The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (10 page)

I suddenly wished I had paid more attention to the news coverage my gruesome discovery had received. “You said Elijah Ladas was involved in the robbery of an art gallery. When was that?”

Izzie hesitated before answering. “Two weeks ago. We didn’t have proof of his involvement. We just wanted him for questioning. The robbery had his MO all over it—barring the murder of the gallery owner. Homicide was never Ladas’ style.”

“Getting bumped off was probably never his style either.”

Izzie grinned. “No. It’s an interesting development.”

“And a lousy career move.” This reminded me. “Do you have the name of the garage that serviced the moving van? At the risk of seeming self-absorbed, I’m kind of hoping my china might still be out there somewhere.”

“They didn’t take the van to a garage,” Izzie said. “They ordered a replacement part from a place in Mojave that services big rigs, and made the repair themselves. The truck was parked in a diner parking lot right off the freeway for a few hours. Part of that time, probably a lot longer than they’ll admit to, your three movers and shakers were sitting in the diner. The back of the truck was padlocked, but when I questioned them, the driver admitted noticing the lock was broken when he came back out after lunch.”

“They sure didn’t mention that to me.”

“No. You have 48 hours to make a claim, and they were hoping if something was missing, you wouldn’t notice till after the 48 hours was up.”

“Nice!” I held up the coffee pot and Izzie nodded. I topped him up. “Any theory on how Ladas ended up inside the truck?”

“We think there are three possible scenarios. The first is that Ladas was at the diner to meet someone and that someone killed him and hid his body. The second is that Ladas was in the nearby town of Wooster for some unknown reason, and again, someone killed him and hid his body in the moving van.”

“Then where’s his car?” I asked. “Unless he and his killer drove together, his car would either be at the diner or in town somewhere. And if they drove together, why pick Wooster or that diner to do away with Ladas? That doesn’t seem very likely.”

“I agree with you. I can’t see any reason for Ladas to be in Wooster. There are no pawn shops or antique barns or jewelry marts. There isn’t even a bank. And he’d have less reason to be in that diner. The food is lousy, the coffee is worse, and it’s too far off the beaten track to be of any use to a guy like Ladas.”

I considered that. Off the beaten track might be useful if you were meeting up with people you shouldn’t be seen with. But “off the beaten track” in a city the size of Barstow was a lot more private than “off the beaten track” in a diner out in the middle of nowhere. In the middle of nowhere people noticed you.

“What’s the third scenario?”

“Judging by the rate of decomposition, the ME believes Ladas had been dead at least eight hours before he went into the back of the moving truck. As crazy as it sounds, I think someone was driving along, looking for a place to dump Ladas’ body, and hit on the idea of using a broken-down moving van.”

“It’s nearly six hours from Frisco to Barstow. Driving six hours with a dead body? Why not just dump him into San Francisco bay?”

“Because he would be found and identified? Not sure, but that’s the scenario we’re running with. It was very important to someone that Ladas not be found or identified, and they were willing to drive to Los Angeles to get rid of him.”

“Why didn’t they chop him into bits and dump him into the bay?”

Izzie, coffee cup halfway to his mouth, paused and gave me a contemplative look.

I said, “Sorry. That’s the mystery writer talking.”

“The fact is, most homicides aren’t committed by hardened criminals. And even hardened criminals can be squeamish.”

“Right.” I said slowly, “And why would it be so important to someone that Ladas not be found or identified?”

Izzie hesitated.

I said, “Uh-oh. Beck. Am I right? Baby brother Beck?”

Izzie nodded. “Beck is—was—what you might call devoted to Ladas. And, like I said, he’s not exactly a Fulbright Scholar.”

“This just keeps getting better and better.”

I was not reassured when Izzie didn’t offer an immediate pep talk. In fact, I now had a good idea why he’d popped over first thing on a Saturday morning when everyone, including the sun, was rolling over and going back to sleep. He said instead, “When does J.X. get back?”

“He’s flying in Monday night.”

Izzie nodded thoughtfully, but whatever he was thinking he kept to himself. All he said was, “Well, we’re trying to bring Ladas in for questioning, but he’s been avoiding his usual hangouts. If you do see him again, don’t confront him. Just give us a call.”

“Confront him?” I repeated in astonishment.
“Me?”

