Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I was getting a little twitchy. Either this Kay Denver knew a whole lot about how to build up suspense in a man, or she was in a terribly ambivalent state, possibly requiring the services of a psychiatrist more than a detective. But perhaps I was being unfair. Which made us even.

  She was saying, “I haven't even asked you yet, Shell. If you can help, would you start right away? I don't mean right now, tonight, of course. But tomorrow first thing?"

  “Well ... Actually, no. I've just finished a case, and normally I'd be free. But something came up this morning. I've accepted a job for a new client, and usually I concentrate on only one case at a time. Usually. I've always felt I should concentrate all my energies and attention on the single job at hand, instead of ... Usually, that is. I suppose there could be a situation—"

  “Will it take long? This case you just got?"

  “I—it could, but I don't think it will. The more I think about it, the sooner I bet I wrap it up."

  “What kind of case? Is it a long, complicated thing, Shell?"

  “No. Well, yes, it's a little complicated in a way. But, no, I don't think it'll take long. I just have to find, locate, a—person. I put some lines out today, talked to my client, ran an ad, that sort of thing. Just preliminary getting-started angles. I won't really know until tomorrow whether any of the angles might pay off. Probably late tomorrow, if then. So there's really not much left for me to do tonight. Unless—"

  “An ad? You mean advertisement? Is that how detectives solve cases? I don't understand."

  “This is just an ad...” I stopped. But there was no reason not to tell Kay about that message; all of L.A. could read it tomorrow. So I went on, “An ad in the Personal Message and Missing Persons columns of the Times, I'm hoping to locate a girl, a woman, and I'm much more optimistic about the thing working than I was a minute ago—several hours ago, I mean. Very good chance I'll wrap this case up in a ... jiffy."

  “But you won't really know anything for sure until tomorrow, or tomorrow night?” She took her hand away from her breast, casually placed the envelope on the table before her. “Probably late tomorrow, you said?"

  “If then, yeah. But I might get lucky. I'm a lucky fellow. Usually. And usually—"

  “I was thinking, Shell."

  “OK."

  “If you get everything finished tomorrow, or tomorrow night, then you could concentrate on me—working on this for me, couldn't you?"

  “Sure. Wrap it up in a jiffy."

  She pushed the envelope toward me. Not far. Maybe a couple of inches. “I could let you take these photos with you—"

  “Sure. Yeah. I'll study them—"

  “—and then, if you get time tomorrow, you could come over and look at my apartment. And maybe figure out how whoever did this is doing it.” She shook her head. “I just can't think of any way it could have happened."

  “There's a way. I'll bet I find it."

  “So you take these, Shell. Quick, before I change my mind."

  I picked them up quick, and had two fingers inside the envelope when she cried, “Oh, no, don't look at them now. Wait until I'm gone."

  “Gone?"

  “I couldn't sit here with you while you looked at all those photographs of ... me. Of me ... you know. Some of them are—well, whoever did it is probably a professional photographer. Maybe that's a clue for you. They're so clear, and sharp, you can even see—I just couldn't, that's all.” She paused, then went on, “Maybe you can tell something from the paper they're printed on, or the kind of camera he must have used, things like that."

  “Maybe. Probably. Incidentally, how did you get them? Were they mailed to you?"

  “No. That's part of how crazy all this is. They were inside the front door of my apartment, on a little table there, when I got up yesterday morning. Inside my apartment."

  “Yesterday? Not this morning, then."

  “No, yesterday. I just ... stewed for a while, didn't know what to do. And there wasn't any note or anything, just the pictures. In this same envelope they're in now."

  “No message ‘I'm watching you’ or ‘How about a date?’ or demand for payment of money, nothing?"

  “Nothing.” She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Only those damned photographs."

  They were still in my hand. I put them in my coat pocket. “You don't have any idea who might have taken the shots?"

  “No idea.” She looked soberly at me. “Shell, this may seem odd to you, and maybe not very important. But it's important to me. And ... the worst thing is not understanding, and...” She stopped, went on softly, “I'm scared."

