Dartagnan smiled. “You can change cars, if you want.”
Sure enough it was black, and I changed.
“You want to go to your hotel first?” he asked. “Or would you like somethin’ to drink.”
I looked at my watch. One-twenty. Four-twenty in Atlanta. Close enough for a cocktail, but I had a lot on my plate, including talking to this cop. “A nice cold beer sounds good,” I said, rolling down the windows to let the broiling temperature inside the car meld with the hundred-and-ten degrees outside it. “I’m meeting someone at three.”
“Where you stayin’?”
“The Palkott.”
“Downtown. Let’s go.”
I followed his white unmarked late-model Camry. He made a right on Vista Ciero. Dartagnan didn’t drive slow and covered the fifteen-minute drive from the airport in nine. The Palkott had been constructed on North Palm Canyon Drive.
“I’ll be in the bar,” Dartagnan said, leaving me with the bellboy.
“I’ll be quick,” I said.
My suite was a deluxe—complete with a sleeper sofa in the sitting room. The AC iced the desert tan walls. White spreads and drapes made me want to crash. I’m not one who can go without sleep. I ripped the drape cord and stepped out on the balcony. What a view. The San Jacinto Mountains are just as majestic as the websites say.
I splashed water on my face, dried off, lathered with moisturizer, and went downstairs. The brass-toned bar was down a hall, tucked in a corner. Dartagnan had an audience for some story he was telling. Two waiters and the bartender were laughing heartily, and I was five steps into the room when he turned to salute me. “I ain’t been in here since I busted up a fight between Will Phillips and a reporter,” he said.
“Heartthrob Phillips?” I asked.
“The one and the same.”
“What was his problem with the reporter?”
“Takin’ pictures.”
“That’s what reporters do.”
“This is The Springs—Ol’ Blue Eyes’ stomping ground.” He paused for effect. “Literally.” The waiters and bartender snickered appreciatively.
“Things change,” I said. “Still no reporters allowed?”
“It’s a tradition. No reporters snooping, or taking pictures. Phillips is a married man.”
“Uh-oh. He wasn’t with the missus?”
“Never is.”
The bartender asked, “What’ll you have, Miss?”
“Amstel Light,” I said. “Put the drinks on my tab. Room seven-twenty.”
“You got it.”
“Thanks,” Dartagnan said, and we took our beers to a table well away from the bar. He motioned his head toward the bartender. “His ears’re always open.” Once we settled into our seats, he said, “Eileen’s disappearing won’t be kept quiet for long. Our press boys eventually get ’round to missing persons, once they sober up.”
Who did the sobering up, the reporters or the missing persons? “It’s not headlines in Atlanta, either. My client wants it kept that way.”
“So does Arlo.” Dartagnan hoisted his dark draft. “We’ll do what we can.”
“Tell me what you know. From the beginning.”
“It’s Sunday afternoon,” he said, wiping his mouth after the chug. “Arlo Cameron’s on the phone. I know him pretty good. We play racquetball sometimes—when he can’t get another partner. You know how that goes.” I nodded. Cops aren’t the usual partners of millionaires. “Anyways, he says that Eileen wasn’t home, and that Kinley’s father just called to say she hadn’t gotten off the plane in Atlanta. Arlo said he’d called around to a few of Eileen’s friends and found out Eileen missed her afternoon with the girls at Mission Hills. That’s where she plays golf, but this Sunday she wasn’t playing because she was putting Kinley on the plane. But she told them she would be there afterward. You know, drinking the afternoon away. That was the plan.”
“When did Arlo get back from LA?”
“Sunday afternoon. He said he wasn’t surprised Eileen wasn’t home because Sundays are her days for herself.” Dartagnan stopped speaking, and I sensed a punch line coming. “So are all the other days, if you ask me.”
What did I see in his face? Dislike? Disapproval? “What are you saying?”
“Eileen’s a lot younger than Arlo.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Hell, I’m a lot younger than Arlo.”
I figured Dartagnan was forty. “How old’s Arlo?”
“High sixties.”
