Spiral (17 page)

I heard some footsteps and the shifting of equipment. When he opened the door, Held seemed to be alone. ”Thanks,” I said, stepping across the threshold.

”I’m, uh, kind of under the fucking gun, man. Got to get this new Very tune ready so we can rehearse it toward the CD.”

I stopped in the center of the room, everything except his guitar where I remembered it, still nobody else with us. ”The one about your daughter?”

”Yeah. I think it’s got potential.”

I turned back to him. ”Potential.”

”To be on the album. Maybe even the tide track.”

”That would be special, wouldn’t it?”

”Karma, even. Now, what do you need?”

”Can I sit down?”

”Uh, sure. Take that one again.”

I eased into the ergonomic chair like I had all the time in the world. ”You told me before that after you and your wife chased after Veronica, your daughter insulted both of you.” The Fu Manchu did a nip-up. ”Told us we should fuck off, which I’d call insulting, yeah.”

”And that was the last time you saw her alive.”

”Right, right. I was so mad at Very, I was afraid what I’d do, so Jeanette and me went back to the living room, try to make my father feel a little better about it.”

”And did he?”

”Shit, man, you probably know him better than I do. He can’t tolerate any curse words, never could. He was ballistic, least as far as somebody already had a stroke can get.”

”Were you worried for his health that day?”

”Huh?”

”Since your father was so angry, did you worry it might bring on another stroke?”

”No, man. I was just—the fuck’s the word?
Distracted.
Yeah, I was
distracted
by all the other shit going down.”

”Like what?”

”Like what other shit?” said Held.

”Yes.”

”Look, it’s no secret Buford’s got the AIDS, man. He pops about a jar of different pills every day, but how much longer he can do studio work, much less the steady hump of a national tour, I don’t know. Gordo’s always been a loose fucking cannon, and Ricky don’t have a lot of brand identification yet with Spiral as a group.”

”So he could walk.”

”They all could.”

”Especially if your father turned off the money faucet.” A darkening. ”The fuck did you hear that from?”

”Was it true?”

”Hell, no. My dad was solid behind us.”

”Until the birthday party.”

”Why do you keep coming back to that?”

”It’s when—and almost where—your daughter was killed.”

”Yeah, I know. But who’s going to want Very dead? That’s what you don’t seem to get here. She was everybody’s best ticket in the rock-’n’-roll lottery, man.”

”Somebody killed her, despite that.”

”Yeah, well, I don’t know who. Jeanette doesn’t, either. So what can we tell you?”

Since he’d mentioned his wife’s name, I said, ”Ever heard any of your family or friends mention a woman named ‘Wendy’?”

”Wen...?” Held seemed to mull it over. ”Doesn’t ring any bells. Why do you—?”

”Just a thought. I’ve seen the video of Veronica at the birthday party, and another at Mitch Eisen’s office.”

Held looked at me. ”So?”

”I was wondering if there were any other videos lying around.”

”Other ones. You mean, of Very performing?”

”Or just interacting with other people.”

”Oh. Shit, yeah. Jeanette’s probably got a library full of them, from the time Very was a baby.” A troubled look. ”Don’t know how they’d help you with who killed her, though.”

”Anybody else have tapes of your daughter?”

”Not that I know of. Why?”

”Just another thought.” I stood up. ”I’ll let you get back to your work.”

Held reached for the guitar plugged into his computer. ”That’s the hardest part of all, you know.”

”What is?”

”Having to be creative when you’re still grieving. It’s a bitch, man.”

I watched Spi Held as he adjusted some settings on the keyboard and decided he was serious about that last comment.

Serious, if not sincere.

I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you pass without one of the members telling me you’re coming.”

The gate guard at the tennis club wore a blue security uniform and matching ball cap. He also had the voice of a radio news anchor.

From behind the wheel of the Cavalier, I looked up at him inside the little sentry box. ”My name’s John Cuddy. I’m working for Nicolas Helides.”

”Mr. Helides is a member, sir.” The guard gestured at a telephone on the counter in front of him. ”But I haven’t gotten an authorization call about you.”

”Could you try him now?”

”He lives off-site, sir.”

”I know. Could you call his house?”

The guard nodded reluctantly, then picked up the phone. After a moment, he spoke quietly into it, nodded more comfortably, and hung up.

”Sir, you’re cleared. I’m guessing this is your first time here?”

”It is.”

The guard stepped out of the gate house, and I could see the name
Clinton
on his uniform. ”The clubhouse is this first building on the left. You can park anywhere that doesn’t have another building’s name on it.”

I drove slowly over the cobblestoned drive, partly because of the yellow speed bumps. I passed two residential buildings on the right, the miniature jersey barriers between the parking lines reading first
brooks
and then
davis.
The buildings were pastel peach, four stories tall, and U-shaped. Each sported an impressive mosaic twenty feet high of an individual player in tennis togs. Real people similarly dressed were walking or standing and talking, and I could see more residential structures farther along the road.

