Whisper Death (8 page)

McGuire parked in the shade of a cluster of immense Royal Palms and marvelled at the power of money to shape desert wasteland. Money, not nature, had imported the Royal Palms and positioned them precisely to complement the lines of each house. Money created the irrigation system, filled it with fresh water and provided brown-skinned gardeners to regulate its operation. When the residents and the vast amount of wealth they represented were gone, nature would assert itself again, restoring the lush grass to dry rocky gullies and first withering, then toppling the Royal Palms.

The three houses facing McGuire were low, ranch-style designs. Two were Southern Californian interpretations of Mexican villas, with tiled roofs and rough stucco exterior. The third, on McGuire's left, was brick construction, painted cobalt blue. He approached the blue house, its low stone wall topped by cast iron fencing flanking a heavy security gate. A small plaque near the gate declared “Warning—Armed Response!” followed by the name of a security company. McGuire pressed a button below a two-way speaker.

A woman said “Yes?” and McGuire introduced himself. There was no reply for several seconds until a man's voice throbbed through the speaker. “Who is this?” it demanded.

“Lieutenant McGuire, Boston Police Department. I'd like to ask some questions about the incident out here a few nights ago. And what happened last night on Palm Canyon Drive.”

“I already talked to some officers this morning. Local men. Told them everything I know.”

“I'm sure you did. I just need a couple of answers. It shouldn't take more than five minutes.”

“Stand in front of the gate where I can see you,” the man's voice ordered.

McGuire ambled to the centre of the filigreed gate. Through the bars he could see a cobblestone walk leading to a pair of heavy, carved oak doors. The walk curved through a courtyard filled with tropical flowers and shrubs, creating a flourishing parkland secure from strangers.

Silently, the gates slid aside and McGuire approached the house.

“Do you have some identification?” The man's voice called from behind one of the oak doors, now partially opened.

McGuire withdrew his ID folder and held it in front of him as he advanced.

Through the opening in the door, a dough-faced man squinted at the badge and photo card. “Guess it's okay,” he said almost doubtfully. The door swung open wider. “Come on in.”

McGuire entered a massive foyer with garish, abstract paintings hanging on textured white walls, each precisely lit by a concealed ceiling fixture. A rough bronze sculpture of a dying bull, lances protruding from its shoulders and bronze blood coursing its way down its back, grimaced from a marble pedestal against a wall. A dark-skinned woman in a maid's uniform stood watching from an open doorway.

“I'm Don Mercer,” the dough-faced man said, thrusting a hand at McGuire. His face creased into a smile that quickly faded. “Say, that was one of your guys who was shot last night over on Palm Canyon, wasn't it? I saw it on the news. Terrible thing. He going to be all right?”

McGuire said he hoped so.

“We don't have much crime like that here in the valley. Back in Los Angeles it's an everyday event, but people in the valley, they're here to avoid that kind of thing. Want a drink?”

Moments later they were seated on damask-covered rattan furniture in an atrium at the rear of the house, the glass walls and ceiling darkly tinted against the heat of the desert sun. McGuire watched a team of gardeners working in a flower bed at the base of a rock-strewn hill, devoid of vegetation, which rose just beyond the rear garden wall. The maid entered with two vodka tonics on a tray and departed silently.

“This guy, this Crawford character, he was on drugs I'll bet.” Mercer sampled his drink and set it aside. “That's what I told the police when they arrived. He had to be. He was just going nuts, climbing over Mrs. Vargas's fence like that, screaming all the while.”

Mercer didn't meet McGuire's expectations of a wealthy Palm Springs resident. His cotton T-shirt was wrinkled and stained, worn over a pair of loose-fitting jogging trousers. Like his face, which was fleshy and beginning to sag, his body was round, soft and shapeless. Most surprising was Mercer's personality: boyish and enthusiastic, as though he were surprised to find himself playing the role of a prosperous businessman, and enjoying it immensely.

“What was he screaming?” McGuire asked. He settled back in his chair and sipped the drink. Why couldn't he live this way? he asked himself. Why should he endure frigid New England winters drinking warm beer from cans?

