“Which one?”
“John Klinghurst.”
“That asshole. You a friend of his?”
“No, I’m not.”
“What are you then?”
“A private investigator. I—”
“Hah!” she said, and I couldn’t tell if she meant anything by it or not. “I don’t have time to stand around and chew the fat. I’m going to the market. You want to ask me questions, you’ll have to walk along with me.”
She didn’t wait for an answer; she pushed past me — energetically, not rudely — and went down the steps and set off at a brisk pace. I had to hustle to catch up with her. She was short and she took short strides, but she covered a lot of ground in a hurry.
“Market’s three blocks,” she said. “Think you can keep up?”
“No problem.” But I had to work a little just the same.
“Walking’s good for you. Good for the heart, good for the lungs and leg muscles.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “Good for trimming off fat, too. You ought to do more of it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am. My name is Farber, Alice Farber.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Farber.”
“No you’re not, but at least you’re polite. Not like that asshole you’re investigating. Why are you anyway?”
“Investigating Klinghurst? Well—”
“Screwed somebody, probably, and I don’t mean sex. He’s the type. No scruples, no manners. He once called me a sorry old bitch to my face.”
“What’d you call him back?”
“A prick with ears.” She laughed. “He didn’t like it.”
“I’ll bet he didn’t.”
“Well? You didn’t answer my question.”
“I think he screwed somebody, just as you said.” She wasn’t one to mince words; I saw no reason why I should. “Scammed a friend of my mother-in-law’s out of his life savings.”
“Hah! I knew he was that kind! Why hasn’t he been arrested?”
“No proof yet.”
“Better get plenty of it so some asshole lawyer doesn’t get him off. Think you’ll have it before the end of the month?”
“I hope so.”
“Good. I’d like to be there when the cops come for him.”
“Are you going somewhere at the end of the month?”
“No,” she said, “he is. Moving out. I was happy to hear it, but this is better. Jail’s where he’ll be moving to now.”
We’d reached the corner. An uncontrolled corner, with cars parked at the curb on the downhill side so you had an obstructed view of oncoming traffic. Alice Farber marched right out into the wet street with only a cursory glance to her left. It startled me and it must have scared hell out of the driver of a blue van, who jammed on his brakes and then blew his horn long and loud. It didn’t faze her, though; she kept right on going without hesitation, up onto the sidewalk again with me at her heels like a balky dog.
“Kamikaze drivers,” she said. “No discipline, no courtesy. Pedestrians always have the right of way in crosswalks.”
There was nothing to say to that. I wouldn’t have said it if there was. I asked, “Do you know where Klinghurst plans to move to?”
“Marin County.”
“Where in Marin?”
“Don’t ask me. Ask his real estate agents.”
“You know who they are?”
“Thomas and Thomas, San Rafael. He got a big envelope from them last week.” She threw me another sidelong glance. “Don’t go thinking I poke around in other people’s business. I don’t. I came out one morning while the mailperson was there. She has packages, big envelopes, and she sees a tenant inside, she hands them over and the tenant puts them on a table in the lobby. You understand?”
“Sure. About this real estate outfit—”
“Thomas and Thomas. I happened to notice the name on the envelope, I remembered it because it was double. Husband and wife, two brothers, two sisters.”
“Or partners who happen to have the same last name.”
“Smart, aren’t you?”
“Not as smart as I’d like to be. You wouldn’t happen to know if Klinghurst is buying or renting?”
“Wouldn’t I? I heard him telling Peterson, one of the other tenants, that he’s buying property over there. Bought a new car, bought a house — all with that money you say he stole.”
“Probably so.”
“I hope he gets twenty years,” she said. Then she said, “Who’d marry somebody like him? Another poop chute, must be.”
“Klinghurst is getting married?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Do you know the woman’s name?”
“How would I know? I told you, I don’t poke around in other people’s business.”
“Did he ever bring her to his flat?”
