by Ray Garton
"Are you familiar with Los Angeles?" Karen asked after they ordered.
"No, I'm not. I don't like it here. I only come when the work leads me. I live in a walking city, and I like to walk places. Nobody walks in LA."
"That's true, but the clientele here is incredible. I'm not kidding, I'm either hiring out bodyguards or investigating divorce cases, and it's never-ending."
Keoph nodded once. "Sounds like prime territory. But I couldn't live here. I love San Francisco too much."
"I like it, too. I enjoy visiting your city."
After a moment, he said, "What shall I do while you're in New York?"
"Just sit tight. I don't expect to be there overnight—I'll be there and back. Do you have a hotel yet?"
"I've got a room reserved at the Chateau Marmont on Sunset, but I haven't been there yet to check in." He put a hand over his mouth and yawned.
"Why don't you go to your hotel room, take a nap," Karen said.
"I think I'll do that."
They exchanged cell phone numbers.
"You should take in some of the sights while you're here," she said. "You know, see a movie at the Chinese theater, or something."
"I think I'll sleep, mostly. Then I'll read this file again." He put the manila folder back in his briefcase, then stood.
"While I'm gone, my office is yours," Karen said. "I'll tell Libby. You can come and go as you please."
"Thank you."
"I'll call a cab for you," Karen said as she picked up the phone. "Call me when you wake up."
"Will do."
The cab showed up out front a few minutes later, and took Keoph to the Chateau Marmont. He checked in, got his key, and went upstairs to his room. He kicked off his shoes, removed his clothes and hung them in the closet, then got into bed and fell asleep almost immediately.
CHAPTER THREE
In his robe and slippers, Walter Benedek started a pot of coffee, then reached into a plastic container on the counter and removed a handful of garlic cloves. He put the cloves on a cutting board and used a large knife to cut each of them in half. While the coffee brewed, he took a fistful of the clove halves and went to the two windows behind the small table and chairs in the kitchen. Holding the cut ends of the halves downward, he ground them into the sill of the first window. He went all the way around it, scrubbing the garlic into the wood. He did the same thing with the other window.
Benedek slowly wandered around the inside of his house and rubbed the garlic around all the windows. His tiny black-and-brown Chihuahua, Bruno, followed him the whole way. Now and then, he went back to the kitchen for more clove halves. The whole house smelled of garlic, but Benedek had been doing it for so long, he hardly smelled it himself anymore.
He was a tall, slender man of sixty-four who was slightly stooped from a lifetime of self-consciously trying to appear shorter. He still had a thick crop of silver hair, for which he was very grateful, and he still watched what he ate and exercised to stay trim. He went for a long walk every day, and rode a stationary bike three times a week. He wasn't the type to overdo it.
Benedek lived in Honeoye, in upstate New York. It was a town of about five thousand people on the northern shore of Lake Honeoye, one of New York's Finger Lakes. The town was nestled in a valley near the Bristol Mountains, and consisted of a good-sized grocery store called Shurfine, two auto parts stores, a video store, a few other shops, a few restaurants, and a run-down old manufacturing facility, long closed, with a huge, ugly, peeling sign on its facade that read, "United We Stand."
On his way through the living room, he passed the portrait of his late wife, Jackie, over the fireplace and muttered, "Good morning, love." His heart always felt a faint clenching sensation whenever he looked at the portrait. It had been painted by Jackie's brother, and he had done an excellent job of capturing her smile. She'd been a beautiful woman whose full, wavy hair had gone white very early—instead of trying to hide it, she'd embraced it. Jackie had not been the sort to hide anything.
When he was done with the garlic, he fed Bruno and changed his water. Bruno's paws made clicketing sounds on the kitchen's tile floor as he walked over to his bowl and began to eat.
Benedek showered and dressed in jeans and a pale-blue short sleeve shirt. He returned to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. He drank his coffee black because all of the things typically added to coffee were bad for him. So was the coffee, but it was the one thing he refused to give up. He had three cups every morning, and had no plans to change that routine.
