Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  We both saw the light at the same time.

  An intruder carrying a torch crept around the back corner of Ceiba House. He was short and thickset. He climbed the stairs and stood at the back door of the Collection Room, then turned his flashlight on and started working on the lock.

  I rose to my feet.

  Honeycutt followed.

  I moved up so I was close enough to watch and still take cover if the house lights came back on.

  Three more intruders crept around the corner. The one working on the lock gave them the signal to halt where they were. They froze in place.

  ‘Don’t intervene,’ Honeycutt whispered in my ear.

  ‘Now you decide to get serious?’

  The door gave way and the man tiptoed in.

  Silence.

  ‘Aaaaaghhh!’

  The strangled scream was followed by the sound of furniture overturning.

  Bang …

  The lights flicked on as the intruder exploded out the back door.

  There was another shot fired as the intruder and his three henchmen hotfooted it up the same side they’d used to enter.

  Earl charged out, waving his revolver. He must’ve been passed out on the French sofa.

  As Earl ran up one side chasing the four men, Honeycutt and I ran up the other.

  Earl stopped chasing them and retreated back up the stairs to his front door. He started bashing on it and yelling for Gilbert. Lights were flashing on all around us. The whole neighbourhood was waking up.

  We followed the gang around the corner into Hartford Way, where they dived into a green van.

  ‘Where’s your car?’ I whispered.

  Honeycutt was already climbing into the driver’s seat of a racy-looking Auburn Speedster parked at the kerb.

  His car was too classy to blend in like my old Ford, but it could top one hundred miles an hour.

  As Honeycutt started the engine the van shot past.

  ‘Get in,’ he snapped.

  27

  THE GANG’S HOUSE

  We tailed them across Laurel Canyon as it cut through the Hollywood Hills, then north into the countryside of the San Fernando Valley. Honeycutt was an expert; they never had any idea we were behind them. After about twenty minutes they turned down a country road with orange groves on either side, then into a collection of houses clustered around the back end of a broken-down farm.

  The moon shone down on the dismal cluster of sagging cottages. They appeared to be all that remained of a real estate development that had once seemed like a good idea but had since been abandoned to the elements. Most were now dark, partially fallen-in shacks surrounded by rusty farm equipment overgrown with tall grass and spindly weeds.

  The green van pulled up at the best cottage in the neighbourhood. Its fences were still collapsed and there were no cheery flowerbeds, but the roof sat where it should, the windows were unbroken and the house lights turned on as they went in the front door.

  We parked.

  ‘Kannon, where did you say you were up to in your Basic?’

  ‘I just finished the first year. I’m supposed to start field training in two weeks’ time.’ I corrected that. ‘If I manage to stay in the program.’

  ‘Did you pass Surveillance & Retrieval?’

  ‘Yep, I made it through just fine.’

  ‘Okay, so you have a tiny fragment of theoretical knowledge about how to deal with this kind of situation.’ He stopped. ‘I assume you’re going in?’ Honeycutt had swung into mentor mode.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, but remember: nothing is like the real thing. You make a mistake here, it can be permanent.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry, Honeycutt, I know that.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear you say you know it all because you survived that trip to ancient Rome last year.’ His Southern drawl had hardened into a military bark.

  So he knew about me.

  We didn’t have time to go into what I’d actually learnt from that experience, so I just said, ‘Did I say I know it all?’

  ‘Okay.’ Honeycutt switched on his torch and grabbed my left arm. ‘Show me your watch.’

  I knew exactly what he wanted and why. I extended my left wrist.

  My ticket home to the portal in San Francisco was embedded in my watch face. It was an infinity sign.

  When I pressed both loops simultaneously three times, stopped, then repeated the action, it would activate the portal and I would be back in San Francisco in five seconds.

  I automatically checked Honeycutt’s left wrist; it was resting against the steering wheel. He had one too.

  ‘If you get into any trouble …’

  ‘Yes, Honeycutt, I know. I activate the transponder and go home. So are you going to help me or not?’

