“I’ll bet he knows even less than we do,” she said. “As far as I know, the only person he’s talked to so far is Beddoes.”
“You’re probably right.”
“It’s up to us, Wolf. And we’ll get to the bottom of it, too, if we can just find the motive for Elaine’s murder.”
“If she was murdered,” I said.
“She was, I’m sure of it. I’d like to believe it was because she found out about the hotel scam, but I can’t anymore. I just don’t see Beddoes as a murderer. Ibarcena is capable of it, but he says he was with Beddoes when she died, and the way things are between them now, he wouldn’t stick to that story if it wasn’t true.”
“The two of them have some sort of falling-out?”
“A personal one. They were lovers, but Ibarcena’s taken up with somebody else and he and Beddoes had it out over that. I think Beddoes is afraid Ibarcena is going to run off and leave him holding the bag.”
“He could be right.”
“I think so too. Ibarcena was born in Mexico; he could jump over the border, bribe some people here and there, and disappear without much trouble.”
“How’s Beddoes holding up?”
“Not very well. But he still wouldn’t admit anything when I threw Deveer’s name at him, even though it shook him up.” She made a wry chuckling sound. “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.”
“What?”
“The three wise monkeys. He’s got an obscene Mexican statuette of the little monos. I was just thinking how ironic that is.”
I said sharply, “What did you just say?”
“That I was thinking how ironic—”
“No, no. You used a word, a Spanish word.”
“Mono?”
“Yeah. What does it mean?”
“It means monkey. Wolf, what—?”
“Sure, that’s it. That’s got to be it.”
“What’s got to be it?”
“I think I know where Nancy and Timmy Clark might be.”
“Where?”
“A town on the Mexican seacoast. Hang on a minute, I want to check the map.”
I put the receiver down, hauled the map over, and spread it out on the bed. And there it was, the small town on the Bahia Topolobampo that I’d noticed before: Los Monos. The Monkeys. But not real monkeys; seven-year-old kids aren’t nearly as precise as adults, I should have known that. Just the word, the word in Spanish. Los Monos—“a town on the water with monkeys in it.”
I caught up the receiver again. “Sharon? Got it. It’s a place a couple of hundred miles north of Mazatlán. Los Monos.”
“Are you sure that’s where they are?”
“No. But from what Timmy Clark told me, it’s a pretty good bet.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure yet. Turn the information over to Knowles, I suppose. Maybe he’ll be able to turn up something on who the Clarks are.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Listen, if I need to talk to you again, can I reach you through your folks?”
“Yes. I’ll check in there as often as I can.”
“Okay. And I should be here tonight if you need me.”
We rang off. I opened the guidebook and looked up Los Monos. It was a fishing village not far from the town of Topolobampo, on the bay of the same name—one of the best spots on the Sea of Cortez for billfish, marlin, sailfish, yellowfin tuna, and other big-game fish. There wasn’t much there otherwise to attract tourists: a couple of small hotels, a shrimp cannery, a boatworks, housing and supply stores for the local fishermen, and “a few spacious villas for those from Mexico and the United States who enjoy a combination of privacy and primitive beauty.” The population was under a thousand, which meant that if the Clarks were there, they could be found easily enough.
I got on the horn again and called the sheriffs department, but Knowles still wasn’t in. I left another message—he had to pick up his damn messages sometime—and started to get up and pace while I did some thinking. But the TV, which was still on, caught my eye: it must have been five o’clock because a newscast was just starting. I leaned over to turn up the sound, then sat back down again.
The Lauterbach murder was one of the day’s top stories, at least on this channel. The newscaster made plenty of the fact that Lauterbach was the “second local private eye to die under mysterious circumstances” in as many days; he also made reference to the convention and allowed as how the real world of the private investigator didn’t seem so far removed from the fictional one, after all. But he didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know—not until he mentioned a woman from Michigan named Ruth Ferguson, and hinted that there might be a possible link between Lauterbach’s death and “a personal tragedy” she’d recently suffered.
Then I was looking at Ruth Ferguson herself, in an interview with one of the station’s roving reporters: a thin, beautifully dressed, beautifully made-up woman with icy good looks and an unpleasant way of speaking. She said Lauterbach had called her at the Bloomfield Hills home yesterday morning, identifying himself as a San Diego private detective who had once worked for her ex-husband and who had information on the whereabouts of her seven-year-old son: the boy had been kidnapped—probably by his father, she said with heavy bitterness—from his school in the Detroit suburb one week ago. Lauterbach had urged her to fly to San Diego and she had done so, arriving this morning to discover that he’d been murdered. And then a photograph of Ruth Ferguson’s son appeared on the screen, and I saw what Lauterbach had been up to at the Casa del Rey, I saw the false assumption I’d been operating under from the beginning.
The boy in the photograph was Timmy Clark.
27 McCONE
I sat in the phone booth I’d called Wolf from, contemplating the graffiti scrawled on its wall. Fuck the devil, it said. And underneath: God is love, and if you don’t believe me, I’ll kill you. At any other time it would have made me smile wryly. Now it just brought up questions about the mentality of the average American—questions I’d just as soon avoid thinking on.