“Couldn't figure it out. Gibberish,” Mercer replied. “Just a lot of crazy stuff. Guy was a loony.”

“A loony with a gun.”

“Yeah, that's what I heard first. The shots. But he didn't hit anything. He was just firing the damn pistol into the air. Then he vaulted over Glynnis Vargas's wall and hurled the gun through her window. I'd hit my security alarm by then and my guys arrived in minutes. You know, I already told all this to the Palm Springs police. Didn't they pass it on to you?”

McGuire assured him he was just checking facts.

This seemed to satisfy Mercer. “How's your drink?” he asked. McGuire said one was enough, although it wasn't. He would have enjoyed another, sitting in the silence of the sun-drenched room with a cold vodka tonic and nowhere to go.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Mercer?” he asked.

Mercer grinned, pleased with the question. “Play golf, chase women and clip bond coupons,” he said. He tipped his glass almost vertically to drain its contents and smacked his lips. “Manage to drink a bit too. Made my money in a chain of health clinics. HMOs. Health Maintenance Organizations. Signed contracts with companies all through the valley to provide medical services for their employees. Cheaper than standard medical insurance.” He turned to shout down the corridor: “Maria, another drink,” then looked back at McGuire. “Three years ago, if you worked for a company with HMO coverage in the San Fernando Valley, the odds were one in four that your doctor worked at one of my clinics. Until my divorce. My wife . . . ex-wife now . . . got the house in Bel Air and half my assets. I got this place and the other half. Had a choice of buying her out and keeping the business, or saying the hell with it, sell it for a capital gain and take early retirement. I said the hell with it. Now the biggest decisions I make all day are whether I drive the Mercedes or the Porsche to the golf club and which widow I invite over for dinner.” He tilted his head, indicating the house next door. “I tell you, I ever make a hit with Glynnis Vargas, I just might find myself married all over again.”

“What's she like?”

Mercer leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head, and stared through the tinted glass roof of the atrium at a tinted sky. “Sexy. Mysterious. Cultured. Gorgeous. Rich. Hell, if she were deaf and dumb and a nymphomaniac, she'd be the answer to every man's prayer, wouldn't she?”

“How long have you known her?”

“Since she moved here. About a year ago. She's a bit of an artsy type, you know? Brought a lot of stuff with her, her own chauffeur . . .”

“From where?” McGuire interrupted.

“Brazil. She was married to some wealthy guy in Rio. Owned a jewellery company, I heard. Anyway, she gave a lot of things to the museum when she settled here and they made a big splash about it. Appointed her a special patron, named a gallery after her, threw a party.” Mercer gave McGuire a sly grin. “That's about the time I started getting interested in art.”

“I'd like to talk to her,” McGuire said.

Mercer raised his eyebrows and his soft face creased into a pulpy mass. “I have an idea,” he said as though plotting a conspiracy. “Why don't I take you over and introduce you? I
love
excuses to see Glynnis in the afternoon.” He reached for the telephone.

“We don't need all this security that much,” Mercer said as he and McGuire walked through Mercer's cast-iron gate on their way to the Vargas house. He turned and ensured the gate was locked behind them. “It's just that you feel vulnerable living out here with the desert around you and all. This character with the gun a couple of weeks ago, he was the first real reason to call security since I moved here.”

They were in front of the Vargas house. Located between its two neighbours, the home faced down the gradual slope of Via Linda to Vista Chino. The hill rising behind it was steep and bare. A laneway led from the security gate to a four-car garage flanking the front courtyard.

Mercer pressed the intercom button. “It's me, your friendly neighbour,” he announced in response to a low, dusky voice, and the gate slid open.

McGuire and Mercer were met at the door by one of the ubiquitous Mexican maids without whom, it seemed, Palm Springs could not exist. Money provided the means and the property; Mexican domestics provided the opportunity for leisure.

The layout of the Vargas house was more open than Mercer's but with the same expansive use of marble, silk and other displays of wealth. McGuire knew little about art, but he instinctively grasped that the sculptures, paintings, tribal masks and other items displayed in the Vargas residence were more original and valuable than Mercer's.

