “This is the sort of thing people get drunk and do to themselves.”
“That wasn’t the case,” Chris said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that it was. You’re lucky, though; it’s one color, red, so the q-switched yag will take care of it.”
“The what?”
“There are two FDA-approved lasers for removing tattoos, the q-switched ruby and the q-switched yag. The first removes blue and black pigments, and neither one does very well with greens, but the q-switched yag is the only one that gets the red out. Nothing works on yellow.”
“What’s involved?” Chris asked.
“You won’t even need local anesthesia,” Stein said. “The lasers pulsate in short bursts—only one forty-billionth of a second; that heats up only the tattoo pigment and fragments it, then the surrounding tissue eats up the ink and either carries it away or pushes it up through the skin. Normally it would take half a dozen treatments, but your tattoo is so lightly applied that I suspect we can do it in one.”
“Let’s get on with it,” Chris said.
Back in the car with Danny, Chris rubbed the back of her hand.
“Don’t do that,” Danny admonished. “You’ll just get it infected.”
“How does it look?” she asked.
“Pretty red.”
“The dermatologist said it would heal just like sunburn.”
“It’s not going to be a problem, Sweets; don’t worry about it.”
“Danny, is anybody following us?”
“Not that I can see. Come on, now, don’t get paranoid on me.”
“When they were removing the tattoo, all I could think about was the bastard who did that to me.”
“Easy, now. Anger isn’t going to help.”
“Oh, yes, it does help. I think I feel best these days when I allow myself to think about killing Admirer.”
“Sweets, I know I got you the gun, but that doesn’t mean you get to hunt the guy down. It’s for self-defense in an extreme situation.”
“You know I can’t hunt him down.”
“I was speaking figuratively.”
“I know how a deer in the forest must feel,” she said. “Just waiting for the hunter to step out from behind a tree and blast away. I don’t like being the prey.”
“I know you don’t, and I wish I could do something to change it.”
“There is something you can do for me, Danny,” she said.
“Anything.”
“Start watching your back. I’m going to tell Melanie the same thing.”
“What are you talking about?” Danny asked, sounding worried.
“I’m going to stop being the prey,” Chris said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to start putting Admirer on the defensive every chance I get.”
“Sweets, that could be dangerous. Remember, Jon told you not to get him riled.”
“I’m riled; why shouldn’t he be?”
“Because he has you at a big disadvantage.”
“I’ve got some advantages, too. I have you and Melanie and Jon. Admirer doesn’t have any friends to help him. He’s all alone, and I’m going to find a way to exploit that.”
“Chris…”
“Just start looking out for yourself, Danny. I don’t want him to take out his anger on you.”
“Chris…”
“Just watch your back.”
“Chris, be reasonable.”
“And Danny, I want to see Graham Hong.”
“What for?”
“Will you call him and ask him to come to the house?”
“Sure.”
“And Danny?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe you should get a gun for yourself, too.”
CHAPTER
21
A call to Palm Springs information produced only one Millman, and the number was unlisted. Larsen asked for a supervisor, gave her his name, grade, and badge number, and got the number and address.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Millman?”
“No, this is the maid.”
“May I speak to Mrs. Millman?” he asked.
“Mrs. Millman doesn’t speak on the telephone.”
“Beg pardon?”
“She doesn’t talk on the phone.”
“To anybody?”
“Not unless she calls them.”
“Would you tell her it’s the Beverly Hills police calling?”
“Wouldn’t do any good. She wouldn’t talk.”
“This a matter of some urgency.”
“Sorry.” The woman hung up.
Larsen had never before encountered anyone who refused to use the telephone, not in L.A. anyway. The whole of L.A. lived and died in cars and on the phone, often both. Bennett Millman’s widow was an eccentric.
Annoyed, he dialed the number again. It rang fifteen times; no answer. He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock straight up. He dialed Chris Callaway’s number.
“Hello?” Her voice was tense, challenging.
“Hi, it’s Jon. Is everything all right?”
“Oh, hi.” The voice relaxed; she sounded glad to hear from him. “Yes, everything’s all right.”<
br />
“Listen, I’ve got to drive down to Palm Springs this morning, on business. I know it’s short notice, but I just found out; would you like a drive in the sun? Have some lunch, then come back?”
