Laguna Heat

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “Everything possible, absolutely.” Shephard dragged deeply on the cigarette and regretted missing breakfast and lunch. The smoke dazed him.

  “You know how I like to think of Laguna Beach, Shephard? And I’m sure the city council and Chamber of Commerce agree. I like to think of our city as a nice quiet little town where people come and spend their money in peace. A tourist town is only as good as its image. The only thing worse than murder would be a giant shark eating bodysurfers off Main Beach. You remember Jaws, don’t you?”

  “A fine film.”

  “My favorite part was the storytelling scene in the boat. The lost art of verbal painting. But I’m getting sidetracked, Shephard. My brain is on a right-side tack today. I just want you to know that I’m counting on you and depending on you. And I want you to depend and count on me, too. Say what people might about your father’s former connections to this department, I can assure you that I hired you for your talent, not out of sentiment. Youngest detective on the L.A. force, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you got a handful of awards and commendations before the, uh, trouble, right?”

  “Yes, sir, before the trouble.”

  “That’s the kind of work I expect, Shephard. That’s all; you can go now. By the way, how is Wade Shephard these days? I saw his television sermon last week.”

  “He’s fine, chief.”

  “Pass along my regards, Tom. Au revoir.”

  Shephard drove the Mustang through the stop-and-go traffic on Coast Highway, heading south toward the Hotel Sebastian. In the crosswalk in front of him a band of saffron-robed Hare Krishnas chanted and banged drums, their robes fluttering in the afternoon breeze, their shaved heads shiny in the merciless summer sun. He recognized one of them as a boy from his high school chemistry class and offered a wave. The thin young man returned a mute stare to Shephard, then aimed his droning song back heavenward. Karma, he thought. Just what the hell is it? To the west, the Pacific sparkled and heaved against the dark rocks. While he waited for the light to change, Shephard regarded the water and sky, the covey of lovely legged women who walked along the shops facing the highway. The hometown hasn’t really changed, he thought. But seeing his own reflection in the rearview mirror, he realized that something had changed, and that something was himself. The hair was thinner, the face no longer boyish, the eyes calmer and less eager. Ten years ago he had driven the same car down the same street, perhaps seen the same shops and tourists, but it didn’t feel the same now. He had left Laguna at the age of twenty for the Los Angeles Police Academy, and had worked twelve years in L.A. Now he was back, without the wife he had taken with him, without the illusions of a simple life. Full circle, he thought, to the city of my birth. He did not consider himself disillusioned, simply non-illusioned. He had come to Laguna to start over. In the shower that morning he had told himself again that today he would start to start over. Was it the hundredth time?

  The Hotel Sebastian hadn’t changed, that much was obvious. He saw its dull yellow walls rising from the hill of iceplant on the inland side of the highway, a rickety structure that seemed always on the verge of collapse. The feeble stairway still zigzagged up from the sidewalk, the faded sign still proclaimed the Hotel Sebastian to be the “Jewel of the Pacific.”

  Shephard turned left on Serra Street, climbed sharply, and swung the car into the hotel courtyard. The first cottage on his right had a sign outside that read: MANAGER: JAMES HYLKAMA. He found a space beside the manager’s slot and pulled in. The courtyard was gravel, bleached white by the sun and stained by lost oil and exhaust. A grove of eucalyptus trees loomed over the small cottages, which were arranged in a horseshoe pattern. Shephard noted the rusted patio furniture outside the manager’s office as he knocked. The man who answered looked like Mickey Rooney.

  “Help ya?” the man asked, his voice deep and clear. Shepard produced his badge, and the door swung open. Inside, the room was sunny and neat and smelled of bacon. A large woman bent over an ironing board, bearing down on the wrinkles of a white shirt. She looked up and smiled, but said nothing. “I’m Jimmy Hylkama. This is Dorothy. What can I do you for?”

  “I called an hour ago about William Hodges. I’d like to see him.” The bacon made Shephard think of the breakfast he’d missed.

  “Popular guy, that Hodges,” Hylkama decided. He scratched his balding head, like an acting student doing perplexity. “He checked in at seven, and an old friend stopped by at nine. Now you. Trouble is, Hodges is gone.”

