Laguna Heat

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “Oh, yes, definitely,” he said, pulling the notepad and pen from his pocket and scribbling nothing on the page. In matters of friendly questioning, Shephard had learned that preconceptions were something to be used. Played up. Street talk for street people, tough talk for people who watched too much TV, confidential talk for those who fancied themselves in the know, condolences to the needy few who turned to the police for sympathy and a shoulder to cry on. But people like Jane Algernon were the hardest: their superiority demanded submission. “Since he had the stables, I wonder if horses were what he gambled on.”

  She studied him briefly, then threw another fish, fresh frozen. The sea lion backpeddled with a croak, knocking his head on the cement siding. Shephard winced.

  “Horses, football, fights. It was always that way. If you know Laguna, you won’t have to ask me where he booked.”

  “Oh, you must mean Marty’s Sportsplace.”

  “Tell Marty hello from me. It’s about time he got some pressure.”

  “It sounds like you don’t care much for Marty.”

  “I don’t care for people who run others down, or those who snoop around after and try to clean it up,” she said.

  Shephard scribbled. “That’s me, isn’t it?” Her back was to him and she didn’t turn around. He noted that her hair was held up by two chopsticks that caught the faint light streaming through the willow. Her legs were long and looked trim where they disappeared into the boots. When she bent down to get another fish, her arms were dark brown on top and lighter underneath. She had tucked her blouse into the khaki pants and the material stretched against her back as she stooped. She is beautiful, he thought.

  “That’s anybody, detective.”

  “Did he have any enemies? Anyone who might want to take his life?”

  “If I thought there were, I’d have come to you first, wouldn’t I?”

  Shephard realized that he was getting nowhere, and that even in the mind of a mourning daughter who was bitter about things there would be a wealth of information, any crumb of which might prove useful. It was often the crumbs he needed most. Jane Algernon was miles away from offering any. He scribbled dramatically, flipping over a page, referring to it, then scribbled some more.

  “What are you writing when I haven’t told you anything?”

  Shephard looked up and found her blue, angry eyes boring into him. “Just what I see,” he said, finishing the entry with a flourish.

  “And just what do you see, detective? Besides a hungry sea lion who would like the rest of his lunch.”

  “I’ll tell you, Miss Algernon. First I see your father. Since you say you ignored him, you might want to know what he looked like before yesterday morning.” Shephard called to mind the picture in Tim Algernon’s bedroom. “He was a big man with a healthy head of gray hair and a love for horses. Loved to ride them, feed them, talk to them. Maybe they were something he loved even more after your mother died. People focus a tremendous amount of love on animals sometimes, especially lonely people. It’s a safe, easy love because animals don’t demand much. But still it’s love. I see him betting horses and drinking Jack Daniels, probably too much of it. I see him tired of running the business and selling off a dozen animals he loved and hated to see go. I see him saddling up that last mare, what was her name … ?”

  “Rebecca,” she said, her voice bordering on fury.

  “Rebecca, but he liked to call her Becky. Anyway, they would wander off through the canyon. That’s this canyon right here. Then, of course, I see what happened to him. I see him sprawled in the gravel outside the house he’d owned for forty years, a rock the size of a grapefruit planted in his brain, a thousand plus dollars in bills stuffed down his throat, and his entire body ruined by fire.” From where he stood, Shephard could see that Jane’s face had colored to an angry shade of red.

  “Then I see you, his daughter, who lives walking distance from the stables. I see him drunk and saying things to you that you don’t like. I see you watching him lose his money at the track. Feeding sea lions is a good profession, but it’s like mine in that you don’t make much money at it. You wondered why the dollars went to the track instead of down the road a bit. Bear in mind this is just speculation, Miss Algernon. I see you thinking he drank your mother into an early grave. I see you not quite forgiving him for it all the way. The last part of what I see I shouldn’t bore you with, but you did ask. I see a daughter too full of guilt to admit she loved her father, and too angry at him to admit she feels betrayed. Too ashamed of herself for not doing anything to help him—and how could she?—to really try now that she has the chance to. I see a woman whose left chopstick is about to fall out.”