Chapter Seven

A
fter Jones finished spreading good cheer and glad tidings all over the place, he departed, but before he left I got the phone number of the diner near Wooster where Mr. Ladas had likely joined the wagon train. I gave the diner a call and asked if anyone had noticed any suspicious looking china loitering about the premises. The hostess admitted they had noticed broken china out by the dumpster and alerted Cindy Spann of Dolls and Doodads. Cindy had salvaged what she could for her shop. They kindly gave me Cindy’s phone number and I called Dolls and Doodads. Cindy, who sounded about the size of a Thumbelina, informed me she had almost ten complete sets of china left and was willing to let me have the entire lot for a reasonable price.

“Well, I appreciate that, but you do realize it’s my china?”

She chirped, “That’s why I’m giving you such a good deal on it.”

We smacked the birdie back and forth a few times, but it was clear Cindy was a descendent of those ancient desert tribes that eke their meager living by luring lost caravans off the map with promises of blue slushies and clean restrooms. She would not budge and I hate to haggle, and in the end I agreed to buy back Oma’s china at what was, Cindy assured me, a steal.

If J.X. had been driving back from L.A., he could have stopped and picked up the china for me. Instead, I’d have to also pay Cindy to ship it and hope she packed better than she reasoned. Although, seeing that I was paying exactly what she wanted, maybe it was my reasoning at fault.

The satellite dish people arrived and went around hooking up our TVs and DVD players and Xboxes, of which we had an embarrassing plethora. It was like a home for wayward lonely guys.

“Do you need me for anything?” I asked the techs and they laughed heartily.

They were clomping around on the roof when Rachel phoned.

“How is your research coming? What was your grandmother’s maiden name?” she demanded before I could even get out a greeting.

“The secret password is Zwyssig. Hello to you too.”

She was unabashed, but then you don’t get far as a literary agent if you’re the bashful kind. “That’s bloody awful. Readers will never be able to look that up. No. Sorry. That won’t do. What was
her
mother’s maiden name?”

I gazed out at the fog winding its sinuous way around the tall urns, meandering through the brick patios and terraces. Was that going to burn off? “Wölfli. Why are you so interested in my grandmothers?”

“Wolfi?” she mused. “That might work. That’s rather adorable in fact.”

“Wölfli.
Li
. Wölf
li
. And I repeat, why are so interested in my grandmothers?”

“Christopher, have you listened to a word I’ve said to you over the past two days? I’m pitching your new book to Wheaton and Woodhouse this afternoon. We have to settle on the details. Such as your new pen name.”

“What? What new pen name? I don’t want a new pen name! And I don’t want to write for Wheaton and Woodhouse again. I’m still mad at them for dropping me the first time.”

Rachel tsk-tsked at this. “That was just business, Christopher. You know that.”

“Yes. I know that after sixteen years, eleven New York Times bestsellers, and twenty awards—some of them actually legit—they dumped me like some indie writer they found shivering in the slush pile.”

She made shushing noises. “Don’t say anything against indies. They’re very sensitive. One hint of elitism and they’ll be organizing a twitcott. Anyway, the
point
is, W&W is aggressively acquiring Scandinavian crime fiction.”

“I don’t want to write Scandinavian crime fiction. There are too many neo-Nazis and hangings in churches. And I don’t like snow. Unless it’s in a snow globe.”

I might as well have been talking to myself. “What about the name Petra? It’s pretty, isn’t it? I think it’s Swiss.”

“It’s Greek, Rachel. And I hope you’re not thinking I’m going to write under a female pen name.”

Her tone grew chiding. Or chidinger. “Women do very well in Scandinavian crime fiction. And we have to reinvent you. You know how it works. A blank slate is better than a downward trend.”

That flicked me on a very raw patch. “Hey, I’m still a bestseller, you know! In some places. Probably in Barstow.”

“But you’re trending downward.”

“I sure am now.”

“Chin up! How’s it going there, by the way? All unpacked?”

“All un…” I couldn’t even finish that. “You do know I found a body in the basement, correct? I did tell you that?”

“I know you’ve told me everything but what I need to hear. Christopher, we
must
focus.
You
must focus.”

“Okay. Focus on this, Rachel. I don’t
want
to be reinvented. Or reincarnated. Or regurgitated. I’m not going to be named Petra or Paula or Patricia or anything else.”

