by John Dalmas
I made two working assumptions. One, that the supper date had somehow been connected with Ashkenazi's death. And two, that the date had been arranged very shortly before he told Mrs. Ruiz.
When she calmed down again, I asked: "Did he have any company today?"
It was Mr. Ruiz who answered this time. "No sir. He didn' have no visitors since you the other day."
That made the supper date doubly suspicious. He must have eaten somewhere fairly near, though, to have left at 5:30 and gotten back at 7:28. But there are a lot of restaurants between, say, Santa Barbara and Ventura.
After a few more questions, we left. As we drove back to Santa Barbara, I found my attention going to two people: Veronica Ashley and Donald Pasco, two unlikely suspects. Presumably Veronica was more or less Ashkenazi's age, and I couldn't imagine a woman of, say 55 or 60 years climbing that encina. As far as that was concerned, I couldn't picture Pasco doing it either, and anyway he'd been in jail by then. Following that line of reasoning, the gunman must have been a hired professional, and it occurred to me the supper date might have been to get the gunman onto the property.
But that really didn't make sense, and anyway it felt wrong. Also it seemed to require the cooperation of the servants, who then would hardly have told me about the supper date.
I decided I'd better sleep on it.
11
I woke up the next morning knowing what I had to do. Not why, but what.
Meanwhile there was the matter of breakfast. The night before, when I'd arrived back at the Larchmont Station, I'd stopped at a Nielsen's, bought a half gallon of butter brickle, went home and binged out. So to partly make up for it, I had fat-free cottage cheese for breakfast, with Rye Krisp, carrot sticks, and black coffee. My low-fat, high-protein penance. Then, having halfway atoned for the binge, I went to the office and accessed the state's data on Veronica Ashley.
It started with her current address and phone number, then got into more personal stuff. She'd been born Veronica Sue Pipolli, on 10 November 1950, in Culver City. An Angelena all the way. Married Eldon Robert Ashley on 21 March 1972, received her BS in biology magna cum laude from UCLA on 2 June '73, and her MS in molecular biology two years later. After five years as a lab technician in the med school there, she'd moved to the genetics research lab in the biology department, as a senior research assistant. It was a level she'd stay at for twenty years, the cost of not having a doctorate. In April of 2000, she'd been jumped to research associate. Like everything else, the research staff and supply of new Ph.D.s had been decimated by the Great Flu and EVM, and they needed to fill vacancies, Ph.D. or not.
Her father had died in an auto accident in October '75, her mother in the Great Flu in December '99.
She had memberships in Phi Kappa Phi, which given her scholastic record was no surprise. And the Church of God in Science, which Ashkenazi had already told me.
And Veronica Ashley had a criminal record! Not much of a record—a misdemeanor: disturbing the peace. Specifically, blocking the entrance of a church and interfering with worship during a demonstration outside a Church of the New Gnosis in West L.A., in June 2006. The New Gnus were supposedly into psychic practices. In August '09 she'd been detained, then released without charge, after allegedly throwing rotten eggs at windows and doors of the Hollywood Hilton, and at security officers, during a demonstration against an International Conference of Parapsychologists.
So Veronica was not only a COGS. She was an activist member. Whatever malice she may have felt for her brother-in-law earlier, his new astrology must have pushed her buttons pretty hard.
I figured to go talk to her, and to Eldon if he seemed mentally functional. But just now she'd be at work, so it was time to follow up on the only real lead I had, thin though it seemed. Data Center got me the record of the previous day's phone traffic to and from Ashkenazi's residence. There almost wasn't any: Two calls received through his answering service, and one on the direct line. That one was made from a Dairy Delite in Ventura, at 5:14 p.m. The timing fitted perfectly, though Dairy Delites weren't the kind of place at which I pictured Ashkenazi eating.
I keyed directory assistance, and a page came onto my screen. There was only one Dairy Delite in Ventura, the cursor flashing beside it. The number didn't match the one on the list of phones, but that was no surprise. The call to Ashkenazi would have been from their pay phone.