  “An old friend came by?” Shephard asked.

  Hylkama augmented the story with histrionics. His pudgy hands seemed to take on a separate life, rising, dipping, returning like tethered birds to his body. Shephard listened intently, making notes in his small notebook. It took him only a moment to realize that Hylkama’s gestures were not the cover of a liar but the accompaniment of a man who loved to talk. The lost art of verbal painting, he thought; Hannover should see this.

  Unlike the man’s active hands, his narrative was straight-forward and orderly. At just after seven that morning, Hylkama was eating his breakfast of bacon and eggs. Dot had cooked it. There was a knock at the door, and Hylkama had opened it to find an “elderly type of man.” He noted that the man was approximately his and Dot’s own age, been married forty years by the way. He was short, average build, and dressed like many of his frankly down-and-out, alcoholic tenants. Gray-black hair, straight, a little on the long side. Beard and mustache, neat. Hylkama’s hands became circles, which he pressed to his eyes as he made his next point.

  “His eyes,” he said. “I remember his eyes. Big as golf balls and blue, beautiful blue. Right, Dot?”

  “Very nice blue, Jimmy, but not that big. Regular-sized eyes, honey.” She smiled again and descended on the next shirt. Hylkama ignored the correction and pressed on.

  The man had taken a room for three days and paid cash in advance, which Hylkama said was a Hotel Sebastian rule.

  “What kind of bills?” Shephard asked. “Denomination.”

  Two twenties, Hylkama said, old ones. He brought Shephard an old clipboard with one broken corner and a pad of yellow paper attached. The new guest had registered as William Hodges. Shephard noted that the signature was assured and precise. With prompting from Shephard, Hylkama revealed that, come to think of it, Hodges must have come on foot—he could remember no car, no bags. And cars at the Sebastian tend to stand out, he said, because so few of his tenants had them. Hylkama’s hands loved this revelation; they fluttered, then clenched into tight, oh-the-pain-of-poverty fists. At any rate, he went on, two hours later, Hodges’s old friend Michael Stett arrived, but when he took the extra key and went to cottage five, Hodges was gone. Hylkama took a moment to describe the general solitude of his guests, “lost to bottles for the most part,” and how Stett’s arrival had gladdened him. For Hodges’s sake, of course. Because Stett was a snappily dressed fellow who arrived in a shiny dark blue Porsche that “sparkled like a jewel” beside Hylkama’s own battered station wagon. With friends like this, maybe old Hodges has a prayer, Hylkama had figured.

  “Why did Stett want the key? If he was a friend, wouldn’t he just knock?”

  “Because he wanted it to be a surprise. He didn’t want to knock; he said he wanted to let himself in and give the old guy a real happy welcome home. In fact, he told me to call him quick if Billy came back, but not to let him know he’d been here. And he gave me this to help me remember.” Hylkama’s chubby fingers went into the pocket of his well-pressed shirt and with a flourish brought out a folded hundred-dollar bill and a business card.

  The card, standard in all respects, said only Michael Stett, and gave a Newport Beach phone number.

  “May I keep this?”

  “Yes, you may. Mr. Stett asked that I keep his gift in strict confidence, but I do make it policy to help the police whenever possible. The Hotel Sebastian desires a respected place in the community. But I would like to copy that number.” />
  The last person on earth I’d want to leave a secret with, Shephard thought. He pocketed the card after dictating the number to Hylkama, who wrote it down on the registry. With regard to the arrival and generous gift of “old friend” Michael Stett, Shephard turned over various possibilities in his mind, none of which seemed worth turning over.

  “I’d like to take a look at cottage five,” he said.

  “Do you have a warrant, Mr. Shephard?” Hylkama suddenly looked grave.

  “No. But if I did, I’d take that hundred of yours as evidence.” Shephard watched Jimmy Hylkama’s face relax, his exercise in sternness over.

  “Sure, but don’t forget to bring this back. It’s my extra, because Stett walked off with the other one. Cottage five is opposite side, last one.” Hylkama fetched a key from a desk drawer and handed it to Shephard. “Don’t suppose you want to tell me what’s going on, do you?”

