Francesca seemed fascinated by the orange tarp.
She murmured, "Who in the world could it be? How could he get here?"
I looked up, straight up along the cliff above the body, and saw the roof of Pointe House—and then I began to lose the numbness. This was my side of the house; the windows of my suite were directly above. There was only one way that body could have gotten there—and I was sure that fact had not been lost on Alvarez.
Developing information, my ass.
Francesca had been right on. This was a murder investigation.
And guess who all the prime suspects must be. One real live man, maybe, and a houseful of ghosts, maybe. So where did that leave good old Ashton? Exactly. Exactly.
I could hardly wait to see that body.
Chapter Fourteen: Deathline
The body of Jim Sloane was beneath that tarp. It lay face up, eyes open, lips pulled back in a frozen snarl or grimace, dressed as I had last seen him; rather badly broken up by the apparent fall, limbs at grotesque angles. The corpse struck no apparent note of recognition within Francesca; she merely shuddered and quickly turned away.
I knelt beside the body for a closer look, then told Sergeant Alvarez, "It's Jim Sloane, the lawyer I met here yesterday. Looks like the same clothing."
"Did you see him leave the property after that meeting?"
"No. But I was down here myself from five o'clock till about six. So was Francesca. We couldn't have missed him if he'd been here at that time."
Francesca was looking at me oddly.
Alvarez quietly stated, "I'm guessing no more than
twelve hours dead. Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary during the night?"
I'd seen and heard plenty out of the ordinary but I did not intend to go into any of that with this guy. "If you mean a commotion or outcry, no."
"What did you do with your evening?"
I resisted the temptation to sneak a look at Francesca, told him, "Took a bath and a nap before dinner. Dined with Miss Amalie. We spent the evening talking and... getting to know each other. I previewed her upcoming art show at about midnight, then went straight to bed. I was still in bed when you got here."
I should have checked with Francesca first.
She was plainly aghast at what I'd said; stepped closer to Alvarez and murmured, "That's not true."
The cop gave her a reassuring look; gave me a hard one as he told me, "That's in conflict with Miss Amalie's earlier statement. She has said that she last saw you at approximately six o'clock yesterday evening."
I muttered, "Then we've got a problem here, haven't we."
The coroner's man arrived at that juncture, postponing the problem to another moment.
Francesca was getting the shakes. Alvarez excused her to return to the house but it was obvious that he was not extending the same courtesy to me. I retreated to a rock and sat there in dark thought while the homicide team did their number; then Alvarez collected me and we returned topside together.
On the way up I told him, "I'd appreciate it if you'd make a call on my behalf as soon as we get to the house—Lieutenant Paul Steward, Homicide, LAPD." I found a card in my wallet and handed it to him. "We've worked together in the past. He knows me and knows what I do. All I'm asking is that you talk to him before you talk to me. Because frankly, pal, we've got a mind-boggler here, and there's no way I can bring it home for you unless you're willing to at least fairly consider what I have to tell you."
The sergeant made no comment to that, but he accepted Stewart's card and went straight to a telephone as soon as we were inside the house. He spoke with the L.A. homicide detective for several minutes, looking me up and down from time to time, and his manner was a bit warmer —though still reserved—when he returned to me.
"I never worked with a psychic," he told me. “Not sure I really buy any of it. Anyway, that's not the issue. Stewart says he'd cock his pistol and hand it to you in a dark alley, he's that trustful of you. That buys you nothing here of course, if you turn up smudgy. And I will not hand you my cocked pistol—not here, now, or anywhere. But I'll give you some space, for the time being. What did you want to tell me?”
I replied, "First of all, I believe that Miss Amalie thinks she is telling the truth about last night. I cannot speak for the housekeeper—what she does or does not believe—but I can tell you that she misled you about the number of people who are staying here. There are at least five and possibly six others besides Miss Amalie and myself, who dined formally here last night and who gave every appearance of having resided here for a long time—much longer, I'm sure, than you would care to believe."
"You are saying that she—Miss Amalie—attended a formal dinner party here last night?"
"Yes."
"She told me that she had a sandwich and a Coke for dinner in her studio, and worked until midnight."
I replied, "She may believe that she's telling the truth."
“What does that mean? Could she be in two places at once?”
I said, "It is not impossible."
"I am trying to be patient with you," the cop said darkly.
I said, "Please keep trying, because you haven't heard anything yet."
He said, "Then let's save it for now. I'd like to see your room."
So I led him upstairs, ushered him into my suite, lit a cigarette, and watched him violate my civil rights. He looked in every closet, drawer, nook, and cranny—and when he was finished, he asked me, "Do you still maintain that you are not living here?"
I told him, "I saw this place for the first time yesterday afternoon."
He asked, "Do you always travel so heavy? Isn't all this stuff yours?"
I replied, "No, it is not mine. I came here with an overnight kit, not even sure I'd be staying the night. Found everything exactly as you see it." I tugged at my polo shirt. "This too. I came down here in slacks and blazer. They picked up some sand on the beach, so—"
"Where are they now?"
