Then he was into clear, calm water. He swam and floated for a long time, the sun baking his face and back, the wet brine cleansing away the accumulation of bad tastes in his mouth. A school of dolphins cruised by, almost close enough to be touched.
By the time he let the water carry him back to shore, the sun was setting. The remaining beachgoers were packing up. Some college-aged guys changing out of their wetsuits offered him a cold one from their cooler, but he declined. The ocean had cleansed and purified him. He wanted to stay that way, at least until he got home.
It was late by the time he got back to the house. A notice had been taped to the front door. In the darkness, he couldn’t make it out. Probably an ad for a new Thai or Indian restaurant opening nearby, the neighborhood was over-run with ethnic places. He pulled it off and took it inside, tossing it onto the kitchen table while he took a beer out of the fridge and carried the can into the bathroom. He stood under the hot water for a long time, the needles beating down on him, washing away the salt, sand, and sweat. He shaved while in the shower, drinking his beer. He felt at peace. It was only a temporary respite, he knew, but while he was in here he could almost forget about the world outside.
He dried off and put on clean cargo shorts and a T-shirt and rummaged in the freezer for dinner. There was a steak, which he could grill with a baked potato, cut up a tomato and cucumber for a salad. A good red wine to go with it, a civilized meal. He poured a healthy shot of Don Julio tequila, knocked it back in one gulp, and put the steak in the microwave to thaw.
Reading the paper had become a daily ritual, a reassurance that he had embraced the civilized world. The world of people who had money and property. The world he was part of, at long last. He had skipped it this morning. He leafed through now, starting with the sports section, then Calendar, and after that the least interesting parts, the actual news.
This story, like the one about the eyewitness description, was also buried inside the news section. Wycliff almost missed it as he cursorily turned the pages. But he didn’t, because there were two pictures with it, and unlike the earlier story, these weren’t drawings, they were photographs, side by side. One of the images was a Photoshopped publicity still of Laurie Abramowitz. The other, a grainy black and white, was of the woman he had murdered for her, the wicked stepdaughter.
According to this story, the two women were not related by marriage. They weren’t related at all. They had been partners in a wholesale flower business. They had also been same-sex partners.
Laurie is a lesbian? Wycliff thought, his brain spinning like a centrifuge. That can’t be. She was hot to trot for me.
He continued reading the article with a growing sense of dread. Laurie and the murdered woman had been in a committed relationship for a dozen years. They shared a condo in a high-rise building in Westwood.
The building he had tracked the victim from.
The survivor, Laurie, was in deep mourning. She couldn’t bear to return to the apartment she had shared with her partner. She was leaving the country to get away from it all. She would return when the police caught her lover’s killer and ended the nightmare in which she was living.
The microwave dinged. The steak was ready to be cooked.
Wycliff had no appetite now. He poured another shot of tequila, to the brim. It burned going down.
Something was rotten in the state of California, and the stench was becoming intolerable. What in God’s name had he gotten into?
The notice on the door. He had forgotten about it. He saw it now on the kitchen table, where he had carelessly tossed it. He held it to the light and read it.
What the fuck? He read it again, carefully this time.
He walked to the front window, carefully parting the curtains to look outside. From what he could see there was nothing out of the ordinary, just the regular evening street scene. A quiet street in a quiet neighborhood. He sat down and started to shake.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Levine reacted to the notice with alarm. ‘This is not good,’ he declared, tapping the offending paper with a fingernail. He placed it on his desk, handling it as if it was a bomb that could go off unexpectedly. ‘Not good at all.’
‘What is it, exactly?’ Wycliff asked. ‘I mean I know what it says, but what does it mean?’ It was nine thirty in the morning. He hadn’t slept a lick all night.
‘It means you don’t own your brother’s house anymore,’ Levine answered. ‘This is an eviction notice. You have a week to clear out, or a county marshal will throw you out.’