Now that Jim Lauterbach had been murdered, it seemed certain that Elaine had been killed to cover up something. The illegal activities at Casa del Rey? Ibarcena and Beddoes both had an alibi, backed up by their secretary. Beddoes, even disintegrating emotionally as he was, had stuck to the story, which meant it was probably true.
Once again I considered a personal motive, one stemming from a romantic relationship. There was Rich Woodall, of course, and I would want to talk with him again. But more important, there was Henry Nyland, who had hired Lauterbach to investigate Elaine. Nyland was connected with both murders, and my first priority should be to talk to him. I’d been intending to do that anyway.
I dialed Nyland’s home on Coronado, and the housekeeper told me he would be at campaign headquarters from seven o’clock on. After I hung up, I looked at my watch. Ten after five. It would take me a while to get to downtown San Diego and Nyland’s headquarters, but not two hours. That left time for a stop at the House of Slenderizing and Massage, where Elaine presumably had met both the retired admiral and Woodall.
When I parked across the street from the renovated brick storefront, an enormously fat woman was going in. I crossed and followed her, but was forced aside by two even fatter women who were coming out, grumbling cheerfully about something called a Nautilus Machine.
Good Lord, I thought, the folks who run this place have their work cut out for them.
Directly inside the door was a lobby with muted lighting and mirrors all around. I glanced at my reflection and found myself possessed of a gazelle-like slimness I’d never noticed before. Trick mirrors, not as exaggerated as those in a funhouse, but enough to make a person look ten pounds lighter.
A young woman with dark hair piled high on her head sat behind a reception desk working on a bookkeeping ledger. I went up to her and asked to see the manager. She smiled cordially and said, “Y
ou’ve found her. Our regular receptionist is out sick today, so I’m wearing two hats. What can I do for you?”
“Do you have an employee named Rick?”
She sat up a little straighter and pursed her lips. “Mr. MacNelly is no longer with us.”
“How long has it been since he left?”
“More than two months.”
“Is there any way I can get in touch with him?”
She gave me a look as if I’d just committed an indecent act. “I’m afraid I can’t give out that information.”
Something was wrong here if the mere mention of the man’s name could make her freeze me out this way. I said, “Look, I’m a private investigator, trying to locate Mr. MacNelly in connection with a case.”
She relaxed slightly, and then her eyes took on a thoughtful look. “Do you have any identification?”
I got out the photostat of my license and showed it to her. She nodded, a nasty smile beginning to play on her lips. “I do hope Rick’s not in any trouble.”
Since she so obviously did hope so, I said, “Not yet. I take it he didn’t leave under pleasant circumstances.”
“I fired him.”
“Why?”
“Moral reasons. Rick had been soliciting some of the ladies for sexual favors—his favors, to be paid for by them. Apparently he had quite a bit of luck before anyone complained.”
“I see.” Had one of those ladies been Elaine? “Who was it that complained?”
“Mrs. Abbot.” She motioned at the door behind her. “She came in just before you did.”
The huge fat one. Good Lord.
The woman went on, “If she hadn’t complained, God knows what would have happened. We just opened six months ago, and we’re trying to build a reputation as a decent spa, a place where the ladies can go right downtown near their offices. We certainly don’t need a scandal. I put a lot of money into this franchise—”
“Do you know where I can reach Mr. MacNelly now?”
“In San Francisco. I have the address where I sent his final paycheck.”
I copied it down, an apartment house on Sanchez Street, not far from where I lived. I’d use it as a last resort, if all my leads here came to nothing. “You mentioned ladies a couple of times. Do you have male members as well?”
She shook her head. “Most of our ladies are quite heavy. They would be uncomfortable displaying their bodies in front of the opposite sex.”
I frowned. “But Rick MacNelly is a male.”
“A masseur. That’s different.”
This couldn’t be the place where Elaine had met Woodall or Nyland, then. “Does your club have a branch in Borrego Springs, by any chance?” I asked.
“No. This is the only branch in the San Diego area.” She paused. “It’s odd you should ask, though.”
“Why?”
“Rick apparently spent a good bit of time in Borrego Springs. He would mention going out there occasionally.”
“Why, do you know?”
She shrugged. “I’d always supposed he was into dune buggies or dirt bikes. They do a lot of that out there in the desert.”
Now I felt more at sea than before. “I’d like to run some names by you, if I might, to see if you recognize any of them.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
I did, mentioning Elaine, as well as all the principal figures in the case, male and female. She recognized Henry Nyland as running for city council, but to all the others she replied in the negative. I thanked her and started to leave.
“Hey,” she called after me, “aren’t you going to tell me what Rick’s done?”
“Sorry,” I said, “it’s confidential.” I gave my new, gazelle-like body a final look and went out into the street.
As I drove toward Henry Nyland’s campaign headquarters, I thought about Rick MacNelly, the man who sold himself to women. What on earth had Elaine been doing with the name of such a person in her address book? She hadn’t been a member of the club where MacNelly worked. And surely she hadn’t had to pay anyone for sex.
