by Amanda Quick
It wasn’t the first time she had lost a roof over her head, she reminded herself. Maybe permanent homes were for other people.
She glanced back at Oliver, who was following her down the hall.
“You knew what had happened when my key didn’t work,” she said. “You realized my landlady had locked me out of my apartment. That’s why you insisted on coming back downstairs with me to see about getting a key.”
“Someone once gave me the wrong key.”
“I see.”
“Had a feeling that whoever is trying to make you back off the story might have decided to put the squeeze on you in every way possible.”
She stopped in front of the broom closet and opened the door. Three boxes tied up with string sat on the floor next to a bucket, mop, and broom. The name Glasson was scrawled on each box. She reached down to hoist one.
“Aren’t you going to open them to make sure all your things are inside?” Oliver said. “Norma Drysdale may have helped herself to a few items.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Irene started back down the hall with the first box. “There was nothing valuable in my apartment. It was just a place to sleep.”
Chapter 32
The Ocean View Apartments had been more than just a place to sleep, Oliver thought. It had been Irene’s home or, at least, her refuge from the world. And now it was gone, stolen by a studio fixer who made a nice living paying off corrupt cops and judges and threatening the Norma Drysdales of the world.
He arranged the last of the three pitifully small boxes in the back of the car and got behind the wheel. For a moment he sat quietly, watching Irene. She was gazing straight ahead at the front door of the apartment house. Her coolly composed expression gave nothing away, but he could feel the storm brewing just under the surface.
It was the second break-in that had unnerved her the most, he realized. She’d had herself under control until Norma Drysdale told her that 2B had been broken into twice. Now Irene looked like she was in a trance.
“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re staying with me until we figure out what is going on, remember?”
At that, she finally looked at him.
“Thank you,” she said very politely. “But we both know that won’t work indefinitely. I need to make some progress in my investigation before anyone else gets killed.”
“I agree.” He turned the key in the ignition. “But I think we’ll have more luck back in Burning Cove than we will here in L.A.”
“Because of the power of Tremayne’s studio here in the city?”
He put the car in gear and drove away from the curb. “The studios may control Hollywood and, by extension, L.A., but their reach does have limitations. They’re not the only game in town in Burning Cove. Neither Luther Pell nor I take orders from the studios.”
“Still, the studios have a lot of influence. If they were to forbid their stars from patronizing your hotel or the Paradise Club—”
“You need to keep some perspective, Irene. First of all, we’re only dealing with one studio—Tremayne’s—and it’s not even the biggest or most powerful one in Hollywood. Second, as far as the studio is concerned, this is all about business. Yes, Tremayne is a valuable property, at least for now. They’re trying to protect their investment. But if the executives at the top conclude that he’s more trouble than he’s worth, they’ll drop him without a second’s hesitation.”
“Just business.”
“Exactly.”
“So I have to find some evidence that will convince the studio that Tremayne isn’t worth protecting.”
“That’s our goal. Ready to go home?”
She shook her head and turned back to contemplate the front door of the Ocean View Apartments.
“I can’t go home,” she said. “I just got kicked out of my apartment.”
“Slip of the tongue. I mean, are you ready to go back to Burning Cove?”
“I guess so. It’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to go.”
“Your enthusiasm is a little underwhelming.”
She took a deep, steadying breath and tightened her grip on her handbag. “I’m still feeling . . . disoriented. I can’t believe that the studio sent someone to break into my place twice.”
“Neither can I.”
She cast him a quick, pleading look. “You’re supposed to reassure me. Tell me the studio is just trying to frighten me.”
“I could use some reassurance, too. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I have the distinct impression that you consider the studio threats to be preferable to something else that might be even worse.”
She sat very still. He knew she was trying to decide whether or not to confide in him.
“You’ve got a right to your secrets, Irene,” he said. “But we’re dealing with murder. If there’s something else going on, I need to know about it.”
She said nothing for a moment, and then she evidently came to a decision.
“It’s a nightmare,” she said quietly. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“How about starting with whatever you’re carrying around in your handbag.”
She looked at him, speechless and maybe even appalled. “How did you know?”
“Maybe because you’ve always got a death grip on it?”
She groaned. “Is it that obvious?”
“Probably not to most people.”
She gave him a wary look. “But you notice details.”
“Call it a personality quirk. I know you keep your reporter’s notebook and that little gun you pulled out last night in your handbag. But there’s something else inside, isn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about the nightmare.”
Chapter 33
She told him everything.
Once she got started she could not stop. The relief of confiding the terrible secret that she had been keeping for four months was so overwhelming that she started to cry. She had not cried in so long she was surprised to discover that she remembered how.
L.A. was a few miles behind them by the time she finished. Oliver pulled off on a scenic turnout overlooking the ocean, and shut down the powerful engine.
