"U" is for Undertow (50 page)

“Sure. You want me to leave?”

“That’s not necessary. Sit tight.”

He left the cubicle and went into the one next door. He placed the call and though he was in earshot, I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Damn. I had to content myself with a survey of his office. The guy was disappointingly neat at work. At his house there was always stuff lying around, most of it connected to the various home projects he launched but never seemed to finish. Nosy as I am, I’d never dream of snooping through his desk. For all I knew, there were teeny-tiny little cameras hidden everywhere and I’d be caught in the act. I’ll admit that during our brief romance, I familiarized myself with all the drawers and closets at his place.

I folded my map of the bridle trails and tucked it into the
Thomas Guide.
I was so bored I was about to start cleaning out my purse when I heard him winding down his end of the conversation. I looked at the door in anticipation of his return.

A moment later he appeared, his expression oddly unreadable. “Michael Sutton’s dead.”

“He was shot sitting in his car in the lot at Seashore Park.”

I was speechless, staring at him with disbelief.

Cheney went on, probably hoping to soften the impact. “The officer at the scene says a woman walking her dog heard the shot and saw a black sports car pull out of the lot. She only caught a flash, and apparently she doesn’t know a Corvette from a Sherman tank. The ‘black’ she’s pretty sure about unless the car was dark blue. I shouldn’t be telling you this much, but you’re a good friend and I trust you to keep your mouth shut.”

I sat there, unable to absorb the news.

He put a hand on my arm and squeezed. “We’re heading out to the scene and I don’t want you there. We can talk about it later when I know more.”

 

 

Jon pulled his car into the driveway, removed the handgun from under the seat, and got out. He walked around the main house to the back door, gun carried loosely at his side. He let himself in. The liquor supply was kept in the butler’s pantry between the kitchen and the dining room. He set the gun on the counter, opened the cabinet, and took out a bottle of Cutty Sark. He found a highball glass and poured himself a stiff drink that he downed neat. He put the glass on the counter and held out his hands. He’d expected to be shaking, but his hands were steady. His heartbeat was slightly elevated, but otherwise he felt fine.

How naive he’d been about the act of shooting a man to death. In his most recent thriller, he’d described a character’s shooting of a vagrant. The killing was random—no motive, no weapon left at the scene, and nothing that tied the killer to his victim. The fictional police investigation had gone nowhere and it should have been written off as the perfect crime. Naturally, a mistake was made, a minor matter. In the end, the killer wasn’t caught, but he endured a nasty fate of the sort only a novelist could cook up. Jon realized now how completely he’d misunderstood the act of taking another man’s life. It was simple, of no consequence. The only surprise had been the sound Michael Sutton made when he realized what was going on. Jon would have to struggle to erase the quick cry.

He tucked the gun in his waistband, poured another scotch, and carried it with him to the garage, where he climbed the steps to his studio. He had a few things to pack yet. Other than that, he was ready to rock and roll. Over the past two years, he’d gradually moved all his money to an offshore account, starting with the ten grand his father had left him. Lionel had unwittingly bequeathed him more than he intended. During the confusion in the days following his father’s fatal heart attack, Jon had had the foresight to remove Lionel’s passport from the jumble in his desk drawer. Mona never even noticed it was gone. He’d held on to it until it was due to expire and then filled out an application for renewal, which he’d submitted with two small photographs of himself. He’d donned his father’s glasses so the resemblance was close enough. Jon took a certain satisfaction in appropriating his father’s identity.

As a boy, he’d worshiped his dad, proud that he was a college professor. Many times he’d sat in on his father’s classes and marveled at how knowledgeable he was. Students were enraptured, laughing at his droll observations, scribbling down his witticisms, as well as the dense bits of information embedded in his lectures. His father had written two books published by a well-known university press. At cocktail parties, when Jon was a kid, he’d linger on the periphery of those gathered, listening to his dad tell anecdotes about famous literary figures.