“Boy, would I! I’m starting to get cabin fever.”
“Has Danny left the house for the day?”
“No, he has to be somewhere later this morning, though.”
“Can I speak with him?”
Danny came on the line. “Hi, copper.”
“Hi. Listen, I’m going to drive Chris down to Palm Springs for the day, and I don’t want to take a chance on Admirer following us. You up to a little subterfuge?”
“Always,” Danny said, laughing.
“Will you drive Chris away from the house and meet me?”
“Sure. Where?”
“Drive her into Beverly Hills and park in the lot behind Neiman-Marcus; then walk her through the store, and I’ll be waiting out front.”
“Okay; what time?”
“In an hour?”
“See you there.”
“Let me speak to Chris again.”
She came back on the line, “Hi.”
“Hi. Danny’s going to drive you to Neiman’s, and I’ll meet you there in an hour, all right?”
“Are we eluding somebody?”
“That we are.”
“Sounds like fun. I’ll see you in an hour.”
When Chris came out of Neiman’s Larsen thought she had never looked so good. She was wearing yellow slacks and a white cotton sweater that made her breasts look inviting, plus a head scarf and sunglasses.
“Good morning,” he called.
“Hi. We made it.”
“Danny, did you notice anybody following you?”
Danny shook his head. “I checked the rearview mirror a couple of times, but I didn’t notice anybody.”
Chris got into the little MG, and Larsen helped her with her seat belt. “Ready?”
“Ready!”
“Thanks for your help, Danny,” Larsen said. “I’ll have her back by dinnertime.”
“Keep her as long as you like,” Danny called as they drove away.
“Free at last!” Chris cried as the car picked up speed.
“I’m glad you feel that way.”
“Tell me, is this car going to break down somewhere, and then we have to send to England for parts? Is that part of your plan?”
“Sounds good to me,” Larsen laughed. “Trouble is, the boot’s full of spare parts. It’s the sort of thing you learn driving a classic car.”
“Poor planning,” she said. “So what are you doing in Palm Springs today?”
“I have to interview a lady.”
“Couldn’t do it on the phone?”
“She doesn’t talk on the phone,” Larsen replied. He told her about his conversation with the maid.
“Sounds crazy to me.”
“I hope not too crazy.”
“Is this something to do with Admirer?” she asked.
Larsen hesitated. He didn’t want to tell her about the Polaroid photograph. “No,” he said. “Another case.”
As he got on the freeway he checked the ramp behind him in the rearview mirror. Only one car, a red Japanese number. Relieved, he merged with the traffic and picked up speed.
When he checked the mirror again, he saw a van a couple of cars back, then it seemed to go away. He checked another two or three times, then forgot about it.
CHAPTER
22
Larsen found the Millman house in Palm Springs and parked the MG in the shade of a palm tree. “I’m not sure I could explain the presence of a beautiful woman at this interview,” he said to Chris. “Do you mind waiting here?”
“This is fine,” Chris replied. “I’m enjoying the weather.”
He left the radio on for her and approached the house. A low hedge separated a lushly planted front yard from the sidewalk; four sprinklers worked at keeping the grass an emerald green. He didn’t wonder that Southern California had perpetual water problems. He rang the bell.
A small Hispanic woman answered the door. “Yes?”
Larsen didn’t waste time with pleasantries; he showed her the badge, the sight of which seemed to rattle the woman. “I’m the police; we talked this morning. I want to see Mrs. Millman now.”
The woman quickly let him in, no doubt with visions of the Immigration Service dancing in her head, he thought. She led the way through the house and out into a larger and even more densely landscaped garden surrounding a kidney-shaped swimming pool. “Please wait here,” she said, and shuffled toward a woman in a lounge chair. The two exchanged a few words, and the maid waved Larsen over, then fled back into the house.
Larsen approached the poolside, and he discovered that whatever mental image he had formed of Mrs. Millman was incorrect. The widow, who he guessed was an extraordinarily well-preserved forty, was clad in the smallest bikini he had ever seen; her skin was tanned, her flesh firm, and her hair and makeup perfectly arranged.
“Good day,” Larsen said, showing his badge again. “I am Detective Jon Larsen of the Beverly Hills Police Department.”
