by Jon Wilson
Knowing his predilection for fast cars, I half expected the Alfa Romeo to be sitting there, but it was even better: the Highlander. It looked completely out of place in that neighborhood, glistening like gold bullion. As we approached, two Negro men who had been standing near the hood, admiring it, backed off. Trying to be sociable, I nodded at them and one nodded back, but the other just squinted, eyeing us skeptically.
Once we were in traffic, O’Malley glanced in both his mirrors and told me, “This is a very colorful neighborhood you’ve set up shop in.”
I was watching my own mirror. After he turned up Divisadero, I asked him to take a left on to Pine. To his credit, he put the operation in motion even before asking me why.
“Just curious,” I said.
Sure enough, the brown sedan three cars back made the turn as well. I suggested he make another left on Presidio and then, almost immediately, another onto Bush, heading back toward Divisadero.
He suddenly sat up, gaping into his rearview mirror. “Are we being followed?”
“Sure.” I sat back with my arm propped up on the door. Between the struts and the plush plaid interior, that Highlander offered a swell ride. I tilted my head back to let the sunshine splash across my face.
O’Malley was frantic. He was twisting his head around and back on his neck, staring into the mirror and trying to look back over his shoulder, sometimes simultaneously.
“Watch the road,” I told him.
“But who is it?”
“Who do you think it is? It’s cops. Forget it.”
He ignored my suggestion. “What do they want?”
“I suppose they want to find out where your hideout is, and whether or not you’re going to murder anyone else. Don’t be silly. Let’s go to your—Mrs. O’Malley’s house.”
But he lucked on to even more curb space and took it with a sudden crank of the wheel.
That brought my head up and I looked around. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to ask them what they suppose they’re doing.” He actually looked like he might. He shut down the engine and was about to open his door.
“No,” I said. “That would be, to quote your sister, ‘worse than useless.’ It would embarrass whoever’s driving, and they would resent it. Worse, their boss would resent it. Don’t forget, you’re not as rich as the rest of the people involved in this thing, and you can bet they’ve got tails too.” I sat back again, relaxing, hoping to lead by example. “Besides, we already snubbed our noses at them. They know we know they’re there. Or rather here.”
They were currently passing us, not having O’Malley’s curbside luck. It was a Ford, probably mid-thirties, so nondescript it stood out a mile. The two men in the front seat were looking determinedly ahead. I watched them out of the corner of my eye, but O’Malley turned his head and glared.
“Let’s go,” I said.
He didn’t start the engine. He sat there gripping the wheel with both hands, staring at the dash. Something was building. I could see it, but I didn’t feel particularly inclined to spur it along. During our silent trip down in the elevator, I suspected he might have been struggling with something. Whatever it had been had clearly returned.
“Listen.” He gasped the word in a sort of explosive exhale. “There’s something we need to clear up if you’re going to be working for me.”
“Hold it.” I didn’t gasp but interrupted calmly. “I work for myself. I may do a job for you, for which you will remunerate me. Though, if we’re going to make it official, I think I should have you sign something. Just a simple—”
“Yes, yes!” He smacked a palm against the steering wheel. “You said something yesterday that I think you should explain.”
I nearly remarked that I had said several things the day before which a more polite individual might feel compelled to explain if not apologize for. Did he have a list? But I only waited to see which particular thing it was.
“You referred to my boyfriend.” His head sunk lower, until he was staring at the floor between his feet. He looked like a dog who had been whipped once too often. “I want you to tell me what you meant by that.”
I took a breath, wondering what he really wanted. There were at least three possibilities as I saw it. If he was the sort of man for whom a boyfriend was simply out of the question, he shouldn’t even have brought it up. That sort of man might laugh or be shocked by my insinuation at the time, but he wouldn’t bother to protest a day later. That meant that he was either the sort of man who could conceive of having a boyfriend but currently lacked one and hoped to leverage that lack into a blanket denial, or he had a boyfriend and wanted to find out just how much I knew.
