Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 1 - Combust the Sun (22 page)

Ramona
came to the door in full makeup and a decollete dressing gown, as if I'd phoned
ahead.

"Well,
look at the package delivered to my doorstep." She took a step back and
surveyed me head to foot. Then, catching sight of Callie, she added, less
pleased, "And you've brought a friend."

She
graciously welcomed us into the stone foyer of her baronial mansion, whose
hollowed halls and granite walls echoed eerily as we all clattered down them
into her warm study. There was a large chaise lounge built for two by the fire,
and I imagined Ramona had coaxed many a secret out of a well-lubricated oilman
in that very spot.

I
asked her if she knew anything about Lee Talbot's relationship with Hank
Caruthers.

"And
if I tell you, is there just some tiny something in it for me?" She gave
me a seductive smile.

"My
intense gratitude." I returned her gaze.

"Well,
that's a start, isn't it? Talbot and Caruthers went way back. Hank Caruthers
got Lee Talbot the CEO job at Marathon. Lee Talbot wasn't a very good
businessman, which most people didn't know, but Hank felt he could shore up the
financial side for him. He didn't take into account how much money Lee Talbot
could throw away on one picture, and pretty soon, the studio's foreign loans
were being recalled. That's when, out of sheer desperation in an attempt to
shore up profitability, the barter deals started. Frank told me that he thought
there was more to it than that.. .embezzlement, as he put it. Frank was such a
conservative. He said he had a list of some sort that contained evidence of
what was going on. Hank believes that if the list ever existed, it was stolen
during the breakin at the Anthony mansion right after Frank's death. And that,
my dear, is everything I know.. .well, everything I know that I can share with
you in public." And she smiled. I thanked her profusely and promised to
visit her again.

"She's
creepy," Callie said, "Coming on to you like that. Horrible!"

"At
least she's being cooperative."

"Only
because she thinks she's going to get in your pants," Callie said in
disgust. "She's undoubtedly slept with everyone on both coasts. She
probably has several diseases. I wouldn't even shake her hand, much less sleep
with her!"

I
reached over and took Callie's small hand in mine. "I don't have any
intention of sleeping with her. As a matter of fact, I really don't have any
intention of sleeping with anyone...with the possible exception of you."

Callie
turned my hand over lovingly and stroked the palm and then placed it against
her soft cheek and then kissed it. Callie was not a person to apologize or to
take the blame, because her beliefs placed none, but this gesture came pretty
close to asking me to forget the past and begin again.

"So
I'm not the first," I began, referring to her sexual history, "but as
the country song says, that's okay, so long as I'm the last."

She
pulled me into her and kissed me, and her mouth was so hot that I was instantly
turned on. She released me too soon, startling me with the question, "Why
aren't you living with anyone?"

"I've
lived with women." I found myself defensive.

"Not
for long, though." She seemed to know without being told.

"No."

"Because?"
she asked, then responded to my knitted brow, "I'm asking because a lot of
women seem to know you, and yet you live alone."

"Living
together gets dull, predictable. I guess it depends on whether you think highs
and lows are interesting or merely a sign that you need a refill on your
lithium scrip."

"Are
you on lithium?"

I
began to giggle. "Based on my behavior, if I were on lithium, I would say
it doesn't work. Are you asking because you think I would have a better life
through chemistry?"

"No,
I like the way you are: spontaneous, wild, temperamental. Do you think I'm
predictable?" Callie asked.

"A
little. I can see trips to the mall and evenings at the computer."

"Really?"
She smiled.

"Where's
this going? Are you thinking we should live together?"

"Absolutely
not!" she said, and hurt my feelings.

"Just
checking," I said, as if I didn't care one way or the other, and I quickly
changed the subject. "I'm betting Caruthers was skimming off the top at
Marathon."

"Why
Caruthers?"

"Because
Frank Anthony said he had a list, but Caruthers convinced Ramona Mathers that
there probably never was a list, and if there were, it had to have been stolen
the night the Anthony mansion was broken into. Sounds to me like Caruthers was
covering himself because he knows there is one. If Talbot was bankrupting the
studio with bad motion pictures, then the board must have been trying to hire someone
to take his place. If Talbot was replaced, maybe Caruthers's embezzling
activities would be exposed. Caruthers would have to shore up profits quickly,
make Talbot look good, and get the board off his back. So Caruthers hired
Isaacs and got him to do the barter deals to bring in big stars for very little
cash. Then to keep Isaacs in line, maybe Caruthers blackmailed him over those
very deals. It might seem like a lot of trouble to go to, but just one percent
of Marathon's 784 million dollar annual gross is a payday worth killing for.
Maybe we didn't contribute to Talbot's death. Maybe Talbot was catching on to
what was happening, and Caruthers knocked him off or had Isaacs do it."

"But
what about the list?" Callie asked.

"I
don't know, but I'm beginning to think we should buy vanity plates that say NO
LIST, and maybe people will stop trying to knock us off."

I
told Mom and Dad I'd be staying at Callie's high-rise.

"Well,
that makes no sense," Mother said. "You have a perfectly good bed
over here at our house."

"Maybe
Callie's got a better mattress," Dad said sincerely and gave me a wink.

"Well."
Mother tried to salvage some vestige of caregiving. "You'll at least
return that rental car right now and use your father's car. That's just an
unnecessary expense you don't need." I complied, having learned long ago
to pick my battles.

That
night, as we lay in bed, my mind retraced the events from that fateful luncheon
with Barrett. Suddenly I sat bolt upright.

"Curtis!"
I shouted. "I gave my business card to Detective Curtis and told him when
I was leaving for Tulsa. That's how the thugs knew when I was on the highway.
That's how the guy knew to follow me to Needles and Tucumcari. That's how he
had my fax number. He's the one who sent me the welcome home fax when we got back
to L.A.! That's how Raider knew what flight I was on. I told Curtis!"

