Old Poison (4 page)

I struggled to keep myself and the bike
upright, but about halfway up the far side of the underpass, I
tipped over and landed heavily on my right side. I lay there a
moment, legs still wrapped around the fallen bike, the breath
knocked out of me, my head stunned, my ribs in pain.

Both men were cursing. The guy who had
fallen was pulling himself into the boat but wasn’t moving very
fast. The driver was starting to climb out of the boat and head for
the bike path.

With my left hand I unzipped the handlebar
bag. With my right I reached into the bag and pulled out my Walther
.32 semiautomatic. Still lying there tangled in my bike, I pulled
the slide on the Walther, chambered a round, and took aim. The
driver was out of the boat, making his way though the riprap when
he heard the sound of the slide. He looked up to see the muzzle
aimed at his chest, and without a word turned back to the boat,
climbed into the pilot seat, slammed the boat in gear, roared out
of the underpass, and headed down-river.

* * * * *

As I watched the boat speed toward the open
ocean, I pushed the release on the Walther and dropped the clip
into my bike bag. Pulling the slide, I popped out the chambered
round, pushed the loose bullet back into the clip, and returned the
clip to the handle of the Walther.

All the time I was doing this mechanical
routine, I was chanting the CF number on the boat. As a Sherlock
Holmes I have one great handicap: poor visual memory. If I want to
remember what a subject looks like, I must turn what my eyes see
into words and remember those words, because the minute I look
away, the mental picture is gone. It’s like a camcorder with no
video tape in it.

I put the Walther away and hunted for a pen
and paper to write down the number. During this process, Professor
Lilac was trying to ask me a question. By the time I got that
number on paper, the volume of her voice had increased and her tone
expressed either annoyance or alarm. “Are you all right?” she
almost yelled.

The line was irresistible. “Professor Lilac,
I presume?”

If she caught my reference she was not
amused. “Are you that detective who was supposed to meet me this
morning?”

Her tone was what my great-aunt Leah would
have called “snippy.” I tried to disentangle my legs from the bike
and stand up. My ribs hurt, a lot. I reached down gingerly for my
bike. “That’s private investigator.”

“What?”

“I’m a private investigator, not a
detective.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A detective is either a rank in the police
department or a character in bad fiction.”

“Whatever you call yourself, I do wish you
could have been on time and protected me from this assault.”

Now my voice got a bit testy. “If you want
protection, look up ‘body guard,’ or perhaps ‘executive protection
specialist,’ not private investigator. And in case you didn’t
notice, despite the fact that it is not in my job description, I
did rescue you from this assault at the cost of ribs which are
either broken or badly bent.”

Her facial expression and voice changed. “I
guess you did, Ms., ah, Ms. Hunter, isn’t it? I guess I’m a little
rattled. When he grabbed me–I thought– three of my associates in
Costa Rica were murdered and–thank you, Ms. Hunter. I am quite sure
you saved my life today.”

She had gone from snippy to a quivering
damsel in distress in thirty seconds, and my suspicion quotient
went up with equal speed. If I had busted myself and my bike over
some staged incident, I would toss this broad in the river myself.
With great control I said, “Well, we were lucky. If they had gotten
you into that boat they could have had you out to open sea quite
quickly. Why do you think they want to kill you?”

She gave me an appraising look. Her
personality did another shift. “It’s a long story. Do you think you
could make it back down to my motel in Seal Beach or should we call
an ambulance and get you to a hospital?”

“I’m okay,” I lied. “But I thought you had
this tight schedule and couldn’t talk to me anywhere but the bike
trail.”

“This morning’s attack changes things.”

“I see.” I hoped my voice didn’t reveal the
skepticism I was feeling.

Dramatically she looked around the underpass
and down the river. “Let’s get out of here. We’re only five blocks
away from the place I am staying.”

“Does your room have a coffee pot?”

She looked blank for a moment, then smiled
and said, “Yes, and good Costa Rican coffee.” Her smile changed her
looks completely, and in a strange way revealed that she was older
than I had first thought, maybe in her late forties.