  Her hand shot to her head and poked the dangling stick back into place.

  “And, of course, I have to see me, too, since I’m here. I see a cop with a patch on the back of his head who has to walk up to this woman and ask a bunch of questions she doesn’t want to hear. He wants to hear them even less, but he believes in certain fundamental things, and one of those is that killers shouldn’t go free. So he asks the questions. He gets no answers, and quite frankly he feels a bit foolish. When a beautiful woman makes a man feel small, he feels real small. But he is a professional. He wants answers, he needs help. He scribbles a bunch of shit in a notepad hoping she’ll think he’s as dumb as he acts, and she’ll finally have to ask him what he’s writing. And you did, Miss Algernon.”

  Shephard looked at the notepad and slid it back into his coat pocket. She was still staring at him, her eyes a cobalt blue, he thought. Demon of the mines.

  “And just what is it you would like to know?” she asked quietly. It sounded like a hiss.

  “I’d like a recent photo of your father. I need a sample of his handwriting. I need the names of his friends, regular business clients, gambling buddies, drinking partners. I’d like to see his business books. I need one hour with you in his house, with you talking about him however you want. What I need might be between the lines, so anything goes. You tell me what you want to tell me. Whoever killed him planned to kill him. It wasn’t for money. Somewhere in that house, somewhere in that mind of yours is a reason.”

  “Is that all?”

  Her voice has thawed, he thought. “Yes.”

  “Fine. Then get off my property and out of my sight. Good-bye. And, detective, it’s got nothing to do with your patch. That’s the most interesting thing about you.” She turned and brought another fish from the bucket, tossing it by the tail to the sea lion. “What was your name?”

  “Shephard.”

  “I might want to remember it the next time I talk to the chief. He’s a neighbor, you know.”

  “Oh, right. Here’s my card.” He worked a business card into a diamond of chain link. “I’m sorry, Miss Algernon. My mother was killed when I was young, so I can understand what you’re feeling. You don’t really get over it, you just learn to turn it off. You can keep him okay, inside yourself.” And not to be disturbed, he thought. Like Colleen. “Do you know Ed Steinhelper?”

  “Get out.” She stared at him as he turned away from the fence and headed back to the car.

  Shephard found Marty Odette’s black 280Z parked outside the Sportsplace on Coast Highway. The plates said MARTYZ and the car shone like obsidian under the nine o’clock sun. The tourist traffic had already begun to thicken; the smell of brine and suntan oil was wafting in from the beach. Shephard remembered the Sportsplace as a boy: a dark, loud bar where men went to watch sports on a large screen and where betting was rumored to take place. He had learned some years later that Marty Odette had done a short stretch for bookmaking, but he kept his profile low in Laguna. The cops didn’t bother Marty because they liked his bar. Marty Odette had been good friends with Wade Shephard, before Wade had found God. Shephard hadn’t heard his father mention Marty in years. Stepping into the bar, Shephard couldn’t shake the image of Jane Algernon from his mind.

  The morning drinkers in the Sportsplace were like morning d
rinkers anyplace: quiet, friendly, determined. An eight-foot-long airplane propeller still hung behind the bar. Beer seemed to dominate the counter. Shephard ordered coffee. The woman next to him looked about seventy and she smiled at Shephard. He nodded and took a stool.

  “Don’t I know you?” the man behind the counter asked.

  “Tom Shephard.”

  “Tommy Shephard, goddamned.” He reached over and pumped Shephard’s hand.

  “How are you, Marty?”

  “Look around you,” Odette said, spreading his arms like a pastor raising his congregation. “I’m great. Business is up. And you? How’s Wade? I saw him on the TV Sunday night, a real good sermon. It made me feel like a sinner so I turned it off, but what a delivery he’s got. Building some big hospital down in Mexico, isn’t he?”

  “The Yucatan, near Cozumel.”

  “After all he’s been through, what a guy. What a miracle worker he’s turned into.” Odette was a stocky, gray-haired man with a wide face and a smile that was quick and didn’t quite line up right. He poured Shephard a coffee and then poured one for himself.