I tried to act cavalier. “Which part didn’t you understand?”
He twisted his head around so that he could glare at me. I saw fear in his eyes, but a certain menacing glint too. The dog still had some fight left in him. He even snarled at me. “What did you mean?”
“You must have heard about Reed’s chauffeur slapping that mechanic.”
No matter how good he was with his face, he couldn’t have feigned that amount of confusion, not on top of everything he was already feeling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That chauffeur, Holmsby, who works for Reed. He and the mechanic that lives in that garage at your family’s house had a bit of a run-in just as I arrived yesterday.”
He was sitting back up, looking even more confounded. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, someone hinted that you might have a particular fondness for the boy.”
He screwed his face up in such a way that I felt he was attempting to show me a textbook example of what shock and dismay looked like. “Hector?”
“Is that his name? The mechanic?”
“Who would tell you something like that?” He shook his head. “Hector and I barely know one another. I had moved out long before he came to work for father.” He aimed his gaze at me again, and it was all fight now, no fear. “Who told you that? What did they say? It was Marty Velasco, wasn’t it!”
I cocked a brow. “No, as a matter of fact. But let’s discuss that a moment. Marty Velasco has come up several times today. What is his connection to this thing?”
“What thing? If it wasn’t Velasco, then who?”
“Not so fast. Tell me about Velasco and your cousin’s murder.”
“That’s ridiculous. What would Velasco have to do with it? Who told you I was involved with Hector? I demand to know.”
That made me grin. “This is what they call a stand-off, I guess. Take me to the house.”
He started the engine. “It’s ridiculous.” Apparently, he wanted to emphasize that fact. “Hector isn’t even attracted to men. He’s a womanizer. Father nearly fired him last year when he found a woman had spent the night in Hector’s room.”
I shook my head, wondering if he had any idea of how much he’d just said. I pretended I didn’t realize either, following up with a more innocent take on his statement. “But he didn’t fire him. Apparently your father was fond of him. Another thing I heard was that your old man bought the kid a deferment.”
O’Malley had maneuvered us back into traffic, heading north on Divisadero. “Yes, I’ve heard that rumor too. But it’s false. Hector didn’t get a deferment. He was reassigned early on because of his injuries, and my father did pull some strings to get him as his official driver, but there wasn’t a deferment. George sent the paperwork to me, hoping old Billy Mac might be able to grease the wheels. We were Supply Services.”
“What were Hector’s injuries? He looked alright to me. Even getting whipped.”
“He hurt his leg, but I think it’s completely recovered now. Mainly it was his back. From the accident, I suppose, and from carrying Adam all that way. It was about nine miles.”
I sat up suddenly and grabbed the dash, turning on him. “What the hell?”
He looked around frantically. “What is it?”
Realizing our demise was not imminent, O’Malley allowed himself a sigh of relief. “Well, yes. He was Adam’s driver. After the crash, he carried him on his shoulders nine miles to the village. With a bum leg.”
I sat back, flabbergasted and not afraid to show it. “You people! How many times have I been accused of dragging poor Adam in? Hector the goddamned monkey boy! If I’d known that yesterday, I might have stopped him.”
“Stopped him from what?”
“Not him, the other him.” I growled some choice language I’d heard, mostly from sailors. “Just drive.”
Chapter Twelve
“Looks like you weren’t the only one with the idea.” O’Malley steered through the large gate and up the red gravel drive. We couldn’t go very far as once again the way was blocked, this time by two patrol cars and a dusty old rambler that certainly didn’t live there. Two uniformed policemen were conversing beside one of the patrol cars. They looked over at us as we parked. A police van had been positioned right up next to the car sheds in the corner, and several plainclothes men were at work there, apparently going over the vehicles.
O’Malley and I climbed out of the Highlander and started toward the house. No one paid us much attention until we reached the porch, when George Kelly stepped out of the front doors.
