“Here, California for college, then eventually back home. I worked on the force until I became Chief.”
Another grim look washed his features. “What I’m telling you is actually quite simple. Whatever you may hear, Lauren Rowe’s reputation exceeds any present reality. Whatever relationship your father-in-law has with her, there’s no reason to be tagging along. Am I clear?” he asked, rising.
Clear, and clear that our conversation was over. I considered confiding Lauren’s concerns, but remained reluctant to betray a client’s confidentiality. Even hers. Especially to a Top Cop.
“Thanks,” I said following him down the corridor to the side door. “I appreciate what you’ve told me.”
“I don’t remember telling you anything,” he warned. “I’m simply asking you to stop trailing after our residents.” He showed teeth, but there was no warmth in his smile as he ushered me out the door.
I passed a couple of paunchy middle-aged Blues on the path alongside the station. Both took hard looks, waiting until I was at my car before continuing toward the door. I guess the Chief was more tolerant of funk than his force. And given the age difference between him and his troops, much more ambitious.
I wasted no time telephoning. Biancho wanted me gone and so did I. I pulled the Bimmer onto Lauren’s block and parked oceanside, across the narrow street from the Hacienda. But before leaving the car I sat staring at Lauren’s large, rundown house. Chipped paint and tired clapboard, the far side perched on two thick, brick stilts lifting it over a small rock mountain. Extending over the top of the columns was a huge deck. If the stilts held, the deck offered a hell of a view.
Lauren opened the door while I was still climbing the wobbly stairs. “I didn’t know whether you wanted to come inside.”
“I was finishing my cigarette.”
She waved me inside and pointed to a cluttered sitting room directly on the right. “Good timing,” Lauren said. “I just got back from taking Ian to his apartment.”
Lauren pointed toward an oversized easy chair alongside large bay windows. “Please. Can I get you anything?” she asked waiting in her fashionably wrinkled linen palazzo pants and matching coffee silk tee. It was easy to understand Lou’s attraction. Real easy.
“Just an ashtray,” I said sitting, her stylish manner magnetic.
Lauren placed a glass ashtray on the tired table next to my chair and I immediately fired up. She made me nervous.
“You smoke a lot, don’t you?”
“Too much.”
“I gave it up when I left Paul,” she said making herself comfortable on a worn velveteen couch. “These days it seems like nobody smokes.”
“I grew up in the wrong time and place to function without ‘em.”
Though the room wasn’t large and the furnishings dark, the open bay windows allowed a warm afternoon light. “I guess good things can come from bad situations,” I said absently, listening to the ocean in the background.
Lauren shrugged. “I suppose. Have you tried to quit?”
“No,” I said fidgeting. “Other habits are in front of the line. Ian has recovered enough to return home?”
“He thinks so,” Lauren said.
“You don’t?” Better to talk about him than me.
“He insisted. It’s probably for the best since we haven’t been getting along.” Lauren’s fingers picked at the large gold hoop in her ear.
We remained silent until I got down to business. Or lack of it. “I don’t have much to tell, Lauren. I covered you the whole weekend and came up empty. Did you get any of those negative feelings?”
“After Lou left I climbed out to a cliff by the ocean. I like to sit there and think. I sensed I was being watched, but it wasn’t the same.”
“That was probably me,” I said. “It was the only time I got close.” And perhaps Biancho, but I didn’t want to admit to being caught. Nor did I want to share any of my leftover unease. “I don’t think you really have too much to worry about.”
Lauren tossed her head. “You follow me for one weekend and decide that?” she asked. “Someone is frightening me!”
The upshift in her voice drove me to my feet. “Lauren, when we first spoke about the situation even you weren’t taking it this seriously.”
“Don’t you realize what it would do to Lou if he knew I was this scared?” she snapped.
Lauren stood up, placing her hand on her hip. “I’ve lived through plenty and, frankly, I don’t scare easily. But this has me freaked. Do you realize how difficult it is to even ask for help?”
