Justine shook her head.
“That’s a good girl. That’s Grandma’s girl. Finish your cereal while I run your bath. We have bubble-bath drops so you can sit in the foam. Don’t you like that?”
Justine nodded; she did.
“Little girls should always smell sweet and be clean and that means your hair, too. I’ll wash it and chase away any dirt. Then you will be all set to talk to Doctor Goodfellow.”
“And he’ll tell me where Mommy is?”
“Of course,” Grandma said. She clapped her hands together again. “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she sang. “We’re going to have such a good time until you have to go away. We’ll make cookies, all shapes and sizes. Did you ever make cookies?”
Justine shook her head. Mommy was always promising to do something like that, but she never had.
“Then won’t that be fun?”
Justine nodded.
“What a good girl. But then again, all Grandma’s little girls are good girls or else…they’d never come to Grandma’s.”
Justine watched as Grandma went into the bathroom and started to run the water, singing as she worked. What a nice voice she had. What a nice place this was. She was sure that in such a nice place with such a nice old lady, Mommy couldn’t be too far away. Everything was going to be all right. She kept eating; the cereal was so good and she couldn’t wait to crawl into that doll house.
Scott felt like a piece of meat, a slab tattooed with a number and hung on a hook. The bailiff read out the numbers and the slabs were sent along until they ended up in front of the judge, who barely looked up from the papers he shuffled around on his desk. He was a small man with a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache and a military-style haircut. Whenever he did look up, he shifted his big eyes from side to side as if checking the corners of the room for assassins. There was something comical about him; he reminded Scott of Groucho Marx.
But there was nothing comical about the situation, Scott thought. This was his arraignment. Faye Elliot already told him the prosecution wanted him held without bail. She would have to argue and convince that odd-looking man to give him his freedom.
He couldn’t believe all the noise around him. This was nothing like the courtroom scenes depicted on television. Not even “L.A. Law” was this realistic, he thought sadly. Why hadn’t he been warned what to expect? How could he maintain any dignity being grouped in with drug dealers, prostitutes, burglars, car thieves, and armed robbers. There was no one of his ilk here, no white-collar criminals, no one in a jacket and tie.
He gazed around dejectedly. He was going to suffocate, turn blue and die before he had a chance to prove his innocence. He imagined that if one of these accused died on the spot, no one would notice. The proceeding would continue and sentence would be pronounced over his corpse. They might even deliver the body to the penitentiary. No one really looked at him. They might not notice his demise.
He vaguely heard his name read. The charges against him seemed so ridiculous they had to be talking about someone else. How he longed for a drink or a line of coke, something to lift him out of this sewer. I’m going to be flushed down the toilet, he thought. Any moment they’re going to stuff my head into the pipe.
Faye nudged him. She wanted him to stand up straight and look the judge in the eye.
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” he said as firmly and as clearly as he could. He wanted to add, “of course.”
“Mr. Selzer,” the judge said, turning to the young prosecutor. Scott thought the lawyer looked like one of those yuppie types who drove up in their leased BMWs and came in to consider a Mercedes…until they heard the numbers. Every one of them was a waste of time.
“Your Honor,” the young prosecutor began, “the state feels that as long as Mrs. Lester’s daughter is still missing, it would be in the best interest of both her and her daughter for Mr. Lester to be held over to trial. We are asking that bail be withheld and he be returned to the county jail until such time as the whereabouts of Justine Lester can be determined.”
“That’s absolutely ridiculous, Your Honor!” Faye Elliot exclaimed. The judge looked up, his eyebrows rising. Did she say the secret word? Scott wondered. Were they on Groucho’s “You Bet Your Life?” “Mr. Lester has an absolutely spotless record; he doesn’t even have a speeding ticket on his license. He is employed in a highly reputable firm. He owns a home, maintains a mortgage, has financial obligations and business commitments.”
“He has attacked his wife and kidnapped his daughter,” the prosecutor retorted.
“Allegedly. This is not the trial,” Faye said.