The maid led them through the foyer and gallery to a high-ceilinged room dominated by an immense white brick fireplace, which seemed incongruous in a house surrounded by harsh, hot desert. She exited through two antique wooden doors set in the opposite wall, leaving Mercer and McGuire standing among modern chrome and leather furniture carefully arranged to create a casual effect. Sunlight filtered through tinted glass extending the length of one wall. Beyond the wall and filling the space between the house and the barren hills behind it, a free-form swimming pool lay undisturbed like blue glass in the desert sun.

“That's her,” Mercer said, pointing to a portrait in oils hung on the white stucco wall above the fireplace.

McGuire turned to look and held his breath at the sight.

The painting depicted a woman in a dark, tangled garden. One hand was raised to deflect thick auburn hair from her face; the other held a long-stemmed flower. Her emerald-green gown was of a satiny material that seemed to shimmer even on the canvas. Her leg was thrust forward, bent at the knee so that the fabric draped against her thigh, and she looked out from the portrait with an expression that was part patrician aloofness, part animal lust.

“Damn,” McGuire said under his breath.

“Here she comes,” Mercer muttered, “in the flesh.”

Footsteps clicked down the corridor behind the weathered oak doors. A light suddenly shone, diffused and flattering, above the entrance. As the doors swung open, McGuire felt he was about to witness a carefully rehearsed theatrical performance.

“Gentlemen,” the woman said. A statement, not a greeting. Her voice carried a nuance of accent, an intimation of Mediterranean culture.

She swept past the two men, McGuire drinking in her beauty like a man sampling a strange and exotic wine, Mercer smiling and nodding in adoration.

The artist had flattered her, but only somewhat. McGuire noted facial lines unrevealed by the portrait. But it was the same slim figure striding by in a white diaphanous dressing gown, her feet clad in matching white slingback high-heeled shoes.

Pausing at an elaborate wooden cabinet, she opened a door and touched the control of an expensive stereo system. Classical music flooded the room from hidden speakers. She tilted her head to judge the volume level, adjusted it a notch or two lower, and returned to the two men whose eyes had never left her.

“Donald,” she said, her hand extended to Mercer. Her voice conveyed the depth and texture of brown velvet. “Do forgive me. I know it's rude, but I cannot
stand
this room without music.” She withdrew her hand and offered it to McGuire. “Donald knows me well enough to understand. Hello. I'm Glynnis Vargas.”

“Lieutenant Joseph McGuire, Boston Police Department.” McGuire took the hand in his. The skin felt satiny, like the dress fabric in the portrait.

“He's here about that mess from last week,” Mercer offered. He looked around, chose a chair and sat down. “Did the police talk to you about it this morning?”

“Yes, they were here,” Glynnis Vargas answered. She released McGuire's hand almost reluctantly. “That poor man. Here we thought he was insane and now it seems he had reason to be paranoid.” She sat elegantly in a chair upholstered in buttery white leather. “He was from your corner of the world, wasn't he Mr. McGuire? And do sit down. May I offer you a drink?”

McGuire declined. Mercer opened his mouth to accept, realized the suggestion had been made only to McGuire, and sat back in silence.

“His name was Bunker Crawford,” McGuire said when he had settled himself in a chair opposite Mercer. “Did you know him?”

“Know him? Of course not.” She seemed offended by the idea. “He appeared here one evening, disturbing us all terribly. He actually threw a pistol through my window.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I mean, the man had his problems, but I feel he should have taken them somewhere else instead of to our doorsteps.” Her eyes opened again, large blue crystals that she flashed at Mercer. “Isn't that right, Donald? You and I, we came here explicitly to avoid that kind of nonsense, didn't we?”

Mercer responded like a teacher's pet invited to address the class. “Definitely, Glynnis,” he gushed. “That's
exactly
why we came here. You know,” he said to McGuire, “a lot of people, they resent what we have. They're envious of the way we live. And that's understandable, I guess. But it's no reason to try and destroy it. . . .”

