“Who says he's a mutual acquaintance?"
“A great deal of evidence, which you will be privileged to examine, should you wish. Also, Kay says."
I took a last drag on the Tareyton, snubbed it out in a tray Whistler pushed toward me. Then I said, “If we should assume I know someone named Romanelle, I doubt that I would have mentioned the name even to so marvelous a researcher as Kay Denver-Dark."
“You didn't. You wouldn't have to. She is very, very good. In only the two short months she's been with me, Kay has impressed me as much as anyone else in the shop. She's the closest thing to my right-hand man that I've ever had at Exposé.” He chuckled. “Make that right-hand person. Wouldn't want to call Kay a male anything, would we, Mr. Scott?"
If it was a question, he didn't wait for an answer. For a slightly sticky moment I wondered if Whistler might already have received the definitive answer to that one from his “right-hand man."
But he was going on, “No, you did not mention the name Romanelle. You did mention a Spree—in fact, you ran a widely seen ad about that money spree. Indeed, Mr. Scott, that is how we became interested in you."
“Whoa. Back up just a little, OK, Mr. Whistler?"
“OK. And make it Steve, please. You don't know it yet, but we're soon going to be ... perhaps friends, certainly associates, pooling our efforts in righteous endeavor."
“Righteous endeavor. You make it sound like we're going to sell tickets to the Christian Olympics. But about that ad. Sure, I'm responsible for it. But that Personal Message didn't appear until Tuesday. And Kay happened upon me in a bar ... well before then...” I stopped, finished lamely, “On Monday."
I was gritting my teeth and nodding as Whistler, now Steve, said, “No reason to kick yourself, Shell. No way you could have guessed we'd know about the ad two hours after you phoned it in, or that very soon afterward I'd have Kay on the next L.A. flight."
“Let me catch up here. I can buy your having a contact at the L.A. Times, one who'd tip you about that Personal Message if it waved red flags at him."
He nodded, smiling slightly, and said, “That's right."
I kept going, “But what red flags were waving? Maybe it wasn't the most clever prose ever written, but I didn't name anybody called Romanelle, and I sure doubt it could have been the spree in money—"
“Shell Scott."
“What?"
“That was the red flag. Shell Scott—your name."
“Come again?"
“A minute ago you asked me to back up a little, Shell. Let me do that now. Keep in mind the megabytes of packed computer memory we've got right here, database access, cross-checked files—and a lot of friends, sources, tipsters, sympathizers. OK, Romanelle was shot, assailants unknown, on Monday, September twenty-fourth. Taken to Scottsdale Memorial, and on the following Sunday was visited in his hospital room by a local attorney, Bentley X. Worthington. Considering our already-active interest in Romanelle—primarily because of his connection with Golden Phoenix—and the super-prestigious nature of Worthington's law firm, that got our attention. The first question we asked was: Why? Why would a hotshot—"
I interrupted. “One quick question before that, all right?"
He nodded impatiently.
“How in hell did you happen to know Worthington visited Romanelle?"
“Shell, that's really not important,” he said, almost with irritation. “But I'll tell you, to spare myself a dozen more questions like it. These things don't just happen, we make them happen. It's our business. OK, Worthington's well known, top law firm, often interviewed on TV, very visible. In this case, one of Romanelle's nurses at Scottsdale Memorial—two-year subscriber to Exposé, by the way—saw Worthington leaving Romanelle's room, the room incidentally of a gunshot victim, and passed that information to us."
He paused, reached for the Tareyton pack, lit up his second smoke, and said, “To save you the trouble, your next question is: Why did she think we'd be interested in info about Romanelle? In this case, simple. Claude Romanelle—along with several other individuals—was mentioned briefly in our last issue. We did a short prelim article on Golden Phoenix Mines, promised an in-depth follow-up to lead off our November issue. That issue will be out in a couple weeks, working on it now."
