But Scotty had told him Geiger’s did business in more forbidden material, and he hoped to find out if old man Bullard and his friends had frequented the place. It was the only fresh idea he had at the moment.
A small bell sounded as he opened the door, as if he’d entered an old-world tea shop. After the heat of the pavement, the place was cool and smelled of leather, mildewed pages, and pipe tobacco. No customers, only a man behind the counter who looked up as Horn entered.
“May I help you find something?” The man was somewhere in his early forties, with regular features and thinning hair combed forward Roman-style. He wore a starched white shirt with bow tie and sober black suspenders. Thick, wire-rimmed glasses gave him a studious look, but he appeared more fit and athletic than the average bookstore worker.
“Mr. Geiger?”
“No, Mr. Geiger is deceased,” the man said, blinking at him through the glasses. “I’m his nephew.”
“My name is Horn.” He held out his hand.
“Calvin St. George,” the man responded, taking the hand in a firm grip. “Are you interested in fiction or nonfiction?”
“Ah. . . .To tell you the truth, I don’t know much about rare books. I guess you’d say I’m interested in the kind of things you don’t normally find in a bookstore.”
Calvin St. George nodded encouragingly, a trace of a smile on his face. “Anything in particular?”
“Well,” Horn said, lowering his voice and leaning forward even though no one else was around, “a friend of mine mentioned that I could find some unusual things here.”
The faint smile never left St. George’s face, but he was clearly waiting for more.
“If he were here, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I mentioned his name. Arthur Bullard. Sad to hear of his death the other day. I’d known him for years. His family too.”
It was hard to read St. George’s expression behind the lenses. “I’ve had gentlemen coming in here for ages without ever telling me their names.”
“I understand perfectly,” Horn said. “Did you take those?” he asked, pointing over the other man’s shoulder to a couple of framed photos on the wall. One was a portrait of a young woman in a bathing suit, reclining on a piece of gnarled driftwood in the sand. The other, also taken on the beach, showed a little girl, age four or five, posing behind a straw hat with an enormous brim. Both were in black and white and showed dramatic composition of light and shadow.
“Yes, I did, actually,” St. George said, apparently pleased. “I’m a bit of an amateur photographer.”
“They’re very well done.” Horn glanced at his watch. “So, do you think can you help me?”
The eyes blinked once behind the lenses. Then he tapped the fingers of both hands lightly on the counter and said, “Would you have a seat? I’ll just be a minute.”
Horn had barely settled into one of the oxblood-hued tufted leather chairs when St. George returned bearing in both hands a leather-bound volume which he carefully placed on the side table by the chair. “This is a French translation of the first four volumes of Casanova’s memoirs, published in 1890. Do you read French?”
“I barely read English.”
“I’m sure you’re being modest. This would be a valuable addition to your library even if you’re not fluent in the language, because of the beautiful hand-tooled binding and also because of the twenty full-page engraved illustrations.” He indicated that Horn should have a look. “Please.”
The illustrations, each one protected by a page of onionskin, depicted diverse and athletic sexual activity. The details were graphic.
“Very nice,” Horn said, turning the pages.
“I also just received a Justine that you should look at—it’s French as well. I think you’d be interested in the—”
“Do you have any pictures?”
St. George looked blank.
“Photos, I mean.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Horn drew from his pocket one of the more explicit hunting lodge photos. “This sort of thing.”
St. George stared at it for a brief moment. “Where. . . ah, where did you—?”
“Oh, I got this from Arthur. And a bunch of others like them. I think he took these himself, or maybe a friend did. So, since he mentioned your store, I naturally thought you might be familiar with them.”
St. George shook his head. The faint smile had departed.
“Have you ever sold any like these?”
“Ah, not exactly. You see, these are. . . what you might call very unusual.”
“You mean because of the girl’s age?”
“Exactly.”
“But someone took them, didn’t they?”
“Well, yes,” St. George said patiently, “but we don’t know if these were commercially done, do we?”
“I don’t understand.”
“They might have been made strictly for private use. In fact, I’d bet on it. I can assure you, the market for something like this is so small and so. . . ah, problematic, you’re not likely to find anything like this anywhere in the city.” St. George handed back the photo. He hadn’t looked at it again.
“Well, I’m sure I can trust you,” Horn said, getting up. “I’d like to leave you my phone number. I know it’s unlikely, but if you ever come across any more like these, would you give me a call? I wouldn’t haggle over the price, if you know what I mean.”
Outside, the late afternoon heat struck him like the opening of an oven door, but he barely noticed it. He was thinking about the way St. George had barely glanced at the picture, almost as if he’d seen it before.
Did you lie to me about that, Calvin? And what other kinds of pictures do you take?
* * *
The Bullard home was in Pasadena, on a street where Horn imagined the homes spoke quietly among themselves of large amounts of money, old and new. The house was big, mostly stone, and in a style that Horn had once heard called Tudor. People hereabouts who had money would borrow from any architecture that suited them. Sometimes the house looked like it belonged on the land, other times it looked more like a visitor from another country. In the center of the graveled circular drive was a pond full of koi that, he recalled, were ministered to tenderly by the Japanese yard man. Under big shade trees, the back yard sloped gently down to a low stone wall beyond which the ground dropped away into the Arroyo Seco, a deep, dry gorge that cut through the west end of Pasadena like an unhealed wound.
