NYLAND, HENRY I.
Well, well, I thought. Sometimes it pays to be as clumsy as I am: you stumble on the damnedest things.
I flipped open the folder with my forefinger. The first thing I saw was a 5” X 7” photograph, in color, clipped to a sheaf of papers. There were two people and a boat in the photo. The boat was the yacht variety, small and sleek with gleaming brightwork. The woman was Elaine Picard, wearing slacks and a tank top and a wind-blown look, smiling at the camera. The man, dressed in white ducks and a blue blazer and a yachting cap, was the same gray-haired military type I’d seen in the hotel parking lot on Friday night—Henry Nyland.
I unclipped the photo and turned it over. There wasn’t anything written on the reverse. I put it back and shuffled through the sheaf of papers. The first few were from the desk notepad or one like it, a lot of hen scratches and what I took to be a personal code; but the gist of it was clear enough: Henry Nyland had hired Lauterbach six weeks ago to investigate Elaine Picard. And he’d done it because he suspected there was another man in her life, and because he was afraid she was involved in “something bizarre.” If he had speculated about what that something might be, Lauterbach hadn’t written it down.
The rest of the papers were carbons of reports he’d sent to Nyland at an address on Coronado, and notes scribbled to himself at various points in his investigation. There wasn’t much in the reports. According to what Lauterbach had told Nyland, Elaine’s behavior had been normal and above reproach; as far as he’d been able to determine, she hadn’t had any clandestine dealings with men.
But the scribbled notes seemed to tell a different story. Most of them were indecipherable—the personal shorthand again—but there were some references to Rich Woodall, who had evidently bothered Elaine while she was eating lunch in a restaurant one day and whose name Lauterbach had got by checking the license number of Woodall’s car through the D.M.V. Other references told me that Elaine regularly spent time at or near Borrego Springs, at some sort of club. On one sheet was a list of names, a few of which had check marks in front of them. I recognized three: Woodall, Lloyd Beddoes, and Karyn Sugarman.
At the bottom of the folder was a plain white business-size envelope. When I opened it, I found half a dozen black-and-white photographs taken with a wide-angle lens. A couple of them were off-center and the rest were not quite in focus, as if they’d been hurriedly snapped; but you could see that all of them were of a big, odd-looking house somewhere in the desert, a sort of free-form thing that blended into the jumble of high, jagged rocks against which it had been built. Parked in front of the house were a number of cars. In one of the photos, more of the desert itself was visible—an open part that contained the usual vegetation and what looked to be the remains of an old spur railroad track, a decaying water tower, and a dilapidated loading platform of some kind. None of the photographs bore any written notations.
I couldn’t find any significance in them. They just weren’t very good or very clear, which made me wonder if maybe there were more, if these were culls from an entire roll of film. If so, the rest weren’t in the folder and they probably weren’t anywhere in the office.
Then again, I thought, it wouldn’t hurt to look.
I put the photos back in the envelope, the envelope back under the papers, the folder back into the briefcase, and the case back inside the kneehole. The two partly open desk drawers didn’t contain any photographs or further information on Elaine Picard; neither did the other two drawers. Nothing of interest at all, unless you considered a rolled pair of socks an interesting thing to keep in a desk drawer.
I shut the last one and turned toward the file cabinets. Maybe there was something enlightening in there. Something on Nancy and Timmy Clark, for instance—
Out in the hallway, a woman screamed.
The cry came again and kept on coming, cutting through the walls like a knife through sponge cake. I wheeled around with my scalp prickling and ran out through the anteroom, yanked the door open, and lumbered into the hall. She was down at the far end near the elevator, backed up against the wall, pointing and yowling. I started to run toward her, but men and women were spilling out of the offices of the Dutton Design & Manufacturing Co. and K. M. Ardry, Divorce Specialist, and they got in my way.
One of the men grabbed the screaming woman, a fortyish secretarial type with glasses hanging on a chain over her flat chest. “What is it, Millie? For God’s sake, what’s happened?”
“In there!” she said, screeching the words. She was still pointing, not at the elevator, as I’d first thought, but at the door to the lavatory. “In there, in there!”
The guy started toward the john, but I got to the door ahead of him and shoved inside. I didn’t see anything wrong at first, not until I got to where I could look into the open stall to one side. There was a dead man inside it, one leg hooked over the toilet and the rest of him wedged back against the wall. One of his eyes was wide open; the other was now a black-edged hole full of dried blood. Shot. Not once, at least four times: there were also bloody holes in his chest, in his neck, in his right arm.
I had finally caught up with Jim Lauterbach. And from the way the body looked, he’d been dead most of the time I had been trying to find him.
23 McCONE
At nine-thirty Monday morning I called Elaine’s lawyer, Alan Thorburn. At first he was reluctant even to see me—Elaine’s affairs were confidential, he insisted—but when I mentioned I worked for All Souls, he allowed as how he had gone to school with our tax attorney, Anne-Marie Altman. Could he get back to me in a few minutes? he asked.
I waited, knowing Thorburn was calling Anne-Marie to check me out. I wondered if she would guess I’d stumbled onto an unofficial investigation. Probably; she’d been with the co-op as long as I had and had been watching me do just that for years.
After about fifteen minutes Thorburn called back, sounding considerably more friendly. He could see me at eleven-thirty, he said, and gave me a suite number in one of the newer high-rises downtown.
Since I had time to kill, I went to the kitchen to see if there was any coffee. A couple of cups remained in the percolator, so I poured myself one and sat down in the breakfast nook to think. The house was quiet; my mother was off at Safeway, Pa was out on a job, and Charlene and the kids had gone back to L.A. the previous evening. Joey was at work, his latest attempt at a career being a supervisory position at a McDonald’s. John, as far as I knew, was still asleep.
After I’d left Ibarcena’s apartment late yesterday afternoon, I’d tried to hunt up Beddoes, but with no luck. Either he hadn’t gone home or he wasn’t answering his phone or his door. Then I’d gone back down my list of other people to talk to, but had similar bad fortune. I didn’t know what they did, but the people Elaine had known must have made the most of their Sundays. Finally, at around eight o’clock, I’d taken myself back to my parents’ house.
John had been the only one home, and I’d joined him in the living room to watch an old movie on TV and drink a couple of beers. We’d said little until about ten-thirty, when, during one of the long commercial breaks, he’d again brought up the subject of getting custody of his kids.
Maybe it was the general frustration of the day, or maybe it was the nagging worry in the back of my mind about Don and his so-called cousin, but whatever caused it, I became very stuffy with John. “You know,” I said, “before you start any expensive court proceedings, you might consider going back to work and finding your own place to live.”
“I’ll get to that.”
“Like hell you will. How long has it been since she threw you out?”
“A couple of months is all.”
“And how long since you worked?”
He shrugged.
“Also a couple of months. John, you’ve got that contractor’s license. If you don’t want to work for yourself, there are lots of firms that would hire you.”
Nothing from him but the sound of a pull-top popping on a beer can
.
“If you really want custody of those kids, you’ll have to prove to the court that you can support them—and give them a decent home.”
“Ma—”
“Ma’s already raised her family.”
“She said she’d help.”
“Sure, help. But not raise them. Besides, no judge is going to take the kids away from their natural mother under circumstances like these.”
“Since when are you a lawyer?”
“I don’t have to be a lawyer to know that.”
He turned to face me, his long chin jutting out defiantly. “I want those kids, Shar.”
“Do you? Maybe you just like to talk about it. Because it makes people feel sorry for you.”
And at that he got up and stalked out of the room. And I had watched the rest of the movie feeling stuffy and self-righteous and ashamed, because I loved him and I’d hurt him.
