by Josh Lanyon
Standing in front of the fireplace was Nathan Doyle.
He glanced up as Matt entered the room, and his expression was unreadable. He said coolly, “Lieutenant Spain, isn’t it?”
“It was three hours ago. I’d be hurt if you’d forgotten already.”
Doyle said, “I haven’t forgotten.”
“What are you doing here?” Matt figured he knew what Doyle was doing there. He’d known a few news hawks like that, willing to do anything, pushing past the women and children, trampling over flowerbeds and graves to be first with a story, but he hadn’t thought Doyle was the type.
Studying him now—slim and self-contained as he warmed himself in front of Benedict Arlen’s cavern-sized fireplace—he still didn’t seem like the type.
And Matt thought again about Doyle’s recoil when he recognized Phil Arlen’s body.
Maybe he’d been shocked because he didn’t expect to see Arlen’s body there because…that wasn’t where he’d left it.
When you’re a cop you learn to think like that.
Jonesy slipped quietly into the room behind Matt. He took out his pad and pencil. Doyle opened his mouth to respond to Matt’s question, but Benedict Arlen beat him to the punch.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, like somebody in a play. He sat bolt upright, staring from Matt to Doyle as though he suspected they might be in this—whatever it was—together. Which was certainly an odd idea.
Matt identified himself with a show of his badge, and Arlen goggled as though he couldn’t believe it.
Doyle said, “I thought Mr. Arlen should hear about Phil from someone besides the police. That it would be less of a shock.”
“I tell you Philip is perfectly all right,” the old man protested, but now he sounded frightened. “We’ve paid the ransom. There’s no reason for them to harm him.”
It was obvious from Doyle’s expression that this information was news to him. He stared at Arlen, and Matt said, “Sir, are you telling me that your son was kidnapped?”
The old man hesitated, chewing his lip. “We received a call Sunday evening informing us that Philip had been…taken. We were given twenty-four hours to deliver one hundred thousand dollars.”
The old man faltered as Jonesy whistled. “We were promised that Philip would be released twenty-four hours after that.” At Matt’s expression he said defiantly, “We didn’t inform the police. We were expressly ordered not to inform the police or Philip’s life would be forfeit.”
Doyle rubbed his forehead and said nothing. He didn’t look at Benedict or Matt.
Matt said, “I’m very sorry to inform you, Mr. Benedict, but Phil was found shot to death this morning at Brea Tar Pits.”
The old man shook his head stubbornly.
Everyone’s initial reaction was denial; Matt had been through this too many times to count. There was nothing for it but the straight truth. He drove on. “His body was recovered by some of the museum staff members working at the dig. Mr. Doyle made the initial identification, but we’ll need confirmation.”
The door to the room opened and a tall, elegant woman strode into the room. She wore trousers—the kind that only certain rich, fashionable ladies wore—and her dark hair was coiled intricately on her head. “Dad, they’re saying on the radio that Phil is dead.” She stopped short, taking in Doyle’s presence. “Nathan…” She looked at Matt. “So it’s true.”
“Yes,” Nathan said. “I’m sorry, Ronnie.”
“Lieutenant Spain, Homicide Division,” Matt said. “And you are—?”
“Veronica Thompson-Arlen,” she said. “I’m married to Robert Arlen, Phil’s brother.” She glanced at the old man sitting bent forward, head in hands, and she slipped past Matt and sat beside him on the sofa, putting an arm around his shoulder. “Oh, Dad. I don’t know what to say.”
She looked up at Nathan. “Couldn’t there be any mistake?”
Nathan shook his head. “It’s Phil.”
Matt said, “What do you know about this kidnapping?”
She barely glanced his way. “Not a lot. Bob, my husband, was supposed to deliver the ransom money on Monday night to the Griffith Park Observatory. He did. Everything went according to clockwork on our end.” She shook her head. “I can’t understand why they would have killed him.”
“They?” Nathan asked. He caught Matt’s eye and looked momentarily discomfited.
