The Broken Promise Land

by Marcia Muller

  “I know,” I said distractedly.

  Again James frowned. “Sharon, I think you are worried about that Texas woman.”

  She’d read me correctly—I was.

  By the time I reached the toll plaza on the other side of the Golden Gate I’d come up with something else to worry about—Mick’s safety. If I was interpreting the note writer’s message correctly, any member of the Savage family was a potential target; yet Mick was on his own here in the city, unaware of the danger because his father had insisted I not tell him about the investigation. True, he was reasonably tough and streetwise, but even the toughest of us are better able to defend ourselves if forewarned. Until I could persuade Ricky to confide in Mick, I needed to take steps to protect him.

  I was driving along Motel Row on Lombard Street when an idea came to me, but before I could refine it my pager went off somewhere in the depths of my purse. When I finally retrieved it, the display showed Ricky and Charlene’s number; I punched it out on the car phone while making the turn onto Van Ness. Hy answered.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “I’ve got the situation in hand,” he said in a guarded tone that told me he wasn’t alone, “but I think you ought to come down here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Hold on, I’m going to switch to another phone.”

  I held, moving the receiver to my left hand so I could work the gearshift.

  “Okay,” Hy said after a minute, “I’m in Ricky’s home office and can talk.”

  “I take it Charlene was there.”

  “Charlene, Kurt Girdwood, the housekeeper, a maid, and the dogs’ trainer.”

  “Dogs?”

  “You don’t know about them? Two saluki puppies; they’ve had them a few weeks now.”

  “But why do they need a trainer? Charlene can’t train them herself?”

  “Apparently not. Proper obedience training, she tells me, is very important to a dog’s development.”

  “Too bad she didn’t apply that concept to her kids’ development. How is she?”

  “Mean as a snake, but cooperating.”

  “Ricky there yet?”

  “No, but he called earlier to say that Ethan Amory is coming down from L.A. and the band’s following tonight. He claims they need to get in a couple of rehearsal sessions before the tour. And Rattray’s announced his ETA too. God knows who else’ll show before the day’s up.”

  “Ripinsky, you know what I think is going on? I think that having all those people around is Ricky’s way of not dealing with the situation—or with Charlene.”

  “Me too. I reminded him that he didn’t want anybody to know why my people are here, but he said he’d put out the word that I’d talked him into increasing security on an experimental basis.”

  “You sound discouraged.”

  “I am, sort of. My man’s already briefed Charlene, Chris, and Jamie on the usual precautions—varying the routes you normally take, varying your routines, driving with the doors locked and not stopping for anybody—and now he’s working with the household staff. But still, having all those visitors here is going to complicate our job.”

  “I hate to say it, but it’s going to simplify mine. I want to take a good close look at all of Ricky’s people, and I’ll have most of them right there under one roof.”

  “So when’re you coming down?”

  “As soon as I can pack and catch a flight.”

  “You’re not bringing the Citabria?”

  “Like you said earlier, a commercial flight’s faster.” When he didn’t respond, I added, “Really, that’s the only reason.” I was telling the truth; any lingering vestiges of near-miss anxiety had vanished when I’d taken possession of the plane’s keys.

  “Listen,” I went on, “I want to use Charlotte Keim to run some checks for me. Who do I clear that with at RKI?”

  “Me—and it’s cleared.”

  “Thanks. Do you know if they’ve got a fax down there?”

  “Right here in the office.” He recited its number for me.

  I told him I’d pick up a rental car at Lindbergh Field and see him at the house, then hung up and dialed Keim at home. Even though tomorrow was Sunday, she was willing to go into the office in the morning. After warning her that Mick was not to know what she was working on, I promised to fax her a list of Ricky’s employees and associates. All that was left now was to pack and enlist Rae in my scheme to protect my nephew.