“Ah, Morgan, good. I’ve been calling you. The police want to examine our cars. Yours too. They may be at the bungalow, but I suppose these fellows can take care of it here. Lieutenant Dent is right inside.” He gestured us in. “Hello, Mr. Colette.”
“Mr. Kelly,” I said, as we all moved into the foyer and he closed the door.
He hadn’t been kidding about Dent being right inside. The lieutenant was seated on a wooden chair about five feet in. He had his hat in his lap, but jerked up onto his feet when he saw me. “What’s he doing here?”
Both O’Malley and Kelly looked somewhat taken aback by the question, and the latter asked, “I beg your pardon?”
That reminded Dent to rein in his bluster, and I was keen to see whether he’d be able to manage it with me standing right there, ready to traipse all over his toes. He swallowed something and looked at Kelly and then me and then Kelly again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kelly. I mean this gentleman here, Declan Colette. Who called him?”
Kelly made a face, letting us all know the question had never occurred to him. He looked at me like he hoped I’d enlighten them, though he told Dent, “I’m sure I don’t know. Mr. Colette and my cousin just arrived. I was under the impression you wished to examine Mr. O’Malley’s car. Can your experts outside do that here? It’s the yellow Highlander parked in the drive. We’ll wait in the salon.” He started forward again and O’Malley and I followed.
“Wait a minute!” Dent was mangling his hat in his hands.
Kelly pivoted on his heel. He managed to be simultaneously aloof and friendly, an admirable ability when you consider it. “Did you need something, Lieutenant? I’ll call Fenton.”
It was one of those situations where I was bouncing up and down on the inside, wanting so badly to share some of the sweet venom on my tongue. But Kelly’s condescension had already cut the old hound off at the knees, and I would only spoil it by descending to Dent’s level.
The lieutenant was choking again. That gave the rest of us nearly enough time to reach the other side of the room before he finally managed to squeeze something out. “I…I want to talk to him.”
Kelly performed another graceful half turn. “What about?”
Dent goggled. His lips moved a moment without producing any sound. “I want to ask him some questions.”
“Indeed. The warrant was strictly to examine the automobiles, Lieutenant. It said nothing about entering the house nor accosting our guests. I’m allowing you to take the shade through forbearance.” He said all that sounding like twice the attorney he’d been acting the day before, but then he softened his tone slightly. “Would you like a beverage? I’ll send Fenton out.”
He led the way through a door under the stairs, traversing a short hallway that brought us to a medium-sized room that looked like a nice dining room probably would in any other home. A round glass-topped table was positioned at the center, surrounded by half a dozen matching chairs. For them it was probably the third most casual breakfast nook.
“What’s he doing here?” Kelly addressed O’Malley with the air of someone who assumed I didn’t know the language. Apparently my brief elevation to the status of guest had merely been to jab a thumb in the eye of the police.
“He wants to see Ramona’s bedroom.”
“What on earth for?” Clearly, the idea was not only shocking but also slightly nauseating. “The police were up there all night.”
“I don’t know.” O’Malley ran his fingers through his hair again. Neither he nor Kelly had hats, and since no one had taken mine, I had it in my hands. I used it to make a plaintive gesture, figuring it was time to remind them I did speak the lingo.
“What’s your objection to me having a look?”
O’Malley showed me that was a bad idea by joining his cousin in completely ignoring me. “He’s investigating Ramona’s murder,” he said to Kelly. “I’ve hired him.”
“On who’s authority?”
That took both me and O’Malley by surprise. The rich guy wore it better of course. He adjusted his shoulders and raised his chin, practically daring Kelly to take a swing at it. “I wasn’t aware I needed anyone’s authority. I don’t need yours, certainly. I’ll discuss it with Miranda myself if you think she might object.”
Kelly wilted, propping himself with one hand on the back of a chair. I don’t mean to imply he’d lost some silent power struggle, merely that he realized he was making a fool of himself. He rubbed his face with his other hand. “No, it’s fine. I’m just dealing with the police and…Fine. Go ahead.”