“That's right, Donald.” Glynnis Vargas turned to McGuire. “Donald worked very hard to achieve what he owns. I was a little more fortunate. My husband's success permitted me to live in this manner, but I feel I was able to contribute as well, with my support for him. And my love.”

“Where is your husband?” McGuire asked.

She lifted her chin and blinked several times. McGuire realized she was older than he had first determined. Forty, perhaps. Maybe a few years beyond.

“My husband died suddenly just over a year ago,” she said. “You may remember a plane crash in Sao Paulo a year ago last February. No? Well, that's only because there were no Americans aboard, Mr. McGuire. But my husband was. He was returning from a business trip and I was awaiting his arrival in Rio.” Her voice grew almost defiant as she spoke. “He was a wonderful man who gave as much to Brazilian culture as anyone, who cared deeply for his people, and who I am proud to say loved me until the day he died.” She stared out the window, then turned away quickly. “After his death, I could no longer remain in Rio. So I returned here with,” and her slender arm swept in a circle to indicate the room, the house, the pieces of art, “the treasures he and I enjoyed so much.”

“You're American,” McGuire said.

“I'm a small-town California girl,” she said, her calm manner restored. “And I never gave up my American citizenship, thank goodness.”

“How did you meet your husband?”

Her face glowed. She leaned back in the chair, crossed her legs and tilted her head at McGuire. “It was a fairy tale,” she said. “I was at one of the studios in Hollywood for a screen test. Getti—his name was Getulio, but everyone called him Getti—Getti was on a tour of the studio and saw my screen test. He insisted on meeting me and we had dinner. He was charming, absolutely charming.” She smiled coyly. “I failed the screen test. But two weeks later, when Getti asked me to accompany him to Rio as his wife, I couldn't resist. And I never regretted it.”

“Hollywood's loss was Rio's gain,” Mercer chimed.

Glynnis Vargas turned to reward him with a smile, one hand toying with her hair, before looking back at McGuire.

“Her husband was one of Rio's biggest jewellery dealers,” Mercer added.

She was studying McGuire with her sapphire eyes, her hand still curling a lock of hair.

“I don't think there's much more to be learned then,” McGuire said, standing. “What I need is a reason for Crawford to be here. Why this place? Why come all the way from Boston to here?”

“It's the end of the road,” Mercer offered. He pointed to the dusty hill at the rear of the house. “These mountains, the San Jacintos, they're the boundary between the good life here and the jungles of L.A. This is as far west as you can go before you're in the zoo, all those animals smoking crack and doing all that other stuff back in La-La Land. It all starts on the other side of those mountains.” He waved the image away. “Besides, the guy was a nutcase. Who knows why nutcases do what they do?”

“He wasn't crazy,” McGuire said solemnly to Mercer. “The man was very, very frightened. But he was not crazy.”

Mercer shrugged.

Glynnis Vargas looked at McGuire with heightened interest. “Of what?” she asked, rising from her chair. “What was the man so frightened of?”

“I don't know,” McGuire replied. “But he had good reason, didn't he? After all, he's dead.”

At the doorway, Mercer turned quickly and seized Glynnis Vargas's hand. “Don't forget, we have a date this evening,” he said. “Drinks at my place first?”

Glynnis Vargas brought her other hand to her forehead. “Oh, I don't think so Donald,” she said. “Tell you what, just ring me a few minutes before eight and we'll drive down in your car.” She turned to McGuire. “Do you enjoy art?” she asked.

“I enjoy music more,” McGuire replied.

She brushed her hair back, a gesture she repeated often. “Then you'll certainly enjoy the evening. We're having an exhibition of local artists' works at the Desert Museum. We've also been able to book an exquisite string quartet from Hungary. If you care to attend, I could leave a guest pass at the door for you. Do you know where the museum is?”

“Glynnis is on the board of directors,” Mercer interjected. “At the museum. They even named a gallery area after her.”

