“Listen. You got to stop,” he had said to her the last time she asked about his shoulder. “I'm running out of ways to tell you your father did okay.”
”I was asking about you.”
“No, you weren't. You're not asking if I still hurt. You're asking if what he did still hurts. You can't do that here.”
It had taken her a while but she understood what he meant. No looking back. No regrets. Paul had said much the same thing. Regrets make you think too much. They can paralyze you. If her father had hesitated, Billy would have been dead. Nor did Paul mention, ever again, that her father had first shot him as well.
“If it makes you feel better,” Billy had told her, “this summer I'm going to play tennis.” He made, with the bad right arm, what he took to be a serving motion. It was more of a clubbing motion.
Susan could only blink. The picture of this great bear of a man thumping around a tennis court in shorts . . .
“Molly said she'd teach me. She's real good.”
”I know.” Former NCAA finalist. Radcliffe. Susan had played with her. Billy was saying that if Molly thought he could play tennis with that arm, everyone else should shut up about it.
“Anyway,” he said, ”I don't pester you about how you hardly eat anything.”
“Yes, you do. All the time.”
“Don't argue. Go sit.”
He sent her a bacon cheeseburger.
Paul's car pulled up outside, and backed into a space. Someone walking by spoke to him. It was the woman who ran the bookstore up the street. He smiled at her, making small talk.
That shy smile. Soft voice. Gentle eyes. Even now, after almost a year and a half, she still found herself staring at him, trying to reconcile that face, that gentleness, with all that he'd done in his life. Looking at him, it was hard to imagine how anyone, anywhere, could be afraid of him. Living with him, knowing him, it was even harder.
Anton Zivic started toward her table but he saw Paul approaching the door and waited for him. They spoke for a few moments near the cigarette machine. She saw Anton close his eyes and shake his head, a weary grimace on his face. It was the sort of look parents have when told that their child has wrecked the family car. They approached the table, Zivic leaning to kiss her cheek. Paul squeezing her shoulder as he stepped around her.
“Did your father get you?” he asked, sitting.
“Ten minutes ago,” she nodded. “He says if you take me to California you're dog meat. But he also says he and Elena might come. When's the service, by the way?”
“Molly will call when she knows. But I think Billy and I had better fly out tonight. Carla is . . . um, being Carla.”
“She's trying to find the killer by herself?”
“Nothing like that. I'll tell you later.” He turned to Zivic. “I've just put in a call to Leo Belkin. Did you know he was in the country?”
Zivic shook his head. His eyes asked a question.
“Lesko told me,” Bannerman answered. “He and Yuri Rykov are in Los Angeles with a Mosfilm delegation. I spoke to Rykov. He said they'd look in on Carla today.”
“Our Leo Belkin?” Susan wasn't sure she'd heard, especially because Anton Zivic's face showed no surprise. “What's the KGB doing with movie people?”
“Recruiting, I imagine,” he said distractedly.
Susan made a face. Paul will have his little joke. And yet she saw no light of mischief in his eyes. “You're kidding, right?” she said to him.
Bannerman shrugged. “It's what he does, Susan. That's his job.”
She closed one eye, still unsure of all this. ' ‘Recruiting spies? What's to spy on in Hollywood?”
Paul's expression told her that he had little interest in this subject except to the extent that Colonel Belkin or his aide, Yuri, could do him a favor. He answered nonetheless.
“I'm guessing,” he said, “but film technology is pretty sophisticated. Some of it has strategic applications. He'll get someone to sell him whatever he's after.”
“But how can you . . .” She stopped herself. She was about to ask how he could know that and do nothing about it. She knew what he'd say: “What is it you'd like me to do, Susan? Ask him to stop?”
They'd had such conversations before. He is one man, he would say. He cannot change the world. All he can do is protect his small piece of it. Fortress Westport. In any case, he is retired.
