McCone And Friends

“They’ll have to know eventually, but not yet. The dealing in itself isn’t important anymore; its bearing on Troy’s murder is.”

Back on Point Loma, I waited just out of sight of Troy Winslip’s house in the Scout. John had wanted to come along and help me stake the place out, so in order to otherwise occupy him, I’d sent him off on what I considered a time-consuming errand. The afternoon waned. Behind me, the sky’s blue deepened and the lowering sun grew bright gold in contrast. Tall palms bordering the Winslip property cast long easterly shadows. At around six, a white Dodge van rounded the corner and pulled into Troy’s driveway. A young woman-red-haired, willowy, clad in jeans and a black-and-white African print cape-jumped out and hurried into the house. By the time I got to the front door, she was already returning, arms full of clothing on hangers. She started when she saw me.

I had my identification and the release from Troy’s parents ready. As I explained what I was after, the woman barely glanced at them. “All I want is my things,” she said. “After I get them out of here, I don’t care what the hell you do.”

I followed her, picking up a purple silk tunic that had slipped from its hanger. “Please come inside. We’ll talk. You lived with Troy; don’t you care that he was killed?”

She laughed bitterly, tossed the armload of clothing into the back of the van, and took the tunic from my outstretched hand. “I care. But I also care about myself. I don’t want to be around here any longer than necessary.”

“You feel you’re in danger?”

“I’d be a fool if I didn’t.” She pushed around me and hurried up the walk. “Those people don’t mess around, you know?”

I followed here. “What people?”

She rushed through the door, skidding on the polished marble of the foyer. A few suitcases and cartons were lined up at the foot of a curving staircase. “You want to talk?” the woman said. “We’ll talk, but you’ll have to help me with this stuff.”

I nodded, picked up the nearest box, and followed her back to the van. “I know that Troy was dealing.”

“Dealing?” she snorted. “He was supplying half the county. He and Daniel were taking the boat down to Baja three, four nights a week.”

“Who’s Daniel?”

“Daniel Pope, Troy’s partner.” She took the box from my hands, shoved it into the back of the van, and started up the walk.

“Where can I find him?”

“His legit business is a surf shop on Coronado-Danny P’s.”

“And the people who don’t mess around-who are they?”

We went back in the foyer now. She thrust two suitcases at me. “Oh, no, you’re not getting me involved in that.”

“Look-what’s your name?”

“I don’t have to tell you.” She hefted the last carton, took a final look around, and tossed her hair defiantly. “I’m out of here.”

Once again, we were off at a trot toward the van. “You may be out of here,” I said, ‘but you’re still afraid. Let me help you.”

She stowed the carton, took the suitcases from me, and shook her head. “Nobody can help me. It’s only a matter of time. I know too much.”

“Then share it.”

“No!” She slammed the van’s side door, slipped quickly into the driver’s seat, and locked the door behind her. For a moment, she sat with her head bowed, her hands on the wheel; then she relented and rolled down the window a few turns. “Why don’t you go talk to Daniel?” If he’s not at the surf shop, he’ll be at home; he’s the only Pope on C Street in Coronado. Ask him…” She hesitated, looking around as if someone could hear her. “Ask him about Renny D.”

“Ronny D?”

“No, Renny, with an e, it’s short for Reynaldo.” Quickly, she cranked up the window and started the van. I stepped back in time to keep from getting my toes squashed.

The woman had left the front door of the house open and the keys in the lock. For a moment, I considered searching the place, then concluded it was more important to talk to Daniel Pope. I went back up the walk, closed the door, turned the deadbolt, and pocketed the keys for future use.

Daniel Pope wasn’t at his surf shop, and he wasn’t at this home on C Street. But John was waiting two houses down, perched on his cycle in the shade of a jacaranda tree.

I raised my eyes to the heavens and whispered to the Lord, “Please, not again!”

The Lord, who in recent years had been refusing to listen to my pleas, failed to eradicate my brother’s presence.

I parked the Scout behind the cycle. John sauntered back and leaned on the open window beside me. “Daniel Pope owns a half interest in the Windsong,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, eyes casing the house like an experienced thief.

I’d assigned him to check into the yawl’s registry, but I hadn’t expected him to come up with anything this quickly.

John went on, “He and Troy bought the boat two years ago for 90,000 dollars cash from the yacht broker at Glorietta Bay. They took her out three or four times a week for about eight hours a stretch. In between, they partied. Men would come and go, carrying luggage. Some of the more conservative-read that ‘bigoted’-slip holders complained that they were throwing ‘fag parties.’”

“But we know they were holding sales meetings.”

“Right.”

“Where’d you get all that?”

“The yacht broker. I pretended I was interested in buying the Windsong. He’s probably got the commission spent already. Shit, I feel really guilty about it.”

A blue Mercedes was approaching. It went past us, slowed, and turned into the driveway of the white Italianate house we’d been watching. I unbuckled my seat belt and said, “Ease your guilt by telling yourself that if you ever do buy a boat, you’ll use that broker.”

He ignored me, straightening and watching the car pull into an attached garage.

“Daniel Pope?”

“Probably.”

“So now what do we do?”

Thoughtfully, I looked him over. My brother is a former bar brawler and can be intimidating to those who don’t know him for the pussycat he is. And at the moment, he was in exceptionally good shape.

“We,” I said, “are going in there and talk with Pope about somebody called Renny D.”

Daniel Pope was suffering from a bad case of the nerves, his bony, angular body twitched, and a severe tic marred his ruggedly handsome features. When we’d first come to the door, he’d tried to shut it in our faces; now that he was reasonably assured that we weren’t going to kill him, he wanted a drink. John and I sat on the edge of a leather sofa in a living room filled with sophisticated sound equipment while he poured three fingers of single-malt Scotch. Then I began questioning him.

“Who’s Renny D?”

“Where’d you get that name?”