Land of Dreams

by Eugene Lester

  "I was always ready for the worst. Brooks’s murder, the voices on the phone—it has something to do with a gambling debt. They killed him because he probably owes them hundreds of thousands, maybe into the millions, and Brooks got you mixed up in it, Clendon. How did that happen?” Her silver-blue eyes fastened on him. “Clendon, you’re looking at me so intensely, I can hardly stand it.”

  Clendon looked away as his face tingled.

  “No, it’s okay.”

  She kept looking at him with a smile that Clendon thought stood as a sentry against her pain.

  “How did you get involved with my crazy dead husband?"

  Clendon told her about his fat times during the oil boom as a landman, to the time with the shotgun, to Melody’s running off, from Brooks’s job offer to the final aborted meeting that afternoon, to the interrogation by Asp. Clendon told her about everything except for the platinum blonde in the Hilton bar and in Las Vegas.

  "What did you tell those thugs this afternoon?" he asked.

  "I didn’t lie. I said Brooks started his own software business several months ago, and that he was supposed to be very successful, and that I knew he was dead."

  "What else?"

  "Since I knew he was dead, they thought I knew other stuff, like how he really got his money and how he spent it and who shot him.”

  "Do you?"

  "No. And I don’t want to know where he got his money."

  "What was at Brooks’s office you wanted so damned bad?"

  "I thought there’d be a lot of money there."

  "He owed me $700."

  "That’s less than he owed his bookies." She closed her eyes. "And less than he owed me. Clendon, would you hold my hand?"

  He knelt beside the couch and took her hand.

  "Do you want another Valium?" she asked.

  "No."

  "We have to get our story straight for the police.” Shelley slowly sank sideways on the couch and closed her eyes. “God, I’m exhausted."

  "I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket."

  * * *

  Clendon watched her sleep. At ten minutes past eleven, the door chime rang. The repeated chiming woke her. Clendon flipped on the porch light and answered the door. A uniformed policeman stood outside with two other beefy men in business suits. One man was white and the other one was black. The white man had a blinking tic. A patrol car and an unmarked car were parked in the street, shrouded by night fog. The cops looked surprised to see Clendon, but then he saw their minds begin to click.

  "We’re sorry to disturb you so late," the white man in the business suit said, "but we’re from the Santa Monica Police Department. The patrol officer is LAPD. We’re looking for Mrs. Shelley Boyd."

  They showed Clendon their badges, which shone goldly under the porch light.

  "Mrs. Boyd is sleeping."

  "It’s serious. We’d like to speak with Mrs. Boyd. May we come in?"

  "If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll wake her and she’ll talk to you."

  "Thank you."

  "Could you wait here in the entryway until she comes out?"

  "Fine. You’re uh—"

  "Clendon Lindsey."

  Clendon let them in.

  "You have an accent,” the black man said. “Are you from North Carolina?"

  "Oklahoma. I’ll get Mrs. Boyd."

  Back in the living room, Shelley sat up and rubbed her eyes.

  "It’s the cops."

  "What’d they say?"

  "Nothing yet. I had to let them in. They want to talk to you."

  Clendon showed them in the living room. Shelley pulled the blanket around her tighter.

  "Mrs. Boyd, I’m Detective Jenkins, Santa Monica Police,” the white man said. “Don’t get up. This is Detective Crawford.” Jenkins didn’t introduce the uniformed cop.

  "Please sit down," Shelley said. "What is it?"

  She looked scared and wrapped herself up in the blanket. The two detectives sat in recliners, but the patrolman stood by the door. Clendon settled on the couch with Shelley.

  "Mrs. Boyd, we have some very bad news for you."

  "What is it?"

  "Mrs. Boyd," Jenkins said, "Your husband, Brooks Boyd, was found shot to death late this afternoon near Palisades Park in Santa Monica.”

  "Shot?" she whispered. "He’s dead? Brooks is dead?"

  "Yes, we’re very sorry to break this news to you."

  "Brooks is dead?"

  "Yes."

