Body Copy (22 page)

Tremaine said, “I’m sorry to make you dredge this up. I appreciate your talking to me.”

“It’s okay. Like I said, it’s nice to know someone is looking into it. Even if you’re actually investigating another case.”

219

Michael Craven

Tremaine said, “Have you ever heard of a man named Dean Latham?”

“Dean Latham?”

“Yeah.”

“No. I’ve never heard of him. Why do you ask?”

“It’s a name that has come up in my investigation.”

“Who is he?” Evan said.

“I don’t know, actually. It’s just a name I came across in looking at some of the information on Kelly’s death. I managed to get access to the LAPD computers and police reports.”

Tremaine didn’t want to get into the fact that Vicky Fong had showed him the box of Kelly’s personal stuff. He didn’t want Evan to know this random P.I. got a glimpse into the very personal items of his dead girlfriend. So he threw out the police report bullshit and hoped Evan wouldn’t question it any further. He didn’t.

Evan said, “Well, I don’t know Dean Latham. But if he had anything to do with Kelly’s death, I hope you find him.”

Tremaine said, “Finding him won’t be hard. He lives right up the street, in the Hollywood Hills. Whether he had anything to do with Kelly’s death, that’s another story.”

Evan got up. He had finished his second beer. He was holding the empty bottle gesturing to Tremaine.
Want another
?

Tremaine said no thanks, he needed to go. Tremaine had just wanted to meet Evan, put a face to the name, see if he could connect Roger Gale to Kelly, see if he knew Dean Latham.

“Man, a P.I. What a cool job,” Evan said. “How do you become a P.I.?”

220

B O D Y C O P Y

Evan was letting out his “guy’s guy” side.

“You apply for a license,” Tremaine said. “Then if you get one, you hope you can get some business.”

Evan nodded and said, “Well, if you have any more questions, come back, call me, whatever.”

Evan jotted his number down and handed it to Tremaine, who was standing now, just about ready to leave.

“Thanks,” Tremaine said, meaning it. A number to call never hurt, especially in this case. Then Tremaine pointed to the front bedroom that was used as the office. “Do you work out of your house?”

“No. I work at a dot-com called Chainsaw. It’s a company that rates other dot-coms. I’ve been there for five years. We’re one of the few that survived the crash.”

Evan knocked his hand on the table next to him. It was wood.

Tremaine made his way to the front door. As he opened the door, he said to Evan, “I really appreciate you talking to me without notice.”

“Hey, no problem. I hope you find something.”

“I’ll keep you posted if I do.”

It had been a long day. Tremaine got in his car, fished around in the glove for his smokes, only a few left, he’d have to get some more soon, then cruised back down La Cienega to the Ten, which he would take all the way back to his familiar Pacific Coast Highway.

In the car, headed home, he thought about everything he knew so far. The things he’d been able to discover had indeed continued to lead him into new directions, but how close to the truth, at the end of the day, was he? Not that close. He’d discovered some interesting things about 221

Michael Craven

Roger Gale. But did the things he’d found all connect? Did they?

Tremaine took a deep breath as he got his first glimpse of the ocean, hitting the PCH from the Ten. It seemed from a cursory investigation into the other murders around the time of Roger Gale’s that the only one that could possibly be connected to Gale’s was Kelly Burch’s, and there was literally no evidence of that.

Now that he was back at the beach, back home, a step back from the new developments, Tremaine felt more skeptical about a connection between the Kelly Burch case and the Roger Gale case. They seemed to be worlds apart. He wouldn’t tell Nina about these new developments—that he had been, and was currently, investigating an entirely different case. Not yet. Wouldn’t that imply, even if it was just a little, that he was running out of ideas?

But Tremaine knew not to ignore what he’d discovered.

Not to ignore where the combination of his subconscious mind and his conscious mind had taken him. From Wendy Leahy to the karate studio to the murder of a beautiful young wannabe-actress named Kelly Burch. Keep going, Tremaine, keep looking. And he knew he would. Next, call this guy Dean Latham. See if he could swing by and say hello. Maybe Latham would shed a little light on things.

You never know. Tremaine stamped out his smoke in his ashtray. Yeah, you never know.