  “Got any help this morning, Marty?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why don’t you see how it tends bar?”

  Odette’s manner quieted a notch as he untied his apron. “Sure, Tommy.” He disappeared to a back room and returned with a young man following him. “Come on back.”

  The office was a large room with no windows, one desk, two chairs, and three telephones. They sat and Odette poured two short Scotches, a medium-priced brand.

  “You heard about Tim,” Shephard began. “I’d like to know if he was bringing you much business.”

  Odette sipped his drink. The phone rang and he said to call back. “Beer drinker,” he said. “And a helluva good guy. He’d come in Friday nights for beers, Mondays during football. A heavy beer drinker, Tim.” The phone rang again and Marty said to call back. Then he punched the com line and told someone at the other end to answer the goddamned phone. He hung up and smiled. “Keeping the distributors off my back is a full-time job.”

  “I’m not talking beer business, I’m talking book,” Shephard said.

  Marty shook his head with finality. “No more, Tommy. I’m out of that for good. That’s why we’re drinking this”—he held up his glass—“instead of Glenlivet.”

  Shephard could hear the phone ringing outside in the bar area. “When did you see him last?”

  “Friday night.”

  “Anything unusual?”

  “Yeah. He had a friggin’ Bible on the counter with him. I asked him if he was getting born again and he told me to shut my mouth. Funny place to see a Bible in a bar, but this place is like home to a lot of the guys.” Odette checked his watch too casually.

  “I’m in a hurry, too, Marty. I want to find out who killed Tim Algernon. The people making those calls want to know your odds on the thoroughbreds at Hollywood Park tonight. And don’t try to tell me they want to know what kind of gin you’re pouring because that insults my intelligence and tends to piss me off. I just need three answers and I’ll be out of here and you’ll be back in business. One, did Algernon win big last week?”

  “Two thousand on a horse called Blue Moon. Fifth race at the park last Thursday.”

  “How did you pay off? What kinds of bills?”

  “Hundreds, fifties, twenties. I don’t know how much of which. It wasn’t old, wasn’t new, just bills.” Marty slugged down his Scotch and poured another. Shephard’s was still untouched.

  “Who handles your rough stuff?”

  Odette stood up and leaned over the desk toward Shephard. “No, Tom. That I don’t touch, and never have. The guys who play here are buddies, that’s it. No roughing up, no nothing. Shit, everybody in Laguna’s got two things, money and a suntan. I don’t have no trouble with that. Nickel an’ dime.” He sat down and leaned back. “But speaking of muscle, I just thought of something that might help you. Tim asked me for Little Theodore’s number when he was in. I gave it to him. You know Little Theodore?”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe he can help you, Tommy.” Shephard stood up and drained the Scotch. Odette remained sitting, and a worried look crossed his face. “Not gonna close me up, are ya?”

  “I’m homicide, Marty. Haven’t killed anybody, have you?”

  Odette grinned. “Anytime. Stop in anytime, Shephard. I owe you one. I just got my jet license. We’ll go up for a ride sometime, okay?”

  “One more thing. What did Tim drink if it wasn’t beer?”

  “Jack Daniels, always.”

  “Anybody here know Tim hit it big on Thursday?”

  “Everybody did. He saw to that. But like I said, all the guys here are buddies. Anybody shady, I throw ’em out. Swear.”

  “Jane Algernon sends her regards.”

  Marty shook his head sadly. “A knockout,” he said, as if another one had gotten away. “And a class bitch, too. Feel sorry for her though, under the circumstances. Send her mine back, Shephard. By the way, what happened to your head?”

  He stopped at a pay phone and called South Coast Investigators. This time his call rang straight through to the offices. The woman who answered the phone was polite, young, and British, and she set up an appointment for Randy Cox to see Michael Stett about some estate work. Shephard fabricated a story about a rich dead Uncle Larry and a vindictive sister who wanted it all. She was sure Mr.

  Stett could be of help. “One o’clock this afternoon,” she concluded. “Cheerio.”

