by Simon Hawke
"Seems like Susan Jacobs was your standard, upwardly mobile, young professional," said Leventhal. "Very career-oriented, with political ambitions. Dated one guy, Mark Michaels, and word has it she didn't play around. You listen to the people who knew her and worked with her, she conies off as squeaky clean, with no enemies and no reason why anyone should want to kill her, except perhaps for her involvement with the ERA thing."
"That's it?" said Bobbie Joe. "That's all you've got?"
"Well, so far."
She snorted with derision. "Hell, I could've told you all that."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because you were in such an all-fired hurry to run off and play supercop," she replied. "Some supercop. You better not be holding out on me, Leventhal, because if I find out you are, all bets are off."
"I did check out a few other things," said Leventhal, a touch defensively. "So far, all the people I've talked to claim to have alibis for the time she was killed. Alibis that sound as if they're probably going to hold up. So that brings us back to the religious fanatic angle."
"Have you talked to those people yet?" she asked.
"Not yet. Tomorrow. Tonight, there's still something I want to check up on."
"Hi, Dan."
I looked up and saw Trish standing by the table and smiling down at Leventhal. Up close, she was even more impressive. She had a smile that made her look like the cat that had swallowed the canary, and eyes that were absolutely luminous, not that anyone would be looking at her eyes. Not in a dress like that, they wouldn't.
"I just came over to say hello," she said. "I won't interrupt if you're busy."
"Uh... yeah... actually, Trish, I am. Nothing personal, it's police business. Uh... you know Bobbie Joe Jacklin? She writes for Westwind."
"Hi, I'm Trish."
"Pleased to meet you," Bobbie Joe said flatly, shaking Irish's hand.
"I've read your stuff," said Trish. "It's really very good. I wish I could write like that."
"Honey, trust me, you don't have to," Bobbie Joe replied dryly.
Trish just smiled and let that one slide by, like water off a duck's back. "Well, I just wanted to say hi. I have to go sing again. It was really nice meeting you, Bobbie Joe."
"Yeah, likewise," Bobbie Joe replied, with a strained smile.
Leventhal just looked down into his coffee cup. Bobbie Joe took his pack of cigarettes, removed one, and lit up.
"The both of them were very nice, weren't they?" she asked me, rhetorically.
"Meow," I said.
"Lay off, B.J.," Leventhal said. "She was only trying to be friendly."
"Well, I'm sure she's a very friendly girl," said Bobbie Joe.
"You didn't have to be so bitchy," Leventhal replied. "She didn't do anything to you."
"No, not much she didn't," Bobbie Joe replied. She glanced at me. "You ever get the feeling like the world was a tuxedo and you were just a pair of old, brown shoes?"
"What's wrong with brown shoes?" I asked her.
"Maybe they're great for cats to play with," Bobbie Joe replied, "but men tend to like high-heeled pumps.. . and the equipment that goes with 'em. Right, Danny boy?"
"Don't call me Danny boy. I hate that," Leventhal replied.
"So don't call me B.J., Danny boy." She got up. "Give me a call when you come up with something I can use. Otherwise, have fun watching the scenery."
And she was gone, leaving behind a small black cloud lingering over the table.
"Women," Leventhal said sourly. "I'll never figure 'em out."
"What's to figure?" I asked. "She's obviously in love with you."
He stared at me as if I'd just suggested he was sleeping with his sister, "B.J.? You've gotta be kidding!"
"And you've gotta be blind," I said. "I have to make a confession, partner. So far, as a detective, you're not exactly impressing the shit out of me."
"Fuck off."
"Snappy comeback," I said. "Why don't you give the girl a break?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" said Leventhal irately.
"It means you're being an asshole," I said. "You're stringing her along, engaging in all this snappy repartee, all that half-joking, sexual innuendo-hell, you're jerking her around. If she was built like Irish, you'd be on her like a fox on a duck. Only she's not, and you rub her nose in it by getting all awkward and flustered when Trish stops by to say hello. You looked like you got caught with your zipper down. The truth is, you know damned well how Bobbie Joe feels about you, and you're taking advantage of it. That's why you got that dumb, guilty look on your face when Trish came over. Bobbie Joe's not blind, you know."