I went to the closet and searched vainly, turned back to tell the cop, "Guess Hai Tsu picked them up for cleaning.
Look at all this other stuff closely though, you'll see it's all brand new. I can tell you that it all fits and that it is the kind of stuff I usually wear, depending on the occasion."
"But it was just sitting waiting for you when you arrived, not knowing that you would even stay the night?"
"That's right. The computer is loaded with my software too. It appears that every effort was exerted to make me feel at home."
Alvarez looked around, commented, "Beats hell out of mine."
I said, "Mine too."
He went to the large window in the bedroom, slid it open, leaned out—stayed out there twenty or so seconds —pulled his head back inside and beckoned to me. "Come see," he said quietly.
I went, and I saw. It was a clean drop to the beach below, to the very spot where the corpse had lain and now marked by an outline in the sand.
I said, "Yeah, I had that figured out from below."
He said, "Me too. Had this window already staked out."
I told him, "I can't explain it yet. But I was absent from this suite from about eight o'clock until almost one. I was—"
"Dining with Miss Amalie."
"That's right, plus six others. Well, five others during dinner. St. Germain never eats with other people so..." I realized too late what I was saying, tried to cover it, failed.
The cop said, "Who is St. Germain?"
I said, "Inside joke. His real name is Valentinius de
Medici. He owns the joint. But I gather that he doesn't stay here all the time. Sort of a world traveler you might say."
"Uh huh. The housekeeper didn't mention him."
I said, "That doesn't surprise me. She didn't mention the others either, did she."
He produced a notebook, glanced at it, told me, "Household staff of three, including her; two gardeners and a general maintenance man live in the cottage in the garden area—all Chinese, no
English spoken; you, and Miss Amalie. No mention of a—how do you spell that?"
I found my overnight kit, produced the two bundles of money wrapped in the power of attorney, placed the package in Alvarez's hands, told him, "Note the date on the document. The ten grand was dropped on me at Malibu. Sloane delivered the power of attorney after I got here yesterday. Why would I push the man out my window? I had just been hired—or let's say retained to work with him in an effort to save this property from confiscation by the state."
The cop was examining the bundles. He looked up to say, "So you'd met with this Medici before you came down from Malibu."
"In a manner of speaking, yes."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that he dropped the money on me and asked me to come immediately."
“So the two of you came—?”
"No, he just dropped the money and the summons, then disappeared. I came on—"
"How disappeared?"
"Same way he appeared. Blip, he's in. Blip, he's out."
"I'm not sure I understand"
“Don't try, not yet. I don't understand it either yet.”
"You sound like you think you will though."
"I usually manage to, sooner or latar. This one may be more later than sooner, so don't hold your breath. I—"
"Wouldn't think of it. Who were the other people at dinner?"
I gave him a long, quiet look, then told him, "You really don't want to know, not yet."
"Try me," the cop invited.
I said, "Well, let's see—we had John the Ascetic—he poses syllogisms, and—"
"Poses what?"
"Syllogisms. It's a prepositional form of deductive logic—the kind of games cops play—"Elementary, my dear Watson," that kind. Only John's are done for fun; you're supposed to come up with comic examples of flawed logic."
"Okay. Who else?"
"Hilary the Fanatic—some sort of priest—I don't know, maybe a Jesuit. Rosary the Devout—a nun, but I don't know which order, her habit looks like it came from medieval times. Pierre the Lunatic—chemist, he says, but I think alchemist. Karl the Magnificent is an engineer; I get it that he specializes in feats, like Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower or maybe even pyramids—who knows? Last but certainly not least, we have Catherine the Impudent, who insists that she's a whore but I think may still be a virgin. Did I give you six?"
Alvarez was standing near the doorway with notebook in hand and pencil poised but unmoving, his mouth open, gazing at me with the look of a highly intelligent man who wonders if he is being double-talked.
He put the notebook away and pocketed the pencil, turned toward the open door and said, without looking at me, "What is this lawsuit? On what grounds is the state confiscating?"
"They contend that the legal owner of record would now have to be at least 150 years old, that obviously he has died intestate and without heirs."
“So what about Medici? Can't he produce—?”
"He is that legal owner of record."
"You mean...?"
"Uh huh."
Alvarez went on to the door, then turned back to look in my general direction but not directly at me, said, "Stewart recommended that I give you space to operate. Okay, but that does not mean space to bamboozle. Don't leave the property without notifying me first."
I replied, "Thanks. How much time does that space buy me?"
"Not much," he said, shifting his gaze to meet my own. "Just till I can unscramble things a bit. Be advised; you are a suspect at least until I can do that."
I requested, "Give me a time frame."
He replied, "How can I do that? But let's say twenty- four hours. I could book you right now, just on the face of things. But I've known Paul Stewart too for a long time.
So I'm giving you that much space. Don't make me regret it."
That kind of space was like a finger snap in time. But I had to be grateful, considering the circumstances, for all small favors received.
And it now appeared that I had a new deadline—or was it a deathline? My ten days to resolution had shrunk to one.
