'Shall we say five o'clock then?'
'Five would be fine.'
'Excellent. I know you'll find her a superb young woman. Speaking of which, I greatly enjoyed speaking with your Robin.'
His words were gracious, but something in his tone betrayed an undercurrent of lechery. Nothing you could put your finger on; nevertheless, I felt my stomach tighten.
'She's terrific,' I said.
'Quite. Good for you, Doctor.'
He gave me the address of the Cadmus house and signed off cheerily.
Hancock Park reeks of old money.
In Beverly Hills, an unlimited budget in the absence of good taste has often produced freakish architectural excess: turreted castles, texture-coated pseudovillas, Technicolour postmodernistic monstrosities, and cheesy imitations of Tara, each costing millions, competing for applause on a single palm-lined block.
Four miles east, in Hancock Park, the quieter the better. There's some diversity of style - Tudor, Georgian, Regency, Mediterranean - but it fits together unobtrusively. Very hushed, very stately. For the most part the houses are larger than their noisy cousins in Beverly Hills, remnants of a time when multiple servants were the order of the day. They sit smugly behind expansive, knife-edged lawns, set far back from wide, maple-shaded streets. The landscaping is subdued: a solitary stately pine on the lawn, yew hedges, and an occasional splash of flower petal. Wood-sided station wagons, Volvos and Mercedes sedans in neutral shades fill the driveways. As is the case with most residential areas of L.A., the streets are ghost-town empty, save for isolated perambulators pushed by uniformed nannies or permapressed young matrons holding platinum-haired toddlers in tow. A few Jews and Asians have moved in, but for the most part Hancock Park is still WASP country. And though some of the city's meanest streets surround the neighbourhood and crime is higher than anyone wants to admit, Hancock Park remains an enclave of understated wealth.
The Cadmus House was on June Street north of Beverly, not far from the Los Angeles Country Club, a two- storey brick Tudor whose bricks and contrasting stone and woodwork had been painted beige. A clover-laced flagstone path divided the lawn. On either side stood a security guard, wearing the same grey uniform as the men in the lobby of Cadmus Construction. But these guards were armed with pistols and billy clubs. The reason for their presence was obvious: A flock of reporters milled on the sidewalk. When one moved toward the house, a guard stepped forward. The reporters kept trying, and the guards kept reacting, a curious minuet. Off to the side, under a porte-cochere, sat Souza's Rolls, nosed up against a high wrought-iron gate. Standing next to the giant car was Tully Antrim, running a chamois over its glossy flanks while keeping one eye on the street. He saw the Seville and gestured for me to pull behind the Phantom.
The reporters had spied the exchange, and as I swung up the drive, they surged forward amoebically. The guards kicked up their legs and went right after them. Taking advantage of the diversion, one of the journalists, a young,
bespectacled man in a brown corduroy suit, made a dash for the front door.
Antrim moved fast. In three long strides he was at the reporter's side. One more step brought him between the man and the door. He glared at the journalist and ordered him away. The reporter argued with him. Antrim shook his head. The reporter moved suddenly, and the chauffeur's right hand shot out and caught him in the solar plexus. The young man went pale, formed a tortured O with his mouth, and clutched his gut in agony. Antrim shoved him hard, and he tripped backward. By this time one of the security guards had reached the scene, and he pulled the still-gasping journalist off the property.
I'd watched the whole thing from the car, with a flood of shouting faces pressed against the windows and hand-held tape recorders brandished across my line of vision. As the man in the brown suit stumbled toward his car, he shouted something at his colleagues that caused them to howl in outrage at Antrim and the guards. But at the same time they stepped away from the Seville, and I used the opportunity to get out of the car and dash behind the Rolls. Antrim saw me and bounded over. By the time the reporters had stopped shouting and realised what was happening, he'd taken me by the arm, whipped out a set of keys, and unlocked the wrought-iron gate.
'Fucking assholes,' he muttered, and pushed me through, none too gently.