Leventhal stared at me for a long moment. He looked as if he were about to say something, but at that moment, the Baghwan returned from making his calls.
"Okay, I've set it up," he said. "And it wasn't easy, let me tell you. There's good news and there's bad news."
"Give me the good news," Leventhal replied. "At the moment, I could use some."
"The good news is, the Mystic will meet with you," the Baghwan said.
"Great. So what's the bad news?"
"The bad news is, he wants me to come along," the Baghwan replied wryly. "And it's gotta be tonight."
"Tonight?" said Leventhal.
"Yeah. Like, in about fifteen minutes," said the Baghwan. "That's how it is, take it or leave it. I guess the Mystic wants to make sure you haven't got a chance to set anything up."
"You talked to him?" asked Leventhal. "What did he say?"
"The Mystic doesn't use telephones. He considers them 'negative energy.' You don't talk to the Mystic on the phone. You deal with intermediaries. And it's complicated, let me tell you. I had to make about half a dozen calls, and use up a few favors. You owe me for this one, Leventhal. You're going to owe me big. I didn't want any part of this, only now I'm roped in."
"Okay, a deal's a deal," Leventhal replied. "I'll play it any way the man says. So what's the setup?"
"The setup is a limo's going to pull up in front of this place in about fifteen minutes," the Baghwan replied. "Nobody's getting out to come in and get us. It'll be out there for precisely thirty seconds. If we're not there to get in, it'll be gone and there won't be any do-overs. It's now or never. And we do what the limo driver says. Period. We ask any questions, we say so much as one word, and he pulls over to the curb and lets us out and that's that."
Leventhal pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Sounds like the man's being careful," he said.
"Dan. .." said the Baghwan. "I'm telling you straight. You don't want to cross him. If you've got anything in mind you haven't told me about, now's the time to cough it up. You don't want to play games with this guy. Trust me. My ass is on the line here. And so is yours."
"Square business, Baghwan," Leventhal replied. "I just want to talk to the man. I'll play it any way you like."
The Baghwan nodded. "Okay. Here's how it is, then. In about ten minutes, we're going outside. We'll just stand on the sidewalk and have a smoke or two until the limo shows up. Then we get in, and you don't say another word, not one fucking word, until somebody tells you to." He glanced at me. "That goes for both of you. Understood?"
"Understood," said Leventhal, and I echoed his response.
The Baghwan sighed heavily. "I sure as hell hope you appreciate this."
"I do," said Leventhal. "I've never been anything but straight with you, Baghwan, you know that."
"Yeah, I know that," the Baghwan replied. "I also know that, right at this moment, I'm scared shitless."
"You?" said Leventhal.
"Yeah, me," said the Baghwan. "I've played about every angle there is to play in this town, but I've never gotten in this deep. The Mystic is heavy, believe me. I've never even met the man, but from what I've heard, I know enough to be seriously nervous."
"Why?" asked Leventhal. "I mean, we're not playing any games here. There's no hidden agenda. I just want to talk with the man. I'm not out to make a big, glamorous bust, Baghwan, honest
to God. I wouldn't set you up like that."
"Yeah, I know," the Baghwan said. "If I didn't trust you, I never would've gone through with this. I've never actually met the Mystic. Part of me's always wanted to, you know, but the other part, the part that knows what's good for Number One? That part has always told me to steer clear." He exhaled heavily. "I should've just kept my mouth shut."
"You're getting all wound up," Leventhal replied. "Okay, so the guy's got a heavy rep, but he's just an unregistered adept with money and some heavy connections, right? I mean, come on, what's the big deal?"
"You don't really understand, do you?" the Baghwan replied. "The Mystic isn't just some unregistered adept practicing without a license from the BOT. He's a whole different ball of wax. He's the real thing, you understand what I'm saying? The man's a witch, a magician in the classic sense, like Aleister Crowley was, and like Cagliostro and Saint-Germain."
"Who?" asked Leventhal.
