“Too damned well,” I said. “Sharon, if you need me for anything . . . ”
“Thank, Wolf. I’ll remember.”
When she was gone, I felt kind of low and empty. In a corner of my mind I could still see Elaine Picard falling, that terrible, futile clawing at the air; still sense her screams like after-echoes just beyond the range of hearing. I debated having another beer, decided against it, and got up to leave.
A bunch of people came in just then, among them Charley Valdene—minus his trench coat and slouch hat, as if the sudden entry of death had put an end to his role-playing. He saw me and detoured in my direction. Watching him approach, I remembered what he’d said to me last night at dinner, jokingly at the time but words that might have been a kind of prophecy: Maybe there’ll be a murder at this convention.
Valdene was subdued. He said, “It’s a hell of a thing—an awful thing. You saw it happen, huh? That must have been a shock.”
“It was,” I said. “Be glad you weren’t there.”
He seemed to want to talk about it, but I didn’t; I put him off until later. “Sure,” he said, “sure, I understand,” and I left him and went out onto the terrace, down onto the white sand beach.
I walked a ways, with the sun hammering down on my head and neck. I wasn’t going anywhere in particular, just drifting—or so I thought until I noticed the thatched roofs of the bungalows half hidden among the tropical vegetation. And then I found myself thinking again of the little boy, Timmy, who’d said his mother made him afraid; and of the brunette woman with the suspicious frown and the odd reaction to strangers talking to her son. And not long after that, I was back in the gardens and on my way to Bungalow 6.
I had nothing in mind for when I got there; this was just a little scouting expedition, because the incident with Timmy and his mother still bothered me and because I needed something to take my mind off Elaine Picard. Maybe I would have done nothing more than wander by in front of the bungalow, just to find out if there was anything worth seeing or listening to. Or maybe I would have gone up to the door and knocked and made some excuse for showing up again, so I could have another chat with Timmy or his mother or both of them. But I didn’t do either of those things. When I came within sight of the bungalow, there was a maid’s cart on the front walk and somebody was coming past it in quick angry strides. The alcoholic local detective, Jim Lauterbach.
He was wearing a flowered shirt today, and nursing a bad hangover; you could see it in the slack pouchy flesh of his face, the red-veined whites of his eyes. He still smelled of liquor, too—or, more likely, he’d had some hair of the dog to brace himself for the day. He gave me a scowling glance as he passed by, but without recognition: he’d been too drunk last night to remember much of anything that had happened.
What’s he doing here? I wondered. I turned to watch him hurrying off among the tropical greenery. Then I shrugged and went down the path around the maid’s cart.
The front door of Bungalow 6 was standing wide open. Inside, a heavyset black woman in a crisp blue uniform was busily opening windows. There was nobody else in the bungalow that I could see. And no sign of habitation, either—no luggage or personal effects of any kind. I rapped on the door panel, poked my head and shoulders through the opening.
“Excuse me, miss.”
The maid jumped a little, startled. “Another one,” she said when she’d had a look at me. “Well?”
“I’m looking for the woman and her little boy who—”
“What woman? What little boy?”
“The ones staying in this bungalow.”
The maid shook her head in an emphatic way. “What’s the matter with everybody today? I told that other man—ain’t nobody in this bungalow. Just me, here to air it out and get it ready for guests coming tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Nobody staying here,” the maid said. “No woman, no little boy. This here bungalow’s been empty for a week now.”
11 McCONE
After I left Wolf, I looked up Elaine’s address in the telephone directory and then headed south on the Silver Strand and crossed over to Chula Vista. All the way there, I kept thinking about Rich, the man who had bothered Elaine in the Cantina Sin Nombre. A boyfriend? A former boyfriend? The “no one worth mentioning” in Elaine’s life? Who?
Wolf had said that Rich was a good bit younger than Elaine. Would she really have become involved with a younger man? I wondered. Elaine was so self-possessed and successful that a younger man would have had to have been someone special to attract her. And a man who roughed up a woman in a bar didn’t sound very special to me.
