Massaging the redhead's waist. The dog nosed his ankle but he ignored it. The girls looked uncomfortable but Nyquist seemed oblivious to that, too. Finally, they drew away.
Nyquist held on to their wrists for a moment, let go, stretched his grin, patted both their rumps as they ran ofo The dog followed, lumbering.
He came back. "Pardon the interlude. Got to keep the wenches in line."
Aiming for sexual bravado but coming across too strongalmost caricaturist. It reminded me of his interaction with Gina a couple of days ago. Nuances of tension that I hadn't thought much of at the time.
I could handle a Pepsi, Mrs. R. Or anything else you got that's cold and sweet.
I'll get Madeleine to fix you something.
Older woman, young stud? Tennis for hubby, other kind of lessons for the lady of the house?
Hardly original, but people so seldom were when they transgressed.
I said, "Any idea where Mrs. R. might be, Todd?"
"No," he said, scrunching his face. "It's really a mystery. I mean, where could she go, being afraid and all that?"
"She ever talk to you about her fears?"
"No, we not at all. But hanging around someone's house you just pick stuff up." He glanced toward the house. "Wanna have a beer or something?"
"No, thanks. Got to be heading back."
"Bummer," he said, but he looked relieved. "You look in pretty good shape. What do you do in terms of workout?"
"Bit of running."
"How much?"
"Six to ten miles a week."
"Better watch it-running's ultra high-impact. Four times your weight every stride. Bad for the joints. Bad for the spine, too."
"I've got a cross-country ski machine now."
"Excellent-the ultimate aerobic. If you alternate that with some muscle-lengthening weight-training, you'll be doing yourself the ultimate favor."
"Thanks for the advice."
"No prob. If you're interested in some one-on-one training, give me a call. I don't have any cards with me but you can always get me through Mr. and Mrs. through Mr. R. Shaking his head. Shee, that was dumb.
Sure hope they find her-she's a real nice lady."
I walked back to the Seville and took a few moments to look at the ocean. The windsurfer was out of view but the pelicans had returned and were swooping and retrieving. Seagulls and terns followed in their wake, content with the leavings. A couple of oblong gray cigars were visible floating atop the horizon. Oil tankers making their way up the coast. I wondered what it would be like to live at sea.
To be reminded, constantly, of insignificance and infinity.
Before I could take that any further I heard engine noise, then happy shouts that turned into "Hey! Mr. Landlord!"
A white VW Golf with the top down had pulled up next to me.
The blonde from the beach was behind the wheel, a cigarette fuming between her fingers. The redhead sat next to her, eating from a box of Fiddle Faddle and holding an open can of Coors. Both girls had put gauzy white shirts over their bathing suits but had left them unbuttoned. Bernie the dog sat in the back seat, panting and lolling and looking motion-sick.
"Hi," said the redhead.
"Neat old car. My dad had one just like it.
I smiled at the thought of the Seville as an antique. Ten years old.
The day I'd bought it, these two had probably been in third grade.
"Do you, like, garage it?" said the blonde.
"Uh-huh."
"Neat."
"Thanks."
"You really with the landlord? "Cause Traci and me are looking for a place closer to the beach. We're across PCH, now, down at Las Flores, and the beach there isn't a keeper-too wet, lots of rocks.
We're willing to work-light aupair; babysitting, whatever, like for a trade? Todd said he'd help but we figure we can talk for ourselo" "Sorry," I said. "I do know Todd's landlord but I'm not in the real-estate business."
The blonde's face managed to turn ugly while retaining its beauty.
"What a firp! Told you, Mar, it was total bullshit!"
The redhead wrinkled her nose and looked injured.
I said, "What's the matter?"
"Todd," said the redhead. "He bullshat us royal."
"How?"
"Said you were a real-estate stud and if we were nice to him, he'd talk to you about finding us a place here on Broad. We used to live here-aupairing for Dave Dumas and his wife when they rented last summer, so people think we still live here and don't hassle us when we come down, but we want to be right here all the time, or at least somewhere dry."
"Dave Dumas the basketball player?"
"Yeah. Mr. Stretch." Shared giggles.
"We took care of his kids," said the blonde. "Really big kids from a really big guy." She laughed some more, then turned abruptly serious.
"We'd really like to get back here to Broad-the beach is a total keeper and the concerts at the Trancas Cafe' are heating up. Last week Eddie Van Halen showed up to jam."
"We're willing to work," said the redhead. "Todd said he could get us a trade."
"Fag-wuss!" said the blonde. "Last time we're nice to him." She gunned the Golf's engine. The dog jerked in alarm.
