by Josh Lanyon
“What’s the third scenario?”
“Judging by the rate of decomposition, the ME believes Ladas had been dead at least eight hours before he went into the back of the moving truck. As crazy as it sounds, I think someone was driving along, looking for a place to dump Ladas’ body, and hit on the idea of using a broken-down moving van.”
“It’s nearly six hours from Frisco to Barstow. Driving six hours with a dead body? Why not just dump him into San Francisco bay?”
“Because he would be found and identified? Not sure, but that’s the scenario we’re running with. It was very important to someone that Ladas not be found or identified, and they were willing to drive to Los Angeles to get rid of him.”
“Why didn’t they chop him into bits and dump him into the bay?”
Izzie, coffee cup halfway to his mouth, paused and gave me a contemplative look.
I said, “Sorry. That’s the mystery writer talking.”
“The fact is, most homicides aren’t committed by hardened criminals. And even hardened criminals can be squeamish.”
“Right.” I said slowly, “And why would it be so important to someone that Ladas not be found or identified?”
Izzie hesitated.
I said, “Uh-oh. Beck. Am I right? Baby brother Beck?”
Izzie nodded. “Beck is—was—what you might call devoted to Ladas. And, like I said, he’s not exactly a Fulbright Scholar.”
“This just keeps getting better and better.”
I was not reassured when Izzie didn’t offer an immediate pep talk. In fact, I now had a good idea why he’d popped over first thing on a Saturday morning when everyone, including the sun, was rolling over and going back to sleep. He said instead, “When does J.X. get back?”
“He’s flying in Monday night.”
Izzie nodded thoughtfully, but whatever he was thinking he kept to himself. All he said was, “Well, we’re trying to bring Ladas in for questioning, but he’s been avoiding his usual hangouts. If you do see him again, don’t confront him. Just give us a call.”
“Confront him?” I repeated in astonishment. “Me?”
Chapter Seven
After Jones finished spreading good cheer and glad tidings all over the place, he departed, but before he left I got the phone number of the diner near Wooster where Mr. Ladas had likely joined the wagon train. I gave the diner a call and asked if anyone had noticed any suspicious looking china loitering about the premises. The hostess admitted they had noticed broken china out by the dumpster and alerted Cindy Spann of Dolls and Doodads. Cindy had salvaged what she could for her shop. They kindly gave me Cindy’s phone number and I called Dolls and Doodads. Cindy, who sounded about the size of a Thumbelina, informed me she had almost ten complete sets of china left and was willing to let me have the entire lot for a reasonable price.
“Well, I appreciate that, but you do realize it’s my china?”
She chirped, “That’s why I’m giving you such a good deal on it.”
We smacked the birdie back and forth a few times, but it was clear Cindy was a descendent of those ancient desert tribes that eke their meager living by luring lost caravans off the map with promises of blue slushies and clean restrooms. She would not budge and I hate to haggle, and in the end I agreed to buy back Oma’s china at what was, Cindy assured me, a steal.
If J.X. had been driving back from L.A., he could have stopped and picked up the china for me. Instead, I’d have to also pay Cindy to ship it and hope she packed better than she reasoned. Although, seeing that I was paying exactly what she wanted, maybe it was my reasoning at fault.
The satellite dish people arrived and went around hooking up our TVs and DVD players and Xboxes, of which we had an embarrassing plethora. It was like a home for wayward lonely guys.
“Do you need me for anything?” I asked the techs and they laughed heartily.
They were clomping around on the roof when Rachel phoned.
“How is your research coming? What was your grandmother’s maiden name?” she demanded before I could even get out a greeting.
“The secret password is Zwyssig. Hello to you too.”
She was unabashed, but then you don’t get far as a literary agent if you’re the bashful kind. “That’s bloody awful. Readers will never be able to look that up. No. Sorry. That won’t do. What was her mother’s maiden name?”
I gazed out at the fog winding its sinuous way around the tall urns, meandering through the brick patios and terraces. Was that going to burn off? “Wölfli. Why are you so interested in my grandmothers?”
