“You’re going to tell me it isn’t.”
“The Burchardt woman owned a forty-thousand-dollar condo in Albany, but she moved to Miami on South Beach.”
“So this Burchardt woman bought this place when she already had a little place in Albany and a gazillion-dollar place on South Beach?”
“Stay with me now. Burchardt doesn’t own the property on South Beach. The people who own South Beach—name is Glass—live in Mountain View, Missouri.”
“I think you’ve lost me. Mountain View? A ’burb of Saint Louis or KC?”
“Southern Missouri. Deep in the Ozarks.”
“You’re going to tell me those folks don’t own their property either.”
“Ah, but they do. Their place is a cracker box on an unpaved road two miles from a town of about six thousand.”
“People living in a cracker box own South Beach?”
“Not any more.”
“You better get to the punch line soon. I’m getting edgy.”
He laughed. “They’re dead. The husband died six months ago. The wife died about two months ago.”
“What of?”
“Him in a car crash, over a cliff. She inherits. She dies of some infection. Intestate. No one’s come forward so far. The kicker in this is that they were in their late twenties. She was a teacher; he was a bank teller.”
I looked at the mansion and saw grief in the eyes of the windows. “Give me an old-fashioned mob job.”
“They’re passé.”
“Does The Cloisters have a liquor license?”
“Good thinking, but nope. The business is an LLC. One owner of record: Manuel P. Strah.” He paused briefly. He winked for some reason, then went on, “The registered agent is a man named Robert White. They lease the building.”
“What do they declare their business as?”
“They don’t have to. It’s private. No liquor is sold. No women seen coming and going.”
“Does this Strah run the place?” A notion took hold. “Strah? Strah?”
Lake laughed. “Manuel.”
“Straw—Manuel. Straw man.”
“You’re getting slow. I thought you’d get onto it as soon as I said the name.”
“Straw parties are illegal.”
“So? You can call yourself anything you want.”
“Be a front for yourself?”
“Yep.”
“But does any of this have to do with Whitney?”
“He’s here all the time, when he’s not being academic.”
“Okay, so maybe he owns this strip joint.”
“Oh my dear girl. Men’s dinner club.”
“Whitney owns a joint for a consortium of gentlemen diners? He’s an odd duck, but that odd?”
“No proof of ownership yet.”
“You said yourself that this club has inspired speculation.”
“That’s because nobody talks about what goes on. That, in and of itself, is suspicious, and as you are very well aware, the APD’s mandate is to familiarize itself with the entire community it serves.”
I laughed at the words spoken straight from the handbook, but my brain was whirling. “Owning this place could explain why Whitney doesn’t want the disappearance of his ex-wife and daughter publicized.”
“Besides being an educator,” Lake said.
“The idea of Whitney being Manuel P. Strah is intriguing,” I said, and instantly Portia’s hawk face popped into my head. “That would give Portia something to think about.”
“It’s not illegal to own a private men’s club.”
“Yeah, but something’s out of whack. I’ll get Webdog digging on this Burchardt.”
“Don’t bother. She’s a schizophrenic, locked up in a swank high-rise for the insane.”
My eyes fastened on the silver Mercedes. I could feel Lake’s eyes watching me watching it.
“Your client comes here every afternoon,” Lake said. “So does that Roller over there. Media mogul.” He pointed at a vehicle. “See that Hummer there? You’ll see that guy tonight in a baseball uniform.”
“Just like the Gold Club.”
“Whoever really owns and runs this place, they’ve learned from the Gold Club. It proved to be too public for the rich and famous, especially after some big names had to testify.”
I shook my head and looked through the windshield at the virgin white building.
The phone on the pillar rang. Despite my saying he shouldn’t, Lake got out of the car and answered it.
I heard him say, “Yeah.” Pause. “No.” Pause. “We got lost.” Pause. “We’re turning around now.”
“Very correct bastard,” Lake said, scooting beneath the wheel. “Let’s take a look at the homestead of this academic of yours.”