The club. It kept cropping up in people’s conversations. And Wolf had said that, according to Lauterbach’s file, Elaine had spent time at a club in Borrego Springs. What club? Maybe Nyland could enlighten me.
Unlike the day before, Nyland’s campaign headquarters bustled with activity. Men and women—most of them around college age—rushed about, waving papers and calling to one another. Several sat at a long table stuffing envelopes, and another group were making phone calls. I recalled from my reading of the local papers that Nyland was running in a special election, to fill the seat of a council member who had died. Balloting was next week, hence this last-minute flurry.
A floppy-haired young man tried to recruit me as a volunteer the instant I came in the door. I said no thanks, and asked to see Nyland. The young man replied that Admiral Nyland was in conference with his campaign manager, and absolutely no one was to interrupt them.
I showed him the photostat of my license. Evidently he didn’t know the difference between it and police identification, because he looked perplexed and rushed away, muttering something like “not again.”
Of course the police would have seen the same information in Jim Lauterbach’s office as Wolf had; they would have talked to Nyland by now. I was covering the same ground as the officials, but, as I’d told Mrs. Deveer in relation to her husband’s papers, maybe something that Nyland said would have significance to me that it hadn’t to the police. I sat down on a folding chair to wait.
A red, white, and blue banner hanging across one entire wall trumpeted what appeared to be Nyland’s campaign slogan: HONESTY, INTEGRITY, NO NONSENSE. The words were laid out as an acrostic on the candidate’s full name, Henry Innis Nyland. I looked around at all the fresh-faced, clean-cut volunteers and remembered reading that the campaign had shaped up into a battle between liberals and the Moral Majority. Even if I hadn’t read about Nyland and known he was a retired admiral, I would have known which camp this was.
In a couple of minutes, the floppy-haired young man came back, followed by an older man in his fifties. He had iron-gray hair, a stiff military bearing, and was dressed in expensive-looking golf clothes. Normally he would have been handsome, but right now his bushy brows were drawn together, giving his face a downward cast, and his mustache twitched with irritation.
“Is this the one?” he asked the young man, gesturing at me.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you’re dismissed. I’ll handle it.”
The young man scurried away, and his companion came up to me, folded his arms across his chest, and planted his feet widely apart. “I’m Henry Nyland,” he said. “What’s the meaning of this interruption?”
“I’d like to talk to you about Elaine Picard.”
It wasn’t the answer he’d expected. He glanced around, as if to see if anyone was within earshot.
“And Jim Lauterbach,” I added.
“I’ve already spoken to another policeman. And a man from the sheriff’s department.”
I hesitated. It was the perfect opening; I could let him go on thinking I was with one of the law enforcement agencies. But this was a powerful man, doubtless with friends in high places. I couldn’t risk a charge of impersonating an officer.
“Admiral Nyland, could we go someplace more private?”
Again he glanced around. “Very well. This way.” He led me through a maze of desks and tables to a cubicle at the back of the room, one of several that had probably been used by salesmen for closing their deals when this was an automobile showroom. Once inside, he seated himself behind a cluttered desk and motioned me to a chair on the other side of it.
I sat and got out my identification. “I’m not with the police or sheriff’s department, Admiral Nyland,” I said. “I’m a private investigator, a friend of Elaine’s.”
He took the I.D. and looked at it. When he handed it back to me, his irritation had faded, and his gray eyes were puzzled. “I don’t und
erstand. Elaine died in an accident. According to my sources, there’s no question of that.”
“Perhaps not officially, but I was Elaine’s friend, Admiral. And I think she was murdered.”
He started, and the color faded from his face, leaving it with a grayish clayey look. “Why?”
“There are a number of reasons.”
“No.” He shook his head. “No one would want to kill Elaine. She was lovely, good ...” But a worried expression had come into his eyes, as if he too were thinking of possible reasons. After a moment, he said, “Are you conducting your own investigation into her death?”
“A personal one.”
“I see.” He stared down at the desktop, drumming his thick fingers on a sheet of computer printout. “I can appreciate why you’re doing this—I cared for Elaine a great deal. If anything, she was the love of my life. And if someone killed her, I want to see him punished. But I don’t know what I can tell you.”
“You may be able to shed light on some of the things that are puzzling me. When did you last see Elaine?”
“Several weeks ago. I’d tried to reach her since then, the last time being Friday night. I went to the Casa del Rey, hoping to talk, but the clerk said she’d already gone home. I doubted his story because her car was still in the lot. Probably she’d asked him to lie for her.”
“Why wouldn’t she want to see you?”
“That is personal.”
I tried another tack. “Where did you meet Elaine?”
“At the Casa del Rey. The party held a fund-raiser there last spring. There was some trouble, and the security people were called in. Elaine was efficient, very take-charge. I appreciate that in a woman, so I asked to see her again.”
“Trouble? What kind?”
“Nothing serious. A bunch of young punks—radicals—setting off fireworks outside the banquet room.”
“And this was the first time you’d seen Elaine?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I had the impression you’d met her at a club.”
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