by Alan Russell
The detective led them to an elevator. “Ground rules,” he said. “You can look over the case file, as well as Kingsbury’s notes and the questionnaires, but no copies. Not even any notes.”
“Why?” asked Am.
“Because this is an active homicide investigation,” McHugh said, though by the tone of his voice he might just as well have said, ‘Because I said so.’
On the ride up, the detective decided to elaborate a little more. “This information is sensitive, and nothing is attributable, even to that reporter you were playing footsies with at the press conference.
“Speaking of which, Caulfield,” said McHugh, “couldn’t you have been a little more generous with that food you served? Those reporters didn’t even leave crumbs for me.”
They got out of the elevator and the detective led them to what must have been an interrogation room, told them to sit there, and went to get the promised material. When he returned, McHugh dropped the stack of questionnaires, loudly, onto the table. Then, ignoring Am’s outstretched hand, he tossed the investigative reports and Kingsbury’s notes atop the questionnaires. He also tossed a bone.
“Talked with your two birds this afternoon,” he said. “That’s why I was a little late. I’d say they’re both guilty.”
It took Am a moment to figure out that the detective was referring to Skylar and Brother Howard. “How could they both be guilty?” asked Am.
“Guilty of being con artists,” said McHugh. “Guilty of being liars. Guilty of being greedy slugs. And it wouldn’t surprise me if one of them is guilty of murdering Doc Kingsbury.”
He walked to the door of the conference room, warned Am and Hiroshi once more not to make notes, and said that if he suspected them of trying to smuggle anything out they’d be subject to full body searches, “including any and all cavities.” He closed the door firmly behind him.
Hiroshi, for one, believed him. “Please do not try to leave with anything,” he said.
“Only my dignity,” said Am, even if he suspected that was wishful thinking.
Chapter Forty-Six
Bradford Beck had gotten a glimpse into a world very different from the Scottsdale country-club set he was used to. It had scared the hell out of him.
He hadn’t known that the police had no intention of booking him. They had put him in holding (along with mostly drunks), ostensibly as a preliminary to processing him. In reality, he was under observation of sorts. If he acted truly bonkers, they’d take him for a ride to county mental health. If he acted no crazier than most who were behind bars, they’d kick him.
Bradford tried to make himself invisible to everyone in the holding tank, or as invisible as possible with bright-red pajamas. He sat in a corner and came to life only when someone resembling SDPD came around, at which time he was extremely unctuous. That was probably one of the reasons he got kicked early. Cops aren’t very fond of gratuitous ass-kissers. Better to be cursed, in their opinion, than to get too many “Yes, sirs” and “Thank you, officers.” Bradford’s release didn’t come quite in time. Before he left, one of his roommates threw up on his calfskin loafers. Though Bradford tried to wash the shoes at a water fountain, he couldn’t seem to rinse off the smell. The damnedest thing was that despite the vomit and rinsing, the shine on the shoes was still something to behold.
People’s idea of heaven can radically change at any given time. After his experience, Bradford couldn’t imagine anything more pleasurable than taking a bath. He didn’t care if his room was a shambles. He didn’t care if the staff at the Hotel was insolent and uncaring. After being thrown in with hardened criminals and felons (so he thought), and being afraid for his own life, he was ready to be more accepting. And besides, that itch in his groin area was driving him crazy. He had been afraid to scratch in the holding tank, afraid to give others ideas. But a bath and a good scratch—that was heaven. That was all he could ask for.
He had a hell of a time getting a taxi to stop for him, had to show his cash and promise a sizable tip before the driver would consent to take him, and even then the man had an attitude. The cabbie kept pointedly sniffing the air, and made a point of opening his window and keeping his nose out of the cab as much as possible.
Bradford was probably the first person in the Hotel’s history to be dropped off wearing pajamas. He ran ashamedly up to his room. When he opened the door, Bradford immediately sensed something was wrong. The room smelled . . . nice. There was a spring scent in the air, the fragrance of pine needles and lavender. Afraid that he was walking into the wrong room, Bradford double-checked the room number to make sure he wasn’t breaking and entering. It was 212.
