The chauffeur held open the door to the passenger area and, when I was settled, closed it carefully, walked around, and got into the driver's seat.
The car was big enough to dance in. The interior was grey felt with the feel of cashmere and lots of wood, all of it madly burled and polished to a mirror finish. Crystal bud vases in silver filigree holders were bracketed to the cloth behind each passenger door. Each held a fresh American Beauty rose. The side windows were etched lightly with a floral motif and partially concealed by pullback velvet drapes.
The glass partition separating driver from passenger was closed. Locked in hermetic silence, I watched the chauffeur go through a series of pantomimes: straightening his cap; turning the ignition key; fiddling with the radio; swaying to what I assumed was the ensuing music.
The Rolls wheeled smoothly toward Beverly Glen. Morning commuter traffic from the Valley was thickening; Antrim was skilful, edging the huge car seamlessly into the flow. He drove south to Wilshire and headed east
I sat back, feeling like a child amid the grand scale of the limousine. The chauffeur's shaggy head was bopping to music I couldn't hear. There were several ivory buttons on the armrest, each labelled with a tiny silver plaque. I pushed the one that said DRIVER
'Yes, sir?' he responded without looking back or breaking rhythm.
'Why don't you open the partition? I'd like to hear the music'
'You've got an automatic tape system back there. Controls right on the armrest. Easy listening.'
'That'll put me back to sleep. What are you tuned to?'
'KMET. ZZ Top.'
'I'll take it.'
'Yo.' He pushed a button, and the glass slid open. The car was filled with eardrum-rupturing rock-and-roll - the Texas trio rhapsodising about a girl with legs who knew how to use them. Antrim sang along in a whiny tenor.
The song was followed by a commercial for an abortion clinic selling itself as a feminist health centre.
'Some car,' I said.
'Yeah.'
'Must be pretty rare.'
'Probably. Used to belong to some Spanish guy, buddy of Hitler.'
'Franco?'
'That's the one.'
'How does it drive?'
' 'Sail right for a big car.'
Van Halen came on the radio and demolished the potential for further conversation. We hit a red light at Rexford during a news break. While he lit a cigarette, I asked him, 'Is this typical treatment?'
'Whaddya mean?'
'Picking people up in limousines.'
'Mr. Souza tells me to do something, I do it,' he said irritably, then found another rock station and cranked up the volume.
We passed through Beverly Hills and the Miracle Mile and entered the mid-Wilshire financial district. The buildings lining the boulevard were Deco-tinged columns of pink and white granite, seven to ten storeys tall, built in the forties and fifties, when people took earthquakes seriously and shied away from genuine skyscrapers.
The structure we stopped at was older and smaller', four storeys of red-roofed Italianate wedding cake, a rare remnant from the turn of the century, when Wilshire had been residential. The chauffeur swung up the circular driveway in front of the mansion and parked. The entry door was a nine-foot nest of gargoyles in mahogany. To its right were two discreet brass plates. The first said SOUZA AND ASSOCIATES. A LEGAL CORPORATION. The second listed Souza's name and those of a dozen other lawyers.
Antrim ushered me into an arched hall decorated with dried plants and western art, down a corridor floored in black-and-white marble checkerboard, and through the open doors of a small elevator. He operated it with an old-fashioned lever and unlatched the door at the fourth floor.
We exited to a landing carpeted in silver plush, at the top of a winding carved staircase. High, spotless windows offered a view of what once were formal gardens and now served as the parking lot. In the distance were the elegant, shaded avenues of Hancock Park.
The chauffeur beckoned toward a doorway and led me into an anteroom hung with more western art. In the centre of the room was a small writing desk, unoccupied. To the right was a large oil of a depressed-looking Indian on an equally morose horse; to the left, a carved door. He knocked on the door.
The man who answered was medium-sized, sixtyish, and balding, with a wide, blocky body and large, thick hands. He was heavy without being fat, and his low centre of gravity suggested he'd be hard to topple. His features were broad and strong - he'd photograph better than life - his skin was steam room pink, and what hair he did have was cropped, coarse, and sandy. He was in shirtsleeves. The shirt was white Egyptian cotton, monogrammed on the pocket and tucked into navy blue trousers of exquisite cut. Navy suspenders banded a barrel chest. His tie was muted blue and yellow paisley; his shoes were as glossy and black as the Rolls.
'Here's the doc,' said Antrim.
'Thank you, Tully,' said the bald man sonorously, 'you can go now.' He stepped forward, emitting a light citrus scent, and grasped my hand.
'Dr. Delaware, I'm Horace Souza. Thank you so much for coming on such short notice.'
'No problem. How's Jamey?'
He gave my hand a hard squeeze and let go.
'I saw the boy a couple of hours ago. Psychologically he's at rock bottom. And this is just the beginning. Once the police hold their press conference, he'll cease to be James
Cadmus and will don a new persona: the Lavender Slasher. Monster of the Month.'
I experienced a sudden, sinking feeling, like being dropped down one of those bottomless shafts that crop up in bad dreams. It wasn't shock, or even surprise; since I'd talked to Milo, the worst-case scenario had slithered in and out of my brain like some nasty little snake. But now the serpent had emerged brazenly, bared its fangs, and struck, murdering hope.
'I can't believe it,' was all I could say.
'I've had trouble believing it myself. I was at his christening, Doctor. He was a fat little babe, a handful and a half.'
He kneaded his chin between thumb and forefinger.
'I'm very worried about him, Doctor. He's been unstable for some time, and once the arrest is made public, any remaining coherence will shrivel. You know the times we're living in. The public wants blood. He'll be lynch mob fodder. The DA is in the process of filing on two counts of murder one with six more to follow shortly. Multiple homicide is special circumstances, which means the gas chamber if it's not handled correctly. By correctly, I mean organisation, teamwork. Can I count you on my team, Doctor?'
'Just what is it you think I can do?'
'Let's discuss that. Please come in.'
His sanctum was a large corner room brightened by French doors and ringed by a balcony. On the balcony were pots brimming with azaleas and camellias. The walls were carved architectural panelling brightened by still more frontier art - these paintings looked like original Remingtons - and topped by ornate white moulding and a domed white ceiling. The floor was bleached oak, over which a Navaho rug had been laid. In one corner sat a Chippendale table holding a china tea set. The rest was standard high-price law office: oversized desk; leather chairs; ten square feet of diplomas, testimonials, photographs, and gavels on plaques; a glass case filled with antiquarian legal tomes.
A man about my age sat stiffly in one of the chairs, staring at his shoes. He turned at the sound of our approach, rose unsteadily, and adjusted his tie.
Souza went to his side and placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder.
'Doctor, this is Mr. Dwight Cadmus, the boy's uncle and guardian. Dwight, Dr. Alexander Delaware.'
Showing no sign of recognising my name, Cadmus held out a hand that was soft and moist. He was tall and stooped, with thinning brown hair and soft, defeated eyes blurred by thick glasses and rouged by grief. His features were regular but vague, like a sculpture that had been abraded. He wore a brown suit, white shirt, and brown tie.
