Simultaneously Cash flung the door open, two-handed his revolver, and bolted through, while Whitehead splintered the connecting door with a single kick and charged into the Scheherezade Suite.
I sat there, immobile, watching it all on the monitor:
Fat and Antrim pummeling the unseen Mainwaring; faces raised suddenly in panic; a dive for the knife. Doors breaking; Milo lumbering into the room, gun drawn, stomping a groping hand, yelling, 'Freeze, fuckers! Drop the knife! Drop it! Drop the knife! Drop the knife! Drop it! On the ground! On the ground!'
Antrim backed off. Cash retrieved the buck knife, wrapped it in a handkerchief, then dropped it in his pocket. Whitehead made a flying tackle at Fat. Milo yanked Antrim to his feet, cuffed him to the bedpost, and used plastic ties to bind his feet.
Whitehead was still trying to roll Fat off Mainwaring, groaning at the effort. Cash joined him. The two of them pulled hard on Fat's arms, fought to hoist him upright. Unable to cuff him because the arms couldn't reach around the obese body, they called for more plastic ties.
Mainwaring sat up, bloody and bruised. Smiling with satisfaction.
'Stand the fuck up,' gasped Cash, still struggling with Fat. 'Fucking . . . rodeo . . . event.'
Fat squirmed in their grasp, jiggling, squealing, gnashing his teeth, spitting in Whitehead's face. The sheriffs investigator struck out impulsively, slapping the fat face hard. Knocking the beard askew. A high-pitched wail.
'Huh?' said Whitehead as he ripped away the false hair. 'What the - '
'Get the eyelashes, too,' said Cash.
Off came the thick black fringes.
'Aahh!' cried the naked face, doughy and porcine and androgynous. A booted foot stamped the carpet, and tears coursed down the blubbery cheeks.
'Who - what the fuck are you?' asked Cash.
'Aahh!' Fat snuffled and snapped like a wild boar in a trap, bared its teeth, and tried to bite off one of Whitehead's jug ears. He recoiled and slapped it again.
'Hurt her again, and I'll kill you,' howled Antrim, thrashing in confinement. 'Hurt her again, and I'll - '
'Shut the fuck up!' screamed Whitehead. 'What the fuck is going on here?' * 'Aahh!' cried the hairless face.
'Hurt her agai - ' Milo jammed a handkerchief in Antrim's mouth.
'Aahh!'
'This is weird,' said Ginzburg, mopping his forehead.
I got up and made my way through the splintered doorway.
Mainwaring was in the bathroom, dabbing at his wounds with a damp washcloth. Whitehead stood guard over Antrim. Milo was on the phone, and Cash was still staring at the hairless woman, looking nauseated as he half demanded, half pleaded, 'What are you? What the fuck are you?'
'Her name is Marthe Surtees,' I said. 'She was Jamey's nurse.'
The room grew silent.
Marthe Surtees managed somehow to curtsy.
'Hello, Dr. Delaware,' she said sweetly. Batting her lashes, the suety face blotched with patches of adhesive and strands of false hair. 'How nice to see you again.'
Chapter 27
MILO SPEARED a new potato, rolled it in butter, and ate it. He'd finished one loin lamb chop, and three others crowded his plate. I swallowed a cube of filet mignon and washed it down with a swallow of Grolsch.
It was 10.30 P.M.. and we were the chophouse's last customers. But the bar at the front was packed three deep and resonant with mating sounds.
'William Tull Bonney,' he said, wiping his face. 'As in Billy the Kid. Claims he's a lineal descendant. Used Antrim as an alias, 'cause that was the name of Billy's stepfather. '
He looked at the remains of his gin and tonic, considered a reorder and turned, instead, to his water glass, which he drained. Pulling a piece of paper from his breast pocket he unfolded it. He leaned forward, squinting, and read in the dim light of the glassed candle.
