Private Eyes

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. You don’t forget a case like that- I remember they showed us photos of her face. Before and after and during- she had tons of surgery. It was a real mess. I kept wondering what kind of person could do that to someone else. Now, of course, I know better, but those were the days of sweet innocence. Anyway, in terms of the money motive, it turns out losing the agency had nothing to do with her either. McCloskey was on the skids due to his drinking and some very heavy doping, and he himself went out of his way to make that clear during his interrogation. Kept telling the detectives he’d fucked up his life, begged to be put out of his misery. Wanting everyone to know that his putting the contract out on her had nothing to do with business.”

“What did it have to do with?”

“That’s the big question mark. He refused to say, no matter how hard they pressed him. Turned deaf and mute any time the issue of motive came up. Leaving only the psychopath angle, but no one uncovered any history of violence- he was a punk and an asshole, liked to hang around gangsters, do the Vegas bit. But that was more of a pose- everyone who knew him said he was a weenie.”

“Weenies can snap.”

“Or get elected to office. So, sure, maybe he was faking it. Maybe he was a goddam sadist and hid it so well, no one ever figured it out. That was Savage’s hunch- something psychological, maybe kinky. The case stuck in his craw. He prided himself on being a top-notch questioner. He ended the lecture with this speech about how McCloskey’s motive didn’t really matter; what counted was the asshole was behind bars for a long time, and that was our job: put ’em away, let the shrinks figure ’em out.”

I said, “A long time’s up.”

“How long did he stay in?”

“Thirteen years on a twenty-three-year sentence- time off for good behavior. Then they gave him parole for six.”

“Usually parole’s limited to three- probably made some kind of a deal.” He grimaced. “Par for the course. Burn someone’s face, rape a baby, whatever, attend remedial reading class and don’t get caught shanking anyone and you walk in half the time.” He paused, said, “Thirteen, huh? That would be some time ago. And you’re saying he just got back to town?”

I nodded. “He spent most of his parole in New Mexico and Arizona. Working on an Indian reservation.”

“The old do-gooder scam.”

“Six years is a long time to scam.”

“But who knows if he behaved himself for six years- who knows how many dead Indians paid for it. Even if he did, six isn’t that long if the alternative is shoveling shit in some landfill or doing more time. Did he also pull a Chuckie Colson and find Jesus?”

“I don’t know.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“Just that he’s off parole, free and clear, and that his last parole officer’s named Bayliss and he’s ready to retire or already has.”

“Sounds like your eighteen-year-old’s a pretty good sleuth herself.”

“She learned all of this from one of the servants- a guy named Dutchy, kind of a super-butler. He kept tabs on McCloskey from the time he was convicted. Very protective of the whole family. But he’s dead now.”

“Ah,” he said. “Leaving the helpless rich to protect themselves. Has McCloskey tried to get in touch with the family?”

“No. As far as I know, the victim and her husband aren’t even aware he’s back in town. Melissa- the girl- knows and it’s hanging over her head.”

“For good reason,” he said.

“So you do think McCloskey’s dangerous.”

“Who knows? On the one hand you’ve got the fact that he’s been out of jail for six years and hasn’t made any moves. On the other, you’ve got the fact that he left the Indians and came back here. Maybe there’s a good reason that has nothing to do with nastiness. Maybe not. Bottom line is it would be a smart idea to find out. Or at least try.”

“Ergo…”

“Yeah, ergo. Time to sharpen up the old private eye. Okay, if she wants me to, I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Milo.”

“Yeah, yeah. The thing is, Alex, even if he does have a solid reason for being back, I’d still be concerned.”

“Why’s that?”

“What I told you before- the motive thing. The fact that no one knows why the hell he did it. No one ever got a fix on him. Maybe thirteen years opened him up and he blabbed to a cellmate. Or talked to some jail shrink. But if he didn’t, that means he’s a secretive fucker. Mucho patient. And that pushes my buttons. Fact is, if I was less of a macho, invincible guy, that would goddam well scare me.”

12

After he hung up I thought of calling San Labrador, but decided to let Melissa and Gina try to work things out.

I went down to the pond, tossed pellets to the koi, and sat facing the waterfall. The fish were more active than usual but seemed uninterested in food. They were chasing one another, in tight formations of three or four. Racing and splashing and bumping against the rock rims.

Puzzled, I bent down and got close to the water. The fish ignored me, continued circling.

Then I saw it. Males chasing females.

Spawn. Shiny clusters clinging to the irises that sprouted in the corners of the pond. Pale caviar, fragile as soap bubbles, glistening under the setting sun.

First time in all the years I’d had the pond. Maybe it meant something.

I crouched and watched for a while, wondering if the fish would eat the eggs before they hatched. If any of the young would survive.

I felt a sudden urge to rescue but knew it was out of my hands. Nowhere to put the spawn- professional breeders kept multiple ponds. Removing the eggs and putting them in buckets would kill all chances of survival.

Nothing to do but wait.

Nothing like impotence to round off a charming day.

I went back up to the house and made dinner: a grilled minute steak, salad, and a beer. Ate it in bed, listening to Perlman and Zukerman do Mozart on CD, most of me getting lost in the music, a small segment of consciousness standing guard, waiting for a call from San Labrador.

The concert ended. No call. Another disc cued itself. The miracle of technology. The CD player was state-of- the-art. A gift from a man who preferred machines to people.

Another dynamic duo took center stage: Stan Getz and Charlie Byrd.

Brazilian rhythms didn’t do the trick either. The phone remained mute.

More of me slipped away from the music. I thought of Joel McCloskey, apparently remorseful but keeping his motive hidden. Thought of how he’d shattered Gina Paddock’s life. Scars, visible and otherwise. The hooks that people embedded in one another while trolling for love. The agony when the barbs had to come out.

Impulsively, without thinking it through, I phoned San Antonio.

A stuffed-sinus female twang said, “Yay-lo.” I heard TV noise in the background. Comedy from the sound of it: flat laughter that rose, peaked, and ebbed in an electronic tide.

The stepmother.

I said, “Hello, Mrs. Overstreet. This is Alex Delaware, calling from Los Angeles.”

A moment of silence. “Uh- hi, Doc. How’re yew?”

“Fine. And you?”