INTO THE DARK : A TOM DEATON NOVEL

by Richard B. Schwartz

  “What do you mean, Chief?”

  “Well, I can’t commit the full resources of the Department to a long shot. There are too many other things facing us. Plus there’s the likely reaction from the other side—pointing out that we’re always ready to invest resources when the rich and powerful die, but when the concerns of everyday people are raised we stand by and let them slide.”

  “So what are you going to do, Chief?”

  “Like I said—take a different tack.”

  “Yes, sir . . . ?” Brighton said, waiting for the second shoe to land.

  “I’m going to ask Tom Deaton to take a look at it.”

  Brighton paused before asking his next question. “Is he well enough to do that?”

  “I’ll have to talk to him. He was released from the hospital a couple days ago. I had lunch with him yesterday. He’s a little tired, but he’s certainly alert and ambulatory. You can’t lay in a hospital bed for weeks and then suddenly jump up and start running down the beach. Still, I think he could do it. I think it would be good for him.”

  Brighton paused, not wanting to fill in the blanks. Deaton had been recently passed over for Lieutenant, not because of any problems with his record or his abilities. Charlie Castle retired; the Chief needed a Lieutenant and he had two candidates: Tom Deaton and Alonzo Williams. Lon’s record was strong and Tom was recovering from surgery, his long-term prospects uncertain at best. When he checked into Saddleback Memorial nobody was sure that he’d ever come out again head first and when he actually did it was weeks later than even the moderate optimists had expected.

  “I’d be happy to help in any way that I could,” Brighton said. “I’m sure Lon would say the same.”

  “I appreciate that,” Dietrich said. “If he feels up to taking the case I’ll tell him that he should feel free to draw on all the resources of the Department. I won’t tell him you’ve volunteered. I don’t want him to feel as if we think he’ll need to be propped up.”

  “I understand, Sir.”

  “Tom’s a good detective. Maybe he’ll see something that no one else has seen so far.”

  “Right.”

  “Or maybe I’m just trying to be one of the optimists.”

  “About Tom or about the case?”

  “Both. I like the fact that Tom goes way back with the town and the county. I came in from L.A. and you and Lon started out in San Diego. Tom’s an O.C. cave dweller, at least by O.C. standards. His grandfather came in after the war, from Kentucky, I think. His dad’s worked at the harbor in Newport Beach for decades. I don’t know how much Tom knows about art, but he knows how important the shops and galleries and artists have been to this town. I’m not big on touchy/feely approaches, but when you live somewhere for as long as he has you do get a feel for the place and what the people who live there do. Like I said, I’m going to try to be optimistic on this one.”

  Chapter Six

  Wilshire at 2nd, Santa Monica

  Sunday, 2:30 p.m.

  By the time Diana left UCLA the west side was blanketed with smoke-gray cloud cover. The wind was up and the drizzle was blowing in from the coast, smearing her windshield and streaking the sides of her car with swipes of moist dust and grit. She flipped off the wiper control as she pulled into the four-car lot behind David’s Santa Monica gallery. A second car was already parked there, the administrator’s, Sandra Harkin. Diana took her key from her purse and unlocked the steel door at the rear of the building without pausing to knock.

  Sandra came out of her office, her faced marked by displeasure at what she considered to be an intrusion. She was tall and gym-and-diet slim, holding back middle age. The sunlines on her face meshed with the hard outlines of the body beneath her black skirt. “Hello, Diana,” she said. “I’m very sorry about your loss. I don’t understand this at all. I really don’t know what I can say.”

  Diana nodded in response. She was preoccupied, walking from room to room through the gallery. “Are there any pieces not on display?” she asked.

  “Not really,” Sandra answered. “There’s a small watercolor packaged for delivery. It’s next to my desk. There’s also an older canvas I’ve agreed to reframe, but that’s all. It’s the one of the woman in the park, the one with all the greens. Everything else is out.”

  “Everything?”

  “Yes, Diana, everything.”

  “Did David say anything to you about any other projects on which he was working?”

  “Nothing specific. Why do you ask?”

  “Anything in other media?”

  “What do you mean, other media?”

  “Something unconventional.”

  “Such as?”

  “Did he say anything about any projects that you would consider out of the ordinary?”

  “No, as I told you . . .”

  “Thank you,” Diana said and walked toward the door. She paused for a moment and turned. “I know that you were close to David also, Sandra. I’m very sorry.”

  Sandra nodded. “What’s happened, Diana? What are they saying?”

  “They’re saying that David killed himself.”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “I know.”

  “Why did you ask me about an unconventional project? What was David doing when he died?”

  “Painting,” Diana answered.

  “How is that unconventional?”

  “I really can’t say. I’m really not sure,” Diana said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I, yet. I’m sorry, there’s nothing more that I can tell you at this point.”

  “It’s hardly the time to say so, but this will make you a very wealthy woman, Diana. The price of David’s work will double at least.”

  “I don’t care about that,” she said. “I want to find out what happened to my brother and why.”

  “What about the police? Aren’t they investigating?”

  “I’m afraid they’re going to close out the case. They don’t have adequate evidence to pursue it.”

  “What about a lawyer or private investigator?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to see.”

  As she headed up Wilshire to the 405 she hit a break in the cement and heard the bump in her glove box. She suddenly remembered that she still had her pistol. At UCLA she had left it in the car, fearing she would set off the alarm of the detector frame at the door of the main library. She opened the glove box, took the pistol in her hand for a moment, and rested it against her leg, the weight somehow confirming its reality. She ran her right thumbnail along the hard ridges and logo near the top of the grip. After slipping it into her purse she caught the slight smell of oil on her palm and fingertips. She held her hand near her face, catching the scent as she moved her fingers, imagining a cologne sample sprayed on a cardboard sheet, waving rhythmically in a hand with pink-white fingers and polished red nails.

  It was 4:10 by the time she pulled into her driveway, parked her car in the garage, and began collecting her thoughts. She was holding her open purse in her hand when she hit the garage door button and turned the knob on the door connecting the garage with the house. Half-way through the kitchen she sensed something was wrong. There was something in the air, faint but still perceptible. It was heavy, funereal. She thought about the scent for a second, remembering the fresh corsages from her high school dances. Most of the boys bought carnations or sweetheart roses, especially those from above the freeway, measuring their investment against their evening prospects. Her dates had always given her gardenias.

  In the living room the smell was stronger. She stopped by the closet, took out her pistol, and listened. She noticed that the closet door was shut, flush with the jamb. Ever since the house had settled, that door had been out of plumb. In the summers when it was hot and dry it fell open; when the winter rains came an
d it was moist and damp the door caught at the top, but it never closed neatly. Diana never bothered to have it fixed. Someone unfamiliar with her habits had closed it, someone who had been in the house since she left. What were they looking for? For David’s things? For her?

  She opened the door, ready with her pistol, but no one was there. She turned and walked up the stairs, slowly and quietly, stretching her legs and avoiding the center of the fifth step whose squeak could betray her presence. By now her index finger was resting above the pistol’s trigger guard. She searched the house room by room but there was no further evidence of the intruder’s actions.

  She went to the bedroom at the northeast corner of the house. The windows were covered with heavy green drapes. She walked to the left corner of the window, pulled the drape back just enough to be able to see the street beyond. There were no unfamiliar cars, just the Lawrences’ dusty Range Rover and the second-hand, navy blue BMW driven by their daughter, Erin. Diana’s mind was running to ugly possibilities: listeners with parabolic microphones, mines on the other side of steel fenders and firewalls, poisoned juice or milk, unscented gas, marksmen with precision sights, waiting for a clear shot.

  She went back downstairs to the kitchen and saw the blinking red light on her telephone answering machine. She hit the play button.

  “Dr. Bennett . . .” the disembodied voice said. “This is Lieutenant Bill Brighton. I hope you’re all right. I just wanted to let you know that I spoke to the Chief here in Laguna. He’s spoken to the District Attorney and they all agree that we should proceed with the investigation, even though the facts still point in . . . another direction. We’ll be in touch soon.”

  I can’t stand here waiting for a call, she thought and hurried down the hall, took a small suitcase from the closet, entered her room, put the case on her bed and started to go through her drawers for clothes to pack. She found some blouses and slacks, some shoes and underwear, and packed as quickly as she could. She went into the bathroom, put some essentials in her cosmetic bag and added it to the suitcase.

  Five minutes later she was pulling out of her driveway, hitting the button for the garage door, and accelerating down Angeles Drive. For a second she smelled it again: the heavy scent of gardenias. She moved her shoulder toward her and then away. She was carrying it with her.

  Chapter Seven

  Green Street at Raymond, Pasadena

  Sunday, 4:55 p.m.

  They had entered her house; now they could be following her. She had driven quickly to Pasadena where she could lose them easily. She signaled a left turn at the Parkway, turned sharply north, and then abruptly turned west on Colorado Boulevard, trying to elude them without signaling any awareness of their presence. The pedestrian traffic in Old Town was heavy; the late afternoon break at the UA Cineplex released a wave of people, blinking their eyes in the late afternoon sun, crossing kitty-corner at the light as the bell sounded. Early diners were lining up at Louise’s and shoppers were moving in and out of Barnes & Noble and the adjoining Starbucks.

  Diana doubled back to Green, crossed the Parkway, drove east to the mall, turned into the underground lot, and shuttled quickly between different levels. Slaloming between lines of traffic and rows of parked cars, she stopped at the end of a darkened row where she could observe any cars that might be following her. After eight minutes she exited on Colorado. If she was being followed and they were still with her they were very good. She wove in and out of traffic, moving from block to block, finally heading south on Euclid and then cutting over to Fair Oaks, heading toward South Pas and the freeway interchange.

