Quit!
I went for Sircher’s makeup bag.
She was right, it took painstaking practice, and patience. More than I possessed. Altering my nose changed my face all right. I looked like a prizefighter who had taken twenty hits too many. The chin puttying was a disaster.
The phone rang while I was stripping the gunk, rubbing the latex into rolls.
I picked up.
“Hey,” Lake said. “You called?”
“I did,” I said peeling putty from my chin. I waited for a moment, but he didn’t say where he’d been. “I talked to Bellan this afternoon. Remember I told you he was posing as a gofer for a high roller in Birmingham?”
“Uh-huh. Did he get into the house?”
“Long story short, he dropped Luminol on likely spots and got blood.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Does that surprise you?”
“No. I think Eileen was gunned down at the front door by a man delivering flowers.”
He didn’t reply for a couple of beats. “That reminds me of—what was the name of that case?”
Rubbing my face with astringent, I said, “Don’t recall at the moment, but it proves assassins borrow each other’s tricks.”
“You know that Bellan’s actions compromise the case, don’t you?”
“Bellan says he was careful, just a few drops here and there where he could use his light.”
“The question is, did Arlo hire the hit?”
Thinking of Heidi, I said, “Either him or Whitney.”
“What’s Bellan’s next move?”
“Meeting tonight with a PI that moved to Palm Springs from Alabama.”
“Good luck to him.”
“You sound worried.”
“I didn’t like it out there.”
“Neither did I.”
“See you at lunch tomorrow?”
“Not Thelma’s,” I said. “I’ve got a meeting with Portia and Whitney in the morning. How about Central Park—with the bums.”
“My darling girl, ‘bums’ is not politically correct.”
“The homeless, then.”
“That’s not PC either. They’re urban campers.”
That ended our conversation. I wondered where he’d been earlier in the evening. I could have asked him what he had for dinner, but I knew. He always had wings and celery at Frankie’s. And curly fries.
39
A gray sheet of rain arrived with Monday’s dawn. I’d been up long before then, practicing my putty lessons. Couldn’t sleep, so might as well do something constructive. I was getting better, the prizefighter had only suffered a few blows. I washed the spirits from my face and went out to fill Mr. Brown’s dish and the bird feeders. My neighbors think I’m fattening the tufted titmice for the cat. By eight, I’d drank a pot of coffee and read my e-mail. Dartagnan sent one saying the FBI had posted Eileen’s and Kinley’s pictures on their website.
As I gathered my keys, backpack, and umbrella, the phone rang.
“Hey, it’s Bellan,” he said, sounding excited.
“Bellan, what’s up? I’ve got to leave for court.”
“You meeting with that judge in Eileen’s case?”
“Sure am.”
“Witch of a woman.”
“A witch of a woman with the brain of Einstein and the heart of a hooker.”
He chuckled. “Don’t judge a judge by her cover, eh?”
“What’s up in The Springs? You have dinner with your PI friend?”
“Yeah. Larry’s been out here five years and already he’s got a bead on everybody who’s anybody.”
“Give me the highlights. Write up the details and e-mail them to me.”
“Well, for one thing, just about everybody who wants to be is on Arlo’s payroll.”
“On Arlo’s payroll?”
“He’s a movie guy. He films all these westerns in the desert. Cowboys and Indians.”
“He hires people out there to be extras?”
“You got it,” he said. “You know how they name all the streets out here for the movie stars like Hope and Crosby and Dinah Shore?”
“Yes,” I said, impatient, not wanting to be late.
“Well, out by the casino they got in the desert, they got a street named Arlo Cameron.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“They got a sandwich in the casino named ‘The Arlo Cameron.’ Beefy, like a Philly steak. They got a horse race called ‘The Arlo Cameron.’ It’s a stakes race.”
“Bellan, I’m impressed all to hell, but I’ve got to run. What did you find out about Contessa Rosovo?”
“She had a lot of pretty good parts in Arlo’s movies. You ever see any?”