  “So Mick is supposed to think he’s protecting me from whoever grabbed me at Coso Street, while in actuality I’m protecting him?” Rae was curled up on my bed, watching me pack. The swelling on her face had gone down some, but she still held her right arm gingerly and bruises had formed there and on her legs.

  “I know it’s kind of lame, but it was the best I could come up with on short notice.” I pictured the pool on the hilltop terrace behind the Savages’ house and tossed a swimsuit into the bag.

  “It’s not that bad, and it’ll make Mick think he’s getting in some fieldwork for a change. But I think Ricky’s making a big mistake in not telling him about the investigation.” She scowled. “What’s he afraid of, anyway?”

  “Well, if this involves a woman—”

  “So what? Does he really think Mick doesn’t know that he screws around?”

  I glanced at her.

  “No, I’m not putting him down for that. I understand what’s been operating there and, besides, I don’t think he does anymore. He told me last night was the first time in several years that he’d allowed himself to become interested in anyone. But the point is, Mick must’ve figured out about his dad ages ago.”

  “Maybe Ricky’s just being overprotective. He has that tendency.”

  Rae looked down, pleating the hem of her oversized tee between her fingers. “Maybe. Or…”

  I zipped my travel bag. “Or what?”

  “I’ve got the feeling that there’s something else going on with him: guilt. On a subconscious level he’s feeling very guilty about something—and I don’t think it has to do with your sister or his kids. He may not even be fully aware of it.”

  A former psychology student embroidering on the situation, or a genuine insight? “What do you base that on?”

  “Oh, a combination of little cues, nothing all that specific.” Her fingers were pleating faster now. “When you’ve been… fairly intimate with a person, you pick up on stuff like that.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t—”

  “I said I came to my senses after we’d driven a couple of blocks. But things can progress very rapidly in two blocks of city traffic, even at that hour. Anyway, guilt struck me as an underlying motif in a lot of what he said to me later. See if you can pick up on it.”

  I nodded. “In the meantime, you call Mick and ask him if he’ll move in here for a few days. And I may need you on the case after I talk with Ricky—if he made his flight and actually turns up at home.”

  “Oh, he made the flight.”

  “How d’you know?”

  “He called me right before they took off. He wanted to apologize again for coming on so strong last night. I didn’t tell him what happened at Coso Street; that’s your business.”

  “Nice of him to call.”

  “He’s a nice man, one of the nicest I know.” She hesitated, smiling faintly. “Actually, I was the one who came on strong. I shouldn’t have, but there was no way I could resist that great come-fuck-me voice.”

  “That what?”

  She gave me a disbelieving look. “You must’ve noticed.”

  “He’s got a great voice, yes. But he’s… well, he’s married to my kid sister.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything? Just really listen to him sometime.”

  On the way to SFO I put a tape of The Broken Promise Land album into the cassette player and really listened to Ricky.

  Rae was right: He did have a come-fuck-me voice.

  Nine

  The home that Charlen
e and Ricky had built after fire destroyed their Pacific Palisades place was high on a ridge above La Jolla and commanded impressive views of city and sea. In an area of large, heavily wooded properties, theirs was one of the most extensive—some twenty acres covered by eucalyptus and pepper trees and the wind-twisted Torrey pines that are native to the San Diego coast. I approached it on freshly paved blacktop that switch-backed through the hills; after a mile or so, high stucco walls overhung with bright crimson bougainvillea marked the beginning of the estate. A black-iron security gate blocked the drive, and next to it sat a guard wearing RKI’s maroon blazer; even at a distance I could detect the bulge of his shoulder holster.

  I stopped beside him and lowered the window of my rental car. The early evening heat billowed inside, overcoming the air-conditioned cool. The guard examined my I.D., then opened the gate and waved me through; I drove on toward the red-tiled roof that loomed above the trees on the slope. The land on either side of the driveway fell away into thick vegetation. After about a quarter of a mile I spotted the tennis court and the building that contained Ricky’s rehearsal studio. The drive took an upturn, ran under a canopy of arching oaks, and ended in a large circular parking area in front of the house. It was Mediterranean style, cream-colored, two stories at the center with one-story wings extending off at oblique angles—too brashly new and formal for my taste, but I had to acknowledge its beauty.

