Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Ramp never mentioned knowing McCloskey more than casually.”

  “He knew him all right, though from what I hear they weren’t good buddies.”

  Milo raised his briefcase to his lap, opened it, searched, and came up with a brown marbled-paper folder. Inside was a black-and-white photograph with the Apex Studios snowy-mountain logo on the lower-right margin. The shot had been taken at some kind of nightclub— or maybe it was just a set. Fluted leather booth, mirrored wall, white-linened table, silver service, crystal ashtrays and cigarette boxes. Half a dozen good-looking people in their early twenties wearing stylish evening clothes. Smiling photogenically and smoking and raising glasses in a toast.

  Gina Prince nÉe Paddock sat dead center, blond and beautiful, in an off-the-shoulder gown that photographed gray, and a pearl choker that emphasized the length and smoothness of her neck. The resemblance to Melissa was striking.

  Don Ramp next to her, husky and tan and healthy-looking, sans mustache. Joel McCloskey on her other side, slick-haired and handsome— almost pretty. His smile was different from those of the others. Outsider’s uncertain grin. A cigarette between his fingers was burned down nearly to the filter.

  Two other faces— a man and a woman— that I didn’t recognize. And one, at the far end, that I did.

  “This,” I said, pointing to a sharp-featured brunette in a dangerously low-cut black dress, “is Bethel Drucker. Noel’s mother. She’s blond now, but this is her— I just met her today. She works for Ramp as a waitress at his restaurant. She and Noel live upstairs.”

  “My, my,” said Milo. “One big happy family.” He pulled another piece of paper out of the briefcase. “Let’s see, she must be Becky Dupont. Nom du cinÉma.” Leaning forward, he took hold of a corner of the photo. “Good-looking woman. Voluptuous.”

  “She still is.”

  “Good-looking or voluptuous?”

  “Both. Though she shows some wear.”

  He looked toward the kitchen, where Joyce was working next to the chef. “Must be the day for voluptuous. Tell you one thing, old Becky/Bethel liked her dope. Downers and Quaaludes, according to my sources. Not that you need sources— look at those eyes.”

  I peered closely at the finely wrought face and saw what he meant. Wide, dark eyes half-closed, the lids sagging. The bit of iris visible, dull and dreamy and distant. Unlike McCloskey’s, her smile reflected genuine bliss. But the amusement had nothing to do with the party at hand.

  “It fits,” I said, “with something Noel said to me today. About always knowing drugs were bad. He started to explain, then changed his mind and said he’d read about it. He’s a really intense kid, very straitlaced and self-directed— almost too good to be true. If he grew up seeing what wild living did to his mom, that could explain it. Something about him got my antennae buzzing— maybe that was it.”

  I gave him back the photo. Before he put it away, he took another look. “So. Looks like everyone knows everyone knows everyone, and Hollywood has sunk its fangs into San Labrador.”

  “What about the other two people in the picture?”

  “The guy is one of my sources, to remain unnamed. The girl is a would-be starlet named Stacey Brooks. Deceased— car crash, 1971, probable DUI. Like I said, a wild bunch.”

  “Those ancillary services they provided to the studio,” I said. “That mean the casting couch?”

  “That and related stuff— crowd scenes at various parties, dating potential backers and other pooh-bahs. Basically being available to satisfy a variety of appetites. Ramp was especially versatile— handsome escort for the ladies, sub rosa amusement for the gentlemen. He was a cooperative fellow, did what he was told. The studio rewarded him with a few parts— mostly minor roles in westerns and cop flicks.”

  “What about McCloskey?”

  “My sources remember him as a swaggering tough-guy type. Bargain-basement Brando, toothpick in the mouth, always hinting at pals in New Joisey, but never really fooling anyone. Also, he hated gays, didn’t hesitate to say so without being asked. Maybe it was real, maybe he was latent and protesting too much. No one seems to have a clear handle on who he went to bed with other than Gina. What they do remember are his obnoxious personality and his heavy doping— speed, coke, grass, pills. For a while, when his business was failing, he got into dealing. Supplying people at the studio. Then trading modeling services for dope— that finished his agency off. The models wanted to get paid in cash and he didn’t have any.”

  “Did he ever get busted for dealing?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just wondering if Gina might have had something to do with getting him in trouble with the law. Or if he thought she had. It would have been a reason to have her burned.”

  “Yeah, it sure would, but no dope record— no previous arrests of any kind before the attack.”

  Joyce brought bread. When she left, I said, “How about this, then: His homophobia was a cover for his being gay. Gina found out and they had some kind of confrontation over it. Maybe she even threatened to blow his tough-guy cover. It set McCloskey off and he hired Findlay to get her. It would explain why he refused to talk about his motives. It would have humiliated him.”

  “Could be,” he said. “But then why wouldn’t she have let the cat out?”

  “Good question.”

  “Maybe,” he said, “it was something a lot more simple: McCloskey and Gina and Ramp got involved in a triangle and McCloskey eventually freaked out. Remember the way they were sitting in the picture? She’s the meat in the sandwich. In any event, it’s probably ancient history. Probably has nothing to do with her disappearance, other than telling us something about Mr. R.”

  “Prosperous businessman trying to forget about providing ancillary services.”

  “Yeah. Even when we were looking for his wife, and McCloskey was a potential suspect, he didn’t talk about the bad old days. Even though he was the one pointing a finger at McCloskey. You’d think he’d want to tell us anything that could help find her.”

  “Unless there was nothing to tell,” I said. “If Gina never knew why McCloskey burned her, why would Ramp?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “What is clear is that Gina had to be aware of Ramp’s sexuality when she married him. Bi guys aren’t considered prime matrimonial material nowadays— the physical risk on top of the social. But that didn’t stop her.”

  “Separate bedrooms,” I said. “No risk.”

  “Yeah, but what’s his allure for her?”

  “He’s a nice guy. Tolerant of her lifestyle, so she puts up with his. And he does appear to be a softie— taking in an old friend like Bethel, paying for Noel’s college. Maybe after all the brutality Gina experienced, she wanted compassion more than sex.”

  “Old friend,” he said. “Wonder how Bethel feels about hopping tables while her former buddies live in the Peach Palace.”

  “Noel hinted that he and his mom had been through some really hard times. Hopping tables might very well be a big step up.”

  “Suppose so,” he said, taking a piece of bread.

  I said, “You keep coming back to Ramp.”

  “I went down to the beach today to talk to Nyquist, and the place was cleaned out. Neighbor said Nyquist packed his van last night and headed out for parts unknown. The Brentwood Country Club says he didn’t show up for some tennis lessons he was supposed to give today, didn’t bother to call in.”

  “Ramp’s folding his tent, too. Asked Noel to pack him a bag. Maybe it’s the trauma of losing Gina— he’s tired of all the pretense. But it’ll be interesting to see if he eventually files a claim against the will or cashes in on some insurance policy no one knew existed. Not to mention the missing two million— who’d be in a better position to siphon that off than the husband?”

  “Melissa’s suspicions validated,” he said.

  “Out of the mouths of babes. Ramp’s presence is accounted for the day Gina disappeared. But what about Todd? Maybe he seduced her t
o get closer to the two million. In any event, he’s someone she would have picked up if his car broke down near the house and she saw him thumbing. And now he and Ramp are both on the move.”

  “Ramp’s still around. I drove by his restaurant before I stopped by the house. His Mercedes was in the lot and I peeked my head in. He was out cold— stinking drunk, Bethel clucking over him like a mama hen. I left and parked across the street, observed the place for a while. No sign of Nyquist.”

  “One thing, Milo. If Ramp’s planning an escape, why would he tell me and telegraph it?”

  “No,” he said. “That wasn’t telegraphing— that was covering. Giving himself a plausible motive for leaving: overwhelmed with grief, the poor sucker left with nothing. So no one’ll suspect Tahiti with Todd. Not that anyone’s likely to suspect him, anyway. Officially, no crime’s been committed. And as a one-man shop, I’m spread too thin to check him out while looking for Nyquist and doing the number Melissa wants me to do on Anger and Douse. I can’t justify telling her Ramp’s a higher priority than Anger and Douse, because I’ve got nothing to back me up, and those two are already moving against her. Also, it would most likely freak her out even further, and I don’t see that being constructive right now, do you?”

  “No.”

  He thought for a while. “What I’m gonna do is make a call. Someone I know who happens to have a real private-eye’s license but doesn’t use it much. Not too brilliant or creative. But patient. He can keep an eye on Big Don while I hit the financial trail.”

  “What about Nyquist?”

  “Nyquist is unlikely to make a move without Ramp.”

  The food came. Milo cut, chewed, said, “They sure know how to do their tri-G’s.”

  We ate for a few minutes.

  “My turn,” I said.

  “One sec,” he said. “Got a couple more tidbits— related to Gina’s first husband, Dickinson. Remember Anger’s crack about off-the-rack suits? Turns out the reason Dickinson couldn’t wear one is he was a dwarf.”

  “I know. I found a picture of him.”

  Surprise brightened his eyes. “Where?”

  “At the house. Up in the third-floor attic.”

  “Little freelance archaeology? Good for you,” he said. “I couldn’t find any pictures of him at all. What’d he look like?”

  I described Arthur Dickinson and Gina as a mummy bride.

  “Weird,” he said. “First hubby an old gnome, second one full-sized but interested in boys. All in all, I’d say the lady wasn’t oriented toward the physical.”

  “Agoraphobia,” I said. “The classical Freudian explanation says it’s a symptom of sexual repression.”

  “You buy that?”

