Valley of Shadows

by Paul Buchanan

  Here was a man, Keegan suspected, who never had to worry about getting pulled over for driving under the influence. Any officer foolish enough to stop him for erratic driving on PCH would surely regret it more than Milton Burritt ever would.

  Burritt set down the drink on the tablecloth and tented his fingers together in front of him, ready for the case to commence. “Now, this alleged new will,” Burritt said, his words carefully intoned for the jury’s benefit. “What can you tell me about it? Did Ida make significant changes to the last one I drew up for her?”

  Alleged? Keegan thought. “I couldn’t tell you,” he said. “I wasn’t there when she made the new will, and I haven’t seen the old one.”

  “It wasn’t among her papers?”

  Keegan shook his head. “Mrs. Fletcher gave me a box of papers, but that wasn’t in it,” Keegan said. “Just the new will. Would that make a difference?”

  Burritt shrugged and adjusted his silk tie. “It might give us a little leverage if the original signed copy of the previous will can’t be produced,” he said. “We might be able to use its absence to slow probate down—if that turns out to be in our interest.” He smiled and leaned forward. He let his voice drop. “So maybe keep it out of sight?” he said, like he thought Keegan had buried the evidence, a favor for their mutual friend Danny Church.

  Keegan bristled. “I honestly haven’t seen the original will.” He said it clearly, for the record.

  Burritt nodded knowingly, like he was happy to play along. He pressed himself back against the leather booth. “But perhaps we’re getting ahead of ourselves, James,” he said, his voice full and booming again. “How well were Danny’s interests represented in this new will?”

  “I’m no lawyer,” Keegan said, “but I think the kid will do okay. There was a lump sum—a hundred grand—to be split between some of Mrs. Fletcher’s staff. As far as I can tell, everything else goes to the nephew.”

  Burritt dismissed the mention of a hundred thousand dollars with a wave of his hand, as if such a sum were negligible. Hell, a man like him might tip the valet that much for chasing down his Bentley and having it idling out front when he came through the door. “But you understand why I’m asking, don’t you, James?” Burritt said. “Do you see why I’m a little suspicious? A new will with a new lawyer just a couple of months before she died?” An unctuous smile lit up the man’s reddened face. “I’m sure, like me, you want Danny to get his due.” He tilted his head forward a little as he regarded Keegan from across the table. “Am I right, James?”

  Keegan thought of Danny Church out in the bar, laughing and chatting and slapping backs. He thought of the kid’s scorching car hood, his fake alibi, the old lady who died trying to escape him. “Yes,” Keegan said evenly. “I do want Danny to get what’s coming to him.” He nodded over at the dining room’s entrance. “You know, I might have seen him at the bar on the way in.” He watched the other man closely. “Is he a member here?”

  Burritt nodded with an air of patient sagacity, as if such facts had already been stipulated and read into the record. They needn’t be trotted out again. “Of course he is,” Burritt said. “Since birth. His uncle was a charter member.”

  Keegan imagined Frank at the helm of The Seven of Swords on the dark water, the lights of Avalon Bay ahead of him on the horizon. “So, Danny knows how to sail a boat?”

  Burritt chuckled and slapped the tabletop, jingling the ice in the glasses. “Good lord, yes,” he said. “Why, Danny raced in Port Phillip Bay in ’56.”

  Keegan nodded, though he had no idea what the sentence meant. It was enough for him to know that Danny Church could sail. How hard would it be to intercept a small boat like The Seven of Swords on its way to Avalon? How hard would it be to sink it?

  “Danny grew up on the marina out there,” Burritt was saying. “He’s ‘born to the brine’, as they say.”

  “And he has his own boat?”

  The question seemed to catch Burritt off guard, like a query from the bench he hadn’t anticipated. “Well, maybe not one of his own,” he said. “He’s been away a good long while. But you don’t have to rent a slip to be a member here.” He waved vaguely around the dim room as if to indicate that this yachting club might contain more surgeons than sailors, more bankers than actual boatmen.

  “But he could get out on the ocean if he wanted to go for a spin,” Keegan said.