  The traffic on the 110 was surprisingly heavy in both directions but that on the 5 was reasonably light. The 60 miles to Laguna Niguel would take an hour and ten minutes under optimum conditions; she made it in an hour and a half, watching her speed carefully and checking constantly on the adjoining cars. She pulled into the Ritz-Carlton, took the valet parking ticket from the attendant, and popped open the trunk so he could get her bag. She carried David’s materials from the Topanga home in her left hand and cradled her cell phone in her right. It was in a zippered bag of black nylon. Her pistol was in her purse, which she carried on her shoulder.

  She took an ocean-view room, tipped the boy four dollars for carrying her bag, declined his offer to get her some ice, double-bolted the door, and opened the bag and removed her cell phone. She found Bill Brighton’s number in her purse and called.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, he’s not here now,” the desk sergeant said.

  “Could I have his home number please?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t release that information. Can I help you in some way?”

  “Please connect me with Lieutenant Brighton’s supervisor.”

  “The Chief is out of the office also, ma’am. If you give me a number where you can be reached I can leave a message for Lieutenant Brighton or Chief Dietrich to call you.”

  She gave him her cell number. “I’d appreciate a prompt response. I don’t believe that I’m in immediate danger, but this is not a routine call.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Who should I say called?”

  “Diana Bennett.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was sorry to hear about your brother.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

  “How do you feel by now, Tom?” Chris Dietrich asked. They were sitting in a quiet corner of an Italian restaurant in Irvine, named Felicità.

  “Better all the time, Chief,” Tom answered.

  “Any dizziness?”

  “Some, but I think that could be because of the break in my routine. I wasn’t used to being on my back twenty-four hours a day and I’d always eaten with a knife and fork instead of a feeding tube. I’m sure I got a lot of vitamins with the sugar water, but this linguine is more like my regular diet.”

  “I understand,” Dietrich said. “Whenever I go in for a blood test and have to fast first I come out hungry for pancakes and sausages floating in a pool of syrup. Usually I just eat cereal or toast in the morning. There’s something about the change in the pattern that does it. And you went through a very big change . . .”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “How’s the salad?”

  “Good. Especially with the basket of fresh bread and bottle of red wine on the side. I think this is just what I needed, Chief.”

  “Glad you’re enjoying it,” Dietrich said, taking a sip of the wine. “I wanted to get a sense of your progress, Tom. I’m sure it won’t come as a big surprise when I tell you that we could use you . . . just as soon as you’re ready.”

  “I saw my dad this morning. He came down to Dana Point in his boat. I told him I felt about 75 or 80 percent. I think that’s fair. My head’s clear. I can perform all routine tasks. I haven’t recovered my full strength. I’ve lost some muscle tone. I could probably run a couple hundred yards if I had to, but I would hope for a soft surface in the event of an unexpected landing. I don’t need physical therapy per se, but I need to do some moderate exercise and build myself back up. What have you got in mind, Chief—anything specific?”

  “I suppose you’ve heard about the painter dying on the Canyon Road last night . . .”

  “David Bennett.”

  “Yes.”

  “The initial report was that it looked like a suicide.”

  “It did, but the decedent had a sister. Her name’s Diana. She found the body. Bill Brighton’s talked to her at some length. She says he absolutely could not have committed suicide.”

  “I take it they were close.”

  “Very. They were orphaned when their parents died in a car accident. They grew up together; he was older.”

  “So he was almost like a stepfather.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hard to bring yourself to believe that someone you love that much cou
ld take his own life.”

  “Right,” Dietrich said. “Nothing was taken from the studio and there was a lot there to take, but his sister has a lot of points on her side. David Bennett could pull down mid to high six figure sales, even for a modest effort. No known enemies; he was pretty much a recluse. The art critics loved him and so did the gallery owners and collectors. He was rich and famous and by all accounts happy. No apparent reason why he would want to kill himself, but also no apparent motive for anybody else to kill him and go to the trouble of making it look like a suicide.”

  “Very odd,” Tom said.

  “There’s something else . . . we’ve held it back from the press.”

  “What’s that, Chief?”

  “There was some red substance . . . earthen material . . . it was found in his mouth and nostrils and on the back of one of his hands.”

  “But nowhere else.”

  “No, nowhere else.”

  “Was it common to this area?”

  “No, it wasn’t. And the body hadn’t been washed or bleached, with those sites somehow overlooked. We found dried razor nicks, for example. All nearby and intact.”

  “I’d have to think about that,” Tom said. “Nothing’s jumping out at me.”

  “No, it’s a tough one,” Dietrich said. “Would you like to pursue it further?”

  “You want me to take the case?”

  “Yes, I do, Tom.”

  He paused and took a sip of water, thinking. Fifteen seconds elapsed before he continued. “I’d need some help.”

  “Anything you need, Tom.”

  “I don’t mean I can’t investigate the case. What I’m saying is that I’ll need somebody to watch my back and the back of the decedent’s sister. If he was murdered the murderer is obviously still at large. I don’t want to give him a chance at a second or third victim.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d like Hector.”

  “Hector Campo?”

  “Yes, does that surprise you, Chief?”