A serious gambler? Was that where the payoff money had gone? If there'd ever been any.
Her leaving town under Tom Shea's escort right after I talked to her made me sure I was on to something.
Giving Lucy's dream new credence, I thought about the three men. Lowell and two others, one of them almost certainly Trafficant. Probably the one with his back turned.
So who was Hairy Lip?
Maybe just another guest, but more likely someone who knew Lowell and Trafficant well enough to be invited to the private party.
Member of the club.
Another Sanctum Fellow?
When we got home, I reread the newspaper coverage of the Sanctum opening while Robin brushed her hair and got into her nightgown.
Three names, no pictures:
Christopher Graydon-Jones, the English sculptor.
Joachim Sprentzel, the German composer.
And Denton Mellors, the aspiring American novelist. The sole reviewer to praise
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense.
Lowell and his two star pupils.
Maybe he'd coached them in something other than writing. But where to go with it?
Robin was in bed, curled on her side.
I slipped out of my clothes and got in next to her, wrapping my arms around her.
She mumbled.
I held her and felt her drift off to sleep.
I woke up before sunrise, thinking about Lucy's dream. She and Ken were spending some time together today, and her next session would be tomorrow.
I made breakfast for Robin and myself and brought it to bed. While she showered, I called New York and made another attempt to locate Trafficant through his publisher. All I learned was that out-of-print authors don't garner much respect.
Robin was ready to leave for the jobsite at 8:30. As her truck pulled away, Spike's flat face pressed up against the passenger window. I was right behind in the Seville.
At Bel Air, she continued east and I turned off at the university. I walked into the research library at 9:25. A few early birds were studying, but plenty of computer terminals were available. I accessed the periodicals index and typed in names, starting with my most likely candidate, Denton Mellors.
Not a word. I checked
Nothing. If he'd ever published his novel, there was no record of it.
I went on to Christopher Graydon-Jones.
Three citations, the first twenty years ago when the sculptor had received a commission from a company called Enterprise Insurance to create a bronze and iron piece for the lobby of its corporate headquarters in downtown L.A. Minor coverage in the
Two years after that, a business journal had him working for the same company as Assistant Deputy Director of Marketing, an interesting transition. Five years later, he'd advanced to Chief Operating Officer at Enterprise, and a publicity photo showed him looking older than his thirty-five years: balding, with a long face, wide pouchy eyes, and a weak chin. Clean-shaven.
Next: Joachim Sprentzel. The German had taught composition at Juilliard before committing suicide eight years ago, in Hartford, Connecticut. A
A ten-year-old Juilliard faculty shot portrayed an intense-looking man with a very strong square jaw, bushy dark hair, and nervous eyes behind tiny wire-frame eyeglasses.
Above the jaw, a thick drooping mustache.
Remarkably similar in shape and color to Diggity Dog's.
Hairy Lip.
Suicide after a protracted illness. A single man.
My gut assumption was AIDS, but it could have been anything.
Dead. Another avenue closed off.
I photocopied all of it and checked in with my service. Messages from two lawyers, a judge, and Sherrell Best. I saved the Reverend for last. He wasn't home, and a woman at the Church of the Outstretched Hand said he was out making food deliveries.
I returned the phone to its cradle.
Three men at a gravesite.
Lowell, Trafficant, and Sprentzel?
All three out of reach.
I reviewed the photocopied articles.
It was a long shot, but maybe Christopher Graydon-Jones was still working downtown.
I looked up Enterprise Insurance in the Central L.A. book. No listing. But a scan of the yellow pages revealed an address on 26th Street in Santa Monica and the subheading 'Specializing in worker's compensation plans and corporate liability.'
I called the number and asked for Mr. Graydon-Jones. To my amazement I was put through to a happy- sounding secretary. When I asked to speak to her boss, she managed to stay happy while getting protective.
'What's this in regard to, sir?'
'Mr. Graydon-Jones's fellowship at Sanctum.'
'What's Sanctum, sir?'
'An artistic retreat run by the novelist M. Bayard Lowell. Mr. Graydon-Jones was a sculpture fellow there, quite a while ago. I'm a freelance writer working on a biography of Mr. Lowell, and I'm attempting to reach-'
'An artistic what?'
'Retreat. A place where artists can go to pursue their art.'
'You're saying Mr. Graydon-Jones was once an artist?'
'He was a sculptor. He did the sculpture in the lobby of Enterprise's corporate office downtown.'
'We haven't been downtown for years.'
'I realize that, but Mr. Graydon-Jones was commissioned back in-'
'Is this some sort of joke, sir?'
'No. Could you please give him the message? He may want to speak with me.'
'He's out right now. Your name, sir?'
'Del Ware. Sandy Del Ware.' I gave her my number.
'Very well, Mr. Del Ware,' she said, too quickly. Then she hung up.
I looked at my watch. Twelve-fifteen. Graydon-Jones out to lunch? Or sitting behind a big desk shuffling papers, a busy, important man.
I had plenty of time.
Enterprise's headquarters was only a twenty-minute drive.
The building was just south of Olympic, in a high-end industrial park favoring electronics companies. Five stories, brick and glass, with a restaurant on the ground floor called Escape, specializing in expensive burgers and tropical drinks.
Enterprise was just a suite on the second floor. The door was locked and a sign dangling from the knob said
