by Josh Lanyon
“No,” he said firmly. “This was just a routine check.” Like LAPD routinely inspected for dust or something. “Please tell Mr. Doyle to get in contact with us when he has a chance.”
The little man nodded doubtfully.
“When he has a chance?” Jonesy repeated when they went outside.
“I don’t want that nosey parker going through Doyle’s rooms.”
Jonesy didn’t answer.
Matt said, “Let’s get a photograph of Pearl Jarvis and show it around.”
“Okey dokey,” Jonesy said slowly, still looking at him.
It was quite a while after he’d told Jonesy good-night when Matt decided to head over to the Biltmore Hotel Bar.
Doyle’s editor had told them that Doyle sometimes went there after work. Matt had hung around headquarters for longer than necessary in the chance Doyle might call, although he hadn’t really expected Doyle would make the effort to get hold of him that evening. It was clear to him by now what secret Doyle was guarding.
And Doyle’s secret confirmed what Matt already suspected of Phil Arlen.
He tried to put himself in Doyle’s shoes, but he couldn’t. He thought Phil Arlen was no loss to the world.
By now Doyle already knew that they had gone to his workplace—he might even know that they had visited his mother and his apartment. In his position…well, it was hard to picture being in Doyle’s position. Matt wasn’t sure he wanted to.
The Biltmore Hotel was known as The Host of the Coast, and that night it did indeed seem to be hosting the entire population of California—or at least most of the men in the armed services.
Matt ordered a beer and found himself a quiet table in a corner. It was a beautiful room, lots of warm wood and gold leaf. There were marble floors and hand-painted ceiling frescoes and chandeliers—the kind of thing Matt would have expected to see in a museum—and there was Nathan Doyle way down at the far end of the bar, knocking back highballs with a handsome dark-haired man in a naval uniform adorned with the gold-and-silver insignia of a commander.
Doyle was clearly getting plastered. His face was flushed and his eyes were bright. He was smiling, but it was the quality of the smile that fascinated Matt. He had seen Doyle smile once or twice—always as though he had been caught off guard—but this smile was young and frank and…flirtatious.
He and the naval commander could have been alone in the packed bar; he was oblivious to Matt’s presence, let alone his attention. Matt could have been standing right next to him. Instead, Matt stayed in his quiet corner, gently and not-so-gently repelling the advances of a few dames on the prowl, sipping his beer and watching. After time and a second beer, Doyle and his friend left the bar, weeding their way through the crowd, and Matt rose and followed them out through the lobby with its parquet floors and rich jewel-toned carpets and carved ceilings, down the steps through the arches and columns into the damp night.
Doyle walked with the careful steadiness of the seasoned inebriate. The naval commander was in a little worse shape, stumbling a little and laughing, his voice bouncing back to Matt in the eerily empty street.
Matt dropped back a little. They were making for Pershing Square. Five acres of banana trees, eucalyptus and coco palms. In the daytime, the wide lawns and broad walks were busy with pedestrians, kids feeding birds, and radicals on soapboxes preaching at the top of their lungs about everything from communism to the end of the world.
But at night…at night it was another world. The walkways gleamed white in the moist moonlight, the benches sat empty, the soap boxes were vanished, and the fountain splashed in an echoing silence. And in the underbrush beneath the forest of close-growing trees and plants…
Doyle and his companion disappeared into a copse of banana trees. Matt trailed them still more slowly. He told himself he was simply doing his job, and if he was somehow discovered, he could simply arrest Doyle and his pal—although there was nothing simple about it. The idea sickened him.
But then his own actions sickened him. What the hell was he doing pushing through the stalks and waxy flowers of banana trees in pursuit of these men? He stopped, concealed in shadow and leaves, watching as Nathan dropped his trousers and got down on his hands and knees. The other man unzipped and knelt behind him, momentarily blocking Matt’s view.
For a moment Matt couldn’t move. The scent of decaying leaves and fruit pulp was all around him, and he felt nauseated, almost dizzy. But he had to see, so he stepped cautiously, soundlessly, keeping an eye out for other men twisting and humping in the underbrush.