  “Well, there's got to be an explanation, Kay. I mean for how it was done. As to the why, and who, I'll dig into that as soon as I can.” I paused. “Wouldn't it be funny if some guy invented a camera that could take pictures at a distance? Just set the dials for latitude X and longitude Y, and click, you've got a picture of whatever's there. Or whoever."

  “Is there something like that?"

  “No, no, I was just saying what if there was? Wouldn't that be great? I mean, great invention ... not so great for you, of course. There'd be all kinds of amateur photographers dialing your latitude and long..."

  She was giving me a strange look. “You're—"

  “Don't say it,” I said. “Let's start over. About tonight—"

  “Why don't I call you tomorrow, Shell? Find out how you're doing, when you might have time for me."

  “Sure. But I was saying, about—"

  She scooted sideways in the booth, stood up. “I'll call you around five p.m., all right? Of course, you could call me before then if you've solved your case, or whatever it is, and you're free. Couldn't you?"

  “Sure. But I've got a better idea, Kay. Even when I'm working, I have to eat. So do you. Everybody does. So why don't we do it together?"

  “Do ... what together?"

  “Eat. Go to dinner. I'll call you tomorrow, when there's a break in my feverish activity, which there will probably be plenty of, and take you to some fabulously expensive bistro. For dinner. How about that?"

  She was standing by the booth now, so I slid out, stood next to her. She hadn't let out any squeals of pleasure, so I said, “OK? How about that? Great idea, huh?"

  In heels, she was only an inch or two shorter than I, which would have made her pretty close to five-ten, a tall lady. Tall, with a full-to-the-brim figure, prominent high breasts pushing against a V-necked white blouse and the dark blue cloth of her suit, obviously curving hips. Not a lightweight, but tall enough to carry all of those splendid pounds with ease and grace, she looked good to me.

  No question, she did know all the tricks of keeping a guy in suspense. Not a peep from her yet. But her lips were saying something that was probably significant. Yes? No? Maybe? Only if you like my pictures? Only if you don't like my pictures? Only if you don't look at my pictures?

  But then, after at least three or four seconds, she smiled warmly and said, “Fine. I'd enjoy that very much, Shell. You can tell me how you're doing on your case, and I can tell you if I hear any more from, or see, my Invisible Man."

  “Done. I'll call—"

  “Why don't I just meet you here again, Shell? Like ... five o'clock? Or later?"

  “Five's fine. But I can pick you up. I'll even get the car washed."

  “I'd rather meet you, Shell. I'll be out most of the afternoon anyway. I don't want to just sit around in my apartment, and wait. I'm ... uncomfortable there now. Let's meet here, and we can start with a martini. Or two."

  “Or three,” I said.

  “Three ... at the most."

  So Kay knew that sexy martini-toast, too. And this time her smile wasn't just warm, it was hot. Lips curving, tip of tongue held between white teeth, those dark brown eyes almost smoldering, one arched black brow raised. There was something more than sultry about that face, something almost savage. At least, at that moment there was.

  Then she smiled. “Five o'clock, then. Here. You and me
and martinis. Then off to your bistro—fabulously expensive, you said?"

  “You better believe it. Just a plain glass of water's a nickel."

  “I like a man with class. Well, bye. I feel better, Shell. Really. I think you're going to help me."

  And then she stretched upward a bit, moved slightly closer, and kissed me very gently on the lips. Just a touch, a brief pressure, a moment of warmth and smoothness and perfumed softness, before she turned and walked away from me. She moved with a long firm stride and an almost poetically rhythmic sway, hips swinging in sensual undulations as if their joints and sockets were immersed in and lubricated with hot honey.

  I sucked in a deep breath, sat down in the booth again, pulled the envelope from my coat pocket, and took out the photographs. I could still feel the gentle pressure of Kay's mouth pressed lightly against mine, see that hot-honey undulation of her hips, as I took my first look at the photos, in living and lascivious color, of lovely and luscious Kay Denver.

  Who, it developed, was even lovelier and more luscious than I had guessed.