  “Well, yes,” Burritt said. “I suppose he could.”

  The whole time the two of them were talking, Burritt’s young wife kept glancing sideways, across the dining room to the entryway, as if hoping to catch a familiar face that might come to her rescue. Burritt barely acknowledged her, rarely glanced in her direction. He seemed to regard her as a decorous prop, part of a well-appointed night out—like the crystal candle holder on the tablecloth or the ornately folded napkins.

  A waiter arrived with a pair of plates, and Burritt’s trophy wife brightened considerably. He set them down on the table, bowed, and then backed away. Milton Burritt smiled down at the oozing steak before him. He grunted softly and picked up his silverware.

  “Lillian Cole,” Keegan said. “She was one of the staff members mentioned in the new will. Any idea where I could find her?”

  “I know who you mean,” Burritt said. He stabbed the steak with a fork and made an incision. A clear, pinkish fluid oozed from the meat. “But I really know nothing about the woman.”

  “How about someone who goes by the name Madame Lena?” Keegan said. “Ever hear of her?”

  Burritt nodded indulgently. “She was an advisor of sorts,” he said. He lifted a wedge of meat to his lips.

  “She was a fortune teller,” Keegan said.

  Burritt nodded again. He regarded Keegan as he chewed and swallowed. His lips were slick with drippings now. “Ida Fletcher could be a trusting soul,” he said.

  “Until she wasn’t,” Keegan said.

  Burritt paused a beat. He rested both fists on either side of his plate, the knife and fork jutting upward, while he considered Keegan’s words. He nodded. Apparently, he would allow Keegan’s testimony to stand without objection. “You’re right about that, James,” he said. “The woman—God bless her soul—could be a little capricious.”

  WHEN KEEGAN PASSED the big archway on his way out, the barroom was a bit less noisy. The jazz trio was playing a sleepy version of ‘All of Me’. The nephew was still parked on the same barstool, though the others around him were empty now. Church sat with his back turned to the archway, a fresh martini on the bar top. He was talking to one of the two bartenders, a hulking, balding man with a garland of silvery hair at his temples.

  The big man seemed to be half listening while the kid prattled on. He did absolutely nothing to hide his indifference. He polished a stemware glass with a white cloth and slipped it into the overhead rack. The bartender seemed disproportionately large for the job, a giant among all those bottles and glasses, a bull in a china shop. Then again, Keegan thought, maybe he was the perfect hire, barkeep and bouncer in one package—that is, if a place as refined as the South Bay Yachting Club ever had a need for muscle.

  The blond valet jumped up from his stool when Keegan came out through the club’s front doors. He loped toward Keegan like a friendly Golden Retriever, but Keegan just shook his head and looked past him. He’d be getting his own car, thank you very much.

  The parking lot was much darker now than when Keegan arrived. The lamps gave off a sickly buzz and drained the colors from the cars parked underneath them. Every paint job appeared to be just a slightly different shade of jaundiced gray. The wind coming in off the bay was much colder now too.

  An idea came to him, and he glanced behind him at the club’s entrance. A foursome was waiting at the valet stand, and the blond kid was jogging down a row of cars, looking for theirs. Keegan reached out as he passed a parked Buick Riviera and tugged out the slip of paper that had been tucked under the windshield wiper. He walked a bit farther before he looked down at w
hat he had in his hand: a paper stub the size of a postage stamp, numbered in red ink, just like the one he’d found on Church’s Jaguar the day after Ida Fletcher went missing. It had been a valet’s ticket. The nephew hadn’t been dining at the Bouzy Rouge. He’d been here at the marina, and he’d lied to Keegan about that fact.

  Keegan unlocked his car and got in. This trip had been a qualified success. He was no closer to finding Lillian Cole—the actual job he’d been tasked with—but he’d learned a little more about Danny Church. The kid could sail. And he’d been at the marina the night his aunt went missing. Keegan could only make out the foggiest outline of the supposed crime, but it was getting clearer in his head. Church could have waited out on the bay for his Aunt Ida’s boat to leave her home dock. He could have slipped in behind her, running without lights. He could have followed her, at a distance, out past the breakwater into the open sea. It might easily have happened that way. All the kid would have had to do was find a boat to use.