The house was a ranch-style on Hilltop Drive, not far from downtown Chula Vista. It was an older area of nice homes on reasonably large lots. Elaine’s was shaded by pepper trees, and a line of willows shielded it from its neighbors to the right. A tall redwood fence provided privacy on the left.
The sheriffs department, of course, would check out Elaine’s home eventually, but I doubted they would be here this soon. Still, I drove by slowly, looking for official cars, before I parked a couple of doors down the street. I walked back up there, glancing around to see if there were any nosy neighbors, but saw no one. The street was quiet for a Saturday afternoon; in this heat, probably most of the residents had taken off for the beach.
I went up the walk, tried the front door, and, as I’d expected, found it locked. A little graveled path led around to the side. I followed it to the backyard, where there was a patio with redwood furniture and a thatched structure—called a Tiki Hut—which I remembered as being popular in the early sixties. Glass doors opened onto the patio, the kind whose locks are fairly easy to slip.
As I took out my Mastercard to void the lock, I felt a twinge of conscience. I knew what Wolf would think of this. He was so damned ethical, played everything to the letter of the law. But then Elaine had been my friend, and, from things I’d heard, I suspected Wolf had stepped outside the law when his friend and partner, Eberhardt, had been shot a while back. I was only doing what I had to, and—should he find out, which was doubtful—Wolf would understand. I went to work on the door latch.
In minutes I was standing in a fair-sized dining area off an immaculately clean kitchen. I waited, listening, but all I could hear was a fly buzzing in the greenhouse window over the sink. The heat in the closed-up house was oppressive.
I’d have to work fast and get out of here before the sheriff’s men arrived. Quickly I went into the living room at the front of the house. It was furnished in light wood and tasteful blue upholstery; the only jarring note was a wall of mirrored squares that probably had already been there when Elaine bought the house. I caught sight of myself behind their tacky gold veining—bedraggled, nervous-looking, and clearly depressed.
So much for your terrific weekend, I thought.
There was a hallway off the living room, probably leading to the bedrooms. I turned, about to go that way, when there was a crashing noise near the front door. Whirling, I got ready to run.
One of the mirrored squares lay on the floor of the little tiled area near the door. The heat, of course, had softened the adhesive that held it to the wall. Smiling weakly, I remembered when my sister Charlene had decided—in a fit of teenaged worldliness—that she had to have the same sort of squares on the ceiling above her bed. My parents, adopting the attitude of letting us live out harmless fantasies, allowed her to do it; my father even helped her affix the squares to the ceiling. The fantasy, which involved a lot of posturing and risqué talk from Charlene, lasted until the first hot spell. Then, in the middle of one torrid night, the entire thing had come down, right on Charlene’s rear, scaring hell out of her. The next day, the squares had been dumped unceremoniously in the trash.
Leaving the square on the entryway floor, I hurried down the hall to the farthest door. The room contained a brass bed with a fluffy comforter and many pillows, a dresser, and a walk-in closet. The bedside table yielded Kleenex and aspirin and calcium
lactate. Evidently, Elaine had not been much of a reader, because there were no books in evidence.
Next I started through the closet, which was full of conservative suits and dresses and pants and tops—all in good taste and of excellent quality. I worked left to right, toward the back, where a number of items were jammed together as if they were things she never wore.
And I could see why. There was a bright red party dress with a plunging neckline; a black number with a slit that must have extended all the way up the thigh; pants in a shimmery fabric that were cut to be skintight; see-through tops designed to be worn over sexy bras. The clothes were not Elaine, not her at all.
So what was she doing with them? Did she actually go out in public dressed like that? No, more likely she—like my sister Charlene—had had her fantasies. Nothing wrong in occasional dressing up in front of a mirror.
Or for a male friend, someone special.
