He jogged over to the steps as silently as he could and paused at the top, looking down at the darkened marina. Few lights were on in the moored boats. Beacon lamps from across the bay shimmered on the dark water. White hulls reflected in the black water. He held his breath and peered into the void, watching for movement. And then there it was: a cigarette flared and faded.
It looked like the nephew had turned down the fourth jetty, and he was making his way along it, slow and unsteady. The sidecars he’d had at the bar and the gently rocking dock both seemed to impede his progress. Keegan would have no trouble keeping up.
Keegan crept down the steps, but once he was level with the marina, he could no longer see Church beyond the forest of sailboat masts. He wouldn’t be hard to find, though; Keegan knew where he’d turned down. Keegan slipped quietly along the quay to the fourth jetty and stopped to look along it. It was different than the others, much broader abeam and with wider berths. This was where the larger boats tied up—the big luxury yachts with their double decks and their hoisted dinghies. He couldn’t see Church now; the kid must have already boarded one of the boats.
Keegan crept slowly along the jetty, listening and watching for any sign of movement. The big hulls loomed high over his head. These weren’t the little thirty-footers you’d take up the coast to Santa Barbara for the weekend, hugging the shore. They were floating mansions—the kind of vessel you could sail to Singapore if you had a mind to.
Keegan crept along the jetty, glancing back and forth for any sign of life. A light came on in the farthest boat and then switched off again. Keegan picked up his pace and made his silent way to the end of the jetty. He stood at the final berth, listening. Despite the breeze coming off the bay, he caught the clear scent of tobacco smoke. He waited and then heard muffled music on board. The radio signal swelled and shifted. Someone was working the dial. Elvis sang ‘It’s Now or Never’, and the dial stopped there.
For who knows when we’ll meet again this way.
Keegan looked up at the prow. The boat’s name was scrolled under the pulpit in gold lettering.
Recess
Newport Beach
BACK AT THE yacht club, Keegan rapped at the side door, waited, and then knocked again more loudly.
The door opened a crack and the giant bartender looked out at him, amused. “I thought it might be you,” he said. He pulled the door all the way open. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yeah,” Keegan said. “He got on a boat out there. A really big one. Recess? You know it?”
The big man nodded. “Yeah, I know it,” he said. “I’ve worked a couple of private parties aboard the thing. It’s got a full bar below decks—as big as the one we’ve got in here. Belongs to Mr. Burritt.”
“Milton Burritt,” Keegan said. “The lawyer?” He laughed suddenly, unable to hold it in. Bruno gave him a look.
“‘Recess’,” Keegan explained. “I just got the joke.”
Bruno shrugged. He wasn’t so easily amused.
“Does Burritt take it out much?” Keegan asked.
The bartender shook his head. “Hardly goes aboard it at all as far as I can tell,” he said. “It just sits out there. Something to impress.”
Keegan thought of Burritt’s beautiful too-young wife sitting by his side looking deathly bored while they talked. The Recess was Burritt’s maritime version of a trophy wife—and he probably neglected them both to similar degrees.
Bruno glanced back inside the club, like he was eager to finish up and go home.
Keegan took the cue. He found a ten-dollar bill in his wallet and passed it to the big man, again knowing it wasn’t much of a tip in Bruno’s world. “Thanks,” he said. “Your assistance has been unsurpassed.”
SO, IT WAS possible, Keegan thought as he drove up an empty PCH toward the freeway. It was more than just a hunch. Danny Church had access to a boat. He pictured the kid at the helm of the Recess, following his aunt’s smaller, unsuspecting boat out of the channel into the dark open waters beyond. What happened next was anyone’s guess, but a little sailboat like The Seven of Swords would have no hope of outrunning Burritt’s big motor yacht.
The nephew already had the motive, and now Keegan could prove he had the opportunity.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“SO, HE’S BORROWING a boat,” the Lieutenant said. “That doesn’t prove he did anything wrong.”
“Proving things isn’t my job,” Keegan reminded him. “That’s kind of your profession. Are you interested in this or not?”
