Addie. The name was familiar. Adele Webb. She was the girl Clea had run off with that time they went up the coast. A dark-haired little thing, pretty. He asked where she lived, and Pete told him.
“Anybody else?”
“Yeah.” Pete’s face twisted into a kind of sneer. “This guy. Tommy something-or-other. He was older. Maybe a lot older. He looked like some kind of college guy.”
“What was he doing with her?”
“I don’t know. Somebody said he had a brother or sister at school, and that’s how he met her. Anyway, he used to pick her up at school. He had a convertible.”
“What kind?”
“Chrysler. Light blue. He was hot stuff. Or thought he was.”
“You know where he lived? Or any places they went?”
Pete shook his head.
“Did she like him?”
“Sure, I guess.” The boy looked bored. “Maybe they were just right for each other.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know. Maybe she thought she was too good for the rest of us, she wanted to hang around with somebody older. Somebody who had a snazzy car, who kept a pint under the dashboard.”
“So she was drinking?”
Pete nodded. “She wasn’t wild, exactly, but she was trying to be, you know what I mean?”
“You don’t sound as if you like her much.”
The boy shrugged. “I used to. Before she got high and mighty, started ignoring everybody her age.”
“You know Tommy’s last name?”
“Huh-uh. You think she’s in trouble?”
“Maybe.”
“How bad?”
“I don’t want to worry anybody, but. . . .”
The boy picked up one of the toy soldiers and studied it for a moment. “Well,” he said finally. “I used to like her.”
“Thanks, Pete.” Horn pulled out a couple of silver dollars and handed them to the boy. “Next time you take your girlfriend out, it’s my treat.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
He drove back through downtown and stopped at Olvera Street for a Mexican dinner, walked around the old buildings and sat in the plaza until the heat had slipped away. It was almost fully dark by the time he reached his turnoff near the head of Culebra Canyon. The heavily forested canyon floor was deep black around the tunnel carved out by his headlights, and he drove slowly, alert for wildlife.
As he swung left onto the gravel road leading to the cabin, his lights swept past a car. Cars were unusual around there at night, although couples did sometimes go to the trouble to drive all the way up the canyon just to find a private spot. But Horn was feeling jumpy. He stopped, then backed the Ford up into the road until his headlights shone dead on the other car, about thirty feet away.
It was a new Packard, parked halfway off the road just beyond his turnoff and facing him, lights off. Two men sat in the front seat.
Horn leaned out his window and called out. “Hey, boys, it’s not smart to sit on a public road in the dark. If you’re looking for a place to bed down, try the campground a couple of miles back thataway. Boy Scouts use it sometimes. Look for the pup tents.”
The driver got out and walked over, squinting in the headlights, a solidly built man in a creased lightweight suit and a hat that needed blocking. The lights shone on a stark white bandage that ran diagonally from his left ear down toward his jaw. When he reached Horn’s car, he rested his fingertips lightly on the door and said, “Fellow over there wants to see you.”
His intonation was polite. But the man reeked of cop, Horn thought. Or ex-military. Or both. It wasn’t exactly a threat he exuded, more like the kind of authority that didn’t need to threaten.
“You wouldn’t be police, would you?”
“Not at all.”
“What’s he want to see me about?”
“I’ll let him tell you.”
“You’ll let him step out of the car so I can see him.”
The man grinned lightly and went back over to the other car, where he spoke briefly through the driver’s side window. The other man emerged and walked around the front of the car to stand in the glare of the Ford’s headlights.
“Mr. Horn? I tried to call you. I’m—”
“Iris’ husband. I saw you at the funeral.”
“Paul Fairbrass. I hope you don’t mind my coming by like this.”
Horn got out and walked over to him. “Only thing I mind is being called over like an errand
boy,” he said. “Something I can do for you?”
When the other man hesitated, looking around, Horn said: “We can talk right here. I’d ask you in, but it’s late, and I’m not feeling very neighborly.”
Paul Fairbrass wore a well-cut suit, lighter in color than the one he’d worn at the funeral. He had slightly boyish features and a conventionally handsome face that didn’t say much except for the eyes, which Horn could barely make out under the man’s snap brim. They were heavy-lidded and almost sad.
“Who’s your friend?” Horn asked, indicating the other man, who had resumed his seat behind the wheel.
“He works for me,” Fairbrass said simply. “He won’t bother us.” There was an edge of impatience in his voice. He likes to ask the questions, Horn thought.
“All right.” Horn leaned against the Packard’s fender, his vision angled so as to keep both men in view.
Fairbrass cleared his throat. “Iris doesn’t know I’m here. I don’t like going behind her back, but I think I have to. She told me what you said to her at the funeral. About Scott Bullard’s death. About the picture of the little girl, the one you think might be Clea—”
“It is Clea.”
“All right. The point is, after you called yesterday, she told me you’re determined to go looking for our daughter.”
“That’s right,” Horn said. “I’m going to find her. For some reason, I seem to be the only one who’s really worried about what might have happened to her.”
“You’re wrong.”
“You and your sidekick came here with the idea of changing my mind.”
“No. I came here to help.”