  ‘I will.’ He gave me a hard stare. ‘But I have one condition and it’s not negotiable.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘If I tell you to transpond home, Kannon, you do it immediately. No argument … no questions asked … you just do it!’

  I started to put my case. I wasn’t going home until I’d found the murderer.

  He cut in. ‘Kannon, I saw you dive under a horse’s hooves yesterday. Give me one argument about this and I’ll send you home myself … now!’

  ‘Will you be reasonable in your request, Honeycutt?’

  He eyed me silently.

  ‘I’m a rookie but I’m not a coward. If I’m willing to take risks to get this job done, then you’ve gotta be willing to let me take them.’ I glared at him. ‘Don’t treat me like a fool, or a girl. I’m a professional investigator.’

  ‘I’ll take that into account, Kannon. But if I say go, you go.’ His tone brooked no further objections.

  Silence.

  ‘Is that clear?’ he growled.

  ‘All right.’

  Yeah, sure I would …

  Honeycutt scanned the house. ‘So, what are you planning?’

  The gang had turned the lights off as they moved through the house, just leaving a glow of light at the back.

  ‘Sneak up to the back of the house and see if I can listen in.’

  He nodded. ‘Lead on, then.’

  We slid out of the car and crept towards the cottage. The fence had completely collapsed on the side that bordered on vacant land, so I stepped over it and into the gang’s back yard.

  Three of them were sitting at a wooden table in what had once been an open back porch. Now it was covered in by walls made up of old packing cases. There was a window in each side and the gang seemed to be using the porch as a kitchen.

  I stood in the shadows and peered through the side window. Honeycutt was behind me.

  The good news was that the night was warm here so they’d pushed the windows up an inch or two. The bad news was someone had switched the radio on and big-band swing music was drowning out short sections of their conversation. The fancy trumpet riffs were the worst.

  Along the wall opposite me there was a wood stove in the far corner, next to it was a faucet on top of a sink and draining board and next to that was an icebox. When the short stocky man who’d broken into Earl’s house walked in he went straight to the icebox and pulled out four beers. He passed them out then joined the others at the kitchen table.

  The tall thin one said, ‘But, Otis, we have to go back …’

  ‘No!’ barked Otis. ‘We can’t go back there any time soon, Deke. A rich man like Curtis’ll have the cops sitting on his doorstep waiting for us.’

  ‘But we’ll be in big trouble with the boss,’ whined Deke. ‘He said we had to —’

  ‘Shut your claptrap, Deke. We’ll find another way to do this.’

  The music swung into a blazing finish with a particularly piercing trumpet squeal, then a man’s deep voice announced, ‘It’s time for another visit from The Grave Digger.’ He laughed maniacally as an organ played chords meant to chill 1930s spines.

  The organ cut out abruptly as another higher male voice said, �
��This play is brought to you by Hoffman’s Shoes for Gentlemen.’

  Then a chorus of girls with unnaturally shrill voices sang the jingle, ‘The shoes we love to see.’

  The organ started again. Da da da da!

  The deep male voice restarted his narration. ‘It was midnight and The Grave Digger was searching for Coffin Bait …’

  Deke said, ‘But, Otis, what if we just went back to see —’

  Otis slammed his fist on the table and the three men jumped like trained seals. ‘Shut up, Deke, and listen.’

  After that they all sat there in rigid silence and let the cheesy horror play wash over them. Otis was busy scribbling notes on a writing pad, but after a few minutes he loosened up and laughed at the terrible jokes. His boys relaxed on cue and they all talked back to the radio.

  The play went on for another twenty minutes, interspersed with more ads for Hoffman’s shoes, which seemed to be utterly irresistible to young women. When it finished the gang turned everything off and went to bed.

  When all was quiet in the house we sneaked back to the Speedster.

  ‘There’s nothing more to do here,’ said Honeycutt. ‘I wouldn’t try to enter that place tonight. There’re four of them and those old floorboards creak too much.’