Wycliff was reeling. ‘How is that possible? You helped me transfer the deed, right?’
‘Of course I did,’ Levine answered, annoyed that his competence was being called into question, particularly by someone of Wycliff’s character. ‘Everything was done exactly by the book. But between then and a few weeks ago –’ another fingernail tap – ‘according to this, you sold it.’ He scanned the notice again. ‘To some personal corporation, it looks like. A dummy holding, no doubt, to conceal the real name of whoever it is you sold it to.’
Wycliff buried his face in his hands. ‘I did not sell the house, I swear.’
‘Have you signed any documents recently?’
Wycliff, startled by the question, looked up. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘I mean, except …’
‘Except what?’ The lawyer leaned forward, his arms braced on his desktop.
‘I met this investment counselor,’ Wycliff said. He hesitated; how could he explain his involvement with Cummings without sounding like a complete dumb-ass?
‘Investment counselor.’ Levine pronounced the words like he was saying wet turd.
‘A guy who invests money for people,’ Wycliff continued lamely, instantly knowing how stupid he sounded. Of course Levine would know what an investment counselor did. He, Wycliff, was the one who didn’t.
‘Right,’ Levine said impatiently. ‘What about him?’
‘Well … I invested some money with him.’
Levine nodded. ‘Some of your inheritance.’
‘Yes,’ Wycliff replied. He felt ashamed. He shouldn’t, it was his money, he could do whatever he wanted with it. But sitting here under Levine’s scrutiny he was uncomfortable, like he had done something wrong. The money Billy had left him was a trust to be protected, not dicked around with.
‘So this investment counselor …’ Levine prodded.
‘I’ve done fine with him,’ Wycliff continued, defending himself. ‘He’s made money for me. He’s really good.’
Levine looked perplexed. ‘You’ve already made a return on the inheritance money? You just got it.’
‘Before then,’ Wycliff corrected him. ‘I mean …’ Shut up, dummy. You’re digging your own grave.
Levine leaned in even closer. ‘You had money to invest before you got the money from your brother’s will?’
Now he was really in the soup. ‘A little bit,’ he said, backpedaling as fast as he could. ‘Not much.’
Levine leaned back, but his body language was anything but relaxed. ‘So this investor made money for you, and you did what? Reinvest it?’
Wycliff nodded slowly. This lawyer was sharp. You don’t try to fake out men smarter than you. ‘Yes.’
‘And you added some of the inheritance money on top of it.’
‘Yes.’
Levine sighed. ‘Those were the documents you signed? Giving this investment counselor the legal power to invest your money for you?’
Wycliff nodded.
‘In a brokerage account?’
Another nod. ‘Schwab.’
The disclosure didn’t seem to disturb Levine, as Wycliff had been afraid it would. ‘That’s prudent, actually,’ the lawyer said. ‘Parking your money in a savings account isn’t worth much these days. You have the Schwab papers, I assume. Did you bring them with you? I’d like to take a look at them, to make sure everything’s kosher.’
Wycliff winced. ‘I don’t have them on me. I was too discombobulated this morni
ng to think straight.’
‘That’s understandable,’ Levine said sympathetically. ‘I would have been, too.’ He tapped the notice again. ‘I’ll look into this. In the meantime, go home and get those financial papers and bring them back here. If I’m tied up, leave them with Ms Hopkins.’
The horse-faced assistant, who reminded Wycliff of the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz. That character still gave him nightmares. He fought back the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. ‘I’ll get on that right away.’
They stood and shook hands. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this,’ Levine promised. ‘You’re not going to lose that house. Not after everything you and your brother went through to keep it.’
Another call to Cummings, another voice reply that he was unavailable, leave a message. ‘I need to see you, man!’ Wycliff screamed into the phone. ‘Get back to me now!’
He drove to the broker’s office. It was locked. He banged on the door, practically breaking it down. What the fuck was going on? Whatever scheme Cummings was running, he was going to put an end to it, right now.
