“Explain, please.”
“Have you heard or read anything in the past couple days about some smuggler jumping out of a private plane long enough to do a soccer demonstration on some deputy?”
“Sure. It was on all the local news programs.”
“I just gotta start watching something besides The Simpsons and Tag Team Wrestling. Guess what? The guy Clive Devon picked up in Painted Canyon yesterday? He’s the fugitive smuggler they’re looking for! I think. Why don’t I look for a safer job? Maybe the President of Haiti needs a food taster.”
“Are you hung over again, or just nuts?”
“Both, but I’m coming around. I’m gonna go talk to one a those ex-FBI agents that run security for Thrifty Drug Stores. I’d rather be a drug store dick than a P.I.’s helper, cause I’m not as nuts as I was when you found me.”
“Are you ready to explain in full?” she asked, with that irritating smirk.
Funny how the little freckle on her lip looked darker today. How come that freckle aroused him, he wondered. “First you’d have to meet Nelson Hareem,” he began. “His paternal grandfather came from Beirut, but Nelson’s not really a Muslim terrorist or anything. They’d never have him cause he’s too fanatical. Here’s what he told me.…”
Breda Burrows hardly blinked while Lynn Cutter told her the whole story, and why Nelson Hareem was, in effect, forcing him to dick around at motels and hotels from the A to C yellow pages.
When Lynn was finished, Breda sat back and stared toward Clive Devon’s house for a few minutes. Then she said, “This is truly nuts.”
“Sure it is,” Lynn said. “So’s Nelson. But he’s still capable of turning over all his hot little clues to the sheriff’s department. After which somebody would no doubt contact me. After which somebody else would no doubt contact my department. After which …”
“Okay, okay, I get it. You’re worried about your disability pension, I get it!”
“Not at all,” he said. “Who needs a pension? I got enough money to last till one o’clock this afternoon if I don’t buy that bag a potato chips I been craving.”
Breda reached in her purse, removed her wallet, and took out three twenties. “Here,” she said. “For expenses. Doesn’t the guy whose house you’re sitting have a pantry?”
“Yeah, and I ate everything in it except the cat food, which ain’t my brand. How about another couple a these?”
Breda gave him another two twenties and said, “This is an advance against your fee. If you earn the fee.”
“If I … hey! I already earned something! I’m risking my pension with all this smuggler bullshit!”
“That’s your problem.”
“My problem. Yeah, because I took on this job!”
“We had a deal. I didn’t plan on some drug dealer entering the picture. I don’t think he did enter the picture. I think Clive Devon is just a nice man who gave a ride to a guy, and he doesn’t know zip about drug smuggling or any other felony or misdemeanor.”
“Well I’ll stop worrying then. One a these days an earthquake’s gonna hit the San Andreas Fault so hard Palm Springs’ll just liquefy and turn into quicksand anyway. We’ll be all gone like Sodom and Gomorrah. And here I am worrying about starving to death! I must be crazy!”
“I’m taking over the surveillance today,” Breda said. “Why don’t you go talk sense to this cop, Nelson Hareem. Explain to him that this smuggler business can’t go anywhere. Make him see.”
“He couldn’t see with the Hubble Space Telescope. He’s got an obsessive-compulsive personality. He’s gonna call you today, and if I know Nelson he’ll be flying in your airspace and mine till we start doing legwork at motels that begin with A, B and C.”
“You can do another job for me since you’ve got money now,” Breda said. “Go to The Unicorn restaurant on south Palm Canyon and watch the two bartenders. Someone’s stealing a hundred bucks a shift, or so the owner thinks.”
“Do I get extra pay for another job?”
Breda showed him her world-champ sneer and said, “All right, another hundred. Meet me at seven o’clock tonight. Clive Devon’s always back home before seven in the evening, girlfriend or not.”
“Let’s meet at The Furnace Room.”
“Okay, I’ll see you there at seven. Remember, Nelson Hareem’s your problem. Deal with it.”
“My first wife always said that to me,” Lynn informed her. “Deal with it. You’re a lot alike.”
