by A. D. Miller
He held out the microphone and beckoned to someone in the front row. The crowd applauded; with a show of reluctance a man came forward from his chair and accepted the microphone. He was middle aged and heavyset, with salt-and-pepper hair and a neck that bulged over the collar of his shirt.
“Well,” he said, gesturing to the window behind him, “all I can tell you is, we don’t have views like this where I come from.”
The crowd laughed again and went on applauding. Ethan Kovac slipped off to one side and made his way up the aisle. When he saw Nyman his blue eyes brightened and his pace quickened.
“You’re the investigator?” he said as he came closer.
Nyman said that he was.
Kovac put a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for coming on such short notice. We’ll talk outside, if that’s okay. These speeches go on forever.”
“Fine with me.”
Nyman followed him back into the vaulted entryway, through a kitchen and dining room, and finally out into the small backyard that divided the main house from the guest house.
Rather than grass, the yard was covered by a layer of decomposed granite. Beds of sage and desert mallow had been planted at intervals, alternating with olive trees. Kovac led Nyman to a secluded spot at the edge of the yard, where a tall glass barrier provided a windbreak and a view of the sea below.
Standing with his back to the sea, Kovac raised a thumbnail to his mouth and said: “She’s really gone?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“How?”
Nyman told him how. Kovac chewed his thumbnail and didn’t interrupt. Close at hand, he was shorter than he’d looked in the photo and handsomer, with a constant nervous energy.
When Nyman finished talking, Kovac blew out his breath and said, shaking his head: “I can’t believe she’s dead.”
“You knew her well?”
“Not well at all, no. I only met her once, a few days ago. But she was so young. Almost a kid.”
Nyman asked him what he and Alana had talked about during their meeting.
“Oh, just about everything, I guess. All the stuff she mentioned in her letter.”
“Letter?”
The blue eyes got wider. “You don’t know about the letter?”
“No.”
“Well, that probably explains a lot. Here—come with me. I’ll show you.”
Chapter 11
Kovac led him across the yard to the door of the guest house, which he unlocked with his phone. Nyman followed him into a large room filled with minimalist furniture and, running the length of one wall, a strip of corkboard on which blueprints and press clippings and handwritten notes had been pinned.
“My office away from the office,” Kovac said.
A teakwood desk was piled with loose papers and a stack of file folders. Picking up a folder and thumbing through it, Kovac found the letter he wanted and handed it to Nyman.
Mr. Kovac,
Recently I was asked by Dr. Michael Freed to assist in the economic analysis of a development proposed by the city’s Merchant South Authority.
One of the centerpieces of the proposal is a high-rise luxury hotel and condo tower to be built at 7500 Otis Boulevard, over what is now Zamora Park. Given that the design and operation of the properties will be the responsibility of your company, Koda Entertainment, I hope you’ll be willing to meet with me to discuss the impact the development will have on the park’s homeless population, a population I work with on a daily basis as part of my graduate research at Pacifica University.
I look forward to your response and have included my contact information below.
Yours sincerely,
Alana Bell
Nyman read through the letter twice, copied down the phone number and address at the bottom of the page, and handed the letter back, saying:
“According to the date, she sent you this last month.”
“That’s right.”
“But you didn’t arrange a meeting until three days ago?”
“I get letters like this all the time. Most of them from cranks. You can’t really blame my staff for not showing it to me right away.”
“But they showed it to you eventually?”
“Of course—and I called her as soon as I saw it. When she didn’t answer, I sent Fowler down to the park to look for her.”
“Why Fowler? There’s no connection to security.”
Kovac slid the letter back into the folder. “We’re pretty low-key around here. When you need something done, you ask whoever’s closest. Fowler happened to be closest.”
“Her letter must’ve made quite an impression on you.”
“It made me stop and think, for sure. I didn’t even know about the homeless living there. I figured it was worth kicking around some ideas with her. See if we could find a compromise.”
“And did you?”
Kovac ran a hand through his hair. “Look. She was a smart girl, but she wasn’t exactly realistic. She wanted me to abandon the project then and there, cold turkey. When I told her we’d already invested too much, she said I should use some of the profits to build housing for all the displaced people.”
“Nice idea.”
“In a perfect world, yeah. But the industry I’m in, the profits are razor-thin. Most of the money I make has to be funneled right back into the properties.”
Nyman said that Alana couldn’t have liked that answer.
“That’s putting it mildly. She thought I was heartless and greedy.”
“Which made you angry?”
Kovac grinned. “If I got angry with all the people who think I’m heartless, Tom, I’d never stop being angry.”
Beyond the glass walls, the sun was dropping into the sea, leaving purple darkness in the sky above it.
“So how did the conversation end?” Nyman said. “You just agreed to disagree?”
“Essentially. I tried to explain that it’s not just about money with me. I can’t build shelters for the homeless, maybe, but I can be smart about where I put my properties. Put one in a place like the Merchant District, and you start generating jobs and more development. Construction, restaurants—all that. You take a neighborhood that’s kind of a slum and in a few years people are making a living wage.”
“A rising tide lifts all boats.”
