by Robert Crais
The Warrens’ home was the one with the guard. He was sitting in a light blue Thunderbird with a sticker on its side that said TITAN SECURITIES. He got out when he saw me slow down and stood with his hands on his hips. Late forties, big across the back, in a brown off-the-rack Sears suit. Wrinkled. He’d taken a couple of hard ones on the bridge of his nose, but that had been a long time ago. I turned into the drive, and showed him the license. “Cole. They’re expecting me.”
He nodded at the license and leaned against the door. “She sent the kid down to tell me you were on the way. I’m Hatcher.” He didn’t offer to shake my hand.
I said, “Anyone try storming the house?”
He looked back at the house, then shook his head. “Shit. I been out here since they got hit and I ain’t seen dick.” He shot me a wink. “Leastways, not what you’re talking about.”
I said, “Are you tipping me off or is something in your eye?”
He smirked. “You been out before?”
“Uh-uh.”
He gave me some more of the smirk, then ambled back to the Thunderbird. “You’ll see.”
Bradley Warren lived in a French Normandy mansion just about the size of Kansas. A large Spanish oak in the center of the motor court put filigreed shadows on the Normandy’s steep roof, and three or four thousand snapdragons spilled out of the beds that bordered the drive and the perimeter of the house. There was a porchlike overhang at the front of the house with the front door recessed in a wide alcove. It was a single door, but it was a good nine feet high and four feet wide. Maybe Bradley Warren had bought the place from the Munsters.
I parked under the big oak, walked over to the door, and rang the bell. Hatcher was twisted around in his T-bird, watching. I rang the bell two more times before the door opened and a woman wearing a white Love tennis outfit and holding a tall glass with something clear in it looked up at me. She said, “Are you the detective?”
“Usually I wear a deerstalker cap,” I said, “but today it’s at the cleaners.”
She laughed too loud and put out her hand. “Sheila Warren,” she said. “You’re a good-looking devil, aren’t you.” Twenty minutes before noon and she was drunk.
I looked back at Hatcher. He was grinning.
Sheila Warren was in her forties, with tanned skin and a sharp nose and bright blue eyes and auburn hair. She had the sort of deep lines you get when you play a lot of tennis or golf or otherwise hang out in the sun. The hair was pulled back in a pony tail and she wore a white headband. She looked good in the tennis outfit, but not athletic. Probably did more hanging out than playing.
She opened the door wider and gestured with the glass for me to come in. Ice tinkled. “I suppose you want to see where he had the damn book.” She said it like we were talking about an eighth-grade history book.
“Sure.”
She gestured with the glass again. “I always like to have something cool when I come in off the court. All that sweat. Can I get you something?”
“Maybe later.”
We walked back through about six thousand miles of entry and a living room they could rent out as an airplane hangar and a dining room with seating for Congress. She stayed a step in front of me and swayed as she walked. I said, “Was anyone home the night it was stolen?”
“We were in Canada. Bradley’s building a hotel in Edmonton so we flew up. Bradley usually flies alone, but the kid and I wanted to go so we went.” The kid.
“How about the help?”
“They’ve all got family living down in Little Tokyo. They beat it down there as soon as we’re out of the house.” She looked back at me. “The police asked all this, you know.”
“I like to check up on them.”
She said, “Oh, you.”
We went down a long hall with a tile floor and into a cavern that turned out to be the master bedroom. At the end of the hall there was an open marble atrium with a lot of green leafy plants in it, and to the left of the atrium there were glass doors looking out to the back lawn and the pool. Where one of the glass doors had been, there was now a 4 × 8 sheet of plywood as if the glass had been broken and the plywood put there until the glass could be replaced. Opposite the atrium, there was a black lacquer platform bed and a lot of black lacquer furniture. We went past the bed and through a doorway into a his dressing room. The hers had a separate entrance.
