Crazybone (7 page)

Outside, the fresh cooling air wobbled her a little, so that she had to steady herself against one of the stone pillars. Down the steps then, using the hand railing, and across the upper level of the parking lot to where a caramel-colored Mercedes 360SL, its top down, was slotted. She was at the driver’s door, rummaging in her purse for her keys, when I came up next to her.

“The barman was right, Mrs. Cooney. You’d better not drive.”

She blinked, turning her head, and gave me a squinty look. “I don’t know you,” she said. “Who are you?”

“Somebody who doesn’t want to see you hurt or arrested.”

“I’m already hurt and I have no intention of being arrested.” She squinted again, caught herself doing it this time, and tipped her head back to look at me open-eyed. “You’re not a policeman or something, are you?”

“Or something,” I said.

“Yes? Well, I’d like to see your badge.”

“I don’t have a badge.”

“Then please go away and leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why can’t you? Are you trying to pick me up?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good, because I have a husband and you’re as old as he is. I have to drive home to my husband.”

“You don’t want to do that, Mrs. Cooney.”

“No, I don’t. But I have to.”

“Not after what happened to Jack Hunter, you don’t.”

Her mouth and her eyes both widened. She made a little murmur in her throat.

“He died because a drunk thought he was sober enough to drive home,” I said. “The same thing could happen to you. Lose control of your car, cause the death of an innocent person. Then you’d really have something on your conscience.”

She slumped against the Mercedes, gripping the door edge and staring up at me. In a thicker voice she said, “Who
are
you? Did you know Jack?”

“Not personally, no.”

“My God,” she said with sudden understanding. “My God, you’re one of those... you’re a private detective.”

“That’s right.”

“Frank hired you.” Getting that part of it wrong in a frightened whisper. Her hand was white-knuckled where it clutched the door.

“I’m not working for your husband. I was hired by Jack Hunter’s insurance company.”

“Insurance?”

“On behalf of his widow—”

“That bitch.”

“—and his daughter. Why is Mrs. Hunter a bitch?”

“She made his life miserable.”

“How did she do that?”

“Every way. Every damn way.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“He didn’t have to tell me. I have eyes. Cold-hearted bitch — someday I’ll tell her what I think of her. In no uncertain terms.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you think of her?”

“I just did,” she said. “Besides, I have to go home now.”

“You’re going to have to talk to me, Mrs. Cooney. Not now, but when your head is clear.”

“I am not drunk.”

I produced one of my business cards, tucked it into her purse. “Will you remember where you got this?”

“Of course I’ll remember. I told you, I’m not drunk.”

“Then call me. As soon as possible.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll call you. Or slop by and see you.”

“Frank,” she said. “You wouldn’t tell my husband about Jack?”

“I’m not out to do you any harm. All I want are the answers to a few questions about Jack Hunter and his wife. After that, you’ll never hear from me again.”

“I don’t seem to have a choice, do I? All right. But now I have to go home.”

“Not just yet. Let me have your keys.”

“Oh, no. You can’t drive me home, not in my car.”

“That isn’t my intention. I’ll give the keys to the man at the security desk and he can call a taxi for you.”

“Oh, no,” she said again. A crafty look came into the bleary gray eyes. “Do you want me to scream? I will if you don’t go away and let me drive home.”

“I don’t think you will. You wouldn’t want to make a spectacle of yourself.”

We locked gazes, but it was not much of a stalemate. The liquor was catching up to her now, making her even more fuzzy-headed and a little shaky on her pins, and she had enough sense to realize it. Her eyes slid away from mine; she fumbled in her purse again, came out with a set of keys, and laid them in my outstretched palm almost gently. On her dignity again.

I said, “Do you want to wait inside?”

“No, thank you. I’ll sit here in the car.”

She opened the door, put herself under the wheel with great care, and sat looking straight ahead, hands clasped in her lap, spine rigid.

“Tell them to hurry,” she said. “I really need to get home before Frank does.”