“After Getti,” she corrected him. Then, to McGuire: “It's easy to locate. Right downtown, off Palm Canyon Drive. The museum is worth seeing on its own, and tonight would be a special opportunity. That is, if you're not returning to Boston.”

“Not for a few days,” McGuire said. “Certainly not as long as my partner is still here.”

“He got caught in the crossfire last night,” Mercer offered.

Glynnis Vargas nodded. “Perhaps something like this evening will help soften some horrible memories, Mr. McGuire,” she said.

“Perhaps,” McGuire agreed.

“I'll leave a ticket in your name,” she said. “In case you decide to join us. If not, it's been a pleasure meeting you.”

McGuire nodded and she closed the door quickly behind them. He and Mercer walked toward the road, the heavy gates sliding silently apart as they approached.

“Who lives in the house across the way?” McGuire asked. The home, similar in design to Glynnis Vargas's, was to their left, facing Mercer's.

“An old couple from San Diego,” Mercer said. “They're hardly ever here. That's why the place looks like a dump. Just the maid lives there and she's nearly as old as they are.” Mercer turned and thrust his hands in his pockets. “Well, lots of luck,” Mercer called over his shoulder. McGuire watched him walk to his gate, insert a key in a lock set into a stone pillar, wait for his gates to open and enter his courtyard.

Something caught McGuire's eye. A figure, dressed in faded denim clothing, scrambled up the hill behind Glynnis Vargas's house. As McGuire watched, the man disappeared over the crest while small pebbles disturbed by his exit tumbled down a gully near the rear security wall.

At the hospital, McGuire encountered two new officers guarding Ralph's door. He showed his ID, but as he began to enter, one stepped in front and barred his entry.

“Sorry, no can do,” the officer said. He was overweight with a thick black moustache.

“Bonnar?” McGuire asked, and the cop nodded.

“I should have escorted you out of town on a rail for what you said this morning.” Bonnar rested one elbow on his filing cabinet; the other hand was on his hip. “Guys like you go around accusing law enforcement officers of murder back in Boston?”

“You knew where Crawford would be,” McGuire said.

“And it was your idea to take him out of custody,” Bonnar shot back. “What's wrong, you couldn't wait until you got him home? What did you need to know so badly?”

“I wanted to know what those two Feds said to him,” McGuire responded. “And who they were. You didn't have any answers, Bonnar. Or at least you weren't handing any out. Got some now? Now that Crawford's dead and a fellow cop is hooked up to a goddamn machine? Who the hell were those guys that talked to Crawford? How do we know they didn't kill Crawford and blow the guts out of Ralph Innes?”

Bonnar tightened his mouth, stared back at McGuire for a moment, then sat heavily in his chair.

“Look, McGuire,” he began “some badass things go on around here that don't have anything to do with . . .” Bonnar looked away, searching for a phrase. “With everyday life. Out there in the desert, you hear about airstrips and bombing ranges and all kinds of things run by the military, things you never see on maps, things the government never even admits exist. So you learn not to ask. It just gets the wrong people upset.”

“What does that have to do with these guys?”

Bonnar looked at McGuire, assessing him. “Listen, what I'm going to tell you is all hearsay, all right? None of this is written down anywhere, all of it is second-hand and conjecture, stuff you hear in bull sessions, squad car gossip. So if you ever say you heard it from me, I'll deny it from here to Washington and back, got it?”

McGuire nodded. He sat in a chair across from Bonnar, watching the other man intently.

“These two men, they were from a special branch of Secret Service. The way I understand it, they're empowered to investigate any breach of national security involving non-military personnel. The military polices its own people in these matters, just like you and me handling civilian problems. Where civilians and the military meet and the crime is big enough to make the top secret category, these guys step in.”

“I thought we had the FBI for that.”

Bonnar shook his head. “In some things, they're out of the picture. You start an FBI investigation and pretty soon you've got records, you've got criminal prosecution in civilian courts, you've got due process, you've got freedom of information laws to contend with.” He shrugged his shoulders. “These guys I'm talkin' about, they don't want
any
publicity. We're talkin' about things where even disclosure of the crime could be a security matter.”