  I’d already come to that conclusion. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow — if they’re not here I’ll search the place. If they are — well, I’ll stake out their house and see what happens. See who else arrives, where they go …’

  ‘So we can leave now?’ Honeycutt was impatient.

  ‘Yep.’

  For most of the drive back, Honeycutt was silent. Then he said, ‘What do you think is going on with the gang?’

  ‘Don’t know. But if Renfrow hired them to kill Earl Curtis then the LA Mob is in big trouble …’

  We drove back up Benedict Canyon Drive cautiously, just in case the police had arrived. But there was no one in sight. Even the light in the Collection Room was off. Earl must’ve managed to drink himself into unconsciousness again.

  I yawned. I hadn’t slept much before I left San Francisco at the start of this little adventure and now I desperately needed some quality sleep.

  ‘You’re staying at that assistant’s place in Venice?’ asked Honeycutt.

  I’d had to file an investigation plan for Brigham’s approval so he must have passed the details on to Honeycutt.

  ‘Yeah. Where are you staying?’

  ‘Just down the road from here, at the Beverly Hills Hotel.’

  ‘Of course, Marshal Honeycutt, why not stay at the best hotel in town?’ I said sarcastically. ‘You have all those lovely old US Treasury bills to play with.’

  The Treasury either printed notes for NTA missions or gave them old banknotes that were due for destruction.

  ‘Well, see you around,’ I said, reaching for the door handle. I could almost hear Ada’s unmade bed calling me.

  ‘Sit!’ It came out as a military order.

  I stared across at him, hand still on the door handle. ‘Oh, what now?’

  ‘I’m not chasing you around this town, Dupree. If you want me to give you a reasonable report, then you’re going to spend the next two days showing me what a capable investigator you are.’

  I took my hand off the handle.

  He nodded. ‘So where will we stay?’

  ‘Phyllis’ place has one single bed and a couch.’

  ‘Then it’s my hotel.’

  ‘You’re not getting any ideas are you, Honeycutt?’

  Daniel Devereaux had definitely had ideas.

  Honeycutt ran his jade gaze over me. ‘Darlin’ …’ It came out as a full-blown Southern drawl. ‘When I get ideas … you won’t have to ask.’

  I got out of the car while I tried to think of a comeback. But I couldn’t think of any zingers that wouldn’t get me into more trouble.

  So I bent down to the side window and said, ‘I’ll meet you at your hotel. I need to collect my things from Venice.’

  He started up the engine. ‘Ask for the Devereaux bungalow.’

  I watched Honeycutt pull out. That man was trouble with a capital T.

  Lost in thought, I wandered over to my old Ford. It was a big comedown from Honeycutt’s sweet ride.

  I jerked into full alert. My tyres were slashed to pieces …

  I scanned around, but there was no one else in sight in this wealthy suburban fantasyland.

  Why on earth would anyone slash my tyres here?

  I walked around to the driver’s side and halted.

  A stick figure had been slashed so deep into the door that the silver-grey metal showed through the paint.

  It was a drawing of one of Earl’s mutilated dolls …

  There was a knife stabbed through the heart.

  28

  THE BEVERLY HILLS HOTEL

  It was close to dawn by the time I finally drove up Crescent Drive and into the grounds of Honeycutt’s hotel. It’d taken hours for me to get my tyres changed, make it back to Venice and then return to Beverly Hills. I wasn’t just tired now, I was sleepwalking.

  I wouldn’t tell Honeycutt about the slashed tyres or the scratched-in doll figure. After his ultimatum about me using the transponder, I knew he’d switch onto full red alert.

  And I didn’t want Honeycutt following me everywhere like an overprotective bodyguard, because I had other ideas about how he should use his time.

  The Beverly Hills Hotel was in a great location for the case, just down the street from Ceiba House. But, glancing around, that was probably not the only reason Honeycutt had picked it. The hotel was in the movie-star category of luxury; a lolling Spanish Colonial palace complete with turrets, waving flags and lofty palm trees. Honeycutt said he’d just arrived back from six months in Borneo when he was shunted off here … After the steamy, parasite-ridden jungle, the marshal was probably making the most of his walk on the affluent side of Los Angeles society — modern plumbing, a soft clean bed and room service on tap.