Everything was immaculate. This was the room he had expected the day before. The sliding glass doors were so clean as to be almost invisible, and beyond them was the ocean, blue, and immense, and inviting. For a moment Bradford forgot about his itch. He went to the sliding glass doors, girded himself for a mighty tug, but only had to use his index finger to throw the doors open. The ocean breeze kissed him lightly. The sun was getting lower in the horizon, was already casting a red tint to the clouds. A spectacular sunset was in the offing.
Bradford walked back inside the room and looked around. There was a fruit basket, by God, on the table, with a card that read, Compliments of the Management. Bradford remembered how hungry he was, and quickly chewed down an apple, then sucked on an orange. He walked around the room and was amazed at the difference. It was now light and cheery and bright and . . . expensive. The trappings were those of glossy magazines: solid wood and comfortable chintz and live plants and original artwork, with the backdrop of the immense Pacific. It was the picture postcard he had so wanted.
Somewhat dazed, he ran a bath. It was like one of those fairy tales, he thought, where the elves had come and in a very few hours had transformed a setting. The sunken tub filled with water. The Hotel offered not one, but two kinds of bath gelée. Suds frothed everywhere. Before easing himself into the water, Bradford removed his offensive lizard-skin shoes and placed them on the balcony. He wanted to let the ocean breeze work its wonders on them, had the distinct feeling that in a few hours they’d smell as good as they looked. Bradford took off his soiled clothes, threw them in one of the valet bags, then sank down into the tub. This was beyond ecstasy. He scratched and scratched. Almost, he was able to relieve himself of that damned itch.
He had no desire to get out of the tub. Periodically, with a twist of his foot, he treated himself to some more hot water. When he had left the room that morning, the bathroom hadn’t even had a towel (not to mention any toilet paper). Now there was a rack full of thick towels, and two full inviting terrycloth robes. A fat amenity basket had magically appeared, whereas before there hadn’t even been soap in the room. There was even a telephone in the bathroom, Bradford noticed. And it was apparently working, to judge by the flashing red message light.
Bradford reached for the phone, and punched the key for messages. A pleasant and mellifluous voice told him he had one message. Mozart played a short prelude, and then he heard Cleo talking. Her message was brief: “Don’t ever try to communicate with me again, you swine.”
He sighed. The best laid plans, he thought. And then he started scratching. That damn itch was back.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“It’s hard being positive,” said Am, “with only one B positive.”
Hiroshi didn’t seem to be sharing his gloom. They were driving back to the Hotel and the Fat Innkeeper was once again intent on seeing the scenery.
Les (“that’s my real name, honest”) Moore had been the only B positive in the entire group of questionnaires. Am didn’t see how the New Jersey CPA could have had anything to do with Dr. Kingsbury’s death. Boring people to death would have been Moore’s way, not poisoning them.
Am had thought there would be several B positives (statistically there should have been two or three out of the sixty, dammit), and had hoped the identity of the murderer would suddenly be obvious, would ju
mp out at him. Now the only thing jumping out at him was his gloom. It was time to bring his investigation to a close and hope the police could do better. He’d go through the process of interviewing Moore, probably be forced into hearing more details of his near-death experience, and then he’d slip into a deep depression. Intuitively, Am knew Moore hadn’t killed Kingsbury. He wished he’d been as intuitive about B positive.
“The gold rush,” said Hiroshi, “occurred in California in eighteen forty-nine, did it not?”
“Uh-huh,” said Am distractedly. “Not here, though. It happened in northern California, around Fort Sutter.”
“San Diego has no gold?”
“Not too much of the ore variety,” said Am. “There are a few tired veins around Julian and Campo. That’s about it.”
“How is it then,” asked Hiroshi, “that in Dr. Kingsbury’s room they found traces of gold?”
Am looked at the Fat Innkeeper. While he had been busy going through the questionnaires, and trying to decipher Kingsbury’s illegible handwriting, Hiroshi had started reading the investigative reports.