'Once we ID'd him and fed him into the computer, it just kept printing and printing. This is just an abstract, your basic American success story. Born in Mesilla, New
Mexico, mom a boozehound, dad unknown. Truant from day one. Drunk and disorderly at the age of eleven - how's that for precocious? Vandalism, fire setting, string of juvenile assaults and robberies. Bunch of suspected rapes and at least one murder - mutilation cutting of an Indian girl - that no one could prove but everyone knew he did. This was at sixteen. County-raised till he was eighteen. Out for year, came to California, busted within a month for attempted murder - bar knifing up in Kern County - took a year in the county jail, got extra time for attacking a guard and sundry other bad behaviors, placed in some rehab program, where he learned auto mechanics, got a job as a grease monkey when he got out, lost it for beating up the boss. Busted for a string of armed robberies and assaults. Graduate school at Soledad, where he hooked up with the Aryan Brotherhood, absorbed a bit of two-wheeler philosophy. Upon release, rode with an outlaw gang called the Ghouls, up near Fresno, busted for second-degree murder - gang war cutting - case dismissed on a technicality raised by his attorney, Horace Souza, Esquire.'
He turned the paper over.
'Now for the illustrious Marthe Surtees aka Wilhelmina Surtees aka Billy Mae Sorrell aka Marthe Sorrel aka Sabrina Skull.'
'Sabrina Skull?'
'As in cranium. Gang name - she was a Ghoul mama. Social history similar to Antrim's - drugs, booze, and pulling the legs off tiny animals - except that she got a shitload of psychiatric treatment and avoided imprisonment as an adult. One disorderly conduct bust, case dismissed. Only reason I could get anything on her was that the Fresno DA has a file on the Ghouls in which she figured prominently: she liked to hurt people.'
'Is she a real nurse?'
'Oh, yeah. When she got out of youth camp, some federal grant paid her tuition at a fly-by-night operation, and she got an LVN. When the Ghouls weren't partying, she free-lanced at old-age homes. Left the last one under suspicion of stealing drugs, but no charges were filed. Then she disappeared. Turns out she and Antrim were living in a cabin out in Tujunga. Stuck in the middle of a hundred acres of forest owned by Souza. Birds, bees, outdoor plumbing, a portable TV, and plenty of crank. Place was a sty. I saw it this morning. In one corner was a fiberboard closet - starched white dresses on one side, smelly black leather on the other. Two drawers at the bottom, crammed with theatrical make-up, beards, moustaches, hairpieces, some very smarmy S and M mags.' 'Charming' I said.
'Yeah. And romantic, too.' He gave a cold laugh, reached for the mint jelly, and prepared another lamb chop for surgery. 'Antrim caved in the moment we got him alone. Said he'd cooperate if we went easy on her; he'd done all the knife work anyway. We told him there were limits to the kind of flexibility you could muster in this kind of case, and besides, she'd been the one to poison the kid. Asshole started crying - do you believe that?'
He shook his head and chewed a piece of meat into oblivion.
'Anyway, inside of an hour we had the whole story, pictures included. He'd buried them under the floorboards of the cabin along with his notes. All part of his insurance policy.'
He'd shown me the snapshots before dinner. The story they told was a familiar one. But the players had been surprising.
'Planning on using them?' I asked. 'Can't see why we'd need to at this point. But they do help clarify matters, don't they? Give the case a little context. Now all we need are some numbers. Which our guest should be able to provide.' He shot his Timex out from under his cuffs. 'Twenty more minutes if he's punctual. Let's finish up.'
Eighteen minutes later the door to the bar opened, and clamorous waves of conversation spilled through. When it closed, a narrow young man stood in the doorway, suspended in the silence, eyes blinking furiously behind
gold-rimmed glasses as they adjusted to the dimness of the dining room. He wore a dark suit and tie that blended with the somber paneling and carried a large attaché case that seemed a prosthetic extension of his right arm.
'Looks like our boy,' said Milo, and he got up and escorted the newcomer to our table. As he walked, the man placed both
hands on the case and carried it gingerly, as if it housed something alive and excitable.