“Eileen’s thirty-five.”
“Typical for their crowd,” he said.
“What else can you tell me about Eileen?”
Shrugging, he looked at his beer. “Pretty lady.” Then he looked at me. “It’s hard to be flashy out here. Everybody out-flashes everybody else. But Eileen—she stood out from that crowd—she was sure something.”
Cops are supposed to be observant, but this one had a personal interest in Eileen or I’d have to take my instincts to task. “What else?”
“She wasn’t a phony. Her blonde hair was natural—like a Swedish blonde is. Her skin was like pale gold, and her eyes were pure cobalt.”
He hushed, and I studied him for an instant. “You fell for her.”
“I guess,” he said with a shrug. “Any man would.” He took a deep breath. “But—she was Arlo’s. She adored him.”
“What’s Arlo like?”
“Hale, hearty guy. Smarter than he sounds. Mr. Hollywood.”
“What type of stuff does he direct?”
“Westerns and Dirty Harry stuff. TV specials. He’s not famous like Ford or Spielberg, but he turns out the films and makes big bucks.”
“Where’s he from, originally?”
“Texas, somewhere. The border. He calls himself a half-breed.”
“Mexican?”
“Nah, Colombian and something.”
“How long’s he lived in Palm Springs?”
“More’n thirty years. He and Frank were buddies. He palled with Dinah and Joey.”
“So he’s the old crowd. People like Will Phillips are the new crowd, aren’t they?”
“Yep. Parties are divided along those lines. The old crowd drinks up a storm, the new crowd snorts up a storm.”
“Eileen did drugs, according to her ex.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said, too quickly.
“Eileen’d be in the new crowd, wouldn’t she?”
His brow wrinkled as he thought about that. “If she went with them, I didn’t know about it.”
I doubted that. “No signs of foul play in the Cameron house?”
He looked askance, at something interesting on the wall. I’d caught him off guard. He shook his head, then met my eyes. “None I saw. There’s nothing like that with this case. She took the kid and went into hiding. Nothing to do but wait till she comes back. They always do.”
“Did you give it a thorough forensics go-through?”
“Enough. The place is always immaculate. Maids, and all. I would of noticed anything out of the way when I went there to check out Eileen’s closets. See what she took with her.”
“According to the report, Arlo couldn’t say what she took.”
“Her car’s gone. So’s her sable coat.”
“She took a sable coat in August?”
Dartagnan raised his shoulders. “Who knows with women.”
I thought of something I’d read. “The high desert gets cold at night, doesn’t it?”
For a moment, he appeared to be analyzing me. “That it does, Miss Dru. That it does.”
12
Heading north on Palm Canyon Drive, I wound through a few streets starting with “Via” and came to Via Las Palmas. The street forked, south and north. I wanted North Via Las Palmas. The streets of Italianate mansions, which went back to the thirties and forties, were known as Little Tuscany. The Camerons lived in a two-story pink stucco with a mission ridge roof and white plantation shutters. Two large acacias stood sentry at each end of the house.
Traipsing up the adobe walk, I passed a koi pond surrounded by smoke trees.
Arlo Cameron jerked the door open before my finger touched the bell button. He stepped back so I could enter the high-walled foyer. A tiered Waterford chandelier cascaded from the coffered ceiling and tinkled lightly. Arlo—short, muscular, caramel-colored face, eyes large and liquid, hair wiry and silvering, eyebrows as wiry—had on an Arnold Palmer golf outfit and Birkenstocks. He affected a shadow of gray whiskers.
“Miss Dru, so good of you . . .” He offered his hand, and I placed mine in his. He slid his fingers over my palm rather than shaking, then spun me lightly and put his hand at the back of my waist. “Let’s go this way.” I felt like an actress he was positioning on a set. We moved over burnished copper tiles, through cool, refreshing air made possible by costly air-conditioning units and humidifiers. We passed through French doors, walked five paces down a hall and into the kitchen. It gleamed with stainless steel appliances and black granite counters. The Mexican pavers seemed too beautiful to walk on. But the smell. My God. I twitched my nose. Rotten fish?