  I pulled the car into the shade of one of the oaks and got out, surveying the other vehicles parked there: Ricky’s Porsche, Chris’s little Triumph, two maroon-and-gray RKI vans, a BMW, a Cadillac, two newish Ford pickups, and a Geo Prizm that looked to be another rental.

  Cast of thousands is right, I thought, shaking my head as I went up to the bleached-wood door.

  Hy opened it before I got there; the guard must have called to say I was on my way. I’d thought he looked tired last night before the concert, but now he looked downright haggard. Wordlessly he held out his arms; I went to him and nestled close for a moment. When I stepped back, I said, “What, no salukis rushing to greet me?”

  He rolled his eyes. “The boys, as your sister calls them, have been banished to their dog run. Ricky arrived, took one look at the mess they’d made of his favorite moccasins, and ordered them out of the house. Charlene protested, he shouted, and Chris and Jamie fled to their rooms. Then Kurt Girdwood appeared and started yelling at Ricky—”

  “At Ricky? Why?”

  “No reason. While Girdwood was carrying on, Ricky explained to me that managers always yell because they get yelled at a lot and develop hearing problems. Girdwood finally gave up on getting his attention and headed for the room with the bar with Ethan Amory in tow. And then Charlene and Ricky picked up their argument where they left off, continued with it all the way through the living room and the kitchen and down the hall to their wing, where, if my ears don’t deceive me, they’re arguing still.”

  “My God, what a zoo!”

  “Oh, that’s only part of it. The band members have begun to show up. They’ve checked into the larger guest house and are now demanding drinks and snacks poolside, like this was some exclusive resort hotel. Keeps the housekeeper—a likeable, overworked woman named Nona—hopping. One of the maids quit this afternoon and had to be paid a fair amount of hush money to keep her from talking about the security situation here. And Rattray’s making a pest of himself in the kitchen, so odds are ten-to-one that the housekeeper’ll quit, too.”

  I felt a dreadful sinking sensation, followed by a flutter of panic. “We’re not going to stay here, are we?”

  “Unfortunately, I think it’s best—at least for tonight. We’re in the smaller guest house which, mercifully, is at a good remove from the wing where your sister and brother-in-law are currently trying to rip each other’s throats out.”

  I let my body sag against Hy’s, my arm circling his waist. “Do you ever get the idea that the good life ain’t what it’s cracked up to be?”

  “Yeah. For all that we’ve got to tend the fires and cook and clean for ourselves, I’m thinking fondly of Touchstone.”

  “Me too.” I moved away from him and motioned at the open door. “Shall we?”

  “Into the fray.”

  The tiled entryway was chilly after the evening heat. I crossed to the steps that led down to the living room and peered in there. The room was huge, with a hardwood floor and cream area rugs and groupings of tan leather furnishings; a new collection of African masks over the fireplace lent a discordant note, as did the pair of chewed-up moccasins that lay in the middle of one of the rugs. Numerous flower arrangements comprised mostly of sticks sat on the low tables. I went down the steps, crossed to the glass wall at the opposite side, and looked out.

  Three men reclined on cushioned lounges around the free-form black-bottomed pool. The setting sun glared over the low terrace wall, dappling the water and bronzing their skin. I recognized red-haired Jerry Jackson, the drummer; big, bearded Norm O’Dell, the lead guitarist; and the blond ponytailed bass player, Forrest Curtin. Curtin was lighting a joint; he took a hit and then offered it to Jackson.

  Hy came up behind me. “That should keep them sedated for a while.”

  “I don’t think they’re supposed to be doing that where the girls can see them.”

  “You want to tell them to stop?”

  “No, I want Charlene or Ricky to, but apparently they’re too busy battling to bother. Maybe it’s good they are, though; maybe they’ll work things out and make up.”