“I’m interested,” the Lieutenant allowed. “It’s just not a whole lot to go on.”
It was Sunday afternoon, and the Lieutenant had agreed to meet Keegan at the Regency Café for a beer while his wife was at her sister’s. He’d hear Keegan out about his suspicions concerning Danny Church. Maybe there would be something to it; maybe there wouldn’t. He made no promises.
Well, a beer in the afternoon suited Keegan just fine, it turned out. A few hours out of the damn house was just what he needed. They sat at the bar. They’d talked through their first beers and were well along into their second.
“Not a whole lot to go on?” Keegan said. He held his hand above the marble bar top and pulled one finger back with the other hand. “First, we’ve got the motive,” he said. “They had a falling out, and he was worried she’d change the will.” He pulled back another finger. “Then we’ve got opportunity. He’s got a boat waiting for him in the marina.” He pulled back a third finger. “We’ve got the fact that old Frank had a bump on the head, like someone had knocked him out before he went in the water.”
Keegan gave up counting and rattled off the rest. “We’ve got the fact that the old lady was terrified of him, for some reason. There’s also the fact that he lied to me about where he was the day they went missing.” He was getting too worked up, so he took a deep breath and a sip from his beer glass. “I don’t know, Lou,” he said. “That seems like plenty to me. What more do you want? I can’t do my job and yours at the same time.”
The Lieutenant gave Keegan a smooth, unruffled smile. “Easy, Jimmy,” he said. “Let’s not get personal.” He gave Keegan’s arm a pat. “You’re jumping over a lot of questions here. The kind of questions a DA is going to have to answer.”
Keegan pressed both hands down on the bar top. “Like what, for example?”
“Well, for one, the old lady refused to talk to the kid, right?” He turned sideways on his stool and put one elbow on the bar, looking easy and unflappable. “If she was terrified of him—as you say—how did he find out she was sailing over to Catalina?”
Keegan looked away. He took another long sip from his beer and set the glass back down. He turned it slowly on the bar until the Regency logo was facing him. “For the sake of argument,” he said, “let’s just say he found out somehow.”
The Lieutenant shook his head amiably and grinned. “Let’s not just say that, Jimmy,” he said. “It’s a giant, glaring hole in this theory of yours—and you’ll need to come up with a plausible explanation before we can take it any further.”
Keegan took another sip from his beer. He looked up at the rows of bottles lining the shelves behind the bar. He thought of the kid on the phone and his damn warm-warmerhot game. Dammit. “Okay, fine,” Keegan said. “For the sake of argument, let’s just say he found out from me.”
Keegan could feel the Lieutenant’s gaze on the side of his face like a spotlight. “You told him?” He seemed to be holding in a laugh.
“I didn’t tell him, Lou,” Keegan said. “Not really.” It was such a mess, so hard to explain. “I didn’t know they were sailing out there myself,” he sputtered on. “The kid has a way of talking a person in circles. He keeps up both sides of the damn conversation. It’s like you’re his ventriloquist dummy or something.”
“You told him the old lady was sailing to Catalina?”
“Let’s just say he came to that conclusion during a conversation we had,” Keegan said. �
��You had to be there, Lou. I never said a word about it. I didn’t even know that was the old lady’s plan until it was too late.”
The Lieutenant faced forward on his stool again and reached for his own glass of beer. He was still grinning, and then he started shaking his head. “Well, that does fill in one of the holes in your theory,” he said. He took a sip of beer and then started laughing. “You might not want to tell me anything more without a lawyer present.”
“Hilarious, Lou,” Keegan said. “You’re a real funny guy.”
“Abetting a double homicide,” the Lieutenant said, trying to hold back his laughter. “That’s twenty-to-life in my town.”
“Are you going to take this seriously or not?” Keegan said. “This is murder we’re talking about. The kid’s going to get away scot-free if someone doesn’t do something.”