“How do you do, Detective?” she said, rising. “Let’s find some shade.” She walked ahead of him toward a cabana a few yards away.
Larsen followed, entertained by the movement of her hips, the back of the bikini being nothing more than a string that passed between her cheeks. The woman was a living monument to the wonders of Beverly Hills cosmetic surgery.
That done, Mrs. Millman turned, leaned over the bar, and exhibited her ill-concealed breasts. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.
“Some fizzy water would be nice,” Larsen replied, trying to keep his gaze fixed above her neck.
She uncapped a large bottle of San Pellegrino, filled a glass with tiny ice cubes, and poured the water. Then she mixed herself a very light gin and tonic. “What can I do for you?” she asked.
Larsen listened for innuendo but never heard it. The woman, in spite of her state of dress—or undress—was all business. He produced Jason Willoughby’s photograph of the rug. “Do you recognize this?” he asked.
“Yes, it belonged to my husband,” she said.
“Did you recently sell it at auction?”
“I did.”
“Do you, by any chance, recall to whom you sold it?” He tried not to hold his breath.
“Of course,” she said. “He paid thirty-five hundred dollars for it.”
A bargain, Larsen thought. Willoughby had said he could get twenty-five thousand for it. “Do you recall the buyer’s name?”
“Of course; it was James.”
“His last name?”
“Oh, I don’t know; I never called him anything but James.”
“You knew him before the auction?”
“Why, yes; he lived in our guest house, acted as sort of a house sitter when we were down here or in New York.”
“He lived on your property, and you never knew his last name?”
“Oh, Bennett knew it, I suppose; after all, he dealt with the fellow. I never saw him, except from a distance. He went to work early in the morning and was rarely home before dark.”
“How did you know when he left and returned?”
“Well, either the van or the motorcycle would be gone, and then it would be back under the guest-house carport.”
“He drove a van and a motorcycle?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know what kind of van or motorcycle?”
“The van was a sort of grayish green, and the motorcycle was red.”
“I meant, did you ever notice the manufacturers’ names?”
“No.”
“Where did James work?”
“He apparently had some sort of business, but I never knew what. He was very handy; he’d sometimes repair things around the house.”
“What sort of things could he repair?”
“Anything—the air-conditioning
, the plumbing, the cars. He was very useful.”
“Can you describe James, in as much detail as possible, please?”
Chris sat in the MG, her head against the back of the seat, half dozing. She felt happy to be away from the house, out of L.A. and with Jon Larsen. She felt the face of her wristwatch; he had been gone for twenty minutes.
A car pulled up next to the MG and stopped. Chris turned her head toward it. A gray shape; bigger than a car; noisier, too. It sat there, idling. She heard the door open, and suddenly she was alert; an all-too-familiar smell had reached her—the scent of roses.
Chris acted without thinking. She tore open the door of the little sports car and scrambled out, tripping on the curb and falling onto grass. She rolled to her feet, feeling the edge of the sidewalk. Which way had Jon gone? She picked right and began running down the sidewalk; she had no idea where she was going, but there were rapid footsteps behind her.
“James was, I don’t know, medium,” Mrs. Millman was saying. “Medium height, medium weight, medium hair.”
“Eyes?”
“I never looked into them.”
“Any distinguishing marks or scars?”
“Bennett said he had a tattoo. It worried him at first because he associated tattoos with convicts, but James won him over quickly. He was very honest; paid his rent on time; took care of the furniture; lived quietly. He never seemed to have people over or play loud music.”
“Do you know where on his body the tattoo was?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Can you remember anything else about him?”
She shrugged. “He always wore a baseball cap. At least, whenever I saw him he wore one. Except on the motorcycle; then he wore a helmet.”
“What color helmet?”
“Black. He dressed in black when he rode the motorcycle.”
“You said he was a house sitter, but that he paid rent.”
“My husband was very good with money; no one ever got anything free from him. James paid a couple of hundred a month, I think; it would have been a great deal more if he hadn’t rendered some services.”
“Did he ever give your husband a check for the rent?”
“I don’t think so. Bennett liked to deal in cash.”
“Did you ever have a conversation with James? About anything—the weather?”
