Obstruction of Justice (25 page)

"He was stubborn. Yeah, I got that."

"He wouldn’t listen. By God, he was going to see Ray for himself. Jason and Molly told Sarah it was now or never. She had to take a stand against Quentin or he’d never let up on her until the day he died. She’d have a new slave driver. If she let him dig Ray up, she’d never make an independent decision again. They convinced her that this was the only way to show Quentin who was going to run Sarah’s life from here on out. So Sarah fought the exhumation request."

"Seems like I heard something about you being against the exhumation."

"I was. never trusted the old man much. I thought there was a good chance he’d work up some cockamamy BS about Ray and drag the thing on for years. I tell you, I think he believed I had something to do with Ray’s death. Probably because Ray hated me so much. I’m surprised Ray didn’t put out a contract on me."

Paul decided to set that suggestive comment aside for later. "What happened after Quentin heard Sarah and the kids wanted to oppose the exhumation? Why did Sarah change her mind?"

"Quentin applied the old stranglehold and she gave in. Nagged her until she couldn’t stand it anymore. And here’s where I start guessing. I start thinking how Jason would have reacted to that. He would have been angry. He would have decided to defy his grandfather.

"Like I said, that’s a daunting thought, because Jason almost never openly defied Ray or Quentin. He just worked around them as best he could. But Jason’s young and strong and stubborn and proud. He might have decided Quentin wasn’t going to get what he wanted, period. And went to the cemetery and took the body."

"He dug up his father’s body to piss off his grandfather? And then fought with him?" Paul said. "I don’t buy it."

"I hate to imagine them fighting. I don’t even mean the physical part of it. I mean, the grandson fighting his grandfather over the body of his father. It’s sick."

"So you see it."

"If Quentin surprised Jason, and Jason somehow got the upper hand, I guess they would fight. It’s hard to accept. Jason admired the old guy. You know, grand-parents are always easier to take than parents." Tarrant’s shoulders slumped. "I like Jason. I’ve always liked him. We’ve gone fishing together, hunted together. This is bad enough for him, but what about his sister? And Sarah ... it’s bad."

Paul shook himself mentally. Tarrant’s resignation almost had him convinced that Jason had dug up his father and killed his grandfather. He had to remember, the case was young yet. Tarrant stood patiently, his next appointment apparently gone out of his mind for the moment, his arms hanging loosely, waiting for Paul to take the lead.

Wish had listened without saying a word.

"Be that as it may ..." Paul said. "No offense, but the de Beers men dying off so precipitously has left you with a clear field in the business, hasn’t it?"

Tarrant’s mouth firmed up, and he said, "It’s ironic, all right. I was practically out on my ass a few weeks ago, and now I’m the only partner left.’’

"Business differences?"

"Call it that." Paul waited for more, but Tarrant wasn’t in the mood for a discussion of his business differences with the de Beerses. He kept his mouth shut.

"What happens to the company now?" Paul asked him.

"Well, Ray left his share to Sarah, and I’ve already talked to her about buying her out over a couple of years if ... if things don’t work out. There’s never been a public stock offering. It’s an S Corporation under the tax laws, private offerings only."

"How about Quentin’s share?" Paul said. "He was the founder. How many shares did he own?"

"Fifty-one percent. Ray owned thirty percent, and I owned the rest. Quentin hadn’t changed a will he made years ago leaving most of his estate to Ray. If Ray died before Quentin the property was supposed to go to Jason and Molly equally. So things are messy right now. Sarah’s opened probate proceedings and been appointed executrix of both wills. I’m managing the business until all this gets sorted out."

"Sarah didn’t use Nina to help with the probate?"

"She thinks Nina has her hands full already," Tarrant said with a lopsided smile. "So my hope would be to buy out Quentin’s heirs, Molly and Jason, and Quentin’s lady friend—"

"Who’s this lady friend?" Paul said.

"She only got one percent. She was pretty peeved about it, too. I could probably buy her out for fifteen thousand. I’ve made the offer, and she’s thinking it over."

"So Quentin had a girlfriend."

"Oh, yes. The one time I met her, she seemed like an intelligent young woman, but some women aren’t that interested in a career. The two of them were quite discreet. Quentin was careful to keep the relationship quiet, even though he’d been a widower for many years and could do whatever he wanted. We all knew about her, of course. Her name’s Kim. Kim Voss. Wait a minute, I have her number here. I figured you’d want to talk to her—well, do you or don’t you?"