“Wolfi?” she mused. “That might work. That’s rather adorable in fact.”
“Wölfli. Li. Wölfli. And I repeat, why are so interested in my grandmothers?”
“Christopher, have you listened to a word I’ve said to you over the past two days? I’m pitching your new book to Wheaton and Woodhouse this afternoon. We have to settle on the details. Such as your new pen name.”
“What? What new pen name? I don’t want a new pen name! And I don’t want to write for Wheaton and Woodhouse again. I’m still mad at them for dropping me the first time.”
Rachel tsk-tsked at this. “That was just business, Christopher. You know that.”
“Yes. I know that after sixteen years, eleven New York Times bestsellers, and twenty awards—some of them actually legit—they dumped me like some indie writer they found shivering in the slush pile.”
She made shushing noises. “Don’t say anything against indies. They’re very sensitive. One hint of elitism and they’ll be organizing a twitcott. Anyway, the point is, W&W is aggressively acquiring Scandinavian crime fiction.”
“I don’t want to write Scandinavian crime fiction. There are too many neo-Nazis and hangings in churches. And I don’t like snow. Unless it’s in a snow globe.”
I might as well have been talking to myself. “What about the name Petra? It’s pretty, isn’t it? I think it’s Swiss.”
“It’s Greek, Rachel. And I hope you’re not thinking I’m going to write under a female pen name.”
Her tone grew chiding. Or chidinger. “Women do very well in Scandinavian crime fiction. And we have to reinvent you. You know how it works. A blank slate is better than a downward trend.”
That flicked me on a very raw patch. “Hey, I’m still a bestseller, you know! In some places. Probably in Barstow.”
“But you’re trending downward.”
“I sure am now.”
“Chin up! How’s it going there, by the way? All unpacked?”
“All un…” I couldn’t even finish that. “You do know I found a body in the basement, correct? I did tell you that?”
“I know you’ve told me everything but what I need to hear. Christopher, we must focus. You must focus.”
“Okay. Focus on this, Rachel. I don’t want to be reinvented. Or reincarnated. Or regurgitated. I’m not going to be named Petra or Paula or Patricia or anything else.”
“My God,” she said wearily. “Right-o. Have it your way. You can stay a bloody male if it means so much to you.”
“I am a bloody male. Of course it means that much!”
Sarcasm was wasted on her. It was like water off a Mandarin duck’s back. “What about Peder?”
“Nice. I can hear it now. Pederphile. No.”
“You’re being difficult, Christopher. What about Adrian?”
“God no.”
“Werner? Wilhelm? Wolfgang? Stop me when you hear something you like.”
“I haven’t heard anything I liked since I picked up the phone.” I started to laugh. “Wolfgang Wölfli. That’s it. Why the hell not?”
We were not amused. Well, I was, but the Regent of Rejections was not.
“What you’re failing to realize is this new writing identity gives you an opportunity to explore themes and leitmotifs in a way you’ve never experienced before.”
“Wearing pantyhose apparently.”
“Instead of being dismissive, you might
have done as I asked and researched the genre. You’d see that Scandinavian crime fiction deals with all kinds of issues that are contemporary and important. Xenophobia, homophobia—”
“Agoraphobia.”
The doorbell rang. I said, “Sorry. I’ve got to go, Rachel. I’ll talk to you later. Please. I beg of you. Don’t turn me into Ariadne Oliver.”
“That name is familiar. Who represents her?”
I left her speculating and strategizing.
This time the bell tolled for the furniture company. I led the way, realizing that in all my trips upstairs, I’d barely noticed these rooms. I’d been too busy lurching back and forth with armloads of towels and linens destined for hall cupboards, or lugging armloads of clothes, mostly J.X.’s, to the floor-to-ceiling closets in the master bedroom. It seemed you could never have too many tailored white shirts or pairs of black jeans.
I watched nervously from the landing while the delivery men maneuvered a ponderous armoire entertainment center up the staircase, and when I couldn’t take it any longer, I went to make sure the bedroom was ready to receive company.
