“Because I think you used Burritt’s boat,” Keegan said. “I bet he has no idea what you’re doing aboard the Recess with his wife.”
Church’s face flushed, so Keegan knew he’d hit home. It felt good to see the kid pressed back against the love seat, pinned down by the ugly truth. “Yeah, I know about you and Mrs. Burritt,” Keegan said. “But Milton Burritt isn’t my client, so I don’t give a damn whether you screw him over.” Keegan came around the billiard table. There was nothing between the two men now. “I see the big picture, Danny,” he said. “I just need a little help with the details.”
The kid looked at the phone on the billiard table, as if he wanted to call for help. But it was right there in Keegan’s easy reach. Besides, who would the kid call? Who was left to come to his rescue?
Keegan leaned back against the billiard table and folded his arms across his chest. “I figure you followed them out of the breakwater,” he said. “You tailed along behind them a while, and when you were far enough offshore, you flagged them down somehow. Maybe you sent up some kind of distress signal. I don’t know how these things work.”
Church just stared back at him now, blinking, wordless.
“I figure you had to take care of Frank first. That guy knew how to use his fists. No offense, but a pretty boy like you wouldn’t stand a chance if the fight was fair. You must have hit him from behind—with an oar or a gaff hook, maybe—and dumped him over the side. That would all fit what the coroner found.” He fixed Church with his eyes. “You know I saw old Frank’s body after they pulled it out of the ocean. It wasn’t pretty what you did to him.”
Church pressed his hands down on the love seat on either side of him, like he was trying to keep upright.
“What was it like, Danny?” Keegan went on. “What did your aunt say when she saw what you were up to? Did you hit her as well? Or did you just sink the boat out from under her, knowing she was too frail to stay above water long?”
The kid’s eyes pinballed around the room, but there was no real avenue of escape.
“I don’t expect you to tell me,” Keegan said. “I just want you to know that one person sees through your phony schoolboy charm. One person knows you for the deadly bastard you are.”
That was it. Keegan realized, suddenly, that he’d run out of words. He’d said everything he needed to say. The business still felt unfinished, but it would have to be enough. Maybe the Lieutenant was right: sometimes the mystery doesn’t get solved; sometimes you just have to live with it. He shook his head and turned to leave—but then he stopped and turned back.
Keegan pulled the photo he’d found in the house on Tradewinds Lane from the inner pocket of his jacket. He looked it over: just a middle-aged woman and a gawky young boy caught forever in the snap of a shutter. It had been a sunny day, on a sandy beach. Keegan could read no deviltry in it, no portent of what was to come. He was no Madame Lena. “Here’s a little keepsake,” Keegan said. He flicked the photograph, spinning, onto the seat cushion next to Church. It landed face up. “Just something to remember the old dear by.”
The nephew looked down at the photo, uncomprehending. He picked it up and tilted it to the light. He looked at Keegan. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You found her?”
It wasn’t at all the response Keegan expected, and the reaction caught him flat-footed. Something felt dreadfully wrong. He stood looking at the nephew.
“Where was she?” Church asked. He looked genuinely flummoxed.
“Where was who?”
“Old Lillian,” Church said. He shook the photo in the air between them. “Lillian Cole. Where did you find her?” He fixed Keegan with a look that was somehow both beseeching and accusatory. “I have no idea what’s going on here, James,” he said. “But I must say I’m not happy with what you’re implying. I thought you and I were friends.”
BACK ON SIXTH Street, Keegan rode the elevator up, still sorting things out in his head. It had been a dizzying drive back from the house on Monticello. All the facts of the case, as he reviewed them in his head—the missing family portrait, the reclusive hotel bungalow, all the sudden fallings out—fell back into place in an entirely new angle of light.
He found Mrs. Dodd waiting with the dog, ready to go for the evening. At first, she seemed annoyed with him that she’d had to wait past five o’clock. The dog, on the other hand, was happy to see him—entirely forgiving that he’d disappeared for so long. She ran in a circle around him, wagging her stubby tail, like she wanted him to chase her.