'Mr. Balch, this is Dr. Alex Delaware. Alex, Mr. Bradford Balch. Esquire.'
Balch's hand was fine-boned and cold. I let go of it and
said:
'We've spoken on the phone.'
The attorney looked blank.
'You called me to arrange a visit to the Chancellor estate.'
'Oh, that,' he said, and pursed his lips. The memory of being used as an errand boy tasted bad. 'Why's he here?' he asked Milo.
'Consultant.'
Balch regarded me with distrust.
'I thought you were working for Mr. Souza,' he said.
'I was. Not any longer.'
'What are you here for? To check me out psychologically?'
'We've done all the checking out we need to,' said Milo. 'Have a seat and let's get down to business.'
'Sergeant,' said Balch, 'I insist that we talk alone.'
'Your insistence has been duly noted,' responded Milo, holding out a chair. 'Have a seat.'
'I'm serious, Sergeant - '
'Balch' - Milo sighed - 'you're in big trouble, and I'm letting you take a lot more than you're giving. Sp don't waste my time with power plays, okay?'
Balch blushed, and his eyes dropped to the floor. He sank down abruptly in the chair, swinging the case onto his lap, embracing it. Up close he looked very young - apple-cheeked and sandy-haired, the hair short and neatly parted, with a sprig of cowlick at the tag end of the part. His clothes
were expensive and traditional but a trace ill-fitting -button-down collar a half size too large, silk rep tie just a smidgeon off plumb. He seemed imprisoned in them, like a boy forced to be a man. 'Drink?' asked Milo. The attorney frowned prudishly. 'I just want to get this over with and get out of here.' 'Sure,' said Milo. 'This has to be ticklish for you.' 'Ticklish? It's a breach of ethics. Violation of confidentiality. If it ever gets out, I'm finished. Be lucky to get work as a paralegal.'
'No reason for it to get out.'
'So you say.' Thin, manicured fingers played with the clasps of the attaché.
'It's tough,' agreed Milo. 'Damned if you do, damned if you don't.'
'Look,' said Balch, 'how was I to know the signature was forged? Mr. Souza vouched for it. Mrs. Cadmus was right there.'
Milo's eyes hardened.
'No one expected you to be a mind reader,' he said. 'Just to follow the goddamn notary rules: No stamp unless you personally witness the signature.'
'But there was absolutely no reason to suspect forgery,' insisted Balch without passion. 'The trust had a routine provision for mental incompetence: transfer of funds back to the guardian upon written request. In view of the beneficiary's mental status, it wasn't illogical for Mr. Cadmus to activate it.'
'For the kid's own good, right?' asked Milo. 'There were documents attached certifying incompetence,' said Balch. 'It wasn't illogical,' he repeated. 'Not illogical,' agreed Milo. 'Just fraudulent.' 'I had no knowledge of that.'
'I believe that,' said Milo. 'You were slipshod, not crooked. That's why I'm giving you an opportunity to do penance.'
Balch looked ill.
'The whole notary thing was a pain in the ass,' he said.
'Souza's idea. He said a trust and estates man should be a notary, in order to streamline things. I thought it more appropriate for a secretary. I should have insisted.'
'Gotta listen to the boss, right?'
'Shit,' muttered the attorney, and looked at Milo's drained gin and tonic.
'Sure you won't have that drink?' asked the detective.
'No - oh, why the hell not? Tanqueray on the rocks with a twist.'
Milo disappeared into the bar and came back with the drink. After loosening his tie, Balch tossed it back quickly.
'It was Nixon who ruined things for notaries, wasn't it?' said Milo. 'Donating all that stuff for tax write-offs, inflating the values - how was the notary supposed to know he'd be liable. I mean, this was the president, the big boss.' He smiled. 'Seems bosses have a way of screwing the little guy over, huh?'
