Reilly 13 - Dreams of the Dead (16 page)

A horn tapped in the polite California way behind him. Dude, the light has totally changed, it informed him. Please stop texting, speaking on the phone, figuring out where a good restaurant is, receiving your blow job, fighting with your spouse, or trying to calm your cranky infant. Have a good day, but get moving.

How the hell had it come to this? He had put Jim Strong into a mental dead file labeled
Handled.
Back he had come, not in the flesh but almost worse now, bigger and more dangerous, more powerful as a ghost.

Maybe everything in his mind now related to Jim Strong, since the ultimate insult, images of himself incarcerated, rushed toward him as implacably as loose rocks at Pinnacles National Monument, his favorite climbing spot. He might never again climb those crumbling rock-towers that scared him in a good way; he would not suck down beers and watch the Oakland A’s in his bachelor pad or win at blackjack in a casino; he would not drive his car too fast on Highway 1 along a wild ocean; he would not make sweet love to the love of his life—or anyone else, for that matter. The disappearance of Jim Strong would require answers this time around. Paul might well be found out, especially if he let Brinkman handle things.

All for taking out the trash and deciding not to mention it.

*  *  *

F
or once he easily found a place on the street near the Hog’s Breath Inn and climbed the stairs beyond the restaurant to his office. These days, the dark wood that had seemed so hip when he moved in appeared dated and ever-so-slightly dilapidated. He supposed he should upgrade his digs, but this was Carmel, and the Clint Eastwood connection held, and he wasn’t going to move.

Unlocking the door’s triple locks, he hoped that maybe Wish Whitefeather, his associate, son of the redoubtable Sandy, might be doing something quietly useful on the computer inside, but no such luck, the office was cold and empty. He worked the thermostat, setting it to warm against the moist ocean air that leaked through every gap: sixty-six degrees these days, no higher. When he had first landed here, the standard was seventy-two. Good old times, he thought, not removing his jacket. He sat down at “his” desk, currently littered with a coffee cup decorated with antlers next to a box of stale pecans. Wish’s snacks. He pushed these aside to make room for the monadnock of stacked paperwork he needed to study.

Wish must be off gallivanting around, acting as if Thursday were a day of rest. How late these youngsters learn that business is a full-time affair. He had left files and notes, which Paul pored over. He called Wish, who was actually doing some insurance interviews in Salinas.

For the next several hours Paul caught up on business. He had four appointments set for succeeding days. He sent e-mails postponing them.

Then he tackled the file of outstanding business bills, approved a bunch, and set them neatly on the table where Wish worked when Paul was there. Like a pet when the master was out of the room, Wish had gravitated to the master’s spot, the leather reclining office chair, the better monitor.

After dealing with his business problems, Paul let his mind go back to what lingered under every single thought he had these days: Jim’s body. The Strongs needed to know Jim was dead. They
needed to know the affidavit was forged, and that someone was making a play for Jim’s share of the resort money.

Paul had no contacts in Porto Alegre, Brazil. He had no contacts who knew contacts who had contacts. He suspected that his old buddy Sergeant Fred Cheney, due to budget cuts at the South Lake Tahoe Police Department, also had no pot to piss in, in terms of second-guessing the Brazilian angle.

Nina, he knew, had no ammo without his help. Three more years must pass before Jim could be declared dead by operation of law. He had hoped, hearing about the Steve Fossett case, in which the famous explorer was declared dead only a year and a half after his disappearance, the statute might be waived. But Fossett’s circumstances were unusual. A pilot takes off on a routine trip and never returns. Death can be presumed by law from the perilous circumstances. But Jim Strong would have had several good reasons to disappear alive.

Paul stood up, stretched, and started up a pot of coffee, an exotic blend Wish had found that took up a few minutes of his attention, grinding beans, pouring water, setting a dial.

While the water started to steam and drip, he stared down from the window at the people on the outdoor patio below. The fog had finally broken. Golden late-afternoon sunlight colored the impressionistic scene. Heaters kept the courtyard habitable, and the blurry couples and families smiled, gesticulated, and ate food he could smell up here in his office, some cooked over charcoal. A young couple held hands. An old couple held hands. A plump man blew out a candle on a cupcake, and his whole family clapped.