He pulled open a drawer of his desk, saying, “Here, let me give you a copy of that October issue.” He took out what looked like the standard 8½” by 11” newsletter, opened it to the next-to-the-last page, and handed it to me. The “Journal” was eight pages of fairly small type, and while I glanced at page seven Whistler went on, “We publish on the third Friday of each month, put those eight pages into the mail before locking up that day, a separate Express Mail package to each major city so most subscribers get their copies on the following Monday. Most local subscribers, of course, get theirs on Saturday.” He pointed. “There's the Golden Phoenix article, and the come-on for November in the box."
Enclosed within a black square at the upper right-hand corner of the page, boldface type proclaimed that Exposé's investigative reporters were continuing their research into the past and present, and the future prospects, of Golden Phoenix Mines, Inc., and that results of those labors plus several of “the no-holds-barred interviews you have come to expect from Exposé” would appear in next month's issue.
Top left on the same page, a two-column article was headed “Golden Phoenix—Fool's Gold or .999 Fine?” I skimmed the few paragraphs and noted at the article's end a list of several large shareholders with the number of shares owned by each opposite his name. Seven individuals were listed as owning one million shares each, among them Alda Cimarron, Sylvan Derabian, Phillip Bliss, M.D., and Claude Romanelle. There were three other names, but none of them meant anything to me yet.
Whistler continued, “In checking our file on Worthington, we found that he routinely employs local private investigators to develop information for him. Considering the fact that Romanelle had just been shot by a pair of still-unidentified men, it seemed not unlikely that Worthington might employ such investigators again. However, we also learned that the only out-of-state detective he had used was Sheldon Scott, normally active in the Los Angeles-Hollywood area of California. So your name went onto a list—we pulled a total of fourteen names, by the way, not just yours—which was communicated to a number of our associates and friends. With a request that any information appearing in newspapers, magazines, on television, hearsay, rumor, about you—and, of course those other thirteen names—be immediately transmitted to Exposé."
He paused, head lowered, looking up at me from the sharp pastel-blue eyes. “Are you beginning to understand how I managed to get one of my investigative reporters next to you, hoping to uncover what you were doing for Worthington and determine whether or not it involved Romanelle, well before your money-for-spree ad appeared?"
“Yeah, I am. I'm also beginning to suspect you must spend a fortune keeping those megabytes of memory and a ton of other files up to date."
“We do. Four hundred thousand this year. So far. But we'll spend whatever we have to. Which could be twice our present expenditure if necessary. Our subscriber base is just over eighty thousand and rising, so we're well into the black."
Multiplying eighty thousand subscribers by $300 per subscription told me that Exposé, Inc., had to be grossing around twenty-four million a year, maybe more. Coincidentally, that was almost exactly the total Worthington had said Romanelle's estate amounted to. Which wasn't important, except that it made me think again of Claude Romanelle, and wonder where he was, how he was, and even if he was.
Whistler was saying, “I've explained where I'm coming from at some length so you can be sure I'm not just groping in the dark when I say—for example—that I suspect you're the man who shot Fred Keats last night. But if you did...” He scowled at his desktop, shaking his head slightly, went on, “then there's something very damned puzzling about whatever happened there. Something very strange about the gun that was used to kill him."
>
That jarred me. “How would anybody know what gun was used on this Keats?"
“That's part of the puzzle I'm hoping you can help me clear up. Look, we—that is, I and a very few others here in the shop—know, or can logically assume, that Romanelle hired Worthington, who almost immediately thereafter called you in Los Angeles. You arrived here yesterday, late—but well before Keats was killed. Killed at Romanelle's home, remember. To which home it is almost certain you intended to go, in the company of Claude Romanelle's daughter, or at least a woman you believed to be his daughter. There's a good deal more, but I think here is where we find out if we can work together and make that trade I mentioned. So, one more time: Did you kill Keats?"
“I sure did,” I said. “Shot him three times."
