I had an absurd moment of disassociation. “What?”
He led me to the back of the white Cadillac. The tag read 363-217. I moved to the front of the Caddy. Between it and my Saab lay what looked like the lower half of a manikin dressed in men’s pants. A closer look, and I saw the ragged gore near the belt. Funny how you notice things. I noticed the belt had stayed buckled when his legs and lower torso blasted apart from his chest and arms.
Lake said, “Apparently, he was leaning inside the back window to leave you a surprise.”
The assistant chief grunted. “Surprise, surprise.”
7
It was noon before I left the cop station for my office. I parked Lake’s Acura in the Atlanta Underground space assigned to me. Despite an urgent need to go home and sleep, I shuffled to the elevator. On the fifteenth floor, I entered the vestibule where two empty chairs waited for clients. I couldn’t remember if I had appointments. Somehow it didn’t matter. I went through the door into the hall and stopped at the office of my part-time assistant.
Dennis “Webdog” Caldwell tapped rapidly on his computer keyboard. Webdog’s a twenty-year-old computer science major at Georgia State University. You can look out his window and see the campus sprawled on the streets below. He lives with roommates a few blocks away, but the futon in the corner of his office sees his body more often than his single bed. Obsession is a wonderful thing, I guess. If information he’s seeking zings around on a piece of sand, he won’t sleep until he’s captured it. He’s quick to point out that he’s a hacker, not a cracker—the difference being that a cracker illegally uses information he obtains while a hacker simply answers the challenges of an open network system. Sure, Web’s a genius, but it doesn’t take a genius to understand rationalization.
Webdog glanced up. “Hey, Dru, you okay now?”
“Yeah, Web. What’s up?”
“That Naomi Blystone—you know, the model friend of Eileen Cameron’s?” I nodded. “Well, she was an easy rundown. She’s in Europe this year. The blogs say so.”
“So Eileen won’t be hiding at Naomi’s,” I said, and started away. I turned back. “Web, you’re into movies, aren’t you?”
“Used to be.”
“Ever hear of a producer-director named Arlo Cameron.”
He sat back and looked like his computer brain was sifting information. “Westerns. Some cop flicks.”
“Get me a profile. Whatever you can find on him.”
“What’d he do?”
“He’s Kinley Whitney’s stepfather.”
“Oh, man, that Arlo Cameron. I wondered why his name was familiar when I saw the list of players in this game.”
Did I mention Webdog designs computer games?
On down from Webdog’s office, I passed the office of my full-time PI, Pearly Sue Ellis. She wore telephone headphones and was talking two-dimes-to-the-nickel at someone who was doubtlessly ear-sore. She’s twenty-four, newly married, has a degree in social work, and was pretty enough to wear the crown of Miss Pecan Pie and Miss Tractor Pull when she was in high school. High energy belies the slur of South Georgia in her voice. At this moment, she worked a kidnap case. The father fled, taking his kids to Saudi Arabia.
After listening to twenty seconds of her conversation, I pitied the U. S. State Department person she badgered.
In my office, my phone rang before I got the backpack straps off my shoulders. I looked at the display. Portia.
“Yes, Porsh.”
“What the hell happened on Castleberry Hill? The paper says a homeless man got blown up in a Saab. Your Saab.”
“He wasn’t homeless.”
“The article said—”
“They were premature. The man was probably placing a bomb in the back seat of my car when the bomb blew up.”
“Christ.”
“He’s not been positively ID’d yet, but the car was registered to a man named McCracken.”
“He’s not one of your pet bums then?”
“Doubtful.”
“Is this about one of your cases?”
“It’s Lake’s case. Another girl from the ’burbs was killed and dumped.”
“I saw Lake on the news last night. So what’s the connection to the bomb in your car?”
I walked to the window and looked down at the miniature human beings hurrying like fire ants with an avowed purpose. I hated explaining my actions to nitpickers, even those of whom I am very fond.
“I was at the crime scene with Lake yesterday,” I said. “I saw the guy. I saw his Cadillac and his red shirt. He saw me and my car. They found pieces of his red shirt and the girl’s ring.”