Turning away, Paul poured himself a cup and sipped it black.

H
e called Nina at home. “Hey, marmalade girl.”

“Hi, Paul.”

“My name. It’s from the Bible. Did you know that? I personally never liked the guy.” He heard sounds.

“Sorry, I just walked in the door, Paul. Let me—oh, yeah, wood in the fireplace. Hang on.”

The phone went down.

“Fire,” she said. “It’s cold in here.”

“Bob and Hitchcock sitting in the cold?”

“They’re over at Matt and Andrea’s. Home soon.”

“Ah.” Paul imagined her kicking off her high heels, the small, pink half-moons on her toenails.

He heard her sigh.

“Rough day?”

“I had dinner with Kurt last night. It didn’t go well.”

He felt bad for her. Then he moved rapidly on to feeling good. Kurt didn’t appreciate her. He was a selfish bastard. Paul had intimate knowledge of selfish bastards, having been one more than a few times. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Okay.”

“Your coat’s off? You’re settled on the couch?”

“More bad news?”

“It’s nice and warm now?”

“Yes.”

“There’s something I need us to do. Will you do it?”

“You sound so serious. What is it? You know I’ll do anything to fix this situation.”

He laughed. “You’re too smart to make a promise unless you have all the details in advance.”

“I’m a lawyer. The three P’s. Paranoid, protective, private. Plus I avoid anything that demands a signature. Anything else, I’ll do.”

“Okay, well, I can work with that. Here’s what I need you to do.” He paused, hoping to make her nervous. Her quickened breath on the phone told him he had succeeded.

“Ready?”

“What?!”

“I need you to take off all your clothes. I want to picture you all warm and stretched out in front of your fire.”

An outraged silence, then: “Why you little—! I thought we were having a serious conversation.”

“Don’t you care about my needs?”

“Your needs? What you need is the old grab and twist, and some screaming on the ground in a fetal position to remind you we’re in deep trouble!”

“Ooh. Sexy.”

“You’re impossible! We need to talk about what is really happening here. You are going down, buddy, unless you’ve got something better than a thirteen-year-old’s fantasies to hold you up.”

He laughed and heard her join in.

“I have to admit it feels good, doesn’t it? A good laugh, even when you’re on the way to hell and can see the flames ahead.”

“All right, sorry, I couldn’t resist, you’re so cute and full of gravitas, I had to tweak you, but here’s the thing. I do have a plan, a way to give the Strong family peace.”

“But—?”

“They need to know Jim’s dead and this fraud about the resort has to be laid to rest. Right?”

“How can that happen without something really bad happening to you?”

“By the way, Brickman’s not back for a couple more days, isn’t that right?” Paul heard some rustling.

“I’m checking what I wrote in my schedule,” Nina said. “I think that’s right. Eric left yesterday. He said four days, and with travel, earliest we’ll see him is after the weekend.”

“I’m going to get some sort of cover job that will bring me back up there. I’ll contact some friends up there. Then we swing into action.”

“Doing what?”

“I assume Philip trusts Brinkman.”

“He’s worked with him for a couple of years.”

“But no money was recovered. And they suspect Jim took off with the money. But, honey, you and I know he didn’t. We have to look at Brinkman.”

“You suspect—Eric? Why?”

“I don’t know enough. Not yet.”

“But why? He has all the right credentials, from what—”

“So does my uncle. The one the World Court is after.”

Paul listened to her pause and tried to imagine her on the couch in front of her fireplace, sipping a glass of wine. Comely girl. Certain physical reactions began to occur. Paul focused on the conversation with difficulty.

“You don’t like him, but, Paul?”

“What?”

“Isn’t it possible that you’re prejudiced? That you view him as some kind of rival?”

A Perry Mason moment.
Isn’t it true, Mrs. McGillicuddy, that you hated your husband and poisoned him so that you could run off with
—“Yeah. He terrifies me.”

“Stop teasing. I can’t stand this! You could end up in prison.”

“Okay. I’m coming back up as soon as I can, and the point of all this is that I want to take you for a ride when I do.”

