Deal to Die For

by Les Standiford

  One cruiser remained out at the curb in deference to Driscoll’s request. “They’re not coming back,” Driscoll had said, and Deal wanted to believe him. “But we got a hysterical woman and a little girl in here,” he’d pointed out to the investigating officers. And so a car would be staying, at least for the night.

  Deal’s eyes rested on the amber parking lights of the vehicle, his mind replaying the events of the evening, trying to apply logic to something that seemed essentially illogical. He scarcely paid attention to what Driscoll was saying now. The ex-cop, whose telephone had been blasted into fragments by a stray round from what the detectives assumed was an M-10, had seemed intent upon calling Paige Nobleman, but Deal didn’t see why it was so important at this moment.

  His mind kept wandering, imagining what might have happened if Mrs. Suarez had opened the door before he and Driscoll had stumbled out. And he kept thinking of Isabel, who had mercifully slept through everything, just as she’d slept through the raging of Hurricane Andrew, without a peep.

  He rubbed at his bandaged palm absently, feeling fortunate the burn hadn’t been worse than it had turned out. He and Driscoll had debated the wisdom of telling Janice what had taken place—Yes, things are fine at home, except for the Chinese guys who showed up to kill me for reasons I couldn’t begin to explain—but in the end, they’d settled on letting the detectives confer with the director of the clinic where Janice was staying. Security at the place, already reasonably tight, would be augmented, and patrols in the area would be doubled for the time being. The detectives had listened to what Driscoll had to say about the triads, but had been noncommittal at best.

  “You get a lot of street hunters fly in from a lot of places during the tourist season,” the lead detective had said. He was a squared-off man in his fifties and looked ready to go in for the night. “Maybe these guys saw your watch.”

  The detective nodded at the aged Rolex Deal wore—nothing he would have ever bought, it had been a welcome-to-the-partnership gift from his father, fifteen years before. Deal wore it to the job as if it were any other watch; to him, it had long since become too battered to seem anything worth stealing.

  “But he asked for me by name,” Deal said, idly running his thumb over the crystal of his watch. The thing had become so scratched up, it was getting hard to read the time.

  “He could’ve overhead that somewhere,” the detective said. “You were out around town on some jobs today, right?”

  “Sure,” Deal said, “but…”

  “These guys see you driving some custom Caddy, figure you’re a rich jefe, they’ll follow you around all day,” he said, “just waiting for their chance.”

  “Rich jefe?” Deal echoed, disbelieving. The thought of the Hog as some symbol of status was even more ludicrous.

  The detective saw the incredulous look on Deal’s face, but that didn’t seem to concern him greatly. “Don’t worry,” the detective had said, apparently as dismissive of any personal motive for the attack as Driscoll was convinced of it. “You’re not going to have any more trouble with these scumbags. They’ll just move on to the next victim.”

  ***

  Deal was replaying the scene, still marveling at the detective’s studied cynicism, when he realized that Driscoll had his hand on his arm, was trying to get his attention.

  Driscoll had his other hand clamped over the receiver, had turned to Deal, a look of concern on his face. “They haven’t seen Paige Nobleman at her hotel for a day and a half,” he said. “Some big guy, they think it was her limo driver, checked her out late Sunday afternoon.”

  Deal shook his head, trying to focus on what Driscoll was saying. “So what?”

  “So that would have been before she came over here,” Driscoll said. “Didn’t she say she was going back to her hotel?”

  Deal sighed. Compared to what had just happened to them, it seemed like some abstract puzzle, some game show question Driscoll had posed. Still, maybe it was worth it, take any excuse to veer away from his own situation for a moment. Finally he nodded. “That’s what she said, Vernon.”

  “I thought so,” Driscoll said. He shook his head in puzzlement, then turned back to speak into the phone. “You have any idea who this limo guy worked for?” he asked whoever was on the other end.

  Driscoll listened for a minute, made a couple of notes. “Okay, thanks,” he added, and hung up.

  “You got a phone book?” he said to Deal.

  Phone book, Deal was thinking. Is that the answer or the question.