I could feel her shiver down the line. “He followed you?”
Had McCracken been the man in the Chevy Caprice? I told Portia, “Either me or Lake. Lake had just gotten home when it happened.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
I continued to stare down into the street. The punishing sun reflected off the cars. The shimmering waves hurt my eyes. I turned from the window and changed the subject. “Adele Carter has a soft spot for Eileen Cameron.”
Thrown off the bomb topic, Portia didn’t answer right away. Then, she said, “I don’t believe it. What’s happening in California?”
“I’m phoning and getting no answers. Arlo Cameron hasn’t returned my call. The detective in charge of the case hasn’t returned my call, either. The FBI guy out there is on vacation. But the FBI guy in Atlanta confirmed that there’ve been no calls on Eileen’s cell phone, nor has she used her credit cards or checkbook.”
“When you leaving for Palm Springs?”
“I’ve booked for one o’clock tomorrow, keeping my fingers crossed that I get local clearance by then.”
“Screw ’em. Go anyway. And, don’t forget, tap Whitney for every penny.” For my wallet’s sake, I hope I’m always on the right side of Portia’s cases. She asked unexpectedly, “What are you getting around in?”
For a moment I didn’t know what she meant. Then it dawned, and a large lump of misery caromed along my chest wall. I said, “The Saab was getting on in years, but it was dear to me.” Portia knew that my late fiancé had helped me afford the coveted car. I continued, “The idea that a human being was killed in it makes it worse.”
“If he was planting a bomb to kill you, get down on your knees and thank the automotive gods that he killed himself instead.”
“That’s a comfort, Porsh.”
“The Saab’s gone. Never to return. What are you doing for wheels?”
“Lake’s Acura, until I get back from Palm Springs.”
“I got an idea.”
Ignoring her, I said, “I’ll probably buy another Saab. Used. Get my guys, Dale and Al at ASR, to go over it with a fine tooth—”
“Listen to me.” She had my attention. “Granny’s car.”
“Your granny’s car? It’s a Bentley.”
“Granny hasn’t driven it in a year—since the last wreck broke her hip.”
“Portia, no. That car—I couldn’t afford the hood ornament.”
“It’s old.”
“And worth a fortune.”
“Hardly. It’s been wrecked so many times, I’ve lost count. It’ll give Al and Dale something to work on.”
“I wouldn’t want anything to happen to it, like the Saab.”
“Get one of those steering locking systems. A tracking device.”
“How much is the car worth?”
“How much will your insurance company pay for the Saab?”
“Twelve thousand, tops.”
“Half that’s about right for the Bentley.”
“Porsh.”
“Take the offer before I change my mind and put it up on blocks.”
“I’m thrilled, but—it’s not right.”
“You and Lake come fetch it when you’re through for the day.”
How many more times could I protest? But, truthfully, I was beyond thrilled. That car—what memories. Her grandmother used to d
rive us to school in that car. After Portia turned sixteen, we used to haul hay to the country for her horses. In summers, we’d pack a dozen friends into it and take off for the Chattahoochee River diving rock.
I sputtered, “But—still—but . . .”
I protested to a dead phone line.
8
Dartagnan LeRoi sounded like a refugee from a Louisiana bayou. But he said he welcomed my coming out to the desert. “Hell,” he said, “a fresh set of eyes is always good. Always good. And you can go places I can’t.”
I hadn’t heard from Lake all afternoon, so I left his car in my Underground parking spot and had Webdog drive me to Portia’s. As we drove to Ansley Park, where Portia, her son, and her mother lived in a mansion listed on the Register of Historic Homes, Webdog reported on his web search of Arlo Cameron.
“Born in West Texas, a one-stop town called Appleton. Moved to Los Angeles to go to Hollywood High. Studied theater. Married a couple of times. Ladies’ man. Young starlets, production assistants, you know the type. Two official kids. First movie, a dud called Geronimo’s Revenge. Lives in Palm Springs and Hollywood. No police record. He’s a semi-mover-and-shaker in the biz. His movies go from real stinkos to pretty good flicks. He’s made tons of them.”