Knowing it was probably a mistake, Breda said, “And what was she like? A bossy bitch, I suppose.”
“More self-indulgent than a spaghetti western. She liked to make me sweat for hours while she’d decide whether or not to pump a few more slugs into my fun zone.”
“Do you think I overreacted, sir?” Nelson Hareem asked his police chief when he was called before him at nine o’clock that morning.
“No, I wouldn’t think so,” the chief told him. “No more than the Chinese in Tiananmen Square, or the Russians in Lithuania, or the U.S. Cavalry at Wounded Knee.”
The chief was sweating Nelson Hareem because of a threatened lawsuit from a mortgage banker who’d passed through their little town two weeks earlier in a Porsche 928 while driving from a seminar in Scottsdale to his home in Encino. The mortgage banker had turned off Highway 10 intending to get one of those tasty date-shakes he’d heard so much about. He’d carelessly blown past a stop sign without making a complete stop, and quickly found himself lighted up by the whirling gumballs of Nelson Hareem, who happened to be dawdling down the street at a poky seventy miles per hour, the speed limit he ordinarily reserved for parking lots and residential driveways.
After that, the story was open to interpretation. The mortgage banker, having contributed heavily to the reelection of one of Southern California’s most prominent sheriffs, possessed one of those courtesy badges that the sheriff handed out as a thank you. The mortgage banker had pinned the badge inside his alligator wallet next to his driver’s license for just such eventualities as this.
First, the banker had handed his driver’s license to Nelson and then he flipped open the wallet. With one of those “You got the loan at prime!” banker grins, he’d said, “How far will this go, pal?” referring to the badge.
But Nelson thought that the banker was referring to a fifty-dollar bill, whose corner was clearly protruding from the alligator wallet, thus signifying a bribery attempt. Nelson became totally indignant, incensed, offended and finally outraged by the insult.
Nelson said, “I don’t know how far it’ll go. Let’s see!” And he impulsively ripped the wallet from the fat guy’s hand and sailed it like an alligator Frisbee over his shoulder into the passing traffic, where it happened to land on the bed of a flatbed truck bound for Phoenix.
Then there was a semidesperate wrestling match out there, with outraged little Nelson Hareem rolling around on the ground with an equally outraged mortgage banker before Nelson managed to get the fat guy hooked up with his hands cuffed behind him and proned out on the ground, and only a few bumps and bruises that had to be treated.
But that wallet was never seen again, and the mortgage banker claimed he had over a thousand bucks in it. The banker got cited for running the stop sign, but was booked into jail for battery on a police officer. The deputy district attorney said that Nelson Hareem might use a tad more patience and better judgment next time he thinks he’s being offered a bribe.
The morning after Nelson had met Lynn Cutter, his chief said to him, “The guy’s lawyer’s offered to drop the five-million-dollar lawsuit if we drop the charge of battery on a police officer, along with the vehicle code violation. And the city manager wonders if this might be a bargain for all of us. He also wonders if a daily dose of one thousand milligrams of Thorazine might make you a nondangerous citizen of our community.”
Nelson gulped, and his baby blues rolled, and he said, “Chief, if I could get a lateral transfer to another department, say, Palm Springs P.D., would you be willin to
recommend me favorably?”
The chief said, “I would tell them you’re the finest police officer since Eliot Ness! Since Wyatt Earp, even! Do you think it’s possible they might take you?”
“I think I’ll have a good chance real soon, sir,” Nelson said. “Meantime, could I take about a week off from my compensatory overtime? Startin right now?”
“Are you sure a week of your comp time is enough?” the chief asked, hopefully. “They really want you at Palm Springs? Honest?”
By eleven o’clock that morning, Nelson Hareem was visiting various motels and hotels in and around Palm Springs, beginning with the letter A.
Clive Devon was apparently waiting for his wife to leave for Los Angeles before going out. Breda watched the electric gates roll open at 10:10 that morning as Rhonda Devon’s silver Mercedes swung out and drove away between the walls of oleander, plaster and brick that lined both sides of the winding palm-studded street.