“Traces of gold?” Am repeated.
Hiroshi nodded.
“Where were they found?”
“In the carpeting. Several flakes.”
Am wished he had read the case file. He had thought his answers would be found in the questionnaires or the doctor’s notes, hadn’t considered they might emerge elsewhere. “Did the police theorize where the gold came from?”
“There was no conjecture in the pages I read,” said Hiroshi.
“The doctor was fond of a certain drink called Goldschläger,” Am said. “There’s actual gold flakes in it.”
“Gold in a drink?” asked Hiroshi. It didn’t make sense to the Japanese man, but then he probably wouldn’t have understood about pet rocks either.
“You’d have to try it,” Am said, but he was thinking about something else, something he should have considered earlier. Just how had Thomas Kingsbury been poisoned?
“Gold flakes in a drink,” repeated Hiroshi. “Isn’t gold toxic?”
“It damn well can be,” Am said.
Someone must have doctored Kingsbury’s bottle of Goldschläger. No, that wouldn’t have been certain enough. Someone must have hand-delivered him a potassium-cyanide cocktail. With all the gold floating around, the doctor wouldn’t have noticed a few white flakes. By all accounts, Kingsbury didn’t sip this particular drink. He would have downed the poison and the drink in a single gulp.
Annette responded to the gas. The speedometer rose from sixty to seventy, then to eighty, and kept rising. She started to make sounds. For the last ten years she had never been pushed beyond sixty-five. Hiroshi looked at Am with alarm.
“I think I know who murdered Dr. Kingsbury,” Am said. Then, to Annette, “We’re going to the beach.”
The old woody rattled but held. Anyone who regularly travels Southern California freeways is used to seeing unusual sights, but this one was worth taking notice: a woody that was almost half a century old was racing for all she was worth toward home. Most of those in the fast lane gave the right of way to Annette. It was a good thing. Her brakes had always been iffy, and no one would mistake her handling for that of a sports car.
“Why this hurry?” asked Hiroshi, clearly alarmed. His inquiry was voiced just before they took the Ardath exit going eighty miles an hour. Between them and a long drop to some intersecting freeways below was a guardrail, one they came perilously close to slamming into.
Am answered the question after getting Annette more centered on the asphalt. “Marisa is talking with Lady Death,” he said.
The Fat Innkeeper had no idea what Am was talking about, looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “My reporter friend is interviewing Angela Holliday,” Am said. “The murderer. At least, I think so.”
“Ah,” said Hiroshi. He didn’t relax, but at least seemed to understand.
Lady Death had told Am that she had filled out one of Kingsbury’s questionnaires, had even described how they had gotten together for drinks before the conference so that they could talk. Her questionnaire hadn’t been among those in Kingsbury’s room. For some reason, she must have retrieved it. For likely the same reason, she had also murdered Dr. Kingsbury. The doctor had even made a reference to his meeting with Angela Holliday. He had told Skylar he had “a date with deceitful destiny.” What did that mean? As for the supposed break-in of her room, Lady Death had probably seen Am and Marisa drinking in the Lobby Lounge and been curious.
Marisa, he thought, more alarmed than ever.
Annette was losing power on the ascent up Ardath. “Come on,” said Am, “come on.”
She pushed up and over the rise. Glistening far below was the ocean and La Jolla Strand.
“Hold on,” Am warned Hiroshi.
The descent into La Jolla is often backed up with traffic. As Ardath merges with Torrey Pines Road, there is the inevitable gridlock. Neither Am nor Annette were going to be denied on this day, though. They didn’t slow up, found open spots where none seemed to exist. Am knew the illegal shortcuts and used them, sailed through a gas station’s parking lot and then through an alley behind a restaurant. Hiroshi’s eyes were closed. He was holding the dashboard very tightly.
Am was afraid of more than crashing. What if Marisa had mentioned to Lady Death that he was searching for their B-positive murderer? It seemed unlikely. Marisa hadn’t been looking forward to the interview, had probably kept the casual conversation to a minimum. He doubted it was the kind of thing she would volunteer anyway, but he was still afraid for her. It was a hell of a time, Am thought, to learn just how much he cared.