  The plush lobby was deserted except for a formally dressed night clerk seated behind the reception desk. When he saw me he stood and waited as I trundled across the foyer carrying my files and luggage.

  He politely hid a yawn to ask, ‘How may I help you, madam?’

  I probably didn’t look like their normal clientele as I was still wearing my trench coat and ski pants, but he was polite enough.

  ‘I’m Kay Dupree, Daniel Devereaux has …’

  At the last name he brightened. ‘Ah. Mr Devereaux. Yes, of course, madam.’

  Honeycutt must’ve been liberal with the tips.

  The clerk held up one hand and snapped his fingers. A bellboy, who was at least two decades older than me, appeared from nowhere to take my bags and escort me to the Devereaux bungalow. We went out the back and into the gardens beyond. He sneaked a professional assessment of my clothes and luggage as we went. He did not approve.

  Honeycutt’s bungalow, or rather modified hacienda, continued the Spanish theme. It was set amongst lush greenery and was the size of most houses … just a lot more palatial.

  But then I’d expected that.

  Last night at the gang’s house there’d been a military precision about Honeycutt. But in his role as Devereaux he’d exuded an overwhelming sensuality that may or may not have been part of his cover.

  I was about to find out.

  Scrutinising his bungalow, I decided that whatever else Honeycutt might be, he wasn’t afraid to enjoy himself.

  The front of the bungalow was all glass doors, which opened onto a low patio complete with comfortable bamboo furniture. The bellboy knocked, but even though the lights were on Honeycutt didn’t answer. The bellboy let me in anyway and handed me the key, saying, ‘Mr Devereaux said that you were his houseguest, Miss Dupree, and to give you anything you want.’

  Inside, the décor was comfortably elegant art deco, but it was partially hidden behind all the gifts. Every spare surface that wasn’t filled with towering baskets of fruit held fa
ncy packages of booze — Scotch, brandy, champagne …

  He was one popular investor.

  The bellboy carried my luggage through to the far side of the lounge room where there were several doors. He opened the last one on the right and put my bags in it. It was elegant in a 1930s kind of way, with a matching ensuite bathroom. I tipped the man and he bowed his way out, shutting the door behind him.

  I sat on the bed and bounced once. It was a bit too spongy for me but I sprawled back on it anyway. Immediately my mind filled with speculation … Damn! I was tired but now that I actually had the space to go to sleep I knew I couldn’t. There was too much swirling around in my brain.

  This case had been a mess from start to middle … How did the Time Marshals get used to sleeping while on a mission?

  There was a hard knock on my door.

  I opened it and stopped myself from sucking in too deep a breath.

  Honeycutt, still damp from the shower, was wearing a fresh pair of dress pants. But that was all …

  His chest and feet were bare and his chestnut-gold hair hung down around his face, making him look younger.

  The time in Borneo had suited him. His skin was like honey. I wondered briefly if it was that colour all over …

  ‘Where have you been?’ said Honeycutt in icy tones.

  ‘I got a flat tyre on the way back to Phyllis’ and so —’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ He didn’t believe me. ‘Why didn’t you ring me?’

  ‘Oh come on,’ I snapped. ‘You can’t —’

  ‘Yes, I can and I’m going to, Kannon.’ He stuck a long, muscular, tanned finger under my nose. ‘You report back to me when necessary, or you don’t go anywhere by yourself. Got that?’

  I felt like saluting but, given the fact I was lying my head off, I let it go. ‘Sure, whatever you say, Marshal,’ I said as winningly as possible.

  Honeycutt narrowed his eyes at that, but decided on a truce. He glanced back into the big lounge area as though offering it to me. It had lots of stylishly comfy furniture to stretch out on.

  ‘We need to talk, Kannon. Do you want coffee? Or food? I’ve already ordered a snack from room service.’

  ‘What about some tea?’