Valley of Shadows

by Paul Buchanan

  Portland. That was all the lead Keegan really needed. He knew a PI up there, a good one, and he could give her a call as soon as he got off the phone with Donovan. Sue Belk was her name. She could probably track down this Lillian in a day or two.

  Keegan smiled. Old Donovan had come through, after all. He pictured the man, plump and florid, stretched out on the poolside chair with his whiskey and cigar. He wasn’t so bad, old Mike Donovan. They should have spent more time together when they had the chance.

  “According to the will,” Keegan said, “you’ve got a chunk of money coming your way too, once the old lady gets declared. Ten thousand bucks would buy a hell of a nice ham radio.”

  Donovan laughed. “I know it,” he said. “I was there when she signed the damn will.” He chuckled wheezily. “Now, don’t swoop in and steal that ten grand from me too, Jimmy.”

  KEEGAN FOUND SUE Belk’s number in his Rolodex and dialed her number. It wasn’t yet five, so he might still catch her in the office. Sue had had a place in Carlsbad for as long as Keegan could remember, then moved up to Portland a few years ago for a change of scenery. She sounded happy to hear Keegan’s voice when she picked up. She sounded even happier to hear there’d be a paycheck in it for her, if she could follow up on his skip-trace.

  “The woman’s name is Lillian Cole,” Keegan told her. “Spelled just the way you’d expect. Sounds like she’s pretty elderly. She might be staying with her daughter. Used to live down here in LA until she retired a year or two ago.” That was it. That was the sum total of what Keegan had to offer her. “It’s not a lot to go on, I know,” he said.

  “At least her name’s not Jane Smith,” Sue told him. “Portland’s no sprawling metropolis. There won’t be more than a handful of Lillian Coles in town. Just give me a day or two to beat the bushes.”

  There was something brittle-sounding in Sue’s smoker’s voice now, and Keegan wished he had a better job to send her way. Maybe he could pad the bill for her a little before he passed her invoice along to Roland Dion.

  “So, how much does the old dame stand to inherit?” Sue wanted to know.

  “Around fifty thousand,” Keegan told her. “As far as I can tell.”

  Sue whistled on the other end of the line. “In that case, I can probably find you as many Lillian Coles as you want.”

  Keegan laughed. “Just one of them will do nicely,” he said.

  WHEN MRS. DODD made it to the office the following morning—more than half an hour late, Keegan noted—the dog darted from under his desk and skittered out to greet her. Keegan had been busy jotting Sue Belk’s billing details on an invoice sheet with a ballpoint pen.

  Mrs. Dodd took her time hanging up her coat. She took the cover off her typewriter and sharpened a few pencils before she appeared in Keegan’s doorway with the dog peering around her legs. “What have you got for us to do today, boss?” she wanted to know.

  Keegan set his pen down. “Not a whole lot,” Keegan said. “I’m working a skip-trace for somebody in the old lady’s will. Otherwise, we’re pretty much done with Ida Fletcher. It’s all in the lawyers’ hands now.” He thought of Roland Dion, boosted up on the other side of his aircraft-carrier desk, Ida Fletcher’s papers sorted into piles around him. “You ever hear of someone called Madame Lena?” Keegan asked. “I should probably give her a call too. She was in the old will. When word gets out about the old lady’s death…” He wasn’t sure how to end the sentence, so he didn’t. The truth was, he just wanted to find out what the fortune teller knew about the old lady’s private life. Ida Fletcher had probably confided something to her about her no-good nephew in Europe, the one who frightened her.

  “Madame Lena?” Mrs. Dodd said, pronouncing the words with some distaste. “She some kind of foreigner?”

  Keegan shook his head. “She’s some kind of fortune teller,” he said. “Worked for the old lady. I guess they had a falling out.”

  Mrs. Dodd took on a stern look. She stood a little straighter and folded her arms in front of her. She shook her head. “I don’t think so, boss,” she said, as though it were her call to make. “You leave that stuff alone. Don’t be messing with any psychic. It isn’t safe to dabble with the occult.”

  “Just seems like someone should tell her what happened,” Keegan said reasonably. “It’s the least we—”

  “If she’s really a psychic, she already knows,” Mrs. Dodd said, cutting him off. “Don’t go monkeying around with that kind of thing. I mean it.”