“I took her out ten minutes ago,” Mrs. Dodd told him. She pulled on the cardigan she’d draped over the back of her chair and pulled her purse from the file drawer in her desk. “So, are we free and clear of Ida Fletcher and her nephew now?” she asked as she headed for the door. “Can we deposit the money and let everything get back to normal around here?”
Keegan shook his head. He was still processing the implications of what Danny Church had told him. “I’m afraid it might have just gotten messier.”
Mrs. Dodd paused with her hand on the doorknob. “Messier?” she said. “How is that even possible?” She turned back to face him, looking concerned now. “Can it keep until tomorrow, or do you need me to stay?”
Keegan shook his head. “It’ll keep,” he said. “I’ve got a phone call to make. I’ll explain it all in the morning. Maybe it’ll all make sense to me by then.”
“You sure?” she said, still holding the knob. “Wendell can open a can of tomato soup for once. He won’t starve if you need me to work late.”
“Go on home,” he said. “I just need to figure a few things out.”
When she was gone, Keegan went into his inner office and turned on the light. The dog trotted after him. He sat down at his desk and picked up the phone. The dog nudged past his feet and curled up in the darkness under the desk. Keegan dialed the Lieutenant’s office downtown. It wasn’t too long after five o’clock. There was a good chance he could still catch the man at his desk.
“What now, Jimmy?” Moore said. He sounded tired after a long day’s work, but his voice brimmed with good humor. “What new circumstantial evidence have you dug up? You’re like a dog with a bone.”
“I need a favor,” Keegan said, cutting through the small talk.
“Now, why doesn’t that come as a shock to me?”
“It’s bad, Lou,” Keegan said. “I think I royally screwed up.”
“Also not a shock,” the Lieutenant quipped, but then his voice grew more earnest. “What is it you need, Jimmy? I was just about to go home.”
“Is there a way you could get me a couple driver’s license photos?”
“I suppose that can be done,” Moore said. “But I’m going to need a reason.”
“I’m afraid it’s a long story,” Keegan said. “You might want to lean back and put your feet up. Get comfortable, Lou. This is going to take a while to explain.”
The Lieutenant sighed into the phone, but at least he didn’t hang up.
THE TWO PHOTOS were ready the next afternoon.
Keegan swung by the LAPD offices on Third and climbed the stairs to the Lieutenant’s floor. At one time, when he was a crime reporter, the cop house had been his daily beat. He’d known which detective sat at every desk, for all three shifts. He knew which clerk to hit up for off-the-record information, which floor had the best coffee on the burner.
These days he was a stranger here. The few aging detectives he still recognized from the old days were gray-haired now, their faces puffy with age. They’d become desk jockeys and clock watchers, every last one. They were Donovans in training.
At the top of the third-floor stairwell, Keegan stepped into the big open detective bureau. The white-shirted jacks in residence were all coatless, their leather shoulder holsters on display. The room was a cacophony of ringing phones and clacking typewriters and voices shouting to be heard.
The Lieutenant’s office was a straight shot from the stairwell, so Moore always saw Keegan co
ming, threading his way among all those desks. He seemed to make a point of being busy with something when Keegan rapped on the open doorjamb, like he was putting on a show. He’d wave Keegan into a chair and make him wait. It was all part of his schtick. Today his frosted glass door was wide open. He was behind the desk, his chair angled to the window. The phone was braced between his shoulder and ear, and he was listening without talking. The Lieutenant nodded, gestured at a chair.
Keegan sat.
After a few seconds, the Lieutenant said a curt goodbye into the phone, then swiveled around and hung it up. He took a file folder from the top of his desk and opened it. He turned a pair of blurry eight-by-ten photographs and set them face up on his desk, where Keegan could see them. He tapped the one on Keegan’s left. “Ida Fletcher,” he said. He tapped the other. “Lillian Cole.”
Keegan leaned forward and stared down at the photographs. Both were a bit unfocused—like someone had enlarged the negatives too much—but there was no mistaking it. He looked at the woman who was Ida Fletcher and knew he’d never set eyes on her in his life.
