Scavenger Hunt (9 page)

Chapter 11

His phone was ringing again, but Jimmy still ignored it, focused on the eight-by-ten publicity photos of Samantha Packard on his desk. He’d picked up one from about eight or nine years ago, when she had a minor role in a thriller called
Bloodletting.
He barely remembered the film, and he didn’t remember her being in it at all. Eight years ago . . . if she was the good wife, that was around the time she would have met Walsh. He peered at the woman in the photo. Her hair was shorter then, and even though she was beautiful, she seemed awkward, not really comfortable with the camera. Real stars bloomed for the lens. Maybe Samantha Packard bloomed in private. He laid the photo back on the desk.

After Walsh’s funeral Jimmy had run a quick search on Mick and Samantha Packard. Packard was a martial artist and rumored ex-CIA operative. He had been hot box office at the tail end of the action-film era, but five consecutive flops had knocked him off the Hollywood radar screen. Now forty-five years old, no longer even a punch line on late-night TV, his screen output was limited to direct-to-video releases and Japanese commercials, where he still had a cult following. Samantha Packard was thirty-one, a marginally talented actress whose screen credits were limited to films in which her husband starred.

Jimmy straightened the publicity photos and lined them up. Mick and Samantha had been married ten years and had no children. Twice in the last five years the tabloids had done stories about their imminent divorce, but no papers had ever been filed. He was going to have to move cautiously. Mick Packard had been on full alert yesterday; if he got spooked, somebody could get hurt. Starting with the good wife. Samantha Packard looked back at him from one of the photos, her face softly lit, her eyes expectant. Jimmy had to turn away and stare out the window, but there was nothing in that clear blue sky that brought him any relief.

People worked all around him in the main editorial office of SLAP, chattering away, fielding calls, pounding their keyboards—they barely registered. He hadn’t yet gotten started on the list of Walsh’s cell phone calls that Rollo had given him at the funeral yesterday. The list was five pages of single-spaced calls without referents—just date, time of day, and duration. Jimmy was going to have to go through the reverse directory number by number, then call up and find out who Walsh had talked to, turn on the charm and the lies. He smiled to himself. It was terrible the things he was good at.

He looked at Samantha Packard’s photos. If Jimmy had believed in prayer, he would have prayed that when he dialed one of the phone numbers on Walsh’s list, Samantha Packard would answer. But Walsh wouldn’t have been that direct, even if he knew her number after all those address changes. Jimmy whisked the photos into a stack with one sweep of his hand, slid them into his notebook, and turned to the computer. His phone rang again, but he kept typing, logging in.

Twenty minutes later Jimmy was still intent on the computer screen, scrolling through the California Department of Corrections database. Three hundred and eighty-nine Shafers had been processed through the system in the last twenty years, but only six had Harlen as a first or middle name. He accessed three files, but none of them fit the profile for the man Detective Katz said was Walsh’s last visitor. Number four, Maxwell Harlen Shafer, didn’t look too promising either.

“Jimmy?” Mai stood beside his desk, slim and straight as a needle, a first-generation Vietnamese immigrant, all eyes and ears and brains. No telling how long she had been standing there. “You are not answering your phone.”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Napitano wishes to speak with you.”

“Tell the emperor that I’m busy, Mai.”

“Mr. Napitano said it was important.”

Jimmy tried to concentrate on the computer screen, but he could feel Mai’s gaze at the center of his forehead, her intense quietude an irresistible force. He got up and followed her through the maze of desks and into the private elevator to Nino’s penthouse office.

Mai punched in the proper numerical code on the elevator keypad, shielding the keys from view. (Three two nine nine five but who was counting?) She waited until the doors closed before speaking. “He was in a very good mood until you refused to answer your phone.” It was a flat statement, devoid of recrimination or innuendo. “I am fluent in Italian, of course, but some of his curses—they are untranslatable.”

“You don’t have a dirty mind. It’s a liability in dealing with Nino.”

Mai just looked at him. Jimmy tried to imagine what she would look like smiling, but he couldn’t conjure the image. Mai didn’t smile, she didn’t frown, and she didn’t show surprise or disappointment. Her emotional responses were hooded—saved for someone more worthy of them, perhaps. Jimmy hoped there was someone. The elevator doors opened, and Mai walked quickly out, her footsteps silenced by the thick red carpet. She knocked once on the door to Napitano’s office and strode away. Jimmy followed her with his eyes—for a small woman, she walked tall.