The his held a full-length three-way dressing mirror and a black granite dressing table and about a mile and a half of coats and slacks and suits and enough shoes to shod a small American city. At the foot of the dressing mirror the carpet had been rolled back and there was a Citabria-Wilcox floor safe large enough for a man to squat in.
Sheila Warren gestured toward it with the glass and made a face. “The big shot’s safe.”
The top was lying open like a manhole cover swung over on a hinge. It was quarter-inch plate steel with two tumblers and three half-inch shear pins. There was black powder on everything from when the crime scene guys dusted for prints. Nothing else seemed disturbed. The ice tinkled behind me. “Was the safe like this when you found it?”
“It was closed. The police left it open.”
“How about the alarm?”
“The police said they must’ve known how to turn it off. Or maybe we forgot to turn it on.” She gave a little shrug when she said it, like it didn’t matter very much in the first place and she was tired of talking about it. She was leaning against the door-jamb with her arms crossed, watching me. Maybe she thought that when detectives flew into action it was something you didn’t want to miss. “You should’ve seen the glass,” she said. “He brings the damn book here and look what happens. I walk barefoot on the carpet and I still pick up slivers. Mr. Big Shot Businessman.” She didn’t say the last part to me.
“Has anyone called, or delivered a ransom note?”
“For what?”
“The book. When something rare and easily identifiable is stolen, it’s usually stolen to sell it back to the owner or his insurance company.”
She made another face. “That’s silly.”
I guess that meant no. I stood up. “Your husband said there were pictures of the book.”
She finished the drink and said, “I wish he’d take care of these things himself.” Then she left. Maybe I could go out and Hatcher could come in and question her for me. Maybe Hatcher already had. Maybe I should call the airport and catch Bradley’s plane and tell him he could keep his check and his job. Nah. What would Donald Trump think?
When Sheila Warren came back, she had gotten rid of the glass and was carrying a color 8 × 10 showing Bradley accepting something that looked like a photo album from a dignified white-haired Japanese gentleman. There were other men around, all Japanese, but not all of them looked dignified. The book was a dark rich brown, probably leather-covered board, and would probably crumble if you sneered at it. Jillian Becker was in the picture.
Sheila Warren said, “I hope this is what you want.” The top three buttons on her tennis outfit had been undone.
“This will be fine,” I said. I folded the picture and put it in my pocket.
She wet her lips. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?”
“Positive, thanks.”
She looked down at her shoes, said, “Ooo, these darn laces,” then turned her back and bent over from the hip. The laces hadn’t looked untied to me, but I miss a lot. She played with one lace and then she played with the other, and while she was playing with them I walked out. I wandered back through to the kitchen and from there to the rear yard. There was a dichondra lawn that sloped gently away from the house toward a fifty-foot Greek Revival swimming pool and a small pool house with a sunken conversation pit around a circular grill. I stood at the deep end of the pool and looked around and shook my head. Man. First him. Now her. What a pair.
Whoever had gone into the house had probably known the combination or known where to find it. Combinations are easy to get. One day when no one�
��s around, a gardener slips in, finds the scrap of paper on which people like Bradley Warren always write their combinations, then sells it to the right guy for the right price. Or maybe one day Sheila flexed a little too much upper-class muscle with the hundred-buck-a-week housekeeper, and the housekeeper says, Okay, bitch, here’s one for you, and feeds the numbers to her out-of-work boyfriend. You could go on.
I walked along the pool deck past the tennis court and along the edge of the property and then back toward the house. There were no guard dogs and no closed-circuit cameras and no fancy surveillance equipment. The wall around the perimeter wasn’t electrified, and if there was a guard tower it was disguised as a palm tree. Half the kids on Hollywood Boulevard could loot the place blind. Maybe I’d go down there and question them. Only take me three or four years.
When I got back to the house, a teenage girl was sitting on one of four couches in the den. She was cross-legged, staring down into the oversized pages of a book that could’ve been titled Andrew Wyeth’s Bleakest Landscapes.
