by Ace Atkins
Nancy didn’t answer. She kept moving, pumping her arms now, as if we’d chosen to meet to exercise together. Perhaps she was multitasking for the cult. Discuss shakedown details while burning off calories. Smart.
“Do you plan on kidnapping any more of our members before you finally leave town?” she said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “How many more are being held against their will like Gabby and Bailee Scott?”
“Your accusations against Mr. Haldorn are slander.”
“Truth isn’t slander,” I said. “I know exactly what Gabby and Joe had planned for that Yamashiro tape. And why Haldorn killed him.”
“From whom?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t look at her. I just kept on moving, circling Echo Lake, keeping step for step with Nancy Sharp. The water was dark and smooth. Lily pads and lotus flowers choked the small inlets and giant red flowers bloomed along our path. The air smelled of flowers and freshly cut grass. People laughed out on the water as they raced their pedalboats.
“Whatever Gabby told you is a fabrication,” she said. “A lie. She’s sick in the head.”
I didn’t answer. I had always found it best to keep quiet when others were willing to fill in the empty spaces. Spenser’s Investigative Tip #13. It had yet to fail me.
“I’ve asked before and I’ll ask again,” I said. “I want to speak with Haldorn.”
“He’ll never talk to you.”
“Try,” I said. “We had a real moment at his birthday party. I could tell he liked me.”
“He despises you,” Nancy said. “You’ve done nothing but make trouble since you came out here for that goddamn little tramp.”
I wasn’t fond of hearing her talk about my client’s daughter in such derogatory terms. But I sensed she wasn’t crazy about Haldorn’s obsession with Gabby. Or his extracurricular activities with young pupils. I kept walking. I followed the path in step with my BFF, Nancy.
“What Gabby knows about Joe Haldorn and Yamashiro will destroy HELIOS,” I said. “If I knew anything to help the cops, I’d start talking now. Being arrested seldom looks good on a job résumé. Even in Los Angeles.”
“You really are a bastard,” she said through clenched teeth. “Did you want to see me to get to Haldorn? Or pressure me to cut a deal?”
“I can’t cut a deal,” I said. “But I know someone who could.”
“HELIOS is a wonderful organization,” she said. “We do amazing and wonderful work. We groom hundreds of tough-minded, modern women ready and equipped to deal with men like you.”
“Sure.”
“Your characterizations of it as a fraud aren’t accurate.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If something happened that was wrong,” she said. “It should be addressed. The core members won’t stand for this. We have enriched the lives of many.”
“Pyramid schemes often do.”
“You don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. “You don’t get it. You never will.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’re a man,” she said. “What was designed and executed here by some brilliant minds is something you’ll never be able to tear apart or take down.”
“But LAPD can,” I said. “Unless someone wants to step forward and separate the wheat from the chaff.”
“I can’t help them,” Nancy said. “I don’t have anything at all to offer. What exactly is your damn point here?”
“Haldorn should’ve never gone after Jimmy Yamashiro,” I said. “If he hadn’t set that con in motion, I would never have been summoned out to the West Coast and you might’ve continued on with your sunset retreats, avocado toast, and herbal enemas.”
Nancy shook her head. I reached into my pocket and pulled out Samuelson’s card. I stopped walking and handed it to her. We stood on the little arched bridge over the island in the lagoon. We were alone as she glanced down at the card and then back up at me.
Nancy didn’t take the card, but she didn’t exactly tear it up into tiny pieces, either.
“Someone should punch you right in the goddamn nose.”
“They have,” I said. “Several times. Would you like to examine my profile?”
“Joseph Haldorn is a great man,” she said. “Who has done great things.”
“Besides running a pyramid scheme and robbing a few banks?”
Nancy Sharp’s mouth hung open. She stared at me with wide, unblinking eyes.
“And now his time has come,” I said.
“You want me to sell him out?”
“For murder?” I said. “It depends on how much you believe in HELIOS, Nancy.”
She clenched her jaw and turned back the way we’d just come, breaking into a jog along the path and heading back toward the boathouse.
I watched as she pulled out and drove off. Two more cars followed, women behind both of the wheels. Sisters to the end.
46
It was nightfall and I drove back to Santa Monica, fighting traffic, jockeying for a position along Pico. I decided not to attempt taking the 10, feeling good on a familiar route to where I once stayed in Westwood, thinking that I might stop by The Apple Pan and bring back burgers, fries, and some pie for Team Gabby. I called Susan from the car to catch her up on the latest fun with her close-and-personal friend Nancy Sharp.
“She’s getting worse,” Susan said. “Z had to restrain her. I don’t like this. This is not why I came out here.”
“How bad?”
“The neighbors can hear her pounding on the walls,” she said. “She needs more help than I can give her.”
“And now?”
“Z calmed her down.”
“For a big guy, Z has a soothing effect on people,” I said.
“I don’t think the soothing part is why she settled down,” Susan said. “She tried to throw a chair out a second-story window.”
“Yikes.”