“You check his employment yet?”
“He works where he says he works.”
“Any progress on the money front?”
“We can’t get bank and tax records without a reason, and he’s not in trouble.”
Why did my mind say: yet?
9
West Paces Ferry Road is named for a man named Hardy Pace, who came from North Carolina to establish a ferry service across the Chattahoochee River at Fort Peachtree. The Creek Indians called the little settlement Standing Peachtree, and today it is the heart of ritzy Atlanta.
We passed the governor’s mansion and cruised on for a half mile. Lake made a left. After two stop signs, he slowed to turn onto Old Country Place Road. You could rightly call Old Country Place the essence of moneyed understatement. The Bentley hugged a ridge for about a quarter of a mile before we saw the first mansion above us. Then Lake had the Bentley racing down a hill and around a curve. His finger pointed left. “A Falcons player lives there.”
“Well, it’s not all old money then.”
“None, if you ask me,” Lake said.
We passed several gated driveways. The homes, set back, had privacy fences and hedges to keep the snoopers from ooooh-ing at their opulence. Lake slowed; we’d come to a black mailbox with “10” stenciled in a corner, in very small numbers. Lake stopped. A home security sign was shoved into the ground alongside a sign that said, “Invited Visitors Only.” Up the hill, a stone fence came together at iron gates. “This is as far as we go,” Lake said, looking thoughtful. “For now.”
I looked at him. “Whitney seems to fascinate you.”
“When I find out where he gets his money, and if it’s legit, I’ll lose interest fast.”
“I’ll be disappointed if he’s inherited.”
Grinning, Lake said, “You want rotten, baby, I’ll do my best to give you rotten. We’re checking the public records. Wills, trusts, probate, land deeds.”
We turned around in Whitney’s narrow driveway, and I wondered irrelevantly how he got up there in an ice storm. As if he’d been on my wave length, Lake said, “Boy doesn’t have to worry about the Chattahoochee River flooding.”
We’d gotten a hundred yards past Whitney’s driveway and started our descent when a silver car sped toward us. The grill was unmistakable. A Mercedes. A sleek CL 600. The Mercedes hugged the yellow line, and the Bentley’s right tires spit cracked asphalt as they hit the shoulder. The Mercedes fled past. I turned to see it lurch to a stop and brake lights flash as it backed up. Lake got all four tires back on the road and revved the gas. I was proud of my new old car and kept watch out the back window. “He’s still backing up.”
“He won’t be for long, if he values that car.”
I lost sight of him when we rounded a sharp curve.
“Coincidence or what?” I asked, still looking behind me. We were on a straight stretch, descending the hill. Nothing followed.
Lake said. “The trees around The Cloisters have eyes and ears.”
We reached West Paces Ferry Road, and Lake’s cell screeched. He looked at the screen and punched a button. “Lake,” he said, then listened for a second or two. “So what’s up, doc?” he asked. I didn’t like the look on his face
. He said, “Shit!” and punched END.
“What?” I asked.
“Autopsy on a man found dead in back of a churchyard. It’s mine, and the ME wants me there.”
That meant I was going home to my cottage after all, which secretly delighted me. I looked at my lover with sorrow in my eyes. The sorrow was real, but until he got his AC units up and running again, it was too stifling for love.
“Sorry about that,” he said, reaching to clutch my knee and giving it a shake.
I never went to Lake’s place on the day he attended an autopsy. It takes a while for the smell of death and formaldehyde to wash out of the skin, or so he thought. He’d scrub himself raw in his primitive shower before he felt alive again.
Then, uninvited, my thoughts strayed to a voice on a recording device. Jeannie. I’ll wait some more. Or I’ll be at Frankie’s Thursday night.
Well, at least it wasn’t Thursday night.
10
On the way home, my cell played Mozart. I had half a mind not to answer. I enjoyed driving the Bentley and watching the people gawk, but I couldn’t ignore a client and inserted the ear bud.