“No Academy Award nominations?”
“Hardly. He’s low budget. His movies star one medium-well-known actor. Like, the guy’s almost over the hill, or he’s just getting his career out of the soaps or commercials. The rest of the cast is unknowns.”
That was the extent of what I learned about one of Adele Carter’s prime suspects.
Portia met us barefoot, in a knee-length Bulldog tee shirt. We trailed her up the Gone-with-the-Wind staircase and through the wide halls to her ninety-two-year-old granny’s room. My greeting to a woman I’d adored since childhood met a blank stare, and I almost burst into tears. My mother gets like this.
Portia looked at me. Her expression said, I hope to hell we don’t end up like this. She said, “Let’s get the hell out of this depressing room.” She lit a cigarette while her granny cackled at our retreating backs. After that, the oppressive summer heat in the back yard was refreshing.
The Devon garage was an old converted carriage house. When Portia yanked the chain and the garage doors rolled into recesses, Webdog went rhapsodic. The stately blue Bentley sparkled in the slanting sunshine. Portia’s gardener stood against the wall, a red garage rag in one hand, a can of polish in another.
Web kept saying “wow,” and “cool” as his hands glided over the sateen finish.
I said, “I can’t take this car.”
Portia said, “You better, or you’ll have to answer to Ruben here. He’s worked his ass off all afternoon.”
Ruben nodded his black head. “Yes, ma’am.”
We went over the car’s features and reviewed the old handbook. “I’m scared to death to drive it,” I said.
“Remember, she doesn’t drive like your American cars,” Portia said. “She hasn’t gone over fifty since we were kids.”
I gave her a five-hundred-dollar check as a down payment, and we had a whiskey to seal the deal. Suddenly, I’m driving down Peachtree Street in my new old Bentley, doing an easy fifty. I am in love.
My cell phone rang Mozart. The display read Lake. “Where are you?” he asked.
“In my new old Bentley, almost home.”
“You drinking this early?”
“Portia sold me her granny’s car.”
“Her granny’s Bentley?” he almost shouted. “God, it still runs? I hoped to never see that car on the road again. Scared the crap out of me every time I saw it coming.”
“She’s mine,” I crowed. “Oh, Lake. She’s fabulous.”
“If you say so, now make a U-ey. Get to Cheshire Bridge. We’re going to The Cloisters.”
“My habit’s at the dry cleaners.”
“No need of it, Sister Dru. It’s a men’s private dinner club.”
“What am I doing going there?”
“You’ll see.”
“This a strip joint?” This was Cheshire Bridge Road we were talking about.
“Not at all,” Lake said. “Very discreet, private and expensive.”
“So who’m I going to see?”
“You’ll see.”
“You’re repeating yourself. Besides, my dearest love, I’m very much in need of a long soak in a cool bath. I’m off to Palm Springs tomorrow, and I’ve got phone calls to make—”
“I’ll meet you on the corner of Liddell Street. Tell the chauffeur to drive carefully.”
“Wait.” Nothing. “Lake.” He was gone.
Day was ending and this jaunt with Lake meant another night in his oven of a loft. Oh, well, I could park the Bentley in my Underground spot. Maybe the plants in my cottage could stand another day without fresh water. Mr. Brown, a cat who doesn’t belong to me, but depends on me for a meal, can always slaughter more of the neighborhood fauna.
Lake had parked his unmarked in the lot of a gay men’s strip club, across from a jack shack called Toys. There were so many message parlors and lingerie shops on Cheshire Bridge, one had to wonder who worked during the day? The Viagra Inns, as Lake called them, turned out a few heart attacks a week.
It was apparent Lake expected me to park and get into his car, but I shook my head. His mouth made an O, like he realized I might be a little nervous about leaving the Bentley.
I got out. “You drive her,” I said, going to the passenger side.
He locked his car and threw a leather case onto the back seat of my new Bentley. He slipped across the seasoned leather to anchor himself under the steering wheel. He adopted an impressive hauteur. “Are you seducing your chauffeur, Milady, being in the front seat and all?”
