by Neil Russell
“Every one began on a Friday. Then she wouldn’t come in until Tuesday, or Wednesday, or whenever. A couple of times I tried calling her at home, but no one answered. You’ll forgive me, but at first, I assumed she was shacking up.”
“But you changed your mind.”
He nodded. “One day accounting called and said they were concerned about excessive personal charges on her corporate American Express card. Employees are encouraged to use the card for personal travel then reimburse the museum, but she’d been using it remarkably often and for very large amounts.”
“Seems like an odd policy.”
“Actually, it’s not. This is a paranoid business, and it allows the watchdogs on the second floor to chart your movements. Dr. York had charged almost fifty thousand dollars in airfare and hotel rooms, and though she had paid off every dime, the red flags had gone up.”
“Where was she going?” I asked.
“Paris and Nice mostly. But she also traveled the former East Bloc too, and, of all places, three or four jaunts to Odessa. Not a place for the faint of heart.”
“What did she say when you confronted her?”
“That it was none of my business. Oh, she was polite, but she made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t going to tell me anything.”
“Had you told her she was being terminated?”
“No, but she knew it. In this business, we work too closely with one another to have many secrets. I even got the sense she was relieved. Like she’d already mentally moved on. It’s a shame we’ll never know what she might have accomplished with all of that energy.”
I finished the last of my water and noticed that in spite of the air-conditioning, I was perspiring again. I didn’t feel any pain yet, but the room was starting to close in.
“Let me shift gears for a moment. Have you ever heard of something called the City of War?”
Abernathy leaned back in his chair, thinking. “I don’t believe so,” he said finally. “Is it important?”
“It might be connected to Kim’s death.”
“I’ll do some checking.”
I wrote my number on one of his notepads, and he gave me a business card.
“My cell is on there, and that’s usually the best way to reach me,” he said.
I stood up to leave, and as we shook hands, I asked if it would be possible to get a look at Kim’s office. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, it’s already been redecorated. I know that seems cold, but once I realized the police weren’t going to be coming around, I wanted to give the staff some closure.”
“What about her computer?”
“Tech security purged the hard drives on both of them—the Getty’s desktop and her personal laptop. Company policy dictated by our insurer. We are a careful and suspicious lot, aren’t we?”
I had to agree. This brave new world is still sorting itself out, but society lost a little something when people stopped jotting things down and sticking them in their pockets. Today, if you want to get a phone number in a bar, instead of lipstick on a napkin, everybody takes out their BlackBerry. Not the same.
A.A. went on. “All of her personal things I boxed up and sent to her home.”
We reached the stairway, and I felt the dull ache beginning in my chest again, but I had one more question. “Can you tell me what Kim was working on?”
“Yes, she was writing captions for an upcoming exhibit.”
“Something important?”
“A departure for us: Napoleon and the Middle East. A subject that gets very little attention but that is vitally important to understanding the history of preservation.”
“In other words, looting,” I said.
A.A. smiled.
I said, “Since the Louvre was founded on the plunder from his conquests, won’t that be a fairly sensitive subject for the French?”
His eyes twinkled. “Oh, I do hope so.”
13
Veronica Lake and a Son of a Bitch Named Truman
By the time I got to my car, I was really struggling. Between another burst of pain and three more Vicodin, my vision was starting to blur, and I felt detached from reality. Like I was watching myself through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars.
I wanted to go home and climb into bed, but first I wanted to get a look at the things from Kim’s office—even though I had no idea what I was looking for.
Princeton Street was quiet. Two gardeners were packing up to leave a neighboring house, and a plumbing truck sat across the street. Otherwise, nothing. Gary’s pickup was gone, so he must have been able to work in spite of the crutches. I hoped so.
I drove past Kim’s, made a U-turn at the next intersection and parked in front of Gary’s. As I walked up her driveway, I noticed some remnants of police tape on the front porch, but otherwise the place looked normal.