What I realized was I wanted out. “I don’t know what to say. There was no one following you.”
“I already knew that. I can tell when I’m being stalked.”
“But you won’t go to the police.”
Lauren marched to a lacquered black liquor cabinet in the corner of the room. “Do you want anything to drink?” she asked disgustedly.
I wanted to empty the fucking cabinet. “No thanks,” I heard myself answer. “Hard liquor is one of the things in front of the line. But I’ll take a beer if you have one,” I said sitting back down.
There was a sheepish smile when she returned with a Miller. “Ian’s attitude and leaving has definitely put me on edge. I know you’ve gone out of your way and I’m sorry about my temper.”
“And I’m sorry if I sound callous. I just don’t have anything to report.” I stupidly tried to reassure her. “I met with your Police Chief before I came here...”
“You what?”
“Not by choice,” I said, pitching my embarrassment. “Biancho called and suggested it.”
“What did he want?”
“Someone noticed me and he wanted to make sure I wasn’t harassing you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I was checking up on my father-in-law’s relationship.”
“And Ted believed you?”
“Why not? He seemed okay.”
“You like him?”
“I wouldn’t call it like, he’s a cop.”
“You’re wondering why I won’t talk to him?”
“It crossed my mind,” I said, watching as she seated herself back on a couch.
“I’m not well thought of in this town,” Lauren said bluntly. “Anyone who doesn’t fit is a pariah. Especially me. There have been incidents involving my kids.”
I waited for more about those incidents, but all I got was an earful of tense silence. “Why not move?” I finally asked.
“And give up the Hacienda?” Lauren shook her head vehemently. “I love this house too much to ever leave. I’ve learned to live with my red letter, and I’ll be dammed if I’ll give the pricks around here the satisfaction of driving me out.”
“Biancho didn’t sound as if he dislikes you.”
“Teddy Biancho is something of an exception. It changes the way you think about people when you’re a dirt poor townie in a wealthy community. He was in school with my daughter who was one of his few friends. Maybe his only friend and their friendship has given me breathing room. At least with him. But if he starts poking around, everyone in town will hear about it.
sust what I need,” Lauren added sarcastically. “Another round of ugly assumptions about that strange woman. Believe me, there’s already plenty of talk about me and Lou. Everybody wonders about the difference in our ages—just like you.”
Lou targeted by gossip amped both my annoyance and guilt. He wasn’t going to be happy when he heard about this conversation and I wasn’t going to make it worse so I slid past the age thing. “The police up here are one thing, but you refused to report what happened to your car in the city. That I find really hard to understand.”
A sad, hurt look flashed across her face but instantly disappeared. “I want nothing to do with authorities, Matthew. For too many years I felt hounded and harassed every time someone disliked my politics or lifestyle. Do you want to guess what it cost for zoning fights once people discovered we were something of a commune?” Lauren ask
ed. “After a while treatment like that sours you toward officials, no matter where they’re from. If the car had been worth anything I might have reported it, but it wasn’t, so why put up with crap?”
There was more in her closet about the car, but I had no stomach to bang on the door.
“You have a strange look on your face, Matthew.”
“I’m trying to figure out what to do. I don’t like this hanging over your head.”
“You mean Lou’s head, don’t you?” Lauren said without rancor. “I know you think we’re a bad match. You don’t hide your feelings all that well.”
I edged out of the room toward the front door. “Lou comes from a different place than you, Lauren. I’d hate to see him make a fool of himself.”
“You mean you’d hate to see me make a fool of him.”
“I’m afraid of Lou getting hurt.”
A smile broke through her stormy face. “I feel exactly the same way, but I don’t think you believe that.”
I started to lie but she interrupted. “Maybe we can meet halfway. I’m throwing our annual summer’s end party next Saturday. I was undecided whether to go ahead because of Ian’s accident, but I don’t want anyone to think I’m ashamed of him. My whole family, Paul’s, and other people, will be here. Come and see us in a normal circumstance. Of course, Lou will love it.”