“I—I just assume there would be more than one of them. A gang, perhaps. It was a woman’s voice on the telephone both times. But a woman wouldn’t have been able to kidnap Phil without help of some kind, surely?”
“Both times?” Matt repeated, with an eye to Doyle.
“A woman called Sunday evening to tell us Phil had been kidnapped and that we had twenty-four hours to gather the ransom money. Then Monday evening she called and told us where to deliver the money. She promised that Phil would be released unharmed Tuesday, this evening—if everything went according to plan.”
“And the money was left at the Griffith Park Observatory? Inside or out?”
“Outside. The planetarium is only open in the day now to prevent enemy planes from using its lights to target the city. The money was to be put in a satchel and placed on the east observation terrace in a planter beside a little staircase leading to an arched doorway. Bob was supposed to leave the money and walk away—which he did.” She turned back to the old man. “He did everything they wanted, Dad. You know that.”
The old man said nothing.
“We’ll need to talk to your husband, Mrs. Arlen.”
“Thompson-Arlen. Yes, of course. He’s at home today. He wanted to be available…in case.”
Matt nodded thoughtfully, studying Benedict Arlen. The old man seemed to have retreated into his own dazed thoughts.
He glanced at Doyle. He was watching the old man and the woman without emotion. The fireplace threw shadows across his thin face. Made his eyes glint oddly.
“Again, very sorry for your loss,” Matt said formally. “We’ll keep you informed as the investigation develops.”
Neither the man nor the woman responded. Matt looked at Doyle again, and found him watching him. He said shortly, “Did you want to tag along to Robert Arlen’s?”
“Sure.” Doyle’s surprise was evident.
Matt said, “Come on, then. You can introduce us.” He was thinking it might be a good idea to keep an eye on Mr. Doyle of the Tribune-Herald.
“Why would they have killed him?” Doyle sounded like he was thinking aloud. Matt glanced his way, and Doyle glanced back. He seemed genuinely puzzled. “If the ransom was paid, why did they kill Phil?”
“I don’t know. It’s not good business,” Matt admitted. He was very conscious of Doyle sitting a few inches from him. Very conscious of his restless energy, of the faint, heathery aftershave he wore, of the fact that Doyle was as physically aware of him as he was of Doyle. He could tell from the way Doyle avoided even the most casual physical contact, and from those flickery sideways looks he was giving him.
“They should have called us at the start,” Jonesy said. “They made a big mistake not calling us in.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Doyle said. “They have to realize that no one else will pay a ransom if there’s no chance of getting the kidnap victim back alive.”
“They may not be professionals,” Matt said. “This may have been a one time only.”
Doyle thought this over. “True.”
“Hell of a time for this,” Jonesy said. “Christmas.” He shook his head.
Matt spoke to Doyle. “What were you doing at the Arlen house?”
Doyle turned those cool, lake-water eyes his way. “I told you. I thought the old man should have fair warning before you lot turned up.”
“Us lot?” Matt said. Every so often Doyle had—not an accent, exactly, but an English turn of phrase. It sort of irritated Matt—and it sort of amused him. The more he saw of Nathan Doyle, the more interested he was. Mostly it was p
rofessional interest. Mostly. He said, “Now why don’t I believe that?”
Doyle stared. “I don’t know. It’s the truth.”
And now Matt was convinced it wasn’t. Maybe Doyle read that in his expression. He said, “All right, honestly, I’m not sure. I did think the news would come better from someone who wasn’t a cop. But…maybe it was also curiosity. Reporter’s instinct.”
Jonesy met Matt’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Matt asked, “Did you know about the kidnapping?”
“No.” Doyle was definite, and Matt thought he believed him—on that point.
“What was Philip Arlen like?”
“I didn’t know him well.”
“Yeah, you said. You’re pals with the brother. Robert Arlen.”