The single-car garage was padlocked. I went around to the side and found a door that had been painted shut. I put my shoulder into it, and it popped. From the sound, it hadn’t been opened in a long time. Inside was the usual clutter of magazines, paint cans, garden tools and old license plates nailed to the wall. The centerpiece was a tarp, and when I flipped up a corner, I found a red ’63 Corvette. I suspected that at one time it had been Alex Cayne’s pride and joy.
There was a fine layer of dust over everything, so it appeared that Tino and Dante had confined their search to the house. I pulled the door closed behind me and walked into the backyard, where there were three pieces of patio furniture around a Mexican chiminea.
I knelt and looked inside the chiminea. The melted remains of something lay on top of some partially burned briquettes. I fished out the blob. I wasn’t sure, but it could have been a digital picture card.
I stood and dusted off my hands. For the first time, I noticed another structure behind the garage. A greenhouse, situated so that it was not visible from the house. It was about the size of the garage, and one side was engulfed in a wild, thorned creeper that had been allowed to grow unchecked until it had covered more than half the glass. An old wheelbarrow was tilted against the door. I moved it to the side and pulled the door open. It creaked loudly, and a pair of field mice ran out and over my shoes, disappearing into the undergrowth between the greenhouse and the property next door.
I stepped inside but was immediately stopped by wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling cactus. In pots, on shelves, growing out of wooden boxes, hanging from the rafters, jammed into every conceivable space, creating an impenetrable forest of stems and spines. Albuquerque on steroids. I couldn’t even see across the room. I remembered reading that there are two thousand varieties of cactus. It looked like Kim was going for a clean sweep.
“You a realtor?” The voice startled me. I turned and saw an attractive, 20-something woman in a tight black leotard and high heels peering at me through some overgrown birds of paradise between Kim’s house and the one behind. “If so, I hope you’re gonna set a real high price, ’cause if you get it, you can sell mine next.”
She was smiling broadly and didn’t seem even a little bit suspicious, so I went with it. “Just trying to get an idea,” I said. “How’s the neighborhood?”
“Other than some biker jackass who keeps his motorcycle in his living room and fires it up whenever he gets a snoot full, it might as well be a morgue.”
She suddenly realized what she’d said. “Sorry, that was disrespectful. I really liked Kim. She was an angel.”
“Were you and she friends, Miss…?”
“Laura,” she said, shaking her head, “Laura Kennedy, and no, we didn’t hang. My old man thinks I should be working 24/7 so he can watch soap operas and fart. Kim and I just yammered over the backyard fence, so to speak. But every Christmas, she got all kinds of food baskets at work, and she’d give me some. My old man just loves those Mrs. Beasley’s muffins.”
“Did she have a lot of friends?”
“No, I always wondered about that. Sometimes she’d sit out back and drink a beer with Gary—the guy next do
or who does her lawn—but I never saw anybody else. I just figured she was a lez.”
She stopped and looked me up and down, lingering for a moment on my bandaged hand. Then she glanced at her watch. “You’re one big, good-looking son of a bitch. What’s your position on sex with married chicks? Especially ones who scream? Afterward, we could talk multiple listings.”
“I’ve got to get home to catch Days of our Lives.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry about him. He’s down picking up his unemployment check. After that, he’ll stop for a few beers. We’re good till midnight, minimum.”
“Any other time, but I really do have work to do.”
“Can’t blame a girl for trying. You got a card?”
“Fresh out, but I’ll be by again tomorrow. I’ll drop one off.”
She looked at me and licked her lips seductively. “Don’t knock, just put it under the mat. I’ll call you.”
I changed the subject. “I take it Kim liked cactus.”
“She lived in that greenhouse. Never could figure it out. Not much you can do with a cactus, and not much they need.”
I thought about it. Maybe that was the point. I closed the door and turned to go.
“Don’t forget that card,” Laura said.