  A collection of notes from Pavlik awaited him on the desk. The handwriting, like the man, was not much to look at but thorough and to the point.

  Robbins matched the hairs; same man at stables and hotel. Nothing new on first samples.

  No one came to cottage five last night. Chief implied stakeout to end midnight tonight Flair for the dramatic as always. How’s the head?

  And the last, written at 8 A.M., when Pavlik was on his way home after twenty-four hours of work:

  Called Steinhelper’s wife again. He showed up late last night Said he was mugged and spent a few days with friends. She said he looked it. Was drinking with a guy up in a Sacramento bar called O’Malley’s on the twenty-third, he says. Offered him a lift home and got conked. Beat him to the punch, probably. Cops on the follow, but story tracks. It looks like Hylkama was right Steinhelper isn’t our man.

  Slobin did the Identikit sketch, attached.

  Shephard cleared the notes away from the Identikit sketch and positioned it squarely in front of him. The face looking up at him was taut and slender, eyes wideset and intense, nose thin, mouth full and upturned at the corners into an inadvertent, wry look of superiority. The beard was trimmed back, framing the hard face. The hair was straight and fell onto the forehead from a center part. Overall, a haughty expression, a handsome face.

  It had the quality of all Identikit sketches, Shephard thought, as his mind wandered and searched backward for connections: it could be anybody and it could be nobody. No one looks like a killer, or does everyone?

  SEVEN

  South Coast Investigators was located in Newport Center, a sprawling commercial complex marked by buildings that looked distinguished and trees that looked planted. The English receptionist was fair-haired and freckled, welcoming Shephard, a.k.a. Cox, with a warmly professional smile. Her name was Marla Collins, and she told him she was only temporary until fall, when she would be back in school. Shephard took a seat on a black leather sofa and awaited Michael Stett.

  Half an hour later he was shown into a roomy office. The man who looked up from the desk, then stood to offer his hand, was tall and muscular as Hylkama had described, an athletic-looking man with dark curly hair and brown eyes. His face was deeply tanned, deeply lined. The nameplate on his desk said BRUCE HARMON. He grabbed Shephard’s fingers rather than hand and pumped a punishing hello.

  “Sit down, Mr. Cox,” he said curtly. “Estate work?”

  “I requested Mr. Stett
,” he protested meekly.

  “Not available, but I own this joint and I’ll be of help if I can.”

  “I was told Mr. Stett was very good.”

  “He’s no longer with us, I’m afraid. Now, I understand you had an Uncle Lawrence of some means who left you a settlement that your sister believes should go to her. Let me get the ground rules straight, Mr. Cox, South Coast Investigators is a licensed and certified company working on a straight thirty percent commission of all settlements made to its clients. We don’t involve ourselves in estates under ten thousand dollars, although we are engageable to determine the size of an estate. That can be quite a costly and time-consuming venture. People aren’t always completely, well, up-front. Are those terms agreeable to you?”

  “They sound all right.”

  Harmon was the right size, Shephard thought, and he had the right attitude for breaking heads and dogs. Even money he’s got a Michael Stett card collection somewhere.

  “How much, roughly, do you think you have coming to you?” Harmon set his elbows on the desk and leaned forward onto his knuckles. His forearms were thick and his neck massive, exaggerated by the tight polo shirt he was packed into.

  “Oh, about nothing,” Shephard said.

  Harmon’s eyes narrowed angrily before he had the chance to reinstate his professional manner. He smiled. “Nothing?”

  “I don’t have a rich Uncle Larry, and if I had a sister, she could have anything she wanted. What I do have is an interest in the murder of Tim Algernon.”

  Harmon leaned back and pulled a cigarette from the pack on the desk. “And I suppose you’re not Randy Cox either,” he said.

  “Shephard, Laguna Beach Police.” He produced his badge. Harmon didn’t look at it.

  “Well, shit, Shepard, why didn’t you just say so? I’m a private eye, not Jesse James. I help you guys any chance I get. Why all the drama?” Harmon smiled.

  “Cops are usually bottom of the list on a businessman’s calendar, especially a man in your business. I figured a little bait might get me in here sooner.”