both had the same fantasy on that score: that he would just disappear again, as magically as he had appeared yesterday morning, and we would never have to deal with him again.
I got my old clunker started and drove up over Laguna and down to the high-rise where Alex-excuse me, Alejandro-Ozimas had his penthouse. Parking isn’t so bad around there after nine A.M.; most of the neighborhood drones (of which I was one) had left for work by then. I found a place for the car around the corner, and walked back and rang Ozimas’s bell.
There was an answer this time, after about ten seconds. A young, unaccented male voice, of the type that can only be described as fruity, yelled through the speaker in angry tones, “Yes? What is it?” If I had had my ear down there I might have suffered damage to the eardrum. I pushed the talk button and gave my name and occupation and said I wanted to discuss an important business matter with Mr. Ozimas, one relating to Kenneth Purcell. The voice snapped, “I’ll see if he’s receiving,” and clicked off.
I waited. And I thought: So it’s late in the fourth quarter of a crucial game for the ’Forty-Niners, they’re trailing by six points, they’ve got the ball and eighty yards to go for a touchdown. Joe Montana calls time out and goes over to the sidelines to talk to coach Bill Walsh. Walsh says, “What I think we should do, Joe, I think we should throw deep to Dwight Clark down the left sidelines.” And Montana says, “Good idea, Coach, but I’d better check with Dwight first. I’ll see if he’s receiving.”
I laughed aloud at my own wit and made a mental note to share it with Kerry and Eberhardt. It made me feel like kicking my heels a little, like Snoopy on top of his doghouse when he gets off a good one. Maybe this was going to be one of my better days.
At least three minutes went by. I was getting ready to ring the bell again when the electronic locking system made its wounded-fly sound. I pushed inside and got into the elevator and rode it up to the twenty-first floor, where it deposited me in a kind of foyer with a couple of chairs in it, in case anybody needed to sit down while waiting. I didn’t need to sit down or wait: the door opened five seconds after I used the ornate knocker in the middle of it.
The kid who materialized in front of me was about twenty, dressed in a white housecoat and dark slacks. He had clear, pale skin, curly brown hair, and features like those on a classic Greek statue. He was very pretty; you couldn’t describe him any other way. He was also furious about something. His dark eyes glittered and snapped, his mouth was so pinched at the corners you could see little white knots of muscle there, and his fruity voice was shrill with rage when he said, “Follow me. He’ll see you in the breakfast room.”
I followed him through some demented interior decorator’s idea of elegant living. Everything was in white and silver, with little touches of glossy black; it made me feel as though I were walking through rooms full of snow and silver frost. There was also a lot of nude statuary, mostly male, none of it as pretty as the kid. Eventually we ended up in a glassed-in nook that overlooked a jungle of potted plants on the penthouse terrace. When the weather was clear, as it was today, you also had a sweeping view of the city. Even the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge were visible to the north, above the wooded hills of the Presidio.
There were two people sitting in the nook, facing each other across a table laden with expensive silver and china and the remains of breakfast. One of them was a diminutive platinum-blond woman of about twenty-five, her sleek little body draped in a lacy peignoir; she was attractive, vapidly so, and her eyes had a dull, bombed-out look. She was picking a cinnamon roll apart into crumbs, as if she were trying to make confetti out of it. The man across from her wore a silver robe with black piping. He was twice her age-small, brown, lots of black hair combed into waves, handsome in a dissipated way. I would probably have taken him for a Filipino even if I hadn’t known who he was.
He smiled at me and said, “I am Alex Ozimas. Please sit down.” His voice carried an accent, but it was very faint. He struck me as an intelligent and educated man.
I sat on the table’s third chair. The girl continued to pick the roll apart; she didn’t look at me or at Ozimas or at the furious kid in the white coat. She might not have known any of us were there.
Ozimas said to the kid, “Ted, bring another cup and pour our guest some of your excellent coffee.”
Ted was standing a little behind him, so that Ozimas didn’t see him mouth the words Fuck you before he turned and stalked off. Or maybe Ozimas did see it. He said to me, “I must apologize for Ted. He is very angry with me this morning.”
“Oh?”
“He doesn’t like it when I entertain young women.”
I got it then. Ted was more than just a servant; he probably lived here and he probably also shared Ozimas’s bed on a more or less regular basis. Melanie Purcell had called Ozimas a “fag,” and this place and the kid pretty much confirmed his sexual orientation. Or rather, it confirmed his primary sexual orientation. It was plain that he liked a woman now and then, maybe as a change of pace. That was why the bombed-out blonde was here this morning.
“Ted is a good boy,” Ozimas said, “despite his jealous nature. I don’t know what I would do without him.” Then he laughed abruptly and said, “Don’t you find it amusing?”
“Find what amusing?”
“The fact that Ted is Caucasian and I am Filipino. For many years it was a status symbol for rich white Americans to have Filipino houseboys. Surely you remember. I have reversed the trend. I am a rich Filipino who has a white American houseboy.”
It hadn’t occurred to me to look at it that way. I said, “Good for you,” because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“You don’t approve?”
“I have no opinion either way. It’s your business.”
“Ah yes, business. You are a private detective?”
“That’s right.”
I gave him one of my cards. He looked at it and nodded slowly and then put it down beside his plate. “Please tell me who gave you my name in connection with Kenneth Purcell.”
“His daughter, Melanie.”
“Yes, a lovely girl.”
I looked at him.
“Actually,” he said, “a despicable little bitch. Kenneth despised her, too, of course.”
“He left her a lot of money in his will.”
“She was his daughter,” Ozimas said, and shrugged. “He believed in providing for his family.”
“Did you know his brother?”
“Yes.”
“What was your relationship with him?”
“Relationship? Ah, of course. Leonard was a homosexual and I am a bisexual; therefore you think we might have been lovers.”
“I don’t think anything,” I said. “I’m only asking a question.”
“Let me ask you a question before I answer yours. Do you dislike homosexuals?”
“No. The man I’m working for is gay.”
“Ah?”
“Leonard’s housemate, Tom Washburn.”
“I see. I’m afraid I have never met the man.”
“About Leonard,” I said. “How well did you know him?”
“Not well at all. I saw him two or three times at Kenneth’s home.”
“Nowhere else?”
“No.”
“You do know he was murdered last week?”
“Of course. And are you investigating his murder?”
“Yes. Washburn believes it’s connected with Kenneth’s death.”
“Really? In what way?”
“His theory is that Kenneth didn’t fall accidentally-that he was murdered too.”
Ozimas raised an eyebrow. But he had time to think about what he was going to say in response because the houseboy, Ted, reappeared just then. The kid took a fancy china cup and saucer off the silver tray he was carrying,