Gary had fixed the back door, but he hadn’t put on a new lock. It pushed open. The air was musty inside, like all houses after they’ve been shut up for a while. I contemplated opening some windows but decided against it. I didn’t need an enterprising neighbor who wasn’t as friendly as Ms. Kennedy calling the cops. I wasn’t sure what explanation I could give them that wouldn’t cost me a ride to the station.
I let the water in the sink run until it got cool then put my head under it to get rid of the cobwebs. It seemed to work, and afterward I dried off with a dishtowel. The box containing Kim’s things from the museum was on the kitchen table. I decided to have a look at the rest of the house again before going through it.
The Russian ladies had done a thorough job straightening up. Even the drawers were neatly arranged, which made looking through them easy. I found the usual things. A collection of matchbooks, old photographs, a sewing kit, two unused tickets to a Dodgers game.
Her bookshelves strained under the weight of art histories and photographic studies of artists, some famous, some I’d never heard of. On a shelf near the top was a framed picture of a ruggedly handsome naval officer in dress whites standing beside a beaming, attractive young woman. Commander and Mrs. Alexander Cayne, I presumed. I glanced around for a photograph of Truman York but didn’t see one. It probably didn’t mean anything, but it’s a good idea to never presuppose family dynamics.
Alongside the shelves, I found a large leather art portfolio full of charcoal prints, watercolors and pencil sketches, none signed. I had no idea if any were valuable, but since the back door was still open to anyone who wanted to walk in, I zipped the portfolio closed and slid it behind the bookcase. It wouldn’t slow down a serious thief, but it might deter a casual intruder.
I’d saved Kim’s bedroom for last, and as I systematically went though her things, I was conscious of the smell of her perfume. With the house closed, it was still in the air, and it held a kind of sadness. Taped behind the headboard, I found a Walther .22 with a full clip of ammunition. I put it in my pocket and was once again baffled by the police work. How had the cops missed this? The only answer was that they’d been so focused on the gang angle that their search had been cursory.
All of a sudden, I felt flushed, and I was conscious of the pain welling up in my chest again. I slammed three more Vicodin. I needed some fresh air.
I was on my way through the living room back to the kitchen when I saw the silver BMW from the cemetery pull up out front. I stood in the shadows and watched as a tall woman got out. She was wearing an exquisite green and black designer dress, black heels and large, dark sunglasses. The most striking thing about her, though, was her hair. It was shoulder-length platinum and styled dramatically over her right eye and cheek, like the 1940s actress Veronica Lake. She looked up and down the street, then opened her purse and extracted a key. I watched her come up the walk, then I melted back down the hall.
The key turning in the lock was loud in the empty house, and when she entered, I could hear her hesitate for a moment before she closed the door. I had no idea who she was, but since she was obviously going to stay for a while, I didn’t want to scare her witless. I called out, “I’m in the bedroom. I’m coming out.”
Her reply showed no trepidation. “I should hope so. I can smell you from here.”
I suddenly realized I’d been sweating on and off for several hours, and with no ventilation in the place, I must have been pretty gamey. I walked into the living room. “Sorry, it’s been a rough day.”
I’m not usually overcome by physical beauty, but this woman was truly dazzling. And she had a presence that filled the room. Heat, musk and sex.
She looked me up and down. “Mind telling me what you’re doing in my house?”
“Your house?” I managed.
“Yes, I’m Archer Cayne. I grew up here.”
Suddenly, my cell phone rang. I answered it.
It was Jake. “I just talked to some lawyer in Santa Monica. A Virgil Bateman. There’s no will, but there’s a sister.”
“I know, she just caught me breaking and entering.”
“What?”
“I’ll explain later.” I clicked off.
“You’re the boyfriend,” she said. “I saw you at the funeral. There any coffee in this place?”
“Sorry to disappoint. I was a friend, that’s all. And the only other time I was here, I was too busy trying to keep my head from being caved in to check the cupboards.”
“I won’t ask. You have a name?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Cayne, I’m Rail Black.” I extended my hand, and she took it. Her grip was warm and strong. Sure of herself.