  Haunted elevators and horoscopes—and now fortune tellers. Mrs. Dodd’s superstitions were proliferating like a magician’s rabbits. “You really think she’s going to put a curse on me over the phone?”

  “I’m just saying not to take any chances,” she said. Then, as if the matter were settled, “So, what do you need me to do this morning?”

  “I don’t know,” Keegan said. “Just answer the phone and pretend to look busy if I come out there. The usual.”

  “You got it, boss,” she said.

  Keegan thought the discussion had ended, but Mrs. Dodd still hovered in the doorway. “Is there something else?” Keegan asked.

  “I understand you’ve got a date this weekend,” Mrs. Dodd said. “I hope you’re taking her somewhere nice.”

  Keegan thought of Helen Stark at Dodger Stadium with her sun hat and crooked smile. He’d got her phone number, but he hadn’t yet called. He’d been too distracted. “We’re meeting at Jackson’s, if you must know,” Keegan said.

  “That place on Wilshire Boulevard?” Mrs. Dodd said. She frowned appraisingly and nodded. “That should do. Not too cheap for a first date. Not too formal. You got a reservation?”

  Keegan sighed. It had slipped his mind. “Not yet.”

  “Why don’t I get on that then,” Mrs. Dodd said.

  “Sure,” he told her. “Eight o’clock.”

  The dog seemed to have grown bored with their conversation. She wandered into the inner office and lay down on the floor between them. Keegan picked up his pen and went back to filling out the invoice.

  Mrs. Dodd still stood in the doorway. “Flowers?” she asked him when he looked up at her again.

  “What?”

  “Maybe we should send Helen flowers while I’m at it.”

  “We?” Keegan said. “You’re not planning on tagging along on the date, are you?”

  She gave him a look of weary patience. “I just want you to do this right,” she said. “She’s a nice girl, and I don’t want you screwing it up.”

  “If it’s okay with you,” Keegan said, “I have a lot work to do.” He pointed at the single invoice sheet on his desk with the tip of his ballpoint. The image was less than compelling, he knew.

  Mrs. Dodd sighed heavily. “Jackson’s at eight,” she said. “I’ll get right on it.” She finally disappeared from the doorway. The dog got up and trotted after her.

  “That’s going to be a table for two,” Keegan called out, loud enough for Mrs. Dodd to hear.

  Her deadpan voice came to him from the outer office. “That’s funny, boss,” she said. “That’s real funny. But you should try to save the charm for the date.”

  IT WAS STILL A quarter of an hour before quitting time, but Mrs. Dodd was already packed up and ready to go when Keegan came out of his inner office. The dust cover was pulled over her typewriter, and her purse was on the desk’s edge, ready for her to grab as she headed out the door.

  Keegan couldn’t blame her. It had been a painfully slow day, with only a couple of phone calls coming in and no new jobs on the horizon. More than once, Keegan had wandered out to catch Mrs. Dodd slipping one of her movie magazines back into her desk’s top drawer. There didn’t seem any point in keeping her there another fifteen minutes, just for appearances. There was nothing for her to do.

  Keegan shook his head in mock annoyance. “Go on home,” he told her. “Get a jump on traffic. Give Wendell my best.”

  “You sure, boss?” Mrs. Dodd asked. She seemed coiled and ready
to jump up from her desk as soon as he delivered his answer.

  “Yeah,” he told her. “Go ahead. I’ll lock up.”

  When Mrs. Dodd was out the door, Keegan closed the blinds in the window next to her desk. He went into the inner office and did the same and then turned off the overhead lights. The dog jogged after him.

  In the outer office, Keegan got his jacket off the rack by the door. He was about to pull it on when the phone on Mrs. Dodd’s desk rang. He looked at it, debating with himself whether to answer as it rang twice more. It wasn’t yet five, so the office was supposed to still be open. It might be Sue Belk, with news of the elusive Lillian Cole.

  He hung his jacket back up and sat down at Mrs. Dodd’s desk. He picked up the receiver and pressed the lit button. “Jim Keegan,” he said into the phone.