I said, "What exactly did he want from you?"
"He was, like, act like we thought he was hot. Let him touch us in front of you." Turning to the redhead: "Told you, Mar. I was like, sure, Todd, you might ever be."
"Todd's not hot in real life?"
Giggles all around. The redhead picked a piece of popcorn out of the box and handed it back to the dog.
"He likes it," she said. "Bernie's got a sugar thing."
"Enjoy, Bernie," I said, walking over and petting the dog. His fur was matted and clogged with salt and dirt. As I rubbed his neck, he whined with pleasure.
"So Todd's no keeper," I said.
A wary look came into the blonde's eyes. Up close her face was hard, ready to age, already starting to leather from too much sun and risk-taking.
"You're not like a good friend of his or anything?" she said.
"Not at all," I said. "I do know the people who own the house.
But I only met Todd once before."
"So you're not, like-" The blonde smiled, gave an arch look, and raised her wrist limply.
"Tra-ace! That's like so ru-ude!"
"So?" said the blonde. "He's the one who does it! He should be embarrassed!"
I said, "Todd's gay?"
"For sure," said the redhead.
"A muscle-fag," said the blonde.
"Wasted buff," said the redhead. The dog coughed. She said, "Don't stress out, Bern."
"That's why it was rank," said the blonde. "Using us to make like he's into girls-I mean, maybe he's got a buff body but his head's not buff I that's for sure."
"How do you know he's gay?" I said.
"Well," said the blonde, laughing and gunning the engine again, "it's not like we go around watching him do it or anything."
"He's got guys coming in and out all the time," said the redhead. "He says he's training them, but one time I saw him and this guy holding hands and kissing."
"Rank!" said the blonde, elbowing her friend. "You never told me.
"Yeah, it was a long time ago. When we were still with Big Dave."
"Big Dave," said the blonde, giggling.
"How long ago was that?" I said.
Bafflement. Both of them looked as if they were struggling with a difficult word problem.
Finally the redhead said, "A long time ago maybe five weeks.
Buffy Todd and this other guy were walking in back of the house.
Right over there, I was walking Bernie." She pointed to the cement pad. "And they touched their hands. Then the other guy got in his car white five-sixty SEC with these brushed-steel custom wheelsand Todd leaned in and gave him a little kiss."
"Rank," said the blonde.
"Kind of sweet, actually," said the redhead, looking as if she meant it. But th
e empathy didn't fit, and she squirmed and burst into nervous laughter.
I said, "Remember what this other guy looked like?"
She shrugged. "He was old."
"How old?"
"Older than you." Even.
"Forties?"
"Older."
"Maybe he was Todd's dad," said the blonde, smirking. "You can kiss your dad, right, Mar?"
"Maybe," said the redhead. "Little Todd and his dad, kissing."
They looked at each other. Shook their heads, giggled some more.
"No way," said the redhead. "This was true love." She gave a reflective look. "Actually, the old guy was kind of buff. For an old guy.
Kind of like Tom Selleck."
I said, "He had a mustache?"
The redhead strained. "I think so. Maybe. I just remember he reminded me of Tom Selleck. An old Tom Selleck. Buff tan. Big chest."
"How come, said the blonde, "so many of them are buff? What a waste.
-" "It's "cause they're rich, Trace," said the redhead. "They can afford to buy special supplements, get lipoed-out, whatever."
"Suck and tuck," said the blonde, touching her own flat midriff.
"If I ever need that, put me to sleep." She stuck her hand in the box of Fiddle Faddle and groped around.
"Geez, don't touch everything!" said the redhead, tugging on the box.
The blonde held fast and said, "Almonds." Smile. "Here we go."
She pulled out a nut and placed it between her teeth. Looked at me, flicked it with her tongue, and bit down slowly.
I said, "That the last time you saw this old guy around-five weeks?"
"Yup," said the redhead, looking wistful. "It's been a long time since we hit dry sand."
"So," said the blonde, "can you do anything for us?"
"Like I said, I'm not in the real estate business, but I do know some people let me check around. Why don't you write down your names and numbers."
"Sure!" said the redhead, beaming. Then she grew grave.
"What is it?"
"No pen."
"No prob," I said, resisting the impulse to wink. I went back to the Seville, found a ballpoint and an old mechanic's receipt in the glove compartment, and handed it to her. "Write on the back."
Using the Fiddle Faddle box as a desk, she wrote laboriously as the blonde looked on. The dog planted a wet nose on the back of my hand and wheezed in gratitude when I rubbed him again.