Finding an empty space with no name on its barrier, I left the Cavalier and walked toward what Clinton had called the clubhouse. A series of staccato ”thwocks” resounded through the clear, dry air.

Inside the high fence I found a pool with sky-blue water but only a few sunbathers occupying the lounges. Behind them were umbrellaed patio tables and chairs, all white and all empty. Beyond the furniture stood a rectangular tiki bar with only a couple of patrons sitting on the stools. About half a story below the patio itself, however, the eight tennis courts in sight were full, players of all ages, sizes, and skin colors pounding away at singles and doubles with a lot of concentration and energy.

As I approached what appeared to be the main entrance, a dapper older gentleman in tennis shorts, V-neck sweater, and Kangol cap was coming out.

Smiling broadly in a way that took twenty years off his age, he stuck out a hand. ”Don Floyd. Can I help you?”

I shook with him, his accent Southern, his grip like a vise. ”John Cuddy. I’m looking for Cornel Radescu.”

”Cornel?” Floyd gazed out to the parking area. ”Well, that Checker—like the old taxis?—is his car, so he’s still here somewhere. In fact”—now Floyd gazed out over the courts, shading his eyes with a hand like the Indian scout in a black-and-white western—”I thought I saw him a couple—yeah. Yeah, that’s him, on Three, serving into the ad court.”

Following his eyes, I saw a man with a ponytail smash the ball with the loudest ”thwock” sound I’d heard toward a much smaller, slighter woman. A little puff of green dust rose from the surface as the ball bounced up shoulder high on the woman, who nevertheless hit it solidly with a two-handed stroke like a baseball batter. The man was already in position for it, though, and after two more exchanges that looked pretty professional to me, he rushed to the net and dinked the ball deftly out of her reach.

Floyd and I watched the woman bow her head, hit the edge of a raised sneaker with her racquet, then walk purposefully to the net and shake hands cheerfully with the man. As they moved to a seating area shaded by an awning roof between two courts, Floyd turned back to me.

”Their match is over, John.”

I said, ”Should I wait for Mr. Radescu here?”

”You could try that, but Cornel lives on the other side of the complex, so he doesn’t usually come this way. You might want to catch him down there, assuming nobody else has the court now.”

”Thanks, Mr. Floyd.”

”Just call me ‘Don.’ Everybody else does.”

And with another broad smile, he strolled to the tiki bar.

There were walkways between the chicken-wire fences separating the courts spread around the club. I took a slatted path toward Court Three.

As I opened the swinging wire door, the woman who’d played against Radescu was coming out, a large bag that I thought could hold four racquets slung from her shoulder. She looked even more athletic up close, with a deep tan and bright eyes.

Surveying me head to toe, she said, ”He’ll kill you in those shoes,” then cuffed me lightly on the upper arm and went through the doorway, laughing quietly.

I stepped onto the court surface, which did seem like pulverized green dirt. Moving around the white-tape edges of the playing area, I was about ten feet from Radescu before he turned, an insulated picnic jug to his lips.

”Tough match?” I said.

He hefted the jug. ”A powder drink, to restore the electrolytes.”

The accent you’d hear in a Dracula movie. Radescu stood about six feet tall and maybe one-eighty, though his serving arm was half again as big as the other. He wore a yellow, placket-collared shirt and black shorts, some fingerprints of the courts green dust on the thighs. The face looked like it was chiseled from a piece of Transylvanian cliff, with a long, straight nose and dark, steady eyes peering out from under darker eyebrows. No gray in the ponytail, either.

Radescu set the jug down on a table near a chair with another tennis bag in it. ‘You are this John Cuddy?”

”Good guess.”

Radescu smiled slightly, but made no effort to shake hands, so I didn’t either.

He looked behind me, then slumped into a chair, pulling a towel from his bag and mopping his forehead and neck with it. ”I see no one to take this court, so we may as well talk here, in the fresh air and shade.”

”How did you know who I am?”

”Nick’s man—Duy Tranh?—calls me to say a detective will talk with me.”

Nick. Aside from his wife, I couldn’t remember anyone ever calling the Skipper by his first name.

Radescu shrugged. ”Also, Cassandra describes you.” A pause. ”Quite accurately. And is this how you know me, too?”

I looked back toward the patio area. ”Someone pointed you out to me.”

”Who?”

”Why do you want to know?”

A feigned look of surprise. ”I want to thank that person for their courtesy.”

I weighed it a minute, including Don Floyd’s casual way of identifying Radescu for me, then said the name.

”Ah, the unofficial mayor of our little community here. Don knows everyone.”

”I would have recognized you from the videotape, anyway.”

”The video?”

”Of the Helides birthday party.”

”Ah, yes.” More towel work, this time across the eyes. ”The reason you are here.”

”What can you tell me about that day?”

”What do you want to know?”

”Start at the beginning.”

Radescu rubbed the towel across the bridge of his nose. ”The beginning of my day, or only the party itself?”