“No, I’m not a fan of cowboys and Indians.”
“I sure am. See all them on the Cowboy Channel when I’m home and relaxing. I never met Contessa yet, but I plan on it. I think I know which one she is in the movies. Hot little girl, romances the white guy, who usually gets killed. They’re not the stars, you know.”
“That’d be my guess.”
“Her tribe owns the casino. Her aunt and uncle runs it.”
“I’ve met the family.”
“Tess is engaged to an Indian boy, brother of her dead husband,” Bellan said.
“She told me. But there’s something between her and Dartagnan LeRoi.”
“Now, there a gent for you. Larry says if he ever arrested anybody, nobody knows about it. He’s friends with people he needs to be friends with. Everybody else, he doesn’t bother about.”
“Is he in the movies, too?”
“You guessed it.”
“You talk to him yet?”
“I called. He says he can’t help me. He says Larry’s reliable. End of conversation.”
“What about the girl in Philippe’s food boutique?”
“Not around much, part-timer. I’ll catch up to her. They call him the Phony Frenchman, did you know that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He makes up exotic crap that won’t see the inside of my mouth. Larry’s gone crazy with this California shit.”
“I must run,” I said. “I’ll call this evening. And get to Tess as soon as you can. The flower girl, too.”
“You ever hear of an open secret?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everybody knows, but nobody says, because they figure everybody already knows.”
“I get it. So?”
“It’s worth the fifteen grand that Eileen owes me.” He chuckled, and I could visualize his moustache curling up his cheeks.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You know something everybody else in Palm Springs knows, and you want fifteen thousand to tell me?”
“Well, it has implications, you see. And—I found it out. You didn’t.”
“You’re not getting fifteen thousand dollars from me. I can’t afford it, but you aren’t getting it from Eileen, either. You got to know that after what you found in Arlo’s house. Besides, what if I told you that I’m pretty sure I know the open secret?”
“You could, if you talked to the right people. But you didn’t tell it to me, and I think you would have.”
“I have to go.”
He didn’t seem to hear, just said, “You making progress on who owns The Cloisters?”
“Take it to the bank.”
“All I say is, don’t get too close to Whitney. Bad things can happen to you.”
“I’ll be sitting beside him in the judge’s chamber in about twenty minutes. Bye.”
* * * * *
Bradley Whitney was enraged. He reminded me of a cartoon where steam pours from the nose and ears of the character. Portia laid out her reasons for going to the press. It was an obvious one: to bring awareness to anyone who might have seen or have knowledge of the missing persons.
“How much to keep this contained?” he asked. “Nobody looks at the FBI’s website, but pictures on television will ruin me.”
“Haven’t you been listening?” Portia
said, glaring at him. “This isn’t about money, and don’t ever infer again that I can be bought.”
Whitney tried to look contrite. “I certainly wasn’t inferring any such thing.”
Her black beady eyes didn’t let up. “Two people have vanished, one’s a child in my jurisdiction. She’s your child, and you should want everything possible done to find her.”
Still, he was adamant. “Everything’s being done that can be done. The police, the FBI. They’re happy as hell that the Atlanta papers and nightly news isn’t pressing them for results yesterday. I’ve learned that ninety percent of parent-child kidnappings go without media coverage, so why should I have my case blaring across the country.” When he glanced at me, I snapped my mouth shut so he wouldn’t jump down my throat. “Supposedly I’ve hired the best that money can hire.”
“Miss Dru is not a magician, nor is she omnipotent.”
I threw a bone to Whitney. “I agree that media attention could get some results, but I’d like to have a little more time to—”
Whitney visibly softened. “To what?”
“A colleague of mine in Palm Springs has come up with some promising leads, and—”
“What leads?”
Portia barked, “Would you let Miss Dru finish a sentence?”
“Who’s this colleague?”
“A reliable investigator from—”
“Am I paying him?”