Now I sat in the sunny breakfast nook, drinking my coffee and wondering what I was really accomplishing here. I’d missed the whole convention, and instead of spending time with my family as I’d planned, I was chasing all over San Diego trying to prove Elaine Picard hadn’t killed herself or fallen from that tower by accident. And why? She had been a friend, but not a close one, and that friendship had been put on hold years ago. There were lots of people here I’d been closer to, including the women who’d acted scared of me at the party the other night. Why all this frantic activity over Elaine?
Because, I told myself, you’re an investigator. Not somebody who just works at it nine to five, but a person who lives it every hour, every day. You can’t escape it; it’s in your blood.
Besides, I added, there’s something illegal going on at the Casa del Rey, something involving the little boy Wolf met, and you want to get to the bottom of it. And you keep seeing Elaine’s pensive face, with the little lines of tension and shadows under her eyes—strain that was probably caused by her awareness of the illegal goings-on.
And, finally, I kept on thinking that if only we’d had the talk Sugarman had said Elaine had wanted—a real talk rather than superficial chat about houses and boyfriends—she might not have died the other day....
I looked at my watch and realized I’d just have time to get downtown for my eleven-thirty appointment.
Alan Thorburn’s office was plush and modern, with a fine view of the bridge and Coronado Island. Thorburn himself surprised me. He was young-looking, bespectacled, and saved from being homely only by a boyish, almost bumbling charm. I wondered how he could afford such offices; surely anyone of his appearance could not attract the high-paying clients necessary to foot the bills. But when I shook his hand, I saw the wrinkles that the boyish manner had at first made me overlook and I caught the gleam of keen intelligence in his eyes. Alan Thorburn was neither young nor incompetent; his mannerisms had probably fooled a good many people—and fooled them to his advantage.
We sat down and I explained my relationship to Elaine and my suspicions about her death. Thorburn listened quietly, only reacting when I mentioned the carbon of her letter to him and the clipping she’d supposedly enclosed. “I guess,” I said, “that the sheriffs department will be calling on you soon, wanting to see that clipping. But I’d like to get a look at it too.”
He thought a moment, then reached over and pressed a button on his intercom. When a woman’s voice answered, he said, “Linda, has anyone from the sheriff’s department asked to see me regarding Elaine Picard this morning?”
“No one.”
He glanced at me. “That shows how strong their interest in her death is.”
“I’m sorry?” the voice on the intercom said.
“Never mind. Will you bring me her file, please?”
In a moment the secretary entered and placed a large manila folder on Thorburn’s desk. He looked through the papers in it, then extended a newspaper clipping to me. “Maybe it will make sense to you. Frankly, it’s had me puzzled, and I’d be glad of an explanation.”
The clipping was from the San Diego Union, dated on a Thursday about six weeks before, and headlined MYSTERY DISAPPEARANCE OF LA JOLLA FINANCIER. I read on.
Oilman and financier Roland Deveer, 56, was reported missing from his La Jolla home yesterday by his wife, Celia.
Deveer, whose financial empire includes interests in Alaskan and South American oil drilling ventures, was last seen leaving his home at 4 p.m. on Tuesday, presumably to attend a meeting at his company’s downtown San Diego headquarters. His 1984 Cadillac Seville was later found abandoned in a loading zone at Lindbergh Field. Checks with the airlines have indicated Deveer did not take any commercial flight from the airport.
Mrs. Deveer states that she knows of no reason why her husband would disappear voluntarily....
I turned the clipping over, just to make sure there wasn’t something on the other side that was more relevant to Elaine’s letter, but found only part of an ad for men’s suits. I reread the clipping, but could make no sense of it. What did a missing oilman have to do with the illegal activities at Casa del Rey? Or with Elaine?
When I looked up, Thorburn was watching me expectantly. “This doesn’t mean a thing to me either,” I said. “Did Elaine know this Roland Deveer?”
“I’m not sure, although I doubt they traveled in the same circles—Deveer is married to a socially prominent woman and active in high-toned civic causes. But then I didn’t know much about Elaine’s personal life.”
