Eye to Eye: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (3 page)

rattle the coffee cups in their saucers and
said to her, "It's all one fucking world, Jennifer! It's all tied,
all connected, in some fine way! Goddamn it, you ought to know
that! You're wearing the goddamn ring, I'm not! Now look at it! A
man disappears and a girl dies, almost beneath the same roof and
within a few weeks of each other! We call that a coincidence, damn
it, only after every other question has been exhausted!"

I had made a scene. My voice, I guess, was
as forceful as my open palm on the table. Not many were in that
coffee shop with us, but those that were there were staring our way
with open interest.

Even before I had finished
my little speech, Jennifer was making her move. She scooted her
chair back, dabbed at her lips with a napkin, picked up the check,
and left me sitting there with spilt coffee dripping onto my lap.
We had each driven our own car from the observatory. I sat there,
feeling like a jerk, and watched her pay the check and
leave.

The other patrons had lost
interest already. The waitress came over with a sweet,
understanding smile and asked if I would like more coffee. I
accepted a refill, lit a cigarette, and sulked for ten
minutes—trying and failing to justify the outburst to myself. She
was a condescending bitch. Well, no—a bit condescending, maybe, but
certainly no bitch. A typical goddamn liberated woman, probably
frustrated sexually and... Wait, no, what are you doing, Ash—you
insulted the lady, damn it, you used foul language and... She was
baiting me, I know she was baiting me, just couldn't wait to cut me
up and watch me bleed. Hey! Hey, hey, hey! What is this shit? You
were a
pig!
Who
was being condescending to whom? You called into question her
scientific objectivity! You played mysterious mystery a la fucking
Greg Souza and then you lectured her—at Ph.D., damn it, and you
lectured her!—then you had to go all the way as Mr. Macho—no, as
Mr. Neanderthal—banging the damned table and splashing coffee all
over the damn...

You have probably been
through it yourself, in one way or another, at one time or another.
So you must know how I felt. I had really begun to
like
this lady, and I
guess maybe I was beginning to entertain subconscious seduction
scenarios, because I was really feeling ragged about the whole
thing.

Besides which, I had begun to get a feeling
for Isaac Donaldson and that whole question. I had studied the
man's work at Annapolis and again at war college, and I remembered
how I had admired his almost mystic feeling for the natural
sciences. If that man was in trouble, then... Well, hell, I needed
to be involved in that. Maybe I was already involved in it, and
maybe that's why I blew it with Jennifer Harrel.

I would have to give her a call, and...

Well, no, I would not have to do that. The
lady was walking toward me at that very moment. She stood beside
the table and, without looking at me, said, "Well are you coming or
not?"

I said, quietly, "Sorry. I
hadn't finished my coffee."

"Leave it," she said. "It's much better at
my place."

The waitress was smiling at me.

I put a buck on the table, got up, and
followed Dr. Harrel outside.

Everything, believe me, was better at her
place.

Chapter Three: A Compensation

I followed the good doctor
in my own car, which can be pretty tricky anywhere in Southern
California, but she'd taken the precaution of jotting down a
Glendale address in case I "couldn't keep up"—sheer jest, no doubt,
in view of the fact that she drives a Jaguar sedan while I was
snorting along about two inches off her rear bumper in my impatient
Mas erati.

The Maserati is my chief
vice. No, of course not, I cannot afford such a toy—and I will
agree that no automobile ever built or dreamed of being built is
worth that kind of money— but what the hell, every man has his
folly: the Maserati is mine; she's my compensation for every thing
I never had and never will have. Everyone should have a personal
folly. So you can always say to yourself, in bad moments, "Well,
maybe I'll never have a million bucks to call my own... but damn
it, I've got my folly." Or, "Okay, she thinks I'm a jerk. But
that's okay. I've got my folly." I've got mine, and she's the last
thing I will ever surrender. When she's too old to run then I'll
just put her up on blocks in the living room, or something, and
maybe someday I'll be buried in her. Then people can say, "Well,
old Ash never really made much of himself in life but, by golly,
you've got to hand it to him, he'll spend eternity with his
folly."