Pershing Square had always been notorious for this, and now with the military in town, it was worse.
When Matt had repositioned himself, he had a perfect view of Nathan Doyle in a little circle of moonlight on his hands and knees getting fucked like a dog. He was even whimpering like a dog as the other man shoved in and out of him. Helpless, inarticulate cries—was it pleasure or pain or both?
Matt’s heart seemed to thud in counterpoint, and he couldn’t have looked away to save his life.
Face ricked, Doyle writhed and wriggled back on the huge cock impaling him—the other man’s face was in shadow, but his powerful body was beautiful even in this obscene moment as he thrust fiercely, rhythmically into Nathan. His grunts carried through the banana leaves, and Matt wondered if he was imagining the sharp scent of sex mingled with damp earth.
And all the while Doyle kept up that puling.
It was sick and sad, and Matt knew he shouldn’t be watching this, but he couldn’t look away. He was miserably aware that he was getting hard—rock hard.
Doyle made another of those desperate mewling sounds. He shifted his weight and put his hand to his cock, working himself frantically, trying not to overbalance as the other man continued to slam into him.
He came first and then the other man came, collapsing on top of him, taking them both down to the ground. They lay there in the dampness, breathing hard.
Matt wiped his forehead, surprised to find that it was wet. At last the naval officer moved, rolling off Nathan and pushing up.
They didn’t speak. The officer tucked himself back in, zipped up. Neither of them looked at the other as Doyle dressed hastily. The commander said something, and Doyle muttered something back, and the navy whites vanished into the trees. Doyle got up and went the other way, and Matt pulled himself together and followed.
He saw Doyle cut quickly across the cross-shaped plaza. He was making for Bunker Hill and home—making for the Angel’s Flight funicular on Third and Hill, and it seemed to Matt that never had public transportation been so accurately named.
Chapter Four
The rumble of tanks and guns in the pitchy blackness, lorries and jeeps bumping along over the shifting sand—no lights allowed but the distant twinkle of the stars far overhead. Clouds of dust drifting ghostlike in the night, the forlorn yips of a jackal, the quiet murmur of voices…
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Nathan rolled out of bed, heart thundering, throat dry, groping for—
He was in a room, four walls, a ceiling, windows—he was crouching on a wooden floor next to an unmade bed. The room was soft with rosy light; the eucalyptus tree outside the window threw gentle brown shadows against the creamy walls. His books were stacked on the floor and shelves, a bottle of whisky stood on the table next to his typewriter.
He was in Los Angeles. He was home.
And someone was banging on his door.
Nathan stood, fighting to get the rush of adrenaline under control. He felt sick and shaky with it—all that fear and energy with no place to go. He sucked in a deep, steadying breath and went to the door.
“Yeah?”
A deep voice floated through the wooden barrier. “Police. Open up.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, then pulled himself together and unlocked the door. Two uniformed officers stood there.
“Nathan Doyle?”
He nodded.
“You’re wanted downtown for
questioning.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“We can do it that way if you want,” the larger of the two cops said.
Nathan shook his head. “Just wondering if I have time to brush my teeth.”
“We’ll even give you time to pull your pants on.” That was the second cop, shorter, younger, more hostile. Nathan stared at him, wondering why he wasn’t in the service, wondering if the comment about his pants was intended as a crack.
“Thanks,” he said coolly.
He stepped into the bathroom, bracing his hands on the sink and taking a couple of deep breaths, steadying himself.
It looked like he was out of time. He had wasted yesterday—Wednesday—dodging the cops and trying to find Pearl Jarvis. And then last night, giving in to loneliness and nerves, he had gone back to the Biltmore hoping to find the naval officer who looked so much like Lt. Mathew Spain. That had been stupid for a couple of reasons. Stupid to risk going back so soon, stupid to try for a repeat performance, and stupid most of all to acknowledge even to himself his attraction to an LAPD lieutenant. A cop. A married cop at that.
Jesus. What was next? Unrequited love?
Last night he’d found his comfort and companionship in the brawny arms of a senior airman he’d met on the steps of the hotel on his way out.