“Exactly.”
“What did Alana think of that?”
“She thought it was bullshit,” Kovac said, laughing. “Which it is, you know, on one level. To really spread that new income around, you have to have politicians in place who are on board with the idea. Which is why I try to help people like Roberto Reyes.”
“The man you’re raising money for?”
Kovac nodded. “Tonight’s sort of a kickoff for the general election. Roberto’s a good guy. First generation, like me. You put a guy like him in office, he knows what it’s like to struggle. He’s trying to make a real difference.”
“In L.A.?”
“No, in Riverside County.” Kovac turned away from the desk and gestured for Nyman to follow him back outside. “He’s running for the State Senate. That’s one thing I’ve learned about politics. If you want your money to make an impact, you have to spend it at the local level, and you can’t just stay in your own neighborhood.”
They crossed the checkerboard yard and came into the main house just after Reyes had finished his speech. The guests had left their chairs and were milling around the makeshift bar. Along the opposite wall, a string quartet was playing.
“You’re welcome to stay and mingle,” Kovac said, “but it won’t be very exciting. Just me trying to get people to open their checkbooks.”
Nyman asked him if he would have time after the fundraiser for more questions.
“Not tonight, no. I’m booked pretty solid for the next few days.”
“What about suspects?” Nyman said. “Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt Alana? Someone at Koda, for instance?”
Kovac shook his head. “
Wish I could help, Tom, but I don’t make a habit of hiring murderers. I’d vouch for every single person in my organization.”
A tall, long-limbed woman in her late teens or early twenties detached herself from the crowd and came forward to talk to Kovac, moving slowly and with self-conscious poise, as if she were aware of her own beauty. Jewelry rattled at her wrists as she looped an arm around Kovac’s neck.
“Tom, I’d like you to meet Rhea, my wife. Rhea, this is Tom. We just wrapped up a little business.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Nyman said.
The woman gave him a brief nod and started to talk earnestly to Kovac in a low voice, her lips turned downward in displeasure. Kovac listened with an annoyed look and responded in the same low tones, taking her by the elbow and turning away from Nyman and the other guests.
At the front of the room, the woman in the short black dress announced that everyone who’d donated at the platinum level should proceed to the lanai, where there would be a private champagne reception with Mr. Reyes and Mr. Kovac.
Guests started drifting out of the room. Soon Nyman was one of a dozen people still grouped around the bar. He was pouring club soda into a glass when someone leaned toward him and said in a confidential tone:
“Don’t blame you for not paying for the meet-and-greet. Waste of money, if you ask me.”
It was the man who’d rolled his eyes at Kovac’s speech. He was short and expensively dressed, with a diamond tiepin that matched his cufflinks and polished brown brogues that reflected the lights overhead.
“Chances of Reyes getting elected are slim to none,” he said, splashing more wine into his glass.
Nyman said: “You keep up with the state races?”
“Enough to know that Aldridge has twice as much cash on hand. Tried to explain that to my wife, but she doesn’t care. She’ll donate to anything Kovac puts in front of her.”
“Who’s Aldridge?”
The man seemed surprised by Nyman’s ignorance. “The Republican running against Reyes. The one Kovac held a fundraiser for last month.”
Nyman frowned. “Kovac’s raising money for both candidates?”
“Of course he is. They’re both running for the 28th District. Palm Springs and Rancho Mirage. Right where Kovac wants to build a new resort.”
“And he thinks giving money to Reyes and Aldridge will help the deal?”
The man looked at Nyman again in surprise, then gave him a wine-reddened smile and patted him on the shoulder.
“What I wouldn’t give to be your age again,” he said. “So innocent.”
Chapter 12
Mail lay piled in the entryway when Nyman got back to his office. From the restaurant next door came the murmuring clatter of the dinner crowd. He tossed the mail onto the desk and walked to the filing cabinet. From the top drawer he took a bowl, a can of soup, and a plastic bottle of Ballantine’s.
While the soup was microwaving he poured an inch of scotch into a cup and sat down in his chair, not looking at the cup he’d given to Alana Bell, which still stood half-empty on the edge of the desk. He drank the scotch and drew an envelope—smaller than the others and hand-addressed—from the pile of letters.
Inside was a personal check for eighty dollars. He frowned at the number, then took a metal box from the desk and unlocked it with a key from his keyring. Inside were two other checks and a small pile of bills. Behind him the microwave beeped.
He was carrying the soup to his desk when a knock came at the door. Through the glass he could see a young woman, tall and thin and blonde.
Nyman opened the door with a smile and waved her inside, saying: “Joseph was just asking about you. Drink?”
“What are you having?”
“Scotch.”
“No thanks. Just coffee.”
She spoke in a hoarse mumble and her face was a dull, waxy gray. Despite the heat she wore a long-sleeve shirt with frayed cuffs. Sitting down in the same chair Alana Bell had used, she glanced sleepily around the office.
“I tried your apartment first,” she said, “but nobody was there.”
Nyman gave her a cup of cold coffee. “It’s been a busy day.”
“New client?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he said, and told her about the case, including his encounter with Ethan Kovac.