“If he did, I never saw her. Or heard ’em going at it, either. His flat’s right above mine and I probably would’ve.”
We crossed another uncontrolled intersection, in the same headlong fashion as before, but uneventfully this time. Alice Farber, kamikaze pedestrian.
Pretty soon she said, “Flea market. What do you bet?”
“Flea market?”
“Where he met her. The poop chute he’s marrying.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because that’s what he does on weekends. Goes to flea markets all over the Bay Area, buys a lot of old junk and lugs it home. His flat’s full of it. Take two moving vans to get all the crap out of there.”
I wondered if Captain Archie had been a regular at Marin flea markets, if that was how he and Klinghurst had hooked up. I asked Ms. Farber, “Does Klinghurst have any interest in ferryboats?”
“In what?”
“Ferryboats. Ferryboat memorabilia.”
“Are you serious? Or just yanking my shank?”
“Dead serious.”
“How would I know? Ferryboats, for Chrissake.”
I let it go. It wasn’t worth the effort it would take to explain.
“There’s the market.” Another glance my way as she picked up speed and I worked to stay with her. “Puffing like a steam engine,” she said in a pleased voice. “You’re out of shape, mister.”
I could have argued with her; I was not really puffing and I was in better shape than ninety percent of men my age. But that wasn’t worth the effort, either. I just nodded and smiled and shrugged.
“Get more exercise,” she said, “move those chubby buns of yours a mile or two every day, rain or shine. You’ll look better, feel better, live longer.”
“That’s good advice.”
“Damn right it is. You get that proof you need quick, you hear? Put that asshole in prison where he belongs.” She swung away toward the market entrance. I followed her, and when she realized it she stopped and put those snap, crackle, and pop eyes on me again. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Inside.”
“Too cold out here for you?”
“No. It’s almost noon, and if they have a deli counter—”
“They have one, but you don’t need deli food. Yogurt and an apple’s what you should be eating for lunch.”
“Yogurt and an apple. Right.”
“And if you’re thinking about waiting around and offering to carry my groceries home for me, don’t. I wouldn’t like it.”
I hadn’t been thinking of waiting around, but I didn’t say so. I said, “Okay if I ask one more question?”
“As long as you make it quick.”
“What do you do for a living, Ms. Farber? Or what did you do if you’re retired?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Not really. Same question, asked two different ways.”
“Smart,” she said approvingly. “What do you think I did?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“Go ahead, take a guess.”
“Physical fitness instructor?”
&nb
sp; “Wrong.”
“Teacher?”
“Wrong again. Career officer, Women’s Army Corps. Lieutenant Colonel when I took my retirement eight years ago.” She squared her shoulders, gave me a sharp salute, executed a perfect about-face, and marched into the market.
The Golden Gate Bridge was packed with fog as thick as steel wool; it was not until I got to the bottom of Waldo Grade on the Marin side that the mist thinned out. In San Rafael it was clear and breezy, a nice, crisp autumn day. I stopped at a Shell station on Grand Avenue to check the phone directory. Thomas & Thomas, Real Estate was on Second Street, which meant downtown and not far away.
It felt funny, being in San Rafael again and on my way to a downtown real estate firm. Brought too many painful memories up close to the surface. Bobbie Jean Addison worked in just such an agency, also not far away. At least, I assumed she still worked there: I’d had no contact with her in over a year, wanted none, and yet I could not help wondering what she was doing and how she was coping with memories far more painful and terrible than mine. It had taken me a while to put Eberhardt’s suicide behind me, and we had been ex-partners and ex-friends for several years before he died. Bobbie Jean had lived with him, loved him, known things about him that I’d found out only after the fact, and watched him destroying himself slowly long before the final act and her part in it. She’d never be able to put up the kind of wall I had; hers would be the wailing kind, the nightmare kind you can neither tear down nor pass beyond. She was a strong woman, and she’d get through somehow, maybe even find snatches of peace and happiness, but she would never be the woman she’d once been, the happy-go-lucky Bobbie Jean I’d known.