One recent talk had to do with the Cold War being over. No more Cold War, she had said, should mean no more spies, no more contract agents. Maybe he and his people will finally be left alone. He smiled, politely, and said, “Perhaps,” but she could see that he did not believe it. She pressed him.
He explained, somewhat reluctantly, that the Cold War is not over. It has simply been redefined. The need to know the intentions of a potential enemy is as great as ever, especially one whose government may prove to be politically unstable. The need to “interdict” any force or faction seeking to destabilize an otherwise cooperative government is all the more critical. People will still be blackmailed, kidnapped, or killed. Espionage, if anything, will increase, particularly against Western industry because the need for economic intelligence . . . technology ... is as vital to the restructuring of the Soviet economy as it was to that of Germany and Japan. Furthermore, because Russia is now seen in a somewhat more sympathetic light, their agents will have a much easier time recruiting American citizens as spies. What's the harm, the recruit would ask? Why not sell them something, make a few bucks at it, before Congress gives it to them for nothing?
What Paul said, she supposed, made a twisted kind of sense. But it was all so terribly cynical. So wearying. “Not cynical,” he would say, in that gentle way of his. “Realistic. But yes, it is wearying.”
“Susan?”
Her mind had wandered.
Paul was discussing who should go to Los Angeles and when. And he was telling them both that Lisa Benedict had almost certainly been murdered by someone other than California's latest serial killer. He told them what her father had said. The killer could be anyone but he was more likely than not to have been an acquaintance, possibly a former boyfriend.
He had no expectation of finding the killer but they owed it to Carla to at least try to narrow the field. His first priority, however, was to keep Carla from drawing any further attention to herself, and, therefore, to the rest of them. If they should develop any leads, they will turn them over to the police, bury Lisa, and get out of there. He would not mind having her father there. He has a ... talent ... for this sort of thing and, if nothing else, he would be useful as a buffer against the authorities. As for Susan, she can come out for the service but, until then, although he anticipates no personal danger for anyone involved, he would prefer not to put her at risk.
“I'm coming,” she said. “I'm coming with you.”
He raised his hands. She ignored the gesture.
“I'm not just a mascot around here, Bannerman,” she said quietly. ”I was a reporter, remember? I know how to track leads.”
“That was in New York. You've never been to Los Angeles. You wouldn't even know your way around.”
She ignored that nonsense as well. They sell maps of Los Angeles. As for the question of possible danger, Paul's eyes said that he was telling the truth. He had no reason to expect any. And yet he was traveling with Billy. And if John Waldo was here, Waldo was probably being sent ahead separately. John had also gone to Spain separately. His job, she'd since learned, was to procure weapons, spare cars, and to prepare alternate evacuation routes. Paul had also asked Leo Belkin's help. Colonel Belkin, if nothing else, could be counted on to provide sanctuary, a safe house if needed, possibly within the Soviet consulate as he had in Lisbon. Even for Paul, who liked to be thorough, to hedge his bets, it seemed a lot of trouble to go to.
“What troubles you so much?” Anton Zivic asked the question before she could. “About this murder, I mean.”
”I don't know,” he answered, rubbing his chin.
; “Do you have ... an intuition of some sort?”
He shook his head. “Not even that. When a thing like this touches us,” he said, “I'm probably just hesitant to assume that it's entirely unrelated to us. And yet I'm sure that it is.”
“But it bothers you nonetheless. This is your reason for wanting Lesko there?”
A small shrug. He didn't answer. But Susan understood. She had heard the reference to her father's talent. Although he was reluctant to say it, for fear of seeming foolish, Paul wanted not only her father but he wanted David Katz. More rationally, he wanted that part of her father's mind that seemed to hear and feel things that were just out of reach for most other people. Anton Zivic seemed to know this as well.
“He'll come if I do,” Susan said.
“And you'd be all he'll think about. That's not what I need.”
“It's what I need,” she said firmly. “I'm going with you.”
