“No.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The usual warnings. She knows that if she and I go to jail, her children will still be out there somewhere, and so will you. She doesn’t know who you are.”
“Very good. It’s always a pleasure to do business with you.” Paul rose, took the briefcase, and held out his hand for Densmore to shake.
Densmore remained seated. “Don’t go yet.” He pushed a folder across the table and opened it so they could see two packets of paper that had been produced on a computer printer. “Can you sign these papers for me, please? They’re just duplicates of the wills we made out two years ago, with a new date. I need to have something to put in the file so the office staff won’t wonder why you came in. But you know, while you’re here, there is one other thing I’d like to discuss with you both, if you’ve got a minute. Do you?”
Sylvie shrugged, opened the folder, and signed in one of the designated spaces. Paul sat down in his seat again, and took his turn. He held the briefcase on his lap.
“I have something else that’s coming up, and I wondered if you would like to be part of it.” He opened the folder that was at his elbow on the conference table and took out a photograph. “It’s this woman.”
Sylvie snagged the photograph and slid it to the space between her and Paul. “She’s pretty. Isn’t she, Paul?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Yes you do. She’s pretty.”
“Yes, but nothing special. Not like you, for instance.”
Densmore watched the couple in silence. Sylvie Turner was ten years older than the woman in the picture. Whenever Densmore saw Sylvie, he thought she was attractive. But compared to this woman, Sylvie’s features seemed coarse and her skin flawed. Sylvie’s face was thin, her nose and mouth projected forward subtly, and her eyes had a cruel glint that made him uncomfortable.
“Who is she?” Sylvie asked.
“Her name is Wendy Harper. She was the part owner of a restaurant called Banque. Do you know it?”
“Banque? Sure,” Paul said. “We’ve been there a couple of times. A big, beautiful room—I guess it was actually a bank lobby—good food, good service. Give me a minute, and I’ll think of the name of the chef. Eric something. Fuller?”
“Right. Fuller.”
“Darn,” Sylvie said. “I remembered, too, but you beat me to it.” She glared at her husband. “Paul is always showing me up in the domestic stuff. He makes a better woman than I do, don’t you think?”
The skin of Paul’s face lost its flexibility and his black eyes were like dots. Densmore wondered what she thought she was doing. Densmore would never have said anything that might offend Paul Turner. He tried to push them past the awkward moment. “They started the restaurant together about ten years ago. He was the chef, and she was the business head. The place was a success right away.”
“And?” Sylvie said.
“They had a romantic relationship, I’m told. At some point that ended. Love is temporary, but a successful business is forever. They broke up, but kept the partnership and worked in the business together. After about four or five years, she disappeared.”
“How very odd,” Sylvie said. “Imagine his surprise.”
“That was how the police looked at it six years ago. They had the crudest kind of partnership. The agreement was written out by the two of them in their own handwriting and signed in front of a notary. They owned everything in common, and if one died, the other got all of it. They had two identical life-insurance policies, each with the other partner as beneficiary. It would have made sense to insure him for more because he was the chef, but they didn’t, probably because insuring young women is cheap. Anyway, she disappeared, he collected, and the restaurant went to him. The police found nothing.”
“Thank God I’ve ordered only the seafood at Banque,” said Sylvie.
Densmore was careful enough to laugh with them. After a moment, he said, “The real situation is more complicated than that. A client of mine wanted her dead. He made an attempt on her six years ago. He failed, but she hasn’t been seen since. He still wants her dead.”
“He’s trying to hire someone to do it now? After she’s been gone for six years?” Paul asked.
“He’s asked me to make an arrangement. The money would be very significant. I’ve spent some time working on it, and I’ve decided that the best hope I have of succeeding is you.”
“Us?” Sylvie said.
“Yes,” he said. “There’s a way to find her, but it seems to have a potential for mishandling, and it could be dangerous. You’re the only ones in whom I would feel any confidence. Let me show you what I’ve got to work with.” He got up, walked out of the room for a moment, then returned carrying a nylon bag about a yard long, with two handles. He set it on the table.
“What’s that?” asked Sylvie. “Your bag of tricks?”
Densmore looked at her and nodded. “I guess you could call it that.” He opened the bag and showed them a baseball bat and a torn piece of white cloth caked with dried blood.
“Are we supposed to do something with that?” Paul asked.
“You bury it. Then we wait a few months and make it turn up again.”
5
CHEF CHARGED IN PARTNER’S MURDER
Jack Till sat in his office and stared at the newspaper article for a long time, his mind brushing the sentences aside to find the detail that had caused a homicide detective to arrest Eric Fuller, and a DA to charge him. The article just repeated that Eric Fuller was a well-known chef, that Wendy Harper had been his partner, and that when she disappeared six years ago, he got richer.
Till put the newspaper on his desk, locked his filing cabinets, and put his gun in the safe. He went down the stairs to Ventura Boulevard, walked to his apartment on Laurel Canyon to get his car, then drove downtown on the Hollywood Freeway.
He parked in the underground structure on Spring Street and walked to the District Attorney’s office at 210 West Temple. It was only as he was passing the courts complex that he realized that he should have called ahead, found out which of the 938 Assistant DAs had been assigned to prosecute Eric Fuller, called him, and arranged an appointment. But an appointment had not occurred to him, any more than it would have if he’d been driving a heart-attack victim to a hospital. This was the sort of visit that obliterated the slow, careful broaching of topics.
He entered the main reception area of the District Attorney’s office impatiently, waited his turn in the line of visitors, then showed his wallet to the middle-aged woman behind the counter. On one side it held the unofficial ID that showed he was a retired police officer, and on the other his private investigator’s license. “My name is Jack Till,” he said. “I need to know which Assistant DA is prosecuting the homicide case against Eric Fuller. Would you be able to help me?”
“
“Harper, Wendy A.”
The woman looked down at a directory, then dialed four numbers on the phone in front of her. “This is Nell,” she said softly. “Can you direct me to the prosecutor who’s in charge of the homicide of a Wendy Harper? Thanks.” She hung up. She took a sheet from a message pad and a pen, leafed through a notebook, and then wrote a name and office number on the sheet and handed it to him. “You must know your way around this building, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Twenty years on the force. Thank you very much.” He went through the metal detector, then waited his turn for the elevator while he deciphered the note. The prosecutor’s name was Gordon something. No. Gordon was the last name. Linda Gordon. He rode upstairs, then walked along the hall past the offices of other Assistant DAs working on other cases. He knew some of them, but fewer and fewer each year as they retired or accepted offers at private law firms. When he found the office, the door was closed, but he saw beneath the door