She opened her handbag, took out a hankie, and dabbed at her eyes.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’ve been a little tense lately.”
“No surprise, given what you’ve just told me.”
She pulled herself together and dropped the damp hankie into the handbag. “That’s it, the whole story. My previous employer was murdered. She left a message in her own blood telling me to run. She wrote a letter letting me know that the notebook was dangerous, that I must not trust anyone, not even the FBI. She said that if the worst happened, I might be able to use it as a bargaining chip. I’ve been looking over my shoulder ever since that horrible night.”
Oliver turned in the seat and rested his left arm on the steering wheel. The tinted lenses of his round sunglasses made it impossible to read his eyes. Not that you could read them anyway, she thought, not if he didn’t want you to read them.
“You came to California because you’re running from a killer,” he said. “But you have no idea who is after you.”
“No,” she said. “None. I’ve been afraid to trust anyone.”
“Which brings us back to the problem of the second break-in at your apartment.”
“It must be a coincidence. What are the odds that whoever is after Atherton’s notebook would show up after four months and break into my place within twenty-four hours of when the studio goon broke in?”
“The odds might be very good if Spencer’s killer managed to track you as far as Los Angeles.”
“But the timing—” She broke off, shattered. “Damn. The photo of you and me outside the Cove Inn.”
“Yesterday morning your picture was on the front
page of one of the biggest gossip rags in L.A.”
“But I changed my name, my job.” She stopped because it sounded weak even to her own ears. “How would he know what I looked like?”
“All he needed was a reasonably current photograph of you and a good eye for detail.”
“Miss Spencer loved photography. It was her hobby. She took some pictures of me while I lived with her, including one that showed me standing next to the beautiful car she gave me. I kept it on the dresser in my bedroom. If someone found it, he would not only know what I looked like but he’d have a description of the Packard.”
“What happened to the car?”
“I decided it was too memorable. I abandoned it on the side of a farm road and hitchhiked for a day. Then I used some of the money that Helen Spencer left in the shoebox to buy an inexpensive used car. When I got to L.A., I sold that one and bought the Ford I’m driving now.”
“Smart,” Oliver said. “Switching cars and hitchhiking for a time may have been what saved your life. Tell me more about this notebook that’s supposed to be so dangerous.”
“Evidently it belonged to someone named Dr. Thomas Atherton, who worked at that laboratory I told you about.”
“Saltwood. You said someone there told you that Atherton is dead?”
“Yes.”
“Mind if I take a look at the notebook?”
She hesitated. Force of habit, she thought. For four long months she had been obsessed with concealing the notebook. It felt strange to bring it out into the light of day and show it to someone else.
Oliver waited, not rushing her.
She took the stenography notebook out of her bag and flipped it open to reveal the hidden compartment she had created beneath the pad of paper.
“Very clever,” Oliver said.
She pried Atherton’s notebook out of the small compartment and handed it to him. He took off his sunglasses and opened the leather cover. She watched him slowly turn the pages.
“It’s filled with numbers and charts and calculations, but they mean nothing to me,” she said. “There weren’t a lot of science or math classes at the Gilbert School for Secretaries.”
Oliver turned a few more pages. “They didn’t spend much time on either of those subjects at the magicians school, either.”
“There’s a school for magicians?”
“Sorry. Poor joke.” He closed the notebook and handed it back to her. “I have no idea what any of those calculations mean, but I know someone who might be able to help us.”
“We must not show it to anyone else. I told you, I have no idea who can be trusted.”
“Relax, we can trust Uncle Chester.”
Chapter 34
No doubt about it, Julian Enright thought, he had fallen in love with California, and the Burning Cove Hotel was the very essence of everything he adored about the state. From the palm trees that lined the long, elegant drive to the gracious Spanish colonial walkways and sparkling fountains, the place was a real-life version of a movie set.
His kind of hotel.
He chose a seat at the long, polished bar. The French doors on one side of the lounge stood wide, providing an unobstructed view of the sparkling pool and the swimsuit-clad bodies lounging around it.
The bartender was remarkably good-looking. His coppery brown hair was slicked straight back off his high forehead. He had a slender, graceful build and big blue eyes framed with long lashes.
“What can I get you, sir?” he asked.
The voice went with the rest—low and smooth with just the right touch of smoky sensuality.
“What do you recommend?” Julian asked, mostly because he wanted to hear more of the lush voice.
“House special is the sunrise. Rum and pineapple juice.”
“Sounds a little too sweet for me. I’ll have a scotch and soda.”
“Coming right up.”
Julian smiled. “You know, you ought to be in pictures.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“Mind if I ask your name?”
“Willie.”
“Got a last name?”
“Yes, sir, I do have one of those.”