“Your Honor, this would not be the first time a parent has run off with a child just before or just after a custody decision has been made against that parent. The state wishes to ensure…”
“This isn’t a custody hearing,” Faye Elliot cried. “My client is being accused of attempted murder!”
“At last, a factual statement,” the judge declared. “Mr. Selzer, Ms. Elliot has a point.”
“But…”
“Bail will be set. Name a figure, Mr. Selzer.”
“Your Honor…”
“Name a figure or I’ll set it.”
“One million dollars!”
“Your Honor,” Faye began, but the judge held up his hand.
“Bail is set at two hundred thousand dollars. Trial date has been set for October 4. Next, please.”
“Is that it?” Scott asked.
“You have to come up with twenty thousand dollars.”
“Twenty…”
“You’ll put up your house and a bail bondsman will put up the money, unless you have that money set aside somewhere.”
“Sure,” Scott said. “In the backyard.” She didn’t appreciate his sense of humor. There was reprimand in those big hazel eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“The most important thing, as far as you are concerned now,” she lectured, “is for you to find this Philip Dante.” She scribbled an address on her legal pad and then ripped out the page. “This is the name and address of a private detective my firm has used on occasion. I haven’t ever met him, but I was told he is the most reasonable yet effective investigator in town.”
Scott took the paper and gazed at what she had written. Great handwriting, he thought.
“Henry Dyce?”
She nodded and closed her briefcase.
“He’s in West L.A.,” Scott said. “I know this area; it’s residential.”
“He works out of his apartment. Low overhead. He’s supposed to be good,” she added. “An ex–L.A. detective.”
“Why ex?”
“He’s not a team player, which is all right for a private investigator. Look,” she said, indicating they should start to exit the courtroom, “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Dyce. He knows you’re coming to see him. Get there right away and keep me closely informed as to progress.”
“Am I allowed to go to the hospital to see my wife?” Scott asked. The question gave her pause.
“You can do most anything, but you can’t leave the state. On second thought, visiting your wife might be a good idea. Call me before you go up to the hospital,” she said. “I don’t mean to sound conniving, but it can’t hurt for you to show concern about your wife. I want to know exactly when and how often you go.”
“I am concerned about my wife,” he said abruptly. “And my daughter. Until I’m vindicated, the police won’t look elsewhere and she won’t be found.” He sighed deeply. “One of these days,” he added, “you’re going to believe I’m innocent.”
“I’m going to put up the best defense I can, Scott.” She smiled. “But it wouldn’t hurt my efforts if you turned out to be innocent.”
“Thanks.”
“You know where to reach me,” she said. Honey, he thought, I don’t know if anyone ever reaches you.
As soon as the arrangements were made for his bail, Scott phoned the hospital to ask about Meg. He was connected to patient information.
&n
bsp; “Mrs. Lester’s condition is unchanged,” an indifferent, mechanical voice replied to his inquiry. He didn’t say thank you; he hung up and went to see Henry Dyce.
The private investigator lived just off South Barrington Avenue. Scott knew the area because he had once picked up a UCLA graduate student at a sports bar and taken her home. She lived only a block east of Henry Dyce.
It was one of those gray days some Los Angeles residents enjoyed, but not Scott. Despite the length of time he and Meg had been in Southern California, Scott was not bored with one day of sunshine after another. He fed off the brightness the way a vampire fed off blood. Gray days, rain, even partly cloudy days, affected his moods. In the early days out here, he used to love calling his friends back East and grinding the weather reports into their very souls.
“It’s nine in the morning and I’m out on my patio having coffee,” he would tell them in mid-January. They called him every name under the sun, but he bathed in the envy. No one would be envious of him now, he thought sadly and parked his car after checking and rechecking the No Parking signs. Los Angeles had the best parking enforcement in the world. It seemed like there was a traffic cop or meter maid for every block.