The mention of Kovac brought a brief flicker of curiosity to her eyes. “What’s he like?”
“Kovac?” Nyman shrugged. “All right, I guess. Why? You’ve heard of him?”
“Of his clubs, yeah. I thought everybody knew about them.”
“I’m unhip, Theresa. You forget that.”
“You’re not unhip. Just uninterested. Claire was the unhip one.”
Lowering his eyes, Nyman poured more scotch into his cup. “Anyway, it’s good to see you. I was down at your old school today. At the Founders’ Club.”
Theresa nodded but didn’t seem to be listening. She stared dully into the cup, as if seeing the coffee from a distance.
“When you were there,” Nyman said, “did you ever take a class with Michael Freed?”
“Hmm?”
“At Pacifica. He’s a professor of public policy.”
“Oh.” She roused herself and took a drink. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What about a grad student named Alana Bell? Ever heard of her?”
“Afraid not. I was only there a semester, anyway. College didn’t agree with me.”
“Your sister thought you had a lot of talent,” Nyman said. “For music, especially. Ever think of going back?”
She gave him a bleak smile. “Claire overestimated my talent. And I’m too old for college.”
“You’re only twenty-nine.”
“Twenty-eight,” Theresa said, “and it didn’t agree with me, like I said.”
Nyman said that never finishing college was something he regretted. “For a while I had an idea of becoming an architect. Or an anthropologist. Basically I never got past the A’s.”
There was boredom in her voice as she said: “That kind of thing never interested me.”
“Maybe it would if you went back.”
“Maybe. But I wanted to ask you something, Tom.”
Without a show of surprise, Nyman nodded. “How much?”
She licked her lips. “Would a hundred be too much?”
“I don’t have a hundred. The most I could do is fifty.”
“What about seventy-five?”
“If I had seventy-five, I’d give it to you,” Nyman said. “Fifty is all I can do.”
“You’ve got a check there for eighty.”
“That check,” Nyman said, “is from Mr. Brand.”
“Who’s Mr. Brand?”
“An old man who told me his brother was trying to kill him. I spent a week guarding his house, and now he’s paying me back in installments.”
“Did the brother try to kill him?”
“The brother didn’t exist. Mr. Brand was just lonely.”
Theresa nodded and finished her coffee. Her eyes shifted restlessly around the room. The fingers of one hand plucked at the sleeve of the shirt.
“All right,” she said. “Fifty’s fine, I guess. I appreciate it.”
Nyman reached for the metal box. He counted out the bills and handed them to Theresa, saying: “It’s fifty-four.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
When she stood to leave, Nyman said: “I could help you, you know.”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“Going back to school. Or getting back into music, at least. There’s a guy who plays at the Green Door. He might be willing to help. Show you the ropes and help you get some work.”
“It’s too late for something like that, Tom.”
“Claire didn’t think it was too late. She believed in you.”
“I know she did,” Theresa said, turning her back on Nyman and opening the door. “But she’s not around, is she?”
* * *
Alone agai
n in the office, he ate the soup, read the mail, locked up for the night, and drove down to Jefferson Park.
Wind blew trash along the pavement and rattled the leaves of the palms. According to the address she’d given Kovac, Alana Bell had lived on a side street just below West Adams Boulevard. Nyman drove past dollar stores and darkened churches and came eventually to a squat concrete building with cracks rising up from the foundation.
Her apartment was on the second floor. An unlocked street-door led him up a flight of steps and onto a landing exposed to the open air. A strip of light showed under the door of the apartment; from the interior came the sound of footsteps on a creaking floor.
He knocked twice, loudly, and the footsteps went on as before, without stopping. He touched the doorknob, felt it turn, and a moment later was inside the apartment and closing the door behind him.
It was a single small room with a kitchen at the far end, a T.V. and futon by the door, and a bathroom slotted into a corner. Alana’s mother, Valerie, was standing in the kitchen with a cardboard box cradled in her arm.
She glanced at Nyman with red-veined, exhausted eyes and went on packing cups and dishes into the box. She looked smaller and frailer than she had that morning at the coroner’s office; her face was swollen from crying and her expression was blank and lifeless.
“Which one are you with?” she said hoarsely. “The coroner or Vista Hills?”
Nyman told her who he was. She listened without any sign of interest or comprehension and said nothing in response, turning her attention back to her packing. Nyman stood awkwardly in the same spot, not coming any farther into the room. His hand was still on the doorknob when Valerie Bell said:
“I’ve talked to so many people today I can’t keep it straight. From the university, too. Are you from the university?”
He told her again who he was. She nodded as if she’d understood and said in a monotone:
“I told Allie she ought to live in university housing, but she wouldn’t hear it. She said she wanted to be on her own, in a real neighborhood. She’s always been like that, you know. Always has to have her own way.”
She closed her eyes and took a step backward. A plate slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor. The cardboard box followed it, landing on its side and scattering cups and dishes. She sagged back against the refrigerator and put her hands over her face. She cried in racking sobs, sliding down against the refrigerator until she was sitting on the floor beside the dishes and cups and broken ceramic.