After Jon’s mother died and Lionel and Mona married, his father’s output had leveled off. He’d written two more books, which hadn’t sold well, and a third he’d been forced to publish himself. For years he was still sought after on the lecture circuit, and he was paid well for his appearances, but Jon had heard the same talk, with the same wry pauses to allow for the polite laughter at the mildly amusing jokes. By the time Lionel died, Jon saw him as shrunken and weak. Mona had sucked the light right out of him.

Meticulously, he went back over his preparations. He had almost a hundred thousand dollars, in hundreds, packed in two body wallets that scarcely showed under his sport coat. For two thousand dollars he’d bought an airline ticket, one-way, first class, to Caracas, Venezuela. Once there he’d purchase another ID—driver’s license, passport, and birth certificate—and retire both the Jon Corso and Lionel Corso identities. After he found a place to settle, he’d write his next book and submit it to a New York literary agent, under a fictitious name. He knew whom he’d approach, a woman who’d turned him down when he was desperate for an agent early in his career. She’d jump at the chance to take on a Jon Corso-style writer, having forfeited a fortune by rejecting the original.

He shrugged into a windbreaker and slid the gun in his right pocket. How nice that an item he’d stolen from a neighbor twenty-one years before had now set him free. By the time the police put it all together, if they ever managed it, he’d be long gone and, he hoped, impossible to trace. He folded and packed his favorite sport coat, his raincoat, and six shirts just back from the cleaner’s. He went into the bathroom, added a few toiletries to his Dopp kit, and tucked it in the suitcase as well. His second bag was already closed and waiting downstairs near the front door. He sat down at his desk and called Walker at work.

As soon as Walker picked up, Jon said, “Michael Sutton just called. He wants to meet.”

“
Meet
with us? Why?”

“How do I know? Maybe he wants to make a deal. We pay up and he keeps his mouth shut.”

“A shakedown?”

Jon kept his tone matter-of-fact. “Now that he knows where you work, it doesn’t seem out of the question.”

“Shit. I told you he was trouble.”

“We don’t know that. Maybe we can come to an agreement.”

“A deal? How long would that last? We give him money now, it’s only a matter of time before he comes around for more.”

“True, but you’re talking about turning yourself in anyway so I can’t see what difference it makes. By the time he comes back with his hand out, you’ll be in jail.”

“I told you I was
thinking
about turning myself in. I haven’t done anything about it.”

“Oh, sorry. You seemed pretty sure of yourself when we last spoke.”

“Because I couldn’t see an alternative.”

Jon said, “The way I look at it, a payoff now might buy us a couple of months, during which you might change your mind. I should probably point out that your confession will lose its impact if he gets to the cops before you do.”

“So why talk to him at all?”

“I’d like to hear what he has in mind.”

Walker was quiet for a moment, mulling over the idea. “Where does he want to meet?”

“He mentioned the coffee shop down the street from the bank. I guess he thinks he’ll be safe out in public.”

“Suppose he comes wired? Then anything we discuss, we’re both screwed. I thought the whole point was to find a way I could go to the cops without jeopardizing you.”

“That was before this came up.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t either, Walker. We turn him down, he’ll go to the police for sure.”

“You told me he didn’t have anything on us. We were just two guys burying a dog. Didn’t you say that?”

“Suppose he has an ace up his sleeve? That’s what worries me. I don’t like surprises. We’re better off knowing what it is.”

“Shit.”

“I don’t see a way around it,” Jon went on. “I mean, maybe the guy’s harmless, in which case, lucky us.”

“I don’t think we should be seen together. These days, every other business has security cameras. We don’t want that on film, the three of us huddled together in a coffee shop. It won’t look good.”

“I can always call him back and suggest someplace else if you can think of one.”

“What about Passion Peak? We’re the only ones who go up there. If you’re worried about a wire, all you have to do is pat him down.”