The master bedroom was at the rear of the house. The newly hooked-up electronics and J.X.’s valet stand were currently the only pieces of furniture, and it was the perfect opportunity to admire the elegant bones of the architecture. It was a large and airy space featuring a fireplace, a pretty little deck that faced Coit Tower, and a separate dressing area with those impressive closets lining one side.
As I gazed around myself, I realized that it truly was a beautiful room. The morning light would be beautiful. Heck, the morning fog was beautiful from up here. The walls were painted the palest and warmest of blues, like a hand-tinted photograph of a vintage holiday by the sea. The moldings were a silvery white, like sea foam. The long flowing drapes were gauzy ivory, the large nubby rug was also a restful eggshell white.
I walked out onto the balcony and remembered what Jones had said about him and J.X. once chasing a junkie up to Coit Tower. Someday I wanted to hear the story of what had happened when they caught him. Or her.
I turned as the delivery men finally shoved the armoire through the bedroom door and departed, perspiring and muttering, to cart the rest of the suite upstairs. There seemed to be a lot of it. This again was something I’d left up to J.X., and I wondered now if my lack of input had seemed easy-going or just indifferent?
The delivery men unwrapped the furniture from its plastic and protective coverings. Twin highboys, twin bedside tables, a large bed. The wood even darker than the floor and straight, clean lines. Masculine but elegant. They pushed the furniture around as requested, set up the bed and left.
After I locked the door behind them, I hiked back upstairs and studied the room. Our bedroom.
I realized I was smiling. I wasn’t even sure why.
It took me a while to find the framed painting I’d bought for J.X. as a housewarming gift. I’d regretted the purchase almost immediately as a silly extravagance, but now…now I thought maybe it had been a good idea after all. Allan P. Friedlander’s A Good Year. Wine country in tones of old gold and ripe yellows and rich greens. A remembrance of our own adventure, an acknowledgement of where it had all started. Again.
I hung it over the fireplace. Then I found a pair of my own soft 1500-plus-thread sheets in a cool, creamy yellow. I may not care about clothes, but I care about comfort, and anyone who tells you there’s no difference between 800-plus thread count and 1500-plus thread count isn’t sleeping on 1500-plus thread count. I made the bed, topping it with the raw ivory silk comforter J.X. had purchased. Then I carried up a couple of alabaster table lamps and a tall floor lamp with bronze acanthus leaves and an amber shade.
I was studying the final results with satisfaction when I realized J.X. hadn’t called the night before. In fact, he hadn’t called all day. I glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. It was already six, which meant he’d be sitting down to his awards banquet. I could always call him, of course, but he’d be busy schmoozing.
He’ll be gone to greener pastures as soon as the novelty wears off, as soon as it becomes clear to him that your careers—your lives—are going in two different directions.
I could still hear the ghostly echo of that prophecy. Add in a wicked witch cackle, and the scary home movie would be ready for the nightly screening room in my brain. Not a word of it had faded from my memory. But I wasn’t going to let someone else’s warped and poisonous world view dictate my future with J.X. I trusted him.
That wasn’t to say I was sure we’d make it as a couple, but I did believe it wouldn’t be for lack of trying on J.X.’s part.
I defrosted the fried chicken and ate dinner at my laptop, which was how I spent most of my meals. Although, I guessed that would be changing once J.X. got home. Out of curiosity, I tried to find out what I could about the gallery robbery in Sausalito. Only one incident popped up, but it appeared in a number of online articles. Quercus Gallery had been robbed early Sunday morning in late May. The thieves had cut a hole in the roof of the one-story building and lowered themselves inside. Ignoring the tempting display of paintings and sketches, they’d headed straight for the exhibition of rare Scandinavian coins on loan from local collector Alan Lorenson. Ten million dollars worth of Scandinavian coins.
I nearly swallowed a chicken bone.