The closest Schwab office was on Avenue of the Stars in Century City. Wycliff approached the female receptionist. ‘How may I help you?’ she asked, offering him a professional smile.
‘I need information on my account.’
‘Certainly, sir. Let me get a broker who can assist you.’
A moment later a young man came out from the back, introduced himself, and led Wycliff to a cubicle. ‘Do you have your account number?’ he asked Wycliff, his fingers poised over his keyboard.
‘I’ve forgotten it,’ Wycliff said, somewhat sheepishly.
‘Not a problem. I’ll need your social and ID.’
Wycliff recited his social security number and handed over his driver’s license. The broker typed the information into his computer. He frowned as he looked at his screen. ‘There is no record of an account in your name, sir.’
‘What do you mean, no record? There has to be.’
‘No, sir.’ The broker gave Wycliff a nervous look. ‘You need to talk to whoever handles your investments for you. And maybe the police.’
Again, Charlotte didn’t answer her phone. She was probably angry about his relationship with Amelia, and was holding him at arm’s length. He should have lied about that. Nothing worse than a woman scorned. Especially a vain, older woman who was fighting like a wolverine to retain whatever shreds of her youth she could.
He couldn’t worry about her feelings, and he couldn’t wait for her to call him back, either. He had to get to the bottom of what was happening before his entire world came crashing down around his ears.
From the Schwab office to Charlotte’s apartment was only a few miles along Santa Monica Boulevard, then up Doheny, and it wasn’t yet noon, so the traffic wasn’t particularly heavy, but it felt like he was driving through quicksand. Finally arriving, he pulled into the underground parking and rode the elevator up to her floor. If she wasn’t there he would wait for her. Camp outside her door until she showed up, if necessary.
Her apartment door was open. She was home. Thank God for small favors. By now he didn’t care if she was angry, pissed off, jealous, sad, or anything else. She was going to tell him what was going on, and how he could find Cummings to fix it.
‘Charlotte,’ he called out, as he crossed the threshold, ‘we have to talk.’
There was no answer. He went inside. ‘Charlotte?’ he called again.
He passed through the empty living room into the bedroom, and almost fell over from the shock of what he saw. Or rather, didn’t see. The closet doors were open, but there was not a stick of clothing in any of them. The same with the dressers: all the drawers were bare. He rushed into the bathroom. Nothing. There was no trace of Charlotte anywhere, not even a lingering aroma of cigarette smoke.
Back in the living room, he slumped against a wall.
‘Who are you?’
He jerked reflexively. A woman who looked like she was from Iran or one of those countries over there was planted in the front doorway.
‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked back. He was not about to take any shit from some Arab, not the way he was feeling today.
‘Because I’m the building manager, and I like to know who’s in my building, especially when I don’t know them,’ the woman shot back.
‘Sorry,’ he apologized. He didn’t need any more trouble. ‘I’m looking for the woman who lives here. Her name is Charlotte.’ He paused. ‘I think.’
The manager looked like she was going to explode from rage. ‘You’re not going to find her here, not by Charlotte or any other name. She left two days ago. Snuck out like a thief in the night, with three months back rent due. No notice, no forwarding address, nothing.’
‘She didn’t own this place?’ His head was spinning a thousand miles an hour.
‘Own it?’ the manager exclaimed with incredulity. ‘She was subletting, on the cheap. The owner lives in Paris. She took a hit on the price but she wanted the apartment occupied by a nice older woman, and your friend fit the bill. Or so we both thought.’ She grimaced. ‘Now she’s fifteen thousand dollars out of pocket and she’s blaming me for her loss, because I didn’t follow up vigorously enough.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Wycliff was so numb, nothing was really registering.
‘Me, too.’ The manager, now understanding Wycliff was not a threat, softened her tone. ‘Do you have any idea where she might be?’ she asked plaintively. ‘I need to get my client’s money back for her, or I’m going to have to stand for it.’