I gave up on the closet and went through the dresser quickly, coming up with only standard serviceable lingerie and jewelry items, plus a whole collection of security gear—three pairs of handcuffs and some leather thongs with loops at the ends—tucked under some sweaters in a bottom drawer.
Why bring all that stuff home? I wondered. Probably because it was her own property and she didn’t want anyone at Casa del Rey appropriating it. After all, handcuffs don’t come cheap, and Elaine hadn’t been on the job long enough to know if she could completely trust her co-workers.
From the bedroom I went across the hall to a room that had been fitted out as a combination TV and exercise room, complete with a stationary bicycle and a small set of weights. I opened the closet and saw it was what my mother called a “crazy closet”—crammed with things too junky to display but too full of sentimental value to get rid of. There was a doll with a chipped china face, a white tulle creation that might have been Elaine’s first prom dress, a large box of photographs, several scrapbooks and high-school yearbooks, stacks of old 45 records, an incredibly ugly beer stein, three stuffed animals, and a sorority paddle. Curiously I picked up the paddle and looked at it. It was one of those wooden ceremonial things inscribed with the Greek letters and crest—in this case, Mu Omega Sigma. I was surprised because I hadn’t known Elaine had gone to college. Nor had she seemed like a sorority type.
I put the paddle back and left the room. There was another door off the hall, and I went through it into an office. It contained some shelves and filing cabinets, and a desk with a bunch of folders stacked in the center of the blotter. I went through them, finding insurance papers, income tax records, and a simple will leaving everything to a nephew, James Picard, in Lemon Grove. There was a note clipped to a homeowner’s policy indicating she planned to increase her coverage.
Does a person who is depressed enough to kill herself worry about liability and loss from fire or theft? I asked myself. It didn’t seem likely.
Inside the bottom folder in the stack there was the carbon of a typewritten letter, dated two days ago, to an Alan Thorburn, Esq., at a downtown address. The first paragraph mentioned a meeting next week with Thorburn and someone named Hugh—probably a C.P.A.—to review Elaine’s tax situation. I was about to put the letter back in the file when the second paragraph caught my eye. I skimmed the rest of it, then sat down in the desk chair and reread it more slowly.
As I mentioned on the phone the other day, I’ve uncovered a disturbing situation at the Casa del Rey. I am taking this opportunity to go on record about this, and ask that you date-stamp this letter and place it in your safe, in case I should need evidence of my lack of involvement in this situation at some future date.
At this point, I can’t say exactly what is going on, although I’m quite certain that the hotel is being used for illegal activities. I am also fairly certain that the parent company, Yamana International, is not involved.
Should these activities come to the attention of the police, I would naturally be suspect as chief of security. Therefore I need this letter and the attached clipping on file as proof of my noninvolvement.
You cautioned me to be careful, Alan, and I assure you that I will be, although I definitely intend to get to the bottom of this matter. Please don’t worry; I will proceed very cautiously.
Looking forward to seeing you and Hugh next week, with all best wishes,
Elaine’s name was typed below the closing sentence.
I sat staring at the letter, then looked for a copy of the clipping she’d mentioned, but didn’t find it. Then I stuffed the letter into my purse.
A wastebasket stood next to the desk. I pulled it over and began going through its contents. There was a draft of the letter to Thorburn, a bunch of junk mail, some crumpled Kleenexes, an empty paper-clip box, and a wadded-up ball of blue paper. I smoothed the blue paper out on the desk and saw it was written on in bold felt-tip printing. With a slight sense of shame at further invading my friend’s privacy, I read what appeared to be a love note.
I know that you have been avoiding me and I can guess the reasons why, but I think we are both aware that this thing that has started between us is totally beyond our control. Ever since that night at the club, I have been unable to get you out of my mind. And although you claim otherwise, I know you feel the same way too. Please don’t turn a cold hand to me, Elaine. There have been others for me, but never anyone like you. I wait for your reply.
