House of Smoke (22 page)

They walk back along the row of grapevines to his truck.

“That lady gets around,” she comments, the dry earth puffing up around her bare feet.

“That is for sure,” is Cecil’s terse reply.

The ranch house is dark. There’s enough moonlight coming through the windows so the lights don’t need to be turned on.

Miranda likes it in the dark. She’s always known that illusion is more exciting than reality, more compelling. She feels strong when she’s in darkness, sensing her surroundings rather than seeing them. One of the reasons she loves sex so much is that senses more imaginative than sight—touch, smell, taste—are the most important. It is of second nature to her that she uses her sexual power: why was she given it if not to use it? But no matter how calculating she can be, some amount of pleasure is always there, some touch, some taste, some smell. Years ago, more than half a lifetime, she had slept with a man who was unremarkable in bed, in most ways he was a turnoff (she was very young and he was an older man, as old or older than her father, the sexual encounter they were having was strictly to help her out—he was a professor at her college and she needed a B or better in his class to keep her scholarship and the course was utterly baffling to her, so she fucked him, once, to get the grade she needed), but at one point during the grunting and groping she had smelled his hair, his stiff, white-yellow shock of old Swedish ancestral hair, and it had brought a memory of a haystack that she had jumped and played in at a farm once, a memory that she loved. Her orgasm with this man she otherwise had no attraction for at all was so intense she has always remembered it.

Her father always said you can find some good in everyone, one of many stupid homilies her father lived by. Her father was a jerk and a loser, a total failure, but he was right about that. But only, she had to qualify, when it came to sex. The rest was all bullshit, there are plenty of people you can’t find anything good about. The majority of people, in fact.

Not her late-night caller, though. He has plenty of power of his own, he doesn’t have to grovel at her feet. She likes powerful men, she just doesn’t know many.

“I saw the shindig you threw down at the beach today,” Blake Hopkins says to her, raising his Booker’s-with-a-splash in toast. “It was on the Channel 3 Nightly News.” He’s sitting on a worn leather couch that’s covered with a Chumash Indian weaving; his shoes are comfortably off.

“It was an important thing to do,” she states. “I told you that.” There is no cynicism in her voice.

“It was a wonderful gesture. And you’re a wonderful person.”

“Why are you being sarcastic?”

“Force of habit.” He laughs. “If only the rest of the world knew what I know.”

“They don’t. And they never will, unless you tell.”

“Get serious. I’d be in as much trouble as you if this ever came out.”

“Then we’re both safe.” She takes him by the hand, pulls him up from the couch. “Come on to bed, I’m horny.”

“You had dinner with that guy Wilkerson. Didn’t he satisfy the inner woman?”

“He’s not for me.”

“How do you know that unless you try?” His shirt is off now, he’s sitting on the bed taking off his socks.

“He’s not for me.”

They make love like a happily married couple, which she is, with another man.

“When’s your husband getting back?” Hopkins asks. He’s sitting up in bed, drinking a Coors and eating a ham sandwich she made him.

“Tomorrow night, I think. He’ll call first.” She takes a bite out of her own sandwich. After making love she gets hungry.

“Does he know about us?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t he ever get suspicious, all the nights you’re not there?”

“He doesn’t allow himself to be.”

“How can he not be? He’s married to the most erotic woman in—”

“Don’t,” she says, cutting him off.

“I’d be. I wouldn’t be able to help myself.”

“You’re not him.” Seemingly out of the blue: “I love my husband,” Miranda says.

He thinks about that. “You know, I think you do.”

“I do. I love him very much.”

“I hope he never finds out about us, then.”

“He won’t.”

The house is hot and still. They sleep naked on top of the sheets.

She wakes him before dawn.

“I’ll make you coffee,” she offers. She’s wearing a cotton nightgown, her hair is twisted back in a ponytail. She is without any makeup, which makes her look younger, but no less beautiful.

“You’re being domestic this morning.” He’s putting on last night’s clothes.

“I like pleasing men.”

“You do a good job of it.” He pulls his boots on. “Don’t bother with the coffee, I’ll grab a cup in Santa Barbara, I’m going to shower and change in my motel room.”