  “Routine stuff, Jimmy.”

  “I figured you’d say that. And it’s okay with me. One thing you learn around here is don’t ask questions. Most of the answers aren’t very happy.”

  Shephard crunched across the gravel courtyard to the opposite row of cottages and knocked firmly on the door of number five. After a moment’s wait, he slipped the key into the lock and pushed open a door so thin and hollow it echoed when he closed it behind him.

  His eyes got the facts but his nose caught the mood: old wood, old bedding, old lives. Disinfectant, mildew, dust, a feeble bouquet of detergent hovering just above the heavy smell of rot. The green carpet was worn heavily. The walls were paneled in pine halfway to the ceiling, and above that covered by green and yellow paper, most of which was still on. A gas heater stood in one corner, its vent shaft bent like a dislocated finger. The bed was pressed against the wall, neatly made but with a depression down the middle, body-sized. The pillow was dented likewise.

  The other room served as a kitchen. The linoleum floor had cracked with age; the sink had yellowed and chipped. A set of plastic curtains lilted inward, then slapped against the window frame. Shephard spread them and found the window open; no screen.

  There were no clothes in the closet, no personal items in the bathroom. A small medicine chest above the sink contained nothing but three rusted shelves and a cockroach that quickly disappeared into a crack. The shower was dry. Only the sink showed signs of recent use: the bowl was spotted with water, and the soap was still damp. Shephard pulled out the drain plug and ran his finger under the head. The bead of water that slid onto his finger was pale pink.

  He returned to the main room and sat down. Hodges was neat, he thought. Stett, too. And they’ve likely got nothing to do with Tim Algernon. He rose tiredly from the chair, pulled open the top drawer of a nightstand beside the bed, and felt his heart accelerate.

  A wallet sat neatly in the corner, well-worn brown leather, arched from use. And beside it was a can of turpentine. Score one for law and order, he thought, his insides still jumping.

  He carefully removed the wallet and placed it on top of the stand, prying it open with his fingertips and shaking out the contents. There were three one-dollar bills, a driver’s license, and a ticket stub. Shephard read the license: Edward Steinhelper, born 1921, gray hair, blue eyes, 5 feet 9 inches tall, 165 pounds. The address was 8798 Fallbrook Street, Sacramento. So our man bullshitted Hylkama, he thought. Who wouldn’t? The man in the picture was square-faced and grim, his hair swept back from a prominent forehead, his beard long and wide. As Shephard stared at the picture, he felt his mind dividing into its two professional paths, one leading him to study the face for what it was and what it might suggest, the other wandering deeper and less logically, trying to connect it to the thousands of faces in his past. They converged emptily. He turned his attention to the stub, dated August 24, Sacramento to Laguna Beach, Greyhound bus line 52, $16. Departing 6:30 A.M.

  The bottom drawer of the nightstand was empty. Shephard took the driver’s license, then put the wallet back in place. He shook the drawer, listening to the slosh of turpentine in the can.

  Hylkama was at the ironing board this time, while Dorothy reclined on the sofa and smoked. Shephard knocked on the screen door, and Dorothy rose to let him in.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  “Maybe. This Hodges?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Hylkama studied the driver’s license, Dot looming over little Jimmy’s shoulder. Hylkama hesitated anxiously.

  “Not him,” Dorothy said.

  “Definitely not,” James agreed.

  “How about Stett? Describe him to me, please.”

  “Big guy. Sporty type, muscles and all.” Hylkama, of course, made a muscle. “A real good dresser. Dark hair and dark eyes, about forty-five, I’d guess. Like I said, a funny friend for a guy like Hodges, being kind of a lowlifer himself.”

  “I’m going to have another policeman take a look at the room,” Shephard said. “He’ll bring back the key after that. Thank you very much for your help, Mr. Hylkama.”

  “Oh, sure.” Jimmy seemed disappointed. “Anything else I can answer? You can see I like to help when I can.”

  “Not now. But you did a job, Jimbo, a real good job.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Hylkama turned to his wife. “I’ll take over, Dot. Here, let me …” He was moving toward the ironing board as Shephard left.

