I muttered—casually, I hope, "I'll get it"—snared a towel from a stack on the floor beside me and cinched it about my waist as I climbed out of there.
"Just black," she said, eyeing me with no trace of timidity.
I brought the whole tray over and set it beside her, removed my towel, stepped in next to her and sat down in close contact. It was electric as hell. She pointed with just a finger toward the opposite side and said, "Over there, sailor." But she said it with a smile.
I moved to my appointed spot, tasted the coffee, said, "Nice, very nice."
It cracked her up, rolled her sideways with laughter. I just sat there and grinned amiably while she got herself under control.
"You are a delightfully refreshing man, Ashton," she said, still giggling.
"So are you, I replied. "I mean, delightfully refreshing scientist."
She moved a foot onto my, uh, lap and said, "Scientists can have fun, too, can't they?"
I replied, "Not if they're married to their Work," using the capital "W" form. But I placed a foot onto her, uh, lap, too, as I continued the thought. "Would that be considered extramarital or extrascientific?"
She wiggled a couple of well-positioned toes while thinking about that, then said, "I think it would be considered just plain human. Don't you?"
I told her, "Oh, yes—say, I'm all for being human."
"Me, too," she said, with a smile and another wiggle of the toes.
I wiggled back and said, "I think human is nice, very nice."
That brought a belly laugh that kicked my foot loose. I doggedly replaced it while she settled down again enough to ask, "Human what?"
I replied, very soberly, "Oh, human anything. Sex, for example. Human sex is very nice."
"As compared to what?" she wondered, giggling.
"Well, as compared, say, to dog sex. Dogs are very locked in, very rigid, pardon the expression. The canine glans penis swells with orgasm—and, uh, you know what happens then—it's a lock. See, that would be a rather humiliating situation for humans."
She appeared to be thinking about it, then: "I don't know, Ashton. Maybe not."
"Or take the feline penis."
"Gee. Think I should?"
"Oh no, definitely not. It's barbed, see, sort of like a harpoon. Not too bad on the downstroke but definitely little joy the other way."
"Hmmm. Is that why my kitty carries on so when she's with her boyfriend?"
"Oh I'd say so, yes. See, human is much nicer. Bovine, now, bovine is really terrible. Talk about wham bam. One stroke, that's all, for a bull—just one gigantic lunge, and it's thank ya, ma'am."
"I don't think I'd like that."
"Course not. Uh..."
"What?"
"If you don't mind me saying it, you give great foot."
She giggled. "Thanks. So do you. Where'd you get so smart about sex?"
"Am I?"
"You sure are. I'd never heard any of that stuff before. Is it truer'
I said, "Well, I've never done any direct research into it, but... I read it somewhere."
"Not at Annapolis, surely."
I said, "Possibly. You read a lot of shit at Annapolis, same as anywhere else."
"Did you learn to talk like that at Annapolis, too?"
“Talk like what?”
"You have a potty mouth."
"Oh. Sorry. I just do that when I'm nervous or upset."
"Are you nervous or upset now?"
I replied, "I think, uh, yes, I may be."
She did one of those nice laughs. "Please don't be. I promise that I will be very gentle."
I said, "Really? Oh. Well. Okay, then."
See? There are compensations. My life isn't all folly, you know.
Chapter Four: A Tilt With Candor
It turns out that the house was owned by Isaac Donaldson. He'd bought the land back in the forties, when dirt was still as cheap as dirt, and built the house many years later from a lifetime accumulation of book royalties and other unneeded earnings. Ditto, with regard to the art collection, though a substantial number of the objects came as gifts from friends and "disciples" who knew of his passion for art and could not pass up a good buy on his behalf.
And I guess the guy had a bunch of admirers. According to Jennifer Harrel, the man was practically a saint. "There is no way," she told me, "to even begin to calculate the impact Isaac has had on the advancement of science. Not so much that he's such a great scientist, though he's certainly no slouch in that department, but because he is such a tremendous person. His influence on several generations of students and young scientists is simply incalculable."