“Thank God she’s weak,” Susan said. “That would’ve brought on the police and more questions than either one of us want right now. I want to help. But I’d rather not lose my goddamn license.”
“Would burgers and pie from The Apple Pan help?”
“I don’t eat burgers,” Susan said. “And rarely pie.”
“I’ll take that as a maybe.”
I passed billboards for new TV shows and big summer blockbusters, breast enlargement and liposuction. Accident lawyers smiled down on me, promising to fight for me at all costs. Everything was pancake flat and spread out into an ever-expanding void of nothingness. More 7-Elevens, 76 gas stations, and endless chain drugstores along the sunbaked streets. I fought the radio dial to find something that I recognized, lucking upon some Art Pepper. Rain began to hit the windshield and I snapped on the wipers. I passed a strip club lit in purple neon. Another billboard advertised a big Cinderella musical coming to town.
I was halfway back to Santa Monica when my phone buzzed. It was Eric Collinson.
“Holy shit, Spenser,” he said. “I’ve called you a thousand times.”
“And yet I only received five hundred messages.”
“Why didn’t you call me back?”
“I’ve been a little busy.”
“Jimmy Yamashiro,” he said. “Holy shit. The police kept me almost all yesterday. They knew I knew Gabby and I’d worked with Mr. Yamashiro. This is big. So big. I don’t know what to do. I haven’t slept or eaten in two days.”
“Get something to eat,” I said. “Sleep.”
“I need to talk,” he said. “It’s very important. The police say Gabby is missing again. Missing. She’s fucking missing, man. I thought you were supposed to find her.”
Collinson’s enunciation was slightly less than I expected from a Princeton man. I heard a lot of noise and laughter in the background, loud music blaring.
&nb
sp; “Yeah, I’ve been drinking,” he said. “And if you’d been through what I’ve been through, you’d be drinking, too.”
“I cast no stones.”
“I need to talk with you.”
“I need a burger,” I said. “And hot apple pie with a slice of cheese. We all need something, Eric.”
“This is about Gabby,” he said. “I love her, man. I really love her. I’m going out of my damn mind.”
“She’s fine.”
“How do you know?”
I didn’t answer. I drove west listening to Art’s alto sax, thinking of burgers and pie.
“Do you have her?” Eric said. “If you have her, man, you need to let me know, like now.”
“She’s safe,” I said.
“Thank God,” he said. “Oh, thank God. I really need to see you, man. I have something that you need to see.”
“A hot script?” I said.
“Something better,” he said. “I should have showed you this shit a long time ago.”
47
Ifound Eric at a dive called Mandrake on La Cienega.
The bar was dark, cool, and barely lit by neon bar signs. It was too hip and clean to be a true dive bar, but that wouldn’t stop the kids from believing it. Several Millennials flitted about a jukebox, clutching tall pints of the most local of microbrews. A disco ball twirled in the back room by a NO DANCING sign. Steely Dan played from the speakers. Ironic. The cocktails and draft were listed on a fancy font on a thick menu. I chose a local IPA without paying attention to the description.
“What took you so long?” Collinson said.
“You called fifteen minutes ago.”
“Took your time,” Collinson said. “Just saying.”
“Does anyone like you, Eric?”
“Sure,” Collinson said, staring straight ahead. Looking a bit wobbly on the barstool. “Everyone fucking loves me.”
“Of course they do,” I said.
“Where is she?”
“Who?”
“Son of a bitch,” Collinson said. He looked up from his empty glass and snapped his fingers at the bartender. I never liked people who snapped their fingers at bartenders. It was also a sure way to get rat poison shaken and stirred into your martini. Although whatever he was drinking looked red, probably the Mandrake’s version of the negroni.
“She’s safe,” I said.
“So you say.”
“Yep.”
“God,” he said. “What is going on? What the hell is going on? I did everything I could for her. I am. I still fucking am.”
“Sure you want another drink?”
“What are you, my dad?” he said. “My damn dad. What a flaming asshole.”
I was probably about the same age as his dad. But I didn’t appreciate the comparison. And I bet Eric’s dad was a wonderful guy. Just look how he turned out.
“You got her away from those people, didn’t you?” he said. “You and that big Indian guy? You rescued the goddamn maiden from the tower while I sat around with nothing but my dick in hand.”
“Looks more like a negroni.”
“What?”
“In your hand.”
“Smartass,” he said. “Damn smartass.”
“What do you want?” I said. “Or did you just want someone to knock you off that barstool?”
I lifted my beer and took a long pull. The beer was very cold and tasted as if it had been handcrafted by angels. I would need a replacement in a very short time.
“I love her,” Collinson said.
“I know.”
“But she’s crazy,” he said. “She’s definitely crazy.”
“I detected a little of that, too.”
“No,” Collinson said. “No. No. No. Not just with HELIOS and Haldorn and all that crapola. I’m talking about off-balance. Psycho. She’s obsessed. Obsessive. She was a little like that with me.”
“Before or after she dumped you?”