I
got Curtis's business card out and stared at it. It had a police emblem at the
bottom and the words Detective Curtis on it. I dialed L. A. information and
asked for the phone number of LAPD homicide. The prefix wasn't the same as the
number on Curtis's card. I dialed the LAPD number and asked if there was a
Detective William Armand Curtis working for the LAPD. The voice on the phone
said they had no officer by that name. I hung up and stared at Callie.

"This
is a bogus number he gave me."

"How
does he answer when you call?"

"Curtis."

"So
you could have been calling his cell phone or his home. He could be one of
their guys."

"Yes,
but he doesn't know I know that." I picked up the phone and dialed the
number on "Detective" Curtis's card. He answered in his usual manner.

"I
think I know who's behind this," I told him. "I'm on my way back to
L.A. Forget coffee, I'll come directly to the station and meet you there."

"Could
you hold on a minute?" He put me on hold.

I
covered the receiver and whispered to Callie that he must be on another line
right now asking what to do with us next. Another minute passed before he clicked
back on.

"Sorry,
my boss is driving me crazy. I'm on a couple of big cases, and there's just not
enough of me to go around. Listen, I won't be at the station tomorrow. I'm on a
stakeout, so why don't you give me twenty-four hours and I'll call you."

"Great."
I hung up and told Callie he'd aborted our meeting after talking to someone on
the other line.

"But
he called you before we left and wanted you to come down to the police station
and ID a guy. Why would he risk your driving down to the station when you would
obviously discover he's not a cop?" Callie asked.

"Because
he wants me to trust him, and because he believes he can lie his way out of
anything—just like he did tonight."

An
hour later I'd almost dozed off when the phone rang. I picked it up. A voice
with an accent said menacingly, "You will forfeit the stone at
12:01." The line went dead. Callie asked who called. "Just more
threats saying they're coming after the stone at noon. Has to be whoever Curtis
called. As far as I'm concerned, they've been coming after us at every hour of
the day."

"I
don't like this," she said.

Callie
fell asleep immediately, exhausted. I was awake and staring at the ceiling,
thinking we had pretty much pieced the mystery together. Caruthers was head of
the whole operation, and like my dear old daddy was fond of saying, "Shit
rolls downhill," from Caruthers to Isaacs to Barrett and somehow to the
squad of goons doing the actual tracking and killing. Since the attempt on
Barrett's life and Rita's murder had both taken place in L.A., we needed to get
the district attorney in Los Angeles to listen to our story just as soon as we
returned. I was sure Wade would call the DA's office on our behalf to lend a
little clout.

At
dawn, I told my parents what was going on. Wade had been alerted and had
assigned someone to keep an eye on them. I wrote his personal pager number on a
piece of paper and propped it up by their phone. I then tried to tell them
everything I could without frightening them.

My
father said firmly that there was no need to worry. Any stranger who came
through the front door would be shot first and questioned later. Mother
listened intently to every detail, as if we'd brought a real-life soap opera
into the living room, and she was delighted to be involved. We gave them
explicit instructions for protecting themselves and told them the police
cruiser would be coming by the house all night. Dad went to the dresser and
pulled out a loaded .38. "Should have kept my .357," he said
solemnly. He pulled two 12-gauge shotguns out of the closet and began rummaging
through his bottom dresser drawer looking for shells.

"Where
in the goddamned, mother-lovin', fanny-fuckin' hell is my—"

"Ben!"
Mother called a halt to the swearing he'd managed, over the years, to elevate
to an art form. To Callie, she added, "This is just a good excuse for him
to do what he loves to do most, brandish firearms."

"Dad,
just make sure it's not Mother prowling around in the night when you pull those
guns out, all right?" I said.

"Who
the hell do you think taught you firearm safety?" he growled. "Now
how in the Sam Hill do you two propose to protect yourselves?"

"Wade,"
I lied, knowing the mere mention of a male cop would put his mind at ease.

"Wade's
a good man," Dad said. "You just do what he says and you'll be
fine."

Callie
wanted to stop back by her condo before leaving town, so I borrowed Dad's car
to take her over to the high-rise, leaving my parents to sort out who to shoot
and when.

It
was a shock to leave the tidy rental car for Dad's eclectic Oldsmobile. Every
time I stepped on the brake, something different rolled out from under the seat
and then disappeared again when I stepped on the gas: Turns, a Bic lighter, a
Dixie cup. After the broken hearing aid rolled out, I told Callie to brace
herself, because I fully expected to see my dad come tumbling out at the next
stoplight. Callie laughed and squeezed my hand.

It
was a beautiful, cool summer's day. I didn't want to leave Tulsa, and I wished
I'd taken up a career as an engineer or accountant or med-tech, so I could find
a job here.

I
pulled the car up in front of the impressive structure and kept the motor
running. Callie climbed out and headed for the gates, then paused and turned
back, coming up to the car window. She seemed nervous suddenly.

"I
won't be longer than five minutes, okay?" She paused and then said
quickly, "I love you, Teague." She kissed me full on the mouth and
gave me a big smile before disappearing.
She finally said it. She loves me.
Why now?
I wondered, inexplicably happy as I watched her disappear into the
building. I turned the radio up and leaned back in the seat as the DJ announced
it was 10:00 a.m. Hearing the time reminded me of the phone call. "I'll
see you at 12:01."
Why the hell would the guy announce his intentions?
And which 12:01? Noon, midnight, tonight, tomorrow, next year?
I looked up
at the towering condos beside me.

"Jesus
God, 1201! The number on Callie's condo!"