Leo tried several times to hand the piece of paper to Paul, whose fingers had momentarily turned to rubber. Paul didn’t need the number. The outlines of its inscription began to form delicate scars over his heart. He managed to get a grip on the paper. I don’t date, she’d said in that husky voice. And he’d believed every word....

It was a punch in the gut, and he couldn’t breathe—

"You look like you need to sit down," Tarrant said. He pulled up a bar stool covered with a drop cloth. "Here."

"I told you to go easy on that pastrami!" Wish said. "Here, let me get you some water." He took off, leaving Paul feeling cold and queasy, caught with his pants down again.

21

"HELLO, KIM."

She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, a deep, thrilling kiss. "The Henry Miller was exquisite. How sweet of you. I’ve put it in a place of honor. Come see." Again they passed through the desert inside the wall to the main studio, and again Paul looked at the paintings. The small, colorful Miller watercolor he had sent had the white wall leading to the courtyard all to itself. He remembered bitterly what it had cost.

Her paintings, observed for the first time out from behind his rose-colored glasses, suddenly looked wildly self-indulgent. Was she a decent artist or not? He didn’t know anymore. His feelings, without the magic, had also degraded. What was left was commonplace lust. Kim was a liar and a phony and maybe some other things as well.

He, himself, was feeling rather crude and self-indulgent at the moment. Kim was part of both his cases and he still needed to deal with that, but before he did, he wanted his due.

Smelling as sweet and desirable as a field of gardenias, she wore a long yellow cotton shift that accentuated the positive, the lean legs and the dainty bare feet. Her teeth and eyes practically blazed from their settings in the deep tan of her face. He drew her down on the rug near the sofa, and she let him stroke her length, nuzzle her neck. Her hands began moving on him, well-practiced, he thought now. He pulled the shift up roughly and ran his hand between her soft thighs—

And they clamped shut like Scylla and Charybdis. "It’s early yet, my love," she whispered.

He kept his hand on her legs and said, "Let’s go to bed. Now."

She said, "We’ll see. Let’s have a drink first." He made another move on her, also rough, but she wriggled out of his grasp, saying, "Bad boy. Come on." She jumped up lightly and held out her hand to him, but he stayed where he was, thinking: She’s never going to come through; she’s making a fool of me. He still wanted her, but in a new, nasty way.

The thought crossed his mind: I am stronger than she is. He knew he had to leave before he did something he’d regret.

The expression on his face must have alerted her that he had had enough. She moved away from him, smiling the great smile that had dazzled him, allowing him to get some control back over his feelings.

"I told you I’m celibate, Paul."

"Like hell."

"It’s true. I like men, but I don’t do that anymore. I’ve chosen freedom over passion."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"I don’t think you’d understand."

"Pretentious bullshit from a cheap little slut," Paul said. She bit her lip, looking wounded.

"Quentin de Beers," Paul said. "Well?"

"Oh." The look she turned on him now was calm, amused, showing no trace of surprise. "Is that what this is about?" She was one hell of a self-possessed woman. "This calls for a cigar," she said. "Come on, Paul, don’t be such a baby. Let’s go outside. Or leave. Take your pick."

He sat down in the courtyard, and she went through the martini routine as gracefully as she had the first time, but the performance left him cold and the drink tasted just as it always had before he met her, like drain cleaner. After a token tapping of glasses, Kim lit up a short stogie and sat puffing away, a pensive expression on her face.

Her lack of response and his rising curiosity had cooled his heat. If the object was to civilize him, it was working. Beyond the candles it was a moonless night, so the stars seemed to crowd in. A wisp of air silently carried warmth from the charcoal in the grill.

"You disappoint me," he said. "You lied. About not being with someone, and about your art."

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to break into the art world, Paul?" Kim said. "Especially for a woman with no credentials, no connections? It’s almost impossible. But I am trying. I am a very good artist, Paul. I know it. I will be famous one day."

"Have you ever sold a painting? Even one?"

"To Quentin. To you. How did you find out about Quentin?"

"I’m working the defense for Jason de Beers."

"Oh. Of course. There would be an investigator."

"What about all the nonsense you gave me about galleries, and the Singapore collectors? I checked. None of the art dealers I talked to ever heard of you."