“Call me Archer.” Then, as if she were tired of answering the question, she added, “My father was a naval aviator. ‘Archer’ was his call sign.”
I was about to say something when the room began to spin. I staggered and felt myself starting to go. Too many painkillers, no food. “I need to lie down,” I managed, and I felt her strong hands helping me toward the bedroom.
When I awakened, it was pitch black. The clock across the room read 9:48. I’d been out almost eight hours. I was aware of the pain in my chest again, but it was duller. Bearable. I took stock. I was undressed, and I couldn’t smell my sweat any more, just soap. Evidently she’d cleaned me up. It was like being back in the hospital.
Then I realized I wasn’t alone. She came into my arms, and it was like someone had thrown a switch. She moved against me with the kind of hunger that is both electrifying and unsettling. While my body reacted, my conscious mind tried to detach, analyze what was happening. But she was skilled and voracious, and I couldn’t hang onto a thought.
She started to roll onto me, and I winced involuntarily as she pressed against my chest. Immediately, she sat up, straddled my hips and forced me inside her. As she plunged down with all her weight, she gasped, and I felt her body convulse in a violent orgasm.
And then she began thrusting against me with such force that I realized whatever trip she was on, it had nothing to do with me. It wasn’t even really sex. It was primal—no, savage. I reached up to caress her breasts, but she pushed my hands away, hard.
I felt myself rushing to climax, and when I came, she crashed again. And still she wasn’t finished, and I felt myself responding again as she continued driving her hips against mine unrelentingly.
Somebody’s porch light went on next door, sending a sliver of light through the curtains and bathing the room in a blue glow. She was too much into whatever moment she had found to notice. Her head was bent forward, the long, blonde hair obscuring her face as she grunted and moaned from somewhere deep in her throat. Her breasts weren’t large, but they were perfectly formed, the aureoles
wide and brown. And this time, when I touched them, she didn’t object.
I raised one hand to her cheek, and she twisted her head away. But I persisted and pushed her hair back, taking her face between my hands. She sat straight up, and now I could see what she was trying to hide. A deep, ugly knife scar running from her forehead, down through her right eye and halfway down her cheek. The eye itself was dead, sewn shut by the doctor who had performed this grim surgery.
“Go ahead,” she spit out as her hips moved even more wildly. “Go ahead, fuck the scar! That’s what all of you want! So go ahead, fuck it! Fuck the scar!”
She threw her head back and came again, and so did I. It was a release void of passion, care or even much awareness. It was simply over.
But she continued to thrust, beginning the process again. I grabbed her hips and held them still. She convulsed a couple more times, then her breathing began to ease, and after a couple of moments, she rolled onto the bed beside me.
I put my arm around her and pulled her close. Moments later, I felt the warm wetness of tears against my neck. What they were for, I couldn’t guess. Just before she fell asleep, she murmured, “Was I as good as my sister?”
When I awoke a second time, she was still sleeping soundly. I got up, every muscle stiff, found a towel and stood under a very hot shower for a very long time.
I made coffee, and the sun was beginning to break through the curtains in the kitchen when I heard the shower go on again. I checked my phone and saw there were two messages.
One was from Mallory, concerned he hadn’t heard from me. The second was from Stephen Bennett, a friend who lives in Los Feliz. I’d called him a few days earlier, and his message said he’d located Marta Videz—the mother of the dead kid, Kiki.
I turned my attention to the box from the museum. Kim’s computer was on top. If it’s not done in a certain way, data can still be recovered from a wiped hard drive, but my guess was the Getty’s security experts were good, so I set the laptop aside.
I took out a small cactus with a tiny brass tag hanging around it that read, HUG ME—I’M LONELY. Next came a red file folder with some old credit card statements and two letters from a guy named Lew, the most recent of which, dated eighteen months ago, said he was sorry, but he was getting married and moving back to Boise to start an organic farm. It seemed Lew didn’t use e-mail. I immediately like the guy.