“Sam.” The man had insisted they exchange names. Nathan had used his middle name, “Finan.” Named for a disciple of St. Brendan. Finan was supposed to be a patron saint of monasteries, which was a good joke on someone. Sam had fucked Nathan in the banana trees of Pershing Square, and then he had tried to convince Nathan to come back to his flea-bitten hotel, and horrifyingly, Nathan had been tempted. He dreaded the idea of coming back here, of the silence and emptiness of this apartment building at night—just once he’d wanted to spend the night held tight in someone’s arms, safe for a few hours, loved for a few hours—or at least pretending that he was loved.
But he’d resisted the temptation, and here he was, safe at home in time for the police to pick him up.
He could hear the cops talking quietly in his bedroom. Nathan turned on the taps, splashed cold water on his face. He shaved, brushed his teeth, ran a comb through his hair, taking no more than three minutes—he’d learned to do this fast and in the dark. His mind raced ahead to what waited for him downtown.
They hadn’t tried to put handcuffs on him yet. Did that mean he wasn’t being arrested? Surely that was a good sign? But the morning was young.
He dressed quickly, fingers steady, focused on what and how much of the truth he could afford to tell. He would be talking to Matt Spain. That was both the good news and the bad news.
He pushed open the door to the bathroom and the two cops broke off what they were saying to each other and eyed him warily.
The three of them went downstairs, Nathan’s landlord and neighbors watching silently from their doorways. He was grateful once again that they hadn’t handcuffed him, and if that was due to Matt Spain, he owed him one.
Nathan climbed into the back of the big black Ford. The young cop got behind the wheel, the older cop in back beside Nathan. Nathan listened absently as the officers talked back and forth.
“No Christmas lights at Christmas Tree Lane this year,” the younger one commented as they drove down the streets decked in garland.
The older cop said gravely, “You do know there’s no Santy Claus, right, Sullivan?”
The younger cop reddened and fell silent.
Spain was alone in his office when Nathan was shown in. He nodded to Nathan’s police escort, who backed out, shutting the door behind them.
“Sit down,” Spain said, and Nathan took a chair across from the orderly desk. Spain looked crisp and clean-shaven in a navy suit. The wedding band on his left hand shone brightly.
“Coffee?” Spain asked politely. “Smoke?”
“Thanks.”
Spain poured him a cup of coffee from a flask. Nathan sipped, and the coffee, cut with chicory, wasn’t bad, though nothing as good as pre-rationing coffee. The lieutenant had a nice set-up here. Nathan’s eyes were drawn to the photograph of a dark-haired woman on the bookshelf behind the desk. She looked pretty. She looked like the kind of wife someone like Lt. Mathew Spain would have. The bookshelf was full of books on the law and police procedure.
Spain proffered a pack of Camels. Nathan took one, and Spain leaned forward to light it for him. Spain’s hands were large and well shaped. His lashes made dark crescents against his cheekbones. As though he felt Nathan’s stare, he raised his eyes—and Nathan couldn’t look away.
He stared into Mathew Spain’s long-lashed hazel eyes, and he realized with sudden terrible clarity that Spain knew all about him. Knew exactly what he was. Knew it as surely as though Nathan’s ugly history were an open file on Spain’s tidy desk. In fact…Nathan glanced at Spain’s desktop as though somehow the explanation could be found there, because how did Spain know? How? Had it become that obvious? Like a scarlet letter branded into his skin—or the mark of Cain?
Hot blood flushed Nathan’s face, and just as quickly drained away, leaving him feeling light-headed. He drew back, drawing sharply on his cigarette. He sat very straight.
Spain flicked his lighter closed, put it away. He seemed to be in no hurry.
“Why am I here?” Nathan blew out a stream of blue smoke. His voice was just about steady.
Spain watched him, eyes very direct between his straight black eyebrows. “Why didn’t you mention you were with the Arlen kid on Saturday night?”
“I wasn’t with him,” Nathan said. “I ran into him at the Las Palmas Club. We had a drink together.” He shrugged.
“Were you with him when Claire Arlen and her brother showed up?”