Jimmy opened the door and strolled into the office. The carpet and drapes were white as hoarfrost, Napitano’s desk was cut from a single gigantic piece of polished ebony, and the sofas were covered in buttery black leather. The only vibrant bit of color in the room was a tiger skin draped across the back of Napitano’s desk chair, ensconcing him in stripes.

Napitano greeted him with a wave, his bare feet up on his desk as he talked on a speakerphone, voice booming. He was a soft little man, barely five feet two, wearing pink cashmere pajamas, an autocrat with an oversize head and languorous eyes. His mouth was stuffed with tiny sharp teeth.

Jimmy sat down on the sofa nearest the desk, and hung one leg over the side.

“Just do what I tell you to,” Napitano said to the phone, breaking the connection with his big toe. “Jimmy,” he said, drawing out the word to obscene length, “so glad you could honor me with your presence.” He held up a dark-gray, irregularly shaped rock the approximate size of a golf ball. “Do you know what this is?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Lava?”

“It is a moon rock. From the Sea of Tranquillity, to be exact.”

“Sure it is.”

“No, for true.” Napitano cradled the rock in the palm of his hand. “This was torn off the craggy surface of the moon and brought back millions of miles to earth. Now it is mine.”

“Did you get that from Rollo?”

Napitano nodded. “A gift.”

Rollo and Napitano had become close a year ago after Jimmy had introduced them. Rollo had been hiding out and needed someplace safe to stay for a few days, and Napitano was eager to show off his new armored limousine. They were a good match. Both of them were smart and funny, with no respect for protocol or the common man, and Rollo, like Jimmy, wasn’t intimidated by Napitano’s wealth and power. Rollo was a free agent, a quality Napitano respected above all others.

Napitano caressed the lump of rock with his fingertips, his face glowing, probably imagining himself the lord of the moon. “Try to imagine where this has come from, the tales it could tell: the bitter chill of the lunar surface, the bombardment of meteor showers, the steady rain of cosmic rays—”

“Where would Rollo get a moon rock, Nino? All of them have been catalogued. They’re either at the Smithsonian or on display at museums. Maybe the White House.”

“Such naïveté.” Napitano carefully replaced the rock on his desk, then leaned back in his chair, his enormous head lolling against the tiger skin. “The more precious the cargo, the more likely that some percentage will be lost in transit. A tax of desire. That is what I wanted to talk with you about.” He crossed his bare feet, the pink cashmere pajamas softly rustling. “I want you to do a story on sacred objects, objects of disputed provenance, things that don’t belong in private hands.”

“Looted artworks? Biological oddities? Necklaces of gold teeth and eagle headdresses? How about a vial of anthrax?” Jimmy shook his head. “I’m working on something, Nino.”

Napitano caressed the underside of his soft throat, then thumped the underside of his double chin. “Put it aside.”

“No.”

“No?” Napitano wiggled his pink toes, soft baby toes that had never touched a bare floor or anything rougher than glove leather. “This project of yours, this secret thing—it must be quite important.”

“It is.”

“Dangerous too, perhaps?”

Jimmy didn’t like Napitano’s expression.

“I ask because the editorial receptionist has been receiving some very ugly phone messages for you.”

“What else is new?”

“This man keeps calling. His threats have been quite explicit— and quite vulgar.” Napitano ran a hand through his oiled locks, rearranging them across his forehead. “He won’t leave his name, but this gentleman always calls from a phone booth, a
di ferent
phone booth each time, which would indicate a certain seriousness on his part.”

“It just indicates he’s got a pocket full of quarters.”

“Ah, Jimmy’s vaunted cowboy sangfroid.”

“I’ll do what I always do, Nino. Walk light, watch my back, and hope for the best.”

“How deliciously optimistic of you, dear boy.”

Chapter 12

“The place don’t usually look like this.” Rita Shafer picked up the dirty clothes, tossed them behind the sofa, and sat down. She patted the cushion beside her, beckoning. “Darn kids. They’d live like pigs if I let them.”

“Thanks for seeing me, Ms. Shafer,” said Jimmy, iridescent Froot Loops crunching underfoot as he crossed the carpet and sat down beside her on the swaybacked sofa.

“Rita,” she corrected him, pulling one leg up so her bare knee touched him. “And it’s
Miss.
I’m free and easy. That Ms. shit—I never got the point of it.”