“We aren’t pals,” Doyle said. “We travel in different circles, but I knew Bob pretty well when we were at school. Phil was younger than us. I think there were about eight years between him and Bob. To tell the truth, he was a pain in the ass. The old man spoilt him rotten. I don’t know how he turned out, but when he was a kid he was a tattletale and a sissy.” He met Matt’s gaze. “I didn’t like him much.”
“You’re kidding.”
Doyle smiled—a quirky smile that creased his lean cheek and tilted his eyes. A very attractive smile. Matt ignored it.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Matt had asked this at the tar pit. He waited to hear what Doyle would say now that he’d had time to think about it.
Doyle said vaguely, “I’ve seen him a couple of times at the Las Palmas Club. I can’t tell you for sure.”
“Okay.” Doyle was too smart to tell an outright lie, but Matt was beginning to get the picture.
“How did the Brothers Arlen get along?”
Doyle’s hesitation was noticeable. “Okay, I think. Phil was always the old man’s favorite. I guess Bob had plenty of time to get used to the idea.”
They didn’t talk much after that, listening to the police radio, and the hiss of tires on wet streets.
Jonesy pulled onto Wilshire Boulevard, and they could see the neon sign of the Bryson Apartment Hotel from blocks away burning bright in the gloomy late morning. The slick and crowded streets were decked in gaudy garland banners, palm trees twined with Christmas lights, and department store windows decorated with elaborate displays of Santa’s villages and winter wonderlands.
Jonesy pulled up in front of the Bryson Apartment Hotel, and they got out, pulling hats down and collars up against the gray rain and ducking between the classical columns with their irritable-looking stone lions balanced aloft.
The Arlens lived in a penthouse on the ninth floor, below the ballroom and the glass-enclosed loggias with their distant view of Catalina Island.
Bob Arlen opened the door, took an awkward step back, steadying himself with a walking stick. He was a tall, well-built man with light brown hair. The left half of his face was badly scarred, twisting into unidentifiable emotion; the right half of his face merely looked surprised.
“Nathan,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Mr. Arlen.” Matt showed his badge. “Lieutenant Spain, LAPD Homicide Division. May we come in?”
He gripped his walking stick with both hands, leaning heavily on it. “It’s about Phil, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Nathan said. “I’m sorry, Bob.”
“I read it in this morning’s extra.” Bob Arlen led them through to a living room with glass doors looking out on to a small balcony. Rain bounced down on large potted plants and metal railings. “I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss, Mr. Arlen,” Matt said formally. “You didn’t go into your office today?”
“I was waiting to hear—I thought there might be news.”
And there had been, though maybe not the news Arlen had been waiting for. He looked tired and shocked, but not overcome with grief. Not as far as Matt could tell.
Arlen waved them over to chairs and made his way to a rosewood bar cart laden with crystal bottles and stemware. “Can I offer you gentlemen a drink?”
“No thanks,” Matt said.
“Nathan?”
“Yes, thanks, Bob.”
Arlen poured two stiff whiskies from a bottle of Lord Calvert with a steady hand, although it was clearly not his first drink. “Ice? Soda?”
“Neat.” Nathan took the glass with a murmur of thanks. Matt realized he was far too aware of every move Nathan Doyle made. He wanted to think it was his copper’s instinct warning him, but he had the uneasy feeling it was something very different.
Bob Arlen made his way over to a low sofa, managing to juggle both his walking stick and glass with an unbeautiful efficiency that indicated a lot of practice.
“What can you tell us about your brother’s kidnapping?”
Arlen sipped his whisky before his measured answer. “The pater got the call Sunday evening. A woman said that Phil was being held for one hundred thousand dollars, and that if we didn’t come up with the money by five o’clock on Monday evening, he would be killed. She said she would call back on Monday with directions on how the ransom would be delivered.”
“Any idea who this woman might have been? Was the voice familiar?”
“No.”
“How long had your brother been missing at that point?”
Bob shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not sure Claire would even know. Phil…came and went as he pleased. I think he spent more time at the Las Palmas Club than he did at home.”
Matt looked at Nathan who said, “Claire is Phil’s wife.”