It was right then, just before my answer, with the thought of Exposé's very substantial resources, computers, files, tipsters, and “friends” still in my mind, that I decided to level with Steve Whistler, at least as much as I sensibly could. I needed whatever information he might be able to provide more than he needed answers from me. Moreover, my client's interests, and even—in view of what had happened on Desert Fairways Drive last night—his life, if he still had one, might depend on my getting whatever helpful information I could as quickly as I could.
“That's a start, Shell,” Whistler said matter-of-factly. “OK, my turn. I don't have any idea how the hell it happened, but the gun you used on Keats is the same one that put a bullet into Claude Romanelle on Monday, ten days ago."
“I'll be goddamned.” I paused, thinking about it, then went the rest of the way. “I took that piece from a long lanky cowboy type shortly after I happened to produce some unconsciousness in him and a friend of his. Name was Jay Groder. He and his black friend both split before I got back to them."
“A black? Young good-looking guy about thirty?” I nodded and Whistler said, “Andy Foster, probably."
“Not probably, for sure. Andrew H. Foster according to his ID. What's the evidence that Romanelle was shot with the gun I took from Groder?"
“Romanelle was shot three times, but only one bullet stayed in him, the one serious hit he took in his middle. Police got that bullet from the surgeon, of course. When Keats was shot—in Romanelle's home—they naturally compared that bullet on file with the three in Keats. Presto. Same gun."
“Uh-huh. Next thing. I don't know where the hell Romanelle is, and I very much want to find the man. If you know where he might be, or can give me any help locating him, I'll owe you."
Whistler shook his head. “No idea. Wish I did. So do the police, by the way."
“Cops? Why do they ...?” I stopped, swore softly. “Don't tell me they think he might have killed Keats?"
“They sure do. And they are attempting, with considerable industry, to find him."
“But why would the cops think he could have shot Keats with the gun somebody used to plug him?"
“That's part of their puzzle. We've got puzzles within puzzles here. They think Romanelle can tell them how it happened, once they arrest him. After all, it happened in his house. The body was there. Romanelle was not. And that's enough for them right now."
I was doing a great job for my client. Now I had all of Maricopa County's law looking for him. Actually, of course, they were really looking for me, even if they didn't know it yet. Which wasn't a very comforting thought, either.
I said, “So far I'm tuned in to Groder, Foster, and Keats. Who the hell are these guys? The Arizona Mafia?"
“Not quite. They're all associated, one way or another, with Alda Cimarron. Or with Cimarron Enterprises. I'll let you take a look at our paper files on them.” He pressed his intercom switch and said, “Send Weinstein in here, please,” then started writing the names I'd mentioned on a white pad.
“Add this Cimarron, will you? And a doctor named Robert Simpson, if you've got one. Romanelle, too, if it's no problem."
“No sweat,” he said cheerfully.
A short, very young-looking man with a whole lot of hair and a very faint wispy mustache came in rapidly, took the paper Whistler handed him, spun around like a military cadet, and marched out.
“He one of your privates?” I asked Steve.
“Embryo general. That kid's got his eye on tomorrow. IQ about one-eighty, by the way.” While waiting for General Weinstein to come back, Whistler said, “You worked for Worthington twice before, didn't you?"
“Right. I also got involved in another case, here in Arizona, when I thought I was vacationing at Mountain Shadows."
“We know all about that—the Sunrise Villas thing, wasn't it?"
“Yeah. Your information's pretty good."
“Very good. We've got quite a file on you now."
“Swell. Where do I send the blackmail payments?"
Perhaps it was fate. Or cosmic coincidence. Or merely interesting timing. Whatever the reason, it was at that precise moment, when we were discussing Exposé's “file” on me and my various activities, that there was the sound of rapid footsteps outside Whistler's office, then the door was pushed open and she—who? You guessed? Yes, she—came inside.
I cranked my head around to see the tall dark-haired lovely taking two energetic strides forward, accompanied by a number of deliciously feminine wigglings and jigglings, especially when she came to a sudden stop. Yes, it was Kay Denver-Dark, the lady who had succumbed so enthusiastically to my charms, helpless in the grip of my hypnotic power.
