by Alan Russell
“I didn’t realize you were such a connoisseur.”
“I’m not. The only thing I know about wine is that it’s made from grapes, and I guess even that’s not an absolute.”
“So did you select your bottles on the basis of the wine scoring?”
“Is that what those numbers mean?”
Lisbet looked at me skeptically, not sure if I was kidding her or not. “The scores are typically based on a hundred-point scale,” she said, “and you’re usually safe if you pick anything above an eighty-five from some respectable source like Wine Spectator.”
“I think my way is superior.”
“The cheaper, the better?”
“That’s my usual methodology, but in this case I made my selections based on the wine labels.”
“I’ve never heard an oenophile recommend that method.”
“I would hate to be known as an oenophile. That sounds like something unsavory.”
“In vino veritas,” Lisbet said.
I did my W.C. Fields imitation, and recited his line: “ ‘I cook with wine, and sometimes I even add it to the food.’ ”
“Why don’t you open one of the bottles?” Lisbet asked. “Or did the label you choose come on a box?”
“You wound me. And here I didn’t even consider picking up a bottle of The Bitch.”
“That really wasn’t a choice, was it?”
“It was. They also had Fat Bastard.”
“How could you have possibly passed that one up?”
“I think my mistake was not getting a bottle of The Ball Buster.”
“I think you showed uncommon wisdom not getting it.”
“A clerk saw me stalking the wine aisles and asked if he could help me pick out the right bottle of wine. I told him I was more interested in the right label. And he said they were all out of Pinot Evil, which was one of his favorite labels. He said it shows a monkey covering its eyes.”
“Monkey see, monkey do,” said Lisbet. “What did monkey buy?”
“I almost went with Rocket Science.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It made me think of drones.”
“I’m glad you didn’t get it then.”
“As you can see, I ended up with a bottle of red and a bottle of white, both from Napa Valley.”
I turned the labels toward her and she read from them: “Conundrum and The Prisoner.”
“They spoke to my state of mind,” I said.
“Let’s hope they speak to our palates as well.”
“Which would you like to try first?”
“Let’s storm the Bastille,” she said, and then squinted slightly, looking a little closer at the label. “I think that’s Goya,” she said, referring to the drawing on the bottle The Prisoner.
On the label was an etching of a bearded and bent prisoner snared in leg irons. Lisbet makes her living as a graphic artist, and in her spare time she loves to go to museums and galleries. She is probably the only person in Los Angeles who could have identified the artist whose work was featured on a wine label.
“Goya,” I agreed. “That’s exactly what I thought when I saw the drawing on the label.”
“I would snort, except that I’d rather have a snort.”
“You doubt me?”
“It’s too bad you didn’t pick up a bottle of Big Fat Liar.”
“I didn’t see that one; otherwise I might have.”
As I applied a corkscrew to one of the bottles I said, “It’s time I freed the prisoner.”
While I poured our glasses, Lisbet was busy cutting up some red potatoes. She tossed them in a skillet bubbling with butter and olive oil. Between sips of wine, she added garlic and rosemary. As the aromatics filled the room, I sniffed appreciatively. While the potatoes cooked, she composed the Caesar salad, complete with shavings taken from a wedge of Parmesan cheese. Everything looked wonderful until I noticed the anchovies.
“Really?” I said. “Hairy little fish?”
“It’s not a real Caesar salad without anchovies.”
“I appreciate hairy dogs; I don’t appreciate hairy fish.”
“Those aren’t hairs. They are bones.”
I reached for one of the hairy fish and examined it. Doubting Lisbet is always a mistake. What appeared to be hairs were actually thin, little bones.
“Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones,” I sang.
Lisbet ruined my song by not only singing it on-key but getting in the last word. “Hear the word of the poured,” she sang. And then she waved an empty wine glass my way.
I filled her glass while she checked the broiler, which was apparently hot enough. Lisbet had told me she was going to the butcher’s shop to pick out something special.
She removed the butcher paper and said, “Voila! Someone here has certainly earned his dry-aged Black Angus T-bone steak.”
Then she leaned down and patted the only one of us with a tail.
“I hope you’re going to throw me a bone?”
“If you’re lucky.”
It wasn’t what she said, but the way she said it. The evening was looking very promising.
“Did you make it to the dry cleaners on time?” she asked.
When we’d talked earlier, I had been hurrying to make it there before they closed. “I did,” I said, “but I’m hoping I’ll just be window dressing to the Chief while he’s window dressing to the mayor.”
The ceremony for the Reluctant Hero was being held in the morning.
“All the media agreed not to use the Hero’s name?”
When we’d talked, I had explained to Lisbet how I had uncovered the identity of the Reluctant Hero and had been working on his behalf to maintain his privacy.
“His continued anonymity is part of the package.”
“All’s well that ends well,” she said.