17
Carleton Dunville the elder was not pleased. Although not yet sixty, he had hoped to pass the remainder of his life visiting Sur La Mer no more frequently than twice a year.
He had been born there, had grown up there, and he had sired, among others, two sons who had also remained there. But unlike his father, Count Victor, he was not content to die there. There was a whole world to enjoy, a world that he had helped create. There was power to enjoy. And there was fear. He saw it, all the time, in the eyes of those who owed all that they were to him and whose lives, fortunes, reputations depended, even now, on his continued goodwill.
He felt no such goodwill toward his sons today. There was Henry, still whimpering in the basement. One eye gone entirely, the other damaged, probably beyond repair; his usefulness, such as it was, at an end.
He would be no great loss. Henry had always been Henry; born with the genetic deficiencies of the alcoholic and drug addict who was his mother. What was her name? Famous once, during the forties. Frances something or other. Hard to remember. They came and they went.
He was doubly displeased with his namesake, young Carleton. Disappointed, as much as anything. Carleton had, since birth, been the apple of his eye. Carleton, much more than Henry, had grown to resemble him physically and intellectually. Even sartorially. Small wonder, of course. They had been groomed identically.
But the resemblance, sadly, did not extend to decisiveness. Or to prudence. It was hardly prudent to keep copies of those biographies in his office safe. Or even on the grounds, for that matter. Worse, he had let Henry, and Ruiz, know they were there. But no one else, all three insisted.
And yet the German, Streicher, knew exactly what he was looking for and where to find it. Are we to believe Henry's blubbering fixation that Nellie Dameon is somehow behind this? He offers no evidence beyond a suspicion that the old actress has found her voice and the fact that the Streichers have been spending time with her. And would not let him question her.
Not that it matters, really. The damage is done. Now, it is a question of containment. In an orderly manner. One thing at a time.
The first order of business, in young Carleton’ s office, formerly his own, was the report from this thug, Hickey, who seemed to be the only one who had not made a hash of things.
“That's the one. The redhead,” Hickey was saying.
Carleton, his son at his side, was watching a videotape shot by Hickey. It showed two women, surrounded by police, one of them struggling while being carried down a flight of stairs, all the while kicking at a man dressed in a suit.
“Her name is Carla Benedict,” Hickey told him. “She's the sister of the one I ... the one you caught sneaking in here. The tall one's name is Molly Farrell. They're from back east.”
Carleton the younger raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Hickey continued his narration.
“This is ten minutes later, up Alameda. They're stopping to get an address from a phone book. I stick with them because there's already something funny about them but I can't put my finger on it. After a while, I realize they're looking for the house where this girl, DiDi Fenerty, lives.”
“Why? Do you know?”
Hickey spread his hands. “The only thing I can figure is they heard her name on the answering machine. Anything else with her name on it, I already took out of the apartment.”
“But that reference to Miss Fenerty, you said, was indirect at best. Why would they go to see her?”
Hickey shrugged. “To find out if the dead sister ever showed up there, I guess. Port in a storm.”
Carleton the younger rubbed his chin. He wished now that he'd told Hickey to make it look like a burglary. Break the lock. Steal everything of value, including that machine. “What happened next?” he asked.
“They go to the Fenerty house. It's that white one with the porch. They're inside for about a half hour. The sister comes out but the other one stays. I followed the sister until I lost her ... in traffic. I broke off, made a couple of phone calls, then I came straight here.”
“How did you learn who they were?”
Hickey smiled, his expression smug. He reversed the tape and pressed Pause. “Look at the little one. Looks like the dead girl, right? Figures at least to be a relative. So before I come up here, I call the dead girl's father, say I'm LAPD, and tell him someone claiming to be a relative was at his daughter's apartment interfering with the investigation, and could he verify. The father doesn't sound surprised. He sounds disgusted. He says, ‘That's Carla, all right.’ He said she and her ‘associate’ are out here from Connecticut. I asked if they were staying with him. He said, Wo, they're at the Beverly Hills Hotel.’ ”
“Associate?” asked Carleton the elder.