Nathan hesitated. “Me and half the bar.”
“What happened?”
“Claire arrived with her brother, Carl, and asked Phil to come home. He declined. She got upset and said some things. She’d been drinking, I think. Anyway, Carl convinced her to leave. That’s pretty much it.”
Spain grinned, a white and charmingly crooked grin. All at once he looked a lot younger and a lot friendlier. “Well, that’s a very careful, factual recounting of what took place. I bet you’re a pretty good reporter. You understand the power of words. Other people we’ve interviewed have used words like ‘screamed’ and ‘threatened’ and ‘demanded.’”
“Like I said, she’d had a few drinks. Her brother took her home before she could get into any real trouble.”
Spain leaned back in his swivel chair and rubbed his chin. “Listen, Sir Galahad, it might interest you to know that the lady in question didn’t mind throwing you to the wolves. She said it looked to her like you were pretty angry with Philip yourself. Like you were mad enough to kill.”
“She doesn’t know me very well.” Nathan studied the ashes on his cigarette.
“Did she threaten to kill her husband and Pearl Jarvis?”
“She might have.” Nathan smiled wryly. “I wasn’t listening that carefully, to tell you the truth.”
“Why’s that?”
Nathan said slowly, “I went there for a few drinks and some laughs, but after I got there…I realized that really wasn’t what I needed.”
“What did you need?” Spain asked—and Nathan, for the life of him, couldn’t think of how to answer.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them looked away.
Nathan’s heart was jerking like a marlin on the end of a very short line; he felt as though it was going to slip the hook and go banging around his rib cage.
The door opened behind him, and the tall gray-haired detective Spain had called Jonesy stuck his head in. “Loot, the Jarvis girl never came home last night either,” he said.
“Looks like she’s lying low,” Spain said. “She didn’t turn up for her show at the Las Palmas Club last night again.”
“You think something happened to her?” Jonesy didn’t sound too worried about it.
“Maybe.�
� Spain looked at Nathan. “But according to you, Mrs. Arlen wasn’t mad enough to really hurt anybody. And I can’t see why anyone else needs to get rid of the late Mr. Arlen’s girlfriend. Can you?”
He was baiting Nathan a little, but not offensively so.
“Maybe she knew who kidnapped Arlen.” Nathan wondered whether they had already interviewed Pearl and this was merely a follow-up, or if they hadn’t questioned her at all yet. He suspected they hadn’t questioned her at all, because as far as he could tell, she’d already skipped town.
It occurred belatedly to him that Spain probably knew he’d been trying to find Pearl too.
“Yeah,” Spain was saying thoughtfully. “Those kidnappers.”
“You don’t think he was kidnapped?” Nathan glanced back at Jonesy. He was leaning against the office wall, arms folded. He could feel that Jonesy didn’t like him, could feel it in the way Jonesy watched him. He couldn’t tell how Spain felt about him.
“I like to keep an open mind,” Spain mused. He looked at Jonesy too, although he spoke to Nathan. “So tell me what happened after Mrs. Arlen made her threats and was escorted home by her brother.”
“Miss Jarvis returned to her table and friends. Not long after that they all left.”
“So she wasn’t with Arlen?”
“They didn’t speak once as far as I noticed. She doesn’t perform there on the weekends, she was there as a guest like anyone else.”
“How long after she left before Arlen left?”
Nathan recognized this for the trap it was.
“Maybe half an hour. Phil and I walked outside together. We said good-night. He walked east. I walked west. The next time I saw him he was lying in the grass at Brea Tar Pits. Dead.”
Spain glanced past Nathan to Jonesy. “Did anyone follow him? Any cars suddenly start up along the street?”
Nathan was tempted to lie, to make up a story that might keep them off his back for a while, but he shook his head. “I didn’t see anything.”
Silence.
Nathan smoked his cigarette, waiting, refusing to indicate by so much as a flicker of eyelash how tense he was. Unless they knew about Phil Arlen, all they had on him was the fact that he’d left the club when Arlen had. It wasn’t enough to hold him, let alone charge him.