‘No,’ he told the distraught woman. ‘I have no idea.’
TWENTY-NINE
Amelia was working a double shift and wouldn’t have time to come over, which gave him an excuse to avoid her, thankfully. She’d freak out if she knew what was going on. He didn’t have the nerve to go back to Levine’s office and reveal what a complete idiot and patsy he had been, and he didn’t want to return to the house, either. The house was the physical symbol of how badly he had screwed up. His brother had poured his blood, guts, and hard-earned money into it, and now it was as if none of that had ever happened.
He had to keep the house. It was Billy’s monument. He couldn’t lose it.
He went to a matinee at the Arc Light on Sunset (an action movie with Matt Damon; he was too distracted to remember anything about the plot or even the title), then ate a top sirloin steak at the counter at Musso & Frank’s, washed down with two Manhattans and a half bottle of BV cabernet, the house pour.
He couldn’t put off staying away any longer. It was time to go back to the house. He needed to sleep. To try and forget everything, if only until tomorrow.
The house was dark. When he had left in the morning he hadn’t thought he would be returning this late, so he hadn’t left any lights on. He parked his rental car in the driveway, trudged up the walk to the front door, and let himself in.
He couldn’t see Charlotte because it was as dark inside as out, but he could smell her, her special, alluring aroma. ‘You took your sweet time returning,’ she said out of the darkness. ‘I’ve been waiting for hours.’
A lamp clicked on, creating a puddle of low, soft light. Charlotte was sitting in the easy chair on the far side of the room, fashionably dressed as usual, in sling-back heels, sheer stockings, a silk blouse, and a light-weight wool skirt with a side-split. Her legs were crossed, showing some lovely thigh. Her revolver was cradled in her lap. She stroked the gun as if it was a sleeping kitten.
Wycliff gaped at her. ‘How did you get in?’
‘The door was unlocked. You should be more careful. This is not the safest of neighborhoods.’
He was sure he had locked up; he always double-checked when he went out. But with all the shit going on in his life, maybe he had forgotten this time. Add that to the list of his recent fuckups.
He pointed to the gun in her lap. ‘What the hell is that for?’
‘Protection, sweetheart. You
never know who’s going to come through the door. A woman can’t be too careful.’ She stroked the gun again. ‘You remember this, don’t you?’
The sight of the weapon almost made him throw up. ‘Yes, I remember.’
She placed the gun on the side table, next to a glass of red wine. ‘I didn’t know what you had, so I brought this,’ she said, picking the glass up with her manicured fingers. ‘The bottle is in the kitchen, by the sink,’ she told him. ‘Join me.’
Fighting his emotions, Wycliff went into the kitchen, poured himself an almost-full glass of wine, came back out, and sat on the sofa across from her. ‘Cheers,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘I don’t know what to, but whatever outrageous shit you’re involved with, it can’t be any good.’
She gave him an enigmatic smile and raised her glass to his. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ She took a lady-like sip. He knocked half his back with one swallow.
‘Very tasty,’ he said. ‘Always the best for you, Charlotte. Or whoever you really are.’
‘Always the best,’ she agreed. ‘Especially as regards my men, Wycliff. And I really am Charlotte. A Charlotte. There’s more than one.’
‘There’s only one you, and back at you for the compliment. Excuse me if I don’t believe it.’
‘It’s true, but I can understand why you wouldn’t.’
He stared at her across the room. ‘Are you finally going to tell me what’s going on? For real?’
‘Of course I am. Why would I be here otherwise?’
‘Lots of reasons. You’re horny. You need a place to spend the night. You want to mock me. There are plenty of others, I’m sure.’
She took another sip of wine. ‘Before I explain everything, and I’m going to, I promise, can we have sex first? We’ve never made love in your bed, it’s always been in mine.’
‘It’s always been in somebody’s,’ he corrected her. ‘Calling it yours is a stretch.’
Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles Page 23