Anyway, the Maserati stayed right with the
Jaguar all the way up the Glendale Freeway and into the Verdugo
Mountains. I was not surprised that the lady lived in this area;
made beautiful sense, with Cal Tech right next door in Pasadena,
the Mt. Wilson Observatory just on up the hill along Angeles Crest,
Griffith Park twenty freeway minutes away—besides which, Glendale
is a beautiful community with an abundance of upper middle class
neighborhoods at an altitude a bit above the normal smog belt.

I was a bit surprised,
though, by the house at the end of the trek. I would not expect a
young scientist to live in poverty, exactly, but I was not prepared
for a hillside mansion, either, complete with electronic gate and
circular drive, pool, tennis court, and still half an acre or so of
lawn. Well, what the hell, I thought, people in Southern California
know how to live well, that's all—for some, their home is their
folly. They may eat hobo stew seven nights a week—but God, look at
that beautiful home!

Somehow, though, I very much doubted that
Jennifer Harrel ate hobo stew even once a week; just did not seem
the type. I said to her, "Some crazy joint you live in."

She said to me, "Thanks. That's some crazy
car you drive, too."

I shrugged and said, "Well, a Jag is only
half bad."

"It has twelve cylinders," she said
proudly.

I smiled and corrected myself. "One third
bad, then."

She laughed
delightedly—really, a very nice sound—and led me through a Venetian
foyer and up two steps to the most sensual goddamned living room I
have ever seen. I am talking damasks and velvets and fine oriental
silks, nude sculptures in marble and bronze, coffee tables of glass
and acrylics that are really
wet
bars
, sectional sofa groups that could
nicely accommodate several group-gropes all at once, ankle-deep
pile carpeting, expensive-looking artworks everywhere. One whole
wall was a curved glass bay and overlooked about 120 degrees of the
Los Angeles basin, clear to the edge of the earth. A domed ceiling
was about forty feet above all that. A circular steel stairway
climbed gently around the walls and into the dome which was,
naturally, a small observatory.

I just stood there speechless, immersed in
all that, until Jennifer took my hand and led me to the window bay.
Then all I could say was, "Nice, very nice."

"When the weather cooperates," she told me,
"I can see Catalina. But the city lights," she added, "are really
prettier under an overcast, like tonight. When it gets dark, you'll
see. And remember I told you so."

It sounded as though she was planning on my
staying awhile—an idea which I found not unattractive. But I stood
there like a bump on the carpet and again gave my brilliant
commentary: "Nice, very nice."

"Get comfortable," she said softly. "I'll go
put the coffee on. Or, take a tour, if you'd like. The whole crazy
joint is yours."

Didn't I wish. Well, after all, I had the
Maserati. And my beach pad at Malibu, a lesser folly.

I took that tour,
though—maybe only as inventory, I don't know; I think I was hung up
on the sheer grandeur of this working girl's home and trying to
compute income versus outgo and it simply did not compute. Mind
you, I have been inside of better mansions and I have seen private
art collections far more valuable than the one in this mansion.
But I was recalling fragments of a conversation on a hillside in
Griffith Park in which Jennifer Harrel was drawing parallels
between her own struggle for an education and the one just ended
for Mary Ann Cunningham, and it had been my distinct impression
that Dr. Harrel was from a family of modest means; I was also
recalling her story about Isaac Donaldson placing the "Bride of
Science" ring on her finger—so she had not married into this. I am
a certified Bachelor of Science myself, so have heard all the
recruiting pitches and know somewhat about the earnings potential
of scientific careers—and this "crazy joint" no way computed with
that.

The master/mistress bedroom suite—(I'm no
sexist)—was larger than the average family home. It was
split-level. A full bath, a Jacuzzi, and a sit-down wet bar with
three overstuffed backrest stools uncrowdedly shared the entry
level with a walk-in closet and a vanity area to shame some
cosmetics shops. The bed, capable of sleeping a basketball team,
shared the lower-level window bay with a French antique desk, a
projection-TV and lush sectional sofa. The same million-dollar view
was available from any spot; even from the john, if you leave the
door open.

