“Right.”
Dyce dropped him off at the car rental and Scott proceeded to get a vehicle. Fifteen minutes later, he was on his way to their rendezvous.
The remarkable thing about Los Angeles was how quickly and how dramatically it quieted down after nine-thirty, ten o’clock. Streets that were routes for a continuous stream of traffic from early morning on without a moment’s respite were suddenly as deserted as the streets of rural communities. Here and there, Scott saw pedestrians who had decided to take advantage of the quiet and lack of traffic to walk their dogs. An upscale section like Brentwood had no real late-night action, no discotheques, and few all-night bars. It was easy for Scott to slip through the streets quietly, unnoticed, and approach the corner where he was to meet Dyce, but Dyce wasn’t there.
Scott checked his watch; it was just a half hour since they had parted. Rather than sit in a parked car waiting and possibly attracting some attention, Scott made a sweep around the block, driving slowly so it would take him a good ten minutes. When he returned to the corner, Dyce was still nowhere in sight. Now, concerned they might miss each other, Scott pulled over and parked in full view of the corner. He waited.
A little over an hour later, his heart began to race. Where was Dyce? Had he misunderstood what the detective had said? This was definitely the address, wasn’t it? Barrington and San Vincente. Maybe Dyce thought he told him someplace else and was waiting on another corner. What should he do?
Finally, he got out of the car and went to a pay phone and called Dyce. His answering machine came on. Scott waited and then after the beep simply said, “Dyce?” There was no response. He returned to the car and waited another fifteen minutes. Now, nearly an hour and three quarters later, he panicked and decided the only thing to do was to drive to Dyce’s apartment.
He parked about a half block away and, clinging to the protection of the shadows again, approached the old apartment building slowly. Dyce’s car was parked in front. Scott watched the building for a few moments, looking for signs of someone else who might have it under surveillance. Satisfied there wasn’t anyone, he hurried across the street, through the opened gate and over the courtyard. He jogged up the steps to Dyce’s door. When he knocked on it, the door opened slightly.
“Dyce?”
Scott peered in. The apartment looked no different from the way it had the first time he had come here—clothes were still strewn over the furniture, coffee cups and dishes were still on the tables, and there was a newspaper spread open on the floor. He walked farther into the apartment.
“Dyce?”
He listened. Nothing. The man wasn’t here. He could have been delayed and would be waiting on the corner back in Brentwood, cursing him, Scott thought. He turned to leave, but heard the distinct sound of water dripping in the bathroom. It was nothing to be surprised about, Scott thought. The faucets in this place probably all leaked. Still, he went across the room to peer into the bathroom.
At first the sight seemed so incongruous as to make no visual sense. Through the shower curtain it looked like Dyce was standing on his hands.
“Dyce?”
Scott approached the stall and slowly pulled back the curtain. The gasp that started in his throat was quickly crushed by the overwhelming urge to heave out anything and everything that had been anywhere near his stomach for the last forty-eight hours.
Dyce’s feet were bound and the cord was draped over the shower head so he would dangle. His back rested against the rear of the stall and his head was turned toward the rear so that his sliced throat would drip blood in a steady stream down the drain. His large eyes were wide open and glazed with shock, and the roof of his mouth was clearly visible: pink, the tongue swelling even as Scott stared.
Scott seized his own stomach and folded over. He spun around and retreated quickly, dry heaving over the toilet until some digested matter did come up and out. When the rebellion in his stomach ended, he stumbled his way back to the living room and squatted down on the opened newspaper. He took deep breaths until he had some semblance of calmness return. Then he closed his eyes, swallowed, and lay his head back against the sofa.