“Apparently no one did.” I remembered Rich Woodall and his claim that Elaine was mother to a gorilla named Fred. “Do you know anything about her tax situation?”
“A little.”
“Had Elaine made any large donations to the San Diego Zoo in the last year or so?”
“The zoo?”
“Their Adopt-an-Animal Program. The adoptee may have been a gorilla.”
Thorburn smiled faintly. “I doubt it. She and I met semiannually with her tax practitioner, Hugh Katz. I’m certain that kind of deduction would have come in for some humorous comment.”
“I guess so. May I have a copy of this clipping?”
Thorburn nodded and took it out to the reception area, then returned in a minute with a Xerox copy. “Do you intend to pursue this unofficial investigation?” he asked.
I put the clipping in my purse and stood up. “What makes you think it’s unofficial?”
“Something Anne-Marie said when I called her.”
I smiled. “She knows me too well. But in answer to your question—yes, I do.”
“Well, I suppose you know the dangers of that. If you need any legal advice, call me. And let me know what you find out.”
I thanked him and assured him I’d be in touch—only to report my findings, I hoped. But on the other hand, it was nice to know who to call if I got arrested again.
I stopped at a phone booth down the street and called Roland Deveer’s wife in La Jolla. She agreed to see me as soon as I could get there. If anything, the woman, who spoke in a low, cultured voice, seemed overly eager to talk with a total stranger who had merely identified herself as a private investigator interested in Mr. Deveer’s disappearance. Perhaps I would find out something useful from her.
The Deveer home was English Tudor, set well back on a pristine lawn. A uniformed maid answered my knock and led me through a large hallway and across a sun porch to a terrace paved with old-fashioned flagstones. A tall, thin woman rose from one of the wicker porch chairs and came forward to greet me.
“I’m Celia Deveer,” she said, extending her hand. “You must be Ms. McCone.”
“Yes. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
“I’m glad to meet with anyone who may have information concerning my husband’s disappearance. May I offer you some coffee?”
“That sounds good.”
She nodded at the maid, and the woman went back in the house. As we sat down on the wicker chairs, I studied Celia Deveer. She was almost painfully thin, with coiffed dark hair and a long, angular
face that was too sharp-featured to be really attractive. Though her beige pants suit was expensively tailored, the overall impression she gave was not of money but of good breeding. As a girl, she would have attended private schools, had riding lessons at the hunt club, gone to summer drama camp, and acquitted herself nicely in piano recitals. And because she was so unattractive, she would have been the debutante whom the organizers of the Cotillion had worried about, the one they’d despaired of ever finding a suitable match for. Looking at her, I wondered what Roland Deveer was like.
The terrace where we sat was at the top of a hill that sloped gently to a formal garden. A Mexican man, wearing a straw hat against the heat of the sun, was at work down there, edging the lawn around the flower beds. I said, “You have a lovely home. It’s refreshingly old-fashioned, compared to so many places in this area.”
“Thank you.” She helped the maid settle a tray onto the table between us, then poured coffee into delicate white cups. “It was my family’s home, and I was glad to move back into it after my father died. Mr. Deveer didn’t care for it, I’m afraid. He would have preferred a modern house in the hills, or perhaps a place at the beach. Although he never said so, of course.”
Why “of course”? I wondered.
Celia Deveer handed me my coffee. “Now tell me, what information do you have concerning my husband?”
“It’s not much to go on, but you may be able to tell me something that will give it more significance. Did Mr. Deveer have any connection with the Casa del Rey hotel?”
“You mean on the Silver Strand?”
“Yes.”
“Not that I know of. Oh, we’d attended the usual functions there from time to time. I came out in its ballroom, in fact. Why?”
“Their security chief, who died last weekend, seemed to think there was some connection.”
She sipped her coffee, looking meditatively off at the garden. “I can’t think what it would be. My husband was nowhere near the Casa del Rey when he disappeared.”
Double Page 16
