Later that day, when Scott got home from work, he checked Laura’s answering service. There was a message from Capital One, her credit-card company. They had a few questions about some recent charges and were freezing her account until she called back. He’d been careful to pay her bills. What in hell was Pat charging up? Sisters! As soon as he got out of the country, he’d never have to deal with them again.
This thought cheered him. He flipped through a dozen or so travel brochures he’d picked up that afternoon. Every place looked good: New Zealand, Australia, Brazil. No, it was winter there. The brochure for Barbados looked fabulous—Release your spirit, refresh your soul—white beaches, turquoise water. No. He’d stick with his original plan and go to Amsterdam first.
He picked up the phone and booked a reservation for the following week. That should give him time to tie up loose ends.
He called Schwab and had them cut him a check for half the money in the joint account. That gave him twenty thousand in cash. As soon as Peter got him the Swiss account, he’d move all her assets into the joint account, then wire that money to Switzerland. He could do this quickly. He was just waiting on Peter, who was acting like a flake all of a sudden. Scott picked up the phone and left another message on Peter’s machine.
As Scott imagined all of Laura’s money in his name, and the sumptuous breakfast he’d have at a luxury hotel in Amsterdam, he poured himself a second cup of coffee and sat on the couch. He then discovered that Laura’s latest statement, which he had left on the coffee table, was missing.
* * *
When Reggie heard about the body dump in Venice—a tall dark-haired woman who matched the description of Vivian Costanza given by both Mr. Silva and Bob Harrison—he raced down to the canals.
Velma was already on the scene. Yellow tape stretched across the construction site, and police officers were taking statements.
The workmen said they’d been held up a few days because of that weird June rain. When they returned, they found that rainwater had eroded the packed sand. Velma pulled aside the Guatemalan laborer who found the body. “There was about a dozen ducks pecking away near the sidewalk,” he told them, “right over here—quack, quack, quack—making a fuss.” The man gestured to the spot, acting out the story. “The geese were super aggressive, snapping and honking. Wouldn’t let us get near the place. This one goose dives at my hand and yanks off my glove. Finally, we chase the birds away and start working. I pulled a rake over the sand to level it off, and it caught on something. I gave it a jerk and up popped the head of a lady, eyes all bugged-out, one side of her face all purple. It was like something out of a monster movie.”
“Where’s the body now?” Reggie asked Velma.
“SID’s already been here, and the coroner’s taken the body. It wasn’t pretty.”
“You have a Polaroid of her face?”
“Here”—Velma handed him a photo—“this one’s not bad.”
The face was black and blue, the skin bloated and cracked. “Would you get a copy of her prints to me as soon as you can?”
“Sure,” said Velma. “You know who she is?”
Reggie didn’t stop to answer. As soon as he got back to the station, he printed out a photo of Vivian from the Department of Motor Vehicles in New York. The photo was years old—she had short red hair—but it was her.
PART SEVEN
Compline
Scott wasn’t terribly surprised to read that the police had finally identified Vivian’s body. What surprised him was that the local television stations hadn’t picked up the story. They still seemed preoccupied with the Westlake shootout, as if that were the only story in a city of six million. Dozens of L.A. residents were killed weekly, scientific wonders were discovered, companies went bankrupt, new environmental toxins were found, building developments were proposed, laws were passed, but the local stations covered the same story over and over. Why spend money on new stories when people would tune in to hear the old ones? Why hire reporters at all? They’d rather give air time to the weatherman—as if one ever needed to hear about the weather in L.A.—and it occurred to him that the weather segment was getting longer every year. It now included fluff features on teacher of the week and local family fun. Perhaps people didn’t want news but reassurance, and what was more reassuring than L.A. weather? Whatever. Scott figured the less news, the better for him.
He switched off the television. He felt fatigued; he lay on his bed, still dressed, intending to get up and call Peter again. If it was impossible to get a Swiss account, maybe he could get one in the Canary Islands or Liechtenstein.
He tried to imagine living in Liechtenstein, carrying home his skis at dusk through the quaint, narrow streets, the golden sun slipping behind the mountains, a chill rising from the earth. He would eat dinner in a rustic inn, earlier than the Europeans, so he’d be alone in front of his rabbit stew with mushrooms and peppers. And maybe an heiress from Geneva whom he’d seen on the slopes would come in, exhausted and famished, content to eat at six p.m., and they would eat their stews on opposite sides of the restaurant until she raised a glass of wine and invited him over to her table, and after coffee and cognac, she would bend over and whisper in his ear . . .
The image faded into the silver-orange water of the marina channel at dawn, the distant mountains sponged in misty blue, the yellow streetlights flickering out. Scott wandered into the alley, which grew darker and darker as it twisted, and then he was lost in the cramped back streets of Kyoto. He wandered up a path to a teahouse and slid open a rice-paper screen. Scott saw Laura smiling at him, dressed in kimono, her face painted white like a geisha’s, her hair piled on her head. Then her face became a white porcelain mask, frozen in a laugh. “I’m alive,” she said. “I’m all right, Scott. I was saved by a Japanese fisherman.” She led him to a futon and began to undress, but something was wrong with her arms. As the last of her undergarments fell to the ground, he realized her left arm was where her right arm should be and vice versa. “Make love to me, Scott,” she said, walking toward him, reaching with her backward arms, now stretching like pulled taffy, becoming hideously long, grabbing for him. “Please make love to me, Scott.” He backed away, repulsed, but his legs were stuck, as if in mud. Her mellifluous voice repeated his name: “Scott, Scott, make love to me, Scott.”