“You’re not paying me, either, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Portia wriggled in her seat. “If you need some time, Miss Dru, you can have two days before I talk with the newspaper and TV people. And,” she looked at Whitney, “you will pay her a fee for those two days.”
Whitney took out his checkbook. He made out a check without asking how much. When he’d finished, he rose stiffly and threw it on Portia’s desk.
Picking it up, she looked at me. “Twenty grand enough?”
“Yes,” I said, opening my purse. I extracted Whitney’s undated check “Here,” I said, “Let’s trade. A bribe, for an earned fee.”
Snatching it, Whitney looked from Portia to me. “You two are determined to ruin my life, aren’t you?”
Portia’s grimace was pure hellfire.
“Mr. Whitney,” I said, “I’m determined to find out the truth about what happened to Eileen and Kinley.”
When Whitney left, I told her what I wanted her to know, and her expression told me she knew that I wasn’t telling her everything. I told her about Arlo and the Palm Springs movie extras, but I didn’t tell her Bellan went into the house and found blood. That would have brought her chamber down around me. I didn’t tell her, either, that Lake and I were plotting to get into The Cloisters. She might have wanted to go, too. She wouldn’t need to fake a nose or a masculine chin or bushy eyebrows. A dark suit, and she was good to go.
40
High noon, the sun stoking the fires of August, we stood in line at Joseph Wannamaker’s Red Hots in Woodruff Park. We took our hotdogs to a concrete fountain filled with gunk and sat on the edge. The city of Atlanta had remodeled the park several times, but it always reverted to its former self: patchy grass, smelly benches, foul fountains. Ripping the top off a bag of chips, Lake announced that we were going to The Cloisters tomorrow night.
“Oh, no,” I moaned, and felt mustard ooze from my mouth. I swiped the napkin across my lips. “I don’t know if I can get my nose right by then.”
“These places are dark,” he said, munching the chip. “You know, I should have a problem with your not telling Portia about the blood in Cameron’s house.”
“But we don’t know if it’s Eileen’s,” I said, swallowing the last bite, and then chugging Coke. “We don’t even know if it’s human. Or suppose it was somebody at one of his parties who cut his finger on a champagne glass? And I noticed the tiles in the foyer had a copperish tint. Luminol fluoresces in copper or its alloys. Also in horseradish.”
“Horseradish?”
“Saw it on the internet.”
“That’s why I said I should have a problem,” Lake said. “What else is interesting about what Bellan told you is, half the town—those that are not already movie stars—owes Arlo for getting them in the movies.”
“That makes Arlo a godfather.”
“Let’s say the flower man was the hit man,” he said. “Where’s the body? Hit men hit and run.”
“Arlo’s got Dartagnan in his pocket. God knows, he didn’t do much investigating in that house. Neither did the FBI guy, Corlee. Suppose he’s got movie credits, too?”
“Why not? FBI guys have private lives. They’ll deny it, though.” He munched down on the last of his dog, wiped his mouth, and said, “Professional responsibility compels me to tell Dartagnan that Bellan found blood in Cameron’s house.” He wadded the paper hot dog holder and the potato chip wrapper together and stuffed the ball into his Coke cup. “I’m not looking forward to imparting that bit of illegality.”
“I’m not sure Dartagnan’s really a cop,” I said. “He seems to have lied about everything.”
At the trash can, we tossed the debris and walked up Peachtree Street. Lake took three caramel candies from his pocket. These are meant to satisfy until the next pieces of cake or pie. He knows it’s useless to offer me one.
“I think Eileen’s buried in the desert,” I said.
A capricious wind picked his tie off his chest and blew it across his face. His black hair swirled on his forehead. Being near him was like being near an open flame. He said, “Okay. So, who buried her?”
“Someone who’s an extra in an Arlo Cameron production.”
“Does this someone have a name?”
“I don’t know it—yet.”
“Where to from here?” he asked.
“I’ll wait to hear what else Bellan turns up. So far, he’s been successful. You can take that to the bank.”
