Self-Defense (47 page)

“Our house was right next to this big
parcel owned by a producer—Sy Palmer, he did
Flying Angels,
on TV? He
really wanted our land so he could build riding stables, and he paid us
seventy-five thousand. We couldn’t believe it. Then we found out we needed to buy
another
house or pay lots of taxes, so we used the seventy-five to make a
down payment on a bigger place, lived in that, fixed it up, sold
it
for
three hundred thousand. We couldn’t believe how well we were doing. Then I got
pregnant.”

Her glance at Travis was full of
tenderness and torment. He continued to roll the can.

“The doctors knew something was wrong even
before he was born, but at first he didn’t seem that different. Then... I knew
I had to be in a big city, near a hospital with rehab facilities. We thought
for sure Best had gone back east. So we moved back, made a down payment on a
land-side house on Rambla Pacifica, and opened the store. Tom figured all his
old surfing buddies would give us business, and they did. So we sold the
land-side house and bought the place in La Costa.”

Talking about their financial climb had
calmed her.

“That’s it. Anyone can go over our tax
records with a fine-tooth comb. We never sold dope or chased money. It came to
us. When Lowell gave us that bag, we were shocked out of our minds. Kept it in
a closet for months, just sitting there. Then I told Tom, What good is this
doing, just sitting here? And Greg was already calling us, telling us about the
opportunities in Aspen. After we moved there, things just happened.”

“Have you maintained contact with Greg
Fowler?”

“I haven’t.”

“What about Tom?”

No answer.

“He lives down in Mexico now, doesn’t he,
Gwen?”

Silence.

“Near Mexico City?”

Nothing.

“Gwen?”

“No, a small village near the coast. Far
from Mexico City. I don’t even know the name.”

“Still running dope, huh?”

“No!” she said.
“Charter
fishing!”

“Tom’s been down there, hasn’t he? Brings back
a nice catch of corbina or albacore?”

“So?”

“What’s the address?”

“I don’t know, Greg only told Tom. He’s
still officially a fugitive. Please don’t get him in trouble, he’s really a
good guy.”

“Tom didn’t give you the address?”

“No, he was supposed—” Drumming the table.

“He was supposed to what?”

“Meet us. In Mexico City, with a van; then
we were going to drive down together. The tickets were supposed to be at the
gate. I bought them myself, made sure we had special boarding help, but they
said it had all been canceled—that
Tom
canceled them. Why would he do that?
Why?
”

I used her desk phone to call Milo’s home
number and was pleased when the answering machine picked up.

“Detective Sturgis? It’s Dr. Delaware. I
just had a long talk with Mrs. Shea—no, at her shop. Yes, I know about the
airport, that’s where... I know, but I figured... she gave me what I think is
useful information, maybe you’ll think so, too... no, I don’t think—do you want
to speak to her? When? Okay... no, I don’t think so. No, he’s not... already in
Mexico... some fishing village, she claims she doesn’t know where and I’m
inclined to believe—what? No. No, I don’t think so. Okay, see you then.”

Hanging up, I shrugged. “I feel a little
stupid saying this, but you’re not planning to leave town, are you?”

She hadn’t taken her eyes off me since I
picked up the phone. “When are they coming to speak to me?”

“Soon. There are other people they’re
talking to. Your name’s on some kind of airport watch list. If you try to leave
the country, they’ll confiscate your passport.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m staying
here, what’s my choice.”

I gave a last smile to Travis and headed
up the coast, thinking about twenty-one years of pretending.

Accepting a payoff and pretending it was a
big tip. Feeding Doris Reingold’s green-felt habit and convincing themselves it
was charity.

Five thousand dollars in a paper bag.

Once they’d been able to reduce it in
their minds to a rich man’s trifle, the rest had been easy.

Gwen was a mix of callousness and
breakability. Waffling, resisting, struggling to paint herself out of any
criminal conspiracy. Yet, my instinct was that, over all, she’d been truthful.
If she and Tom were killers, they wouldn’t have tolerated Doris Reingold’s
putting the touch on them all this time.

I was driving faster than usual. Before I
knew it I passed Latigo Shores and Escondido Beach and came to Paradise Cove,
where Karen had been picked up on the highway by someone in a red Ferrari.

Lowell asking for a pretty one to set up
the tables and chairs.

App—or a lackey—picking her up.

Private party before the big one.

Lowell and App and Trafficant? Had the
producer worn a mustache, back then?

Nothing nasty Friday night; she’d been in
a good mood the next morning. But something had gone very bad the next day.

Make it a good-looking one.

Felix Barnard was no Sherlock, but he’d
managed to put enough together to merit his own payoff. And a finale at the
Adventure Inn.

App, sitting there, talking to me about
deals.

Playing with me?

He was
Lowell’s
patron. Powerful
enough to be ordering Lowell around.... I recalled his explosive reaction to my
intrusion, then the cold, cruel way he’d fired his receptionist.

Allowing me in when I told him what it was
about.

Sounding me out, assessing the threat.

Talking about Mellors/Mullins’s violent
nature. The script definitely a diversion. Which wasn’t to say Mellors hadn’t
written it.

App, with years of experience weaving and
darting in Hollywood.

Had he bought my biography story?

Maybe. He hadn’t tried to restrain me or
harm me. Hadn’t even kept my card.

Waiting for me to get back to him on the
deal....

I pressed down on the gas pedal, forging
into rural Malibu. This far up, there were no lights on the road. The highway
darkened and twisted. I kept picturing Karen, getting into the sleek red car
with golden expectations.