Depressing thoughts. I squashed them down by concentrating on the little con I was going to run at Thomas & Thomas.
They were a small outfit, in a strip mall near where Second forks over and joins Fourth heading out toward San Anselmo. The usual plate-glass front window had the usual array of photographs of properties for sale, and a helpful listing in smaller letters below the agency name:
Michael J. Thomas
Claire M. Thomas
Inside I found one occupied desk and three empty ones. The lone occupant was a young woman wearing harlequin glasses, who was talking on the phone and tapping earnestly on a computer keyboard at the same time. She smiled at me and made a gesture to indicate she would be right with me; I smiled back and nodded and went to look at more photographs.
Three or four minutes of that, and the woman finally ended her conversation and turned her attention to me. “Yes, sir, how may I help you?”
“Are you Mrs. Thomas?”
“No, my name is Laura Vincent. Mr. and Mrs. Thomas are both out with clients. Is there something I can do?”
“Well, yes, I hope so. My name is Marlowe, Phil Marlowe — I’m a friend of one of your agency’s clients. John Klinghurst.”
“Mr. Klinghurst. I don’t... oh, yes, one of the buyers of the home in Los Ranchitos.”
“That’s right. Just recently.”
“Yes, it’s still in escrow.”
“Well, he’s pretty excited about it, been talking it up to everybody he knows. Raving is a better word. He really loves it.”
Ms. Vincent’s smile grew broader. “We’re always pleased to hear that about one of our clients.”
“He was so complimentary, in fact, that I thought I’d stop by and see if you had any other listings in that area. I live in the city, too, but I’m over here on business, so...”
“You’re interested in buying a new home, then?”
“My wife and I, yes. We’re tired of the rat race — city living grinds you down after a while.”
“It certainly can. Have a seat, Mr. Marlowe, and let’s see what we can do for you.”
Tap, tap, tap on her computer keyboard. They didn’t have any other Los Ranchitos listing, which made things a little easier for me. I asked what they had that was similar to the property Klinghurst had purchased, which prompted her to pull up his file to refamiliarize herself with the parcel. While she was doing that, I said casually, “How does it work when a man and his fiancée buy property together before they’re married? I mean, do they put it in both their names — her maiden name, I mean — or just his or what?”
“Well, that depends...”
“How did John and Helen do it?”
I didn’t have to prod her any more than that; she was curious enough herself to press the right button. Then she frowned and said, “Helen?”
“Helen Tolliver.”
“It is a joint purchase,” Ms. Vincent said, “but that isn’t the name of the other party.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “You mean it’s not Helen he’s marrying? That’s a shock, believe me. They’ve been going together off and on for years, and I just assumed... It’s not Ann Burns, is it? I sure hope not.”
“No. The name here is Jocelyn Dunn.”
“Well, well,” I said, “that’s a real surprise,” and I was no longer acting.
“Do you know her, Mr. Marlowe?”
“I’ve met her. Just once, but that was enough.”
At Redwood Village, last Saturday afternoon.
Jocelyn Dunn, the big blonde nurse with the D-cup chest — a woman with easy access to both prescription medicine and Captain Archie Todd.
19
On my way to Larkspur I called Tamara to tell her what I’d discovered on the Todd case. She had some news for me on the Hunter case in return.
“Crazybone Cotter is still alive,” she said, “still living in Billington, Illinois. But my guess is, his hunting days are over. As of Christmas Eve two years ago. Man had a stroke, left him mostly paralyzed.”
“Brain damage?”
“No word on that. Pretty much bedridden, though. Wife number three’s taking care of him. Ellen Coombs, a.k.a. Sheila Hunter, was number two. He divorced her a year after she split, grounds of desertion.”
“Any publicity on the bond theft or her running off with Pete Stoddard?”
“Not a whisper. Whole thing was covered up.”