Lake flicked me a glance and grinned. “Well,” he said, “at least he checks out. The cops in Birmingham say he’s okay. Never had problems with him. He cooperates—for a fee, or an exchange of info. Is that the bank you’re talking about?”
“I got a check today for twenty thousand from Whitney. I can pay Bellan and get the juicy stuff he’s found out on the genius.”
“I wonder how juicy?” Lake said.
“We shall see.”
* * * * *
The afternoon passed uneventfully. I studied Bellan’s e-mails. He was a meticulous reporter, but after I’d read everything twice, I concluded his oral summary had been just as good as his written report, and the money grubber didn’t hint at having learned an open secret. Oddly, the flower girl was keeping herself hidden. I wondered why. Don’t worry, Bellan had said, she’s not dead, she’s just not around.
I played the tapes of the conversations I’d had with Dr. Brommer at Curriculum Paradigms, Inc., and of Whitney in his classroom. They hadn’t known they were being taped, which is technically illegal, but I wasn’t planning to use the stuff in any legal proceeding. I listened a second time with my hands poised over a computer keyboard, pecking out the gist of the conversation. Then I scissored the tapes.
My assistant, Pearly Sue Ellis, came in, waving papers. “Lieutenant Lake faxed Whitney’s résumé. Our slime boy’s on paper saying he was born in New York. But he went to high school in Little Rock. Graduated Central High School, straight As. BA, MA, PhD from Georgia State.
“Get onto Central High,” I said. “Get a copy of his transcript. He wasn’t born in New York, according to Bellan, but he did go to high school in Little Rock. Dr. Whitney is selective about his lies.”
“He had to tell where he went to high school so GS could get his transcripts,” Pearly Sue said. She looked at her watch. “I got a cab coming. My plane leaves in three hours. Web will follow up with my reports.” She twirled like the cheerleader she’d undoubtedly been. “I’ve never been to Little Rock.”
Her assignment was to confirm Bellan’s findings. Not that I didn’t trust them,
but I wanted a woman on the ground there, talking to people who knew Whitney twenty years ago. Pearly Sue had enough Southern charm to crack human safes without spinning the combination.
* * * * *
Turning into my driveway, a I spotted the large package on the front porch. I carried it inside. Atlanta Courier Service had delivered it, the mauve slip said, at three-thirty p.m.
I cut the tape. The suit hung in a bag, folded over. Unzipping it, I took out the double-breasted jacket with a pair of vents and the straight-leg slacks, no cuffs and pleated in front. My God, the fabric—so soft it molded to my hand. The label on the back hem said cashmere and silk. The rich charcoal had a tiny, tiny line of pale blue running through it.
The midnight blue satin shirt blended perfectly with the rich suit fabric. A black silk tie completed the ensemble. The shoebox held a surprise. Sircher had sent round-toed clogs, which caught my breath. Digging into a pocket of the bag, I found a belt, a man’s Rolex, and a diamond ring. What—no tie clip or hanky for the lapel pocket?
I carried the clothes into my room. I knew immediately they were too large. I scrambled back to the box. In the bottom I found a vest of shoulders and padding that ran down the back along the spine and around the middle. Now I could fill the suit.
Looking at the clock, I figured Sircher would still be in her shop.
“The diLeon is fabulous,” I raved. “Perfect.”
“They’re just on loan, you know, dear girl.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. I was rethinking my style.”
She quoted, “To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false—”
“Sircher, where’d you go to school?”
“The London School of Economics.”
“That hoi polloi place?”
“Kings, queens, and states, maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave this viperous slander enters.”
“Okay, Okay. I’m ever in your debt.”
She said, “I got a little notion where you might be wanting to go.”
“What little notion?”
“It came to me in a dream.” Her pause, the drama, iced the marrow in my bones, but I was ready with a comeback when she said, “The Cloisters.”
The Last Temptation Page 18