He put his coffee on the table, then got more cut garlic cloves and went out the front door. He kept a ladder leaning against the front of the house by the picture window. He scrubbed the garlic along the bottom of the window, then up both sides. He got on the ladder and methodically rubbed it into the top edge as well. He had to move the ladder once to get the other half of that edge.
Benedek heard a familiar yipping behind him as he came down the ladder. He turned to see Mrs. Captree, a stout old woman who walked her two white toy poodles by Benedek's house every day, strolling down the street with her dogs on leashes.
"Hello, Mrs. Captree," he said with a wave.
"Hello, Mr. Benedict," she said. She'd never gotten his name right. "Nice morning," she said.
"Yes, very nice."
She walked on after her little dogs.
Benedek wondered if Mrs. Captree was ever curious about what he was doing every morning. He would happily explain the whole thing, if he didn't think she would write him off as an old loon. He didn't talk about it anymore, not like he used to, back when he thought he could make a difference. His story contained a truth that most people did not want to believe, even refused to believe.
He went back inside and got more garlic. Bruno followed him out and around the house as Benedek made his way to each window. At the windows, there was always something for him to step up on to get the tops—a step-ladder, a big rock, a stack of wooden crates. He hit every window, then rubbed the garlic cloves around the outside of the back and front doors, and that night around sundown, he would do it all again. Benedek went through a lot of garlic every day.
As he came back around to the front of the house, a battered old blue Chevy pickup pulled into his driveway. Pete Etchel killed the engine and got out of the truck.
"Hey, Pete," Benedek said with a smile as he picked the newspapers up off the lawn. He subscribed to four. "How's it hangin'?"
Pete laughed. "Hangin' is about all it's doin' these days."
"Come on inside."
"What are you doin' out here?"
Benedek held out his hand, which held the remains of the garlic cloves he'd used. He turned and went in the house, with Pete right behind him.
Pete stood five feet, ten inches tall, with a beer gut that tightened the front of the overalls he wore. He was sixty-eight and limped slightly when he walked because of a bad hip. Under the overalls, he wore a short sleeve red-plaid shirt.
"Do you have any idea how ... antisocial that is, Walter?" Pete said, smirking.
"Yeah, but I don't really care. I never have company, except for you, and I know you can handle it."
"Gotta keep them vampires out, huh?" Pete laughed.
That's what Pete always said. Of course, he knew nothing about Benedek's past. He was just joking, just poking a little fun at Benedek for his strange habit. He had no idea he spoke the truth.
"You know, I've never really asked you," Pete said in the house, "why do you do that?"
Benedek wasn't sure what to say. He could always tell him the truth and then joke about it—Pete would never believe that particular truth—or he could make something up.
"I'm very superstitious," Benedek said. "It's an old superstition, a habit I got into many years ago."
"It's a nasty habit, is what it is," Pete said, smiling. "Why don't you take up smoking again? I think that would be less annoying. Oh, well. To each his own, I guess. That's what my grandma always used to say."
"Oh, yeah?"
Benedek said. "You know what my grandma always used to say? 'If you don't have something nice to say about someone, come over here and sit next to me.' You want some coffee?"
"No, I can't stay. Just wanted to see if you'd like to go fishing tomorrow morning. I feel like taking the boat out on the lake. You up for it?"
"You know I never say no to fishing, Pete. What time?"
"I'd like to go out around six."
"I’ll be there with lures on my toes."
"Maggie said she'd fix us breakfast burritos to take with us, so don't eat before you leave. I'll bring the burritos, you bring the coffee."
"You got a deal."
"Then you're in." Pete turned and went to the door. "I'm going to get out of here before that smell gets into my clothes."
Bruno barked at Pete as he left.
Benedek smiled and said, "Don't let the garlic hit you in the ass on the way out."
"Don't bring any with you tomorrow," Pete said. "See you in the morning."