He muttered something under his breath. He lolled his head around at me and squinted somewhere in my direction. “Whatever. Whatever.”
I drank more of my beer. I looked at my watch. Fleetwood Mac had replaced Steely Dan. I eagerly anticipated The Eagles. I knew somewhere that “Hotel California” waited for us all. I set down the beer at the same moment as Collinson landed a thick brown accordion folder on the bar.
I looked at the folder. And then over at Collinson. He looked very pleased with himself, stroking his thin hipster beard.
“I left my cheaters in my car,” I said. “Want to tell me what’s in the file?”
“You were right,” Collinson said. “I did clean out Gabby’s apartment. I tried to get rid of a ton of emails that would’ve made her look bad. And I took a lot of letters that would’ve made her look even worse. These are letters she wrote to Jimmy Yamashiro that for some reason she never sent. She just squirreled them away. Dozens of them in a nightstand. The whole thing was really weird.”
“And how does that help her?”
“It helps you protect her,” he said. “I didn’t know what I was dealing with. Not until much later. You have to be careful. Watch your back. She looks like an angel. A true and authentic angel.”
“But she’s in the devil in disguise?”
“She’s not evil,” Collinson said. He turned up his drink and drained most of it. He set it down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “She’s just messed up in the head. Very messed up. All this was fun and games until they killed Jimmy Yamashiro. He may have been an asshole. But he didn’t deserve to get shot on the toilet.”
“Only the lucky ones.”
“Gabby wanted him dead,” he said. “Read the letters, you’ll see it.”
“You think she killed Yamashiro?”
“Take the files,” Collinson said. He stood, reached into his pocket, and handed the bartender his credit card. He nodded toward me. “His, too.”
“Thanks.”
“Can I see her?” Collinson said.
“Nope.”
“When?”
“When all this is over,” I said.
“And when the hell will that be?”
I took a sip of beer and leaned against the bar. On a far wall, there was a pinkish neon sign that said UNHAPPY HOUR. I looked over to Collinson as he stood in the middle of the bar, waiting for me to say something profound. The far wall by the door was made of glass brick, and every few moments car lights would shine through as they turned onto the street.
I just stared at him until he shook his head and left.
48
Idrove back to the Santa Monica condo and started to boil a large pot of water.
“What are you doing?” Susan said.
“Thinking,” I said.
“Looks like you’re cooking,” she said. “Did you abandon The Apple Pan?”
“I figured you and Z deserved a nice home-cooked meal.”
“We can’t really go out,” Susan said. “With Gabby chained to the bed.”
“She’s not chained,” I said.
“She might as well be,” Susan said. “We can’t keep her.”
“And we can’t let her go,” I said. “She’ll run straight back to Haldorn.”
“That’s her decision to make.”
I pulled a box of soba noodles from the cabinet and three pounds of fresh shrimp from the refrigerator. I had already started to roast a cookie sheet full of sliced rounds of sweet potatoes sprinkled with sea salt. I checked in the oven and they appeared about done. I closed the oven door, feeling the heat, and turned back to Susan.
“Her mother can’t get here until tomorrow afternoon,” Susan said. “She tried talking to Gabby again today. It didn’t go well.”
“What’s her mother want to do?”
“She said to let her g
o,” Susan said. “I almost did this afternoon during one of her rages. This isn’t doing anyone any good.”
“Chollo and I took her because we believed she was being held against her will.”
“She denies it,” Susan said. “And she is an adult. What we’re doing now isn’t right.”
“What if I told you her ex-boyfriend believes Gabby might’ve killed Jimmy Yamashiro?”
“I would say consider the source.”
“What if I said I’ve returned with a large stack of incriminating letters?”
“I’d say she’s been under the influence of a sociopath,” Susan said. “I don’t care what she’s said or what she’s written over these last few months.”
“She’s safer with us.”
“Of course she is,” Susan said. “But what are we going to do? Tie her up, stick her in the trunk, and drive her back to Boston kicking and screaming?”
I looked up from where I was peeling the shrimp in the sink. “That’s an idea.”
“A terrible idea,” Susan said. “So terrible that I could never work again and get my pants sued off as a bonus.”
“Can I comment about getting your pants off?”
“Now?” she said. “No. You may not.”
I removed the roasting pan from the oven and moved the rounds of sweet potatoes off to one side. I added in some more olive oil, dropped in the three pounds of shrimp, and returned the pan to the oven. “I’m not going to just let her go.”
“Staying or leaving is Gabby’s call.”
“I appreciate you being open-minded on her condition,” I said. “But getting Gabby out of that mansion wasn’t exactly a cakewalk.”
“Actually, you said you and Chollo waltzed in and waltzed out,” Susan said. “Sounded like a cake walk to me.”
“A waltz requires practice and talent,” I said. “And a meeting with the Armenian Power glee club to make that happen.”
Susan tilted her head, started to say something, and then changed her mind. She moved closer to me and put her hand on my upper arm, whispering in my ear, “Just because you let her go doesn’t mean you and Z can’t keep watching out for her.”