“And what would you like me to do?” Moore said. At least he’d stopped laughing. His voice was cool and earnest now. “If it happened offshore, it’s not LAPD’s case. And if they were sailing from Newport to Catalina, there’s that pesky county line to worry about too.” He drew an imaginary border on the bar top with the sides of both hands. “Could be Orange County Sheriff. Could be LA County.” He moved his hands farther along the bar. “Hell, with the current, Ventura County might need to be involved.” He shook his head. “Whichever way it goes, I can’t go sticking my nose in. Not without a lot more evidence.”
Keegan swiveled on his stool to face the Lieutenant. He had to make the man understand. “You don’t know this kid like I do.” His voice came out strident, urgent. “He’s a real piece of work. Glib. Smooth. No conscience. No remorse. He’s a classic sociopath.” He squeezed his fists tight and held them in front of his chest. “He did it, Lou,” he said. “I can feel it in my bones.”
“I believe you,” Moore said. “I believe your bones. But body parts can’t be called to testify.” The Lieutenant held up his hand to stop Keegan from interrupting. “I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he said. “But I’ve got rules to follow. You’re going to have to bring me a lot more than this before I can go sticking my nose in.”
“Like what?” Keegan said. “Bloody footprints on the ocean? Fingerprints on some flounder? It happened on the open sea. What kind of evidence could there be?” He imagined Danny Church’s smug, unctuous grin. It sickened him.
The Lieutenant nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It makes it hard. I’m surprised more murders don’t happen at sea. If you ever wanted to get away…” He let the thought trail off.
“So then, what would it take for you to be able to do something?”
“I don’t know,” the Lieutenant said. He sounded a little frustrated himself now, which made Keegan feel a little less dejected. “You ever seen this lawyer’s boat? Any damage to it? Anything on board the kid might have used?”
Keegan swiveled back to face the bar. He picked up his beer and took a sip, not really tasting it. His thoughts were running out ahead of him now. He knew exactly where to find Milton Burritt’s yacht. If Bruno was right, the old lawyer rarely used it. And if Danny Church were out of the picture some night—out on the town, say, or even just drinking at the yacht club bar—Keegan could slip on and off the Recess without anyone being the wiser. Sure, it wasn’t quite legal, but what harm could it do to give it a shot?
AT THE KITCHEN table Monday night, Keegan pushed his Swanson’s TV dinner away. He’d had the exact same Salisbury steak meal the night before. It had gone cold by now, and he hadn’t made much of a dent in it. He didn’t have an appetite these days.
There was a time, not too long ago, when most weeknights he’d have met some old friend at Casa Bonita for Mexican food, or he’d have swung by the Red Lion on the way back to his Mid-Wilshire apartment to grab a burger and see which of the regulars were hanging around in the bar. There was a time when he didn’t eat TV dinners straight from their tinfoil trays, when he didn’t spend his nights banished up here in his late mother’s hilltop cottage—with a terrier as his only company.
Unless, of course, you counted the ghost.
His visit with Madame Lena had affected him more than he could explain. You live alone, very high up, but your house is haunted by a spirit. Since the evening he’d gone to see her, he’d left the lights burning all night in the living room and the kitchen. He told himself it was for the dog, but that wasn’t the whole truth. The cottage was beginning to feel too populous.
A young woman. A short name. From the Bible. It was especially maddening because Keegan knew exactly how Lena’s trick worked. This wasn’t Blackstone’s floating light bulb. It was a sure-bet guess. Any sideshow palm reader would use it in a cold reading, and it would work ninety percent of the time. Half the women Keegan ever knew had short biblical names. He knew a Ruth, a Martha, a Sarah, and three Marys. Hell, even Mrs. Dodd’s first name was Esther.
Madame Lena had nothing to do with his current unnerved state. He was doing it to himself—working himself up, letting his imagination gallop. So, why was he allowing his memories of Eve to haunt him? Maybe it was the isolation. This damn cottage was the last stop on the road, the place where the pavement ran out. And it didn’t help that the Ormsby place down below had been dark and empty for a year now. That dark abyss between him and all the city lights just made him feel more cut off.