Benedek stood at the screen door as Pete limped back to his pickup. He noticed the lawn had been neglected long enough. He decided to mow it that morning after he read the papers.
He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, poured nonfat milk on a bowl of Grape Nuts, and sat down at the kitchen table to read the news.
CHAPTER FOUR
Karen drove her rented Ford Taurus down Main Street through Honeoye, which was actually Route 20A, with no idea where she was going. Burgess's New York private eye had determined that Benedek lived in Honeoye, but that was all he knew. Karen had looked him up in the book, but his number was unlisted. She told herself she should have known it wouldn't be that easy.
She pulled over and parked at the curb in front of a bar called the Oasis, a little place with a window filled with neon advertisements for beer. She got out of the car and went inside. It was a rectangular bar, dark inside, with the bar on the right and four booths against the wall on the left. There were two pinball machines and a jukebox in the back. The jukebox played something blue and boozy.
It was just past one in the afternoon, but there were a few sad-looking people with bad posture seated at the bar. Karen went up to the bar and took a seat far from the nearest person.
The bartender was a woman in her early twenties with honey-blond hair pulled back in a pony tail. She wore a short sleeve white blouse and a short black skirt. She had a name tag, but Karen couldn't read it in the bad light.
"What can I get you?" the bartender said.
"I'd like a cup of coffee, please."
"That's it?"
"I'm afraid so."
The young woman looked at Karen suspiciously, but got her coffee and put it on the bar.
"Excuse me," Karen said as the young woman started to walk away. She came back and Karen said, "What's your name, by the way?"
"Suzi."
"Oh, Suzi, I have a sister named Susan. Look, Suzi, I wonder if you could help me with something. I've come here looking for a man named Walter Benedek. I know he lives here in Honeoye, but I don't know where. Would you happen to know him? The name's Walter Benedek."
Suzi slowly turned her head back and forth. "No, I don't know anybody by that name."
"He's a retired reporter," Karen said. "For the New York Times. You don't know anyone like that?"
"No. I'm sorry, I don't. But hold on a sec." Suzi pushed away from the bar, lifted her head, and shouted, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
The three other heads at the bar lifted and turned to Suzi. Karen realized there were people in a couple of the wooden booths along the wall when heads peered out from behind the dark dividers.
Suzi spoke loudly when she said, "Anybody here know a guy named—" She looked down at Karen. "What's his name again?"
"Walter Benedek," Karen said.
"Anybody here know a guy named Walter Benedek?" Suzi said to her patrons.
After a moment, the heads at the bar turned down again, refocusing their attention on their drinks and their problems.
Suzi looked at her and said, "Looks like you're outta luck."
"Well, thanks, anyway," Karen said with a smile.
Someone else came in and took a seat at the bar, a middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap. Suzi went to wait on him.
Karen was prepared to go into every bar in town if she had to, but she tried to think of something more efficient.
Benedek was a journalist. What kinds of things would a retired journalist do? Maybe he rents movies, she thought—she would check the local video stores.
Books, she thought. Journalists are readers.
When Suzi walked by, Karen said, "Excuse me, Suzi. Does Honeoye have a public library?"
"Yeah, it's just up the street a ways," Suzi said.
"Thank you." She stood and paid for the coffee and left the bar.
Back in her car, she drove farther up the street, but slowly, looking for the library. It was a one-story 1950s red-brick building with a flat roof. Karen parked in the small lot in front and went in.
Inside, the library smelled like a library. Karen had noticed that all libraries smelled the same. It was the smell of books, probably, but she liked to think of it as the scent of knowledge.
She went to the front counter where a black woman in her late sixties stamped a card, slipped it into a book, and handed the book over to a little girl. Karen waited until the girl was finished, then stepped forward and gave the woman her biggest smile.
"Hi, my name's Karen," she said.
The old woman smiled at her and nodded once. "My name's Margaret."
"Well, Margaret, I'm looking for someone who lives here in Honeoye, his name is Walter Benedek."