It wasn’t exactly the ending the Ranger might have hoped for, but I didn’t say anything. I had kept my promise to Pullman. Even Lisbet hadn’t heard his story. No one ever would, at least not from me. If Pullman was lucky, the secret of his forbidden love and biological son would never come out.
I watched Lisbet working a pepper mill over the steaks. She had brought the pepper mill, knowing I didn’t have one. To her thinking it’s a travesty to use ground pepper as opposed to fresh cracked pepper. She also sprinkled a pinch of kosher salt (something else she had brought with her) on each of the steaks before sticking them under the broiler.
For the two-legged, it was a ten-minute wait, five minutes on each side. The four-legged one of us took his steak rare, two minutes per side. Before we even began to eat, Sirius was done and licking his chops.
The meal was wonderful, even the hairy fish salad. And then Lisbet plated up some pound cake with raspberries and whipped cream. Sirius wasn’t totally denied; he got a serving of raspberries with just a hint of the cream.
“It was a banquet fit for a king,” I told Lisbet. “I really can’t thank you enough.”
“Open that second bottle of wine, and maybe I’ll call it even,” she said.
I did battle with another cork, won my joust, and poured.
“Conundrum,” said Lisbet.
“A wine that I chose not so much as an accompaniment to the meal,” I explained, “but more as a commentary on the state of my case.”
Lisbet raised her wineglass. “Here’s to you solving your conundrums.”
We clinked glasses.
“I thought wine was supposed to loosen tongues,” said Lisbet. “But you’ve yet to talk of your conundrums.”
“My tongue is loose,” I said, “but I didn’t want to burden your ears.”
“Wine is great for opening up ear canals.”
“In that case I’ll open the floodgates.”
With her encoura
gement, I began talking about my professional conundrums.
“One of the stumpers is the man on the scooter,” I said. “Who is he, and who was he working for? And did he set me up for the kill, or was he setting Novak up? If I’m to believe Corde, Novak wasn’t murdered by the scooter guy. If that’s true, then who brought down the fire on him?”
“Do your suspects have alibis?” asked Lisbet.
“Every one of them,” I said, “and they’re all airtight. The conspiracy theorists might say the CIA took Novak out to shut him up. If I’d had the chance to arrest Novak for the murder of Wrong Pauley, and it was proven he was involved in other nefarious activities, he would have proved an embarrassment to the Agency despite being retired from it. Novak’s death also conveniently prevented him from having to answer questions about how he had procured the kind of high-tech equipment no civilian should be able to possess.”
“But you’re not a conspiracy theorist?” said Lisbet.
“In the words of Ben Franklin, ‘Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.’ ”
“I wish I could offer insights into your conundrums, but I’m not even good at Clue.”
“It was easier when Colonel Mustard had a candlestick for a murder weapon. Now he has a drone.”
“I always guess Miss Scarlet did it with the knife. And I’m always wrong.”
“I know the feeling. I kept getting it wrong with this case. I was late putting Novak into the equation, and then he was murdered before I had a chance to talk to him. Just when I’m thinking I’m making some headway, everything goes to hell. Or everyone goes to hell.”
“Doesn’t it stand to reason that Novak was the fall guy for Corde?”
“It makes sense,” I said, “but I’m not sure if it’s right. With his longtime hunting partner gone, Corde doesn’t have anyone to do his dirty work. And he offered up a not-so-veiled hint that any potential incriminating evidence against him is now gone. But I’m holding out hope for a silver lining.”
“You think there’s evidence that Corde doesn’t know about?”
“I think it’s more of a case that he does know about it. Just before I was attacked, I met with Elle Barrett Browning. I suspect the only reason she’s with Corde is because he has something on her. And if his blackmail was illegally obtained, then it’s likely he has now disposed of it for fear of being prosecuted if it was found in his possession. If that’s the case, and there’s no longer a sword hanging over her head, Elle might be freed up to supply dirt on Corde.”
“Have you talked with her since your meeting?”
I shook my head. “She hasn’t returned my calls or texts, but I’m guessing, with recent events, her handlers have her in lockdown mode. Rule number one in Hollywood is to protect the gravy train.”
“What I don’t understand is why Corde would tell you that he’s destroyed evidence.”
“He wanted to make it clear he was still holding the trump card and that he wasn’t giving it up without extorting a price.”
“What trump card is that?”
“He’s willing to throw me the identity of the man on the scooter, but he knows that’s not a big enough hook to snare me.”
“So what else does he have?”
“He says he’ll tell me about the angel,” I said. “He says the only way I’ll ever learn anything is by going through him.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I believe he got rid of any and all evidence that might pertain to angels, or what was believed to be an angel. And I’m afraid I’ll never get answers to my questions without his cooperation.”
“What does Corde want in return for his information?”
“He says my investigating his use of UAVs outside of the workplace is not good for his business.”
“So if you back off, he’ll tell you about angels.”
“That’s what he’s selling.”
“You don’t make a deal with the devil,” Lisbet said, “to learn about angels.”
