say.”
Overby had turned north on Sepulveda, heading for Lincoln Boulevard. Wu leaned forward and asked, “Where to, Otherguy?”
“Booth says Malibu.”
Wu leaned back and asked Stallings, “Any problem with the checking account?”
“None. I have blank checks and signature cards for you and Quincy in my pocket.”
“Any leads on a house yet?”
“Remember Phil Quill?”
Wu frowned, then brightened. “The Razorback quarterback.”
“He rented us a house.”
“His?”
“No, he’s a Malibu real estate agent now—when he’s not acting, which seems to be most of the time.”
“Nice place?” Durant asked.
“Right on the beach.”
“How many bedrooms?”
“Six bedrooms, seven baths.”
“How much?”
“Quill was asking fifteen but came down to thirteen-five.”
“Whose house is it?” Wu said.
To make sure he didn’t miss Wu’s reaction, Stallings turned to look at him. He noticed Georgia Blue had also turned around in the front seat. “The house is in a kind of legal limbo right now,” Stallings said.
“But it belonged to William A. C. Rice the Fourth.”
Artie Wu expressed surprise in his usual manner with a series of small judicious nods and a slight wise smile.
“Well?” Stallings said, ready for either praise or condemnation.
“I think Rice’s house could prove useful,” Wu said. “I also think you and Georgia have done remarkably well.”
“I can’t think of any use we can make of it—except to draw attention,” Durant said.
“Exactly,” said Wu.
From the driver’s seat, Otherguy Overby said, “Christ, I can think of half a dozen ways we can use it.”
Wu settled back into the seat, clasped his hands across his belly, closed his eyes and said, “Let’s hear two of them, Otherguy.”
By 3:15 P.M. The travelers had unpacked, toured Billy Rice’s $15-million beach shack, taken a short stroll along the beach itself and were now gathered in the enormous living room, where Artie Wu had been drawn, as if by a chain, to the dead man’s favorite chair—an elaborate leather recliner the color of port wine.
There were no unsightly levers to even hint it was a recliner. It looked instead like an ordinary brass-studded wing-back chair—
providing three or four thousand dollars was what one ordinarily paid for a chair. A cleverly concealed button made it recline and adjust to any number of positions. Another button switched on the electric vibrating mechanism. Still another one controlled the room’s sound system.
Next to the chair was the six-line telephone console Ione Gamble had used to dial 911. There was also a swing-away reading table. On the chair’s lower left side was a deep leather pocket still stuffed with screenplays. Light came from a floor lamp whose chrome stand and flat-black metal shade were still positioned just so.
Booth Stallings and Georgia Blue shared one of the room’s three couches, as if to imply, if not announce, some kind of loose alliance.
Overby had chosen an Eames chair, the genuine article, and had his feet up on its stool. Durant stood at the wide expanse of glass, his back to the room, inspecting the ocean.
After asking if anyone would care for a drink and getting no takers, Artie Wu said, “Booth has given each of us a thousand in cash for walking-around money. He’s to be our exchequer, logistician and
householder. Should anyone ask, you’re colleagues of Dr. Stallings and his charming research associate, Ms. Blue. Any comment?”
Stallings had one. “I think during the next day or so I’ll work the neighborhood, Artie. Introduce myself as old Doc Stallings, the motormouth academic, who’ll talk your arm off if you give him half a chance. I’ve found that people will tell you all sorts of interesting stuff just to make you shut up and go away.”
“Try to find out what Billy Rice did for fun and who he did it with,”
Wu said.
“Plan to.”
Wu looked around the room. “Any other questions?”