Balch bristled, clearly miffed at being characterized as a little guy. He stirred the ice in his glass and asked:
'What I want to know is how you found out about it.'
'Little birdie with big ears.'
The attorney thought for a while, then groaned.
'Oh, shit. The chauffeur. He was there the whole time, waiting to take Mrs. Cadmus home. I never assumed he was paying attention to what was going on. Should have, the guy always impressed me as a sleaze - how much did you pay him, Sergeant?'
Milo ignored the question.
'Shit,' said Balch, looking ready to cry.
'Think of it this way,' said Milo consolingly. 'There's a positive side. You're the first one in the firm to find out about the boss's imminent decline. Gives you a head start on the job market. Where'd you go to school?'
'Penn.'
'Ivy League. You shouldn't have any problem.'
Balch drew himself up and tried to look dignified.
'I'll be fine, Sergeant. Can we get down to business?'
'Sure. Hand over the stuff; once I'm satisfied everything's there, we'll shake hands like gentlemen.'
'Before I hand over anything, I want your assurance that my name will never come up in any part of your investigation. And that no one will ever know where you got the documents.'
'The case is too hairy for me to promise you anything more than I'll try my best.'
'Not good enough,' snapped Balch.
Mill picked up a lamb bone and gnawed at it.
'How about Cub Scout's honor?' he said, crossing his heart.
'Dammit, I'm serious, Sergeant!'
Milo put one palm on the table and leaned in close, waving the bone like a scimitar. His brows knitted, and the candle highlighted the grease on his lips, creating an altogether menacing visage, a pirate sniffing plunder.
'So am I, Counselor,' he said. 'Dead serious. Now open that goddamn case.'
Chapter 28
WALKING NEXT to Antrim was like wearing a cobra for a necktie. The fact that he was cooperating was singularly unreassuring; I knew what he was capable of in an instant of rage. But his presence was an important part of the setup, and I'd gone too far to turn back.
The decision to use him - and me - had been made after three hours of meetings behind closed doors. Milo had come to my house and told me about it.
'We had him call and say everything was taken care of, but it's only a matter of time before they realize he's been busted. Their kind of money means mobility: Learjets; Swiss accounts; villas on islands that don't extradite – look at Vesco, still out there, flipping off the government. Which means if we don't move fast, we're at risk for losing the big fish.'
'What do you want from me?'
He told me and followed it by assurances not to feel pressured. I considered the alternatives, measured the risks, thought of a 3:00 A.M. crisis call and all that had happened since, and asked: 'When do you want to do it?'
'Tonight.'
They removed Antrim from his cell that evening. Bathed him, fed him, and fetched him coffee. Exchanged his prison jump suit for a full set of livery. Drove him to the cabin in the woods. And when the call had come, he'd handled it with surprising aplomb considering the ring of big, angry men surrounding him. Surprising until you realized that he was a killing machine whose twisted circuitry lacked a conduit for worry or self-doubt. With one exception: an unfathomable vulnerability when it came to a fat, hairless woman.
A police officer had actually driven the Rolls. A tall, thin, moustachioed man who, in the dark, looked enough like Antrim to be his twin. But two blocks from our destination, he'd turned into a Hancock Park cul-de-sac, parked, and stepped out. Within seconds the chauffeur had materialized from behind the trunk of a big maple, in the grip of two plainclothesmen. Uncuffed and unbound. They walked him right up to the open car door, blocking any escape. Let go of him a
nd watched as he slid behind the wheel.
'Drive carefully,' said Milo, lying on the floor of the passenger compartment, the nose of his .38 pressed against the back of the driver's seat. 'One fuck-up, and Ms. Skull does very hard time.'
'Yo,' said the chauffeur casually. He wheeled the big car toward Wilshire, made a quick left turn, cruised for a hundred feet, and turned again, floating smoothly into the circular driveway. A silver Mercedes 380 was already there.
'Okay?' he asked. 'Should I get out?'
'Yeah,' said Milo. 'Remember, all eyes are on you.'
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