Five minutes later, Clive Devon pulled out in the Range Rover and drove to a grocery market five minutes from his house, the kind of market where shallots and saffron are available year round, not to mention truffles so expensive you could bribe a judge with three of them.
Breda waited outside the market for a few minutes then moseyed inside, got a shopping cart and strolled through the aisles. She picked up a few brand-name sundries she could have bought for half the price at her local Sav-On Drug Store. Then she stood in one of the two checkout lines where she could watch Clive Devon from behind.
His groceries were checked by a pretty young Latina with long black hair. Breda watched very closely, but nothing more than a few smiles and pleasantries were passed. Still, she did fit the description given by Lynn Cutter. Breda decided to send him in as soon as possible to have a look at this grocery checker.
Clive Devon, with the help of a box boy, loaded his grocery purchases into the Range Rover and headed back home. Breda parked in the usual place until he was inside, then she got out and took a walk down the curbless residential street, pausing behind a palm tree across from the Devon property. She watched as the maid helped her employer unload the groceries.
Rhonda Devon had said that the live-in maid’s name was Blanca. Like all Mexican maids she had no family name until Breda asked for one. It was Blanca Soltero. She was middle-aged and spoke only passable English, according to Rhonda Devon. She had been in their employ for eight years. On Monday, her one day off, she was always driven by Clive Devon to her daughter’s home in the barrio of Indio. Rhonda Devon said that Blanca Soltero was extremely loyal to Clive Devon, for whom she cleaned and cooked, and that Blanca might very well keep any female dalliance a secret. Clive Devon paid her in cash, and Rhonda Devon wondered if he might offer bonuses to keep her mouth shut.
When the sturdy woman lifted the last grocery bag from the Range Rover, she brushed back a wisp of gray hair and happened to glance out through the driveway gates, spotting Breda, who quickly pretended to be removing a pebble from her shoe. Then Blanca Soltero closed the door of the Range Rover and went back inside the house.
Breda returned to her Z, settled back and started thinking about Lynn Cutter. He was not going to be the police connection she needed in her business, not even a connection to a connection. She could get most civil information she needed from a computer data-base company, and she’d made friends at title companies and banks, so when she wanted a real estate title search or a credit check she could usually manage to get it without the subject being notified that it was being done.
But criminal background checks were a problem. Convictions are public record, but like any cop—and Breda still thought and worked like a cop-—she wanted a real rap sheet with all arrests listed, not just convictions. Rap sheets were available only to people actively working in law enforcement, but she’d already learned a trick or two as a P.I. When a subject was convicted of a crime and the probation department was doing a report to help the judge with a sentencing decision, the report and a rap sheet became public record for about ten days. That was one way to get it. But there were too many occasions when Breda wanted a rap sheet on someone who wasn’t facing any sort of prosecution. At those times she felt impotent. She felt like a civilian. That’s when she needed a discreet police contact.
Breda had promised herself never to ask one of her old pals at LAPD to run somebody’s criminal record. Technically, it was a crime for her to solicit it, and the cop could get in trouble. What she’d been looking for was a local police officer, somebody she hadn’t worked with for twenty years, somebody who was willing to take small risks for money. Somebody she needn’t worry about, someone like Lynn Cutter, but more sane and sober.
While Breda was thinking of who she might develop as a proper law enforcement contact, a rusty old Plymouth turned into the Las Palmas area from Palm Canyon Drive.
Meanwhile, Lynn Cutter was wondering why, with all his years of experience at sitting in saloons, he hadn’t been able to spot any of the typical bartender scams. The noonday crowd was big and noisy, lots of business people were coming in The Unicorn for lunch or a drink in lieu of lunch. It was one of those “California cuisine” minimalist restaurants where you’d be served by young people who’d say, “We got real rad black squid risotto today!” There were plenty of gawking tourists looking for Palm Springs celebrities who weren’t there.
The bartenders weren’t pouring from any suspicious bottles, not that Lynn was able to spot. The oldest bartender trick was the one where they’d bring their own bottle of hooch and pour from that one until it was empty, keeping all of the proceeds from that bottle for themselves.