Chapter Fifteen: The Power
Before he left, Sgt. Alvarez admitted that he'd known the identity of the victim all along. Sloane's wallet with everything intact had been found on the body. His car had been discovered illegally parked on Pacific Coast Highway just down from the entrance to Pointe House, which was something of a puzzler unless you wanted to think that (a) he had returned at some time following the afternoon visit and, for some reason, had wanted to enter unnoticed; or (b) someone else had parked the car on the highway, probably after Sloane's death.
Also I gained a modification of my stay put order from Alvarez; he agreed that I could travel freely within Orange County but that I should keep his office informed of my whereabouts.
I got Hai Tsu on the house phone as soon as the cops
had cleared out, asked her to come to my suite. She must have thought I desired valet attentions because she took one look at the stubble on my face and went to the bathroom for shaving gear. I needed a shave, sure, so I figured what the hell and let her go at it.
Always gives me a funny feeling to have someone else at my face and throat with a blade. But I tried to relax and enjoy it, thought I could use the shave as a cover for some pointed conversation. That did not work though. Every time I tried to frame a word in the mouth, Hai Tsu gently but quickly shut it off with a finger at my lips as if to say "no talking during shaving, please." I had no desire to lose chunks of nose or lip so I took the advice and held my silence until she'd finished.
Best damned shave I'd ever had. She kept me under warm towels for a minute or so afterward, then finished off by massaging a cooling balm into the skin.
"Breakfast now, Shen?" she inquired happily, as though that would really make her day.
I was hungry, yeah, but it could wait. I asked her, "Can you read English?"
She jerked her head in an enthusiastic nod, replied, "Oh yes, read English good. Hai Tsu read for Shen?"
I handed her the power of attorney and said, "Hai Tsu read for Hai Tsu."
If indeed she read that paper then she is the fastest speed-reader I've ever seen at work. She merely glanced at it and handed it back.
"Yes, Shen?"
"Read it."
"Yes, Shen." As though to say, "How many times, dummy?"
I asked, "You read it?"'
"Yes, Shen."
"Then tell me about it."
"Is confirmation. Shen is here when not here."
Wait a minute! I was getting a whole new slant on that piece of paper!
I said, "It authorizes me to sign his name on legal documents."
She said, "Yes. And also act, be, do in every way as though Shen is in your body."
I was getting the Shen now too.
And the full Shen treatment!
"No, wait," I protested lamely, "a power of attorney is used to..."
After a moment of respectful waiting for me to finish the thought, Hai Tsu finished it for me in her own way. "You are Shen."
So I thought, well okay, what the hell, why not.
"Thanks," I muttered. "I'll, uh, be down in about ten minutes. Breakfast outside is fine. Two eggs medium, bacon if you have it."
"English muffins." She twinkled at me—confirming, not inquiring.
I replied, "Yes, crisp and dripping," but I knew she already knew that too, somehow.
I let her get to the door before I called her back and asked her, "How well did you know Sloane?"
“This Sloane, not know,” she replied.
"You saw him yesterday for the first time?"
"First time, yes."
"You knew his father?"
"Yes. Many year."
I looked at that bright, beautiful face and wondered how it could have known anything at all for "many year" unless it began in childhood.
I wanted to push the thought a bit further. "And his father's father?"
"Yes, S
hen."
Well damn it.
"How did you guys work this? I mean, did the Sloanes do all the banking and other financial matters? Where do you get your household money?"
"All is provided, Shen," is all she was prepared to tell me about that.
I knew that further questioning in this vein would not advance me beyond that blank wall, so I just dropped it for the moment and let the beautiful Oriental enigma go on her way.
Which does not mean that I did not have a thousand or so questions awaiting answers. The whole thing had taken a decidedly ominous twist—from the mysterious to the macabre maybe—and I was feeling entirely uncomfortable about a lot of things, the power of attorney among them.
Like, what the hell good was a power of attorney for a man who should be dead these hundred or more years? Death wipes away that power. So how did Valentinius—if I knew what I thought I knew—intend that I use it?
I thought of something he'd said to me at Malibu: "You are the man for me, Ashton."
The man to do what?
Hai Tsu told me, "You are Shen."
Bull shit I was Shen!
I was Ashton Ford, think you, and intended to stay that way. But, as I looked around me at that fabulous master suite loaded with everything I could need or want in a home, I knew and realized and understood that—for the moment anyway—I was also Valentinius de Medici.
And that understanding shivered my bones.
What's in a name?
For the moment, pal...me.
The law offices of Sloane, Sloane and James occupied the musty second floor of an old office building in Santa Ana, the county seat. The partners had evidently found no need to put on a successful face. The furnishings, though entirely adequate and functional, looked as old as the building. The only modern touches were a small personal computer and a copy machine sharing a cubbyhole with Mr. Coffee and his accessories.
The lady at the reception desk looked like she'd come with the furniture, but she was sweet and hospitable—insisting that I wait with coffee for my audience with Claire Kelly, the legal secretary and office manager.
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