  Keegan started up his MG and pulled on the headlight switch, lighting up a line of eucalyptus trunks. He was about to put his car in gear when a rectangle of light skimmed across the dumpsters and bushes along the side of the club and then vanished—a door opening and closing. A large shape lumbered across the dark lawn and stopped at the railing that overlooked the marina. There was no mistaking the huge, shambling shape: it was the bartender from inside, the one Danny Church had just been talking to. Keegan turned off the engine and killed the headlights. He got out, closed the car door quietly, and slipped across the parking lot. He skirted the edge of the lot, staying near the line of trees.

  The bartender struck a match and held it to a cigarette. His big, meaty face lit up like a jack-o’-lantern for a few seconds and then vanished into darkness again when he shook out the match.

  The big man turned when he heard Keegan’s footsteps coming up behind him. He stepped away from the railing and squared off, standing akimbo. Keegan waved to him, doing his best to look harmless. He dug his hands into his pockets like someone innocuous, out for an evening stroll. Nothing to see here. No reason to raise an alarm.

  The barkeep folded his arms in front of himself and stood with his feet apart. He was as broad and imposing as the invisible breakwater far out on the horizon. In the dim light, Keegan made out a white shirt and black tie under a gray vest with a pocket square—the club’s uniform for bartenders, he guessed. The man’s engraved nametag read BRUNO.

  “You’re the barkeep,” Keegan said, keeping his voice bright and casual. “I hear you make a whiskey sour that is unsurpassed.”

  The big man shot him a sardonic look, like he was on his break and shouldn’t have to deal with club members. He had to tolerate the chitchat behind the bar, but not out here behind the dumpsters. He turned away and faced the dark marina, hunching over and leaning on the railing.

  Keegan came and stood next to him. “The truth is, I’m not a member,” Keegan said. “I wouldn’t know an anchor from an anvil.” Keegan put both his hands on the railing. “And, hell,” he said, “who am I kidding? There’s no way I could afford it. I’m just a PI.” He looked at the side of the big man’s face. “A woman named Ida Fletcher hired me to keep an eye on things for her. You ever hear of her?”

  Bruno shrugged. “Sure, I heard of her,” he said with little enthusiasm. His voice was a low rumble, like waves breaking over riprap. “She’s the old dame who drowned last week.”

  Word traveled fast. “Well, the kid in there at the bar?” Keegan pressed on. “The one who I’m guessing won’t stop talking your ear off? Well, that’s her nephew. And he stands to inherit a bundle.”

  The big man turned to face Keegan and waited solemnly. He took another drag on his cigarette and watched Keegan through the smoke.

  Keegan tried to gauge how much to say and how much to hold back. “The truth is, I don’t like the kid,” Keegan said. “Not even a little. I don’t trust him, and—well—I think he had something to do with what happened to the old lady.”

  The news didn’t faze the big man. He nodded and leaned an elbow on the top of the railing. “The kid’s been standing a lot of rounds,” he said. He flicked ash from his cigarette onto the ground between them. “He’s running up a big tab in the old lady’s name,” he said. “So, yeah, he acts like he’s got a lot of money. Or at least expects to get some soon.”

  Keegan nodded. This Bruno was a man he could work with. He might be employed by the rich and mighty, but he was no sycophant. The Chateau Marmont could use a guy like Bruno. Keegan nodded out at the dark marina. “You know if he has a boat out there?”

  The big man shrugged and gestured back at the building’s side door with the hand that held the cigarette. “The bar closes at 1:00 a.m.,” he said, “so I’m generally out of here around two.”

  “And?”

  “And some nights the kid’s Jaguar is still in the parking lot.” He looked steadily at Keegan. “Make of that what you will,” he said. “But to me that means he’s got a berth somewhere nearby.”

  Keegan nodded. That would explain the unclaimed valet ticket under the windshield wiper. He turned and looked out over the dark marina. Bare masts tilted in the moonlight. Rigging clanged softly. Boarding piers creaked on the flowing tide. Only a few lights were on in the boat cabins. The knot in Keegan’s stomach cinched tighter. Somewhere out there was the boat Danny Church used to kill his aunt.