He didn’t apologize for the odor when he paused and faced me. “Miss Dru?” he said, rubbing his gray whiskers. “Or can we be less formal?” He spoke with a wet, nervous tongue.
“Dru is fine.”
His pressed lips turned up at the corners. “Arlo.” He bobbed his head as if this determining parlay was the reason for pausing, then waved a hand meaning for me to precede him. At another set of French doors, we passed into the covered patio where palm fans rotated lazily. White wicker sofas sported cushions the color of apricots and lemons. It wasn’t hot out here, although walking up his driveway not five minutes ago, the afternoon sun had burned into my eyeballs. I looked around for air-conditioning ducts and found them. Below one duct, on a back wall, a circular bar had been built of some exotic wood. Six matching bar stools surrounded it. Walking behind the bar, Arlo looked at me. “I’m pouring rum and ginger ale. Want one?”
“Not too strong.”
“No, no.” He carefully measured the jiggers and poured the bubbly ale. “Please. Sit anywhere you wish.”
Before we got comfortable, I wanted to ask. “Do you have any idea where Eileen could have gone?” I didn’t want to drift into side bars. I walked to a wicker chair and sat.
He didn’t answer until he’d placed my drink on a table by my right arm and seated himself across from me. “No idea. None at all.”
“Can you think of anything you haven’t thought of before?” Sometimes questions don’t come out quite right.
He looked mystified. “I—no.”
“Would she go to Los Angeles?”
“Eileen wasn’t crazy about LA.” He sipped his drink, looking at me over the rim. “She liked it here.”
“Does she have friends who she might stay with?”
He looked as if that was out of the question and shook his head.
“Where did she go to think things out?” I reached for my glass.
He rubbed the rim of his. “Eileen didn’t do that. Too many ghosts.” He hesitated a tick. “You know about her parents and kid sister?”
“Yes.”
“She liked to be with people. To rid the dreads.”
“I’d like a list of her friends.”
He canted his head to one side. “I don’t know of anyone she was real close to. She was too new out here. She wasn’t old Palm Springs with the women, if you get my drift.” He tried on a smile. The gap in his front teeth reminded me of Ernest Borgnine. “Hell, I’m not an old Springer, either.”
“Is society here that stratified?”
“You bet.”
“I’d like to talk to people she might confide in, who might have an idea where she would go.”
“That’d be me.”
“I’m sure,” I said and sipped. “I was thinking of a girlfriend.”
“I wouldn’t put a lot of hope in getting Eileen’s inner thoughts from anyone.”
“Do you think Eileen will come home eventually.”
“If she can.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t know what happened.” He spread his hands. Big, strong hands, one holding a nearly empty drink glass. “All I know is I came home Sunday, and no sooner got in the door than that asshole in Atlanta started calling. Excuse me, Miss Dru. I told the no-good-so-and-so that maybe they missed the flight, maybe Kinley’s on the next flight. The jerk calls back. The airlines says she wasn’t on the flight, or any flight. I called some people where Eileen might be. I come up empty. I got hold of Dartagnan.” He waved the air. “That’s it.”
“Did you and Eileen talk much about her ex, Bradley Whitney?”
“As little as possible.”
“What did she say about him?”
“I don’t pay any attention to the bad-mouthing. I been divorced twice. I been lied about, too.”
“Did you think she was lying about him?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t care.”
I looked bewildered for his benefit.
He leaned forward, gripping the glass with both hands. “I married her because I loved her. I didn’t care where she came from, or who she was married to, or why she divorced the guy. I live in the present. Or the future.”
“I guess making movies keeps you moving on.”
“You got it.”
“What was your relationship with Kinley?”
“I liked the kid. She was doing all right. She was smart.”
“Was she unhappy in Atlanta?”
He sat back. “Who knows with kids that age?”
“Did you know that Eileen was determined to get custody?”
“Sure. It’s all she thought about.”
“Was that okay with you?”
“Sure.” He hefted himself out of his seat, looked at my glass that had one sip taken from it, and headed for the bar.
