"Damn!" Sidney Blackpool said. "Can you make out her license number, Otto?"
"You kidding? My eyes're forty years old."
"Come on, Brickman, get your ass out of that parking lot!" Sidney Blackpool muttered.
But the woman in the Mercedes drove out first and turned back on the highway toward Palm Springs. The detectives jumped in the Toyota and Sidney Blackpool started the engine and watched through the rearview mirror.
"Come on, come on!" he said.
Finally Coy Brickman drove out, turned left on the highway and cruised in the same direction as the Mercedes.
"We gotta risk it, you wanna get her number," Otto said.
Sidney Blackpool nodded. The blonde wouldn't be the type to spot a tail, but Coy Brickman might. And she was already a quarter of a mile ahead of them. Sidney Blackpool was hanging back in the number-two lane behind a pickup truck when they got a break. Coy Brickman turned the patrol car right on Cook Street in Indian Wells, heading toward Highway 10 and Mineral Springs.
Sidney Blackpool stepped on it, blowing through a red light when there was no cross traffic coming, and caught her three signals later.
"Hope you got this Toyota well insured," Otto said. They got close enough for Otto to jot down her license number, then they backed off and followed the car through Indian Wells, Palm Desert, and into Rancho Mirage where she turned right.
The detectives quickly found themselves looking at a guarded kiosk and a funny-looking Indian totem bird and a sign that said THUNDERBIRD COUNTRY CLUB.
"It's on our list!" Otto said. "Tamarisk, Thunderbird, Mission Hills. Let's see, what the hell was the name a the member at Thunderbird we were supposed to ask for? Shit. I left all the notes in the room."
"Think, Otto," Sidney Blackpool said.
"Let's see. Penbroke? No. Pennypacker? No. Pennington! That's it. Pennington at Thunderbird!"
"Good boy!" Sidney Blackpool said.
The detective pulled up to the gate and Sidney Blackpool said, "We're Blackpool and Stringer. Mister Penning-ton's arranged for a game of golf for us. I believe he left our names with the club pro."
It took the security office a couple of minutes to make the call, then he said, "Drive right in, gentlemen. The doorman can direct you."
"Jesus Christ, Sidney!" Otto Stringer cried as they were driving toward the clubhouse.
"What is it?"
"A former president of the United States lives here! What if we have to play a game to make our investigation look kosher? What if I'm playing golf with a freaking ex-president of the whole freaking United States?"
Chapter 14
CHARADE
OTTO STRINGER WAS DIRECTED BY THE DOORMAN TO THE pro shop where he introduced himself and got a starting time for a game he knew might not be played. Sidney Blackpool headed straight for the bar, looking for a telephone so he could run the license number to get a name and address that he hoped would belong to a Thunderbird member. Of course, they both believed that the blonde had to be the former Mrs. Harry Bright.
The clubhouse was not as stylish as the one at Tamarisk. It was done in rugged flagstone and featured lots of Indian art, the staple of desert designers, along with a mix of Chinese artifacts. It had the comfortable look of a clubhouse that had been there awhile, to which the pictures in the lobby attested.
There were photos of Bob Hope who is at least an honorary member of nearly every club in the desert, along with those of the other man who shares that distinction, former president Gerald Ford. Sidney Blackpool recognized one of Thunderbird's first members, the late Hoagy Carmichael, and Bing Crosby.
He found a pay phone and ran the license number through his office at Hollywood detectives. It was registered to Herbert T. Decker with a Rancho Mirage address, which Sidney Blackpool figured to be a street right here at Thunderbird Country Club.
He walked into the luncheon room looking for the blonde. A fiftyish waitress said, "Help you, sir?"
No, thanks," he said. "I'm a first-time guest. Just moseying.''
Have a look around," she said, as friendly as they'd been at Tamarisk. She was clearing the luncheon tables.
"Have you seen Mrs. Decker?" he asked. "I believe that's her name. A very attractive blond lady."
"Yes, that'd be Mrs. Decker. No, I haven't seen her today, sir. Have you checked the Copper Room? There was a private party in there today."