A TV blared from the back bedroom, the channels changing every few moments, accompanied by the outraged howls of children. Rita Shafer’s stucco one-bedroom apartment was part of a fourplex just north of downtown Long Beach. Unopened mail was strewn on the floor, utility bills with overdue stamped on the outside in red letters. Shutting off your lights and gas wasn’t enough—first the city wanted to embarrass you. Through the security bars on the side window of the living room, Jimmy could see the
Queen Mary
docked in the harbor, shimmering in the afternoon sun, the former luxury liner now a floating mall for tourists.

“You here for Harlen?” asked Rita.

A Nerf football landed in Jimmy’s lap, startling him. He smiled and picked it up off the floor, standing now. “Go out for a pass,” he said to the sullen eight-year-old in the doorway, cocking the football behind his ear. “Go long, I’ll hit you.”

“Just give me the fucking ball, mister,” said the boy, scratching the seat of his Scooby Doo underwear.

“Axyl Rose Shafer, you apologize right now to the nice man,” said Rita.

Axyl Rose gave his mother the finger and turned away. Jimmy bounced the foam football off the back of his head before he took a step. “Hey!” howled Axyl Rose, angry, not hurt.

“Don’t talk to your mother like that,” said Jimmy.

Axyl started to flip Jimmy off, then thought better of it, scooting away into the back bedroom.

Rita pulled Jimmy back onto the couch. “Thanks. I need a man around to keep Axyl in line.” She snorted. “’Course, that’s not the only thing a man’s good for.”

Rita Shafer had started out pretty, taut and slender, with high sharecropper cheeks and large eyes, but she was exhausted now, beaten down, her skin sallow, her eyes dull. All the makeup and caked-on mascara didn’t hide the damage. There had been three kids running around the cluttered living room when he arrived: Axyl and a couple of younger ones, four or five years old maybe, skinny blond girls with skin like cream and sad blue eyes. The girls stopped what they were doing when they saw Jimmy, suddenly on their best behavior. Three kids, and Rita was still slim-hipped and high breasted, sexy in short-shorts and Harley-Davidson tank top. Only her face showed her mileage.

“You got kids?” Rita asked.

“Never had the courage.”

“None that you know of.” One of Rita’s front teeth was chipped, but it was a good smile.

“I think I’d know. I hope so, anyway.”

“That’s a sweet thing to say.” Rita turned it over, like a pretty pebble. She held up her beer can. “Get you a cold one?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“You’re better than fine,” cooed Rita. “Me, I could use another one.” She headed for the refrigerator, turning around partway there to see if he was watching her ass.

Rita Shafer was the sister of Harlen Wilson Shafer, and her apartment was his last-known address. According to the Department of Corrections, Shafer was a small-timer with two convictions for sales of a controlled substance, a high-school dropout who had recently finished a five-year pop at Vacaville, Walsh’s alma mater. Jimmy had read through Shafer’s jacket on the computer at SLAP and known he was the one—Walsh’s last date. No history of violence with Shafer; he was more likely Walsh’s dealer than his killer, but Jimmy still wanted to talk to him.

Rita came back from the kitchen and popped a beer, delicately cupping her hand over the top to shield herself from the spray. It was a curiously ladylike gesture that made Jimmy want to scrub her clean.

“You were right before. I
am
looking for your brother.”

“I figured that’s why you were here,” nodded Rita, plunking herself down beside him. She killed half the beer in one long swallow.

“No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Lucky you.” Rita took another hit of the beer. “Harlen stayed with me about a week when he got out of prison, emptied my purse when he left.” She edged closer to him. “He left me some pot and some pills, like some pack rat, thinking it was a fair exchange. I still got most of the pot. Good stuff too.” She plucked at the hair on his arms. “I don’t smoke so much anymore. It makes me too horny.” She turned toward the bedroom doorway. “Turn down that goddamned TV!”

“Do you know where he’s staying?”

“Harlen’s not bad. He’s just got bad luck,” said Rita. “Been like that his whole life—he calls tails, heads come up.”

“Does he have a job? I really need to get in touch—”

“A
job
?” Rita threw back her head and showed Jimmy her fillings.

“Rita?” The two little blond girls were standing in the doorway, holding hands. “Rita, Axyl Rose won’t let us watch
Sesame Street.
He says it’s for babies.”

“You tell Axyl Rose if I have to come in there, I’m gonna whip his ass,” said Rita. “He should be in school anyway. His damn earache got better as soon as the bus left.”