Ms. Lilac didn’t want to talk until we got
back to her room, and that was fine with me because every breath I
took sent pain through my rib cage. This was definitely going to
require an x-ray.

Her rental bike and my ten-speed were both a
bit bent and dented but serviceable. However, as I listened to the
bent fender rub against the tire on my bike, I decided this was a
perfect excuse to trade up.

Her “motel” turned out to be a wonderful
B&B composed of many small cottages. I had always wanted to try
it, but the price tag was out of my reach. We parked our beat-up
bikes in front of her cottage, and Prof. Lilac welcomed me into her
two-bedroom suite. I looked around the adorably decorated rooms
with envy. Money must not be a problem for her. I avoided the soft
overstuffed furniture and sat carefully in a straight-back chair
that would support my back and put less stress on my ribs.

The professor dug into her suitcase and
pulled out a plastic bag with coffee. She placed a small wooden
stand on the counter, hung a cloth filter from the top, and put a
coffee cup on the round wooden tray beneath the filter. As she
opened the sack and measured coffee into the cloth bag, that
wonderful aroma of fresh ground coffee filled the room. We made
small talk while she boiled water and poured it through the coffee
bag, distilling two steaming cups of aromatic coffee. When she
handed me a coffee and a sweet roll, my attitude toward her
softened. What a pushover I would be. They wouldn’t have to torture
me, just hold a cup of coffee under my nose.

As she sat across from me I said, “Okay,
Professor Lilac, let’s talk about what’s going on with you.”

She looked down and sipped her coffee and
her hair fell forward, partially covering her face. She had light
brown hair with reddish highlights, naturally curly and very thick.
Her ebullient halo of hair contrasted with the slightly anemic look
of her pale white skin. Freckles, of the same reddish brown as her
hair, covered her face and seemed to diminish her small features.
Her lashes and brows were so light they almost disappeared against
her skin.

I waited for her to answer, but the silence
lasted a full minute. “Okay Professor, let’s start with an easier
one. Who were those guys in the boat?”

As she looked up at me with eyes of
washed-out blue, the pain in those eyes was so real I abandoned my
momentary suspicion of her. Then in a flash, the pain turned to
anger and she snapped: “Stop calling me Professor. My name is
Evelyn.”

“Okay, Evelyn, who were those men in the
boat

“I don’t know who they were, but I can guess
how they found me. When you were calling all those people at the
conference yesterday, did it ever occur to you that I might have
reasons I didn’t want my location known?”

Her rebuke was a complete surprise. “No, it
didn’t. You’re the keynote speaker. That didn’t sound exactly like
you were hiding out.”

“Why were you so determined to find me?”

“Because your pal Borson hired me to do
research on your Mars novel. I needed to talk with you
directly.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened as new
fear registered on her pale features. “Borson? What does this
Borson look like?”

The vague apprehension I’d had about
Borson’s motives suddenly grew and formed a cold knot in my gut.
“White, male, about five feet ten, wavy dark hair, medium build,
neatly dressed. Sort of bookkeeperish.”

Her expression changed subtly, and she
seemed to relax somewhat. “I see. Borson told you I was writing a
novel and told you to talk with me?”

“Not exactly. Your name turned up while I
was researching your red stuff. Evelyn, you didn’t tell him to hire
me, did you?”

Ignoring my question, she countered with one
of her own. “What, exactly, was the assignment he gave you?”

“To see if any real substance behaves like
Red 19 does in your book.”

“He showed you the diary? When?”

“Just one chapter.”

“One chapter.”

“Yeah, then the thing self-destructed like a
Mission Impossible
tape. What the hell is going on here? Who
is Borson?”

She studied me a minute, breathed a deep
sigh, then avoided my gaze by burying her face in her hands. With
the heels of her hands covering her eyes, she sat silent for
several moments. When she looked up at me again, there was a
finality, a deadness, in her expression. She stood up. “No, I
didn’t tell him to hire you. I am grateful you were around this
morning, but I won’t be needing any further assistance.”