The woman he’d met at the Chateau Marmont, posing as her own employer, was in the other photograph—the elusive Lillian Cole. There was no mistaking the widow’s peak, the gaunt high cheekbones, the deep-set cunning eyes. Keegan flipped both photos over to read the DMV info pasted on the back. He nodded and turned them face up again. “Yep,” he said. “They got me. Hook, line, sinker, and fishing rod.”
Moore leaned back in his chair. “Looks like you’ve actually solved a crime this time, Jimmy,” he said. “Just not the one you were aiming at. Where do we go from here?”
Keegan looked down at the two women in the photographs. There were a few details left to figure out. “Hold off a little while, Lou,” Keegan said. “Let me make sure I understand exactly what’s going on before we tip our hand.” He reached for the photos then stopped. “Okay if I take these?”
“Be my guest,” the Lieutenant said. He slipped the two photos into the manila folder and slid them across the desk to Keegan. He smiled slyly. “Just try to get it right this time.”
“I’M SORRY,” ROLAND Dion’s ginger receptionist told him.
“He’s very busy.”
“He’ll want to see me.”
“Do you have an appointment, Mr.…?”
“Keegan,” he told her. “Jim Keegan. No appointment, but he knows who I am, and it’s urgent.”
Keegan could have called Dion on the phone and told him the news—but there was a chance the lawyer might be in on the scam. He wanted to see the man’s reaction.
“It’s just that Mr. Dion is all booked up today,” the receptionist said. “Is there a chance you could call back first thing next week?”
Keegan shook his head. Sure, she wasn’t Klaus the concierge, but he was tired of being kept at bay. “No chance,” he said, the irritation showing in his voice. “He’s going to want to see me. You’ll just have to trust me on that.”
The receptionist eyed him coolly. “Have a seat, then, Mr. Keegan,” she said. “I’ll see if he can clear a few minutes.” She picked up a phone and spoke quietly into it, head bent down, not looking at Keegan as she did so.
Keegan went over and took his usual seat next to the big plate-glass window. It was a hazy, gray day outside. The pier’s Ferris wheel looked like a tarnished nickel in the distance. Catalina wasn’t visible on the murky horizon. He tapped the manila envelope on his thighs as he waited.
It took a few minutes, but the inner office door cracked open, and Roland Dion peeked out, his head comically close to the ground. He shot Keegan an irritable glance. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I understand you need to see me?”
Keegan stood. “I do indeed,” he said. He held up the manila envelope—his Exhibit A. “This’ll only take a minute,” he told the lawyer, “but I think it’s something you’ll want to discuss in private.”
Dion’s face took on a worried look. He nodded and pushed open the door and then led Keegan down the busy hallway. They squeezed past an exceedingly well-dressed man and woman who were deep in conversation. Keegan caught a whiff of musky cologne as he slipped by and couldn’t guess which of the two might be wearing it.
Back in Dion’s office, the big oak door sealed off most of the noise. Keegan sat down in the same leather chair he’d taken last time. Roland Dion slipped behind his absurdly large desk and up onto whatever booster seat he had back there.
“What’s this about?” the lawyer wanted to know. He was doing his best to sound stern, but Keegan could tell he was more anxious than angry.
Keegan leaned the manila folder against the desk’s edge. “I think I found Lillian Cole,” he told the lawyer.
Dion paused and nodded. He seemed to have expected something more. “Well, that’s good news, certainly,” he said. “But a simple phone call would have—”
Keegan shook his head, cutting him off. “I’ll need you to look at a couple of photographs.”
The lawyer showed a flicker of annoyance and glanced at his watch. He seemed about to make an objection but then checked his anger and folded his petite hands on the desktop. “And what are these photographs?”
Keegan pulled the first one from his folder and set it on the desk, facing Dion. “Have you ever met this woman?” he asked.
The lawyer glanced down at the photo and then looked up at Keegan. The irritation was rising into his face again. “As I believe I’ve told you,” he said, “I never met Lillian Cole.” He glanced at the photo again. “So, no.” He pushed the photo back in Keegan’s direction with his small fingers.