Seems that he had a habit of taking on not only the educational thirsts of young aspirants but very often their physical sustenance, as well.
"He fed the multitudes," is the way Jen put it.
Jen, yeah. We had progressed way beyond the formalities of rank even before we quit the bubbly waters of the Jacuzzi. Have you ever made love with a total stranger and noticed how easily and quickly postures and pretenses evaporate between delightfully polarized bodies? It's true. Sexual intimacy is the quickest route to absolute honesty. We should all think about that, maybe, while we take another look at our social institutions and wonder if we've gone about things all wrong. Maybe our politicians and business leaders should shake cocks instead of hands—and, you know, just don't be intimidated by all the talk of latent homosexuality; let it all hang out for awhile and see where it takes us. You know, like, "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Jones, and what great tits you've got"— "Thank you, Mr. Smith; while you were admiring my tits, I was noticing the exciting bulge in your pants."
That's honesty, see. Cuts through all the phoney baloney and puts human relationships on a candid footing, at least. A suffering world weeps for candor.
Anyway, yes, we had progressed to first names and total intimacy then on to pet names and intimate frenzy; after all that, what's a little candor? I told Jen the whole dissolute story of my life, including the bit about being conceived on the backseat of an automobile—wherefrom came the "family name"—great-grandpappy was an admiral, you see, an Ashton of the South Carolina line; and "son of a gun" is an ancient naval term denoting illegitimate children conceived under the guns of the old sailing vessels in the days when women went down to the sea in ships as well as men, and, or course, things have always been the same between the sexes; there were a lot of sons of guns in those days. My own mother, never at a loss for wit, thought of me as a "son of the Ford" and that's the way it went on my birth certificate. Jen thought it a charming story and idly wondered how many sons of telescopes and Bunsen burners were being born in these days of sexual equality, then went totally candid and related to me her "first orgasm with a man," experienced in the shadow of the 200-inch telescope at Mt. Palomar.
"Astronomy is primarily a nighttime science, you know," she added. "And the atmosphere for sexual seduction is just darned near-perfect."
So much, I was thinking, for hallowed halls, but not for long, because her little story, I guess, stirred both of us again and we sort of abandoned everything else for another go at pure physical candor.
An hour or so later, while we lay in blissfully exhausted contemplation of the city lights spread before us like a lush carpet of sparkling jewels, Jen found the minimal articulation required to tell me about Mary Ann Cunningham. "There is a connection," she said in a whispery voice. "I didn't know her personally. Not sure I actually saw her, before today. But I knew that she came to Isaac about six months ago and told him she was dropping all her classes for awhile, maybe forever. She was pregnant. One of those chance encounter things, I take it; never saw the boy again, didn't even know his name. But she was pregnant. Couldn't face her parents with it. She was moving out of town, somewhere up north—had a job offer, I think, intended to have the baby, maybe place it for adoption, maybe raise it herself—she would decide that later.
"Isaac was fit to be tied. Had her pegged as a sure winner in the golden
science sweepstakes, terribly distraught about losing her to mere motherhood. 'Any woman can have a baby,' he fussed. 'Only a few can master universal dynamics.'
"Long and short of it, he talked her into an abortion, paid for it himself, got her the job at Griffith. That's the connection, and that's all the connection. I can't recall hearing him mention her name again. Don't believe I heard it from anyone until a couple of days ago, when I heard the news that the police were investigating her disappearance. I just thought, well, maybe she met another boy and Isaac's not around to help her, this time. Today was only the second time. I have visited Griffith myself since he's been gone. Went down there one day last month and searched his office for a clue, found nothing. No reason to go back, until today."
I asked, lazily, "You work at... ?"
"Sort of loosely, for Cal Tech—in research, not teaching, and—"
"What does that mean?—'sort of loosely'?"
"I'm called in on special projects. Usually at Palomar."
"That's way down toward San Diego."
"Yes. And I do consulting for JPL, and occasionally for Hughes."
"Hughes Laboratories?—up near Pepperdine Malibu?"