“How was she going to do it?” I asked. “Get custody?”
Walking away, he spoke. “Hire a shrink for the girl. Go back to court.”
“When?”
“As soon as she found a lawyer she liked.” He rounded the bar and faced me. “Couldn’t stand the one she had.” He puckered his lips. “In the palm of the fuckin’ judge’s hand. Excuse me.”
“I know the judge. Portia Devon is fair.”
He leveled unwavering eyes at me. “Not to Eileen she wasn’t.”
“Eileen’s an addict.”
“She’s not a sleaze like that stripper she married.” He looked as if he could bite his tongue and jerked the tongs from the ice bucket.
“Stripper?”
He dropped ice cubes into the glass and uncapped the rum. “Now don’t go and quote me.” He splashed rum over the ice. “He once worked in this club. He told Eileen he was a gofer, and then a bartender. That was when he was in college. It was a boy-girl strip club. That’s all I know.” And, obviously, that was more than he had intended to say. He filled the glass with ginger ale and came back to his seat.
I said, “Working, even stripping in a club, is not criminal in Georgia. Smoking pot and snorting coke is.”
“Look, Miss Dru—”
“Hey, I thought we were Dru and Arlo?”
“Okay, Dru.” He looked at my glass, which was still mostly full. He sucked down half his drink, sat back, and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Eileen kept her feelings to herself. She was secretive. She was nervous as a whore in church most of the time. The pot evened her out. Nothing wrong in that.”
“The judge told me if Eileen shook the habit, she’d reconsider custody. Between you and me, Portia’s not crazy about Bradley Whitney. And any judge likes to give little girls to their mamas.”
Arlo’s right shoulder wriggled from his inner mirth. “If Eileen comes back, I’ll tell her. It’ll be news, I’m sure.”
If? He’d sounded sarcastic, but he looked so forlorn my eyes wandered away to the sparkling pebble tech pool.
He said, “I wi
sh I could be more help.”
“Did Eileen withdraw more money than usual from her bank? Did you see any maps around the house, packed suitcases? Anything unusual like that?”
His gaze skimmed my face. “What are you talking about?”
“If she took off with Kinley, she had to have a plan, money, things to take, a place to go.”
He looked as if the thought hadn’t entered his head. “I didn’t find no maps around the house or plans or suitcases. She took out some money from her account on Thursday. Twenty-five grand. She had a tip about a stock. I said good luck.” As he watched the glittering water in the pool, he said, “I was good to Eileen, gave her whatever she wanted, but maybe I didn’t pay enough attention.”
“Who is her stockbroker?”
He took a deep breath. “I didn’t ask her. Think it was some scam artist at the club. They hang around the women, mooching like that.”
“You have a stockbroker?”
“In LA Eileen knows nothing about my business.”
“Except you’re in movies,” I said. He nodded, finished his drink, and rattled the ice. He looked at my glass. Half full.
Time to broach the unspeakable. “Any reason to think your wife and stepdaughter could be dead?”
A sob exploded from the back of his throat. His glass hit the floor.
I said, “Sorry.”
His head bowed to his chest, sadness seeping from his pores. Then he shook his head like he was trying to invalidate the present and relive a better moment.
Somewhere deep in the mansion, a gong sounded, as if timed to interrupt a bad moment.
“Hold on,” Arlo said, getting up. I got up, too, picked up the glass and went to place it on the bar.
Some time went by before he came in with a woman. She was about forty and looked like someone you’d expect to see in Palm Springs: white blonde hair pulled back in a casual pony tail, nearly anorexic and very tanned. She had on an orange sundress, sandals, gold rings, and a locket. Her toenails and fingernails matched her sundress. “Arlo, my God,” she exclaimed, little-girl breathless. “What’s stinking up your house?”
I perked my ears. Arlo looked perplexed. “Stinking up my house?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Oh, that,” he snorted. “Eileen bought some sushi sometime before—sometime last week. I had to throw it out. Fifty-five bucks and nobody opened the cartons.”
The Last Temptation Page 6