222

C H A P T E R 3 2

The next day, a Saturday, Tremaine got up, and instead of going for a surf, he went for a jog. Hit some old trails in the canyons of Malibu. It was a hot morning, which Tremaine liked. He ran for about an hour—it was hot, really hot—and was glad to be back at the base of the trails, at the Cutlass, parked and waiting to take him back to the trailer.

He drove home, cooled off a bit, then grabbed the phone and dialed up Dean Latham, looking at his notes for the number.

A man answered, “Hello.”

Tremaine got a little stroke of luck. Latham was home.

Tremaine said, “Dean?”

“Yeeees,” Dean Latham said, a little irritated. Probably had caller ID and didn’t recognize the number.

“My name is Donald Tremaine, I’m a private detective.”

Michael Craven

A beat of silence. Then Latham said, “Can I help you?”

“Maybe. I was wondering if I could talk to you for ten minutes or so, in person.”

“What’s this about, Mr. Tremaine?” Dean’s voice now losing the irritation and gaining some worry. Latham reacting normally now. Like,
I didn’t do anything . . .

Tremaine said, “I’m investigating a murder. Two murders actually. And your name came up.”

“What murders are you investigating?” Latham said.

“I’d like to tell you in person. Can I? It won’t take long, Dean. Just a couple questions.”

There was a pause, and then Latham said, “Yeah, sure.

But not today, I’m busy. How ’bout tomorrow? Sunday.”

“Tomorrow’s fine,” Tremaine said.

“Why don’t you come by around four. Do you know where I live?”

“Yeah,” Tremaine said. “Hollywood Hills. 2512 Lookout Mountain.”

“How’d you know that?” Latham said. “I’m not listed.”

“You’ve got a criminal record.”

“Barely,” Latham said.

“Barely counts, too,” Tremaine said, and he hung up the phone.

Seeing Nina that afternoon was refreshing and, at this particular time, unexpected. Tremaine was sitting on top of his trailer, the completed Jumble (one minute, thirty-nine seconds) at his feet next to Lyle, when Nina pulled up.

She got out of the black Volvo, looked up at Tremaine, and said, simply, “Hi.”

224

B O D Y C O P Y

“Hello.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trapped in the mind right now, mulling over the new and, as always with this case, mystifying developments.”

Tremaine started to talk about the case. Nina politely interrupted him and said, “That’s not why I came over.”

“Oh,” Tremaine said. “How can I help you, otherwise?”

“I want you to take me surfing.”

“Really. Right now?”

“Right now. I told you I was going to try it and, well, here I am.”

Tremaine thought, duty calls . . .

He stood up on the trailer and looked out into the ocean, checking out the conditions. A ways away, but he knew the big blue body of water well.

“Looks like about two to four. Shouldn’t be too rough for a rookie.”

Nina gave Tremaine a look—a look that said, quit while you’re ahead, buddy. While you’re barely, imperceptibly ahead.

Tremaine put Lyle inside, then grabbed two longboards out of the adjoining storage space he had next to his trailer.

This would be nice—Nina, the waves, the water. A little break from the heavy thinking. Tremaine planned to skin it, no wetsuit, but as he was loading the boards, it occurred to him that Nina might need a wetsuit, might not have one.

He paused for a moment and looked at his storage shed, thinking about whether he had one of his ex-wife’s old suits tucked away in there somewhere.

“I brought my own,” Nina said.

225

Michael Craven

She held up her spring suit, a wetsuit with short sleeves and short legs, that she’d already gotten out of her car.

“You read my mind.”

“I come prepared,” she said.

Tremaine liked that.

They drove down to one of Tremaine’s favorite spots, right down the road, parked the Cutlass, and stood on the beach looking at the waves.

Nina strapped her leash around her right ankle.

“Regular-foot, just like me,” Tremaine said.

“Regular-foot?”

“Yeah. If your left foot is forward, it’s called regular-foot. If your right foot is forward, it’s called goofy-foot.”

As Tremaine and Nina entered the water, now walking out to sea and gliding their boards on the water with their hands, Nina said, “Where does that come from, the term goofy-foot?”

“There’s a lot of different theories. The one that most people believe is, there was an old drawing in a surfing magazine, might have been the early days of
Surfer
, and the cartoon character Goofy was riding a surfboard. Right foot forward. So people started calling people who rode right foot forward goofy-foot.”