“My dear Richard,” I said, leaning over to rub my hand across his crotch. “We can be naked in the back seat in two minutes.”
Lake laughed and pulled me toward him. We kissed, exploring intimate places for a few moments, then parted. A quick grab at pleasure was not our style. I straightened my blouse. He patted the dashboard. “Forty years old, she is, and another day goes by without a drop of sperm contaminating her leather.”
Teenage memories flooded in. “Don’t be so sure about that.”
He pulled onto Cheshire Bridge Road, humming “It’s Raining Men.”
I asked, “Any more on McCracken?”
“Nope.”
“Where’d he get the bomb? How’d he find your place last night?” I thought about the Chevy Caprice that followed me from Monroe. I hadn’t seen it since.
“You got questions, I got no answers, but give me time.”
Half a mile down, we stopped at a light. The sign for Rucker Road was fastened onto a brick building. The road was little more than an alley between two strip malls. It looked as if it ended half a mile down at a line of trees and overgrown shrubs, but Lake coaxed the car between the rhododendrons and old oaks. The vegetation thinned, and we came to an eight-foot iron fence, spiked at the top. The double gates, supported by stone pillars, were locked. Inside, stood a small gatehouse. No one came out. I noticed a speaker phone mounted on one of the stone pillars; on the other hung a mail slot. Cursive lettering read: The Cloisters.
“This place has changed since I was on the beat,” I said.
“It’s been transformed into an exclusive and elusive men’s club.” He reached onto the back seat and picked up binoculars. “It’s been the subject of a lot of speculation. Zone Two guys keep an eye out.”
“Another Gold Club?” I asked. The feds had closed down the notorious strip club and sent some of its owners to jail.
“Well, it’s not public like the Gold Club. We don’t know what goes on in there—yet.”
I scrutinized the house and grounds. Dogwoods, crape myrtles, and oaks standing in a Bermuda lawn hid much of the limestone Georgian house with its four fake columns attached to the façade like guards at Buckingham Palace. “Those half columns are called pilasters,
” I told Lake.
“I’ll try to remember.”
Taking his binoculars, I roamed the conjoined circles over the pitched roof with paired chimneys at each end. The windows were double hung. The paneled front door had a decorative crown over it. An obvious addition rose behind the original roofline. I said, “I remember something about this place. Some oddball religious sect bought the house and built that addition. The neighborhood tried to block it so the zealots would leave.”
“They did leave, eventually.”
Inside the gates, an asphalt avenue split off, winding around each side of the building. Several cars lined the avenue—Beamers, Lexuses, Caddies, a Mercedes, a Rolls. “Hey,” I laughed, and patted the Bentley’s dash. “We’re good to go in.”
“Check the Mercedes?” Lake said.
“Yum. A CL Six Hundred. Over a hundred thou.”
“It’s registered in the name of Bradley Dewart Whitney. Address: Ten Old Country Place, Atlanta, G-A.”
Without pause for thought, I said, “You’re kidding, right?” I suspected that Lake had a surprise in store, but this was astonishing.
“Your boy is a regular here.”
I looked at Lake and feigned a whistle. “Curiouser and curiouser. He didn’t own up to the Mercedes yesterday. Said he drove a Honda.”
“He probably still has one in his garage.”
“How’d you learn about the CL?”
“Zone Two’s been tracking the cars coming and going here. Vice has been checking into who owns the joint.”
“How long for the present ownership?”
“Year and a half.”
“And his name is?”
“It’s a twisted tale.”
“It always is.”
“You know the origin of the property, don’t you?” he asked.
“It’s in all Atlanta history books. A railroad magnate built the mansion last century. Hosted presidents, senators, rajahs from abroad. But after a few generations, the heirs died out and it fell on hard times. That’s when the religiosos moved in.”
Lake said, “They sold it about four years ago to a woman named Burchardt, from Albany, New York, for about a mill. Pretty straightforward, huh?”
The Last Temptation Page 4