Kim laughed, a warm, uncomplicated laugh. "I gave you the story Quentin gave me."

"What are you talking about?"

"I met Quentin about four years ago, when I came to Tahoe. I was living in a tiny cabin with bad plumbing and bad light, spending all my time painting. One fine summer day I met him at an art fair in Tahoe City. He admired my work, then invited me to dinner."

"What did you find in each other?"

"He was lonely. He wanted the company of a woman he could talk to. My motives were simple. I was down to thirty-five dollars in my checking account."

"So you became his mistress."

"Mistress," Kim mused. "After his wife died, Quentin did want a mistress, but he couldn’t find one. He liked young women, but they only wanted his money and didn’t know how to take care of a man like him. The trouble is, the profession of mistress has disappeared. Quentin was looking for an anachronism."

"He found you."

"He scammed me," Kim said. "He decided he liked my company, and he saw I was broke. He wanted to give me money, but he was afraid I would be insulted if he suggested that he support me in exchange for my exclusive company. So the next time he went to Singapore, he told me he took some of my paintings with him. He had a gallery owner there make up some fake receipts showing the paintings had been sold to a wealthy Chinese collector. He gave me the money. I was very grateful." She laughed her special laugh, a low, husky sound that filled the courtyard with its amusement. "I was getting very good prices.

"For two years he kept it up. Then one day I got a call from the local dump. A collector—a garbage collector! Funny, isn’t it?—had picked up one of my paintings in Quentin’s trash, and he thought there might be a mistake. My name was written in the corner, so he looked me up in the phone book. The funny old bastard didn’t know what to do with the paintings, so he was just throwing them away."

"Is this another story, Kim?" Paul said. "Because—"

"It’s true. Cross my heart. Every bit. Well, I had to decide what to do. Quentin was a swine, but I had gotten used to living nicely. I could have just told him I knew, and continued to take his money, but he didn’t deserve to get off that easily. So I never told him about the call. He kept giving me the money, and I painted my Singapore man at least a dozen more pictures. I had a lot of fun with them. I would throw a bunch of colors, different each time, on big canvases on the floor with dirt, needles, leaves, anything I could find in the garden that day. I pushed it around with a broom and told Quentin I was doing a series I called ’Synchronous Variations.’ Each one took about five minutes. He kept up his charade and I kept up mine. Meantime, I kept painting my serious work, and I started trying to market it in San Francisco. We were both happy."

"You scammed each other," Paul said.

"I played, Paul. A sense of playfulness is important for a creative person. Also, being the one in control in a relationship," she said. "I have a feeling you know a lot about how important that is to some people." She poured him another martini and regarded the now hot grill.

"I thought you might like to try swordfish tonight," she said. "It’s so good with kim chee and lots of lemon. You will stay, won’t you?"

"I wouldn’t miss the rest of this tale for the world." Tamed, at least temporarily, he put the fish steaks on the grill and let her feed him another dinner that was sheer ambrosia, and she told him about her early life on a hardscrabble ranch near Albuquerque. Her physicality was still overwhelming, but Paul realized he was now seeing the rest of her, the part that he had been blind to before. She was probably used to men coming on to her for the sex only. Maybe that was why she had hung up her spurs.

They finished off the meal with port and cheese. Then Kim brought her chair over to his and leaned her head against him.

"Are you wondering what Quentin and I did together if I’m so interested in celibacy?" she said. "We had dinner. He would tell me about his day, the union problems and lawsuits and slow subcontractors. Then he would give me a bath, and I massaged him. I posed for him sometimes, and he took pictures. He posed for me. I have several paintings of him. He took a great deal of pleasure in showing himself off." Paul felt a stab of embarrassment.

"Quentin was impotent. He was the quintessential man in the raincoat, able to get it up for a woman to see but unable to do anything with it. We played some very silly games. We had some fun."

"Did you talk to him about his son’s death?"

"Only once, right after it happened. Quentin was shaken right down to the roots. He was so angry. And he wanted revenge. He thought his business partner had something to do with it."

"Leo Tarrant?"

"Yes. Leo. I couldn’t talk him out of it. He said he couldn’t come to see me for a while. Then—it was only a matter of a few days—I read in the paper about his death."

Her expression had sobered. "I was fond of him," she said. "Poor Quentin. He didn’t die well."