That was part of the reason, I thought as I left her, but not all of it. The sooner she got home, the sooner she could have another drink.

Joan and Patty were gone when I returned to the pro shop. The lone occupant now, separating the day’s receipts into piles of cash and chits, was a muscular, sun-browned guy dressed in tan chamois slacks and an Emerald Hills polo shirt. He was about forty, with one of those handsome chiseled profiles that were assurances of box-office success among male film stars a generation ago. A thick mat of curly hair the color of pale ale topped him off to masculine perfection. Women like Joan and Patty would want to take lessons from him, all right, off the golf course as well as on it. He was the type of physical speciman who could have a different bed partner every night of the year if he wanted it that way. The question was whether or not he was that type.

He had a polite smile for me as I came up to the counter. The neutral variety, without any of the disdain of the guy on the security desk. Point in his favor.

“Help you, sir?”

“You can if you’re Trevor Smith.”

“Guilty. Don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.” Friendly, cheerful, no signs of either arrogance or conceit. Another point in his favor.

“I’ve never been here before,” I said. When he’d had a look at the card I handed him, I added. “I represent Intercoastal Insurance—”

That was as far as I got. His smile vanished, his face set hard and tight, and he said with a kind of simmering anger, “So you’re the one. Who told you to come sucking around here?”

“Could be the same person who told you about me.”

“No way. Whoever it was, I don’t care what they said. Sheila Hunter and I are friends, that’s all.”

“Then maybe you have some idea why she’s so dead set against capitalizing on her husband’s insurance policy.”

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. It’s her business.”

“And her daughter’s.”

“Not yours or the insurance company’s, that’s the point. Why don’t you leave her alone? Her husband’s been dead less than two weeks, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m sorry about her loss,” I said. “But it doesn’t explain why she’s so afraid.”

“Afraid? What’re you talking about?”

“I think you know what I’m talking about, Mr. Smith. If you’ve seen her lately you couldn’t help but know.”

He knew, all right, and it was bothering him; I could see it in his eyes. More between Sheila Hunter and him than a casual friendship, a casual affair?

“She doesn’t want her past investigated,” I said. “Why? What’s she afraid I’ll find out?”

“That’s bull,” Smith said. “You can’t make me believe she’s hiding anything about her past.”

“I won’t try. But I believe she is. She’s been living a lie the past ten years, she and her husband both.”

“What does that mean, a lie?”

“She ever say anything to you about her life before they came to Greenwood? Where they lived, what they did?”

No answer. But his silence was eloquent.

“Does the word crazybone mean anything to you?”

“Crazy— Now what the hell?”

“It means something to her, something bad. Ask her about it. Ask her about her past.”

“Why should I? Listen—”

“I might be able to help her. I already know some of the truth and if I keep digging I’ll find out the rest. It’s going to come out one way or another.”

He leaned forward across the counter so that his face was close to mine. I let him do it without giving ground. “Blackmail?” he said. “Is that your damn game?”

“No, and don’t use that word to me again. I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like you or what you’re doing to Sheila.”

“Your prerogative. But all I’m trying to do, all I’m going to do, is my job. And all I want out of it is the fee I’m being paid by Intercoastal Insurance. The truth is my game. Smith. The only other thing I’m interested in is Emily Hunter’s welfare.”

“Now you’re saying Sheila is an unfit mother, is that it?”

“No. I’m saying whatever she’s hiding, whatever she and her husband were mixed up in before they came to Greenwood, may be putting the child’s future in jeopardy. I don’t want to see that happen. Do you?”

Smith’s eyes held on mine a few seconds longer. Then the anger went out of him and he backed off. Worry and dismay were what I was looking at then.

“She won’t talk to me,” he said. “I’ve tried... she just walls herself off.”

“It might be different when you tell her what I’ve told you.”

“I don’t know. If it’s bad enough, the thing she’s so scared of...”

“It may not be as bad as she thinks it is. Even if it’s a police matter, it may not be.”

A muscle jumped on Smith’s cheek; it pulled one side of his mouth up in a puckery rictus. “Christ,” he said.