I was dismissed. “Just like that? What about
your life being in danger and people in Costa Rica being
murdered?”

“I believe you pointed out that ‘body guard’
is not in your job description.”

“Yes, but, I just meant I’m not skilled in
physically protecting people. If you tell me what’s going on, maybe
I can help. If we need muscle, I sure as hell know who to call. Who
were those thugs? Who has threatened your life? What does that have
to do with your novel?”

She walked to the door and opened it. “I
don’t have time for you, Ms. Hunter. Please leave. Can you make it
home, or do I need to call you a taxi?”

Not only dismissed, but patronized to boot.
“Yeah, I can make it home just fine, Evelyn. How about you? Can you
make it wherever you ‘re going?”

“Yes, thank you, Ms. Hunter. Goodbye.”

That was that. I took a last swallow of
coffee, stood up and pulled out my wallet. As I left, I handed her
a business card. “If you change your mind, give me a call.”

She took the card, studied it a moment, then
without a word, stuffed it into her bra.

I smiled. “There was a character in an old
WWII movie who did that. Her code name was High Pockets.”

“I’ll treasure that bit of trivia,” she said
with heavy sarcasm and shut the door in my face.

I glared at the closed door for a moment and
then carefully mounted my bike, testing the effect on my ribs.
Finding the pain tolerable, I headed north but only got as far as
the entrance to the river trail. I had to go back.

I was a block away when she came out of the
cottage, carrying a large backpack, and climbed into a cab. I
pedaled after her, yelling her name. She turned around and looked
at me out of the back window of the cab. She looked frightened and
sad but simply turned her back on me as the cabby hit the gas. That
was the last time I saw her alive.

* * * * *

I considered the open cottage door. Despite
the fictional stereotypes, most real PI’s do not gather evidence by
breaking and entering. In fact, most of us take great pains to
ensure that nothing we do violates privacy or evidence statutes,
because judges tend to frown on illegally obtained evidence. Not
only can illegal acts cause the loss of the case, but it can cost
you your license, your freedom, and leave you open to a liability
suit that could put you in the poor house forever.

On the other hand, Professor Lilac had not
only left her door unlocked, she had left it slightly ajar.
Entering was not a B and E under any interpretation of the law. It
might be considered trespass, but after all, I had been a guest
less than fifteen minutes earlier. Finding a door ajar any
responsible person would naturally feel obligated to make sure the
room was secured. With this justifying logic, I stepped inside.

All the lights in the place were on. Evelyn
had left the suitcase open on the bed and briefcase open on the
table but each looked as if it had been rapidly ransacked.

I looked through the briefcase but found
only material on the three conferences she had come to attend.
Lilac was a featured speaker, talking about the destruction of the
rain forest in Costa Rica and elsewhere. There was a copy of her
speech carefully written in longhand.

Her suitcase contained nothing but clothing
and the LAX luggage tags. Closet and dresser were empty. There were
no toilet items, not even a toothbrush, no hidden diary or address
book or other wonderful, convenient clues left for me to find.

“The lady travels light,” I said aloud. With
that thought expressed, my brain finally settled on what I had
missed seeing and why it bothered me.

I searched the kitchen, checking all the
cupboards and the fridge. Her Costa Rican coffee and coffee maker
were gone. All that remained were some of the coffee grounds in the
sink where she had rinsed out the cloth. The professor was not
coming back. Whatever was left in this room, she had jettisoned.
Anything she needed was in the backpack she’d loaded into the
taxi.

In the silence of that room a depression
settled over me, and I thought about the sad, lonely look in her
eyes as the taxi sped away. I now had no doubt that she was in real
danger and that my angry response this morning had pushed her into
facing it alone. Whatever drove her was too urgent or too complex
for her to take time to explain. “Damn!”

With this insight, I searched the briefcase
again. Her airline itinerary showed a flight to the DC area in two
days and a flight from LAX to San Jose, Costa Rica, a week later.
No tickets, just the itinerary. How had she planned to get back to
LA from D.C. and what had she planned to do during that week? None
of this would help now. All this was abandoned . . . all plans
changed.