"Here." The redhead thrust the paper at me.
Maria and Thaci. Looping script. Hearts over the I's. An address on Flores Mesa Drive. A 456 exchange.
I smiled and said, "Great, I'll do what I can. In the meantime, good luck."
"We've already got it," said the blonde.
"Got what?" said the redhead.
"Luck. We always get what we want, right, Mar?"
Giggles and a cloud of dust as the Golf shot forward.
I watched them speed to the northern end of Broad Beach Road and disappear. It took a second to register that they were around Melissa's age.
I made a three-point turn and headed back for the highway.
Older man and young stud.
Older man with a mustache and a tan.
Lots of tan, mustachioed gay men in L.A. Lots of white Mercedes.
But if Don Ramp drove a white 560 SEC with brushed-steel wheels, I was willing to go out on a limb and assume.
I joined the southbound traffic on PCH and drove home assuming even without prooo Casting Ramp as Nyquist's lover and recasting the tension that I'd witnessed between Nyquist and Gina.
Another macho charade on his part?
Anger on hers?
Did she know?
Did that have something to do with her hints about making a life-style change?
Separate bedrooms.
Separate bank accounts.
Separate lives.
Or had she known about Ramp when she'd married him?
Why, after living a bachelor life for so long, had he married her?
Gina's banker and lawyer seemed certain it hadn't been for money, citing the prenuptial agreement as proof.
But prenuptials-and wills-could be contested. And lifeinsurance policies could be taken out without bankers and lawyers being informed.
Or perhaps inheritance had nothing to do with it. Maybe Ramp simply needed a cover for the good, conservative folks of San Labrador.
Hearth and home and a child who hated his guts.
What could be more all-American?
I got home just after five. Milo was out. He'd recorded a new greeting on his machine. No more misanthropy. Businesslike: Please leave your message. I asked him to please call when he had a chance.
I phoned San Labrador and got Madeleine.
Mademoiselle Melissa was not feeling well. She was sleeping.
Non, Monsieur was not there, either.
A catch in her voice. Click.
I paid bills, straightened the house, fed the fish some more and noticed that they looked tired-especially the females. Did thirty minutes on the ski machine and showered.
Next time I looked at my watch, it was seven-thirty.
Friday night.
Date night.
Without thinking it through, I called San Antonio. A man answered with a wary "Hello?" When I asked for Linda, he said, "Who's this?"
"A friend from Los Angeles."
"Oh. She's over at Behar at the hospital."
"Her dad?"
"Yeah. This is Conroy, her uncle his brother. I'm over from Houston, came down today."
"Alex Delaware, Mr. Overstreet. I'm a friend from L.A. Hope it's nothing serious."
"Yeah, well, that's what I'd like to hope, too, but I'm sorry to say that's not the case. My brother passed out this morning. They revived him but it wasn't easy some kinda problem with circulation and the kidneys. They've got him over in intensive care. The whole family's over there. I just came back to get some things and caught your call."
"I won't keep you.
"Thank you, sir.
"Please tell Linda I called. If there's anything I can do, let me know."
"I'll be sure to do that, sir. Thank you for offering."
Click.
Wrong reason to do it, but I did it anyway.
"Hello."
"Alex! How are you?"
"Got a date tonight?"
She laughed. "A date? No, just sitting here by the phone."
"Care to change your luck?"
More laughter. Why did it sound so good?
"Hmm, I don't know," she said. "My mother always told me not to go out with any boy who didn't ask by Wednesday night."
"Good old Mom."
"Then again, she was full of shit about lots of other things.
What time?"
"Half an hour."
She came out of the front door of her studio just as I pulled in front of the building. She was wearing a thin black silk turtleneck and tight black jeans tucked into black suede boots. Lips glossed, eyes shadowed, curls full and gleaming. I wanted her, badly. Before I could get out, she opened her own door, scooted next to me, radiating heat.
One hand in my hair. Kissing me before I had a chance to catch my breath.
We necked fiercely. She bit me a couple of times, seemed almost angry.
Just as I ran out of breath, she broke it off and said, "What's for dinner?"
"I was thinking Chinese." Thinking of all the times we'd eaten takeout in bed. "Of course, we could call out for it and stay here."
"Never mind that. I want a date."
We drove to a place in Brentwood-the standard Mandarin! Szechuan menu and paper lanterns, but always reliable-and feasted for an hour, then headed over to a comedy club in Hollywood. A lighthearted place we used to enjoy together. Neither of us had been there with anyone else.
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 06 - Private Eyes Page 32