“Tremaine, you might be a good P.I., but you’re a horrible liar.”

Nina splashed him with some water. It was cold on Tremaine’s bare skin.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You think I could make something like that up?”

226

B O D Y C O P Y

“Yes, I do.”

They jumped on their boards and began paddling out to where the waves broke. Tremaine was impressed as Nina charged out, a beginner for sure but fearless of the waves breaking in front of her. And her form? Not bad, not bad at all.

They got out past the point of impact and sat on their boards, rising up, then down again, as waves rolled in.

Nina was having a little trouble with her balance, but not too much.

“You must have surfed every day for a long time when you were trying to go pro.”

“Yeah, I think about it now, it’s hard to believe. I used to surf sometimes seven hours a day.”

“And you went pro when you were young, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, no college?”

“No. My only education after high school was reading. I tried to read a book a week when I was on tour. Still do.”

A wave headed toward them.

“There’s your wave,” Tremaine said.

Nina turned her board around and paddled hard. Impressive, Tremaine thought, as he watched Nina lower her head and go for the wave with everything she had.

She missed it, the wave rolling in toward shore without her.

“Almost,” Tremaine said. “That one backed off a little, nearly impossible to catch.”

Nina saw another wave and turned her board around, ready to charge ahead. The last wave of the set. Tremaine paddled over next to her, then hopped off his board, 227

Michael Craven

treading water. The wave was upon them and, as Nina paddled, Tremaine got behind her, and pushed the back of her board, giving her the thrust she needed to catch the wave. She screamed, but regained her composure, then pointed the nose of the board in the direction of the open face of the wave and tried to hop up. Close, but not quite.

“Almost!” Tremaine shouted, impressed, genuinely.

She paddled back out to where Tremaine sat on his board. He clapped as she neared him.

“Next time,” she said, “I’m standing up, guaranteed.”

“I believe it.”

The wave came, about a three-foot face, and Nina, this time, caught it without Tremaine’s help. And true to her word, she hopped up, standing up just long enough to stick out her tongue at Tremaine.

The rest of the session was utterly pleasant, that’s what Tremaine thought, anyway. He gave Nina some pointers, and she accepted them with open ears, really wanting to learn as much as she could from the old pro.

As they walked in to the shore, trudging through the waist-deep water, Nina began aggressively splashing Tremaine with water. This was something she was an ex-pert at.

Tremaine retaliated, picking Nina up and throwing her into oncoming whitewater. She squealed and pointed to her board, which was drifting off, now unattached. Tremaine, having to pay for his games, swam after it and, after some tangling with the whitewater, retrieved it.

Back in the Cutlass, Tremaine, enjoying the salt and the sun on his skin, drove back to the trailer, Nina next to him, 228

B O D Y C O P Y

silent and tired. There was a light breeze in the car and Tremaine looked over at Nina, the wind moving her wet hair just a little.

Nina said, “Why’d you quit the tour?”

He looked at her sideways, still driving, feeling pressure in his chest. Then he started talking.

“It was the year after I won the title. The tour was starting, in Australia. I was in love with a girl named Mandy Rice. I can’t describe to you how I felt about her without sounding like a character in a bad romance novel.”

Nina nodded.

“She wanted to come to Australia. She wanted to come watch the first event, watch me start the defense of my title.”

There was that feeling again. Tremaine could feel it in his chest and feel heat behind his face. He started to sweat a little, moisture appearing on his forehead. But he didn’t wipe it off, he just let it happen, let it ride.

Nina said, “You don’t have to tell me.”

Tremaine continued, “I told her she couldn’t come. As much as I loved her, as much as it almost made me feel insane to be around her, I said no. I felt I had to go it alone.

I had to be the guy who showed up alone, the gunslinger, to kick everybody’s ass.”

Nina’s eyes widened. She knew there was more to the story.

“So I went. And on the first day of the competition, I got a call, from Mandy’s mother. Mandy had gone to a 7 Eleven to get a pack of smokes. When she was leaving, some guys came in and held the place up. The guy behind the counter pulled a gun, the fuckers who came in to rob 229