“Will you try to get her to talk to me?”

“I don’t know...”

“At her house, some public place, whatever. You can be there, too, if she wants it that way.”

Long pause. Then, “All right, I’ll try. But you better be on the level about helping her. If you’re not—”

“I can give you a dozen references.”

His eyes probed mine, for ten seconds or so this time. Then he shook his head: a gesture of silent acceptance.

“My home and office numbers are on the card,” I said. “Any time, day or night.”

“All right.” And then, almost plaintively, “She really is scared. Like a kid in the dark.”

“I know.”

“I can’t stand to see her like that. It makes me—”

He broke off and swung away, quickly, as if there was something in his face he didn’t want me to see. I had a pretty good idea what it was. Maybe he’d been a trophy collector in the past, what Tamara would call an “ass bandit,” and maybe he wasn’t that type at all, but in any event there was more to Trevor Smith than just a hunk’s body and a pretty face.

He was in love with Sheila Hunter. About as deeply in love as a man can be with a woman.

Thursday evening. No call from Emily Hunter, or Sheila Hunter, or Trevor Smith, or Dale Cooney.

Friday morning. Nothing from any of them.

Friday afternoon. Nothing.

All the silence worried me. Not so much Mrs. Cooney’s; boozers are unpredictable drunk or sober, and she figured to have the least amount of information for me. But why hadn’t Emily kept our appointment and why hadn’t she gotten in touch again? And had I scared her mother even more by taking the risk of confiding in Smith? For all I knew, whatever had caused the Hunters to change their identity ten years ago was a felony of major proportions, and in that case aiming Smith at her might’ve been the same as aiming a loaded gun. The last thing I wanted was to panic her, but I could have done just that. What would she do then? And how would it affect her daughter?

At four o’clock, just before I left the office to meet Kerry at Bates and Carpenter, I called the Emerald Hills Country Club and asked for the pro shop. The operator said it was closed today. No, Trevor Smith wasn’t at the club; he had called in ill. And no, she would not give me his home number, no matter what kind of emergency I said it was. I had Tamara look him up in the San Mateo and Santa Clara county phone directories while I tried the Hunters’ number. No answer there. And no listing for Trevor Smith.

“Goddamn it!” I said.

Tamara said, “Easy, boss. Remember what you always tell me about jumping to conclusions?”

“Yeah.” But suppose the conclusion I was jumping to was the right one? Suppose I’d screwed up the Hunter situation big time?

If there is one thing I’m not, it’s a party animal.

I do not deal well with large gatherings in enclosed spaces. Give me a job to do and a one-on-one or even a small-group circumstance and I relate well enough; I’m able to think on my feet and hold my own in a conversation. But plunk me down in the midst of a cocktail party where social interaction with strangers is required, and I curl up inside like a worm in a bottle. I’m no good at small talk. And not much of a drinker; too much alcohol in a party atmosphere has the opposite effect on me than it does on most people, making me withdraw even more. The bigger the crowd, the worse I feel. Crush of bodies, too-loud voices, the constant strain... I start out edgy and if I’m trapped long enough I tend to become claustrophobic. Not enough space or air to breathe.

So I knew going in to the party at Bates and Carpenter that it would be a two-hour ordeal. And the agitated mood I was in would only make it worse. But I’d promised Kerry, and if I got through the cocktail party, the dinner afterward would be a piece of cake by comparison. So on the way over to the ad agency I played a little self-psyching game, blocking out the Hunter case and reminding myself that this evening was a small price to pay for all that Kerry had done for me and promising myself rewards for being a good boy and making the best of what, after all, was only a couple of hours out of the rest of my life. The trick seemed to work at first: I was calmly resigned and wearing a half-hearty facade when I met Kerry in her office. She seemed relieved, as if she’d expected me to come in looking like a man attending his own funeral. She even commented on my “upbeat mood” as we went upstairs — Bates and Carpenter had two floors in an old building on lower Geary downtown — to the big conference room where the party was being held.