The two thieves wore gloves and ski masks, and once inside the store had immediately disabled the security cameras. The existing footage amounted to a short and grainy replay of two very large and fuzzy figures in black, descending from the ceiling of the gallery on ropes. They dropped to the floor, moving with efficient speed, each man knowing his job. One figure loomed up into the lens of the camera. Cold, colorless eyes stared straight at me. Then the camera went black.
Unbeknownst to the intruders, John Cantrell, the gallery owner, had been working late. There was no video record of his encounter with the thieves, but he had been left dead on the floor of his private exhibition room. His neck had been broken.
My stomach knotted reading that.
The break-in and murder had taken less than ten minutes. By the time the police had arrived, the intruders were long gone—and with them a Viking’s hoard of old silver and gold coins, including a Swedish 1632 Gustav II Adolf gold dukat, two 1898 Swiss Helvetica coins, and nearly 1,000 coins from the 1060s, mostly German, English and Danish. Some of the coins were only worth a few hundred dollars. A handful of them were worth a million each.
Thanks to Miss Butterwith Shows Uncommon Cents, I knew a little about rare coins. Well, not so much about coins as coin collecting. Along with artwork and wine, rare coins were very popular with investors in the new economy, skyrocketing a staggering 248 percent in value over the past ten years. A handful of legendary coins like the Brasher Doubloons broke records every time they came up for auction.
Some investors considered coins and other collectibles safer than stocks, although “treasure assets” were speculative and therefore risky. Their only value was the hope of a future sale to another collector at a still higher price, and in a troubled economy that was a bigger gamble than usual. Plus the market was unregulated. Rare coins could be traded or purchased from individuals, dealers or auction houses, which left a lot of room for fraud. And fraud was rampant. There was also the problem of theft. Even in a plastic protective case, coins were small and easily pocketed.
On the other hand, rare coins received favorable tax treatment. As capital assets, no tax was imposed as the coins appreciated in value until the point of sale, and once the coins were sold, the tax rate was significantly lower than the highest individual tax rate.
But collecting was never just about tax savings and investments. Collecting was an emotional thing. Coins were beautiful and interesting and rich with history. To handle an old coin was to touch the past.
Ten million dollars worth of past in this case. Viking treasure to boot.
And every penny of it still missing.
What the art
icles did not say was that Elijah Ladas—and possibly his industrial-sized brother—were suspected of the theft. There was no mention of Ladas at all. In fact, the investigating detectives had only vouchsafed that they had a suspect and hoped to make an arrest soon.
By nine o’clock J.X. still hadn’t phoned. Celebrating in the host hotel bar, no doubt. I’d been there and done that myself a few times. I didn’t begrudge him.
But I felt restless. Uneasy.
I wandered around the house, but I didn’t feel like unpacking any more boxes. Every time I saw the door to the cellar, a shivery sensation crept down my spine.
Though the house was beginning to feel familiar during the daylight hours, at night it grew foreign and unknown once more. The pretty rooms turned to sharp angles and dim corners and the uneasy suspicion that something important was missing—or worse, that someone was watching.
Welcome to a writer’s imagination. The gift of being able to scare yourself silly behind your own locked doors. Although in all honesty, it wasn’t so much the fear of intruders or physical danger that had me wandering from room to room like a lost soul. No, it was the second thoughts, the second guesses, the coulda-shoulda-wouldas that turned a home into a foreign landscape.
Maybe some fresh air was in order. I decided to take a turn around the garden, walking out through the breakfast nook doors. The city lights glittered beneath a crescent moon hanging low in the purple-black sky. Ornamental grasses threw sharp and spiky shadows across the still-warm bricks. The night air felt satiny and smelled of the city and mysterious flowers.
At the back end of the garden, there was a tall and dense hedge. Behind the hedge, the property line dropped away to a series of steep hillside terraces belonging to the houses behind Cherry Lane. Not inaccessible, but definitely a hike. Reassured, I turned away and wandered up a series of small patios to where the pool was tucked away. The lights were on and the turquoise water looked crystal clear and inviting. It was almost warm enough for night swimming. Did J.X. like night swimming? I had no idea. There was so much we didn’t know about each other.
