“Whusup?” said someone.
Petra said, “That guy who was just here, in the gray Cadillac.”
“Oh, him,” said Red Vinyl.
“You know him?”
“He bad? He never been bad to me.”
“I never liked him,” said one of the black women.
“He don’t go for
Petra said, “What’s his thing?”
“What’d he do?” insisted Red Vinyl.
Petra smiled.
Red Vinyl said, “You don’t need to do that.”
“Do what?” said Petra.
“Smile like that. It’s freaky.”
She drew the woman aside, wrote down the undoubtedly phony name, printed on an impressively state-sealed, bogus California ID.
Alexis Gallant. Alleged address in Westchester.
All Gallant could- or would tell her was that A. Gordon Shull was a somewhat-regular customer with mundane sexual tastes.
One to three times a month, oral sex, no kinky demands, no complications.
“He takes a little long, but big deal. If they were all like him, my life would be easy.”
Petra shook her head.
“What?” Gallant protested. “You ain’t tellin’ me nothin’, and what I know is he likes to be blowed.”
“What about the girl who was murdered around here a while back?”
“Shaneen? That was a pimp thing.”
“My colleagues say she and her pimp got along.”
“Your colleagues got they heads up they asses. And that’s all I’m sayin’.”
“Suit yourself, Alexis. But Mr. Caddy’s bad news.”
“You say.”
“Why you being stubborn, Alexis?”
The woman mumbled something.
“What’s that?”
“It ain’t easy makin’ a livin’.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Petra.
48
Stahl followed the Cadillac to the street where Kevin Drummond’s car had been abandoned. A. Gordon Shull parked but kept his engine idling, got out of his car, raised his arms to the sky, and stretched.
Stahl heard something sickening.
Shull howling at the moon.
Waving a fist as he did it. Starring in his own private movie. Stahl’s hands were cool on the steering wheel. Just the two of them, so easy…
He sat there, and Shull shook his head like a wet dog, returned to the Cadillac, continued another five blocks west to a self-storage unit.
The sign said twenty-four-hour access, but Shull just slowed down, didn’t stop. Stahl made a note of the address as the Cadillac put on speed, zipped another half mile, then took a side-street route that forced Stahl to cut his lights again.
They emerged on Howard Hughes Boulevard, where Shull switched direction, yet again. North, back toward the city.
Back to Venice, where Shull, once again, drove west on Rose.
Asshole was on a memory-jog. What memories were here?
Back to the walkway, again? Had Shull done someone here?
But this time, instead of continuing to the end of the road, the Cadillac swung a right onto a side street- Rennie.
Dark block of one-story bungalows and tiny houses.
Shull cruised up, down, up, down.
Stahl wanted to follow but the narrow quiet street made it way too risky. He remained on Rose, close enough to the corner to follow Shull’s headlights. Taillights.
Back and forth.
The memory of the howl reverbed in Stahl’s head.
Bastard saw himself as a big bad predator.
49
Allison was waiting for me outside her office.
Black suit, orange scarf. Her hair was tied up in a chignon.
She got into the car before I could come around and open the door. Before the dome light switched off I saw that the suit was actually dark green. “Great color.”
“Black emerald. Glad you like it, I bought it for tonight.” She pecked my cheek. “You hungry? I’m famished.”
The Bel Air dining room’s one of those places that can be nearly full, but still quiet. Irish coffee for her, gin and tonic for me. The complimentary ramekins of soup, then salad, rack of lamb, Dover sole, a bottle of Pinot Grigio. A real waiter, not a pretty-face biding time till the next big break. A man I recognized- one of the Salvadoran busboys who’d earned his way up doing the job well.
We’d made it to dessert when he approached the table looking pained. “Sorry, Doctor, there’s a call for you.”
“Who?”
“Your answering service. They insist.”
I used the phone in the bar. The operator said, “This is June, I’m sorry to bother you, Dr. Delaware, but this guy keeps on calling, claims it’s urgent. He sounds pretty agitated, so I figured…”
The phone ring I’d ignored in the car. “Detective Sturgis?”
“No, a Mr. Tim Plachette. Did I do right?”
“Sure,” I said, wondering. “Put him through.”
Tim said, “Where is she?”
“Robin?”
“Who else?” He was talking loud, nearly shouting, and his gorgeous voice had lost its silk.
“I have no idea, Tim.”
“Don’t screw with me, Alex-”
