very subtle, but old Vito didn't catch it.'
'Old Vito probably knows more about Maglites than film history.' He flipped to the next page. 'Here's the bank verification on the deposit check-B. of A. branch out in Panorama City. These guys were all over the place.'
He studied his Timex. 'Too late to call the manager. I'll drive by the Venice address, see if they really did have a place there; then I'll get the file over to the lab just in case some old latents from known bad guys show up. Tomorrow, it's on the horn to every other prop house in the county, see if Mr. Wark talked anyone else out of gear.'
'You like the film thing now,' I said.
'Work with what you've got,' he said. 'I'm an old stink-hound: when something smells bad, I go nosing.'
'The casting ad could have been another scam-get wannabes to pay for auditioning.'
'Wouldn't surprise me. Hollywood's one big scam, anyway-image fiber alles. Even when it's supposedly legit. One of my first cases, back when I was doing Robbery, was-' He named a well-known actor. 'Got his start as a student, doing artsy stuff using gear he stole from the university's theater arts department. When I caught up with him he was a real fresh-mouth, no remorse. Finally, he agreed to return everything and the U decided not to take it any further. A few years later, I'm watching TV and this asshole's up for an Oscar, some social-issues film about prison reform, making a holier-than-thou speech. And what about-' He named a major director. 'I know for a fact he got his foot in the door by selling coke to studio execs. Yeah, this Wark found the right business for a psychopath. The only question is how relevant his mischief is to my cases.'
I got home just after six. Robin's truck was in the carport. The house smelled wonderful-the salty bouquet of chicken soup.
She was at the stove, stirring a pot. Her hair was loose, tumbling down her back; black sweats accentuated the auburn. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows and her face looked scrubbed. Steam from the soup had brought up some sweat. Down by her feet, Spike squatted, panting, ready to pounce for a scrap. The table was set for two.
When I kissed her, Spike grumbled. 'Be a good sharer,' I said.
He grumbled some more and waddled over to his water bowl.
'Winning through intimidation,' I said.
Robin laughed. 'Thought we'd eat in. Haven't seen enough of you lately.'
'Sounds great to me. Want me to prepare something?'
'Not unless there's something else you want.'
I looked into the pot. Golden broth formed a bubbling home for carrots, celery, onions, slivers of white meat, wide noodles.
'Nothing,' I said, moving behind her, cupping her waist, lowering my hands to her hips. I felt her go loose.
'This,' I said, 'is one of those great fantasies-he chances upon her as she cooks and, lusty stallion that he is…'
She laughed, let out two soft breaths, leaned back against me. My hands rose to her breasts, loose and soft, unfettered by the thin fleece of the sweats. Her nipples hardened against my palms. My fingers slipped under the waistband of her pants. She inhaled sharply.
'You shrinks,' she said, placing her hand over mine. Guiding it down. 'Spending too much time on fantasy, not enough on reality.'
Chapter 17
I woke up the next morning thinking about Mr. and Mrs. Argent's claim that Claire had chosen psychology because she wanted to nurture people. Yet she'd opted for neuro-psychology as a specialty, concentrating on diagnostics, avoiding treatment. On research diagnostics, charts and graphs, the hieroglyphics of science. She'd rarely ventured out of her lab. On the face of it, she'd nurtured nothing but data at County.
Until six months ago and the shift to Starkweather. Maybe Robin was right, and the move represented getting in touch with her altruism.
But why now? Why there'?
Something didn't fit. My head felt like a box full of random index cards. I circled the office, trying to collate. Robin and Spike were out, and the silence chewed at me. There had been a time, long ago, when I was content living alone. The knots and liberties of love had changed me. What had Claire experienced oflove?
The phone ring was glass shattering on stone.
'Small stuff first,' said Milo. 'Joseph Stargill's not quite as rich as he claimed, because some of his properties are mortgaged, but he still comes out over four mil in the black. His law practice brings in around a hundred and eighty K a year. If he's a greedy psychopath or he hated Claire's guts, I suppose three hundred K might motivate him, but I can't find evidence of either, and a probate lawyer tells me Stargill would have a hell of a time getting hold of that property. With no will, the state takes most of it and Claire's parents get the rest. Stargill's not off the suspect list completely; I still have to nose around about any bad investments he might have. But he's been kicked down several notches.
'Item Two: no other prop company reports being bilked by Mr. Wark or Thin Line, so maybe he wasn't out for a big-time equipment rip-off, just wanted to supply his own shoot, decided to keep the gear when they were through. No progress finding Wark. The Blood Walk script has definitely not been registered with any of the guilds, no one's heard of Thin Line, and there's no evidence the film was ever released. I contacted film-developing labs, because if there was ever footage it might've been processed somewhere. Nada. At the B. of A. in Panorama City, no dice over the phone, I have to come in, present a warrant to get a look at the Thin Line account.'
'Busy day,' I said.
'With zippo to show for it. I'm thinking this whole movie angle is a distraction. Especially with Item Three: the clerk from State Parole called me, God bless her. Turns out a Starkweather inmate was released, seven months ago. A guy named Wendell Pelley. Three weeks before Claire went to work there. It's a narrow window, but Pelley could've learned about Claire from some buddy still in there. Or Claire actually had contact with him. Think about it: her official start date was three weeks after Pelley got released, but what's to say she didn't go to Starkweather before then? To take a look, see if it was right for her. Let's say she runs into Pelley by accident-he's about to be sprung, so they make him a trusty-a tour guide, like Hatterson. She's coming there to help people, and here's a success story. It could be appealing to her, right?'
'Sure,' I said, 'but seven months ago means Pelley was released one month after Richard Dada's murder.'
'So someone else did Dada. That's always been a possibility.'
His tone said not to push it. 'What's Pelley's background?' I said.
'White male, forty-six, got committed twenty-one years ago for shooting his girlfriend and her three little kids up in the Sierras-gold country. Apparently Pelley was trying to do some mining, brought the rest of them along to be one happy family, got drunk, convinced himself they were trying to rob his claim, and went berserk. Diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia, drug and booze history, too wacky for trial.'
'Why'd they let him out?'
'Staff recommendation from Starkweather is all State Parole had.'
'Swig approved the release,' I said. 'So he held back plenty.'
'Shmuck. Never liked him. Gonna look into his background, but right now Pelley's whereabouts are my main concern.'
'He's on the run?' I said. 'Released inmates are supposed to get counseling and random drug tests.'
'Funny thing 'bout that, isn't it? Pelley was bunking in a halfway house near MacArthur Park. The operators haven't seen him for a month. They claim they notified his parole officer right away. I tried to reach the P.O., no callback yet.'
'Whom would the parole officer be obligated to notify?'
'The local police. Ramparts Division. They can't find any record of notification. The system, huh? '
'Would Swig be notified?'
'Maybe. If so, it's something else he held back on. Not that he's any use to us at this point. Pelley wouldn't be