He got up and put the uneaten dinner on the kitchen counter. He’d scrape it into the dog’s bowl in the morning. He got down a coffee mug and a mostly empty bottle of Jameson and brought them back to the table. He poured what was left into the mug and took a sip.
And then there was Helen. All that day at work, Mrs. Dodd had been shooting him hot glares and giving him the cold shoulder. She never bothered to ask him why he might have stood Helen up on Friday night, but her mood implied that no reason he offered would be sufficient.
And she was right, Keegan knew. He should have apologized to Helen by now. He glanced over at the phone on the wall beside him. The coiled cord was so stretched out, it dangled, twisting, almost to the kitchen tiles. He should, he knew, just pick it up and dial Helen’s number. He had it in his wallet, which was out in the living room, right there on the entry table by the front door. He should just march out there right now and get it, and then pick up the phone. He could swallow his pride for once, offer no excuses, ask her to meet him for a drink, try to make it up to her somehow. But even as he gave himself the pep talk, he knew he wouldn’t follow through. Instead, he would finish off the whiskey, take the dog out in the yard one last time, and then go to bed—the same old routine. Inertia had become a way of life. Pathetic.
He tilted his head back and swallowed down what was left of the whiskey in one gulp.
ON TUESDAY, MRS. Dodd’s strict policy of excommunication continued. She slammed file cabinet drawers. She refused to look at Keegan, even when forced to speak to him. She worked the Remington with such fury, the typebars poked little holes in the papers she left out for Keegan to sign.
By lunchtime, Keegan was itching to flee the office and enjoy the less palpable abuse of the world at large. He hooked the leash on the dog’s collar and rode the elevator down to street level. He walked Nora down Sixth Street toward Olive. He’d get something to eat from one of the vendors in Pershing Square.
He bought a hotdog and a bottle of Orange Crush from a cart and took it to an empty bench. The soda was too fizzy; the hotdog was flavorless and difficult to swallow. He gave the last inch to the dog, who wolfed it down without complaint. He sat awhile, enjoying the cool October sunlight.
When it was time to go back to the office, he headed over to Lusk’s newsstand instead. Lusk had no customers to wait on, and he watched Keegan approach with a look of droll amusement.
Keegan had a reason for visiting Lusk, but he went to the small rack of paperback novels as a kind of pretense. There wasn’t much of a selection there: some Michener, some O’Hara, a row of Harlequin romances, another of pulp westerns. Back in college, he’d devoured novels, reading everythin
g assigned in his literature classes and countless other books as well. Even when he worked at The Times, he’d kept up, breezing through whatever got good reviews back in the Calendar section. It would be a good habit to reclaim now in his old age, a way to fill those long evening hours at home. He plucked a copy of The Grapes of Wrath from the rack and set it on Lusk’s counter. He’d never gotten around to reading it, back when it was in all the bookshop windows.
The purchase seemed to brighten Lusk’s mood. He picked up the book and checked the price. “A bargain at a buck ninety-five,” he said. “Want a fresh Bic pen to go with it? Lotta stuff you’re probably going to want to underline.”
“Just the book, thanks,” Keegan said. He dug in his pocket for change and counted out eight quarters.
Lusk swiped the coins into his palm and dumped them in the cash drawer. He took out a nickel and put it on top of the book.
Keegan made no move to pick them up. “So, Kipper,” he said, “when you talked to that Madame Lena, was it on the phone—or did you drive out to see her?”
Lusk leaned back in his folding chair and looked Keegan over doubtfully. “I’m supposed to open myself once again to your ridicule?” he said. “Think again, smart guy.”
“No ridicule,” Keegan promised. “I want to know your thoughts on the woman.”
“And why might that be?” Lusk still seemed leery, waiting for the other Florsheim to drop.
Keegan held the dog’s leash tighter in his fist. “I went to see her last Friday,” he admitted.
Lusk sat back in his folding chair and grinned, immensely pleased with the news. Then he leaned forward and pressed his elbows down on the plywood counter. “You went to see her?” he said. He was clearly delighted.
“It was business,” Keegan said defensively. “And her whole act was pure hokum—all carnival tricks and tarot cards.”
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