He bolted awake, breathing hard, his eyes darting around the room, seeking out Laura in the shadows, her arms like white eels reaching out to him. It was a dream. Of course it was a dream. As he sat up in bed, nauseated and clammy, his head wobbled, his muscles ached, and his legs tangled in the sheets like a fish in a net.
What was happening to him? Was he becoming one of those people driven crazy by their dreams? The next time the cops called, would he betray himself, burbling stupidly about Laura, the geisha, the arms? Would he stammer out a confession like a third-rate actor taking the stand on an hour-long courtroom drama? How could this happen to him? He, a murderer? His every word guarded, every action premeditated? That wasn’t him. He was a surfer. Spontaneity was his middle name. Hadn’t his buddies nicknamed him Sponto? He never planned beyond dinner, but now he was forced to script out his life like a film director.
How did this all begin, this nightmare that had become his life? It started with Laura’s dream of murder. The irony finally hit him. He started laughing maniacally, ripping his lungs raw: She dreamed he would murder her. If not for that dream, none of this would have ever happened; he and Laura would be married by now, living in a starter home up in the Palisades; Vivian would be happy selling paintings of misogyny in New York; and Laura’s money would be his. No cops to harass him, no pregnant girlfriends to threaten him, and Oma’s ring on Laura’s finger, where it fucking belonged.
* * *
Reggie parked his unmarked car on the street and walked up the serpentine path to Beatrice Goodsell’s house. He felt conspicuous; his was the only car parked on the street. It was that kind of neighborhood.
After they had identified
Vivian’s body, McBride agreed to let Reggie interview Mrs. Goodsell and order DNA tests. Reggie was working on a search warrant for Scott’s car and apartment. Things were about to get messy.
A middle-aged black woman answered the door. Reggie, astonished, couldn’t find any words; her frilly white apron did him in.
She’d seen the look before. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m not a slave,” she snapped. “Come in. Mrs. Goodsell is waiting for you in the solarium.”
It was Reggie’s first inkling of the kind of woman Mrs. Goodsell was: the kind of woman, formerly married to a white Jewish civil-rights attorney, who would hire a black maid and put her in costume. She probably had to pay triple the going rate, but to her it was worth it to see the look on her former husband’s face when he came to visit the children.
Reggie found her sitting at a small writing desk, looking thoughtful. “Excuse me, Mrs. Goodsell?”
“Oh, it’s you. What did you say your name was?” She was dressed in a white linen suit.
“Detective Reggie Brooks, Pacific Division. I would like to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh, yes. I was just thinking, but I’m done now. Please, have a seat.”
Reggie perched on the edge of a pink-striped Louis XV chair. It creaked. He tried not to put his full weight on it. It occurred to him that she’d intended him to sit there, knowing it would make him uncomfortable. He began, “As I told you on the phone, we found the body of Vivian Costanza. We found your telephone number on the nightstand in her hotel room at Loews in Santa Monica.”
“Oh, really?”
“Did you know Miss Costanza?”
“Am I under suspicion?”
“No.”
“I don’t know how I could possibly help you.”
By answering my questions, Reggie thought, but didn’t say. “Did you ever speak with Miss Costanza?”
“I’m sure you’ve already checked numbers called from her hotel telephone room, so you know the answer to that.”
“She apparently did call your number. Did you talk with her?”
“I spoke with a woman who called herself Vivian Costanza.”
Reggie couldn’t believe it. Cagey as a lawyer. Of course; she had been married to Wyman. “Did you ever meet her?”
“A woman who called herself Vivian Costanza came to my house one afternoon.”
“Do you remember what day that was?”
“Last Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“Do you remember which?”
“No.”
“Do you remember what you talked about?”
“She represents the artist Wendy Sharpe in New York. I’m very interested in her work.”
Since his talk with Amaldo, Reggie had asked around. Françoise Augier filled him in on the notorious photographer. “Did you talk about anything else?”
“That was so riveting, it’s the only thing I recall.”
“Does Miss Costanza know your son?”
“She may have mentioned something about him. I don’t remember.”
“Was your son here when you spoke with Miss Costanza?”
“Is Scott in some kind of trouble?”
“Please answer my question, Mrs. Goodsell. Was your son here when Miss Costanza visited?”
She looked at Reggie as if she were aiming a gun at him. “You don’t know who my former husband is, do you?”
Reggie forced a smile. “You insist on answering my questions with questions. Yes, I do know Richard Wyman, and I know he’s your former husband. Do you see your son often, Mrs. Goodsell?”
“As often as a grown son sees his mother.”
“How often is that?”
