Suicide Season

by Rex Burns

  “The bakery—every man must have bread, yes? My cousin there will know if this man lives here.”

  “Let’s start at the real-estate office.” I pointed to the sign that dangled over a curving, narrow street that followed a gully leading up the mountainside. My other hand held a fifty-dollar bill under Juan’s wide eyes. “If we find him within an hour, you get a bonus.”

  “Ah!”

  It didn’t take that long. The woman in the real-estate office, once she was convinced that I wasn’t looking for a condominium with a magnificent view of both the Sea of Cortez and the blue Pacific Ocean, leafed through her records for Holtzmann’s name. I had the feeling that she recognized the photograph Juan showed her, but she took the name from a Rolodex while an anxious Juan, glancing at his watch, hovered at her shoulder. The house was high up on Guerrero Street, a winding trail of gravel and dirt that climbed behind the town and narrowed so that even Juan had to slow to thread between steep cuts on one side and the railless plunge into the village hundreds of feet below. Finally the cab creaked to a halt at the fenced entry to what looked like a single-story, tile-roofed house and a wide expanse of concrete driveway.

  “Forty-two minutes, senor. Less than one hour!”

  I handed him the fifty which he studied for a moment. “I’ll probably be here one hour. Can we make it to the airport for the afternoon flight?”

  “Como no? No problema!”

  Squealing and rumbling, the cab seesawed back and forth to turn on the narrow lane and head back down. I paused a moment in the wind that swirled dust and an occasional zinging insect; from this high, the ocean liner looked like a child’s plaything, and the white marks of the barges seemed scarcely to move. Through a sharp V in the peaks, I made out the hazy line of the Pacific horizon and a distant cloud bank that caught the light like a shred of dirty canvas. The bungalow showed no sign of life. I hoisted the briefcase and let myself through the metal gate, my shoes loud on the gritty concrete driveway. The house was one of those I had noticed from below, jutting out from the cliff like a mushroom growing on a tree trunk, and falling away in three or four stories below the ground-level entry. I clattered the iron knocker against the carved wood of the doorway. A few moments later came an answering rattle of a latch and the door opened a few inches to show a black-haired woman somewhere in her sixties who kept her hand across the opening and peeked over it. “Si, senor?”

  “Senor Holtzmann, por favor. Esta aqui?”

  “Momentito, senor.”

  Sandals padded away across the cool, dark tile and from somewhere in one of the neighboring houses a dog started barking—a single, halfhearted yap followed by time to regain its breath, then another perfunctory yap.

  “Por favor, Senor Kirk.” The woman unlatched the final chain and let me in to the soothing shadow of the room. I followed the pale bobbing of her polished heels toward a staircase that wound in a spiral down to the next level. There, in a shaded veranda that reached out over space, Loomis lay sprawled on a chaise lounge, a book folded on one finger, and peered professorially over his glasses at me.

  “Ah, Devlin—I’ve only arrived myself this morning. It certainly didn’t take you long to find my little Shangri-la.”

  “McAllister remembered that you owned a place in Los Cabos.”

  “Good Lord, that man’s memory! I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, but that really was years ago.” He glanced at my briefcase and smiled slightly. “And that must be the papers that you’ve come so far to have me sign. Sit down, please. Enjoy the view. Can Maria get you something cool to drink? I heartily recommend her mai tais.”

  “Why not?” I nodded to the woman. “Un mai tai, por favor.”

  She nodded back without showing any of her gold-lined teeth, and padded away into the house. Loomis grunted slightly as he hoisted himself to a higher sitting position and set the book on the glass table by his chair. Beyond him, a trickle of water fell down a low rock wall to form a small pool whose sound softened the heat and glare of the sky beyond the patio. Above, sunlight filtered in blurry spots of light through the thick bougainvillea vines that dangled orange and pink and purple blossoms.

  “The real-estate woman called you?”

  “We have an understanding. For a retainer, of course. Everything is for a fee—it’s one of the few unchanging universals.”