Henry Dyce’s building looked at least forty years old: a three-story white stucco that was stained gray from years of smog and grime, smoky windows with faded wooden casements, and a pathetic flower bed in the courtyard with vaguely trimmed hedges along the walls. The iron gate in front was bent away from its hinges so that the lock was a virtual vestigial organ. There was no need to buzz a resident to get into the lot, but Scott found Henry’s name and number and pressed the button anyway to tell the man he had arrived. A resident or visitor had to walk through the courtyard to the front entrance.
When it was first built and for a time afterward, this place must have been quaint and sweet, Scott imagined as he made his way. Dyce lived on the third floor; there was no elevator. At least he might have a view, Scott thought and marched up the steps.
He stopped at Dyce’s door and knocked. There was no response, so he knocked again, harder this time. After a moment, the door was opened and Scott was surprised to be greeted by a stout, six-feet-two-inch black man who looked like he might once have been as handsome as Sidney Poitier. Now fatigue filled the bags under his eyes and his hairline receded a few inches from his forehead. He was grimy-looking and unshaven, his two- or three-day beard as rough as granite with thick patches on his chin and just under his lower lip. He was dressed in a stained T-shirt and very worn beltless jeans. He stood shoeless in dark wool socks. Scott thought he easily had size twelve or thirteen feet.
The door of Dyce’s condo opened directly on the living room, which was unfortunate, for any visitor was immediately greeted by the worn furniture and mess—clothes and magazines strewn about the sofa, coffee cups, glasses and crusted dishes left on the tables for days, newspapers opened and spread on the faded and stained brown carpet, and light caramel drapes that looked like they had never been taken down and washed since the day they had been put up, maybe forty years ago. They hung listlessly, shapeless, and added that pathetic touch to simple slovenliness.
Dyce saw the look on Scott’s face.
“The maid ain’t been here,” Dyce said. “For two or three years,” he added and smiled. At least he has great teeth, Scott thought and extended his hand.
“Scott Lester.”
Dyce swallowed up Scott’s fingers in what looked like a swollen palm and fingers. They weren’t; the man just had huge hands and forearms.
“Come on in. It’s all right. You been inoculated?”
“Against what?”
“Well, no man’s ever gotten pregnant in here.” Dyce cleared off one of the deep cushioned chairs and gestured. “I’m just havin’ some coffee.”
“No, thanks,” Scott said quickly. He might go to jail for something he didn’t do, but he wasn’t going to catch any diseases beforehand, he thought. Dyce smiled again.
“I’m a bachelor,” he said as if that justified being a slob.
“Me, too. Now, that is. Is this what I have to look forward to?” he asked gazing around. Dyce laughed.
“How long were you married?” he called from the kitchen.
“Nearly ten years.”
“No shit,” Dyce replied. He returned, mug in hand. “I was married a year and a half. She couldn’t stand a policeman’s life. A real party girl, could drink and dance ’til dawn and then some. I used to beg her to go home just so I could catch a few winks before going on duty. Coulda got me killed, livin’ like that.”
Scott nodded. Other people’s lives and troubles had little interest to him right now. Dyce felt it.
“So give me some background here.”
“How much did Faye Elliot tell you?”
“Diddly,” Dyce said, sitting on the sofa without moving the magazines and newspapers out of his way. “Just that you needed someone found; it was crucial to your defense. Defense against what?”
“Charge of attempted murder. They think I kidnapped my daughter, too.”
“Attempted murder? Your wife?”
“Yes.”
“How old’s your daughter?”
“Five. I can’t believe she left all this out,” Scott said.
“She was quick, like talking to me was beneath her.”
“That’s her,” Scott said. “But I got the feeling today in court that she’s good at what she does, and like they say, you don’t have to fall in love with your doctor; let him just cure you.”
Dyce grunted.
“Who do I gotta find?”
Scott described Philip Dante and the situation as quickly as he could. While he spoke, Dyce peered at him periodically over the rim of the coffee cup. The man has policeman’s eyes, Scott thought. He felt the questions, the analysis, and study. Dyce listened without speaking.
“You do a lot of this sort of work?” Scott followed.