“My God,” she said wearily. “Right-o. Have it your way. You can stay a bloody male if it means so much to you.”

“I
am
a bloody male. Of course it means that much!”

Sarcasm was wasted on her. It was like water off a Mandarin duck’s back. “What about Peder?”

“Nice. I can hear it now. Pederphile. No.”

“You’re being difficult, Christopher. What about Adrian?”

“God no.”

“Werner? Wilhelm? Wolfgang? Stop me when you hear something you like.”

“I haven’t heard anything I liked since I picked up the phone.” I started to laugh. “Wolfgang Wölfli. That’s it. Why the hell not?”

We were not amused. Well, I was, but the Regent of Rejections was not.

“What you’re failing to realize is this new writing identity gives you an opportunity to explore themes and leitmotifs in a way you’ve never experienced before.”

“Wearing pantyhose apparently.”

“Instead of being dismissive, you might have done as I asked and researched the genre. You’d see that Scandinavian crime fiction deals with all kinds of issues that are contemporary and important. Xenophobia, homophobia—”

“Agoraphobia.”

The doorbell rang. I said, “Sorry. I’ve got to go, Rachel. I’ll talk to you later. Please. I beg of you. Don’t turn me into Ariadne Oliver.”

“That name is familiar. Who represents her?”

I left her speculating and strategizing.

This time the bell tolled for the furniture company. I led the way, realizing that in all my trips upstairs, I’d barely noticed these rooms. I’d been too busy lurching back and forth with armloads of towels and linens destined for hall cupboards, or lugging armloads of clothes, mostly J.X.’s, to the floor-to-ceiling closets in the master bedroom. It seemed you could never have too many tailored white shirts or pairs of black jeans.

I watched nervously from the landing while the delivery men maneuvered a ponderous armoire entertainment center up the staircase, and when I couldn’t take it any longer, I went to make sure the bedroom was ready to receive company.

The master bedroom was at the rear of the house. The newly hooked-up electronics and J.X.’s valet stand were currently the only pieces of furniture, and it was the perfect opportunity to admire the elegant bones of the architecture. It was a large and airy space featuring a fireplace, a pretty little deck that faced Coit Tower, and a separate dressing area with those impressive closets lining one side.

As I gazed around myself, I realized that it truly was a beautiful room. The morning light would be beautiful. Heck, the morning fog was beautiful from up here. The walls were painted the palest and warmest of blues, like a hand-tinted photograph of a vintage holiday by the sea. The moldings were a silvery white, like sea foam. The long flowing drapes were gauzy ivory, the large nubby rug was also a restful eggshell white.

I walked out onto the balcony and remembered what Jones had said about him and J.X. once chasing a junkie up to Coit Tower. Someday I wanted to hear the story of what had happened when they caught him. Or her.

I turned as the delivery men finally shoved the armoire through the bedroom door and departed, perspiring and muttering, to cart the rest of the suite upstairs. There seemed to be a lot of it. This again was something I’d left up to J.X., and I wondered now if my lack of input had seemed easy-going or just indifferent?

The delivery men unwrapped the furniture from its plastic and protective coverings. Twin highboys, twin bedside tables, a large bed. The wood even darker than the floor and straight, clean lines. Masculine but elegant. They pushed the furniture around as requested, set up the bed and left.

After I locked the door behind them, I hiked back upstairs and studied the room. Our bedroom.

I realized I was smiling. I wasn’t even sure why.

It took me a while to find the framed painting I’d bought for J.X. as a housewarming gift. I’d regretted the purchase almost immediately as a silly extravagance, but now…now I thought maybe it had been a good idea after all. Allan P. Friedlander’s
A Good Year
. Wine country in tones of old gold and ripe yellows and rich greens. A remembrance of our own adventure, an acknowledgement of where it had all started. Again.

I hung it over the fireplace. Then I found a pair of my own soft 1500-plus-thread sheets in a cool, creamy yellow. I may not care about clothes, but I care about comfort, and anyone who tells you there’s no difference between 800-plus thread count and 1500-plus thread count isn’t sleeping on 1500-plus thread count. I made the bed, topping it with the raw ivory silk comforter J.X. had purchased. Then I carried up a couple of alabaster table lamps and a tall floor lamp with bronze acanthus leaves and an amber shade.