  "Brooks was shot—you mean he was murdered-- He didn’t commit suicide, did he?”

  "We believe at this time it is a homicide,” Jenkins said.

  "Clendon!"

  Shelley grabbed his shoulder. She sucked air in spasms.

  "Mrs. Boyd, we know this will be painful, but we must ask you to come down to the coroner’s office tonight and identify the body."

  "Tonight?" Clendon said. "Why can’t we wait until the morning?"

  "I’m sorry, sir, we have to do it so we can get on with the investigation as soon as we can."

  "How was, how—how was—he—shot?" Shelley asked.

  "He was shot once through the forehead."

  "Oh, God. . . "

  "Mrs. Boyd, we need to ask you some questions about you and your husband. We know this is a painful time for you—"

  "Sudden," she said.

  "Yes, sudden, but we need to get these questions out of the way.”

  Jenkins couldn’t stop his blinking.

  "Clendon, could you pour me some more iced tea?"

  "Sure. Do you gentlemen want anything to drink?"

  "No, thanks."

  When Clendon came back in with her tea and some kleenex, Shelley began talking. The detectives had their notebooks out.

  "We were waiting up tonight, we hadn’t heard from Brooks all day, we were getting worried—"

  "I was waiting for Mr. Boyd," Clendon said. "He’s my boss."

  "Mr. Lindsey, is this your residence?"

  "No."

  "Then why are you waiting here? According to Mr. Boyd’s DMV records, this is his home."

  "I just got in from out of town a few weeks ago and went to work for Mr. Boyd.

  "From where?"

  "Oklahoma City."

  "Go on."

  "I worked for Boyd-Tek. A sales coordinator. Just started. Just learning the business."

  "What kind of business?"

  "Software.” Clendon smiled. “But I don’t know too much about software yet."

  "If you don’t know much about software,” Jenkins asked, “Why are you working in the software business?" He kept blinking.

  "Clendon is an old friend of Brooks’s," Shelley said. "Clendon lost his job in the oil bust and since he’s a good businessman, Brooks offered him a job."

  "But I still don’t understand why Mr. Lindsey is over here tonight," Jenkins said.

  "Mrs. Boyd," Crawford said, "We’ve already developed information that you and Mr. Boyd have been separated for about six months. Is that true?"

  "Yes."

  "Then why would you be waiting tonight here for your estranged husband?" Jenkins asked.

  Crawford fixed a stare that bore in on Clendon.

  "Let me show you my card."

  Shelley threw her blanket off and reached for her purse. She gave one card to each cop, and also one to Clendon. It said:

  Shelley Symmes-Boyd, Ph.D.

  Clinical Psychologist

  Her card gave an address on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica and two phone numbers.

  "What kind of psychology do you do?"

  "I specialize in the treatment of anorexia."

  "You must make good money."

  "I need good money to pay the deed of trust on this damn house, and to pay for that Volvo that Brooks bought and made two whole payments on before I threw him out and had to start paying for it myself. What does my profession have to do with Brooks’s being killed?"

&n
bsp; "We ask the questions," Crawford said. “You answer them.”

  "I’m sure you’ll find out that Brooks was a compulsive gambler. He had agreed to come over here this afternoon so we could take him in for treatment. He asked that Clendon be over here, also, to go along with us, and Clendon agreed, because I thought a man that Brooks trusted would help things go smoother. We’ve been waiting all afternoon, getting worried—"

  "Mrs. Boyd—" Jenkins said.

  "You should call her Dr. Symmes-Boyd," Clendon said.

  "Yes, uh—Dr.—Symmes-Boyd, where were you this afternoon?"

  "Early, out on errands. From about two o’clock on, waiting here for Brooks."

  "Don’t you have appointments or something, meeting with patients?"

  "I’m off on Thursdays."

  "Mr. Lindsey, where were you this afternoon?"

  "I left my hotel right after lunch and came here. Probably got here not long after two, but I didn’t pay that much attention to the exact time."

  "What hotel?"