Sidney Blackpool strolled back into the foyer and through the main dining room, which wasn't in use during the day. He noticed some people in a mirrored room off to the left. He got closer and saw where it got its name. All of the service was copper, or appeared to be: platters, plates, goblets, knives, forks. Then he saw her.
She was talking to a dowager in a wool crepe jacket studded with rhinestones, worn over ballooning tuxedo trouser pants. The older woman was overdressed for this time of day but would be ready for action six hours later. The blonde was obviously apologizing for missing whatever had been going on there. She shook hands with several people, kissing the cheek of one woman and two men before she left. Instead of going back toward the foyer, she turned and walked out onto the patio beside the pool. It was a contemporary U-shaped pool with a small bandstand behind it. Sidney Blackpool could imagine parties and luaus on this patio. He might attend parties in places like this as an executive for Watson Industries.
He stood behind the blonde, who liadn t seen him, and said, "Must taste like a mouthful of pennies in there.
She turned and he said, "All that copper.
She smiled politely and he liked that a lot. She had great teeth, but then, money could also buy plenty of porcelain.
She looked as though she was about to leave so he bit the bullet and said, "Ma'am, just a second, please. I think I know you. Really, I'm sure I know you. Have you ever lived in San Diego?"
That stopped her. She looked troubled by it, but she said, "A long time ago."
"My gosh, I do know you," Sidney Blackpool said. "I used to be with San Diego P. D."
He had it right. Her expression changed from a hint of anxiety to resignation. Up close he believed her to be about forty, give or take a few years for cosmetic surgery, which he couldn't really detect. She was a cool elegant Alfred Hitchcock blonde all right.
"You must've worked with Harry," she said. "Harry Bright. "
"Of course!" Sidney Blackpool said. "You're Mrs. Bright! I met you at a party, let's see, where was Harry working then? God, must've been ten years ago."
"Southern substation," she said. "Must've been twelve years ago, at least. We've been divorced that long."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. . . ."
"Decker," she said. "Patricia Decker."
And then, because he trusted absolutely no one even remotely connected with Coy Brickman or Harry Bright, he said, "My name's Sam Benton. Can I buy you a drink? It's great to see someone from the old days. Pardon me, the recent past. You're not old enough to've been around in the old days."
"I really should be running along, Mister Benton."
"Listen, lemme level with you," he said. "I only left police work a year ago. I'm director of security for an aviation plant in the San Fernando Valley and I'm here for a golf outing with my boss. And . . . well, I'm a little intimidated. This is pretty tall cotton for a guy that used to work the streets around Southern substation. How about one drink? Gosh, you look the same except you're even more .. .
"Sure, sure," she said. "You still sound like a policeman. Okay, the bar's this way."
"I already found it," he said. "I wasn't a cop twenty-one years for nothing."
-Twenty-one years," she said. "You don't look that old."
"We are really gonna get along," he grinned.
Sidney Blackpool spotted Otto outside the foyer looking for him and he said, "Mrs. Decker; could you order me a Johnnie Walker Black Label, please? I just have to tell a friend where I am."
He caught Otto as he was about to head back to the pro shop.
"Otto!" he said. "I'
ve met her. She is Harry Bright's ex-wife! I told her my name's Sam Benton in case it comes up. I don't want her telling Coy Brickman she met the Hollywood dicks on the Watson case."
"Whaddaya want me to do?"
"Play golf."
"What?"
"Play a round. Tell the pro that your partner got detained. If this washes out I'll grab a cart and meet you out on the course. Or maybe at the turn."
"Play without you?"
"You've played without me before."
"Not in a place like this! What if I get another stress attack like over at Tamarisk? What if they but me in a foursome with an ex-president and Betty Grable, for chrissake?"
"She's dead."
"Well, who's the one that was married to Phil Harris? I see he's a member here."
"Alice Faye."
"Yeah, what if they put me with Alice Faye?" "Go play golf, Otto," Sidney Blackpool said.