“What does that mean? Do you believe what I told her?”
“I don’t know. Iris doesn’t believe you. But what matters to me is that you might find our daughter. If you did, I’d be grateful to you.”
“And just how can you help?”
Out of the corner of his eye Horn saw the man inside the car make a sudden movement, reaching outside the window to flick on the car’s searchlight. Looking ahead intently, he trained it down the road. Following the beam, Horn saw a coyote standing silently in the middle of the pavement, staring at them, its eyes luminous with reflection like tiny lanterns. For ten seconds the animal was frozen in the light; then it shifted and was gone into the brush like a shadow.
Fairbrass laughed nervously. “A neighbor?” It was the first time his composure had slipped.
“It can be wild out here,” Horn said. “That’s why I like it. I was saying, how can you help?”
“By telling you some things, things Iris doesn’t know. Such as, for a couple of months Clea has been going out with a young man.”
“Was his name Tommy?”
Fairbrass looked at him appraisingly. “Right, Tommy Dell. She was very secretive about seeing him. I only found out about him after she ran away and I asked some questions around her school. . . .”
“What did you learn about him?”
“Well, that he was too old for her, somewhere in his twenties. Very good looking, very well dressed, very polite. I gave the police his name and description, the kind of car he drove, thinking she might be with him. A few days later, they told me they couldn’t find anyone by that name.”
“He was using a phony name?”
Fairbrass nodded, looking embarrassed. “Apparently so. It was bad enough having her run away, but hearing that really got me worried. I put one of my men on it full-time—Sykes, the man in the car there—”
“What do you mean, put him on it? Just who is he?”
“He’s someone who does jobs for me. Look, I own a business, and sometimes businesses have to deal with things. Before the war, we had serious labor trouble. Communists, Wobblies. First pickets, then little acts of sabotage. It was the Depression, the police had their hands full. So I hired a few men like Sykes, who knew how to deal with things.”
“Strikebreakers. I know the type.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Some of them, like Sykes, were ex-policemen, family men. They know how to investigate, find out things.”
“Get tough. Crack heads.”
“When they had to.”
“Are you a tough guy, Mr. Fairbrass? I’m just curious.”
“When it comes to my wife or daughter. . . yes, I am.”
Horn laughed softly. “Fair enough.” He didn’t particularly like Iris’ new husband, but he was beginning to dislike him a little less.
“Anyway,” Fairbrass continued, “I gave Sykes a few ideas. Clea told one of her friends that Tommy had taken her shopping on Wilshire once, so Sykes showed her picture around the stores. Coming out of one store, pure luck, he spotted what looked like Tommy’s car parked across the street. He started over to get the license number, but just then Tommy walked up and got in. Sykes was able to follow him, up into the Hollywood Hills. Sykes is good at following people, and he was pretty sure the other man wasn’t aware of him. But. . . .
“He turned a corner, and there was the car, blocking the road, Tommy standing there, looking relaxed. He came over. Sykes got out. They talked. Sykes said the guy acted friendly but clearly gave him the message that he didn’t want to be followed any more. Tommy was cleaning his fingernails with a little penknife while he talked. Smiling, you know? And right in the middle of something he was saying, he used the knife, very fast. Reached up and cut him below the ear. Then he was gone.”
“I can’t believe this,” Horn said, his voice tight with anger. “This guy who was spending hours with her, who may be with her now. . . . He was able to fool you, to sneak around with her, use a phony name. And now you tell me he cuts people with a knife for fun.”
“I know,” Fairbrass said curtly. “I know. He’s dangerous. This is my fault. You can see why I have to find her, especially if there’s any chance she might be with him. And why I don’t want Iris to know any of this.”
“Damn right this is your fault,” Horn said. “You should have taken better care of her.”
“You can’t say anything to me that will make me feel any worse than I already do.”
Horn paced in front of the car for a moment, casting long shadows on the road. He breathed deeply. Finally he said, “So how bad did he cut him?”
“Twelve stitches,” Fairbrass said. “Plus, the seat cover in his car was ruined. He’s very embarrassed. Says he won’t make that mistake again.”
“I’m sure he won’t. But even slipping up like he did, old Sykes sounds better at this sort of thing than I would be. Why—”
“Look, Mr. Horn, Iris told me two things about you. You’re stubborn, and you love Clea. I’m hoping you can help us find her.”
“Did she tell you where I was until about a year ago?”
“Yes. I don’t care. Besides, she told me what happened. I think you got a raw deal.”
Horn didn’t want to take it any further, but the words came out before he could stop them. “Did she tell you how she broke her arm?”
“This isn’t what I came here to talk about,” Fairbrass said, his face grim. “If you really want to know, I don’t think you’re a particularly nice person—”
“We were both drunk. Arguing. She fell. That’s just for the record. I didn’t hit her.”
Fairbrass made no response. The asphalt had given off the last of the day’s heat, and the night air was beginning to feel cool. Horn stepped over to his car to get his jacket and put it on. Fairbrass followed him, reached in a pocket, and brought out a medium-size photo, which he handed him.