After a moment he considered his own danger and struggled to stand. Without any further hesitation, he started to leave, but stopped at the door. He thought a moment. He was in danger, real danger, wasn’t he? He returned to the bathroom and, holding his nose with his left hand, pulled back the curtain again. Trying not to look at Dyce’s face, he reached in and lifted the pistol from the detective’s holster. Then he turned and ran out of the apartment. When he reached the car, he got in quickly and pulled away, tires squealing. He drove west toward Santa Monica until he broke out on Ocean Avenue and pulled into an empty spot overlooking the ocean. There, he caught his breath again and stared at the moonlight on the water. He sat there unable to move, the image of Dyce’s dangling corpse vividly returning.
Whether it was only his imagination or whether somehow through some psychic sense he was able to hear it over great distances, he didn’t know, but he clearly heard Justine cry, “Daddy!” It pulled him out of the horrendous reverie and he started his car again. He backed up slowly and drove off, numb with terror, his mind scrolling through the options about what he should do next. He had no sense of time; he had only a vague sense of place. It was as if he had wandered into limbo and was stumbling through the dark and mysterious world, groping for something concrete to grasp and pull himself back to reality.
His frustration and fear metamorphosed into rage and, finally, he regained enough of his composure to choose a course of action, and direct himself toward that end.
10
Jerome Beezly sat back in his leather recliner and gazed ahead with a calmness that actually infuriated Bernard Lyle. Bernard had just finished summarizing all that he had done and all that he had learned since Scott Lester and that incompetent so-called private eye had paid Mr. Beezly a visit in his office. Beezly’s nose twitched and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of it as he sat forward, finally exhibiting some animation. For a few moments, Bernard was wondering if the old man hadn’t finally lost it, lost his value to the organization.
“My office has been compromised,” he concluded as if that were the main point, as if that were the worst thing of all. “So much for that new, elaborate laser beam alarm you suggested I install, Bernard.”
“Nothing works if someone knows about it in advance, Mr. Beezly,” Bernard said dryly. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other like a schoolboy, impatient to be dismissed for recess. “But more importantly,” he pointed out sharply, “Doctor Goodfellow has been, as you say, compromised. No telling when this man will set out for Barstow and find him.”
“Yes,” Beezly said, nodding. “That’s very annoying.”
“Annoying?” Bernard almost laughed. “If he gets into that house, finds those records or in any way gets the old lady or Doctor Goodfellow to talk…”
“Yes, yes,” Beezly said, waving his hand as if he were driving away Bernard’s bad breath instead of his bad news. “I understand.” He sighed and shook his head. “It was working so well for us in Barstow. Perfect point from which to ship our deliveries. My idea, you know,” he added, raising his bushy white eyebrows. “I never liked Sherman Oaks. Too damn close to the action.”
Lyle didn’t speak. It hadn’t been Beezly who had thought of moving the operation out of Sherman Oaks; it had been he, but Beezly had a habit of forgetting to give him proper credit. He stared, glaring, his patience just about depleted. He was considering offing Beezly and taking charge himself. The others wouldn’t approve, of course; but once he explained the crisis and Beezly’s slowness to react…
“I think you had better make a phone call, Mr. Beezly,” he said without disguising his impatience. “We don’t have that much time to waste.”
“Yes, yes, all right,” Beezly said, reaching for the telephone. He punched out the numbers slowly and then sat back, his glasses sliding down his nose again. Dress
ed in a ruby silk robe and matching silk pajamas, the old man looked too comfortable to be in any sort of crisis. He looked like he was making just any social call. Without a greeting of any sort, he went right to the heart of the situation as soon as the call connected.
“We have some problems,” he muttered into the receiver and then added, “Bernard’s here,” as if that were the problem. “As you know, he’s been keeping an eye on our latest client. Things haven’t worked out exactly as I had planned.”
“What’s happening?” the man alternately known as Philip Dante and Edward Clark demanded.
“That black detective Michael Fein suggested to Faye Elliot was better than he was supposed to be. I knew he’d be trouble as soon as I set eyes on him in my office…too cocky to be incompetent. I called Michael and let him know, but Michael assured me the man was ineffective. Even so I had Lyle watching him and I’m glad I did. Now Bernard tells me my office was compromised.”