“Mr. Whitney,” I said. “Did you get my message?”
“Glad you’re finally going to Palm Springs. What took so long?”
“I had to get clearance from the authorities there, Mr. Whitney.”
“You can call me Bradley. But don’t shorten it to Brad, please.”
“I call my clients by their last names. It keeps me objective.” I turned onto Peachtree Battle. Almost home. Relief was near. Truth to tell, the Bentley’s AC wasn’t all that great, either.
“I’d rather you be subjective,” he said.
“Is the tap in place yet?”
Whitney had agreed to an FBI tap on his home phone in case Eileen or Kinley, or someone connected to them, called. “Yes, and already I’ve had a few hang-ups this afternoon.” Was his voice accusing or was it my imagination?
“Do the numbers mean anything?”
“No. But they’re all local. I assume the FBI will track them.”
“They will.”
“I think someone followed me,” he said.
“When was this?”
“You’ve found out where I live now, haven’t you?”
Now? “I’ve always known where you live. It’s in your file.”
“Someone turned an antique automobile, a Bentley, around in my driveway.”
His petulance made me smile. I ran my hand across the Bentley’s soft leather, and said, “That happens on my street, too. Some joker knocked my mailbox down last month.”
“That doesn’t happen where I live. It’s rather exclusive. You see, Miss Dru, I pay dearly for my privacy and that of my child. I do not want curiosity seekers sightseeing my place.”
“I haven’t compromised your privacy, Mr. Whitley. If somebody sicced the sightseers on you, it wasn’t me.”
“Is it possible the authorities are watching my home?”
“In a Bentley? It’s possible you’re being paranoid.”
“I don’t think so. Now tell me what’s happened on my case.”
I suddenly got an attack of the giddies. “I’ve got to shake more trees, get some ducks in a row, before I can open up the peanut gallery.”
Silence on his end.
I added, “Speaking metaphorically.”
His voice sounded hollow when he said, “My question is, whose trees are you shaking, and whose ducks are you getting in a row?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I heard on the news that a car registered to an ex-policewoman was blown up last night. They said it might be related to the suburban children’s murders.”
“I’m not investigating those murders, Mr. Whitney. It was coincidence. The lead detective is a friend of mine.”
Silence.
Bastard. He could yank me from the case for all I cared. I’d just as soon work solely with Portia, even pro bono.
His sigh wavered dramatically on the cell current. “Call me when you get to California. I expect to hear from you with every new development. Of course, I’ll want a written report, too.”
“When hell freezes—”
“What did you say?”
“Whatever pleases . . .”
* * * * *
I’d packed my suitcases and was finally in bed, half asleep, when the phone rang. It was going on midnight.
“Hello,” the voice called down the line. “Can you hear me?”
“I can. Who is this, please?”
“Arlo Cameron.”
Cameron was one of those who thought the distance between Georgia and California called for shouting. “Good evening, Mr. Cameron. Thanks for returning my call.”
“Who you working for?”
“The state of Georgia, and Bradley Whitney.”
He seemed to be mulling this over. “You know what’s happened?”
“Eileen, your wife, and her daughter, Kinley, have disappeared. Have you heard from them?”
“No.”
“Anything new on the case?”
“No, nothing. The cops here haven’t a clue. I’m about to go crazy with this.”
“I’m booked on a flight tomorrow. We need to talk.”
“When you get in?”
“One-ish, your time. I’m at the Palkott.”
“Come out at three. Little Tuscany, near the old Racquet Club.”
I wrote down the address on North Via Las Palmas.
Back to sleep.
At three, the motion sensors in the back yard lit the spotlights. My one-car, detached garage was at the end of the driveway inside a four-foot picket fence.
I flew into the kitchen, to the bay window. Everything was quiet outside, nothing stirring. Yet I knew someone was out there. I ran from the kitchen to the dining room—another room that overlooked the back yard. I studied every blade of grass, every shrub, every shadow. It was eerily ordinary, too eerily ordinary. As if someone watched and didn’t breathe.