  "Airport Hilton."

  "And what did you two do here all afternoon?" Jenkins asked. His blinking tic escalated.

  "I resent that," Shelley said.

  "Is that your business?" Clendon asked.

  "Possibly."

  "We sat around and talked about Brooks and all of his damn problems," Shelley said.

  "What kind of problems?"

  "Gambling problems."

  "Any other problems?"

  "No, because Clendon’s a gentleman and didn’t ask."

  "So you sat around here all afternoon by yourselves and talked about things you don’t know about," Crawford said.

  "Look, you just came in here and told Shelley that her husband has been killed, so you could be a little more sensitive," Clendon said. "She split from him six months ago and has hardly seen him since, so what she does on her own time is none of your business. I know what you’re thinking. Maybe you’d like to have a physician examine her right now to show you perverts you’re wrong."

  "We don’t like to be called names, Mr. Lindsey."

  "You’re pissing me off."

  "We know you’re under emotional stress, Mr. Lindsey."

  "She’s under more," Clendon said.

  "Clendon, it’s okay," Shelley said. "They have to come up with theories."

  "Do you have any children, Mrs. Boyd?" Crawford asked.

  "Dr. Symmes-Boyd," Clendon said.

  "No," she said.

  "Do you know anyone who’d want to kill your husband?"

  "No."

  "It was probably a dispute over a gambling debt," Clendon said.

  "Thank you for your input, Mr. Lindsey." Crawford made notes. "Dr. Boyd, when was the last time you talked to your husband?"

  "Yesterday on the phone to set up this meeting to take him in for treatment."

  "Did he want to go?"

  "I think so. He was very distraught."

  "When did you last see him in person?"

  "A few days ago. We had lunch. It was ugly. . . I don’t want to talk about it."

  "Maybe later," Crawford said. "Was Mr. Boyd seeing any women or did he have a girl friend?"

  "I don’t know. I guess I didn’t expect him to become a monk, but I never asked or tried to find out."

  Crawford turned to Clendon.

  "Mr. Lindsey, when was the last time you talked to Mr. Boyd?"

  "Yesterday afternoon. I talked to him on the phone about today’s meeting. He begged me to come along. Poor guy was in bad shape."

  "And when did you last see him in person?"

  "Several days ago."

  "If you worked for him, why didn’t you see him this week?"

  "He went on a gambling binge in Vegas last weekend. I happened to be along. I saw it then."

  "Saw what?"

  "His gambling. I didn’t hear from him for a few days. He was putting me up at the Airport Hilton until he could arrange an apartment for me. I guess that last binge took it out of him. He told me to take a few days off."

  "Do you know if Mr. Boyd was seeing any woman or women?"

  "No."

  "Mr. Lindsey, when did you first meet Dr. Boyd?"

  "In college. She was Brooks’s girl friend then."

  "No, I mean in the last few weeks."

  "Today."

  "Today?" Jenkins frowned.

  "Yes. Brooks gave me the address to meet him, and said his wife would be here. She was, so we sat here and talked about Brooks and old times, and became more and more worried."

  Jenkins sighed.

  "Look, it’s midnight," Clendon said. "Can we go down to the goddamn coroner’s office now and get this identification over with? Shelley will talk to you all you want tomorrow after she gets some rest. Isn’t that fair?"

  "Dr. Boyd— "

  Shelley tossed her head back and forth.

  "No more, no more, no more."

  Jenkins flipped his notebook shut.

  "Okay, let’s go downtown. You can both ride in our vehicle."

  * * *

  Shelley and Clendon sat in the back seat, but she scrunched up against a door and stared out the window. Clendon sat by the other door. Jenkins gave them the details of how Brooks was found. Nobody noticed him for two hours. Some kids playing frisbee on a lawn first saw him. Detectives didn’t arrive till dusk. They didn’t remove the body until after eight o’clock. Jenkins didn’t say how they knew Brooks and Shelley were separated. He also didn’t mention finding a pistol underneath the Mercedes.