“Compromised? What do you mean, compromised?”
“They broke into the building and got into my files. They know about Goodfellow and they know he’s in Barstow. Bernard seems to think that Mr. Lester will be heading that way soon, if he’s not on his way already.”
There was a silence. Beezly continued to gaze up at Lyle, whose eyes widened with interest. Beezly shrugged and waited.
“What about the detective?” Dante asked.
“He’s dead, but not before Bernard persuaded him to reveal what they had learned,” Beezly reported. “I thought it had all been set up rather well, but apparently…”
“You say Bernard is there now?”
“Right here, standing right in front of me.”
“Let me speak to him.”
Beezly held out the receiver and Bernard took it.
“Yes, sir?” He listened and nodded. “I understand. Yes, sir, my thoughts exactly,” Lyle added after listening for nearly a minute without speaking. He handed the receiver back to Jerome Beezly who put it to his ear.
“Listen,” he began, but immediately sensed the line was dead. “Hello?” He looked at Bernard. “Did he hang up?”
“Yes,” Bernard said.
“Well, what does he want us to do first?” Beezly asked, cradling the receiver.
“First,” Bernard said, “he wants me to do this.” He took out Scott Lester’s nine-millimeter pistol and shot Jerome Beezly in the forehead. The force of the bullet snapped his head back and sent his glasses flying off his nose. It looked like he was pulling himself back to let out a terrific sneeze. His back did slap the rear of the seat and then his body folded forward, sagging as it did so. The blood dripped profusely onto his lap. Lyle regretted ruining the silk robe.
“Another thing for Lester to be accused of doing,” Lyle casually remarked. He returned the pistol to the inside of his jacket.
“Second, I’ve got to go up to your office and make sure no one finds nothin’. After that,” he continued, “I’ve got to go to Barstow and make sure of the same thing.
“Then I got to decide about the girl, decide if it’s necessary to wipe away all traces of this one and chalk it up to what we have to do to keep the Solomon Organization protected. Are you satisfied that you know everything now, Mr. Beezly?” he asked and actually stood there waiting as if he expected the dead man to sit back, smile, and thank him for the information.
“I’m glad you approve,” Bernard said. He turned around and walked slowly out of the house, stopping only once in the corridor to dip his hand into the bowl of mints Mr. Beezly always had placed there on a table.
Reminds me of a restaurant, Bernard thought and left to complete his assignment.
Scott parked his car on Seventh Street in Santa Monica and got out slowly. He waited for a moment, scrutinizing the automobiles that went by and then checked to be sure that none had pulled up somewhere behind him. He felt confident that he hadn’t been followed. The rental car’s thrown them off, he thought. It was Dyce’s last meaningful contribution to the investigation.
Satisfied he was alone, Scott turned his attention to the small gray beach house. Quaint, he thought, but not what he would have guessed was Faye Elliot’s residence. She looked more like a half-million-dollar condominium on Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood with marble entryways, plush carpets, and imported Italian furniture purchased on Robertson Boulevard in Beverly Hills than she did an old beach house. He checked the address that Dyce had given him. He had written it on the back of an old business card. There was no mistake. He crossed the street casually and paused at the gate. There were lights on in the house, but dim and only in a few rooms. He started up the narrow walk that curved and turned with the small incline. In fact, the house itself looked like it had shifted and stretched. It was built on uneven ground, jacked up with stone and constructed so as to conform with the natural rise and fall of the earth.
From the entryway, he heard the sharp, short barking of either a poodle or terrier. He hated small dogs; they always gave him the impression they would nip at his ankles and they were always the most belligerent. Perhaps they were overcompensating for their diminutive size. The dog was right at the door, scratching and barking. At least it served as an alarm system, Scott thought. Just as he raised his hand to press the inconspicuous door buzzer button, the door itself was thrust open.