She looked straight at me, her eyes wide, mouth forming an “O"—as in “Oh-oh!”—while slowly all that jiggling and wiggling ceased, as though all the separate acts in a little aphrodisiacal circus were simultaneously expiring.
But only for about half a second. Then, again, the whistles blew and calliopes played and the clowns swung from their trapezes as she took two more quick steps straight toward me, those wild lips curving in a smile of—what? Welcome? Greeting? Reunion? Baloney?
“Shell!” she cried. “What a wonderful surprise!"
Chapter Twelve
I said, “No kidding, ma'am?” and “I know you, you're Kay something,” and “You're looking as healthy as wheat germ, kid,” while she chattered several phrases of absolutely no consequence either, and then Steve Whistler was standing behind his desk saying, “Kay, dear, when did you get back? I'll bet it was just now, what? Well, Kay, Shell, I won't introduce you two—"
“No,” I said.
And Kay finished it, “We've met."
During the next minute, General Weinstein zipped in, placed a foot-high stack of thick file folders on Whistler's desk, spun around and zipped out before I could salute him. Steve barked into his intercom for “Hot coffee, hot, hot,” Kay shuffled idly through those files the general had delivered, and I stopped putting words together audibly but in no particular order and just sat there scratching my chest.
Then the coffee arrived, and Steve, with one long cigarette smoldering in his ashtray, lit another and said to Kay, “I've been trying to convince Shell we should all work together. We could make the Exposé resources available to him, and he can fill us in with whatever he comes up with. I think we'd make a good team on this thing."
“Oh, I'd like that,” Kay said sincerely. “That is, if...” She was looking at what appeared to be a spot in the air exactly halfway between Steve and me, and she rolled her eyes left at Steve, then right toward me, and finished, “...if Shell can ever forgive me."
By then she was looking straight at me, and sending me some kind of significant message with her lips. Morse code, maybe. At least, it looked like three dots and a dash. Whatever that was. Maybe those familiar chords from Beethoven's Fifth, the way they would look if you couldn't hear them.
“Oh...” I said. “Forgive? Well, I'll think about it. Yeah, I'll think about it a lot."
I had a sip of my coffee, which must have been condensed from pure steam instants before they brought it in here. Burned my tongue severely. Which reminded me. “Hell, you're forgiven,” I said li
ghtly, waving my tongue in the air to cool it off.
“Oh, good,” Kay trilled. “I knew you weren't the kind of man to hold a grudge against me, Shell."
“To what?"
“I'm glad that's settled,” Steve said, apparently referring to some other conversation.
“After all, Shell,” Kay continued, “when Steve sent me to Los Angeles to find you, talk to you—"
“When you volunteered, dear,” Steve said.
“Yes, when I volunteered to do it—because I thought I might be able to pull off another coup—"
“To what?” I said again.
“—and prove I can compete with the men reporters ... well, Shell, I didn't know you then. Once I actually met you, and found out what a sweet, fun person you were—are—then it was ... too late. I mean, I couldn't unvolunteer then, could I?"
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I guess. Would you run that by me again?"
She turned to look at Whistler. “He knows the whole thing, doesn't he?"
“Just about."
“Did you show him my report?"
“Not yet."
“Oh, good."
“But I think that's a fine suggestion."
“Oh, no. No, it's not a suggestion."
“Yes, a capital idea."
“Steve, I'd rather you didn't. After all, it's so ... cold."
“Nonsense, Kay, you did an absolutely terrific job. It's the best way I can think of to demonstrate quickly to Shell our thoroughness, the lengths we'll go to in order to get the job done, how we pull widely separated pieces together from a number of different sources until, presto, a significant picture or pattern begins to appear. Yes, that's capital. Particularly if we're going to be working together."
He stood up, started to turn.
“Steve,” Kay said, her voice a little shrill, “it's a bad idea. Don't. I—I insist."
Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 18