I memorized the address without trying, a matter of simply intending to remember. It's a knack I have that's a lot handier than writing everything down. Next, accessing the Data Center again, I got color copies of the photos from Veronica's and Ashkenazi's driver's licenses. Finally I called the Ventura Dairy Delite number, which got me an order girl, as I'd expected. I asked her who worked the cash register weekdays at suppertime. The manager did, she told me. He came in at noon and usually stayed till 9 or 10.
Carlos had looked in while I was on the line to Ventura, so I went to see what he wanted. He'd had a call from an Inspector Zebriski in Sacramento, Sergeant Luciano's big boss. The DNA print from the semen was Pasco's. The district attorney said they had an ironclad case. The inspector was very happy with Prudential, which of course could mean future business for us, and reflected back on me. I could have that. I didn't plan to be a junior investigator all my life.
12
After lunch I drove to Ventura and found the Dairy Delite. I'd never been in one before. It turned out to be more than just an ice-cream place. They had burgers, chicken, a salad bar . . . the whole list. It was a little past two. The guy at the cash register wore a tag that said Frank, and beneath it, Manager. I showed him my ID and contract cards, and asked to talk to him privately. He led me into his office. The plaque on the door said Mr. Piper.
I showed him the pictures of Ashkenazi and Veronica Ashley, and asked if he'd ever seen either of them before. Not so far as he knew, he said. "What'd they do? Rob a bank?"
"One of them died," I told him. "The other one didn't." Then, for no reason I can think of, I added, "The poisoner and the poisonee."
"Huh! If you know that, why snoop around any further?"
"You go to court with as much evidence as you can muster."
I had a fishburger then and left. It felt as if I'd just wasted a couple of hours on a false lead, but in my profession you get used to that. The names of the game are patience and thoroughness. Two of the names.
* * *
My next stop would be Veronica Ashley's place, but I didn't want to get there too early. A little before she got home from work would be about right. Maybe 5:15. So it being a nice sunny day, I drove to a nearby beach, took off my shoes, and had a nice, hour-long hike along the surf line, enjoying the feel and smell of the sea breeze and getting my feet wet now and then. After letting Fidela know, back at the office. When I got back to the car, I rolled down my windows, let the seat back, and took a short nap. My car computer woke me up at 3:30, and I headed for Westwood, and Veronica Ashley's address. It was an older house, probably from before World War Two, because the glass doors had a lot of little diamond-shaped panes instead of being single panes of safety glass. It was two-story, pseudo-Moorish pink stucco, and had a small balcony upstairs with a little wrought-iron railing. Tall Washingtonia palms stood along the curb, and the walk to the front door had a big date palm on each side. There were glossy-leaved shrubs in front, with big pink blossoms, a kind you see a lot of in L.A. but I never heard a name for.
It occurred to me I was resisting going to the door, so I took myself by the scruff and started walking. Then there was nothing for it but to ring the doorbell. A big, strong-looking black lady answered, wearing a light green uniform like a nurse's. I introduced myself, showing my ID, and told her I'd come to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Ashley. I figured Veronica wouldn't be there yet, and I was right. The nurse? housekeeper? also told me that Mr. Ashley didn't see anyone.
"He's looking at me right now," I answered. Dimly I could see him through a doorway behind her, in a poorly lit inner room. My eye
s hadn't adjusted from the late sunlight outdoors, and he looked vaguely like an ape on all fours. "If Mrs. Ashley isn't in, I'll speak with Mr. Ashley."
I sort of pushed past her, she giving way to one side, and I walked through the vestibule into a comfortable living room. Sky light came through a tall south window, thinned by trees and drapes. It jarred me to see Eldon Ashley, and to realize he was Aldon's twin. Both legs had been amputated, leaving stubs maybe eight inches long. And instead of prosthetics, he moved on his knuckles. No, on thick blunt fingers! His torso was small, but below the sleeves of a body shirt, his arms were corded with muscle. His eyes were wary, and did not seem unintelligent. Brain-damaged he might be, but he looked aware and alert.
"Mr. Ashley," I said, "my name is Martti Seppanen." I didn't offer my hand; he was standing on his. I'm one of the stronger people I know, but I doubt I could hold my own in a grip-down with Eldon Ashley. "I'm an investigator for the police," I went on. "I'm here because your brother Aldon was shot in his bed, night before last."