They walk out onto the front porch. Dawn is breaking over the eastern hills, as it was when she stood out here with him before.

“Drive carefully,” she says. She could be his real wife, sending him off to work in the morning.

He starts down the steps to his car, then turns back to her.

“There’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

“Why do you sleep around?” he asks. “If you love your husband so much.” He pauses. “I know I’m not your only lover.”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“No. I mean … I suppose there’s a little jealousy, once in a while. Wondering who the other ones are, that kind of thing.”

“Just other men. There aren’t that many. Or that often.”

“First among equals,” he says, trying to keep it light.

“You’re all first.” She smiles at him. “But you’re not all equal.”

“A
-1 BAIL BONDS. SO
I’m the first one listed in the phone book,” the proprietor had explained. “I know that’s a ploy as old as the hills but you’d be surprised how many people call the number at the top. Probably adds 10, 15 percent to my gross. Besides, with a last name like mine, A-l sounds better.”

His name is Eustis Lutz—he has a point, she has to concede. The bond company he runs is not the biggest in town, or the smallest. Middle-of-the-pack. Lutz operates out of his house, normal SOP for bonding companies in cities the size of Santa Barbara. All you need are a bunch of phone lines. Kind of like being an old-time bookie, Kate imagines. Not that she’s ever known any old-time bookmakers—or modern ones, for that matter. Gambling isn’t one of her vices, thank God. She has enough problems without the burden of that one.

The house is a small tract on the Mesa. Lutz is a bachelor, fiftyish, with no personal style whatsoever. His decor is even more utilitarian than hers. Mostly files, and volumes on regulations.

“Wes Gillroy,” he says in response to her question. He doesn’t have to look that one up. “Yes, I wrote his bond.”

“What was it set at?”

“A million dollars.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“High,” he confirms. “One of the biggest bonds I’ve written.”

“How come?”

“Bonds for drug smuggling are always set high, even more so when the party is from out of town and unknown to the local authorities. Particularly on this one, since one of the other traffickers was shot trying to escape and the third one took his own life.”

“When was bail made?” she asks, taking out her pen and notebook.

She uses a reporter’s notebook, a number 800, a size that can be slipped into a jacket or back pocket. She never employs a tape recorder; it didn’t take her long working as a PI to learn that people don’t talk as freely when a tape machine is running. Carl could have told her that, but he reasoned she’d figure that one out for herself.

“Shortly after arraignment. As long as it took to process the paperwork.”

“That was fast,” she comments.

“It was set up in advance. Not uncommon. All they had to know was how big a number to write on the check.”

“That’s a hundred thousand cash advance?” she continues, writing this all down.

Lutz nods.

“Plus a 5 percent fee, in case he skips and I’ve got to go looking for him. It was paid with a cashier’s check,” he adds, anticipating her next question. “I called Santa Barbara Bank and Trust to make sure it was good. It was—you don’t play games on this level.”

Make it a hundred and a half. Real money. “What was the security? There was security, right?”

She knows that in a bond written this big, particularly with a client who isn’t local, you have to, by law, put up something tangible that will cover at least one and a half times the amount of the bail, in case the person doesn’t show up. In this case, probably twice the amount.

“Of course there was security. The surety company wouldn’t cover me otherwise.” He picks up a file that he pulled when she called and asked to come see him.

“Property,” he tells her. “The security was property.”

“What kind?”

“A piece of commercial real estate in San Francisco. An office building, fully tenanted. Good collateral, solid.”

“What’s its value?” she goes on with her questioning, writing it all down.

“Over two million.”

“Can I see the title?” she asks.

He hands her the document. It’s the trust-deed to a five-story building in downtown San Francisco. She doesn’t know the exact building, but she knows the neighborhood. It’s a desirable location, well worth the price, she assumes.

“Bay Area Holding Company,” she says aloud, writing down the name that’s listed under Ownership.

“Real original,” Lutz remarks dryly. “As original as A-1.”

“Who brought you the check?”

“A local attorney.”

“Do you know who hired him? This attorney?”

“Could’ve been a woman,” he spars.