There was that word “accident” again. “Paul’s family?”
“Anne and Heather Heywood. I think I told you that Paul lives with Anne, and Heather is her daughter.”
“A strange mix,” I said dubiously. I was just getting used to the idea of more surveillance and now I was listening to this tired New Age shit again.
A broad grin lit Lauren’s remaining shadows and she grabbed my arm which immediately grew warm. “You can’t be that old-fashioned. Lou tells me you’re on the cutting edge.”
I returned her smile and tried to retrieve my arm. “The only thing that gets cut when I’m on the edge is me. I’m not sure about the party, but I’ll continue to watch your back. That seem okay?”
Lauren nodded gratefully. “Except for the party, it’s more than I could hope for.”
Halfway home I realized I hadn’t asked whether Lauren’s invite included Boots. Halfway through the week it didn’t matter; Boots was off on another unexpected business trip. During the nights we spent together I’d been locked hand-to-hand with desire for distance, while she ping-ponged between quiet anxiety and false cheer. Didn’t make for fun times overlooking the old, shimmering town.
Back home, Lou left little doubt that the only way out of his crapper was to obliterate Lauren’s fears. That I had no power to discover the unknown meant nothing. Lou also expected me at the party and had a hard time accepting my noncommittal response.
The more he pushed, the more I wanted to disappear. From Lauren, from Lou, from Boots, though I wasn’t certain why. I definitely wanted to ditch my drug and alcohol moderation.
Despite my promise to check up on Lauren, by Thursday I was bunkered, unwilling to spend time with anyone, barely able to tolerate myself.
Which changed late that night when Julius picked his way through my front door. As many times as I’d switched locks in our endless game of ‘keep out,’ Julie always made it through. Of course, I never latched the chain and he never broke the frame. We had our rules.
When I heard the door open the only light in the apartment was the glow of my television. The only sound was Bob Mitchum ripping into Kirk Douglas.
Julie leaned against the inside wall, his brown hands and face fading into the darkness. “Can’t find something in color? Afraid it might perk you up?”
“Out of the Past,” I said nodding toward the tube. “A classic.”
“Slumlord, every time I catch you on the couch you’re watching a classic. They call ‘em classics because there’s only a few.”
I was uncomfortable talking to a disembodied conscience so I sat up and pulled on the lamp chain.
Julie cocked his head raising his low-riding eyelids toward his short, salt and pepper hair. Lucky I hit the light; this way I could see the bloodshot whites of his eyes.
“You’re looking at me like I just fucked your mother,” I said. I guess I was still feeling hostile.
Julius let my nasty slide off his broad back. “Not my mother, Slumlord. That lady had taste.” He walked over to the television, turned down the sound, but left the machine running.
“You can shut it off.”
“And drag you from the tit?” Julie helped himself to my Newport’s.
“You don’t sound happy to see me.”
“I do find it rewarding to discover you still talk.”
“Able but unwilling.” No matter how many times it happened, I was always caught napping when someone noticed my withdrawals.
“Haven’t beat on my door for new medicine either. Bummed and clean. You on a twelve- step?”
“A tap dance. Doing, but doing less.”
“You gonna want bread for rent?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to cut off my nose or my lungs.”
“Then you ain’t gonna slam me into a smoking section if I get right?”
“Only if you bogart.”
Julie reached into his charcoal gray vest, pulled out a joint, lit it off the end of his cigarette, and handed it over. I took a deep drag, another, then passed the joint back.
He waved the stick toward the cluttered coffee table. “The only thing missing from this pile of shit is your ‘Turkey bottle. Maybe you’re on a half-step program.”
I leaned into the couch. “It’ll be a back step if you keep this up. What are you doing here? Out of coffee?”
“Your vibes been knocking at my door. Charles be pestering me to find out how long you plan on living under a rock.”
“Vibes,” I groaned. “I gotta deal with more vibes?”