A man who’d been interrogated more than once. ”How was it you were invited at all?”

The slight smile. ”Before he has the stroke, Nick played here. I still give his wife lessons.”

A smirk now.

”And his granddaughter, too.”

The smirk faded. ”Yes.”

”Why?”

”Very wants to learn tennis, and I am an excellent teacher. Also, her ‘grandmother’ is already taking lessons with me.”

No smirk this time.

”Let’s focus on the party first, then Veronica.”

”The party?” Radescu laid his towel on top of his tennis bag. ”I drive there. Already many cars are in the driveway, so I leave mine in the street, and I am checked in through the gate guard.” Something passed across Radescu’s features. ”Inside the house, we are eating, drinking, trying to make it seem we have a good time.”

”Seem?”

A skeptical look as Radescu leaned forward in his chair. ”Come on, Mr. John Cuddy, you have seen Nick, yes?”

”Yes.”

”And you know him from somewhere before, because he does not hire people he does not feel sure about.”

”We knew each other a long time ago.”

”So.” Radescu settled back a little. ”You know for certainly how... diminished he is by the stroke. And you must know then also that it is hard to have fun around a man such as he is now.”

”But you were trying.”

At first the skeptical look again, then almost a mellowing.

”I tell you, I think everybody is trying. Even his son, David, the strange one. I think we know Nick probably does not have another birthday party waiting for him in the next year.” I let that go by. ”So, you’re all helping him celebrate.”

”To celebrate, yes, as much as he can. Then Very announces she is to sing, and the young black, he has the camera, and we all are to stand around, to hear this. But when Very sings, she is strange, too, and I do not mean only the things she sings. No, it is like she performs for everyone in the room, not just her grandfather. Do you understand?”

”The autopsy revealed cocaine in her system.”

Radescu frowned and tossed the towel toward his bag. ”Drugs. They are poison. But perhaps that is why she performs for him only as a mask for the rest of us.”

I’d gotten a little of that from the tape. ”Did you see Veronica Held after she left the main room?”

”After she runs out? No. Her father and then her mother go after her. I know, if she is my daughter, I beat her to bloody for what she did.” Something went across Radescu’s features again, maybe a realization of how he’d just sounded. ”But she is not.”

”Not your daughter.”

”That is right.”

”Did you see her again?”

”No. No, before she is found, I leave the party.”

”Why?”

”Because her singing makes it now impossible even to seem like things are fun.”

”How did you come to know Veronica had been killed?”

No reply.

”Mr. Radescu?”

”Cassandra calls me that night, and then the police come here to see me.”

”And ask you questions like mine.”

”An angry policeman. Not very smart.”

I had a pretty good idea who that would have been. ”Okay, what can you tell me about Veronica herself?” Radescu paused. ”I can tell you she is coordinated and strong enough, but she probably could not become a good tennis player, and for certainly never a great one.”

”Why is that?”

”Very starts too late.” Radescu angled his head at a woman playing singles two courts away. She was young, but running a tall, athletic man ragged. ”That blonde there? She is ranked number one woman in Florida.” Radescu came back to me. ”To be truly great now, they must have the racquet in their hands when they are five, six years of age.”

”Why couldn’t Veronica at least have been a good player?”

”She never wants to practice her shots. She wants only to be shown them in the lesson, and then play matches trying them. That is no way to become a good player.”

”Then why did you continue as her instructor?”

Radescu rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ”The money, Mr. Cuddy. Nick is a rich man, and he wants his granddaughter to have the best.” Now a shrug that didn’t quite come off. ”Also, I am Cassandra’s teacher, so it is easier.”

”Because they could ride over here together?”

A little discomfort again. ”That is right.”

”But they lived in different homes, different parts of the city.”

”Very is often at her grandfather’s house.”

I watched Radescu carefully. ”I also heard that even when she was, Cassandra wouldn’t drive her over here anymore.”

More discomfort. ”I don’t know about that.”

”What happened to drive a wedge between Cassandra and Veronica over coming here to the tennis club?”

More discomfort still, then a resolution of the rocky features. ”Mr. Cuddy, look around you.”

”I already have.”

”Again. Please.”

I took in three-hundred-sixty degrees of tennis club. The buildings and flowers that reminded me of photos from the Mediterranean. The bouncing balls and bounding players, some genuine laughter wafting down from the tiki bar. A smell of the green dust in the air, but also a sense of...

”You feel it?” said Radescu.

I looked at him. ”Feel what?”

”The peace, the security, but also the energy here.” He warmed to his subject. ”That is why I live at the tennis club. In Romania when I am young—five, six years of age—there are courts in my city because it is the center of the Communist-bloc oil industry. My friends and I, we make racquets from pieces of wood, and we use the balls that the oil men hit over the fences. When I am older, I am very good tennis player, and when I am older still, in my twenties, I teach tennis, and I dream of coming to America. But the Securitate—you know what this is?”