  Keegan got out his wallet. He found a ten in among all the ones. He tugged it out and then found a business card that had his home number written on the back. “What nights do you work, Bruno?”

  The bartender looked at the ten, unimpressed. In a place like the South Bay Yachting Club, he’d obviously seen bigger tips.

  Keegan grinned. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “But I’m a working man like you. It’s all I can afford.”

  The big man gave him a wry smile and shrugged. He took the money and slipped it into his trouser pocket. “I’m here every night but Monday,” he said.

  Keegan nodded. “If it gets past midnight some night, and the kid’s still sitting at the bar running his mouth and running a tab,” Keegan said, “call the number on the back and give me a heads up. I want to see where he goes when he leaves.”

  The bartender held the card up to the light. “James Keegan,” he said, sounding the words out slowly, like he wasn’t much of a reader.

  “Call me Jim,” Keegan said. “Nobody I like calls me James.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  EARLY THE NEXT morning, Keegan parked in the usual lot on Sixth Street, but instead of going to his office, he took the dog on a leisurely stroll over to Pershing Square, letting her sniff all the lampposts and hydrants and sidewalk trees she wanted along the way. It was a brisk, breezy morning, and the cool night air still lingered in the shadows of the tall buildings. The sun had not yet risen high enough to burn it away.

  There weren’t many people in the park when they arrived, just a few hunched men on the benches, bundled in overcoats. They had probably slept here. The three flags atop the Biltmore Hotel rippled and snapped in the wind. Sycamore leaves and a few loose newspaper pages had blown against the Beethoven statue pedestal. Autumn had arrived in Los Angeles.

  Keegan let the dog have her way. He followed her around the fountain, and she led him with her nose to the brickwork, trailing invisible lines of scent. He let her pee on the lawn under a date palm before he finally gave her leash a tug and led her over to Lusk’s newsstand.

  Lusk watched the two of them approach and shook his head with mock disdain. When Keegan was within speaking distance, Lusk nodded down at the dog. “Some kind of big hunting dog would make sense,” he said. “A chocolate Lab maybe, or an Irish Setter.” He leaned forward lazily, elbows on his plywood counter. “But that thing belongs in an Audrey Hepburn movie,” he said. “It doesn’t help your image any.”

  “Yeah, but she’s a terrier,” Keegan said, looking down at the dog. “It’s the attitude that counts. That right there is e
ighteen-and-a-half pounds of pure tenacity.”

  The dog got busy scratching behind her ear with a hind paw, moaning indulgently—which didn’t do much to buttress Keegan’s claim.

  Lusk shook his head. “You keep telling yourself that, buddy,” he said. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “So, what brings you by my little corner of the world before lunchtime?”

  Keegan tugged the dog’s leash and brought her closer to Lusk’s stand. It seemed like a long shot, but he might as well ask. Lusk’s connections covered more of this town than the Red Car lines. “You ever hear of a woman who goes by the name Madame Lena?”

  “The fortune teller?”

  Keegan stood a little straighter, surprised. “Yeah,” he said. “You actually know who she is?”

  Lusk shrugged. “What is it you want to know about her?” he asked.

  “Do you know where I can find her?”

  Lusk sat back in his chair and looked at Keegan sourly. “It’ll cost you a dime,” he announced.

  Keegan rocked back on his heels. It was an unusually small price to pay for a good lead, especially from Kipper Lusk. He dug the loose change from his pocket, shook it on his hand, and then set two nickels on Lusk’s plywood counter.

  Lusk swept them into his palm and dropped them in his till. He leaned out, grabbed a copy of the LA Times from its rack, and handed it to Keegan.

  Keegan took it and gave it a look. SPACE SENTRIES, the banner headline read. U.S. ATOMIC WATCHDOGS IN ORBIT. “What’s this for?” he asked.

  “Madame Lena’s got a classified ad in there every damn day of the week,” Lusk told him.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  Keegan pulled out the paper’s back section and tucked the rest under his arm. He flipped through the pages.