The reporters pressed toward the limousine, straining to look over its towering chassis. The guards followed them, and the whine of confrontation grew louder.
Antrim led me to a side entrance and knocked. Next to the door was a small curtained window. The curtains parted, a face peered out, the curtains closed, and the door opened. A big-bellied guard was on the other side.
'It's the doctor she's been waiting to see,' said Antrim, pushing past him.
The guard touched the butt of his gun and said, 'Go right in,' sternly, in an attempt to maintain the illusion of authority.
I followed the chauffeur through a large-custard-yellow kitchen. In the centre of the room was a gingham- covered table. Scattered across the tabletop were a flashlight, a thermos bottle, two plastic-wrapped ham sandwiches, and a copy of the National Enquirer Draped over one chair was a grey uniform jacket. Antrim shoved a swinging door, and we passed through a butler's pantry and a dark-panelled dining room fitted with brass wall scones. An abrupt left turn led to a domed entry hall. At the rear of the hall was a carved oak staircase. From the top of the stairs came the roar of a vacuum cleaner.
He led me across the hall and down two steps into a large oyster-coloured living room, carpeted in beige wool. Blackout drapes had been drawn over every window, leaving two table lamps the sole source of illumination.
The room was expensively underfurnished: stiff sofas upholstered in dull mushroom damask; a pair of Queen Anne chairs similarly covered; spindly-legged Chippendale tables redolent of lemon oil. Off to one corner was an ebony Steinway grand. Hanging from the walls were second-rate English still lifes and landscapes framed in mahogany, their pigments faded to genteel obscurity. A limestone mantel hovered over a dead fireplace. Atop it was the room's sole incongruity: a collection of primitive sculptures - half a dozen squat, slant-eyed faces hewn of rough grey stone.
A woman sat on the sofa. She stood as I entered, tall and fashion-model thin.
'Good afternoon, Dr. Delaware,' she said in a wispy, little-girl voice. 'I'm Heather Cadmus.' To Antrim: 'Thank you, Tully. You may go now.'
The chauffeur left, and I walked toward her.
I knew she was close to her husband's age, but she looked ten years younger. Her face was long, pale, and unlined, tapering to a sharp, firm chin. Except for a hint of eyeliner, she wore no make-up. Her hair was chestnut brown, cut shoulder length, flipped at the ends, and trimmed to feathery bangs covering a high, flat forehead. Under the bangs were large, round grey eyes. Perpendicular to them
was a thin but strong nose, gently uptilted, the nostrils slightly pinched - a debutante face, scrubbed, pedigreed, and girlishly pretty. The picture of casual wealth was rounded out by her attire: pink oxford shirt with button-down collar, charcoal wool A-line skirt, flat brown doeskin loafers, no jewellery save for a single diamond- studded wedding band. Her hands were small-boned and narrow, with long, tapered fingers. She held out a hand, and I took it.
'Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Cadmus.' 'Heather, please,' she said in that same oddly tinkling voice. 'Won't you sit down?' She settled down again but remained on the edge of the sofa. Maintaining an erect posture, she smoothed her skirt and crossed her legs at the ankles. I sat in one of the Queen Annes and tried to ignore the discomfort.
She smiled nervously and folded her hands in her lap. A moment later a Hispanic maid in a black uniform appeared at the entrance to the room. Heather acknowledged her with a nod, and they talked briefly in rapid Spanish. 'Can I get you something, Doctor?' . 'Nothing, thanks.' She dismissed the maid.
Muffled shouts filtered through the curtains from the street. Turning toward the sound, she winced. 'It was too soon to come back. They've placed the house under siege. I'm just thankful my children don't have to see it. They've been through so much already.'
'Your husband told me Jamey was very rough on them,' I said, taking out my notepad.
'He was,' she said softly. 'They're only little girls, and he scared them so.' Her voice broke. 'I can't stop worrying about how all this is going to affect them. And the stress on my husband is unbelievable.' I nodded sympathetically.