“Here’s a picture of Clea. She’s probably a couple of inches taller than she was last time you saw her. She dresses like most kids her age—big skirts, sweaters, blouses, bobby socks, usually saddle shoes or loafers. Her hair’s long, and she pins it back a lot.” He paused, as if thinking. “She likes to clip pictures of horses out of magazines. She said she wants a dog, and we promised to get one. She likes strawberry ice cream and strawberry malts.” Another pause. “Her favorite places are the ocean and, I’d say, the Santa Monica Pier, especially the carousel.”
I already knew that. “Have you looked there?”
“Yes, more than once. She said some of her friends have kidded her about the carousel being for little girls. They go for the roller coaster. But Clea’s got her own mind. In some ways, she’s growing up very fast, but in others she seems content to take her time. Her mother says it’s hard to tell which girl she is from one day to the next.”
“You think you know her pretty well?”
“I haven’t been her father for long, but I try.”
“Have you talked to Addie Webb?”
“Adele? I tried. I spoke to her mother on the phone, but the woman wasn’t very cooperative, and she didn’t seem willing to let me talk to her daughter. However, she did say Adele’s at home, so she couldn’t be off somewhere with Clea.”
“What about her father?”
“I’m not sure there is one.”
“Well, there was a few years ago,” Horn told him. “The two girls went off together once. I fetched them back, and when I took Addie home, he didn’t even say thanks.”
“I see,” Fairbrass said in a flat tone. “Anyway, we haven’t been able to talk to her. Maybe you can.”
“I’ll try. One thing we need to talk about. There’s a chance that something might have happened to Clea.”
“You mean. . . .? I know. We’ve been making inquiries along those lines too. Sykes has called the emergency rooms at all the hospitals and checked with the county coroner’s office about unidentified white girls. Nothing.”
“How do you know this Tommy—or somebody else—didn’t just take her?”
“You mean kidnap her?” Fairbrass’ expression suggested that the thought had occurred to him. “I suppose we don’t know anything for sure. But I’d say it’s not likely. For one thing, she’s run off before. For another, I’d noticed a lot of tension between Clea and her mother. Couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was there.”
“How bad?”
“Pretty bad.” Fairbrass stuck his hands in his pockets and studied the ground for a few seconds. “Almost from the time I became her father, Clea’s been angry. At first I thought it was me and that she would learn to like me. But it went on, and in all honesty I couldn’t say it was directed at me. It was something between the two of them. She’s been almost impossible to control—”
“What about the horses and the strawberry malts? All that sounds pretty normal to me.”
“She was normal, I suppose, except in the way she treated us,” Fairbrass said. “There was a tug of war whenever we tried to put any limits on her. I didn’t want to be the one to discipline her, at least not at first. But after a while I realized that neither one of us could. She would leave the house without telling us, that sort of thing. We suspected she might have been drinking with some of her friends. . . .” He gestured vaguely. “Anyway, one morning she was just. . . gone.”
“All right,” Horn said. “Is that it?”
“Just about,” Fairbrass said. “Except for how much this is worth to me.”
“How about expenses?”
“If I run into any, I’ll let you know. Your man Sykes still on this?”
“He is if you need him to be.” Fairbrass got into the car, and Sykes started the engine. “I won’t keep you any longer.”
“You may not hear from me for a while.” Horn walked around to the driver’s side to get another look at Sykes. “You got a first name?” he asked the man.
“Dewey.” The bandage almost glowed in the dashboard light.
“I guess I’m not very friendly when I find strangers waiting for me in the dark.”
“I guess I get paid enough so I don’t mind,” Sykes said. “One thing to remember, though.”
“Uh-huh?”
“If you find Tommy, watch his right hand.”
* * *
At mid-morning the next day, Horn pulled up in front of Addie Webb’s place, a one-story duplex in Echo Park that sat in one of those apartment courts that began springing up all over L.A. about twenty years earlier. The duplex was a wood-frame cottage with a green shingle roof and two entrances about ten feet apart on the front porch. The courtyard, which held a dozen of the cottages, was mostly concrete pathways with ill-tended little patches of grass here and there. A half-inflated beach ball sagged on the grass beneath the lone shade tree.
Pete Binyon’s directions had been fairly accurate, but two phone conversations with Douglas Greenleaf the night before had yielded both the precise address and the name of Addie’s mother, Thelda.
The apartment he wanted was the left-hand entrance in the second building. He knocked on the door and heard a woman’s raised voice inside, then the door opened. Thelda Webb wore a loose-fitting housecoat and an air of distraction. She held the door open with one hand as the other, holding a cigarette poised between two fingers, brushed her hair from her face. She looked at him wordlessly.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, hat in hand. “I’m John Ray Horn, a friend of Clea Fairbrass’ parents. She’s left home, and I’m helping them look for her.”
Thelda Webb studied him up and down, a little boldly. She appeared a few years younger than Horn, attractive in a way that suggested she worked hard at it. Her auburn hair—from a bottle, he suspected—was freshly brushed and fell lavishly over her shoulders. But she gave off the mixed scent of cigarette smoke and what he guessed was last night’s perfume.
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