  “This is a very nice hideout.”

  “Thank you. That wasn’t its original intent. But as things turned out … “

  “You left Denver in a hurry.”

  “It’s not polite to overstay one’s welcome.”

  “I thought you were quite popular. And growing more so.”

  “Ah well, fame isn’t everything. And it’s so fickle.”

  “If I found you, so will Neeley.”

  “I’m aware of that. And I’m grateful that you used your own name with Senora Castro—it saved me some strenuous effort, which, in this heat, is a blessing.” He yawned and quickly covered his mouth with a polite hand. “Pardon me—it’s siesta time. A very sane custom in the tropics, and I’ve been traveling a great deal in the past twenty-four hours. For all the good my circuitous route did me. Tell me,” he changed the subject, “how is our pompous and arrogant friend taking all this?”

  “McAllister? When I first told him about you, he wouldn’t believe it.”

  Maria’s sandals slapped across the tiles and wordlessly she handed me a large, cold glass filled with juices and fruits. Then she padded away again into the dimness.

  “He wouldn’t believe it,” Loomis repeated to himself and sipped his own drink. “You mean he wouldn’t admit that I had outsmarted him?”

  “If you want to call it that.”

  “Oh, I do. And I did. All’s fair, my boy, all’s fair; and if you don’t know by now that the corporate world is aflame with war—nasty, brutish, and not very short wars—then this segment of your education has garnered you nothing, has it?”

  “My education? Is that why you brought me into this? To educate me to the corporate wars?”

  Loomis’s mouth, framed by the two deep lines dropping from its corners to his jaw, lifted in an angelic bow. Once again I noticed how, when he talked, only that lower jaw between those two lines moved up and down without changing the rest of his face. “Part of the reason. It was indeed. I still have affection for your father. He was a very rare thing, Devlin, very rare: an honest businessman.”

  “And you outsmarted him.”

  “No. As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I tried to, but he was as brilliant as he was honest.” That bow of a smile again. “Perhaps that’s why he was honest. But in the end, of course, none of it made any difference. He saw to that.” He sipped deeply. “Drink up, my boy. Maria will think you don’t like her handiwork.”

  “So you were just doing the son of your old partner a small favor.”

  “In part, certainly. And I was doing myself a favor, too. I much preferred to have a man on the case to whom I had access, rather than a stranger who might tell me nothing.”

  “So you used me.”

  “We used each other, Devlin, as is the usual arrangement between people. Your business is quite successful now—thanks to the opportunity I gave you to work for McAllister Enterprises.”

  “And through me you found out what you needed to know about the Haas case.”

  “Enough to keep abreast of events. It was a fair exchange—quid pro quo. Cheers.”

  “Have you ever worn drag, Professor?”

  “Have I what?”

  “Drag. Worn a dress as a disguise.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “Carrie Busey.”

  “Ah—I see. No, I haven’t. And I’ve told you before, Devlin, I have no knowledge at all of Miss Busey. I never met the woman, nor, as far as I know, have I ever spoken with her. And I am not the woman who was seen going into the office of that conceited ass of a detective.”

  “He told you about that?”

  “For a promise of
the customary fee.” His head lolled back against his chair and he gazed up through the vine-covered lattice at the soft blue above. “I never understood her role in all this.”

  “She and Haas were lovers.”

  “Ah—of course.” The large head rocked down and he eyed me. “That does explain it, doesn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Her role in all this, of course. And now you are looking for another woman or someone dressed as a woman. Cherchez la femme manqué, eh?”

  “I thought Haas and Busey were both in it with you.”

  “Haas was, certainly. If he included Busey, it was at his own discretion—and would have been against my advice had I known of it. As a matter of fact, her death caused me far more problems than her life did. After all,” his hand, palm up, moved in a slow circle at the hacienda around him. “Without all the excitement and perturbation that caused, I wouldn’t be in such painful exile, would I?”

  “Why did you run?”