  “The hell with it,” Driscoll said impatiently. He punched out the number of Information, asked for the number of a limo service. He glanced at Deal’s questioning look, and waved his hand. “Turns out that the way she found that shitbox hotel in the first place,” he explained, “the first guy driving her was a compadre of the person who owns the hotel. This driver works for a service up in Dania.”

  Deal glanced at his watch as Driscoll began punching in the number. “It’s almost midnight,” he said idly. He was mildly intrigued suddenly, realizing that his brain could operate on one level, stay numb on so many others.

  “So?” Driscoll said. “Who do you think rents limos in this town? The kind of people who go to bed early?”

  He motioned Deal quiet abruptly, then spoke into the phone. “Yeah, how you doin’? This is Lieutenant Vernon Driscoll down at Metro-Dade.” He waved off Deal’s disapproving look.

  “Yeah, that’s right. I need to talk to one of your drivers, a guy name of Florentino Reyes.” He shot Deal his I-know-what-I’m-doing look, but the expression fell away before he got the chance to settle back in his chair.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “So how long’s this been?” Driscoll moistened the tip of his pencil with his tongue, began writing again.

  “How about his replacement,” he said after he’d finished. “No, I said replacement.” He cut a glance at Deal that could only mean he was talking to someone with a Hispanic accent.

  “A big guy. Some kind of Samoan or something,” Driscoll said, impatiently.

  “Samoan!” The ex-cop repeated. “As in a person from the kingdom of Samoa.”

  He listened for a moment, finally nodding. “Okay, I got it. I see. Sure. I’ll follow up on the stolen car report. You bet.” He hung up then, sat staring at Deal for a moment.

  “It seems this Florentino Reyes has disappeared,” Driscoll said finally, “along with the limo he had checked out to drive Ms. Nobleman around in, all of this arranged by a Mr. Marvin Mahler of Los Angeles.” Deal gave him a questioning look and Driscoll shrugged. “Must be her manager or whatever.

  “Anyway, Reyes was supposed to bring the car back Sunday night,” he continued, “leave it off for end-of-the-week servicing, pick up another one.” He opened his big palms on the tabletop. “Nobody’s seen him since Friday. A coworker went by his house, found the place locked up, his dog inside going apeshit. The company, being the trusting souls they are, guy’s only worked for them about twenty years, they filed a stolen car report this morning. They thought maybe I was calling to tell them we found it.”

  Deal nodded. “What about this Samoan guy?”

  Driscoll shrugged. “The fellow who owns the hotel, this Reyes’s buddy, he says that’s who showed up to check Ms. Nobleman out. He thought maybe it was Reyes’s relief. Great big guy wearing a driver’s cap and a coat, looked more like he ought to be playing for the Dolphins.” Driscoll broke off, jabbed his thumb toward the phone. “But the limo company doesn’t know anything about him.”

  They sat staring at each other for a moment, then Driscoll picked up the phone. He checked his notepad and dialed again. “Yeah. This the Grover Cleveland? Mr. Escobedo? Vernon Driscoll here. Right. This Samoan guy you were talking about who did the checking out for Ms. Nobleman. Yeah, that one. Listen, is there any chance he could have been Chinese? Uh-huh. No, that’s Japan, your sumos. Right. Okay, Mr. Escobedo. Thanks for your trouble.”

  Dr
iscoll turned back to Deal. “It’s a definite maybe,” he said. “Mr. Escobedo says that all your Orientals look pretty much the same to him.” Driscoll raised a finger. “They’re very nice people, though.”

  “So what’s the point, Driscoll?”

  Driscoll looked at him as if he were brain-dead. He opened his mouth to deliver some withering remark, then caught himself. “You’re right,” he said, holding up his hand in a gesture of apology.

  Deal shook his head. “I didn’t say anything.”

  But Driscoll seemed not to be listening. “I never got around to telling you,” he said.

  “Telling me what, Driscoll?”

  “I found out who Paige Nobleman’s mother is,” he said absently.

  Deal stared at him. “Well, who?”

  But Driscoll’s mind was already elsewhere. “You mind if I call long distance?” he said, already picking up the phone.