Keegan set down the other photo on top of the first. “How about this woman?”
The lawyer looked at the photo. He took his time with it. “Well, it’s not a very flattering likeness, but that is our late client, Mrs. Fletcher.” He looked up at Keegan. His patience was wearing thin. “What is this about, Jim?”
It was enough to convince Keegan the man wasn’t in on the racket. “I’m afraid we’ve both been had, counselor,” Keegan told him. He reached out and tapped the top photo. “Turns out that’s the elusive Lillian Cole we’ve been trying to find.” He slid the photos so they were side by side. He pressed a finger down on the first one. “This, in fact, is Ida Fletcher. The woman we both thought we were working for. Neither of us ever met the old dear. I’ll bet Donovan never met her, either.” It seemed so obvious now. How had they all missed it? “She was out of the picture long before any of us showed up on the scene.”
The lawyer looked down at the two photos, frowning, like he was trying to pinpoint where the problem lay. “But Michael Donovan brought me out—”
Keegan nodded. “Yes,” he said, “you and I both let our guards down because we knew Donovan, and he was the one who introduced us.” He thought of the cigars and whiskey at the Ambassador Hotel. Donovan had been so pleased with himself. She’s old and paranoid and richer than Jesus. The poor sap had thought he was the one taking the old lady for a ride. “All they had to do was fool old Donovan,” Keegan said, “and the two of us would be sitting ducks.”
The lawyer kept frowning down at the photos. “Fraud?” he said, his voice almost breathless. The truth seemed to be sinking in.
“I don’t think Donovan was in on their game,” Keegan went on, “but I wager he was handpicked because he’d be an easy first mark, and he could bring the rest of us along. Donovan wasn’t going to bother to dig down and discover anything those three didn’t want him to find. That kind of hard work was never his style.”
“Oh my,” Dion said. His boyish face had gone pale. “What will happen when this gets out? I’ve got my professional reputation to protect.”
Keegan couldn’t help but laugh; the man was definitely a lawyer. “You and me both,” he said. “I’m guessing that Ida Fletcher was dead long before you and I and old Donovan were brought into the picture,” he said. He thought of Madame Lena and her neon sign in the front window. “The last date anyone saw the old lady
alive was way back on Valentine’s Day, when she last visited her psychic. After that, she broke off all contact with everyone she knew, including the old family lawyer. Or that’s what we were all supposed to think.” Keegan tried to work out the dates in his mind. “She would have already been dead before Donovan came along, so we can narrow down the date to a few weeks.”
The phone on Dion’s desk rang quietly, but he ignored it. He just kept staring down at the two photos.
“They fooled us all,” Keegan said. “They got the will changed in their favor. They were smart about it. I’ll give them that. They didn’t get greedy. They just went after the fortune teller’s share.” He remembered the buzz that went about the room when he told them Danny Church was in town. How could he have so miscalculated what it meant? “But then the nephew showed up,” he told the lawyer. “He wanted to see his aunt, and that screwed up their little plan.”
“Who else do you think was involved?”
“Lillian Cole and Zinnia and poor old Frank—who no doubt got killed for his troubles,” Keegan said. “But who can blame them? They’d have been left high and dry when the old lady died. A hundred thousand dollars would have meant the world to them.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AS A CRIME reporter, Keegan had been on the blind side of the interrogation room mirror more times than he could count—he’d seen countless felons broken down under those harsh fluorescent lights on the other side of the scuffed glass.
Nothing much had changed over the years, he saw now. It was still a dark, cheerless, spartan room, with nothing but a few steel folding chairs and the pervading stench of despair.
The door opened, and the Lieutenant entered the dark room holding two cardboard cups of coffee. He kicked the door to the hallway shut behind him and handed one of the cups to Keegan. He pulled a folding chair up beside Keegan’s and sat down in it. “Feels like old times, Jimmy,” he said, adjusting his tall, lean body to the small chair. “Ever miss your reporter days?”
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