"Uh huh."
"Hush-hush stuff," I said.
"Yes."
"What exactly is your field?"
"Creation physics."
"You don't mean, uh..."
She giggled deliciously. "Not that kind of creation, no. I am trying to determine the nature of the universe before the big bang."
I was impressed, and I said so. "Nice work, very nice."
She punched me lightly in the belly and said, "I'll tell you a big secret one day if you'll stay nice, very nice."
"Why can't you tell me now?"
"Because first I have to find out how very nice you can really be."
She was not kidding, either. The candor was gone, the fun was gone, and Doctor Universe was again in the saddle. The mood was not exactly brooding—but it was certainly sober and darkly contemplative.
"Thank you for today," she said, very quietly. "I don't get many of these."
The way she said it made me think of "folly" and the human need for same. So maybe I'd had the privilege to serve as Doctor Universe's folly for the day. Which is okay enough. I'd had my tilt with total candor, too, and that was okay enough for its own sake alone.
But I found myself hoping that I would qualify, one day soon, for the beautiful doctor's "big" secret.
I could not help wondering, too, if saintly Isaac Donaldson had a secret folly somewhere which right then could be eating him alive. Or eating his corpse. And I decided that I would not rest this case until all the secrets had stepped forward and identified themselves...in perfect candor.
I rolled off the playing field and made my way a bit unsteadily toward the shower. Night had fallen completely and enshrouded this house on the mountain, but the glow of city lights far below and far away had found a stopping place within the window bay of the bedroom of the House of Isaac. I paused at the bathroom door and turned back to see what Dr. Jen was up to. She was softly illuminated in the glow from the window, totally absorbed with something within her own mind and totally oblivious to the lights of man.
It struck me, then, that she had not told me anything at all about her own relationship with the owner of the manse or how it worked out that she now lived there as the obvious mistress of that manse.
Do saints have mistresses?
I decided that it was none of my business and none of my concern, not even in total candor.
Chapter Five: Players
I stopped at the first pay phone along the return route and bought a call to Souza's twenty-four-hour number. I figured it was time for all the players to stand up and identify themselves, and he was first on my list. What I got, though, was Souza's "anchor," a 22-year-old named Foster Scott who wanted desperately to be a detective someday but probably never would if he stuck with the Souza Bureau of Private Investigation. Souza knows a good thing when he sees it and he knew he had the perfect anchorman in Foster Scott.
"Put Greg on, Foster," I growled.
I did not bother to identify myself because this kid never forgets a voice; furthermore, he never takes notes but can deliver verbatim an entire daylong list of messages. So I knew something was up when he failed to "recognize" me, coming back instead with a very formal, "Sorry, sir, he's mobile. But if it's important, please hang up and call right back and I'll put you on the automatic forward."
I hung up without another word, punched the number again, and this time got my man.
"I was hoping you'd call," he said, and the tone—even
considering the source—raised my hackles just a mite. "We're on radio relay so keep that in mind. What'd you get from the girl?"
Leave it to Souza to refer to a Ph.D. in creation physics as "the girl," for God's sake.
I replied, "First you tell me, pal."
'Tell you what?"
"Exactly what is going down here. Precisely who is paying your freight. Approximately what are you expecting from me."
"Can't go into that right here, old buddy."
"Then stop the goddamned car at the nearest phone booth and call me back. I'll give you the number."
"Don't know if I should do that. Think something is at my tailgate. Uh, well, maybe I better, though. We really do need to talk."
I gave him the number and had to repeat it twice. Damned guy was probably speeding along a freeway somewhere, trying to look forward and backward at the same time while also jotting a telephone number. I could picture it in my mind, and had to wonder if Ma Bell had finally reached too far in the effort to bring the world a little closer.
But I got the callback in about two minutes, and now the paranoia was unrestrained. "Listen, Ash, let's make this quick. If these guys are at state of the art, then you know as well as I do that they could have been scanning for my voiceprint and locked me in on the 'hello.' Don't go—"
"Wait, wait," I interrupted. "Which guys are these?"