  ***

  Using a contact in the L.A. County Sheriff’s office, it took Driscoll less than a half hour to discover that Rhonda Gardner had a home in Westwood and an unlisted telephone number in her name. After a few more minutes of conversation with a Los Angeles telephone operator, he was talking to someone at the Gardner home.

  By then, of course, Deal had figured out who Driscoll believed to be the mother of Paige Nobleman. But it still didn’t seem possible. It seemed to be a night of things that did not seem possible. In fact, that’s what his life had turned into: a state of affairs that a month ago he could not have ever dreamed possible.

  “And exactly why is it Ms. Gardner can’t speak to me?” Driscoll was saying.

  “Oh,” he grunted. He tapped his pencil on the table for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear about that.”

  He paused, thinking about something, then turned back to the phone. “Let me ask you, does Ms. Gardner have some kind of significant other or personal representative out there, somebody I could get in touch with?”

  He stopped, apparently listening to the person on the other end. “Excuse me,” he cut in, flipping a couple of pages back in his notepad. “Would that be Marvin Mahler?”

  Driscoll gave Deal a significant glance, then turned back to the phone. “I see. Now would that be the same Marvin Mahler who’s the agent for Paige Nobleman?”

  Driscoll was nodding now, his gaze locked with Deal’s. “Right. How about if I spoke to Mr. Mahler, then.” He held the receiver away from his ear a moment and Deal could hear the buzz of conversation coming from the other end.

  “Uh-huh,” Driscoll was saying. “I got it.” He made another note. “Okay, I appreciate the trouble.” Deal thought he was about to hang up, when he raised a finger in the air as if whomever he was speaking to might be able to see it. “One last thing,” he said. “I was wondering if you might have received any calls from a Paige Nobleman recently.”

  He gave Deal another significant glance. “Uh-huh. Right. Not since then, huh.”

  Driscoll had something approaching a look of satisfaction on his face now. “Well, thanks again, Ms. Retton. You bet.”

  He hung up then and turned to Deal, his hand up to forestall Deal’s questions. He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. He sat back in his chair, massaging his face with his big hands for a moment.

  When he looked at Deal again, his expression was intent. “Okay, just one more phone call. Let me give it a shot, then I’ll tell you what I think.”

  Deal threw up his hands. He’d long since learned it was impossible to get Driscoll to explain anything before he was ready. It was like when he first started going out on the jobs and would try to get his father to tell him how to perform some seemingly arcane operation involving carpentry. “I’ll explain it to you when I’m damn good and ready,” his father would say. “Now bring me that power cord/hammer/box of nails.”

  Driscoll finished dialing another long-distance-sized series of numbers, then sat waiting for the connection to be made. Deal thought he heard an answering click. After a moment an odd expression came over Driscoll’s features.

  “Listen,” Driscoll said, thrusting the phone at him. “What do you make of this?”

  Deal took the phone, puzzled. Brought it to his ear. And then he heard the scream.

  Chapter 37

  The chirring of the tiny phone came to Paige through the thickness of her pillow. It was a sound she sensed more than heard, seeming to reach her from a distance that was greater than space itself could contain. She found herself remembering all the times she’d endured exhausting, disorienting nighttime shoots, would have to sleep days, rise with the sun going down, force herself out of bed like a creature not fully human.

  That’s what she had become once again, she knew. Whatever Mahler had injected her with had rendered her not fully human. And no way she could move from this bed, not with the restraints that bound her, not with her muscles turned to lead by the drug.

  A second ring sounded. It took every bit of her will, focusing on this muscle, then that, until she could nudge the corner of the pillow aside with her chin. She had no idea if the phone had sounded before, no idea if she’d missed other opportunities, how many times it had already rung. Any moment now whoever was calling could ring off, someone would hear the sounds or Mahler would come looking in this room for his misplaced phone…but if she could just manage to hit the right button, get a line open and please God let an operator come on, then maybe, some way, she could find help.

  The third ring came. She struggled wormlike against the pillow, which in her state was as massive an obstacle as a boulder, felt it buckle and pop up away from the phone. Gasping with effort, she lunged toward the phone before it could ring again, unmuffled.