O’Malley told me to follow him and was about to start off, but I took another stab at Kelly. “If the police are checking the cars, they must have a reason. Did they say anything?”
He wished I would just go away, it was there in his tired eyes and his sagging chin. “Just that they assume she was taken in an automobile to where she was…where her body was placed into the ocean.”
“And you said the cops searched her room last night. Did they take anything away?”
“No. At least they didn’t show me anything. Or mention it. Florence was there the entire time. I insisted.”
“Florence is the maid?”
“Mrs. O’Malley’s maid, yes.” He looked at his cousin. “Morgan, I have so much to do.”
O’Malley stepped back over and took hold of my upper arm. He didn’t tug, however, and I managed a final question. “Where is Mrs. O’Malley?”
“Out by the pool.” Kelly was going. “I’ll send Florence up. This is your responsibility, Morg.” He left.
O’Malley turned me, let go, and led me in the opposite direction, back further into the house. “He’s not holding up very well,” I said.
“Can you blame him? He’s single-handedly kept this family together the last ten years. And now look at us.” He certainly managed to sound broken up about it, seeing as he’d been disowned.
Our path twisted and turned. At one point we passed a window that overlooked the back grounds, and I caught a brief glimpse of Miranda O’Malley lying on a lounge beneath an umbrella. She had on a swimsuit, hat and glasses, and from what I could tell had not been wet. She was so still she might have been asleep.
Another turn brought us to a heavy door, which let us into the game room. I didn’t say ‘Ah-ha!,’ but I admit I felt it. All the cheap beasts around, many of whom had their maws gaping in silent roars, didn’t say anything either. They just watched us with their glass eyes as we strode loudly through the silence. We went up the spiral stairs and through the door at the top. A left turn led us down another short corridor toward the front of th
e house. Finally O’Malley stopped and indicated the door directly in front of us.
“Here it is.” He stood there looking at me.
I hoisted my eyebrows. “What, are you afraid of fingerprints?” I grabbed the doorknob and twisted. “The cops were already here.”
I stopped just through the door and surveyed the landscape. There weren’t many surprises. Like the rest of the house, it had no shortage of acreage, with enough floor space for four energetic couples to foxtrot without colliding. A double bed was against the wall to my right with an armoire and dresser opposite it. The wall directly opposite the door, at the front of the house, had two tall windows with flower-print drapes. Between the two windows was a small secretary and chair.
That seemed like the logical place to start, but I went across to the right window first. It was open about six inches, and I tugged it up the rest of the way. The view was of the drive and, to my right, the car sheds. The two uniforms were now over at the Highlander, discussing its merits. That baby deserved the attention and got it. The men I assumed to be scientists were still at work going over the Minx. No sign of Hector the monkey boy mechanic. I angled my body forward, leaning out through the window to look down. That had me staring at the top of some large oleander bushes. About fifteen feet to my right was the top of the lawn jockey’s red cap. Another fifteen feet was the porch. I figured if I went down and searched the flowerbed around the oleander, I’d probably turn up some cigar ash. Fortunately, the cops were too hopped up on the cars.
Apparently it hadn’t been a fear of leaving fingerprints that had given O’Malley pause. He was still standing in the hall. As I straightened up from the window, I asked him, “You superstitious?”
“No.” He frowned. To prove how brave he could be, he took a single step forward to lean against the door jamb. His arms folded across his chest, and his eyes glowered at me from beneath a furrowed brow again. Luckily for him, he had the type of face that looked good even wearing a glower.
I proceeded to the desk, examining the chair briefly before sitting in it. Again I stopped to survey the layout before touching anything. It almost always pays to be cautious. Assorted tools: pencils, pens, scissors and ink, and a stack of stationery was on the back shelf. Three rows of cubbyholes filled the space below the shelf, so I began opening them one by one. I found lots of surprises among the contents, but nothing that merits mention. Ramona Wyman had been a rather typical seventeen-year-old girl. My most remarkable finding was that so many of the little drawers were empty.