  In the middle of the courtyard he stopped and considered Jimmy Hylkama’s unfettered view of cottage five. Hylkama seemed like the sort to notice anyone leaving a cottage from a front door, he thought. The image of the screenless window fluttered into his mind, and he walked around the cottages to the back.

  The back windows of the first four units were screened and curtained. A grizzled face stared at him through one as he worked his way past trashcans, litter, decrepit furniture, spare tires, and old newspapers of the kind that fill the backlots of the poor. At the last cottage he found the window screen flat against the earth.

  Wonderfully preserved in the damp ground, a set of bootprints began just below the window and continued around the cottage. The triangular divot in the right heel was unmistakable. Shephard followed them until they disappeared at the stairway that led down through the iceplant to Coast Highway. Must have snuck out the back when he saw Stett coming, he thought. Good friends.

  He took the stairs to the sidewalk and headed north to the pay phone at the Standard Station, where he dialed Michael Stett’s number.

  “Zero-five-five-zero,” a woman’s voice snapped.

  “Tidy Didy Diapers?” Shephard asked nasally.

  “You have the wrong number.” She hung up.

  Shephard waited a minute and dialed again. Same woman. “Tidy Didy Diaper Service?”

  “You have the wrong number, sir, this is the number for South Coast Investigators.”

  He apologized, then called the station, where he requested a check on Edward Steinhelper of Fallbrook Street in Sacramento, and asked Carl Pavlik to get to the Hotel Sebastian as soon as he could. Pavlik was delighted. A few minutes later Shephard dialed South Coast Investigators.

  “Zero-five-five-zero,” she said again.

  “Michael Stett, please.”

  “What is this regarding?”

  “Estate work.”

  “Mr. Stett is not in. This is just the service. By whom were you referred?”

  “I was led to believe this would be a confidential—”

  “We are paid to screen the calls. We need a name and number where you can be reached.”

  “Randy Cox,” Shephard said, and gave the number off the pay phone.

  “I’ll have Mr. Stett return your call when he arrives.”

  “You’ve been very kind,” Shephard answered, but she had already hung up.

  Pavlik arrived ten minutes later, standing in the doorway of cottage five, weighted down with his forensic suitcase. In his wrinkled and ill-tailored suit, he looked to Shephard like a forlorn salesman making his last call of the day.

  “Carlos, buddy, partner, chum.�
�� Shephard felt a nervous voltage roaming his body. “There’s a wallet and a can of turpentine in the nightstand. You may have some luck with the kitchen window. Get a sample of the water under the drain plug; it looks like blood. Try the pillow for hairs. Try the foot of the bed for soil trace. Whoever checked in here washed his hands and laid down a while. When you’re done, give the manager his key back. Arrange a stakeout for the next twenty-four hours. Get it done fast, leave no trace, and put everything back the way you found it. After that, book Hylkama and his wife for an hour session with the artist, Slobin. I want to know what this guy looks like.” Shephard paused, running down his mental checklist. He carefully slipped the license back in the wallet. “And call the San Onofre nuclear power plant. See if they’ve got an Ed Stein-helper on the payroll.”

  “Sounds like you’re in a hurry, Shephard. Anything exciting?”

  “Just something I’d rather was over with.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Getting my sanity back. Officially. If Steinhelper checks in, arrest him for murder. And shoot the bootprints; I think they’ll match the ones at the stables.” He tossed Pavlik the key on his way out.

  “This stuff won’t help us without a warrant, Tom.”

  “Carl, buddy. It already has.”

  FOUR

  Shephard arrived at the Los Angeles County Medical Center to find that his psychiatrist had resigned shortly after lunch. He stood awkwardly over the receptionist’s desk and tried to explain his predicament.

  “This was my last session,” he said quietly. He was particularly sensitive about mental health. “I’d like to get it out of the way.”

  “Last session? Name?”

  “Shephard, Tom. I’m in the police program, for—”

  “Oh, officer-involved shootings,” she said cheerfully and much too loudly. Shephard imagined the other people in the waiting room staring at him. “Of course. Maybe Dr. Zahara can check you out. I mean, take over the check-out session.” She giggled and dialed.