Jimmy watched the girls run back into the bedroom, giggling.

“Harlen said he loved me, but he just couldn’t stand it here,” Rita said to Jimmy. “He said it was louder than prison and the food wasn’t as good, and I kept ragging on him because I don’t like drugs around my kids. You got a cigarette?”

“Sorry.”

“That’s all right, I done quit anyway.” Rita smiled, her breasts shifting in the tank top. “You don’t smoke, you don’t want a beer— you have
any
vices, handsome?”

“I’ve got a few left. My girlfriend is working on them though.”

Rita played with her white-blond hair. “Me, I’m a broad-minded person.” She turned again to the bedroom. “I
told
you, turn that thing down!” She looked at Jimmy and smiled, drawing her long legs up. “Now, where were we?”

“Did your brother ever mention someone he knew in prison named Garrett Walsh?”

“Harlen didn’t talk much about prison.” Rita shrugged. “If he did, I weren’t listening.”

“Garrett Walsh was a filmmaker,” Jimmy said helpfully.

“Porno?” Rita sat up. “I don’t go for that, mister.”

“No, real films.”

“I don’t know what you heard, but I don’t do that no more.”

“I’m just trying to get in touch with your brother. If he calls you— if he comes by, I’d appreciate you letting me know where he’s staying.” He handed her his business card. “My cell phone number is on here. Call me anytime.”

“SLAP magazine?” Rita pondered the card. “I heard of that. What’s Harlen done now?”

“Probably nothing. He was one of the last people to see Garrett Walsh alive. I’d like to ask him some questions, that’s all.”

Rita shook her head. “I don’t think Harlen would like talking to you.” She stared at the business card. “Is Harlen going to jail again?”

“I doubt it.”

“Harlen called me a stupid whore when he left. He’s my brother and I love him, but he shouldn’t call me names in front of my kids. You think that’s right?”

Jimmy looked her in the eyes. “No.”

“How come I never meet guys like you?”

Jimmy smiled. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Rita shook her head, not returning the smile. “No, I ain’t lucky. I’m just like Harlen that way.” She took a deep breath. “He comes by for more money, I’ll give you a buzz. You got a brother, Jimmy?”

“Yeah.”

“I bet you get along fine. I bet you’re a real family.”

“You’d lose that bet. My brother and I—we’re not close.”

“Got to be his fault.”

Jimmy handed her the mug shot of Harlen Shafer he had downloaded from the Department of Corrections database. “Is this accurate?”

“What do you mean?”

“This photo was taken when Harlen went into prison. Does he still look the same?”

“Pretty much.” Rita rapped the photograph with a finger. “His hair is longer now. I don’t like it so much, but he don’t care what I think. His face is different too, harder. I guess prison does that.”

“Do you have a more recent shot of your brother? One that I could make a copy of?”

Rita shook her head. “I got something I want you to see.” She pulled her purse out from under the couch and fished out her wallet. The red leather was worn smooth, the sides bulging, the seams split. She flicked through the photo section, pulled a black-and-white out of the yellowed glassine, and handed it over.

Jimmy stared at two underfed kids standing there, holding hands. The boy’s jeans had a hole in one knee; the girl’s dress was well worn but pressed. They both looked scared, but the boy was trying hard to hide it.

“That’s me and Harlen. I was nine, he was eleven. Our mama had just died, and we were being farmed out to kin, separated. I know you’re looking for Harlen. I just want you to know what he was like before—before things changed. He was a good big brother once. I want you to remember that.”

“I’m not out to hurt him.”

“Life changes people. They start out one way, then things happen and they’re not the same afterward.”

“I know,” said Jimmy. “I just need to talk to him.”

“I believe you.” Rita took the photo from him and tucked it carefully back into her wallet. “I don’t know why, but I feel like I can trust you.”

Jimmy stood up and shook her hand. “It was nice meeting you, Rita.”

“Nice meeting you too.” Rita pumped his hand, not wanting to let go. She waited until he was almost at the front door. “I think he’s staying at one of them . . . motels, you know, a no-tell motel. I don’t know where, but I know what Harlen likes.”

“Thank you.”

“That doesn’t really do much, does it?” Rita looked embarrassed. “There’s only probably about a million of them motels around. I just wanted to help.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You find him, tell him no hard feelings about him ripping me off. Tell him to come by sometime. There’s always a beer waiting for him.” Rita turned away so she wouldn’t have to see the door close behind him.