“Paul, sorry. I have a call. It’s Bob. I have to go.”

“Don’t polish off the whole bottle alone,” Paul said. “See you shortly.”

M
eantime, what was really happening was that Sondra’s boss was in trouble and only Sondra could save her. She sat down at her desk and didn’t even take a minute to savor the comfort of her new surroundings. Instead, she punched buttons on her electronic organizer. She knew that what she was doing was risky and might anger Riley Fox, but she saw no other way. Ms. Fox had gotten herself into a dangerous situation. She could lose her license, her family, and even her freedom. Sondra made a few calls. The last call she made to the one man who could help. It took a lot of persuading, but finally he agreed.

“On condition that you don’t say a word to Ms. Fox about me setting this up.” She knew her employer disliked meddlers, even when sometimes a firm hand up from a friend was required. No, let everyone think this was all his idea.

She filled him in on the problem. He agreed to come up and help however he could.

She ran her hand along the chilly surface of her new desk, finally able to take a look around, enjoying the feeling that she had done something urgent today, something useful. She might not be the one out there fighting the bad guys with her bare fists, but she was behind this fine desk doing her own kind of good work.

P
aul called Sandy Whitefeather at her ranch outside Markleeville.

“Oh,
ho
,” Sandy said. Her voice went up and down as if she
were riding a horse over rocky territory. “You never call me at home.”

“That’s right, I’m desperate. Look, Sandy, I want to come back up to Tahoe tomorrow. Nina needs me.”

“’Bout time you noticed.”

“On the Strong case.”

“Usually, I’m on your side. This time, can’t help you. Philip Strong already hired Brinkman.”

“Look, I have a problem.”

“Jim’s body. Your big problem.”

“I’m coming up there if for no other reason than to give you a spanking.”

Sandy withheld her response. She merely said, “You need to do the right thing. Philip Strong should know his son is dead. If he is. Which I think he is, according to what you’ve implied.”

Paul revised his vision of her on one of her horses, outside. She was in the long wooden house where she had married Joe, surrounded by Washoe baskets and arts, a fire burning, pondering the universe, making stew—what the hell did she do at home?

Basket weaving?

Never. Work on the novel she had mentioned she was writing?

He decided to imagine her filing her nails. He had no doubt she kept them hard and useful, ready when necessary. “I could use a client up there. An official reason to be up there, not to mention I always need the money.”

“Going broke in Carmel? If so, please tell Wish so he can come home.”

“He’s taking care of things.” Things had been in good order, and Paul hadn’t exactly been keeping track. Good thing Wish had been. “You know everything that’s happening up there. Any other case at Tahoe cryin’ for a PI? I went on the Net and saw a few possibilities, but it’s mostly drug deals gone bad, tourist shakedowns, drunks on rampages, the missing person who skipped town with good reasons, the odd body.”

“Hnf. ‘The odd body.’ Not like you to miss something this big.” An infuriating time passed while Paul wondered what he’d missed, then Sandy said, “Joe and I appreciate you hiring Wish. He’s a funny kid. Some people say he’s not so bright.”

“Well, I don’t hire losers, Sandy, and Wish is an exceptional person.”

Silence.

“He’s organized, imaginative, detail-oriented, good at communicating with me and my clients. He’s also a person I like working with.”

Silence.

“I can’t imagine a better assistant.”

“Between you and me,” Sandy said, “we got a call the other day. Nina hasn’t had time to return it. Someone you might want to talk to. I mean, there are so many reasons you might call this person.”

“Besides getting tipped off. And who might this someone be?”

“Remember Prize’s Casino?”

“Sure.” Paul remembered the owner, Steve Rossmoor and his wife, Michelle, Nina’s first big client. A babe, reformed. Now a respectable mother and wife of a rich, successful husband. “Oh, yeah,” he said, remembering a small article he had skimmed. “Steve Rossmoor must be pissed about having a body found at his hotel.”

“Michelle Rossmoor is probably more concerned,” Sandy said, obviously having learned the dance of the lawyers: shake it up and admit to nothing.

Misty/Michelle Rossmoor. Prettiest real-life doll you could ever see. Why would she call Nina?