When he returned to the bar she was well along with her martini. It looked like vodka. That was very good for Sidney Blackpool. She liked to drink. The problem would be in controlling his own bad habit while encouraging hers.
"Sorry," he said, placing a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.
"Put your money away," she said. "I sign for the drinks around here."
"But I invited you."
"To the bad old days," she said.
"To our alma mater," he said, clicking glasses. "Southern substation."
"I should tell you, I haven't seen Harry in years." "What's he doing now?"
"He lives here in the Coachella Valley. He was with another police force here. Mineral Springs."
"Was?"
"He had a stroke last spring. And then a heart attack. He's . . . they tell me he's very bad. It was a long time ago when we parted."
"Well, what're you doing now besides playing golf?" He touched her left hand, which was several shades lighter than the other suntanned hand. Her hands said she was in her forties, even if her face didn't.
"Still a cop, I see," she smiled. "We play quite a bit of golf.
"And how do you shoot?"
"Awful."
"I'll bet. Not with that athlete's body."
He was delighted to see that she was down to one more sip, and that it was a double vodka martini. The mere smell of gin nauseated him, and straight vodka drinkers were the biggest lushes of all. To keep her going, he told himself, as he drained his Johnnie Walker. Not because I've got a drinking problem. Oh no.
"Please let me buy us another one," he said.
"I've told you your money doesn't work here," she said, nodding to the barman. They were the only two at the small bar.
The luncheon room was nearly cleared by now, and there were just a few people passing the foyer. The barman poured her a double. Sidney Blackpool imagined that country-club bartenders had to know their members.
"Whadda you do when you're not playing golf?" he asked.
"Nothing much. A little tennis, but my legs aren't what they used to be."
"Well," he said in obvious disagreement.
She didn't mind. She knew what kind of legs she had. Sometimes we play Oklahoma gin--from the stage play not the state. What I like is when we have fourteen ladies and play two against one. It's a rotating game we call 'kill your sister.' You can lose a thousand a day." Then she gave a lopsided grin and said, "Came a long way from Southern substation, haven't I?"
He liked that sardonic, weary, lopsided smile. It looked very familiar.
"What's your husband do?"
"Oil leases. He spends a lot of time in Texas and Oklahoma. Sometimes in the Middle East. We summer in Lake Tahoe or Maui." Then she realized how that one sounded to a guy just out of police work, and she grinned in apology. "What can I say?"
"Thanks, I guess," said Sidney Blackpool. "You're a lucky girl. All you can say is thanks."
"Sure, thanks," she said.
And then he thought about it. He thought about her son, Harry Bright's son. He said, "Do you have children?" "No. No children."
He despised himself for an instant, but he said, "That's funny. I could've sworn Harry had . . .
"Our son was killed. Long after we were divorced." She really took a hit at the vodka, but smiled wearily. "It's okay. Not all San Diego policemen knew about our boy. He was on PSA Flight 182. He was nineteen years old in his first year at Cal."
"I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Decker. Really I I. . ."
"Lots of other people's children died that day too." Then she drained the glass and said, "Well, I think I should be . . ."
"I'm feeling real bad for prying. I'd do almost anything if you'd have just one more," he said. "Please . . . Patricia."
"They call me Trish," she said, and then she looked sadly at her glass and at the bartender.
The bartender poured them both doubles this time, knowing a heavy hitter when he saw one.
"This is a drinking man's club," she said. "This and Eldorado."
"We played Tamarisk the other day," he said.
"That's not a drinking club. This is a drinking club and a gambling club." Then she looked at him with her sad eyes and there were a lot of things he didn't want to ask this woman. But there was something he did want to ask. Even if it never helped to solve the murder of Jack Watson.
"Trish, would you have dinner with me tonight? I'm lonely here in the desert."
She didn't waste time with the third martini. "How long'11 you be here?" she asked.
"Till the end of the week."
"Are you married?"
"No."
"I believe you. You don't look married."
"Please. How about it?"
"And what should I tell Herb?" she asked, looking at her wavering reflection in the martini. "My husband."
"You . . . you could invite him along," he said. "I'd be happy to have both of you."