It was what I was thinking, but I couldn’t have said it better.
Together we finished the bottle of Conundrum. I didn’t get any insight into the too many conundrums perplexing me, but I did get to spend unhurried time with Lisbet, and I counted that as a very good thing indeed.
CHAPTER 25:
THE LONE RANGER
The Peter Gunn theme started playing in the darkness of my bedroom. Next to me I could feel Lisbet stirring. I looked at the clock and saw that it was three thirty.
Not again, I thought, remembering the middle-of-the-night call the last time Lisbet and I had been together. For a moment I was afraid if I answered the phone, I’d again hear a replay of our lovemaking. I still hadn’t told Lisbet about that intrusion; it was yet something else in our relationship I kept putting off.
I answered the phone without checking caller ID, intent on silencing the song before it really got into its pounding beat: “Gideon,” I said.
“Well at least I don’t have to apologize for waking you up,” said the caller.
His voice sounded familiar. “Who is this?”
“It’s Holt from RHD.”
Dave Holt worked Robbery-Homicide and was the lead detective in the Rick Novak homicide. He had made it clear my help was neither wanted nor needed in that investigation, even though I had argued that our cases dovetailed. Holt had done what cops call a Bigfoot, taking over anything having to do with the case and moving me aside.
“What do you want?”
“You and Drew Corde had a fairly lengthy conversation a few hours ago. I need to know what you talked about.”
“You’re calling me in the middle of the night to ask that?”
“I’m calling the people Corde talked to on his cell phone yesterday, and you happen to be among that number.”
“He died?”
“You catch on quick, Gideon.”
I bit off a reply that might have made me feel good and would have put into question Holt’s matriarchal line, but wouldn’t have gotten me the information I needed. “What happened?”
“According to Elle Barrett Browning, who was an eyewitness, he shot himself after a night of drinking.”
“Did she make a statement?”
“She did, and without a lawyer present.”
“I’d like to talk to her.”
“Maybe that can be arranged, but right now I need to know about your tête-à-tête with Corde.”
His words held out promise, but I knew if I didn’t get time with Elle right now, it wasn’t going to happen.
“I need five minutes with her.”
Holt decided to dash my hopes. “It will have to be worked out another time, Gideon. We got a three-ring circus going on, what with Brownie’s being a part of this.”
Brownie, I thought. That’s what Elle’s good friends supposedly called her. Holt’s familiarity was annoying, but what was worse was being frozen out. I didn’t have an invitation to a party I wanted to attend.
“So why did Corde call you?” he asked.
“He wanted to offer me a full confession before he killed himself,” I said.
“The clock is ticking, Gideon. There’s no time for you to be sulking in the corner.”
Holt was an asshole, but he was also right. “Corde was trying to make a deal. He was dangling the possibility of giving us something for getting something.”
“And what was he going to give us?”
“He said he knew who was driving the scooter. And he also said the scooter driver didn’t kill Novak.”
“How would you characterize his mood?” he asked.
“Do you mean did he sound like someone ready to off himself?”
“That wasn’t the question I asked. I’ll repeat my question.”
“You don’t need to.”
I answered
his question while chewing the inside of my cheek, and did more chewing while answering a few dozen more of his questions. After about fifteen minutes Holt thanked me for my help and said he would call me if he had any more questions.
I didn’t let him hang up without hearing my thoughts: “Corde said if we didn’t work out a deal in the next forty-eight hours, then it was off the table. That doesn’t sound like someone who’s about to kill himself.”
“Moods are known to change with the amount of liquor being sucked down.”
“Narcissists don’t kill themselves.”
“You speaking from experience?”
“Sounds like you got the case solved already, Holt. That’s good work from an investigator everyone says couldn’t find his own ass with two hands and a flashlight.”
Holt had two words for me that weren’t “good night,” and then he hung up. I was glad our conversation ended when it did. Although Holt and I had gone over most of what Corde and I had discussed, the subject of angels had for some reason not come up.
Lisbet propped herself up with a few pillows. “What happened?” she asked.
“Drew Corde supposedly committed suicide.”
I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got a ringside seat.”
“And I’m punch drunk.”
“You don’t think Corde killed himself, do you?”
“When a guy loves himself as much as Corde did, it’s a lot easier for me to imagine him throwing others under the bus than throwing himself.”
“Maybe he was so egotistical he couldn’t endure the possibility of a fall from grace.”
“Maybe,” I conceded, while thinking about Sister Marie Bernadette. Lisbet’s comment about a fall from grace had been one of Sister Bernie’s favorite topics in Catholic school. “You don’t want to get on the wrong side of God,” she had always warned.
Anyone that hunted angels, or even pretended to, had to be on the wrong side of God.
“What are you going to do?” asked Lisbet.
“I’m frozen out by the detectives working the case, so I’m going to have to work it from my own Siberia. But Pullman’s ceremony this morning comes first.”