"Hey, read a book," the Baghwan snapped nervously. "You're dealing with serious power here, you understand what I'm saying? We're not talking about some guy who picked up a little thaumaturgic knowledge on the side, okay? We're talking about the real thing, arcane knowledge, man, the kind of sorcery that goes back to the days when Merlin was teaching Arthur how to go potty. Let me make this as clear as I know how to make it, all right? You do one wrong thing tonight, one little fucking thing, and it's a good bet that neither you, nor I, nor Gomez here will ever be seen again."
"Well, I must say, I'm intrigued," said Leventhal. "This isn't like you, Baghwan. I've never seen you sweat before."
The Baghwan lit up one of his unfiltered cigarettes, and I noticed that his hand was shaking. "Let me put it this way," he said. "If I come back from this one, I'm going to be a lot more than just a guy who's got a few connections. A hell of a lot more. I'm going to be the guy. But... and this is a very big but, my friend... if we don't play this one exactly by the rules, that limo ride we're going to take in about ten minutes is going to be the last ride we ever take. And if you're not ready to deal with that, now's the time to tell me."
"It's your show, Baghwan," said Leventhal. "You call the shots."
The Baghwan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay," he said. "I hope you mean that, Dan. I sure as hell hope you do. Because from here on in, whatever I say, goes."
"You got it," Leventhal said.
The Baghwan stared at Leventhal for a moment, then nodded. "All right." He glanced at his watch. "We've got a little less than ten minutes."
The man was clearly more than a little nervous. Making a connection and setting up a meeting was one thing, but now that he was actually going to be involved himself, he was scared. Interesting. Very interesting, indeed. What Leventhal thought, I couldn't be sure of, but he seemed fascinated by it, as well. One way or another, we would soon find out.
I thought of all those scenes in Spillane's books, when Hammer knew he was heading into trouble... deep, deep trouble, and he just bulled his way on through, because that was the only way to get the answer. You gotta bring some to get some, I thought. That was one lesson I'd learned the hard way, and I'd learned it long ago. But lessons that you learn the hard way tend to stick. So Leventhal and I had both been warned. Okay. The rules had been spelled out. What remained was to play out the remainder of the game. I could deal with that. And my instinct told me that Leventhal could deal with it, too.
While we waited, Leventhal had another cup of Java, and that dark-haired angel, Becky, brought me another dish of cream. I lapped it up to the last drop. What the hell, I figured, if there was a chance it was going to be my last drink, I might as well enjoy it.
The long black limo pulled silently up to the curb and settled to the ground. The windows and the windshield were tinted dark, so it was impossible to see inside. A door in the passenger section opened and we got in. There was no one in there waiting for us. As soon as we got in, the door swung shut again, all by itself, and the limo rose up off the ground and silently skimmed off. The windows were black on the inside, as , so we couldn't see out. We had no way of knowing where we were going. And there was a partition between us and whoever was in the front seat, so we couldn't see them, either. The inside of the limo was nicely insulated from outside sounds. It was quiet as a tomb.
A little tray compartment opened in front of us and slid out, like a drawer. "Please deposit your pistol in the tray," a voice said, over an intercom.
For a second, Leventhal looked as if he were going to give the guy an argument, but he glanced at the Baghwan, who swallowed hard and nodded; Leventhal did as he was told. The tray retracted and then, a moment later, it slid out again, empty.
"And the knife in your boot, as well, please," said the voice.
Leventhal raised his eyebrows at that, but complied. The boot knife was whisked away, as well. I half-expected to see the little tray come sliding out again, and to hear the voice on the intercom ask me to drop my magic eyeball in there, which would have been a problem, as I've grown sort of attached to ole Betsy. However, the tray did not come sliding out again and the voice on the intercom merely said, "Thank you. Your weapons will be returned to you later, the same way. You will find refreshments in the bar cabinet in front of you. You may not speak, but you may smoke, read, or enjoy a musical selection available through the headphones. Relax and enjoy the ride."