"Oh, yes, I know Walter," Margaret said. "He comes in here often."
"Could you tell me where he lives?"
Margaret's smile faltered. "Does he know you?"
"No, I'm afraid not." Karen slipped a hand into her purse and produced a business card, which she handed to Margaret. "My name's Karen Moffett, I'm a private investigator from Moffett and Brand Security in Los Angeles. I just need to ask Mr. Benedek some questions."
Margaret's smile fell away. "A private investigator. I don't know."
"Mr. Benedek's not in any kind of trouble, or anything. I just need to ask him a few questions about a case I'm working on. It has to do with an article he wrote back in 1987."
"Well, I don't mean to seem suspicious of you," Margaret said, "but Mr. Benedek is a very private kind of person. That's why I hesitate. I have an idea, though. Why don't I give him a call and tell him you want to speak with him?" As she spoke, she picked up the phone, then reached over and flipped through a Rolodex, found his number, and punched the phone's buttons.
Margaret smiled when she said, "Hello, there, Mr. Benedek. This is Margaret, down at the library. You know, those Sidney Sheldon books are all overdue. All four of them. Shame on you for reading that trash." She listened a moment, then laughed. "That's not why I'm calling, though. There's a young woman down here looking for you. She says she's a private investigator and her name is—" Margaret checked the business card. "—Karen Moffett. She says she wants to ask you some questions about an article you wrote back in 1987." She looked up at Karen. "Yes." She nodded her head. "All right then, that's what I'll tell her. And you better bring those books in, young man." She laughed, then said, "All right, bye-bye, Mr. Benedek," and hung up the phone.
Karen smiled. "What did he say?"
"He told me to tell you to please go away."
Karen nodded. "Okay. So ... you're not going to tell me where he lives?"
"I'm afraid I can't. Mr. Benedek doesn't want me to. I'm sorry, Karen, but I can't help you."
As she left the library, Karen remembered that Burgess had said his New York investigator had gotten no more than a post office box. She wondered if she was going to have the same luck.
Back in the Taurus, she drove through town looking for a video store. She found one a couple blocks up, a place called Movieland
Video. She found a parking space along the curb, dropped a quarter into the parking meter, and walked back the way she had come to the video store. If this didn't work, she'd look for other video stores, and if there were none, she would look for used bookstores.
There was a gangly teenage boy at the counter, talking on the phone as he wrote something down on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. Quickly, before he turned to her, she reached up and unfastened a couple buttons on her shirt, just enough to reveal a touch of cleavage. As he hung up the phone, she approached the counter and smiled.
"Hi, my name is Karen," she said holding out a hand to shake.
The boy smiled and shook her hand. "Hi, Karen. I'm Nate." He had pimples on his cheeks and wore a retainer.
"Maybe you can help me, Nate. I'm looking for an old friend of mine. I know he lives here in Honeoye, but I don't have his address. I'd call him, but I want to surprise him. His name's Walter Benedek."
Nate tipped his head back. "Oh, yeah, I know Mr. Benedek. He comes in here all the time. He always rents widescreen DVDs, never any full-screens, unless the movie was shot that way."
"Would you happen to know where he lives?"
"Sure, he lives just up the road from me. Sometimes I drop by his house on the way to work to pick up videos. He always appreciates that. I don't think he gets much company."
"If you could point me in the right direction, I'd sure appreciate it, Nate."
"Sure, you just go up Main here another two blocks and turn right on Sycamore. You go out Sycamore past the 7-Eleven, until you get to a short bridge over a creek. Just a ways past that, you turn right down Wells Street. His is the third on the left."
"Oh, I can't thank you enough, Nate, you saved my day."
"Sure. No problem." Nate blushed.
She went back out to her car and drove a couple blocks till she got to Sycamore, where she turned right.
Karen's spirits had fallen a little when Margaret told her Benedek wanted her to go away. But she was certain she could win him over in person.
She started to button up her shirt, but changed her mind and left it open.