Neither bartender had brought in a suspicious thermos that could be full of booze, a variation of the same gag. Both were working furiously to serve customers, as well as the waitresses at the service bar, and neither was making any funny moves such as dime-stacking, one for every drink they didn’t ring up in the register. A stack of dimes or paper clips was a bartender’s abacus, so they’d know how much they could safely pocket at the end of the shift. One for the boss. One for me. Two for the boss …
Lynn didn’t see any of that, but what he did see was the unveiled hatred that all the employees had for the restaurant proprietor, a smarmy guy in a double-breasted Ralph Lauren, named Mr. Riegel, who came from Las Vegas and wasn’t the kind of guy that cried at bar mitzvahs.
Lynn heard Mr. Riegel’s voice booming from the kitchen, screaming at a Mexican dishwasher. He’d seen Mr. Riegel walk behind the bar to count and examine the bottles, and check the register when a round of drinks was rung up by the older bartender, a guy with a bad henna job and nicotine-stained teeth, who flashed a malevolent grin whenever the boss turned his back.
I wouldn’t want that bartender as an enemy, Lynn thought, then he said to the younger bartender, “Gimme another, will ya? This time not from the well. I can’t drink too much prepubescent Scotch.”
“What’s that?” the bartender asked.
“Under twelve years old,” Lynn answered, and the bartender shrugged and poured one that cost an extra six bits, but had pubic hair.
There was only one bit of irregular behavior going on that Lynn had spotted. The bartender with the henna rinse made trips to an alcove that was between the service bar and the kitchen. During the forty-five minutes that Lynn had sat there the guy had made three trips. But there was absolutely no way he could be carrying a container of his own liquor from the alcove to the bar, booze that he could pour instead of the house liquor. The guy would simply go to the alcove, disappear from sight for a minute, then he’d head back to the bar and wash glasses.
At last Lynn got up, pretending to be uncertain where the men’s room was. He walked into the alcove “by mistake,” discovering that it was a place for waitresses to take a quick break. There were folding chairs, a tiny table, an ashtray and nothing more. Lynn decided that the bartender was making those trips so he could do a few lines of blow, which he probably kept stashed in his sock.
Wh
en he got back to the barstool, Breda was sitting there ordering a Perrier, allowing Mr. Riegel to see that she was on duty.
Lynn said loudly, “Hi! What’re you doing here today? Business slow?”
Breda said, “Yeah, we only moved a few units. Two Hondas and a Mazda. How about you?”
When both bartenders were at the service bar, Breda said to Lynn, sotto voce, “Baby longhair showed up at Devon’s house in the old Plymouth.”
“Yeah? What happened?”
“She’s been there over an hour. They’re swimming. I prowled along the wall and I could hear them splashing and barking in the pool.”
“They bark?”
She smirked and said, “She brought her dog. And I’m positive the maid is in on the whole affair. I could hear her yelling stuff in Spanish to the girl.”
“Now what?”
“We still haven’t answered Mrs. Devon’s big question. Why’s he doing business with a sperm bank?”
“Simple,” Lynn said. “He’s made a deal with some white Anglo-Saxon surrogate, and when his WASP baby’s born he’s gonna kiss off Rhonda Devon and live happily ever after with his little Mexican hardbelly. She’s gonna be an instant mommy. Then, Daddy, Mommy, Daddy’s pink WASP baby and Mommy’s big brown dog are all gonna live happily ever after.”
“That doesn’t sound right.”
“Okay, let’s do it this way. His little pepper pot with the long black hair is gonna be the carrier of his baby, but … naw, that doesn’t work. He wouldn’t need a storage locker. My first scenario’s the right one. He wants her and a WASP baby. He’s just gotta find the right WASP carrier.”
She handed him a piece of notebook paper. “Can you make a call and have somebody at the P.D. run her license number real quick?”
“They sometimes do audit tracks on clerks that run license numbers. Everyone has an operator code so they can find out who ran it.”
Fugitive Nights Page 10