"Night . . . before . . . last?"
Not "Shot?"; just, "Night before last?" As if the time meant something to him.
"I've been assigned to investigate," I went on, then paused, trying to read his eyes. In that light they could have been marbles. "Do you have any idea who'd do such a thing?"
There was a long response lag, which in his case could have been physiological instead of psychological. There was no sign of grief, but his face seemed to have shrunk. When he answered, it was quietly. "No."
"Have you talked with your brother lately?"
He stared blankly, saying nothing. The nurse came into the room then. She showed no sign of hostility, only concern, presumably for Eldon. "I've called Mrs. Ashley," she said. "She'll be here in a few minutes."
"Right. Did you know that Mr. Ashley's twin brother was shot, night before last?"
Instead of looking shocked, she looked puzzled.
"Didn't you know he had a brother?"
"No sir, I didn't."
"How long have you worked here?"
"Five years last May."
"Do you live on the premises?"
"I have a room upstairs."
"Um. His brother's name was Arthur Ashkenazi, but it had been Aldon Ashley." I was addressing myself to the nurse, but my eyes were on Eldon. I had no idea why I was saying these things. "He changed his name after a big row with their father," I went on. "After Veronica, Mrs. Ashley, had told their father that Aldon had said terrible things to Eldon. She said Aldon was to blame for Eldon's auto wreck, the wreck that left him—" I groped. "Without his legs."
Eldon's eyes had opened wide. His mouth opened too, not to speak, but in shock. He never knew! I thought. Eldon Ashley never knew! Then a terrible thought hit me. Maybe it hadn't happened that way. I'd had the story from Ashkenazi's old college buddy, who'd had it from Ashkenazi, but how accurate was it? If it wasn't true, I'd done a very bad thing to Eldon, and to his wife.
The nurse brought me out of it. "Uh, sir, can I bring you some tea?"
I told her yes, and when she left, I asked Eldon if I could sit down. It took him a few seconds to answer, but he said yes, so I sat. Then, using his stubs as the third point of a mobile tripod, he went to another chair and got into it with a remarkable movement, a one-armed vault, torso twisting, free hand grasping the far arm of the sturdy overstuffed chair. And this man was 61 years old! I curbed my gawking and made a little small talk, an awkward, one-sided monolog.
The nurse came in with a tray, holding a teapot, two cups and saucers, a cream pitcher, and a sugar bowl with tongs. And oatmeal cookies. There was a little side table by each large chair; she served and left. I sipped, and tried to think of something to say that wouldn't sound inane. "Are you and Aldon identical twins?" I asked, then realized the question was insensitive on two counts. But after the typical long pause, he answered.
"Yes. Identical. But . . . we . . . were . . . always . . . different."
He may be brain-damaged, I told myself, but he's not stupid. Not across-the-board stupid. I found myself saying, "Different but close, I suppose."
"Yes," Eldon said. "Close. Stood . . . up . . . for . . . each . . . other. Always."
It hurt to hear it. But he seemed okay now. Not cheerful, but resigned. Accepting.
Then I heard the front door open, and got to my feet. A minute later Veronica Ashley strode into the room. Her eyes moved to me like a laser. She was not pleased. "I'm Veronica Ashley," she said. Making it a challenge. "Mr. Ashley's wife."
She wasn't a tall woman, but she had presence. Her build was sturdy. I got the impression of someone who worked out, probably at the faculty women's health club. But the strongest impression was of will, perhaps mixed with unforgivingness. Maybe she could have climbed the encina with a gun and shot Ashkenazi.
"You're also Arthur Ashkenazi's sister-in-law," I said. "My name is Martti Seppanen. I presume you've heard about his death."
"I was informed by his attorney."
"He was shot in the head," I added. "Once, right through the brain, with a 9mm pistol."
She was definitely startled by that. "He didn't tell me that," she said. "I'd assumed—assumed he'd died of natural causes."
Something felt wrong here, but I had no notion what. "I'm investigating the death on a contract with the Santa Barbara County Sheriff's Department. Do you have any idea why someone would shoot your brother-in-law?"