Half an hour later, I shut the lights and continued to watch the yard by a slice of the moon. I thought about calling Lake. Or taking a flashlight and checking inside the garage.
Yeah, like I’m a one-woman bomb squad. Or one of those heroine-too-stupid-to-live types the romantic suspense writers always laugh about.
The hell with it. If a bomb went off inside my new old car, the insurance company could sort it out. Maybe I’d get used to Portia never speaking to me again.
I never got back to sleep and was relieved when the sky lightened. At dawn, I slipped outside, pulled open the garage door, and looked through the Bentley’s windows.
A dark thing lay on the back seat. I called Lake. The bomb squad was there in seven minutes.
They presented me with Lake’s binoculars.
A good laugh was had by all.
Even exhausted me.
11
The Coachella Valley is at the northern end of the Colorado Desert. As the 757 lowered toward Palm Springs, I studied the rippling sand dunes that flowed into the Salton Sea, while people across the aisle looked at rippling sand dunes flowing away from the Little San Bernardino Mountains.
Palm Springs, my computer told me, is a hundred miles south of Land has a population of forty-five thousand. A hundred thousand people, mostly Native Americans, call the Coachella Valley home. Because of the growing population in the desert, the environmentalists were worrying themselves silly about the sand dune ecosystem.
The tires bumped down on the runway, and I could finally take a deep breath. After the insanity at Atlanta’s mess of an airport, it was nice to deplane to soft music and murmuring voices. The walk to the rental car booths didn’t take a minute. Two people were in line ahead of me. A tall, dark-visaged man came into my sight line waving a sign. MORIAH DREW. The pronunciation was right, if not the spelling, but I was used to it. I waved and called out, “Mister.” He turned. “I’m Moriah Dru.”
He strolled toward me
wearing a grin as wide as the Grand Canyon. He tossed the cardboard in a trash can. We shook hands. “I’m Dartagnan LeRoi.”
“Your mama really named you Dartagnan?” I asked, looking down into his merry eyes. I’m tall; he’s not, but he had a large deep voice.
He laughed. “My Louisiana mama heard the name from a travelin’ salesman from Georgia.”
Behind me, the rental car guy called, “Miss?”
“Let me take that bag,” Dartagnan said, taking hold of the handle on my rolling suitcase.
I signed the papers for the rental, and as we walked through the automatic doors, I said, “I like Dartagnan.”
He drawled, “I’m used to it.”
Truth was, he looked like a Dartagnan. Wiry, nimble body, coal black hair, a mustache, swarthy skin dotted with two of the darkest eyes ever to come out of Louisiana, swashbuckling arms, and a belt buckle shaped like California. As we walked, he talked. Dartagnan was a man who liked to talk, and he talked fast. I learned that his mother’s name was Josephine and his father’s name was Alain. They were originally from the Grand Bayou Blue, but he was raised on Lafourche Bayou in Pointe-aux-Chenes in Lafourche Parish. His daddy worked at the sugar mill and sold Spanish moss on the side. Alain and Josephine never went to school because when high water came, it cut off the only school, which was in Mongegut. “Besides,” he said, “we kids were part of the family work force.” After high school, he became a cop in Houma, and, after burnout, he headed west, to The Springs.
All that info in less than five minutes.
Outside, the desert heat attacked my skin and lungs, and Georgia isn’t exactly Alaska. My neck felt clammy. “Hot,” I said, fanning myself with the rental papers.
“You get used to it.”
“I won’t be here that long.”
He stopped walking and looked at me. “You think you’re gonna find that mama and daughter that fast?”
“That’s my goal.”
“Then you better start lookin’ somewheres else. You won’t be finding them ’round here.”
“In L A, maybe?”
He clucked his tongue. “Not likely.”
We were at the Rent-a-Car parking lot. My luck, I thought, the car I get will be black. I said, “I should have picked a color.”
The Last Temptation Page 5