  “James?” the voice on the other end said. “Am I talking to James?”

  James? Only Danny Church ever called him that, but it clearly wasn’t the kid on the line. This voice sounded older, deeper. It conveyed the settled weight of authority.

  “Yeah, this is Jim Keegan,” Keegan said. “Who’s calling?”

  “My name’s Burritt,” the voice said. “Milton Burritt.” He spoke as though the fact of his name held great importance. “Look, James, I appreciate how you’ve been looking out for Danny. I only just heard from him today. I had no idea he was back in California.” Keegan heard a phone ring loudly on the other end of the line, but Burritt’s voice didn’t pause or acknowledge it in any way. “I’ve known Danny Church since he was born, and—well—let’s just say the boy can use all the guidance he can get.”

  “I’m really just a professional acquaintance,” Keegan said. “But he did mention you. You were Ida Fletcher’s attorney. The old family friend.”

  “Yes, I’ve known the Fletchers more than forty years,” Burritt said. “Been their attorney nearly all that time. So, I was more than a little surprised to hear that Ida might have changed her will.” His voice dropped in volume, like they were going off the record. “I’ve got to say I find the timing a little suspicious, it coming so close to her—”

  “Yeah, Mr. Burritt,” Keegan said, trying to cut him off. “You’ll need to talk to a man called Roland Dion. He’s the lawyer who did the new will. He’s got all Ida Fletcher’s papers now.”

  “Dion?” Burritt said. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Well, he’s heard of you.”

  “Yes, well…” Burritt didn’t finish the thought. He seemed to assume everyone had heard of him.

  “Well, I passed all the papers off to him,” Keegan said. “So, you should probably—”

  “Yes, James, I gathered all that from Danny,” Burritt went on. “But I thought I’d call you first, since we’re both looking out for Danny’s interests. I thought maybe you could give me the lay of the land before I stormed the ramparts as it were. I’m usually pressed for time, but I’m dining tonight at nine, if you’d care to join me.”

  THE SOUTH BAY Yachting Club lay in a bosky, sheltered corner of Newport Bay overlooking a marina. A young white-jacketed valet—very blond, very tanned—manned a tiny desk at the foot of the steps outside the entryway. He straightened up as Keegan’s headlights approached, but Keegan just drove past him without slowing. He’d be damned if he was going to tip some surfer kid a dollar just to park his car.

  He chose a far, empty corner of the lot, under a row of young eucalyptus trees, where his MG would be out of the way. He locked the car and walked back to the club’s entrance. Wind was coming in off the bay, briny and damp and cool. A Coupe de Ville pulled up in front of the valet stand, and the kid in the white jacket got busy opening doors and tearing tickets, so Keegan slipped past him and climbed the front steps under the awning to the big oak doors.

  The young maître d’ inside could have doubled for the Chateau Marmont’s concierge. It wasn’t that they looked the same—this one had a squarish face and a precision haircut that might have been clipped from a Vitalis ad. It was more that the two of them manned their stations with a similar air of haughty purpose. They were brothers in a cause.

  Keegan, however, had come prepared. He had had a sense of what to expect from a place like Milton Burritt’s yacht club. He’d swung by his bungalow to drop off the dog, shave a second time, and change into a clean shirt. He’d put on his newest sports coat and his most expensive Botany tie. Still, somehow, this gatekeeper had pegged him right away as the kind of person he’d been installed here to keep at bay.

  “My name should be on your list,” Keegan said for the second time. “I just spoke with him on the phone. He’s expecting me.”

  “And what is the name of the party you came to meet?” the man asked, all the while looking over Keegan’s shoulder at the doorway, as though expecting someone of greater consequence.

  “Burritt,” Keegan said. “Milton Burritt. He said he’d be here for dinner.”

  At the mention of Burritt’s name, the young man’s eyes snapped back to Keegan. “Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Burritt told me he was expecting a guest. I just didn’t think it would…” The young man didn’t finish the sentence, so Keegan would never learn in what ways he’d fallen short of the maître d’s lofty expectations.

  Instead, the young man turned toward the dining room, as if he expected Keegan to follow him. With a flick of his hand, he signaled to another, younger man to keep an eye on the door for him. Heaven forbid someone else as unsuitable as Keegan should wander in from the street without Milton Burritt’s express invitation.