"None at all." Veronica Ashley was fully in control of herself now.
"Have you had any contact with him recently?"
"We haven't seen Aldon since their mother's funeral, ten years ago. And barely then."
"Not even in connection with the trust fund he set up for you? To help take care of Eldon?"
She grimaced, her face darkening with blood. "No. His attorney handled it."
I glanced at Eldon. He was watching intently, his mouth slightly open. His eyes were unreadable, but it seemed to me he was comprehending it all. And that it was new to him.
"You're the payee of the fund. What do you suppose your brother-in-law was worth?"
Her answer was stiff. "I have no idea."
"I don't either, Mrs. Ashley, but apparently quite a few million." I changed direction on her then. "Perhaps you have some idea who might have killed him. Think back. These things can grow out of old grudges."
Her lips had compressed. Now they opened. "Am I a suspect, Mr.—?"
"Seppanen. Detective Seppanen. Family is often suspect in these matters, Mrs. Ashley. That's a general rule."
"Well I'm afraid I can't help you. And you can believe this or not, but I hope you catch the gunman. If for no other reason than to remove any suspicion from me."
The way she said it, it felt like the truth.
13
I drove home trying to make sense of it, and getting nowhere. Back in my apartment, I phoned Tuuli. It was late to ask for a date that evening, so knowing her taste for space opera, I suggested the Star Wars festival showing at the New Hollywood Palladium. The first three movies in one marathon night! In honor of the ninetieth anniversary of George Mather, who'd produced the special effects for the first one.
When I finished my pitch, she answered me in Finnish. "Martti," she said, "that was nice of you. But what you're really looking for is distraction from whatever is on your mind. And I don't feel like being a distraction tonight." She may have picked up that I felt abused by her answer, because after a moment she added: "But I'd enjoy visiting on the phone awhile. Tell me about your day."
So I did: the day and the night before. When I'd told her about getting the data on Veronica, Tuuli interrupted. "When was she born?" When I said November 10, 1950, she laughed.
"A Scorpio! It fits like a glove. Sometimes they don't. Just a minute." I waited. After a minute she was back. "I just looked up her horoscope in this morning's Times. It says Scorpios should avoid strangers today, that they could cause serious danger." She laughed again. When I'd run the rest of
it by her, she said I was getting close, that it would start coming together soon. Starting tomorrow.
"What do you mean?"
"It's not explicit. But a lot of things are going to simplify for you." She paused. "You might want to call Carlos this evening."
So I let her go and phoned him. His machine told me he and Penny had gone to the New Hollywood Palladium, to the Star Wars festival. It struck me as uniquely twenty-first-century American: Carlos, grandson of Japanese peasant immigrants, who grew up on a hardscrabble farm in Colorado, and Penny, who'd been a child on a paddy farm in wartime Viet Nam, driving downtown in a car powered basically by gravity, to sit in the New Palladium watching a laserized renovation of a space opera classic about a war "a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away."
14
So what happened when I got to work in the morning? I had two messages waiting. One was from Carlos, telling me to see him first thing. He wasn't in yet. Then I played the other message, from Sacramento, and shared it with him when he did get in.
The evening before, a patrol car had been chasing a guy for driving erratically. Finally he stopped on a bridge and threw something in the Sacramento River before they grabbed him. In his luggage they found a silencer for a 9mm pistol, and a box of 9mm cartridges. A magnetic sounder team then recovered a 9mm pistol from the river, and his prints were on it. Ballistics test-fired it, and computer checked the slug against the national files. It matched the slug dug out of the floor of Ashkenazi's bedroom.
The guy's driver's license address was obsolete, but his auto registration address had been current. A search of his apartment turned up several Franklins—hundred-dollar bills. They'd checked for prints and found Pasco's.
Pasco's! It's one thing to be uptight, maybe even a little crazy, about someone "promoting" astrology. But to have him assassinated?
What struck Carlos most about it was that the Sacramento police had accomplished it all in one night. The result of technology, including computerization of damn near everything. And budgets that allowed a full night shift. Twenty years earlier, he pointed out, it would have taken days, a week, and they might not have found the pistol at all.