Playing with Lucy and Puck the next
morning until Gwen had had Doris, the experienced mother, take over.

Doris, putting the kids to bed, then
sneaking out to frolic. Returning later to discover Lucy gone.

She runs out to look for her. Finds her
sleepwalking, babbling.

Men hurting girl.

Powerful men. Mopping up the evidence of
murder... in a motel owned by some guys from Reno. The Advent Group.
Now
I knew why the name was familiar.

The other outfit sharing the twentieth
floor with App’s production company.

Advent Ventures.

App keeping Mellors on a financial leash
in order to control him and use him. First, the “idiot job” at the production
company, then moving him into the motel job.

Literary critic to brothel manager. Lowell
would have appreciated it.

I could imagine App’s spiel.

“Think about it, Denny. I know the job is
below you, but it’s just short-time and all you have to do is look in on the
dump once in a while—maybe even pick up some material—how about a series based
on a motel? All these crazy characters drifting in and out? We can pitch it to
the networks. Don’t feel pressure to make a decision right now. Think about it
and let me know. Come up to the house, we’ll look at the ocean and break some
bread.”

Everything falling into place, but, still,
Gwen had admitted to nothing more than seeing Karen step into the crowd with
her hors d’oeuvres tray, and Lowell’s payoff
could
be construed as a
generous tip.

I heard Milo’s voice, superego by way of
the LAPD:

No evidence.

I tried to call him again that night, and
the next morning. No answer at home, and the desk officer at Westside Division
was unhelpful.

All this information and nowhere to go.
Lucy wasn’t focusing on Karen, so that bought some time. But I wasn’t sure last
night’s intimidation would keep Gwen Shea in town and, without her, what did I
really have?

I’d keep trying to find Milo. In the
meantime, I’d run off the tension.

I was changing into shorts and a T-shirt
when my service called with Dr. Wendy Embrey on the line.

Trying to keep the irritation out of my
voice, I said, “Hi, Wendy.”

“Hi, how’s Lucretia doing?”

Off the case, she had no privileges.
“She’s fine.”

“Well, that’s good. It was an odd case, I
never really felt I had a handle on it.”

“In what way?”

“The suicide attempt. She was so adamant
about not trying to kill herself, but she seemed so
coherent.
So, no
subsequent psychosis or major depression?”

“None.”

“Good. Anyway, say hello to her for me. I
still think about her.”

“Will do, Wendy.”

“Actually, I was calling you about
something else. This is awkward and don’t feel obligated to answer, but have
you had any trouble getting paid for treating her?”

“I’m fine with that.”

“Oh. Hmm. I know this is tacky, but I
think I told you Woodbridge is in a major financial bind; the staff’s under a
lot of pressure not to take on any nonpaying cases. I’m under special pressure
since it’s my first year there—probationary status. Lucy had no insurance and
no clear ability to pay. Strict hospital policy is to take care of the crisis,
then transfer them over to County. I didn’t do that because I liked her and
because her brother told me he’d handle it. But the hospital just notified me
that a bill they sent to his company was returned unopened, and he hasn’t
returned any of their calls. None of mine, either. Have you been in contact
with him?”

“He’s been tied up,” I said. “Their
brother Peter OD’d a couple of days ago.”

“Oh. God. I’m so... sorry for bringing it
up. Good-bye.”

I ran and had breakfast. On the news, one
of the Bogettes, a sunken-cheeked, twentyish harpy named Stasha, was granting
an interview to a breathlessly eager reporter. Her hair was cropped to the skin
and she wore a goat-hair vest and a necklace of animal fangs.
Jobe Is God
tattoo just above her left eyebrow. Her mouth twisted constantly and her eyes
pursued the camera.

The reporter was a blond woman in her late
twenties, with conspicuous hair. She said, “So
you’re
saying the police
have bungled the investigation so badly that Jobe Shwandt deserves a new trial?
But surely—”

“Surely Jo
be
lives,
” said Stasha. “Surely the truth will spawn its own certain
becertitude.
” The rest of her speech succumbed to bleeps.

I turned off the set. The phone rang.

“Hey.” Milo, finally.

“Just saw one of your girls on the tube.”

“Spent all night following those hags
around town. El Monte, San Gabriel, South Pasadena, Glendale, Burbank. They
drive slowly, use their turn signals, make full stops.”

“Where’d they go?”

“Nowhere, just cruising. Pulling over to
the curb, waiting, then pulling out again—goddamn game. Final stop was for
burgers and fries at an all-night grease palace in San Fernando. One of them
comes up to me in the parking lot and offers me a Pepsi. After spitting on it
and inviting me to mate with pigs. Then she told me where they’d be going next.
“Want a fucking
road map,
clown?’ ”

“Fun.”

“Join the blue army, see the world.
Anyway, that was some message you left me on Ms. Shea. What, you tailed her, then
interrogated
her?”

“It just kind of happened.”

“I’ll bet,” he said, grumbling. “Hopefully
she won’t sue you. Think she was on the level?”

I told him why I did.

“If App and Lowell are so ready to bump
people off,” he said, “why’d they let the Sheas live?”

“Several possibilities,” I said. “If Gwen
was being truthful, she and Tom don’t really know much. And each year the Sheas
kept the secret and didn’t hit on Lowell for extra money would have reassured
them. Also, by now the Sheas are as invested in the status quo as Lowell and
App. Respectable business people. The fact that they took money to withhold
information on a girl who ended up murdered wouldn’t do much for their civic
image. And if Doris ever found out they held back money from her, she’d blow
her stack and probably try to incriminate them. As it is, she resents their
success.”