“Okay. Or her. Who hired … whoever.”

“I can’t tell you. You got what you need?” he asks, plucking the title from her hand, quickly getting out of his chair and placing it back in the manila folder, which he sticks into a file cabinet behind him. A cabinet that has a lock on it.

His action brings her up short.

“Why can’t you?”

“Because I was instructed not to.”

“Isn’t that unusual?” she asks, frowning.

“It’s not usual, but it isn’t unheard of. The party doesn’t want to be known, that’s their business.”

Not that it was a one-party transaction, she’s sure of that. This would have gone through several layers, to insulate the real source.

“Must’ve been someone local,” she throws out, fishing, “to put it together that quickly. Or at least there was a local contact.”

He doesn’t rise to her bait. “Not necessarily. With computers and faxes, it could’ve been done from Hong Kong.”

That’s true. It was worth a try, though.

“Do you think Gillroy will show up for his trial?” she asks Lutz. She folds the notebook up, puts it in her purse.

“Oh, sure. He’d be crazy not to. If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t have written his bond,” he tells her. “His passport’s been confiscated, and he has to check in with Orange County Sheriffs Department every week. He’s not going anywhere.”

“But you’ve got the title to a nice piece of property, just in case,” she comments.

“You’ve got to be prepared for ‘just in case,’” he agrees.

Kate’s office is located above a tortilla factory off Ortega St., between Olive and Salsipuedes. It’s not a prime location, but it has one overriding benefit: the rent is cheap.

A few law firms have from time to time offered her space, but she’s turned them down because they would have a priority on her time and she doesn’t want to be obligated to take work she doesn’t want to do or work with people she doesn’t like. Several lawyers in town fit into that category. And if a prospective client feels it’s necessary to have a detective who has nice carpets and tasteful prints, there are other PIs they can go to.

It’s late afternoon, the time when people who live normal lives think about what they’re going to be making for dinner. Kate rarely worries about what she’s going to eat, or when. Unless she’s with someone, she eats on the run. One of the advantages of living alone and having a job that isn’t nine to five.

There are several messages on her answering machine. She hits the playback button, scrounges a pad and pen from the pile of clutter on her desk, kicks off her shoes and puts her feet up, spreading her toes through her stockings and stretching the arches. Her legs, which she takes pride in, are sore, particularly her shins, a bad sign: too much pounding the sidewalks in heels and not enough surfing, running, keeping in shape. Since her Fiesta indulgence she hasn’t gotten back into a proper routine. Starting tomorrow she’ll force herself to begin her regimen anew—a promise to herself, for herself.

The playback stops rewinding. The messages start.

“Kate, Larry Wilson. It’s two-twenty-five. I need you to interview prior to deposition that witness in the Glen Annie traffic accident, we’re going to see the judge on Monday and I need that testimony. I’ve tentatively booked you to see her tomorrow before noon. Call me and confirm, please.”

Click.

“This is Mark Richards’s office at Watson and Stone, calling for Kate Blanchard. Mr. Richards has a personal injury case in Lompoc, and he needs to talk to you about doing the investigative work, as you did in the Moreto case last month. Please call him at 555-5557. Thank you.”

Click.

There are half a dozen calls similar to those; lawyers wanting to talk to her about cases that are currently in the pipeline that she’s working on for them, or new cases they want to hire her for. Some lawyers in town won’t touch a female PI; others think working with a woman is a definite advantage. It isn’t a gender thing—there are plenty of male lawyers who use her, and some female lawyers who won’t.

She missed the last call by a few minutes.

“Hi, Kate, this is Cecil. Just wanted to tell you how great the other night was. Hoping I could catch you in. Maybe later. Give me a call if you feel like it.”

She has a stack of urgent and semi-urgent calls sitting in her hand, but she calls him anyway.

He isn’t in—she gets his service: “This is Cecil. I’m not here. Leave a message.”

Short and sweet, no nonsense.

“This is Kate returning your call,” she tells his machine. “Hope we don’t play phone tag for too long. It was great for me, too. You already knew that, but I want to say it anyway. I’ll be in and out, so call me.”