I said, “Hi, my name’s Elvis. Are you Mimi?”
She looked up at me the way you look at someone when you open your front door and see it’s a Jehovah’s Witness. She was maybe sixteen and had close-cropped brown hair that framed her face like a small inner tube. It made her face rounder than it was. I would have suggested something upswept or shag-cut to give her face some length, but she hadn’t asked me. There was no makeup and no nail polish and some would have been in order. She wasn’t pretty. She rubbed at her nose and said, “Are you the detective?”
“Uh-huh. You got any clues about the big theft?”
She rubbed at her nose again.
“Clues,” I said. “Did you see a shadow skulk across the lawn? Did you overhear a snatch of mysterious conversation? That kind of thing.”
Maybe she was looking at me. Maybe she wasn’t. There was sort of a cockeyed grin on her face that made me wonder if she was high.
“Would you like to get back to your book?”
She didn’t nod or blink or run screaming from the room. She just stared.
I went back through the dining room and the entry and out to my Corvette and cranked it up and eased down the drive. When I got to the street, Hatcher grinned over from his T-bird, and said, “How’d you like it?”
“Up yours,” I said.
He laughed and I drove away.
3
Three years ago I’d done some work for a man named Berke Feldstein who owns a very nice art gallery in Venice on the beach below Santa Monica. It’s one of those converted industrial spaces where they slap on a coat of stark white paint to maintain the industrial look and all the art is white boxes with colored paper inside. For Christmas that year, Berke had given me a large mug with the words MONSTER FIGHTER emblazoned on its side. I like it a lot.
I dropped down out of Holmby Hills into Westwood, parked at a falafel stand, and used their pay phone to call Berke’s gallery. A woman’s voice answered, “ArtWerks Gallery.”
I said, “This is Michael Delacroix’s representative calling. Is Mr. Feldman receiving?” A black kid in a UCLA tee shirt was slumped at one of the picnic tables they have out there, reading a sociology text.
Her voice came back hesitant. “You mean Mr. Feldstein?”
I gave her imperious. “Is that his name?”
She asked me to hold. There were the sounds of something or someone moving around in the background, and then Berke Feldstein said, “Who is this, please?”
“The King of Rock ’n’ Roll.”
A dry, sardonic laugh. Berke Feldstein does sardonic better than anyone else I know. “Don’t tell me. You’re trying to decide between the Monet and the Degas and you need my advice.”
I said, “Something very rare from eighteenth-century Japan has been stolen. Who might have some ideas about that?” The black kid closed the book and looked at me.
Berke Feldstein put me on hold. After a minute, he was on the line again. His voice was flat and serious. “I won’t be connected with this?”
“Berke.” I gave him miffed.
He said, “There’s a Gallery on Cañon Drive in Beverly Hills. The Sun Tree Gallery. It’s owned by a guy named Malcolm Denning. I can’t swear by this, but I’ve heard that Denning’s occasionally a conduit for less than honest transactions.”
“ ‘Less than honest.’ I like that. Do we mean ‘criminal’?” The black kid got up and walked away.
“Don’t be smug,” Berke said.
“How come you hear about these less than honest transactions, Berke? You got something going on the side?”
He hung up.
There were several ways to locate the Sun Tree Gallery. I could call one of the contacts I maintain in the police department and have them search through their secret files. I could drive about aimlessly, stopping at every gallery I passed until I found someone who knew the location, then force the information from him. Or I could look in the Yellow Pages. I looked in the Yellow Pages.
The Sun Tree Gallery of Beverly Hills rested atop a jewelry store two blocks over from Rodeo Drive amidst some of the world’s most exclusive shopping. There were plenty of boutiques with Arabic or Italian names, and small plaques that said BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. The shoppers were rich, the cars were German, and the doormen were mostly young and handsome and looking to land a lead in an action-adventure series. You could smell the crime in the air.