The signature was a scrawled letter that could have been an H or an R or a K, or perhaps even a B.
So she’d had a lover after all—one who sounded pretty devoted, if not downright lovelorn. H or R or K or B? Or possibly a stylized S or P? I was willing to bet it was R. For Rich.
There was a red purse-sized address book on the desk. I picked it up and went through it, looking for someone named Rich. There were two, along with someone called Rick. A few of the other names I recognized —Karyn Sugarman, Lloyd Beddoes, Alan Thorburn—and others were totally unfamiliar. I glanced through the entire book, and put it and the love note in my purse with the other letter. Hastily I checked the desk drawers, found them almost empty, then left the office and went down the hall to the living room.
What about the situation Elaine had uncovered at Casa del Rey? I wondered. And what had been in the clipping she’d sent with the letter to her lawyer? Since it had only been written on Thursday, I doubted she had been able to find out much more in the interim.
Or maybe she had. Maybe that was why she’d died.
This new information made Lloyd Beddoes and perhaps his assistant, Ibarcena, look very bad. I tried to picture them as they’d stood with Wolf in the garden that morning after Elaine’s fall. They’d been nervous. Nervous and upset. But guilty-looking? Perhaps. I’d been plenty upset myself, and my memory wasn’t too clear on the fine points.
I was so preoccupied by the matter of Beddoes and Ibarcena that I simply walked through the living room to the front door, turned the dead bolt, and stepped outside onto the porch. And as soon as I did, I realized I’d made a big mistake.
A sheriff’s-department car was parked at the curb, and Lieutenant Tom Knowles was coming up the walk toward me.
12 “WOLF”
The clerk on the registration desk was the same one who’d checked me in yesterday. Young, spiffily dressed, polite in an aloof way. And as adamant as the black maid I’d talked to a few minutes ago, if a little more patient.
“You must be mistaken, sir,” he said. “Bungalow Six has been empty for over a week.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes, sir, of course I am.”
“All right. A woman about thirty-five, brown-haired, slender, fairly attractive. A little boy, seven or so, on the hefty side; fair-skinned, blond hair. His first name is Timmy—I don’t know hers or their last name. Maybe they’re staying in one of the other bungalows?”
“No, sir. Only three of the bungalows are occupied at the moment and I know all of the guests. None of them is a woman such as you described. And certainly none is a little b
oy.”
“Here in this building, then?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir. If you could give me their last name . . .”
“I told you, I don’t know their last name.”
“Then I’m sorry, I don’t know what I can do.”
“You can let me talk to the manager.”
“Mr. Beddoes isn’t available.”
“No? When will he be available?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“How about his assistant?”
“Mr. Ibarcena has left for the day.”
“And you don’t know when he’ll be available either, right?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
I gave it up; this wasn’t getting me anywhere. And none of it made any damned sense. Timmy had as much as told me he was staying in Bungalow 6; his mother had come from there when she was calling him, had dragged him back in that direction when they’d left me. Now they were gone, and nobody would admit that they’d ever been here. Why? What the hell was going on?
Well, maybe the drunk, Jim Lauterbach, had some answers. He’d been there at the bungalow; he’d talked to the maid just before I had. Personal interest in Timmy and his mother? Or professional interest? That was another question that kept nagging at me.
I took a tour of the lobby and the Cantina Sin Nombre, but Lauterbach wasn’t in either place. There was some activity on the mezzanine, and I went up there and the convention was still going on—people milling around, waiting for another panel or product demonstration to start, talking and drinking wine, a couple of them laughing. It surprised me a little and it shouldn’t have. There was no reason for the Society to cancel the rest of the convention just because one of its members had died suddenly. No reason for the Casa del Rey to curtail its normal operations, or for its employees to show any apparent signs of sadness or grief, just because its security chief had tumbled out of the east tower and cracked herself open like Humpty-Dumpty. Just clean up the remains, clean up the blood, pretend none of it had really happened, and then it was business as usual.
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