Silence. “Real smart move, Alex.”
“If you listened to him, you’d be wearing better ties.”
More silence.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks for handling Hauser.”
“As much as I handled.”
“I’ve got problems ahead?”
“There’ll be some shit to deal with, but those in the know say you’ll be okay. Meanwhile, the asshole’s in the jail ward wearing yellow pajamas and looking at inkblots. What happened, he imploded?”
“He made bad decisions and projected them onto me. How badly did I wound him?”
“He won’t be playing soccer any time soon. Allison’s little shooter came in handy, huh?”
“Sure did,” I said. “Did you find any properties Nora Dowd owns in or near 805?”
“Back in the swing,” he said. “Just like that.”
“On sound advice.”
“Whose?”
“My own.”
He laughed. “As a matter of fact, Nora’s got three 805 deeds to her name. Condo in Carpinteria, couple of houses in Goleta. All of which have been leased out long term. Her tenants have never met her but they like her because she keeps the rent low.”
“BNB manages the buildings?”
“No, a Santa Barbara company does. I spoke to the manager. Nora gets checks in the mail, never visits. That’s it, Alex. No tryst-pad, no direct link to Camarillo, no Malibu getaway. Maybe she and Meserve made the calls and took off for that tropical vacation.”
I said, “Do the brothers own anything out there?”
“Why would that matter? Billy’s a mope and Brad hates Meserve. So far looking for Peaty’s hidey-holes has been a big zero. Once I finish with Armando Vasquez, I’ll look into private flights.”
“What’s to do on Vasquez?”
“Second interview. First time was last night, call from Vasquez’s D.P.D. at 11 p.m., Armando wanted to talk. Faithful public servant that I am, I trudged over. The agenda was Vasquez embellishing the phone call story. Claiming the night of the murder wasn’t the first time, same thing happened a week or so before, he can’t remember exactly when or how many times. No hang-ups, just someone whispering that Peaty was a dangerous pervert, could hurt Vasquez’s wife and kids. D.A. wants to blunt any justification defense so I’ve got to stick with it, meanwhile they’ll be pulling a month’s worth of phone records. While I was there I showed Vasquez my photo collection. He’s never seen the Gaidelases, Nora, or Meserve. The thing is, I finally got a shot of Billy, and Vasquez also doesn’t recognize him. But I’m sure Billy’s been to the apartment with Brad. Meaning Vasquez, not being there during the day, is pretty useless. Like everything else I’ve come up with.”
“Anything you need me to do?”
“I need you to heal up and not be a foolish mummy. One other thing that came up is Peaty’s body just got claimed by a cousin from Nevada. She asked to speak to the D in charge, says she left a bunch of messages, thanks again, Idiot Tom. I’m squeezing her in tomorrow afternoon, to see if she can shed some light on Peaty’s psyche, D.A.’s orders. With the defense painting him as a psycho-brute, I’m supposed to learn his good points.”
“Speaking of Idiot Tom.” I recounted Beamish’s disgusted expression.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Maybe Beamish remembers more stolen fruit…what else…oh, yeah, I called some taxidermy supply houses. No record of Nora or Meserve buying creepy accoutrements. Okay, here I am at Le Grande Lockup ready for Mr. Vasquez. Time to add a few more lies to my daily diet.”
Daybreak brought the worst headache of my life, stiff limbs, a cottony mouth. A palmful of Advils and three cups of black coffee later, I was moving fine. If I kept my breathing shallow.
I phoned Allison, thanked her message tape for its mistress’s presence of mind, apologized for getting her involved in serious ugliness.
I told Robin’s tape I was eager to see
No listing for Albert Beamish. I tried his law firm. A crisp-voiced receptionist said, “Mr. Beamish rarely comes in. I think the last time I saw him was…has to be months.”
“Emeritus.”
“Some of the partners have professorships so we like the term.”
“Is Mr. Beamish a professor?”
“No,” she said, “he never liked teaching. His thing was litigation.”
I reached Beamish’s Tudor at eleven a.m. The same Indonesian maid answered.
“Yes!” She beamed. “Mister home!”
Moments later the old man came shuffling out, wearing a saggy white cardigan over a brown knit shirt, pink- striped seersucker pants, and the same house slippers with wolves’ heads on the toes.
His sneer was virtuoso. “The prodigal policeman arrives. What does it take to
“There’ve been some problems with the phones,” I said.
He cackled with the joy of omniscience, cleared his throat four times, hacked up something wet and swallowed it. “My tax dollars put to good use.”
“What did you call about, sir?”
“You don’t know?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“You still haven’t seen the message? Then how did you- ”
“I figured it out, Mr. Beamish, from the look of contempt on your face when I drove by.”
“The look of…” A puckered, lipless mouth curled ambiguously. “A veritable Sherlock.”
“What’s the message?” I said.
“When you talk you flinch, young man.”
“I’m a little sore, Mr. Beamish.”
“Carousing on my dollar?”
I unbuttoned my jacket, undid a couple of shirt buttons, and revealed the bandages around my middle.
“Broken ribs?”
“A few.”
“Same thing happened to me when I was in the army,” he said. “Not combat heroics, I was stationed in Bayonne, New Jersey, and some Irish lout from Brooklyn backed a Jeep right into me. But for the grace of a few inches, I’d have ended up childless, singing soprano, and voting Democrat.”
I smiled.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “Got to hurt like hell.”
“Then don’t be funny,” I said.
He smiled. A real smile, devoid of scorn. “Army doctors couldn’t do a damn thing to patch me, just wrapped the ribs and told me to wait. When I mended, they shipped me off to the ETO.”
“No medical progress since then.”
“When did this happen to you? Not that I really care.”
“Two days ago. Not that it’s any of your business.”
He gave a start. Glared. Plucked brown fabric from his sunken chest. Broke into arid laughter, coughed up more mucus. When the wheezing stopped, he said, “How about a drink? It’s almost noon.”
As I followed him through dim, dusty, high-ceilinged rooms full of Georgian antiques and Chinese porcelain, he said, “How’d the other guy fare?”
“Worse than me.”