"Did you kill him?" Paul said.

"I was wondering when you would ask that, Paul. The fact is, I did kill him."

Paul jumped up, knocking the chair over. She never moved.

"I killed him to clear the way for you. He was an obstacle to our love, and—"

"Damn it, Kim! Did you have a fight with him? Was he leaving you, withdrawing his support? Did you hate him for trashing your pictures?"

"No. Quentin was my patron. A friend." She turned her chair so she could face him. "I’m sorry he died. For him, and for me. Because now I’m in trouble. Quentin left me a little money, enough for a few months. I need a new patron."

"So that’s what you called him. A patron, eh? How are you going to find another guy who will take care of you and not demand the dirty deed?"

"It may not be easy." She dabbed a finger in some sauce left on her plate and put it to her lips, lapping the lemon juice with a slow, sensual tongue. "I don’t suppose you’d be interested, Paul?"

Paul cocked his head and rubbed his chin. He had to smile. She had surprised him again. "Me? You want me to be your sugar daddy? You’d have to be a little more specific."

"I can make it on about three thousand a month."

"And in return? What do I get?"

"That’s negotiable."

"Baths, massages, dinner, lots of peeking and fooling around?"

"And my company. You seem to enjoy it."

"I do. But that ain’t enough."

"I don’t want to be possessed."

"Too abstract. Try being representational."

"Look. The mating instinct would emerge and take us over. We’d fall in love. We’d be jealous about each other. We’d try to make each other over. I’d be miserable when you were away. You’d want to get married. We would argue about everything. You’d think you owned me. I’d sleep with someone else to prove you didn’t. That’s modern love in America, isn’t it?"

"Not to me, it isn’t."

"You kid yourself. I can’t do that. I won’t do that."

"You’re cynical beyond belief," Paul said. "I don’t understand you, and that bothers me."

"I’m not cynical, Paul. I just stand outside all that. I can’t help it. I was made that way. It’s the flip side of the talent I’ve been given. I can transform the instinct into art, use the bodily energy for creative purposes. Celibacy is the source of the passion I put into my work. You still don’t understand, do you?"

"Sounds like bullshit to me, but I understand that you’re in earnest," Paul said. "You think you have a talent so important that you’re willing to sacrifice everything to it, the good opinion of others, normal relationships, everything the rest of us consider crucial. But here’s my problem. You’re the only one who sees this gift inside you. What if no one else ever sees it? What if you’re wrong about it?"

"Recognition would be nice," Kim said. "But I will keep on, with or without it." She looked away, toward the cactus, her feet drawn up comfortably in the chair, her crystal glass beside her. In the dim flickering light she was like a woman out of a Gauguin, utterly and mysteriously complete, monumental in her completeness. Paul understood only one thing: She wasn’t available to him or any man in the only way he thought mattered.

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t think I can afford you," Paul said. "Something tells me you’ll get along fine. Sell the Miller I gave you."

"I wouldn’t dream of it. Just a couple more years, Paul."

"No can do."

"Too bad," she said.

"The Miller was a good choice for you. You remind me of him," Paul said. "He lived off Anaïs Nin for a long time."

"That’s right. He might never have been published without her support."

"But he was worth it. He loved her, and he fucked her. You’re not worth it."

"Oh, really? I thought you liked me and my art."

"I was just trying to get into your pants."

She giggled at that. He didn’t seem to be able to offend her.

"You’re just a great big phallus, Paul," Kim said. She tossed down the last of her port.

"A private dick carrying a subpoena," Paul said. "Be at court on September eighteenth. I can’t really say if you’ll be a witness or not, but I think I’d better nail you down." He handed it to her, and she read the bold-print summons with interest.

"Honestly, I didn’t kill Quentin. I don’t have an alibi, of course...."

"Of course. Nobody in the de Beers case has an alibi. Join the club."

"It must seem very odd to you that I should be a witness in Anna’s case and so close to Quentin too. It has to be a case of synchronicity. A synchronous variation! Maybe my made-up phrase means something after all."

That’s more than I can say for your paintings, Paul thought. He got up. He knew when he was beat up, down, and sideways. "Thanks for the dinner," he said.

"You don’t have to stop coming. At least for a while."

"I do, though. I really do. You’re business now. And you can’t give me what I want."