He parked the dusty Ford next to a stone lion bearing a shield, went up the front steps, and lifted the brass knocker. After only a moment, Helen Bullard opened the door. “John Ray,” she said, smiling a welcome. “I’m really happy you could come.”
“Mrs. Bullard,” he responded, taking off his hat and stepping inside. It was, by his count, only his third visit to the house. Arthur and Helen Bullard had not liked many of Scotty’s friends, and Horn had suspected that, as a second-rate actor in forgettable movies, they found him especially undesirable.
“You know, if you had gotten to know me a little better, you’d probably be calling me Helen by now,” she said, leading him down two steps into a large parlor, its curtains pulled back to let in the afternoon sun. She waved him to a comfortable chair by the window, and before long a Mexican girl brought a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. He looked around at the room, the old books on the shelves, fresh-cut flowers on the central table, pictures of her and her husband on the piano. Somewhere upstairs, Scotty had told him once, in a room not seen by visitors was a portrait of his mother as a Broadway showgirl. “Dad snatched her out of the arms of Flo Ziegfeld,” Scotty put it, “and she never looked back. He told her California was where people could reinvent themselves, and damned if she didn’t reinvent herself into the most perfect hostess this town ever saw. Got to hand it to her,”
he finished with grudging admiration.
Helen Bullard was still in mourning, but the black dress was smart, nipped in at the waist and edged with black velvet at the collar and cuffs. Her gray hair was wound tightly in a bun. “I hope you like your lemonade,” she said. “I told you I had something for you.” She reached for an object on the table and handed it to him. He thought at first it was a book, but when he opened it he saw it was a leather frame for a photo. He recognized the picture. Scotty had taken it years before, on a riding trip up the back side of the San Gabriels. In the photo sat three people on horseback—Horn, Iris, and one of Scotty’s girlfriends, her name long forgotten. He hefted the frame, noting the quality of the leather. Even though the photo reflected Scotty’s usual expertise with a camera, it was still just a snapshot, and the mounting was ridiculously overdone. “Well, it’s very nice,” he said finally.
“He’d want you to have it,” she said simply. “You were his best friend.”
“I suppose I was.”
“Sometimes I think we—Arthur and I—should have gone to more trouble to know Scotty’s friends, but. . . .” She trailed off, as if to say, You know how it is, don’t you?
Not much point getting to know people you think are trash, he thought idly. But he knew what kind of face to put on for her. “I’m sorry about what happened,” he said. “Couldn’t have been easy for you, losing first a husband and then a son.”
She nodded. “At least with Arthur we had some warning,” she said. “He’d had several minor heart attacks. We both knew it would come someday. We even had a chance to talk about it, to. . . prepare. I’m grateful for that. With Scotty, though. . . . I’d always heard that there’s no grief like that of a parent losing a child, and it’s true. And when they die suddenly, unexpectedly, violently. . . . You wonder how God, when he makes plans for us, can have room for something like that.”
She sat stiffly, perched on the edge of the comfortable chair, as if fearing that by letting herself droop she would give in too obviously to her grief. She’s the tough one, Scotty had told him. Tougher than the old man, even. If she has a single weakness, I’ve never seen it. Except for this one: She’s afraid to let anything show.
She gazed at him for a while as if hoping he’d say something, but he only sipped at his lemonade, waiting. She wanted something, he knew, and the snapshot was just an excuse to get him there.
He drained his glass, and she refilled it. “Would you like to walk a little?” she asked. “I’ve felt so cooped up here ever since Arthur died. Let’s go outside. Bring your lemonade.”
She led him into the back yard. About fifty yards down the green and landscaped slope, the bluff dropped off into the gigantic arroyo. Horn pointed to a sprawling oak. “Isn’t that where Scotty had his tree house when he was a kid?” he asked her. “Last time I was here you could still see parts of it. He told me he used to imagine he was Robin Hood, and Maid Marian would climb up to be with him.” He didn’t add the rest: That was the one place I couldn’t hear them yelling at each other, Scotty had said. Or at me.
“Oh, he had his little imaginary world up there,” she said with a laugh. “We used to try to get him to come down during parties, meet the guests, and he wouldn’t budge. Anyway, the thing was an absolute ruin, an eyesore, really. We had it torn down a couple of years ago.”
She took his arm as they descended a flagstone path toward a gazebo. “Scotty was a little wild growing up,” she said. “Even as a young man, he seemed. . . unfocused. But in recent years he seemed to mature, he settled down at the firm. I’m convinced he would have made a fine businessman, he would have taken the reins from Arthur, if he’d just had. . . .”
“More time,” Horn finished for her.