“How about links between Cotter and organized crime?”
“Oh, yeah. He was brought up on money-laundering charges by the feds in ’96, tried and acquitted for lack of evidence the following year.”
“Strong mob ties?”
“Didn’t come out that way. His lawyer didn’t seem to be connected, either. Just a poor innocent victim of bad judgment, man claimed, and the jury believed him.”
“Uh-huh”
“Not long after the trial he sold his manufacturing company outright to some Chicago outfit, maybe controlled by the wiseguys, maybe not. No way I could find out for sure.” Wiseguys. Tamara tossed off slang terms like that as casually as a seasoned task-force vet. Working for me hadn’t educated her that way; her father was a Redwood City police lieutenant. “Also couldn’t turn up anything on whether Cotter’s still connected or if the feds are still investigating him.”
“My guess would be no on both counts,” I said. “The trial publicity would’ve made him useless as a laundryman, and without strong ties they’d have cut him loose in a hurry. Doesn’t matter in any case, as far as we’re concerned.”
“What about the Hunters?” she asked. “I mean, I got all of this stuff pretty much straight off the Net. They must’ve been keeping tabs on Cotter all along, right? Wouldn’t make any sense for them not to.”
“I figure they were, but what you and I read into the information and what they read into it are two different things. They may have relaxed some after Cotter’s stroke — Jack Hunter, at least. That’s probably why he let Twining talk him into taking out the life insurance policy. He was the smarter and more level-headed of the pair, the glue that held them together all those years. Without him she just couldn’t handle the pressure, and her fear and paranoia took over.”
“Suppose you don’t find her, alive or dead? Suppose nobody does? What happens to the kid then?”
“I don�
�t know,” I said. “Tamara, I just don’t know.”
At Redwood Village I parked in the visitors’ lot and walked over to the double-winged building that housed the rec center, dining hall, administration offices, and clinic. Before I went to tell Cybil the news about Jocelyn Dunn and John Klinghurst, I wanted to check with Dr. Lengel on a couple of things: whether Dunn had teen on duty the night Archie Todd died, and whether a supply of the pink, 0.10 digitoxin pills was kept on hand at the clinic. The more information I had when I talked to Evan Patterson and then to the local authorities, the more likely it would lead to an immediate official investigation.
But I didn’t get to talk to Lengel. Turned out this was one of his days off. And the physician on duty was out visiting a patient. The desk nurse was not Jocelyn Dunn, fortunately, though I learned Dunn was on the premises today. When I identified myself as a detective and the relative of a resident, the desk nurse consented to answer my question about the digitoxin. Affirmative. I didn’t ask the other question; there was not much chance she would check a past duty roster without permission. Let police investigators follow through on that one.
From the clinic I walked through the landscaped grounds to Cybil’s bungalow. The sun was out, but it was windy and cool; the only other people I saw were two elderly joggers in sweatsuits and a gardener making a lot of noise and fouling the air with a leaf-blower. Leaf blowers and back-up beepers are two of my pet peeves. Gross noise polluters, both, the intrusive kind that grate on your nerves after a while. If it were up to me, the inventors of both would be locked up in enclosed spaces with the things going nonstop until they either went deaf or admitted their sins and vowed to invent quieter replacements.
I walked faster, not that you can escape a racket like that on foot. And when I got to Cybil’s, I saw that the front door of her unit stood partway open. It gave me pause. The day was too chilly for open doors, and I happened to know that she had little tolerance for drafts or flies. I climbed the three steps, knocked and called out her name just as the leaf-blower went mercifully silent.
Inside, somebody made a low, groaning sound.
I shouldered my way in, fast, squinting because the light in there was dim. The living room looked as though a small tornado had come swirling through. End table toppled, coffee table kicked askew, lamp and books and sofa pillows and a scatter of other items over the carpet. The sofa had also been knocked sideways — and a pair of bent legs and foot were poked out behind it.
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