  He shrugged. “At first I thought Neeley and his people had killed her. And that I would be next. A matter of economics, you see—cheaper to pay an assassin’s fee than a lawyer’s fee if McAllister brought a case. But when that unpleasant detective told me about the suspect woman, I decided it was time to go anyway.” He called Maria and rattled the ice cubes loudly. Her cracked voice called “Síi,” a squawk from somewhere in the cool gloom like a caged bird, and a few minutes later the pad of slippers brought out two filled glasses. “I still know a few more things about the affair than you do, Devlin. I’ll be happy to share them with you if you have the time to listen to an old man ramble on.”

  That was his way of saying he wanted to brag—which was fine with me; I wanted to know. “Such as?”

  But he wasn’t going to waste the savor by answering directly. “You’ve met with Neeley by now?”

  “With Kaffey. Neeley’s the shy type.”

  “Yes. He has that propensity. But Kaffey speaks for him. Tell me, are their feelings toward me animose?”

  “I think they’d be happy if you disappeared forever. They’re afraid of McAllister. You’re still the star witness.”

  The head nodded.

  “In fact, McAllister wants me to tell you that if you testify, he’ll drop all charges against you.”

  “Yes, well, that’s most generous. But I’m not interested at all—Neeley and his people tend to be thoughtlessly vindictive.” His soft mouth lifted, deepening the lines that ran down to his chin. “You could tell them you’ve seen me, when you return.”

  “Why should I?”

  “To put them on my trail. Or to assure them that I have no intention of ever causing them embarrassment.”

  “They probably want their own guarantee.”

  “A risk, certainly. And one I’ve considered very carefully, believe me. But I really don’t know what my alternatives are. So I must plead with you, dear boy, for your assistance: when you get back, please just a telephone call to tell Neeley that I intend to retire outside the United States and that they have nothing at all to fear from me. Would you do that for me, my boy? As a sort of trade for the information I’m about to give you?”

  “What information?”

  “It begins with that anonymous call to McAllister so long ago concerning Haas. The one that started all this and drew you into it.”

  “You did that?”

  “The promise, my boy. The quid pro quo.”

  “All right—it’s a deal.”

  The mouth between the carved lines turned up cherubically. “You are like your father—I know I can trust you. Cheers.” He raised his glass. “Yes, I made that call. Or caused the call to be made, to be exact. A few dollars to a chap who read the message from a piece of paper.”

  “Why? Why would you want to tip McAllister to something you were involved in?”

  “Several reasons. First, McAllister knew his plans had been taken and was determined to investigate; I decided it would be better to be an insider to the investigation than an outsider wondering what was going on. Second, Haas had threatened to go to McAllister and confess. He felt remorse, or fear of being caught—which are the same things, aren’t they? So I decided to strike first—to erode his credibility with McAllister. That way, if he didn’t keep his mouth shut, not everything he said would be believed.”

  “You were still taking a big chance.”

  Loomis’s smile was hidden behind the leafy top of his mai tai. “Fortunately, he died.”

  “And before you divided the payoff with him.”

  “Yes—very astute of you! That was a vital part of the arrangement: that I would be the one to receive payment from Neeley. My reasoning was that although I provided the initial link between Haas and Neeley, once they were in touch with each other, there would be no need for me anymore, would there? Consequently, I insisted that the payoff be through me.”

  “And you still have it.”

  “I banked it. Outside the United States. A normal arrangement in such cases, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Weren’t you afraid Haas would go straight to McAllister as soon as he heard about the suspicion?”

  “The risk was small.”

  “Why?”

  His heavy torso heaved and he fished in a watch pocket for a key that he held out to me. “You’ll find the answer here. It’s the key,” he smiled and lifted his glass, “to the puzzle.”

  “A locker key?”

  “The bus depot. I was planning ahead, you see. And I must congratulate you again—I didn’t expect to have to use it so soon.”

  Before I left, he reminded me of my promise to telephone his peace offering to Neeley, and he urged me to do it as soon as possible. “They are so impetuous.”