  “Not in all cases, but maybe this one. It supports my theory of Gina’s marrying Ramp because of a need for friendship. The fact that they used to know each other helped their rapport along— once Melissa put them in touch with each other. Old friends reattaching, mutual needs— happens all the time.”

  “I’ve got more,” he said, “on Arthur. Seems, in addition to making a fortune with the strut, he also dabbled in the movies. From the financial end. And some of the deals he did were with Apex Studios. So far I haven’t been able to connect him to any film Gina or Ramp or any of the other pretty faces worked on, or find proof that he knew them prior to McCloskey’s trial. But I’d say it’s a decent possibility.”

  “The old Chief Justice Rag,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jim Douse’s uncle was Chief Justice Douse.”

  “Hammerin’ Harmon?” said Milo. “Yeah, I remember Anger saying that. So what?”

  “Didn’t he sit on the court when McCloskey came to trial?”

  He thought. “When was that—’69? No, Harmon was gone by then. The soft-hearted guys were already taking over. When Harmon ran things, the apple-green room was real busy.”

  “Even so,” I said, “as chief justice emeritus, he’d have plenty of residual clout. And Arthur Dickinson was a client of his firm. What if Jacob Dutchy’s being chosen for the McCloskey jury wasn’t coincidence?”

  “What if,” he said, then repeated it. “You do love your conspiracies, lad.”

  “Life’s robbed me of my innocence.”

  He smiled and cut more steak. “So what does any of it have to do with our lady in the lake?”

  “Maybe nothing. But why don’t you ask McCloskey? Given what we know, maybe you can open him up. Maybe he needs opening up. Despite all our theories about complex financial motives, maybe what happened to Gina just boils down to simple revenge. McCloskey let his anger stew for nineteen years, finally reverted to type and paid someone to get her.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I do believe the guy’s pretty much of a zero, mentally. And from what I’ve been able to find out, he has no known associates— just hangs out at the mission and plays penitent.”

  “Suppose the operative word is plays. Even bad actors can improve over time.”

  “True. Okay, yeah, I’ll give him another chance at confession. Tonight. Can’t do the financial thing anyway till the banks open.”

  Joyce came over to see how we were doing. Our compliments made her glow. At least someone’s day had been made. She brought us coffee and dessert on the house. Milo forked a piece of double chocolate cake and said, “Great. Fabulous. Best I ever had,” and she turned incandescent.

  When she finally left us, he said, “Okay, your turn.”

  I told him the value of the Cassatt.

  “Two-fifty,” he said. “Hell of a transference— that what you guys call it?”

  I nodded. “It smells bad. And I’m probably not the only one who suspects the Gabneys of something fishy.”

  I recounted what I’d learned about Kathy Moriarty.

  “A reporter, huh?”

  “An investigative reporter. According to her sister, she really loved conspiracies, spent her life chasing them down. And she’s from New England— worked in Boston, the Gabneys’ old stamping grounds. Which leads me to suspect she learned about something they did back there and came to L.A. to check it out. Passed herself off as an agoraphobic and joined the group in order to spy and collect dirt.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” he said, “but they’re ultra high-priced. Who paid Moriarty’s therapy bills?”

  “Her sister said Kathy was always hitting her up for money.”

  “That kind of money?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she had someone behind her, a newspaper or a publisher— she’s written a book. Meanwhile, she hasn’t been heard from in over a month. That makes two out of four group members gone. Though in Kathy’s case, the sister says that’s typical. But one thing’s for certain— she was no agoraphobic. She had to be spying on the Gabneys.”

  “What you’re setting up,” he said, “is financial scam number two. The Gabneys looting Gina, just like Anger and the lawyer.”

  “Three, if you include Ramp and Nyquist.”

  “Step right up,” he said. “Jab a needle into the rich lady’s vein.”

  “Forty million dollars,” I said, “equals pretty big veins. Even the two million would have been enough to get the gears turning. I especially like the Gabneys, because of the Kathy Moriarty angle. Their move from Boston to L.A.— maybe it was out of necessity, avoiding a scandal.”

  “Harvard avoiding a scandal.”

  I nodded. “Even more reason to cover it up. But Kathy Moriarty picked up the trail somehow and decided to follow it.”

  Milo ate some more cake, licked his lips, said, “From what you told me, the Gabneys were pretty well regarded professionally.”

  “Very well regarded. Leo Gabney would probably be on any psychologist’s list of the top ten living behavioral experts. And as a Ph.D.-M.D., Ursula could write her own ticket. But even a successful therapist’s earning power is limited. You’re selling time, and there are just so many billable hours. Even at what they charge, it would take a hell of a lot of hours t
o earn a Cassatt. Also, Leo struck me as a bitter man. The first time I met him he spoke of losing his son in a fire. The wound had clearly never healed. He blamed it on the judge giving custody to his wife. On the entire legal system. Maybe he deals with his anger by defying that system.”

  “Crime as personal vengeance,” he said. “The thrill— sure, why not. What about Ursula— she have some axe to grind?”