"Beats hell out of me. They barged in on Foster 'bout an hour ago, flashed ID's at him. All he could make out were the screamin' eagles of some federal agency, but he says they didn't look, FBI. Foster thinks the office is under surveillance right now, and so do I. I was up your way. So don't go home."
He could be the most exasperating son of a...
"Tell me about it, Greg."
"Well, you know me. Once I've seen a face, I've got it locked. Right?"
I sighed and bowed to the inevitable drama. "Right, Greg, right. You have an unbelievable mind." Amen.
"Well, I saw Hank Gavinsky tonight. Remember him?"
I did not.
"Remember?—the NSC case."
I said, "Right" just to keep him moving; didn't know what the hell he was talking about.
"Word got out just after that, maybe old Hank was doubling on us. And he flat dropped out of sight. I saw Jimmy Casaba last year during that thing with Guatemala. He told me Hank was tripling, as a double cover, and he's really a CIA hitman, now."
I said, "Greg, for God's sake...will you just tell me—I thought we needed to make this quick."
"Right, I'm making it as quick as I can." But the tension was building in that voice and it was even starting to infect me. "I told you I saw Hank tonight. I was out your way when Foster alerted me. So I dropped through your neighborhood, figured it was better than risking the telephones. Know where I saw Hank? Just off your driveway, pal, just parked and waiting. Don't go home tonight, Ash. Smear mud on your license plates and check into a hotel under an assumed name until I get this thing straightened out. Someone has made a terrible mistake."
I lit a cigarette, took a harsh pull at it, had to resist a very strong impulse to look over my shoulder.
Meanwhile, Souza was saying, "I know this all started with the damned TV crew."
"What damned TV crew is that, Greg?" I inquired with resignation, I know, clearly apparent in my voice.
>
"Out there this morning, you know, at the murder scene. That bastard got me on his Minicam, I know he did, and he probably got all of us. I saw him inside talking to the employees after you guys left, and I overheard some talk about our missing VIP. Listen, that stuff is supposed to be under the lid. It's no wonder it's blown all to hell now. The early evening news starts at four-thirty in this area. Those bastards were at my office by five-thirty."
I said, wearily, "Greg, please—what the hell are we into?"
"Not sure, old buddy, but it's plenty ripe, I can tell you that. I finally got a line on my mysterious retainer after peeling off three layers of cover. Know who we're working for?"
I said, "I can hardly wait to be told that, Greg, believe me.
"We're working for the fuckin' Russians, I think."
I said, "Oh God," and meant it as a prayer.
"That's not for sure, yet, so don't get totally unhinged. But watch your ass while I get it all straightened out. And maybe you better warn the girl."
That time I did look over my shoulder. I said, "You think...?"
"Sure, it's possible. Maybe you should put her in a hotel, too. But for God's sake, don't go to the cops with this, don't go to anyone, don't trust anyone, I think we're into some deep shit here. Uh, listen, Ash...just in case...I mean, anything could happen. Right? I already gave this to Foster, just in case. Eye on the sky. Okay? Remember, eye on the sky. Now get lost."
The receiver was buzzing in my ear. I hung it up, went straight to the Maserati, turned her around, and blasted off for Verdugo Mountain. I was less than five minutes from her front door, so she'd been alone for no more than ten to twelve minutes and, besides, I had not fully bought Greg Souza's whole bag—but this guy was no dummy—a pain in the ass, maybe, but no dummy—so I had a very mixed bag of churning guts just barely under the control of a skeptical mind— not so much under control as to prevent me from liberating a Walther PPK from a trick compartment under the carpet at my feet. The long and the short of it is that I got back to the House of Isaac in three minutes flat. The hot and the cold of it is that the electronic gate was standing wide open, whereas it had closed and locked behind me just minutes earlier. A dark sedan was parked behind Jen's Jaguar in the alcove; I caught that in my peripheral vision as I stood the Maserati on her nose and bailed out running.
Eye to Eye: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective Page 3