She laughed at that one, and looked up from her drink. "Would you now, Sam?" she asked huskily. "From one old cop to another, would you really like him to come along?"
"If it's the only way I could see you," he said earnestly, and his thigh was brushing hers. It had been a long time since Sidney Blackpool had courted any woman except for an occasional cop groupie whose name he wouldn't remember three days later. And who would just as easily forget his.
"I don't run around to desert restaurants when my husband's out of town. Doesn't look appropriate. But I hate dining alone. How would you like to be my guest tonight? Right here at the club. Say about seven?" She glanced at her Cartier Panthere wristwatch.
"I'll be here," he said.
"Sorry, but you'll have to wear a jacket and tie." "I'll manage," he said.
Now I've got to take my afternoon nap," Trish Decker said, standing a bit unsteadily. "That's something else I do as regularly as golf and cards."
Otto was in the men's locker room watching a dozen men at two rows of felt-covered tables playing something they called Bel-Air gin. He was fascinated, until he found out that the stakes had gotten as high as fifteen cents a point. Otto did some fast computing and realized from the figures written beside one player that the man had lost at least twelve hundred dollars that afternoon.
There was a poker game going in another room to the right of the gin room and the small bar was getting lots of afternoon action. And this, Otto realized, was just an ordinary weekday before the season was in full swing. Otto decided he wasn't quite ready for this even with his pocket full of President McKinleys. He walked outside where his bag was propped beside a golf cart. He took his putter and bought a dozen golf balls from the pro shop before heading toward the practice green.
By the time Sidney Blackpool found him, he was having a fine time with a woman he'd met on the practice green. She was at least twenty-five years older than Otto, and even rounder. She wore a golf skirt and blouse in Easter egg colors, and a yellow floppy hat. Her hair was a ginger shade, but it was definitely time to get to the beauty shop for a retouch. She wore oversized hexagon eyeglasses with persimmon rims.
"Okay, Fiona," Otto was saying when Sidney Blackpool found them. "This is my chance to get even. Don't stand too close to me or my little heart will make bunny bumps and I'll miss!"
"Oh, Otto," said the fat old dame, "you are a caution!"
Sidney Blackpool saw that Otto's bag was now loaded on an electric golf cart by the putting green. The cart was canary yellow, as was the owner's golf bag. There was a radio in the cart, an electric fan pointed toward the driver, and a small television set. There was an ice chest behind the driver's seat, which the detective figured didn't contain soda pop. There were two yellow cups on the putting green containing a brown concoction. Otto hadn't been letting the desert heat parch him.
"Otto, could I see you a minute?" Sidney Blackpool called.
"Hold that putt, Fiona," Otto said, waggling his finger. "This is my business partner, Sidney Blackpool. Sidney, meet Fiona Grout."
"Charmed, I'm sure," the old dame said to Sidney Blackpool, who smiled and nodded.
"I see you're having a few giggles," Sidney Blackpool said.
Otto's eyes were already glassy and he blew 80-proof Jamaican rum in his partner's face when he whispered, "Sidney, I got one! She's a widow. Lives in Thunderbird Heights, for chrissake. Knows Lucille Ball! Don't take me away from this."
"Otto, I missed it!" Fiona tittered. "You have a chance at me!"
"Gimme a break, Sidney," Otto pleaded. "I'm on a roll!"
"I got a great idea," Sidney Blackpool said. "I'm going back to the hotel and call Palm Springs P. D. See if Terry Kinsale's registered again for a hotel job. I'll call Harlan Penrod too and see if he found out anything. I gotta be back here tonight for a date with Harry Bright's ex."
"Yeah? You're amazing," said Otto, looking anxiously over his shoulder at Fiona who had waddled over to the cart for another mai tai. "You mean I can stay here and play around? I mean . . . play a round?"
"Sure. Can you get back to the hotel when you're finished?"
"I'll cab it back," he said. "Unless old Fiona wants to gimme a lift. She's got a new Jaguar she's just dying to show me!"
The Secrets of Harry Bright (1985) Page 22