“You were the one worried about a wire, but it’s not a bad idea, a quick body search. If he’s clean, he won’t object.”

“When does he want to meet?”

“Well, that’s just it. He says soon. He sounds a bit anxious for my taste so the sooner the better. Would you have a problem cutting out of there for an hour?”

“Probably not. I’d have to reschedule a couple of things.”

“Why don’t you do that? I’ll call Michael and tell him I’m swinging by to get you and then we’ll meet.”

“Does he know about the park?”

“If not, I’ll give him directions. You cool with this?”

“I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right. I mean, how’d he get your name? I’m the one he saw.”

“That’s something we’ll have to ask him. Clearly, he knows more than we thought.”

“I don’t know about this.”

“Fine. Say the word and I’ll tell him it’s a no-go.”

“We should probably hear him out.”

“Agreed. That’s my point. If there’s a problem about the place, I’ll call you back. See you shortly.”

I walked back to the office in a state of suspended animation. Sutton’s death seemed incomprehensible. For the moment, I didn’t feel sorrow, I felt dismay. He’d gone off to meet someone and ended up dead. Unbelievable. Walker McNally couldn’t have done it. I’d seen him at the bank at 10:00. He had a morning full of meetings. It was 11:30 now. I didn’t see how he could have slipped away, driven up to Seashore, shot Sutton, and scurried back again. I assumed his license had been yanked because of his accident and he surely wouldn’t have hired a taxi or bummed a ride. Of course, killers probably aren’t that fussy about obeying traffic laws.

At the same time, if I was correct about Jon Corso and Walker being in cahoots, Jon could have been the shooter. He lived near the back entrance to the Ravine. Seashore Park wasn’t far from his house, three miles at best. He could have driven to the park, killed Sutton, and returned home, and who would be the wiser? I opened my
Thomas Guide
and checked his house number, tempted to cruise by and see if he was there. I had no intention of knocking on his door, but it wouldn’t hurt to look.

I went out to the Mustang and fired up the engine, plotting my route as I pulled away from the curb. The shortest path was to cut the two blocks over to Capillo and drive up the hill to the intersection where Capillo and Palisade crossed. I’d spent quite a bit of time in that area on a case I’d worked earlier in the year. If I turned left on Palisade and drove a mile, I’d be at Seashore; a right turn would take me past Little Pony Road, and then up another hill and into Horton Ravine.

Traffic was slowed by road construction and it took longer than I’d anticipated before I reached Horton Ravine and passed between the stone pillars. My Grabber Blue 1970 Mustang was conspicuous under ordinary circumstances, even more so in this upscale neighborhood where most vehicles (except those of the hired help) were late-model luxury cars.

As I passed Corso’s house I was startled to see him emerge from the front door, a suitcase in each hand. The car sitting in his driveway was a sleek black Jaguar. I resisted the urge to stare, directing my attention instead to the road ahead. At the next corner I turned right and drove as far as the first estate entrance, where I did a quick turn and crept back toward Ocean. Jon had gone back for a briefcase. On the porch he took a moment to lock up and then returned to the car, where he arranged his bags. When he slid under the wheel, I was close enough to hear the faint slamming of his car door and the engine begin humming. He pulled out of the drive and headed right, toward Harley’s Beach, back along Palisade. I gave him a twenty-second head start and pulled out after him.

When he reached the intersection of Capillo and Palisade, I thought he’d turn right, but he continued on past City College, neatly avoiding Seashore Park. He caught the southbound freeway and I tucked in behind him, easing off the gas to allow another car between us. By the time he reached the Old Coast Road off-ramp, there were two cars between us and I felt I was sufficiently protected to avoid notice. He made a sedate left-hand turn and came up on the far side of the underpass. He had to be heading for the bank. I couldn’t guess his purpose unless Walker emerged with suitcases in hand, in which case I’d assume both were preparing to flee. Corso pulled into the bank parking lot and I drove by, making a mental note of his license plate: