by Stuart Woods
“You okay back there?”
“Better,” she said.
“Hang on.” He drove into the marina complex and found a drugstore. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
“You’re leaving me here?”
“Not for long, and I’ll always have the car in sight.” He went into the drugstore and bought a couple of things for himself, then returned to the car. “I’m going to put the top down,” he said quietly. “That way, if he’s following us, he’ll get the idea that I’m alone.” He unlatched the top, stowed it, and snapped on the cover. “Beautiful day for a drive,” he said, trying hard not to look around for a van or a motorcycle.
“Thanks, I needed that,” she whimpered.
Larsen got back into the car and drove to Long Beach, stopped for gas, and bought some magazines.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said from under the blanket.
“You should have done that before we left.”
“I did, but I have to go again.”
“You’ll just have to hold it.” He left Long Beach and drove into Orange County, using a random series of streets, and gradually worked his way back north, glancing only occasionally in the rearview mirror. He hadn’t seen anything following them since they left Santa Monica.
Finally he got on the freeway and took the turnoff for Santa Monica. He drove down Santa Monica Boulevard and checked the parking lot at Keyhole Security as they passed. The van was parked in its usual spot. He made a few more random turns, drove in one side of a parking lot and out the other, then stopped and looked back. Nothing followed him out of the parking lot. He drove straight to the old Del Mar Beach Club, turned into the covered service entrance, then whipped the blanket off Chris. “We’re home, kiddo,” he said, laughing, as he helped her out of the car and onto the receiving platform. He walked her through the kitchen and took the service elevator to the twelfth floor. The key was in the door of the suite, as arranged.
“Well, it’s sunny,” Chris said, looking around at the shapes of the furniture.
“Walk around a little, and get the lay of the land,” Larsen suggested. “The bedroom is to your left; twin beds, and the bath is to your left again.”
Chris moved around the suite, feeling for furniture and locating the light switches. “Now that I can see more of the light I like a lot of it,” she said.
There was a knock on the door. Larsen left Chris in the bedroom and closed the door, then drew his pistol and went to the door.
“It’s me,” Danny’s voice said from outside.
Larsen let him into the room and helped him with his packages.
“Christ, I spent a fortune,” Danny said. “You never realize what stuff costs until you have to buy a lot of it at once. Where’s Chris?”
Chris came out of the bedroom and hugged Danny. “You didn’t really go to Frederick’s of Hollywood, did you?”
“No, but I got the sexiest stuff Neiman’s had.” He reached into a shopping bag and pulled out a dark wig. “And I got you a disguise,” he said. “Got one for me, too; we can take walks on the beach.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Larsen said.
“Listen, I can make her look like Ava Gardner; nobody will ever know.”
“Well, all right,” Larsen said reluctantly, “but do a good job, and go armed, both of you.”
“Fear not,” Danny said.
“Any problems, call me,” Larsen said.
Danny held up a cellular telephone. “You can reach me on this.”
Larsen wrote down a number on the back of his card and gave it to Danny. “This is my cellular number.” He took Chris’s hand. “You going to be all right?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t give this number to too many people,” he said.
“Just Jack and Melanie.”
“Good. By the way, you can eat in the dining room, but it’s all no-fat, low-calorie stuff.
“Swell,” Danny said, patting his flat belly. “I guess I’m a little overweight at a hundred and thirty-five.”
“I’ll bring back dinner tonight,” Larsen said, “and you can do some shopping tomorrow. There’s a little kitchenette through those doors.”
“I think I’ll send out for a pizza,” Danny said.
“For God’s sake, don’t!” Larsen groaned. “The smell will drive the dieters nuts!”
He kissed Chris good-bye, took the service elevator down, and drove his car out of the loading bay, looking both ways. He didn’t see anybody.
CHAPTER
47
He pulled up in front of an auto-painting shop and stopped. “$129.95 ANY CAR—DIAMOND FINISH,” the sign said. He had seen the place advertised on TV. He didn’t feel comfortable in it anymore. He thought about paint, and as he did, he glanced up the street and saw the Ford dealer’s sign. Wouldn’t hurt to look, he thought.
He drove up the street and turned into the lot; a salesman was at the van’s door before he could get out.
“Afternoon,” the man said. “Can I show you something?”
“Maybe,” he said. “I’ve got this real nice Ford here, it’s what, not quite a year old, got, let’s see, thirteen thousand miles on the clock, and it’s nice, you know? But I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s a little grim for me, thinking I might paint it, put some windows in the back, fix it up a little.”
“That’s a lot of grief to go through when I’ve got two dozen beauties right over there,” the salesman said, making an expansive gesture. “Why don’t we see if there’s something that catches your fancy?”
“Well, I’ll take a look, but I don’t want to get into a lot of money, you know?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”
The salesman hopped into the passenger seat and they drove half a block to a row of gleaming vans parked along the street.
“Something customized?” the salesman asked, pointing at a vehicle. “Fully equipped camper?”
“Nah.”
“Something more austere?” the salesman asked, slapping another van on a fender.
“Something in between,” he replied.
“Got three of a very nicely equipped number right over here,” the salesman said, leading the way.
“That’s more like it,” he said, peering through the window of a dark blue van.
“Got four captain’s chairs in leather, very nice.”
“Do the rear chairs come out easily?”
“Yes, indeed, just pull a couple of pins, you can use ’em in your living room.”
He opened the rear door and felt the carpeting. “Not bad.” He walked around the van once, then read the list of equipment on the window sticker. “I wouldn’t mind a decent sound system,” he said.
“That one’s got the top of the line, AM/FM stereo and tape, six speakers. I can do you a CD player for a little more.”
“That wouldn’t be cheap,” he said.
“I’ll make you a real good deal.”
“Why don’t you take a look at my van,” he said, handing over the keys.
The salesman walked around the van, checked the mileage, then drove it around the block. After a few minutes of haggling, they made their deal.
“I’ll give you cash, now.”
“You got a loan on your van?”
“Nope.”
“You got the title with you?”
“Yep.”
“Then we’ll have you out of here in fifteen minutes,” the salesman said.
They went into the showroom, and he produced his title.
“Want it registered this way?” the salesman asked.
“Right. It’s my business name.”
“There’s only a P.O. box. Want to give me a street address?”
“The box number is all you need.”
He signed the documents, reached into a hip pocket of his jeans, extracted a folded stack of bills, and started counting.
“Exactly right,” the salesman said, counting the money. “You always carry that a
mount of cash around with you? That’s dangerous.”
“I never met anybody who could take it away from me.”
He got into the new dark blue van and drove away.
The salesman drove the gray van around back to the service department and got out.
“What’s up?” the service manager asked.
“Just took one in trade. It’s in good shape, but it needs cleaning up. Can you put somebody on it?”
“How’s the interior?” the service manager asked, walking around to the rear of the van.
“Pretty good. It’s only got, what, thirteen thousand miles on it.”
The service manager opened the rear doors. “Shit, Harry, did you see this before?”
The salesman walked around to the back of the van and looked inside. “Goddammit!”
“Looks like he’s been killing hogs back here. It’s been shampooed, I guess, but shampooing wouldn’t handle this.”
“You think it was blood?” the salesman asked. “Should we call the cops?”
“Nah, if it’s blood, it’s from an animal, and I’m not about to get involved with the cops.” He popped the snaps holding the carpet in place and yanked the whole thing out the back of the van. “You better go around to parts and order a new carpet for this thing before the Man sees it.” He rolled up the soiled carpet and stuffed it into a large trash can.
“Shit,” the salesman said, “that’ll have to come out of my pocket, too.”
“You should have done your job right,” the service manager said. “I got no sympathy for you. I hope for your sake the rest of this thing’s as advertised.”
“I hope so, too,” said the abashed salesman. He wondered what the hell that guy had been doing in the back of his van.
CHAPTER
48
Larsen arrived at his post late and looked for the gray van. It was not in the parking lot. This made him nervous until he reflected that there was no way Parker could know where he had Chris stashed.
He waited outside Keyhole Security until nearly lunchtime, then took out his pocket cellular phone and dialed the company’s number. After all, he still had security business to discuss with Parker.
“Good morning, Keyhole Security.”
“’Morning, may I speak with Mel Parker, please?”
“Mr. Parker isn’t in; may I take a message?”
“When do you expect to hear from him?”
“I’m not sure; he won’t be in for a few days.”
Larsen began to feel uneasy. “Out of town?”
“I don’t really know; he called in this morning and just said that he wouldn’t be in for a few days. Is there something I can help you with?”
“No, that’s all right; I’ll call back later.” Larsen hung up the phone and immediately dialed Pritikin and asked for Suite 1200.
“Hello?”
“Chris, it’s Jon. Everything okay?”
“Just fine; Danny’s gone out for some groceries.”
“Have you been out of the room at all?”
“Nope. Just been working on my screenplay.”
“Good. I’ll stop by a little later today.” He hung up and thought for a minute, then he started the car and drove toward Venice.
He cruised down Parker’s block twice and saw no sign of life at the house. This was as close as he could get; he wasn’t about to go over the back fence again.
Suddenly there was nothing to do. He drove slowly back to Beverly Hills and went up to his office. There were a dozen phone messages on his desk, and he began returning the calls. Between calls he went to the coffee machine and noticed a hum of activity in Homicide. Another detective joined him at the machine.
“What’s up?” Larsen said, nodding at the busy group of desks.
“A lady out for her morning run found a head up in one of the canyons,” the man said.
“Just a head?”
“Yeah, a woman, apparently in her twenties.”
“Got an ID?”
“You ever tried to ID a corpse from just the head?”
“I have to admit I haven’t.”
“Hope you never have to.”
“What about dental records?”
“Well, the FBI doesn’t keep a file on dental records. There’s an artist over at the morgue doing a drawing of the head now. We’ll advertise that, and when somebody recognizes her, then we can run a check on the dental work.”
“Well,” Larsen said, “I don’t guess you can run a picture of a head in the papers.”
Chief of Detectives Herrera walked up. “How nice to see you in the office,” he said to Larsen.
“I’ve been on surveillance,” Larsen said.
“You haven’t ID’ed that perp yet?”
“Soon.”
“Swell,” Herrera said. “When are you going to wrap this one?”
“Soon, I think.”
“How long you been saying that?”
Larsen sipped his coffee and didn’t reply.
Herrera walked away.
“He been on your back?” the other detective asked.
“Sort of.”
“Watch him; he’s a mean one.”
“I’ll do that,” Larsen said. He tossed his empty cup into the trash can and went back to his office. The phone rang.
“Detective Larsen.”
“Mr. Larsen, this is Herbert Mendelssohn.”
There was that name again; Larsen struggled to place it.
“My daughter was having a problem with a stalker early this year.”
Now he had it; Helen Mendelssohn had been one of his cases. “Of course, Mr. Mendelssohn; how is Helen?”
“Well, she hasn’t heard from the guy in a while, or she would have called you.”
Larsen remembered everything now. An anonymous admirer had sent her some small gifts and written some notes over a period of about a month, then the contacts had stopped. It was one of Larsen’s inactive cases.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Larsen said. “Is there something I can do for you or Helen?”
“Well, I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing,” Mendelssohn said. “I guess I’m supposed to call another department, but since we know you, I thought I’d just ask your advice.”
“Of course.”
“Helen’s boss called me this morning and said she didn’t show up for work. That’s unlike her, so I went over to her apartment. I have a key, so I let myself in and had a look around. She wasn’t there.”
“Had anything been disturbed?” Larsen asked.
“No, the place was neat as a pin.”
“Nothing unusual at all?”
“Well, there were some flowers there that had been delivered; still in the box, but no card. Normally, Helen would have put flowers in water right away. It’s not like her to leave a dozen roses in a box and let them die.”
Larsen felt a trickle of apprehension run down his bowels. “Well, I’ll be glad to look into this for you, Mr. Mendelssohn.”
“Thank you, I’d appreciate that. I’ve heard that the police don’t take missing persons very seriously.”
“Usually missing persons turn up without an investigation,” Larsen said, “so we normally wait twenty-four hours before launching an investigation. But since I know Helen, and I agree, she isn’t the type to just disappear, I’ll be glad to check on it. Tell me, Mr. Mendelssohn, do you have a recent photograph of Helen?”
“Yes. We took some nice pictures at a barbecue last month. I think I can find them.”
“Is your address still the same?” Larsen asked, looking in his drawer for the file on Helen Mendelssohn.
“Yes.”
“I’m going to be out that way in a few minutes; I’ll stop by and pick it up.”
“Thank you, Mr. Larsen; I appreciate your attention to this. We’re worried sick.”
“I understand,” Larsen said. “I’ll be there in half an hour or so.” He hung up the phone. “Long shot,” he said aloud to himself, “but worth
checking on.” He had nothing else to do anyway.
CHAPTER
49
Larsen pulled into the Mendelssohn driveway and got out of his car. It was a beautiful house, warm and inviting. He recalled that Mendelssohn had retired a couple of years ago from his job as chief financial officer for one of the big studios.
Mendelssohn met him at the door with the photograph. “Will this do?” he asked. It was a good head shot.
“Fine,” Larsen replied. “You said you had a key to Helen’s apartment?”
“Yes. She left one with us for emergencies.”
“Would you mind if I had a look at her place?”
“Sure, I’ll come with you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Larsen said. “If you could just let me have the key.”
Mendelssohn went back inside for a moment, then reappeared with the key. “Here’s the key; you’ll call me if you find out something?”
“Of course. And I’ll get the key and the photograph back to you just as soon as I can.”
The apartment was in a small upmarket condominium development up in one of the canyons. Larsen put the key into the lock and opened the door without touching the knob.
It was as Mendelssohn had said—very neat. It looked more like the show apartment for the development than a place where somebody lived. He guessed that the girl’s parents had bought it for her. Helen Mendelssohn was, as he recalled, an apprentice in costume design, not the sort of work that paid for a place like this.
The roses were on the living-room coffee table; he lifted off the lid with his pen and looked for a card, but there was none.
Nothing else in the living room caught his attention; he entered the kitchen and walked around opening cupboards and examining their contents.
In the woman’s bedroom the clothes were put away perfectly, and the bathroom was spotless. He was thirsty, and he went back to the kitchen for a drink of water; he found a glass and went to the refrigerator for some ice cubes. There was little in the fridge in the way of food, and on the bottom shelf was a familiar-looking box. Larsen slid the shelf out with his pen and flipped up the lid.