Julie bent forward, pushed his cigarette into the ashtray, and ever so slightly raised his brows. “Shadow is more like it. I can ignore your ugly, but Charles’ clucking is another matter entirely.”
Charles was our wildly attired building manager, the flamboyant half of the Richard and Charles couple who lived in the building. Richard was the architect who had renovated and attached the two six-flats when Lou expanded our empire. Charles supered the buildings since I became a working P.I. The image of his batting mascara’d eyes pleading for Julie to chop through my no trespass almost made me smile.
I willed myself unstuck and took the smoldering roach from Julius’s fingers. I’d grown tired of neurotic channel surfing. I wanted to drag myself from the body carve in the couch. Or be dragged.
“I’ve been worried about Lou,” I hesitantly offered. “He’s involved with someone I don’t trust.”
“You have a fucked up way of worrying. You been avoiding everybody, including the Bwahna.”
I tried to explain. Told him what had been happening, my take on Lauren and her family scene, her fears, my work, even my disquieting experience in the woods.
The fumes from Lou and Lauren’s relationship tumbled out. “A family rope around my neck. An extended community of reorganized relationships. A fucking bunch of middle-aged, middle class refugees from the communal counter culture. Only no one told them that the counter culture disappeared about thirty years ago” I paused to catch my breath, “Which is a long fucking time ago. Maybe the way they play it is to save postage—just hand each other the alimony checks during Sunday morning brunch.”
I shrugged resignedly, “And I’m supposed to find the ghost who’s stalking Lou’s young old lady. Find out who’s been casting hate projections into her head, despite being warned off by the fucking Police Chief.”
Julius slow-mo’d another cigarette from my pack. “You sound like a jealous kid.”
“And you sound like Boots,” I retorted, stung by his words.
“Doesn’t matter how I sound. What matters is the Bwahna. His woman calls it vibes, you call it ghosts. I call
it trouble. I don’t know squat about his old lady, don’t really care, but if there is trouble you might want to change your attitude.”
I tried to ignore his warning, couldn’t, and lapsed into a sullen silence.
Julius crushed his smoke in the ashtray and rose to his feet. The corners of his mouth turned upward in what passed for a sleepy smile. “If Charles don’t stay off my back I’m going to drag him down here and feed him to the lion.”
“Some fucking lion.”
Julie walked to the edge of the room and let himself out. “Got to get off your ass to roar, Matthew,” he added before closing the door.
Leaving me drained, drugged, and depressed.
Remarkably, the next morning I awoke refreshed, invigorated, with no trace of a headache. I perc’d a pot of coffee and sat down for a long read of the sports section. And kept right on reading until I finally began to think. Unfortunately, sometimes to think is to do.
I was off my ass but I sure wasn’t gonna roar. Squeak was about all I could muster; still, squeak was better than mute. I called my favorite short-order cook and cop conduit, Phil, and asked whether he could set up a meet between me and Washington Clifford. It bothered me that Biancho had found his way to my “babysitter.” I hoped a preemptive chat might keep Washington from finding his usual way to me. On the other hand, I wasn’t particularly pleased when Phil called back and rushed me over for a late breakfast.
One delicious plus about eating at Charley’s was the decor. My kind of taste: wooden counter, enamel topped tables, faceted glass sugar dispensers with silver peaked tops. The chi-chi cafes stole his business, but everything in Charley’s was original down to the thick, chipped china. Got me wondering what Lauren was doing eating here.
“Where’s Red?” I asked walking through the door into the empty diner. Charley’s used to be a place where social workers and cops mingled without much hostility. But the city, with its infinite wisdom and outstretched hands, had cleaned up the neighborhood and homophobia scared both groups away.
Phil hung tough. Didn’t have many customers, but apparently socked enough away during the boom years to stay afloat and attract a waitress who strolled into the new century right out of the fifties. Red was the entire package—white uniform, pointed bras, bright vermilion lipstick, an ageless figure and face. Phil and Red lived together in a small apartment above the restaurant. Maybe Red was afraid of Clifford too.
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 92