  Keegan followed the maître d’ down a short hallway. As he passed a wide arch, he glanced into a large, nautically themed barroom. Couples and foursomes sat around small round tables—an impressive crowd for a weeknight. The air was filled with boisterous, liquor-lubricated chatter. The décor was all burnished wood and brass-work, with painted buoys and burgee flags hung along the ceiling. A jazz trio was setting up in one corner. Keegan stopped walking.

  There sat Danny Church at the bar. He was perched sideways on a barstool, an empty martini glass at his elbow. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair and his polo shirt was dazzlingly white. He seemed caught up in an animated conversation with another man a couple of barstools away. He didn’t see Keegan in the archway, and for that Keegan was grateful.

  Keegan picked up his pace and caught up with the maître d’, who had yet to look back to see if Keegan was indeed following him. They passed into a large, dimly lit dining room. Though the bar was just a few yards away, this room was somehow hushed and sedate, cut off from the clamor. The conversation here held to a polite murmur, soft enough that Keegan could hear the clinking of glasses, the scrape of silverware on good china. At every table, a candle guttered in a crystal holder.

  The maître d’ led Keegan between all the tables to the vast room’s farthest corner. There Milton Burritt, a florid white-haired man, sat in a large booth with a much younger woman. In any other context, Keegan would have taken them for father and daughter. But they were pressed too closely together, especially for a big leather booth that seemed designed for a party of eight. The way the man sat—spread out and smugly possessive—gave Keegan the impression that this was Burritt’s usual table, a reserved outpost where he could sit in the shadows and keep an eye on everyone who came and went.

  The maître d’ offered Burritt an obsequious bow and then gave Keegan a curt nod. He headed back across the dining room without a word to anyone.

  Milton Burritt didn’t get up. He just gestured to the far end of the large booth. They might have shaken hands, but the table was too large to do it without considerable effort, so the lawyer brushed away the formality with an assured smile and a quick flick of his hand. He was clearly used to calling the shots, to being obeyed.

  Keegan slid into the leather high-backed booth and looked at the couple opposite. Milton Burritt’s voice boomed when he introduced himself and his young wife. He spoke with volume and careful enuncia
tion, as if he might be addressing an open court. Burritt was in his late sixties, Keegan guessed—thick and prosperous in a pinstripe suit that was cut to disguise his bulk. The whiteness of his close-cropped hair stood out sharply above his ruddy, capillary-mapped cheeks.

  Mrs. Burritt, on the other hand, was thin, well kept, and much, much too young—she probably hadn’t yet reached thirty. Her sculpted hair was honey-blonde and the dress she wore showed off her smooth pale shoulders. Her eyes were bright, but they were disengaged, as though her thoughts were somewhere far away from this dim booth in this swanky yacht club. On the whole, she would not have been out of place on the cover of one of Mrs. Dodd’s Photoplay movie magazines.

  Burritt turned to her. “James and I just need to talk a little business before dinner, if that’s okay with you.” He didn’t wait to find out if it was okay with her. He just turned back to Keegan. “Have you had dinner, James?” Burritt asked, his voice much too loud. “We’d be happy for you to join us.”

  Keegan was pretty sure he couldn’t afford a meal in a place like this, and he didn’t want to feel beholden to Burritt if the man offered to cover his check. “I already ate,” he lied. “Nine o’clock is a little late for me.”

  A waiter came and set two drinks in front of the couple, something amber in an etched crystal tumbler for him, something tall and pinkish and fruity for her. “How about a drink, then, James?” Burritt wanted to know. He tapped the rim of the glass that had just been set down in front of him. “Bruno makes a whiskey sour that is unsurpassed.”

  Again, Keegan thought it best to decline. Liquor on an empty stomach was never a good idea. “No thanks,” he told the waiter. He turned to Burritt. “I’m driving,” he explained.

  Burritt grinned, as if this might have been a wonderful quip on Keegan’s part, and he released the waiting server with an offhand nod. He lifted the whiskey sour to his lips and took a generous sip. Candlelight glinted off the carved crystal.