Leventhal gave me an amused glanced, then lit up a cigarette and slipped on a set of headphones. I saw him frown and fiddle with the controls, and then an expression of pleased surprise crossed his face. He cranked up the volume knob all the way, settled back against the seat, and closed his eyes, bobbing his head in time to the music, which he had turned up so loud that both the Baghwan and I could hear it through the headphones. A guitar wailed a bluesy riff and the singer pleaded with some woman to let him be her "Forever Man." The Baghwan and I exchanged glances. He looked even more nervous than before. He fidgeted for a few moments, and finally surrendered to the whiskey from the bar cabinet.
The ride took about an hour and a half, though it was impossible to tell if we were going straight to our destination, or if our chauffeur was simply driving around in order to confuse us about the distance. Leventhal seemed content to simply smoke and listen to the music. The Baghwan chain-smoked his unfiltered cigarettes and worked on the whiskey supply. I simply curled up on the seat and ran the events of the past day through my mind.
In any killing, there has to be a motive. In this one, at least so far, we hadn't been able to come up with any sort of personal motive. Perhaps Susan Jacobs had had no enemies, but then, she hadn't had many friends, either, and none of them seemed to have any motive for wanting to kill her. One phrase kept cropping up whenever anyone described her. "She was all business." A woman with ambition, yet apparently, not much in the way of personality. In other words, a perfect candidate for public office. No one had testified to her having any vices, and indeed, if she'd had her eye on a political career, it would have been in her best interests to remain, as Leventhal had put it, "squeaky clean." Aside from that, she didn't seem to fit the profile of someone who'd have secrets. Her personality, according to Sean Prescott, had been rather bland, and while she'd been an attractive woman, she had cultivated a businesslike, professional attractiveness, not one that was seductive. Her friends seemed to match the profile, too. Nice, pleasant, attractive women, but hardly temptresses; women with good, respectable positions in the business community, whose idea of a good time was going out for a night of girl talk at an "unconventional" local coffeehouse. The man in her life was much the same, a good, solid, local businessman, clean-cut and attractive, but hardly a thrilling kind of guy. He was well off, and what they'd had in common had been their occupations in the media and a mutual interest in current events and politics. We didn't exactly have the ingredients for a major potboiler, here.
Unless there was something we hadn't yet uncovered, or the people we had spoken with were very good actors, none of the cl
assic emotional motives for murder seemed to apply. Passion, jealousy, revenge, they all seemed terms that were much too strong for someone as apparently colorless as Susan Jacobs. Possibly, money could have been a motive. We hadn't yet checked on the angle of who would benefit the most from her death, although we'd have that information soon. Still, the most likely motive seemed to be her involvement with the ERA proposal. So far, that was the only element of this case that seemed to generate any kind of strong emotions.
That, of course, brought us back to the religious fanatic angle. And it wouldn't be the first time. One of the risks in being a celebrity, as Susan Jacobs had been in her role as a broadcaster, was that one can become the target of all sorts of kooks out there who have an ax to grind. Small-minded, petty, ignorant, and insecure, such people often need only a focal point for their frustration to have their rage cut loose. It didn't necessarily have to be one of those Tabernacle people, it could be anyone to whom their message would appeal, and when you have a situation where that message was being widely broadcast, the list of suspects became positively endless.
I knew that Leventhal was hoping that wasn't the answer, that Susan Jacobs had been murdered by someone much closer to home, because otherwise, the odds of finding her killer became damned near impossible. But there was still the fact that whoever had phoned in those death threats had known her private number. And the possibility, as yet unconfirmed, that the bomb might have been planted while her car was still in the garage.
I had looked over the parking lot across the street from the building where K-Talk had its studios. It was open and, in the morning hours, it would certainly have been well lit. There hadn't been an attendant on duty-it was one of those drop-a-bill-in-a-slot affairs-and there was a sign warning that vehicles improperly parked there would be impounded. Anyone could've gotten in there and had access to any of the cars, but, on the other hand, during the time that Susan Jacobs was on the air, doing the morning news and feature show, the city was just coming awake and there was lots of traffic in the streets, both vehicular and pedestrian. It would've taken a pretty cool customer to plant a bomb in that lot, with cars and people going by all the time. Which wasn't to say that wasn't how it was done. But if it had been me, I would've wanted some more privacy.