Faye Elliot, dressed in a pair of dungarees and a flannel shirt tied, stood facing him. She held her poodle in her arms. Her hair was down; she wore no makeup and she looked totally pissed off.
“How’d you get my address?”
“Dyce had gotten it for me. He was good; he was worth every penny. You were right about that. Something you probably didn’t count on, huh?” he asked her.
She twitched her nose out of annoyance and confusion.
“I see my clients in the office or at a restaurant or in prison,” she declared. “Never in my home.”
“Tonight you’ll make an exception,” Scott said and took Dyce’s pistol out of his pocket. Her eyes went wide and bright. The poodle growled. “Dyce is dead,” Scott added and walked into the house. He turned when she didn’t move. “Close the door and put that dog someplace, please,” he commanded. “Now,” he added sharply when she still hadn’t moved.
She closed the door and strutted past him. He followed in admiration of the way her tight rear end shifted against her jeans. She put the dog in a room off right, a small den, and then closed the door.
“What do you mean, Dyce is dead?” she asked turning to him.
“They killed him. He was supposed to meet me on a corner. When he didn’t show, I went to his apartment and found him hanging upside down in his shower, his throat cut.”
Faye grimaced.
“You got a drink…straight Scotch? I’ve had a helluva lousy day.”
She nodded and he followed her into a small living room furnished with antique pieces, most of light maple and oak. There was a curio case loaded with Dresden figurines. The walls were peppered with dark oils, landscapes and scenes at sea. A pole lamp next to the easy chair and a Tiffany table lamp provided all the warm, subdued light. Scott thought the room had a comfortable, lived-in feeling about it. He wished he were here under other circumstances and able to enjoy the pleasure of relaxing in such a room, drink in hand, and maybe a fire in the small brick fireplace. He sat on the settee and watched Faye Elliot pour his drink into a tumbler.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the drink. He took a quick, long gulp. She stood staring down at him, her eyes a mixture of fear and anger now, her face flushed.
“Who killed Dyce?” she asked softly.
“The Solomon Organization. Beezly’s people, I suppose,” he added. She simply stared. “Maybe your people, too, eh?”
“My people?”
“Dyce and I broke into Beezly’s office earlier tonight. We rifled through a private file cabinet and found evidence of past cases, other divorced people and other children, many of whom they delivered, as they like to put it.” He drank some more
of his Scotch. It warmed his stomach and strengthened his resolve. When he looked back at Faye Elliot, he saw she looked more than skeptical; she looked like she was confronting someone in the midst of a hallucination.
“Delivered? Delivered where?” she asked.
“Somewhere in Barstow. That’s where my daughter is, I’m sure.” He lifted the pistol and cocked back the hammer. “I want to know exactly where.”
Faye shook her head.
“I don’t understand. Why would you think I had anything to do with this?”
Scott smiled.
“We saw the name of the attorney who was involved with many of the cases—my divorce attorney, Michael Fein, who brought you to me so you could defend me by working your ass off to get me to plead guilty.”
Faye simply stared a moment. Then she turned around and went to the liquor cabinet and poured herself a straight Scotch. Scott watched her sip the drink and think. She was either the coolest woman he had ever met or…
“Let me understand what you’re saying and what you think,” she began. “I confess I put most of what you told me before out of mind; it seemed that incredible at the time. You said you were brought to some clandestine organization that was supposed to help you with your custody battle. It turned out they had you framed for the attack on your wife and now you’ve discovered they kidnapped your daughter to be delivered…some place in Barstow?”
“To a Doctor Goodfellow.”
“For what purpose?”
“I imagine to farm her out, give her to some acceptable family or sell her. You tell me,” Scott said. She took another swig of her Scotch and moved to the armchair.
“You and Dyce broke into this office and got this information?”
“And then we were to meet and head out to Barstow, but the Solomon Organization got to him first.”
“And you think Michael Fein is part of this and because he recommended me, I’m part of it?”
The Solomon Organization Page 18