  Chapter Four

  home is the Spartan Apartment Hotel on North Rossmore in Hollywood, near Beverly Boulevard. At 8 p.m., after stopping for a steak dinner on the way, I parked in the garage behind the Spartan, trotted into the lobby, and headed up the stairs, waving a quick hi to Jimmy, the young night man behind the desk.

  I let myself into 212, my three rooms and bath on the second floor, and flipped on the overhead lights. There was already soft illumination in the living room from the two fish tanks against the front wall. One of them is a ten-gallon aquarium like the one in my office, also bright with guppies, several of which, after the commotion of my entrance, zigzagged about in all directions through and around the green clumps of anacharis and cabomba, darting up, down, and sideways like the colorful tumbling of a kaleidoscope or a small star shell exploding.

  I accepted this as the fishes’ way of saying they were glad to see me, and paused for a moment in front of the larger of the two aquariums. It's a twenty-gallon tank in which I keep the two black mollies—Poecilia sphenops—four little sharklike Panchax chaperi, two red swordtails, a pair of Rasbora heteromorpha, a couple of little catfish scavenging on the sandy bottom. Plus an adult pair of Paracheirodon innesi, or neon tetras, along with my two all-time prizes, a pair of frisky personally-raised-from-little-bitty-eggs baby neons. The colorful dandies are so-called because of the bright bluish-greenish strip extending from eye back to caudal fin, so vivid it's actually like a thin neon sign, glowing, shimmering, iridescent.

  But I called those two little ones my prizes not because of their electric brilliance, but because I was essentially, or at least by one remove, their daddy. I had placed a healthy adult male neon, and a particularly fetching gravid female fat and heavy with eggs, in a separate aquarium, carefully pH and temperature-controlled, and fed them the fish equivalent of steak and lobster and organic vegetables and wheat germ and vitamins. Which is to say, with lots of live food like tubifex worms and brine shrimp and wiggly daphnia, until they presented me with a whole slew of little-bitty eggs from which, eventually, emerged and grew three dazzling offspring. I was almost proud enough to pass out cigars.

  Well, maybe you're not all that interested. But, if you wondered why, when I had three baby neons to start with, there are only two in the tank now, that's easy: One of the little fellows died. Just keeled over. No, I didn't dig a hole and stick him in it, with a card saying “Here lies Elmer,” etc. I may be a little eccentric, but I'm not that dumb. Besides, the other fish ate Elmer. He was just floating there, belly up at the top of the tank, and zip. Gone. Makes a man think.

  I dropped a little dried salmon meal on top of the water in both tanks, then turned on the table lamp next to the chocolate-brown divan. The apartment consists of living room, kitchenette, bath, and bedroom. In the living room, a low black-lacquered coffee table rests in front of the divan, and beyond the table are three large leather hassocks, seldom in the same places on the yellow-gold carpet. The carpet itself is thick with a heavy shag nap and beneath it is a double-thick pad that feels almost like a mattress under the feet, especially when they are bare feet. Plus a gas-log fireplace, and on the wall above it my provocative Amelia, the somewhat garish yard-square nude I picked up long ago in a pawnshop.

  In the bedroom, black carpet, oversize bed, stereo and TV with VCR, walk-in closet filled with a few suits and dress shirts, plus lots of sport jackets, shirts, slacks, some of them in very bright hues indeed, slippers and shoes including several pairs of polished reddish-brown cordovans.

  The kitchenette is small, with a breakfast booth big enough for two friendly people, microwave oven, refrigerator and freezer, cabinets with dishes, bourbon, vodka, gin, and vermouth, and a few ambrosial liqueurs, should a lady desire something like crème de menthe or Frangelico.

  I flopped on the divan, propped my feet on the coffee table, and examined those photos of Kay Denver again.

  In Pete's, I had been impressed with the dark, sensual beauty of her face, and guessed that the tailored suit and V-necked white blouse covered a full-curved woman's body as lovely and impressive as the face. I hadn't been wrong. The photos—there were three of them—eliminated any need for guessing. In one of them she was seminude, in both others completely bare and beautiful.

  The photo I'd gotten a mere glimpse of when Kay first started to hand them to me was of her apparently leaving the shower. Part of its frosted-glass door and a strip of chrome edging were visible behind her. Her arms were raised, both hands holding a fluffy pink towel around her head. Drops of water sparkled on her high full breasts, on the smooth skin other abdomen, in the dark nest of pubic hair, on her long firm thighs. Her eyes were closed, pink tip of tongue at one corner of her mouth.

  The second shot was of Kay, nude, bending slightly forward as she pulled on a pair of lace-trimmed pink panties that were halfway up her thighs. The last shot was of Kay lying on her back, on a large bed covered with a smooth white spread, the ornate design of brass bedstead slightly out of focus beyond her head. None of Kay Denver was out of focus, however. Her head, resting on a pillow underneath the white spread, was rolled slightly to one side. Her lips were parted, eyes half closed. I could see each individual black lash, almost make out the pores in the pink skin other breasts.

  This was the shot of which Kay had said, “He couldn't have been up there on the ceiling, could he?” She had exaggerated about that one, because the shot had clearly not been taken from high overhead. As a guess, I would have said the camera was some distance from the foot of the bed but not more than six or eight feet above floor level. Three or four feet above Kay's bare body, yes; but hardly “on the ceiling.” That still didn't answer any of the questions about who could have taken those shots, or how.

  All three photos had been printed on glossy Kodak color paper. They were so sharp and clear that I assumed they were contact prints rather than enlargements from 35mm film. Which only suggested that the “invisible” photographer's camera exposed a four-by-five-inch negative, not what kind of camera it was. And I couldn't tell much about where the photographer, or at least that camera, might have been from the photos themselves, not without looking over Kay's apartment. Which would have to wait at least until tomorrow, if not longer.

  So I put the three photos back in their envelope, left the envelope on the coffee table, got up and walked into my bedroom. I had pushed the vision of Kay's loveliness, of those full flowing curves, out of my mind, I thought. But as I undressed and glanced at my bed, for a moment I could almost see her there, long bare body atop the spread in the same pose as was enticingly displayed in that color print of Kay relaxing nude in her apartment, lips parted, eyes half closed.

  So I firmly pushed her out of my thoughts again, took a quick shower, walked back to the bed, asked Kay to please move the hell over, and climbed between the sheets.

  * * * *

  I pulled myself up and sat on the side of my bed as the
second alarm stopped with a ting-ting and final ting, and I smacked my lips, opened one eye, and said, “Bluh."

  Over black coffee, I checked the L.A. Times, found my ad. It was one of half a dozen, but happened to fall at the top of a column in the continuation of those Personal Messages, so the opening boldface “Money for a Spree” line sort of jumped off the page.

  I wondered how many other people in and around L.A. were reading the same paragraph; and if Spree would see it, and call me, and let me wrap up this case in a jiffy; and if Kay Denver had found any more gorgeous—but admittedly disturbing, even frightening—photos in her apartment.

  After forcing down a piece of toast for breakfast—none of my appetites get up until an hour or so after I do in the morning—along with more black coffee, I called my office number in the Hamilton Building and got Hazel on the PBX. It was just after 9 a.m.

  “Sheldon Scott, Investigations,” she said brightly. “May I help you?"

  “Hi."

  “Oh, it's you. At least it sounds sluggish and gummy. Is this the late Shell Scott?"

  “Don't make me think, Hazel. You know I don't wake up until it's time to go to bed."

  “Sex, sex, that's all you men think of—"

  “Check the morning Times, will you, dear? Personal Message section.” I gave her the page number in the classifieds, and a line or two of the message. “There may be a call coming in to the office, in response to that ad.” I paused. “In fact, because I was dumb enough to use the phrase ‘very large fortune,’ you might get two or three calls. The lady I'm looking for, the one who really is in line for a large fortune, is not only named Michelle but her mother's maiden name was Nicole Elaine Montapert. Write that down, will you?"

  “It's down. Spell the last name."