“They’ve been married just over a year,” Bob said. “Claire’s a sweet girl. Not really Phil’s type. My father pushed for the marriage. I have no idea why.”
Matt talked and let Jonesy take the notes; he’d found people talked more easily when they didn’t realize they were going on the record. “And this unknown woman called back on Monday evening and told you where to deliver the money?”
“Griffith Park Observatory. It’s closed at nights now, and I was supposed to leave the money in a bag in a planter on the east terrace at midnight.”
“Were you on time?”
“I was early. I left the money at eleven-thirty in one of the cement planters along the wall. When I came back an hour later, it was gone.”
“You didn’t see who took the bag?”
He shook his head. “I wanted to wait around and see if I could spot the kidnapper, but my father was adamant that we not do anything to endanger getting Phil back safely.” He shrugged. “I drove away, walked around the park, looked at the merry-go-round, then went back to make sure the pick-up had been made.”
Jonesy said, “Lot of things could go wrong with that plan. The fact is the kidnappers might never have received the money.”
“It was their plan,” Bob said. “We didn’t get a vote. We had to do it their way.”
Matt said, “And according to the kidnappers, if things went according to plan, your brother was to be released this evening?”
Bob nodded. “Instead, they killed him, the dirty bastards.” He drained his glass, looked to see if Nathan needed a refill. Nathan did not. He was staring out the glass doors at the sparkling chains of rain.
“Did you keep a record of the numbers of the ransom money?” Matt asked.
“I wanted to. My father was against the idea.”
Matt repeated patiently, “Did you keep a record?”
“Er…yes.”
“Might we see that record?”
Bob left the room. A key turned in the front door lock, the door opened, and Veronica Thompson-Arlen entered. She wore a fur coat that was several years old; her cheeks were pink from the cold. Oddly enough it seemed to Matt that when she saw them grouped around her living room, she relaxed a little.
Nodding hello, she moved over to the bar cart and poured herself a drink. She offered Nathan another. He declined, seeming to only then recall that he had a drink. He swallowed
a mouthful, glanced at Matt, glanced away.
Bob returned with a list of the serial numbers.
Matt thanked him.
“What’s that?” Veronica asked, and when Bob explained, she flushed. “Oh, Bob. You shouldn’t have! What if the kidnappers somehow got wind of it?”
Jonesy said, “Unless they were morons, the kidnappers would assume that precaution was taken, Mrs. Arlen. Don’t think for a minute keeping track of those numbers had anything to do with your brother’s death.”
“I hope not. Dad would be…devastated.”
Matt said, “Did your brother have any enemies, Mr. Arlen?”
Bob and Veronica exchanged a funny look.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Bob said.
“Oh, Bob,” Veronica said wearily. “What’s the point of lying?” She looked at Matt. “My brother-in-law was a charming boy, but of course he had his enemies. We all have our enemies, don’t we?”
It seemed like a stagy thing to say. Matt tried to remember what, if anything, he knew about Veronica Thompson-Arlen. He thought that she had not come from money, but she acted to the manor born, so maybe he was mixing her up with the other one, Phil Arlen’s wife—now widow.
“Well,” he said, “I have a few, but they’re mostly guys I’ve put behind bars. What kind of enemies did your brother-in-law have?”
“Carl Winter for one,” Bob said.
“Oh, Bob!” Veronica protested, just as though she hadn’t been saying a minute earlier they needed to come clean.
“Who’s Carl Winter?” Once again Matt looked to Nathan Doyle for the answer. And once again Doyle knew the answer. For someone who claimed he hadn’t kept in regular touch, he seemed to know a lot about the Arlens. And they seemed to still be on a first-name basis with him. Maybe it was the papal connection. The Catholic community was a tight-knit one, although Doyle didn’t look like much of a churchgoer to Matt.
“Claire Arlen’s brother,” Doyle answered. “Her twin brother, I think. He runs a bookstore on South Grand Avenue. Rare and antiquarian books.”