He sailed through a red light, then, to the loud blaring of horns, turned west toward the ocean. It wouldn’t do to park in front of the Hotel, not when every moment might count. The fastest way to the Crown Jewel Suite called for an unusual route.
On the south side of the Hotel is a boat-launching area that’s open to the public, where four-wheel-drive vehicles pull their boats out to the water. It’s the only place on the La Jolla Strand where it is legal to drive onto the sand, and even at that, the course is very regulated. Am had another path in mind.
His turn into the boat launch thruway was too wide and too fast. In desperation, Am slammed on the brakes. Annette fishtailed, spinning out to a gravel pathway. The woody’s gymnastics spared her a collision into a boat trailer by inches. Hiroshi tried to say something to Am, but he wasn’t listening. His only focus was on swinging Annette’s wheel around and pressing forward again. The Fat Innkeeper had apparently had enough. He opened the door and jumped out.
Squeezing by the boat trailer and truck, Annette shot ahead toward the sand. The ride rapidly got bumpy. The beach was covered with seaweed. Too late, Am realized the reason. The tide was high. Very high.
He steered Annette toward the seawall, but not in time. A wave crashed into Annette’s side. Her beloved ocean pushed into her. For a moment, Am let up on the gas pedal, and that was a mistake. The water pooled around the wheels, and Annette sank into the La Jolla Strand equivalent of quicksand. Am pushed hard on the gas, but her tires only dug deeper holes.
Am jumped out of Annette, gave her one last forlorn look. She reminded him of something. Then he remembered. She looked like another beached whale.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The interview had gone far better than Marisa had expected. Angela Holliday had opened up to her, had given her more than sound bites. She hadn’t pulled out her damn hourglass, and hadn’t acted as if Marisa were just one in a line to get a few quotes out of her. They had far exceeded the half-hour time limit, but weren’t close to running out of things to say. Their talk wasn’t a one-way conversation. Angela asked questions of Marisa, learned about her life outside of her stories (“Sometimes,” Marisa had said, “I wonder if there is one”), and her goals.
By mutual consent, the two women had decided to watch the sunset together. It was, said Lady Death, her favori
te time of the day.
“Anthropologists say that among tribal people the twilight is a time for quiet,” Angela said. “When the sun is setting, there is a melancholy that comes over them. The term for it is ‘Hesperian depression.’ It is a time they think about their mortality.”
“You’ve thought about that more than most,” said Marisa.
“Yes.”
The congruence of water and sun, of boiling horizon, was still a few minutes away. “Would you like a drink?” asked Lady Death. “I’ve recently become enamored of this rather exotic schnapps called Goldschläger . . . ”
“I tried it for the first time last night!” said Marisa. “I’d love one.”
The drinks were served, and a toast was made: “To new horizons,” said Lady Death.
Marisa had never learned to shoot drinks. She sipped hers, and watched the sunset. The two women were contemplating those thoughts that sunsets bring when the interruption occurred. One moment their attention was on the ethereal, and the next it was on a woody being wildly driven along the beach. A woody. Marisa got up and looked for a camera crew. Sometimes Hollywood comes to San Diego’s beaches to do filming. But there were no cameras, just a chariot of the surf-gods mired in the sands.
The driver jumped out of his wood-paneled wagon, and gave it a desperate look. Marisa had expected a teenager, but this was no youth. Even from seven stories up, the figure looked familiar. When he turned around, Marisa knew who the crazy driver was. “Am,” she shouted, “Am!”
He yelled up to her, screamed, “Don’t,” but she couldn’t be sure of what else he said. He shouted a second time, but she still couldn’t make out his words. Then he yelled, “I’m coming up,” vaulted up the beach stairs, and passed from her sight.
“Did you hear what he was yelling?” asked Marisa.
“He said he was coming up.”
“No,” said Marisa. “Before that.”