  “I don’t know. The fighting I heard earlier wasn’t the productive type.”

  “God. What is this going to do to the kids? What is it doing to Chris and Jamie right now? I think I better check on them, see how they’re coping.”

  Hy put a staying hand on my arm. “Before you do, I want you to check out Girdwood and Amory. Something’s going on there that I can’t get a handle on.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for one thing, I can’t figure out why they’re here at all. And I don’t like the questions Amory’s asking about the security measures; I caught him practically interrogating a couple of our people.”

  “They tell him anything?”

  “No. They’re trained to be discreet.”

  “You say Amory and Girdwood are in the den?”

  “Last I saw of them.”

  I’d been to the house only the one time, for the party after the family moved in. Now I looked around, uncertain of my bearings.

  Hy grinned. “A road map would help. Follow me.”

  He led me back across the entryway and down a corridor where the walls were hung with abstract paintings in bright primary colors—something which, like the African masks and the floral arrangements, I couldn’t imagine either Charlene or Ricky selecting. It struck me now that when the fire destroyed their home in Pacific Palisades, it took more than their possessions; it was as though they’d also lost their sense of who they were, and were struggling—with the aid of a bad decorator—to recover their identities. The sudden insight made me even more afraid for them, more frightened yet for their kids.

  Noises came from the end of the corridor: the familiar strains of “The Broken Promise Land” overscored by a man’s strident voice.

  “Now that is what makes him great. His presence, his power. Just watch this!”

  I looked into the den, a large room with a bar running along one wall, flanked by a pinball machine and a jukebox. On the perpendicular wall a big-screen TV was playing a video of one of Ricky’s concerts. As my brother-in-law picked a complicated guitar sequence, a squarish, bullet-headed man in a lurid Hawaiian shirt paced back and forth in front of the screen, expounding loudly.

  “Look at him! All this bullshit about his career having peaked is just so much bullshit. Ricky Savage will be turning out chartbusters when we’re both in our graves. He is, and will continue to be, a force to be reckoned with in this industry, and I defy anyone to tell me otherwise!”

  A second man seat
ed in one of the cushioned chairs facing the TV reached for the remote control and muted the sound. He was slender, with wild brown hair and aviator glasses, clad in chinos and a green-and-white rugby shirt. When he spoke his voice was low and gently southern-accented, but it commanded more attention than the other man’s ranting.

  “You don’t have to convince me, Kurt,” he said. “Save it for Rick. He’ll need it once his wife is done chewing him up and spitting him out.”

  The bullet-headed man—Kurt Girdwood—whirled on him, pointing his finger. “I’ve warned you before, Ethan, don’t talk to me about Charly! You don’t know what’s happening with her. You didn’t know them in the old days, didn’t see what she had to put up with.”

  Ethan Amory, Ricky’s music attorney, made a conciliatory gesture with his long-fingered hand. “Maybe not, but what I see now isn’t good. Whatever’s going on with her is eating him alive. You want to help the poor bastard, do something about her.”

  Girdwood’s shoulders slumped and he sat down heavily in a second chair, reaching for a drink on the table between them.

  “And then there’s the other problem,” Amory added. “These extreme security precautions—what the hell’s the reason for them?”

  “He said—”

  “I know what he said. But you can’t tell me it’s the whole story. This RKI is no ordinary outfit; they’re international consultants in antiterrorism, based down in La Jolla.”

  “The sister-in-law’s boyfriend is a partner.”

  “So Rick, out of family loyalty, decided to use people who charge what RKI does to provide routine protection for his family? Bullshit, Kurt. Something’s going on here, something serious, and Rick’s not leveling. I say we call him on it.”

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

  “Jesus Christ, what’re you afraid of? You act as if he had some hold over you.”

  Girdwood didn’t reply.

  “Well,” Amory said after a moment, “I’m going to make it my business to get to the bottom of this.”