  The flight brought me into Denver in late afternoon and I just had time to make the call to Aegis before their offices closed; a deal is a deal, even with someone like Loomis. The familiar nasal voice of Kaffey answered.

  “Kirk. Now what.”

  “I’ve been talking with Loomis.”

  “Loomis.” Then he remembered, “Who’s …?”

  “Right, you never heard of him. He wants me to tell you that he’s not planning to come back to the States—that you don’t have anything to be afraid of from him.” So much for my promise. “But I know where he is, Kaffey. If I have to, I can bring him back.” That wasn’t true, of course. By now Loomis was already on his way to some deeper cover elsewhere in Mexico or South America, and probably with still another alias. But Kaffey didn’t need to know that.

  “It takes some time, Kirk. You asked for a lot.”

  “You’ve had your time. I don’t want it to slip your mind.”

  “We ain’t forgot. Believe me, we ain’t forgot.”

  Which naturally gave a spurt to the adrenaline. I made a quick call to Margaret to make sure she was all right and to let her and Dutch know I was back, and as I drove across town toward my office, I kept one eye on the rearview mirror.

  Bunch was clambering down the stairs as I came up. “Dev! Come on, man—I’m on my way over to the hospital. They’re letting Susan out—Mrs. Faulk just called.”

  “You want to hear what I found out?”

  “On the way over, man! She’ll be an outpatient, but at least she’ll be away from that place and back in her own apartment. They had to run some tests to be sure it was okay, and I don’t want her to spend another night in that place. She’s really wired about going home.”

  During the ride, I told him about Loomis, but he was too excited to listen closely, and finally I shut up. We found Susan waiting in a wheelchair, her suitcase packed and set by the door and a couple of plastic shopping bags full of plants and magazines and stray gear. The wheelchair was hospital policy but when we got to the entry, she insisted on walking from the door to the Ford, pausing to breathe deeply the warm spring air and to look at the trees whose new leaves were a delicate tracery against the clear sky of early evening. Bunch half held her with one arm and gathered a su
itcase in his other hand while Mrs. Faulk and I came behind carrying the rest.

  “Nice!”

  “It sure is, Suze! Come on, let’s get you in and we’ll go celebrate.”

  Mrs. Faulk took one load of plants and said she’d meet us at the apartment; Bunch helped Susan into the front seat while I tossed the luggage into the trunk. Piling into the back, he leaned over the seat with a grin almost as wide as his shoulders. “You really look great, Suze—hey, your mother’s fixing up a little surprise at the apartment, too. I guess I’m not supposed to say anything but I did, and I’m not going to tell you what it is until we get there.”

  I drove; Bunch, hanging over the seat, kept laughing and talking with Susan while she, a bit of color bringing warmth to her pale cheeks, answered him as best she could and stared hungrily at the world passing the windows. It wasn’t until we had turned north on Downing that I noticed the car hovering behind to follow our turns. I gradually slowed to let traffic pass in the left lane, then sped up to pull away, but the car stayed where it was. Bunch finally stopped talking and looked at me and he knew.

  “Behind us?”

  I kept my voice as calm as possible. “Looks that way. Are you armed?” I wasn’t. My pistol was still back at the office where I’d left it before going through airport security.

  “Yeah. But we can’t take any chances with Susan.”

  She turned from gazing out the window. “What?”

  “Nothing, honey—I just remembered something I forgot about. Hey, look at that: a whole line of geese heading toward the river!”

  The car, a dark sedan whose headlights were not yet turned on, moved closer and I could see two silhouetted figures; one, when its head turned, showed a pony-tail of hair gathered at the back. Bunch glanced over his shoulder and then searched the highway ahead of us. Scattered traffic dotted the four lanes and when the Evans Avenue traffic light stopped us, the sedan pulled bumper close. They weren’t afraid of being noticed, now. In the mirror I used the glare of my brake lights to make out the mustached face driving, and the round, fleshy face of the pony-tailed one.

  “Bunch, can you use the car phone without them seeing it?”