“I get a bone thrown to me from time to time. Enough to keep me in black-eyed peas.”
Scott nodded. Considering how critical it was, why did Faye Elliot send him to this man? Perhaps she didn’t know how down and out he really was, Scott thought.
“But, I always get my man,” Dyce added. “Don’t let this fool ya,” he said, indicating the disheveled apartment. “Chevy on the outside, Mercedes on the inside.”
Scott smiled.
“That’s what I sell…Mercedes.”
“No shit. All right,” Dyce said, sitting forward. “I’m a hundred-a-day plus expenses, which is dirt cheap nowadays.” Scott nodded. “I don’t get your man it’s because he don’t exist. That’s a promise.”
“All right.”
“What I want you to do now,” Dyce said, reaching under the sofa to come up with a pad and pen, “is sit back and start remembering this Dante from the first moment you set eyes on him. I want every detail about him, no matter how small or stupid it seems to you, understand? I want to know his looks, how he talks, how he walks, any special gestures, clothes, identifying body marks, and every tidbit about his life he revealed. Go back over the things he said, as close to word for word as you can get. Don’t worry about boring me. Understand?”
Scott nodded. For the time being, he thought, he would leave out any mention of the Solomon Organization. If they found Philip Dante, he felt positive, the man would reveal Justine’s whereabouts. He still had hope he could get out of this without complicating his defense.
“Okay,” Dyce said, sitting forward. “Relax, sit back. Go ahead, close your eyes and remember.”
Scott began to selectively recall the events that had occurred over the past few days. As he did so, he had the eerie feeling he was telling a story about someone else.
“I was in court; the day’s proceedings were just about over when I turned around and saw this well-dressed man sitting in the rear of the courtroom…”
Justine looked up from the amazing doll that said, “Mommy, I’m hungry. Can I go for a walk? I
love my new dress and new shoes. It’s time for my nap.” All Justine had to do was push the little button on the doll’s back, and each time it came up with another question or statement.
Justine was sitting on the floor in front of the doll house. She was dressed in the new taffeta dress and wore shiny new shoes and white socks. She even had new panties and a new undershirt. Grandma had washed her hair, dried, and styled it like a professional hair dresser. It never felt as soft or lay as gently against her shoulders, neck, and back. Then Grandma helped her get dressed and told her she could play with anything she liked. She took her tray and promised she would return. When Justine asked for her mommy again, Grandma promised Doctor Goodfellow would be coming to see her shortly. Now he was apparently here.
Doctor Goodfellow was a gray-haired man with friendly blue eyes that made him look younger than he was. When he smiled, as he was now, his eyes became even brighter blue. He wasn’t short, but he wasn’t very tall, either. He was very slim with dainty-looking shoulders and soft-looking hands. He wore a dark blue suit and tie. When he drew close enough, Justine caught a whiff of his sweet cologne. He knelt down beside her and took her hand gently into his. He wore a beautiful triangular diamond ring on the pinky and, for a moment, she was hypnotized with the gleam in the stone.
“Good morning, Justine,” Doctor Goodfellow said. “I’m Doctor Goodfellow. How are you getting along? Do you like all your new things?”
She nodded. When Doctor Goodfellow spoke to her, he looked right into her eyes so intently she couldn’t look away.
“Here,” he said, taking her smoothly into his arms and then standing. “Let’s sit down on your bed and have our first good talk, okay?”
The skin on Doctor Goodfellow’s face was so smooth, it looked like he never had to shave. He had small features with lips that became pencil thin when he closed his mouth. When he did that, a small dimple appeared on his right cheek. Justine felt like putting the tip of her finger in it.
He set her down gently on the bed and then sat down beside her. When he crossed his legs, she saw that he had small feet. Everything about him was diminutive. He looked like a man with a young boy’s body, and especially, a young boy’s smile. But he had a man’s voice—deep and yet melodious with such a happy tone she expected he would start to sing to her any moment.
The Solomon Organization Page 9