The rest of the house—and there was probably
another ten-thousand square feet or so—wandered away in various
directions and at various levels of two to three steps up or down.
There was a library and a game room and a projection room, several
ordinary bedrooms, various nooks and crannies and short hallways
serving as art galleries, a large formal dining room, a couple of
informal dining nooks, an island gourmet kitchen with hanging brass
and stainless, which is where I finished my tour just as the coffee
was being readied for service.

"Still nice, very nice?" Jennifer inquired,
without looking at me.

I said, "Oh yes—nice, very nice."

She laughed softly. "Surely an obvious man
of the world, such as yourself, is not intimidated by opulent
display."

Which gave me an excellent opportunity to be
a total ass and satisfy my curiosity with some dumb question but I
resisted stoutly; replying, instead, "Everything about you
intimidates me, Dr. Harrel."

She gave me a soft,
mocking laugh and a sparkling glance as she carried the coffee tray
past me. "Oh sure." She summoned me with a jerk of the head.
"Follow me, scaredy-cat."

I followed, To the
split-level bedroom. She set the coffee service on the bar, said,
"Sit!—drink!"—and went on to the john.

I sat, poured a cup of coffee from the
silver pot, lit a cigarette, and wondered.

You must know what I wondered.

Dr. Harrel came out of the
john a moment later, switched on the Jacuzzi, pointed to it, said,
"Undress!—bathe!"—then stepped into her walk-in closet.

I quit wondering, carried my coffee to the
Jacuzzi and left it there while I went to the john. Then I
undressed and "bathed," just as the lady ordered.

She came out of the
dressing room wearing a large white bath towel like a sarong and
joined me in the Jacuzzi, sat across from me, removed the towel and
arranged it carefully behind her, turned back to give me a dazzling
smile and a flash of luxurious boobs bobbing just beneath the
surface of the agitated water, then said, "Oh damn! I forgot my
coffee!"

I muttered—casually, I hope, "I'll get
it"—snared a towel from a stack on the floor beside me and cinched
it about my waist as I climbed out of there.

"Just black," she said, eyeing me with no
trace of timidity.

I brought the whole tray
over and set it beside her, removed my towel, stepped in next to
her and sat down in close contact. It was electric as hell. She
pointed with just a finger toward the opposite side and said, "Over
there, sailor." But she said it with a smile.

I moved to my appointed spot, tasted the
coffee, said, "Nice, very nice."

It cracked her up, rolled her sideways with
laughter. I just sat there and grinned amiably while she got
herself under control.

"You are a delightfully refreshing man,
Ashton," she said, still giggling.

"So are you, I replied. "I mean,
delightfully refreshing scientist."

She moved a foot onto my, uh, lap and said,
"Scientists can have fun, too, can't they?"

I replied, "Not if they're married to their
Work," using the capital "W" form. But I placed a foot onto her,
uh, lap, too, as I continued the thought. "Would that be considered
extramarital or extrascientific?"

She wiggled a couple of well-positioned toes
while thinking about that, then said, "I think it would be
considered just plain human. Don't you?"

I told her, "Oh, yes—say, I'm all for being
human."

"Me, too," she said, with a smile and
another wiggle of the toes.

I wiggled back and said, "I think human is
nice, very nice."

That brought a belly laugh that kicked my
foot loose. I doggedly replaced it while she settled down again
enough to ask, "Human what?"

I replied, very soberly, "Oh, human
anything. Sex, for example. Human sex is very nice."

"As compared to what?" she wondered,
giggling.

"Well, as compared, say, to dog sex. Dogs
are very locked in, very rigid, pardon the expression. The canine
glans penis swells with orgasm—and, uh, you know what happens
then—it's a lock. See, that would be a rather humiliating situation
for humans."

She appeared to be thinking about it, then:
"I don't know, Ashton. Maybe not."

"Or take the feline penis."

"Gee. Think I should?"

"Oh no, definitely not.
It's barbed, see, sort of like a harpoon. Not too bad on the
downstroke but definitely little joy the other way."