“Yes. More time.” They arrived at the gazebo and sat on a bench, looking out over the arroyo. In the heat, the shimmering air over the dry gulch looked like dirty water, and the homes on the far side were indistinct, their edges blurred.
“I want to be honest with you, John Ray,” she said carefully, looking into the distance. “My husband had a lot of interests that didn’t concern me. One in particular. I knew about it, I didn’t approve, but I knew it was important to him. Does this make any sense to you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. Scotty tried to protect her, he said to himself with surprise, but she knew all along.
“Thank God for that,” she said grimly. “I don’t know if I’d be up to explaining. I had a feeling you might know. Did Scotty tell you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Just a week ago, I would have said this knowledge you have is a terrible thing. I would have preferred that no one in the world have it. You can imagine why. I want my husband remembered for the good things he did, the things he built, and not for. . . that.” Her voice went sour at the last word. “Now, I don’t know. . . . Something tells me if Scotty knew, it’s all right for you to know too. I just have to be sure that you won’t do anything to harm Arthur’s memory. Can I trust you?”
All his distaste for the memory of Arthur Bullard rose in his throat, but he needed this woman’s trust. “I think you can count on me to do the right thing,” he said carefully.
She stared at him. “Maybe I’ll have to be satisfied with that. Just remember one thing about me. You don’t want to have me for an enemy. You know that, don’t you?”
He put on a look of exaggerated concern. “I know your reputation, Mrs. Bullard.”
“Good.” She patted his arm, but there was little affection in the gesture. “Do you have the feeling that there was something not right about the way Scotty died?”
Smart lady. “Yes, I do.”
“So do I. In fact, I’m convinced it was not an accident. Further, I believe what happened to him was a result of what he knew about Arthur. I can’t be more explicit than that, and I certainly don’t know who might have been involved, who might have had anything to gain in Scotty’s death. But I know my son didn’t fall out that window, and he certainly didn’t jump.”
“I agree with you, Mrs. Bullard.”
“I don’t dare go to the police with this. Too many questions would be asked. But I’m talking to you about it in the hope that you can help. Is there anything you can tell me?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I’m just about the same place you are. We’re stuck with a lot of suspicions and not much information.”
“If you find out anything about Scotty’s death, will you tell me?” When he hesitated, she went on hurriedly: “I never ask anything for free, John Ray. If you help me, I can help you.”
“If you mean money—”
“I mean anything. If you ask people about me, they may tell you they admire me or they dislike me or they’re afraid of me. But all of them will tell you I’m in a position to help people if I want to help them. I raised two hundred thousand dollars for war orphans last year, and I don’t know if there are many other women in this town who could have done that. I’m a good friend. Scotty told me you might be having trouble getting steady work. I could do something about that.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said. “Just see what happens, all right?”
He waited for her response, but none came. Instead, she looked off toward the big oak where the tree house had once been. “Do you believe in second chances, John Ray?” she asked.
“I want to.”
“Maybe I wasn’t the best mother. Arthur and I both wanted Scotty to be as strong as we were. I suppose we were harsh with him from time to time, and every time we tried to instill strength in him, he would just turn away—never confront us, just turn away. He’d make a joke or get quiet. We wanted him to stand tall and fight, and he’d bend like a reed.”
“That sounds like him,” Horn said. “Nobody could avoid a battle like Scotty. He was a born diplomat.”
“I know,”
she said. “Isn’t it sad that I couldn’t see it? I thought he was a failure, and he was just developing into his own kind of man. A gentle man, a good man.”
She gripped his arm, and this time he felt her urgency. “This is my second chance. I’ll do whatever’s necessary to find out what happened to him. I’ll do anything. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” She got up, signaling the visit was over. “Thank you for coming.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Horn and Mad Crow sat in a thickly varnished booth at the South Seas on Western Avenue. It was a typical night club, with a bar, about twenty tables, a bandstand, and a tiny dance floor. The decor was ersatz Polynesian—bamboo partitions, grass skirts on the waitresses, Hawaiian shirts on the bartenders. It was still late afternoon, and the place was mostly quiet. Beers arrived, and the two men began working on them.
Horn slid a wad of bills across the table. “The dentist,” he said. “I took my cut.”
Mad Crow grunted an acknowledgment and pocketed the money. “Any trouble?”
“No. He invited me in, introduced me to his wife, offered me a Dr Pepper. We went into another room, where he apologized for putting it off so long and paid up, just like that.”
“See,” Mad Crow said with a grin. “You’re made for this work.” He took a long pull at the bottle. “I’m real sorry about Scotty Bullard. Didn’t know him well, but I know you used to be friends.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you ever call him?”
“Yep.” Horn hesitated for a few seconds and then began talking, describing everything that had happened in the last few days. By the time he had finished, a second round had arrived, and the Indian’s brow was knotted, his face frozen in a look of near-disbelief.
“I’ll be goddamned,” he said finally. “Do you think there’s any connection—”
“Between Scotty being killed and Clea being missing? Uh-huh. There’s just too much coincidence, him finding her picture and then dying like that. I can’t prove the connection. But I believe it. That’s why I’ve got to find her.”
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