”I heard that too. And the way he said it. So I ask him if there's anything I should know about his daughter. There's this long silence. He tries to get off the phone. I remind him that this is a murder investigation and I ask him again. He says, ‘I've told the government people everything I know, or care to know, about Carla.' I ask, ‘Which government people?’ But he hangs up.”
Both Dunvilles were frowning. “What do you make of it?” asked Carleton the elder.
Hickey smirked. He hooked his thumbs inside his belt and patted his abdomen. “Like I told you,” he said, “there was something about her. So I make one more call. There's this cop I know, I saved his ass once, who was one of the uniforms at the dead girl's apartment. I catch him coming off his shift and I tell him I'm working for the family of one of the other victims so he doesn't wonder why I was there.”
He paused again, for effect. Carleton the younger, a chill smile on his face, nodded encouragement.
“Anyway,” Hickey resumed, ”I ask him what all the fuss was and he says the redhead almost carved up two FBI guys. He said they let her go because, sure enough, she's the sister and she had a right to be there. But then the feds do a computer make on her. She definitely has a sheet but I don't know what it says because the feds wouldn't even tell the LA cops on the task force. All they'd say is it's a federal matter and it has no connection with the case at hand. But my guy heard they turned white when the sheet came in and they spent the next hour on the phone to Washington.”
“Well?” The young Carleton stared blankly. “What does it mean?”
Hickey was disappointed. He thought he'd been clear. “You need me to spell it out?” He leaned forward. “The FBI, not to mention the cops, are now paying special attention to a murder that was just one more slicing until the mystery sister shows up. That's not to mention these two women, either, who might just be pros and who are definitely not your basic grief-stricken relatives.”
Carleton the younger watched the former policeman through hooded eyes. He began to feel pressure at his temples.
“Go on, please,” he whispered.
“That's about it.”
“We don't pay you to add to our worries, Mr. Hickey. We pay you to solve our problems.”
Hickey’ s color rose. “What is this? Shoot the messenger? I thought I did pretty damned good
.”
“And you have,” said Carleton the elder, raising one hand to silence his son. “You have been most resourceful.”
Hickey's mouth twitched. He almost said thank you.
“Just one or two things more. You said the sister left the Fenerty house while the other one stayed. Why would that be?”
Hickey shrugged.
“Possibly because the Fenerty girl knows something of Lisa Benedict's activities after all?”
Hickey twisted his mouth, doubtfully. “If she does, it's hard to imagine the sister leaving. But she left pretty quick, probably headed back to her hotel. When I lost her she was heading right for it.”
Carleton the younger turned toward his father. “We have no reason to think that the Fenerty girl knows anything. I spoke to her myself. Still, it would have been nice if Mr. Hickey made sure.”
Hickey reddened. “That's all you'd need. Two girls, close friends, both dead. If you want every cop in town working on this, that would be the way to do it.”
Young Carleton seemed stunned. “Dead?” he asked, straightening. “Who, for heaven's sake, said anything about killing her?”
“You said ‘make sure.’ You said it twice.”
”I meant through detective work, Mr. Hickey. I certainly didn't mean . . . ”
“Hey!” Hickey held up both hands. “Don't fuck with me.” He gestured toward the basement room where he had first seen Lisa Benedict's body. “You didn't say carve up that girl's mouth, either. But it's what you meant.”
Carleton the younger glared at him. He glanced at his father. Then, “Would you give us a few moments alone, Mr. Hickey?”
Hickey looked at the father. ”I cleaned up this mess. I didn't make it.”
“Mr. Hickey . . . ”
“You want to talk, fine,” he said. “While you're at it you can talk about my new job. It's here, full time. I want ten grand a month, effective now, and I'm your new chief of security. That guy, Darby, is a schmuck anyway.”
Carleton the younger sputtered. He started to rise. His father put a hand on his arm.
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