I passed the gallery twice without finding a parking spot, continued north up Cañon above Santa Monica Boulevard to the residential part of the Beverly Hills flats, parked there, and walked back. A heavy glass door was next to the jewelry store with a small, tasteful brass sign that said SUN TREE GALLERY, HOURS 10:00 A.M. UNTIL 5:00 P.M., TUESDAY THROUGH SATURDAY; DARK, SUNDAY AND MONDAY. I went through the door and climbed a flight of plush stairs that led up to a landing where there was a much heavier door with another brass sign that said RING BELL. Maybe when you rang the bell, a guy in a beret with a long scar beside his nose slithered out and asked if you wanted to buy some stolen art. I rang the bell.
A very attractive brunette in a claret-colored pants suit appeared in the door, buzzed me in, and said brightly, “I hope you’re having a good day.” These criminals will do anything to gain your confidence.
“I could take it or leave it until you said that. Is Mr. Denning in?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid he’s on long distance just now. If you could wait a moment, I’d love to help you.” There was an older, balding man and a silver-haired woman standing at the front of the place by a long glass wall that faced down on the street. The man was looking at a shiny black helmet not unlike that worn by Darth Vader. It was sitting on a sleek red pedestal and was covered by a glass dome.
“Sure,” I said. “Mind if I browse?”
She handed me a price catalog and another big smile. “Not at all.” These crooks.
The gallery was one large room that had been sectioned off by three false walls to form little viewing alcoves. There weren’t many pieces on display, but what was there seemed authentic. Vases and bowls sat on pedestals beneath elegant watercolors done on thin cloth that had been stretched over a bamboo frame. The cloth was yellow with age. There were quite a few wood-block prints that I liked, including a very nice double print that was two separate prints mounted side by side. Each was of the same man in a bamboo house overlooking a river as a storm raged at the horizon and lightning flashed. Each man held a bit of blue cloth that trailed away out of the picture. The pictures were mounted so that the cloth trailed from one picture to the other, connecting the men. It was a lovely piece and would be a fine addition to my home. I looked up the price. $14,000. Maybe I could find something more appropriate to my decor.
At the rear of the gallery there was a sleek Elliot Ryerson desk, three beige corduroy chairs for sitting down and discussing the financing of your purchase, and a good stand of the indoor palms I am always trying to grow in my office but which are always dying. The
se were thriving. Behind the palms was a door. It opened, and a man in a pink LaCoste shirt and khaki slacks came out and began looking for something on the desk. Mid-forties. Short hair with a sprinkling of gray. The brunette looked over and said, “Mr. Denning, this gentleman would like to see you.”
Malcolm Denning gave me a friendly smile and put out his hand. He had sad eyes. “Can you give me a minute? I’m on the phone with a client in Paris.” Good handshake.
“Sure.”
“Thanks. I won’t be any longer than necessary.” He gave me another smile, found what he was looking for, then disappeared back through the door. Malcolm Denning, Considerate Crook.
The brunette resumed talking to the older couple and I resumed browsing and when everything was back the way it had been, I went through the door. There was a short hall with a bathroom on the left, what looked like a storage and packing area at the rear, and a small office on the right. Malcolm Denning was in the office, seated at a cluttered rolltop desk, speaking French into the phone. He looked up when he saw me, cupped the receiver, and said, “I’m sorry. This will take another minute or so.”
I took out my license and held it for him to see. I could’ve showed him a card, but the license looked more official. “Elvis Cole’s the name, private detecting’s the game.” One of those things you always want to say. “I’ve got a few questions about feudal Japanese art and I’m told you’re the man to ask.”
Without taking his eyes from me, he spoke more French into the phone, nodded at something I couldn’t hear, then hung up. There were four photographs along the top of the desk, one of an overweight woman with a pleasant smile, and another of three teenage boys. One of the pictures was of a Little League team with Malcolm Denning and another man both wearing shirts that said COACH. “May I ask who referred you to me?”