  She felt the side of her face slap down the tiny set. She rolled her cheek blindly back and forth over the buttons, fearing that any moment the phone would blare again or she’d set off some terrible electronic howl that would bring her captors running…

  …and then, mercifully, she heard the connection make. She lay exhausted, thinking that small triumph would have seemed enough, but then she heard the voice on the other end, and that was enough to bring tears to her unfocused eyes.

  “This is Vernon Driscoll,” the voice said, and for a moment, she believed that she had somehow, miraculously, been saved. But then she tried to speak.

  “Who’s there?” Driscoll’s voice repeated. “Who is this?”

  Paige listened to the impatience build in Driscoll’s voice, willing herself frantically to respond. She could hear her pleas for help echoing inside her mind, a pressure building that seemed enough to blow her head apart. But still, although she fought to cry out with every ounce of strength, although she felt the muscles of her neck and throat quiver with effort, she remained mute:

  “Huh…huh…huh,” she managed. “Huh…huh…huh…” Tears were running freely down her face now, all her joy turned in an instant to frustration, rage, and despair. She heard a tiny coughing sound emerge from the back of her throat, wondered for a moment whether it signified the breaking of the dam or if she were simply about to choke and die…and then she felt a rough hand clamp down on her shoulder.

  It would have taken her far too long to will her gaze upward, so all that happened seemed to come almost by proxy. Someone was shouting in a language she did not understand. She felt the phone being wrenched away from her, felt something hard strike her at the temple, and heard a scream that must have come from her own throat.

  Although there was pain, it seemed very far away. She sensed Driscoll’s voice swirling away from her as if he, or she, were plunging down a dark, bottomless well. There was another blow then, and the speed of her fall, or was it his, increased into a hurtling, spinning plunge. And finally, one of them struck bottom.

  Chapter 38

  Terrence Terrell himself met Deal and Driscoll at the hangar on the north side of Miami International Airport, where he kept his planes at the ready. The owner of the Florida Manatee
s, and a man who’d amassed an incalculable fortune as the mastermind of the alternative-to-IBM personal computer, he was accustomed to jetting anywhere on a moment’s notice. The call from Deal had not seemed out of the ordinary at all. He hadn’t wanted to know the details: it was enough that Deal needed urgently to get to a friend’s aid, that the final destination was Palm Springs.

  Before Deal made the call to Terrell, Driscoll had laid out what he’d found in Dr. Rolle’s records. Still not proof positive, Deal would admit, but he’d be willing to give odds now that Paige Nobleman’s real mother had been a pretty fair actress herself; unfortunately, Rhonda Gardner, off in the orbit of Alzheimer’s, was in no condition to confirm anything, and the only other person who might shed light on the matter—Marvin Mahler, Rhonda’s husband and, significantly enough, Paige’s agent—was incommunicado, on the set of a film at the family compound with the unlikely name, somewhere deep in the Southern California desert.

  But Deal did know this much: Barbara Cooper had been murdered only hours after telling Paige she’d been adopted. Shortly after Paige came to them for help, he and Driscoll had very nearly been killed. Now Paige herself appeared to be in danger. Impossible to say who was responsible, but Deal was convinced of the why, part of it, at least. Someone was willing to do anything to cover up Paige Nobleman’s true identity. Nothing else made sense.

  And yet, who could they turn to for help? To the local authorities, there could be no apparent connection between a suicide in Fort Lauderdale and one more garden-variety home invasion in Miami. And as for Paige’s disappearance, what would ensue from any complaint? Some bored cop calling another bored cop on the opposite coast, “Hey, would you run down to this hacienda in the desert, see if they have an actress tied up there? Oh, they do that all the time out there?” Sure. Thanks and good night.

  And even if their concerns were taken seriously, what if Marvin Mahler—never mind why for the moment—was connected to all this? A phone call, a knock on the door—“Notice any adopted actresses around here, Mr. Mahler?”—what would that accomplish, except to warn him? They had one option, it seemed, the one they were about to take. If it came to nothing, if they found Paige lounging in the desert at poolside—“Oh, that? I must have been dreaming when the phone rang.”—then they could come home, accept all that had happened as part of normal life in a place where murder was just another aspect of the landscape: palms, flamingos, and corpses.