“It varies. Not enough, of course.”
Reggie pulled an evidence bag from his pocket and handed it to Mrs. Goodsell.
“What’s this?” She looked repulsed until she saw what was in the bag; then she looked alarmed.
“Have you ever seen this ring before?” Earlier that day, Reggie had driven to Malibu and signed out the ring. Mike Morrison had gotten the appraisal Reggie had sent; the ring was now kept in a safe.
Bunny walked to an end table and took out a pair of glasses. She put them on as if deeply ashamed of them. “May I take it out of the bag?”
“Sure.”
She looked at it for a long time, then directly at Reggie. “I don’t recognize it. Was there a theft of some kind?”
Reggie admired how well she lied. As well as her son.
“It showed up on the hand of a body we believe to be Laura Finnegan’s.”
She pressed her lips together. “I think I’d better call my attorney.”
“You’re perfectly entitled to. We can continue this down at the station with your lawyer present.”
“Are you threatening me?” She jerked her chin forward like a velociraptor.
“No, not at all. But unless your answers are self-incriminating, your lawyer will instruct you to answer our questions.”
“Excuse me. I need to call Richard.”
Reggie sighed. It was going to be a long day. This woman could make anyone homicidal.
* * *
The first thing Scott did when he woke up was to grab the phone and dial Peter. A groggy voice answered.
“Why in hell haven’t you been answering my calls?”
“I’ve been busy, Scott. Our department has been changing over to new accounting software. You wouldn’t believe the problems it’s causing.”
“So what have you found out for me?”
Scott heard Peter grunt as he sat up in bed. A displaced cat yowled. It figured, that Peter slept with his cat.
“I made some calls for you,” Peter said. “I found out getting a numbered Swiss bank account is not so easy. You need a minimum deposit of two hundred thousand dollars. And you can’t do it by mail. You have to go in person. You also need a personal recommendation from one of their clients, and they’re real strict about where the money comes from. They want documentation. They want copies of your passport and will make inquiries about your occupation and address.”
“Shit. What about offshore banking?”
“Well, for that you need fifty grand to purchase an offshore bank charter and license it, like in Montserrat, in the Caribbean. Then you’ve got to commission a native resident as your part-time bank agent. You have to set up an office there. It gets complicated, but there are a lot of advantages—you can borrow money and pay yourself interest, there are no capital-gains taxes, and you can attract other depositors to your offshore bank—”
“That’s way too much work.”
“You can hire a financial management service to do the work, but that’ll set you back twenty thousand, and they charge a one percent maintenance fee plus two-fifty per hour in legal fees on top.”
“Jesus! I just want to get my money out of the country.”
“That can be done with a simple account, but you’ll get less than one percent interest.”
“Is it safe from the IRS, from the FBI?”
Peter hesitated. “Well, yes, so far . . . but the foreign countries are under pressure—”
“Why is it so fucking hard? Drug dealers set up accounts. Even terrorists set up accounts.”
“Exactly. That’s why they’re making it more difficult. Not difficult enough to keep drug money out, but difficult enough so it at least looks like they’re doing something to prevent money laundering.”
“Well, let’s do it. How soon can you get me an account?”
“I can’t. I can recommend an experienced offshore adviser, but a good one’s won’t work with you unless you have a few million.”
“That’s crazy! I just want a bank account.”
“I’d like to help, but I don’t know enough. And I’d be risking my job.”
“Christ. What good are you for?”
“I did the best I could. I can get you an account in Mexico.”
“Oh, that sounds real safe.”
“No reason to get sarcast
ic. What’s the big deal, anyway?”
“The big deal is I asked you to do something for me, and you failed. That’s all. Friends don’t fail friends.”
Peter’s voice became petulant. “I resent being talked to like—”
“Are you recording this call?” Scott suddenly became aware of a faint clicking on the line.
“What? No, of course not. Why would I do something—”
“I’ve got to go.” Scott slammed down the phone. They were all against him. He didn’t need Peter. He didn’t need anyone. He was charming, resourceful, and soon he’d be rich. He’d choose a tax haven and figure it out once he got there. He dialed his travel agent and changed his flight to Barbados. Once his account was set up, he’d fly to Amsterdam.
Now he had two days to take care of everything. Where to start? Nervously, Scott picked up a pile of unread mail and sifted through it. He pulled out a heavy ivory envelope with black script letterhead in the upper left-hand corner. adler & aaronson, attorneys at law. He ripped it open. What else could go wrong? He read out loud, mumbling the legalese—representing client’s interest . . . established paternity . . . misrepresentation of intent to marry . . . child support until the age of eighteen—until he began to understand. He slammed his fist into the wall. “Fucking goddammit!”
Apparently, Connie had filed a paternity suit. She had the gall to use their engagement charade against him! It occurred to him that there were probably several dozen people who could testify they were engaged: waiters at Gladstone’s, shit, all those Greeks at Toppers, and what about his sister and mother? His mother’s cook even baked them an engagement cake. Would his family testify for him in court and say it was a farce? Probably not. He was fucked.
Good Morning, Darkness Page 24