Willie smiled faintly and glided off to prepare the drink. Julian watched him for a moment, trying to figure out just what it was about the bartender that made him so interesting. Generally speaking, he was not attracted to men. But beauty, regardless of gender, always drew his eye.
He waited until Willie put the drink on the bar in front of him and moved off to attend to another customer. Then he smiled at the morose-looking man sitting next to him. Another very handsome specimen, Julian thought, but in a more conventional way.
“You’re Nick Tremayne, aren’t you?” he said.
Nick swallowed some of his gin and tonic and set the glass down hard.
“So they tell me,” he said.
“According to the papers, you’ve got a problem.”
Nick shot him a wary look. “Who the hell are you?”
“Relax. I’m here to help.”
“Did Ogden send you?”
Julian looked around, making it appear that he was deeply concerned about the possibility of being overheard. Then he lowered his voice.
“No names,” he said. “If the press gets wind of my purpose for being in Burning Cove, the studio will deny all knowledge of me. Is that clear?”
“Yeah, sure.” Nick lowered his own voice but there was a note of hope in his words. “They sent you to clean up the mess?”
“Someone has to do it. It isn’t just your future that is at stake here. The studio has made a considerable investment in you.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“Let’s go someplace where we can talk in private.”
“My private villa,” Nick said. “Casa de Oro.”
“Sounds good. But finish your drink first. Make it look casual. You’re not in a hurry. You’re not worried. You’re enjoying your vacation in Burning Cove.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. It’s Julian. Julian Enright.”
He didn’t hesitate to use his real name. No one here on the West Coast knew him or his family, but even if someone did think to make inquiries, the cover would hold up. It always held up. The Enright name and the long history of the family law firm made an ideal cover. No one ever suspected that Enright & Enright engaged in anything except the most reputable business practices.
“Nice to meet you, Julian. You don’t sound like you’re from this side of the country.”
“Back east,” Julian said.
“How long have you been out here?”
Julian smiled. “Not long enough.”
He made casual conversation with Tremayne while they finished their drinks. From time to time he studied Willie the bartender.
It took him a while to figure it out, but he was good with details. By the time his glass was empty, he was almost certain he knew what it was about Willie that had aroused his interest. Willie was a woman passing as a very attractive man.
Pleased with his deduction, he smiled at her.
Willie pretended not to notice.
Got you, babe, he thought.
Having solved the puzzle, Julian lost interest. He had not come to Burning Cove to seduce anyone, male or female. He had a job to do and he had already wasted enough time. His father had telephoned again that morning, demanding an update and urging immediate action. Evidently the competition for the auction of Atherton’s notebook was heating up.
Nick put his glass down. “Let’s get moving.”
“Take it easy,” Julian said. “Everything is going to be just fine.”
“It’s not your career on the line.”
That was true, Julian thought. If he failed to secure the notebook, his fathe
r would be annoyed but there would be other commissions. After all, there was no shortage of people seeking the firm’s unique services. But he prided himself on his perfect record. He always got the job done and he never left loose ends.
He and Tremayne ambled through the lobby, making a point of discussing the possibility of a game of golf the next morning.
They were strolling along the covered walkway that led to Tremayne’s villa when a beautiful car cruised into the long driveway. There was a man at the wheel. He wore sunglasses and an open-collared shirt. A woman, her hair partially covered by a scarf knotted under her chin, sat in the passenger seat. She, too, wore sunglasses, an oversized pair that concealed much of her face. But something about the line of her jaw snagged Julian’s attention.
“Nice car,” he said. “Looks custom.”
Nick turned his head to look. He grimaced. “They say it’s the fastest car in California.”
“Belong to anyone you know?”
“That’s Oliver Ward’s car. Damn. I’d heard the bitch was sleeping with him. What the hell is she up to?”
“The bitch?”
“That’s her, the reporter who’s trying to destroy me. The one Ogden sent you to take care of.”
“Irene Glasson?”
“Yeah.”
Well, well, well. Hello, Anna Harris. We meet at last.
“She’s sleeping with Ward?” Julian asked.
“He’s a cripple. Bungled his last act. Plenty of good-looking women around the pool but a guy in his condition probably can’t get any of them to fuck him. So he ends up with the bitch.”
Chapter 35
“It feels like she’s stalking me,” Nick said.
He led the way through the living room of the villa and out onto the shaded patio. They sat down on the big rattan chairs.
Julian Enright didn’t look anything like Ogden’s usual tough guys, he thought. Enright wasn’t some beat-up ex-stuntman, and he didn’t have the brutish edge of a mob guy. Hell, Enright could have been in pictures, himself. He was handsome in a classy, well-bred way—a blond Cary Grant, maybe. He moved like Grant, too, with a casual elegance that announced to the world that it could wait on him. What’s more, the hair looked real, not bleached. His clothes were obviously hand-tailored, and with his tall, lean, athletic build, he looked very good in them.