  The coroner’s building was a concrete blockhouse downtown behind the Los Angeles County sheriff’s station. Jenkins parked in an underground garage and they rode up in a service elevator. At a reception desk, a night clerk had Jenkins write on the sign-in sheet. The night supervisor, a large, middle-aged black woman with bleached red hair, asked them if they would prefer to ID the body through the remote video camera.

  "No," Shelley said.

  "No problem," the supervisor said.

  She marched them down the corridor and led them into a small room with a curtain pulled over a small window. She opened the curtain and they peered into a bigger room with large drawers against one wall. Clendon clenched his teeth. There was a faint, faint smell of formaldehyde and ammonia and something else.

  It was cold. Shelley and Clendon shivered. Crawford coughed and Jenkins kept blinking his eyes. The supervisor left the room and in a moment reappeared in the other room. She checked a drawer for the number, then opened it, and pulled out a stretcher that automatically opened its legs underneath. A white-coated assistant appeared and helped push the stretcher over to the window. The supervisor looked at Shelley. Shelley nodded. The supervisor lifted the sheet.

  "Yes,” Shelley said and stared at the dead face as the supervisor dropped the sheet back over it. A glance was enough. The dark red hole in Brooks’s forehead was the size of a quarter. Blood had thickened over the hole, his face was as gray as fresh cement, his muscles so relaxed that his face looked distorted, his curly blond hair was a tangle, and his eyes were closed and his lips parted. Clendon wondered what they did with that $100 bill.

  "Dr. Boyd," Jenkins said.

  His eyes had stopped the constant blinking. He tugged at her arm and she turned to follow him out. They went back down the hall into a tiny room with a linoleum floor, plastic chairs, and a small table. They sat around the table while Jenkins and the supervisor fussed with paperwork.

  "The law says there must be an autopsy. It will be performed tomorrow by the Los Angeles County coroner. At five o’clock tomorrow afternoon, the body will be released to you for whatever disposal you wish. Sign here."

  Shelley signed.

  "The personal effects found on your husband must be held for possible evidence in a criminal investigation that may lead to a trial. Law enforcement agencies and the district attorney’s office will review the evidence, and only those effects not rela
ted to the investigation will be released to you. Sign here, please."

  Shelley signed again.

  "The automobile your husband was found in has been towed to the Santa Monica police garage where it will be examined for further evidence. Since it was registered in his name, it will be released to you after it is examined and storage fees are paid. Is that clear?"

  "Yes."

  "Sign this garage record, please."

  Shelley signed it.

  * * *

  They drove Shelley and Clendon back to her house. She put her head on Clendon’s shoulder. Nobody said anything. They got back at two a.m. Two LAPD patrol cars and two unmarked cars were parked in the street. Uniformed cops were carrying cardboard boxes and plastic bags marked “evidence” out of her house.

  Shelley ran toward her front door. A folded piece of paper had been thumb-tacked to the door. Under the porch light in black Gothic letters it said, “Search Warrant.” She ripped it down and unfolded it. A judge had signed it.

  "You guys almost through?" Jenkins asked a cop in the front yard.

  "Yes."

  The cop spoke to Jenkins in a low voice and Jenkins nodded. Then the cop put the evidence boxes and bags in his patrol car.

  "What in the hell are you looking for?" Clendon asked Jenkins.

  "This is a murder case, Mr. Lindsey. You’re lucky we’re going to allow Dr. Boyd to spend the night at her home. Where are you staying tonight?"

  Clendon followed Shelley into her house. He hoped they hadn’t found a box of ammunition with her fingerprints on it. Her house had been cycloned. Every room had been torn up. Her chest of drawers were ransacked, closets were gutted, and plants overturned. They made a fast tour while Jenkins and Crawford stood around fidgeting in the living room.

  "Are you finished?"

  "I believe we are, Dr. Boyd."

  "Are you sure there’s nothing else I could do to help you with your investigation?"

  "No, nothing."

  "Are you sure you’re being thorough enough? Have you overlooked anything?"