Private Eye Four-Pack, page 25
It was Ted Lacey. He got out and hurried over.
“Delilah? What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
I blinked hard. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m okay.”
“I’ll bet. You went to see Amy Terrell, didn’t you?”
“Dammit, Ted. It’s none of your business.”
I tried to push him away, but he was immovable, and I wound up leaning against him until my legs stopped trembling.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes, but I could use a drink.”
“Just what I had in mind. I’ll park the car and meet you inside.”
My feet felt like tree stumps, but I managed to walk into the restaurant. I shook my head at the hostess who offered a menu and headed upstairs to the bar. The interior was a mellow combination of leather and brass with real wood paneling and beams. The second floor elevation mostly offered a view of other buildings, but here and there a patch of ocean showed through.
Ted’s arrival coincided with that of the scantily clad waitress, and we ordered. After she left, he picked up my hand and held it in both of his.
“Delilah, you look like hell.”
“Thanks, friend. You really know how to boost a girl’s morale.”
I might have added he wasn’t looking so hot himself. I hadn’t seen Ted in several weeks. His appearance shocked me into forgetting my own problems momentarily. That attractive dusting of gray at his temples had made wintery inroads into his dark brown hair, and his expensively tailored sports coat was wasted on his caved-in shoulders. The skin around his hazel eyes looked bruised and crepey; new lines radiated from the corners. Either he wasn’t steeping or he was worried about something, maybe both. Whatever it was, it printed every one of his sixty-one years into his face.
“What can you possibly accomplish by talking to Amy again?” He wasn’t going to let the subject alone.
“Nothing, maybe. Something…I don’t know. I just can’t give up.”
“Why not? Sometimes you have to put things out of your mind, to…adjust. Listen, Delilah, do you think Jack would want you to tear yourself to pieces?”
I pulled my hand away from his. “Don’t, Ted.”
“I’m sorry, but Jack was my friend. When I see you like this—”
“Like what?” I asked lightly. “A little upset? Dying of thirst? Here come our drinks, thank God.”
He sighed. “Okay, okay. I won’t talk about it now if you’ll come home with me for dinner. Now don’t start shaking your head. How can you refuse my phony chile rellenos?”
That’s Ted’s own concoction of scrambled eggs topped with Ortega chiles and melted Jack cheese. He was right. I couldn’t turn it down.
“Why don’t you ride with me,” he said. “I’ll bring you back later for your car.”
“I can’t. I have to go someplace this evening. I’ll follow you. Don’t worry. I’m fine now.”
The traffic on the Coast Highway had got worse. Commuters added to the usual bottlenecks as tourists looked for nonexistent parking places. I sat behind Ted’s car and wished I hadn’t lashed out at him. It wasn’t the first time. Sometimes the pain would come boiling out in an uncontrollable fury, and God help whoever was on the receiving end.
It was funny to think that Ted and I had never been close. He was Jack’s friend. They go back a long way. Jack met him at a party up in Beverly Hills. “The only real person in the whole crowd,” was Jack’s description. Although Ted was quite a bit older, the two of them were a lot alike: stubborn, intelligent, proud, and what in another man would have been macho, tempered by sensitivity and humor. The only difference was that Ted Lacey had turned his talents to making money. He’d made a lot of it. After meeting Jack, maybe he had a few wistful second thoughts about his life. If he had been twenty years younger, it might have been Lacey & West Detective Agency. Since he couldn’t put back the clock, Ted lived vicariously through Jack. They didn’t see each other often, but when they did, it meant an all-night rap session.
After Jack died, our grief brought us together. Rita snorts when I say he considers me a daughter. “He’s already got a son and two grandchildren,” she points out.
And so he does. Physically, Edward Lacey, Jr. resembles his father in a peculiar, off-kilter way, like looking at a distorted reflection in an old mirror. There the resemblance ends. While Ted is sensitive and tolerant, Edward would make you believe completely in that stereotyped Orange Countian: an uptight, right-wing ultraconservative who spends his free time equally between looking for seditious and salacious material in the public libraries and fighting fluoridation of the water system. I’ve never met Edward’s children, but from the picture in Ted’s living room I see that they’ve inherited Edward’s supercilious curl of the mouth and his cold, fishy eyes.
With that kind of family no wonder Ted looks for substitutes. Jack was one. Now me. I tell Rita she reads too many dirty books.
Out of Laguna’s central business district, the traffic thinned a bit. I stayed close behind Ted as he turned into the second gate at North Bay Estates. The first gate had a twenty-four-hour guard to keep out the uninvited; the second was automated. Ted stopped, inserted a plastic strip into the card reader, and the gate opened. I slid in quickly behind him before it swung shut.
Ted’s house sits on a rocky point overlooking the Pacific. Years ago this was an area of summer beach homes. Until recently, Ted still used his house that way. He had an apartment in Beverly Hills and an office in L.A. Lately, he spent more time at the beach in an active semiretirement of golf, tennis and swimming.
I braked and drove slowly over a speed bump. It did nothing to deter the skateboarders. Three of them sailed down the street in wide slaloms, riding the yellow hump like a concrete wave. Ted had activated the electric door opener and was pulling into the garage when I arrived. There was a black Mercedes in the driveway. Two bumper stickers bracketed the license plate. One read, America, Love It or Leave It. The other said, May All Conservation Bastards Freeze to Death in the Dark. Edward had come for a visit.
Maybe he’s softening a bit, I thought. Jack always said that Edward avoided his father as much as possible. That seemed to have changed. During my last two visits, I had run into him either coming or going. Whatever prompted this sudden show of solicitude, Ted clearly did not enjoy the attention. He never said anything. He didn’t have to. I could read it in his eyes.
I got out of my car and waited for Ted to come out the side door into the breezeway that connected the garage to the house. Beyond the screened walls I could see a terrace, an expanse of flagstone with outdoor furniture, and a manicured strip of lawn bordered by flowering shrubs and a bed of yellow roses. A strong ocean breeze ruffled the blossoms, mingling their heady scent with the tang of sea salt.
When Ted joined me on the driveway, his lips were grimly compressed, leaving a bloodless, white line around his mouth. His whole body slumped and he looked very old and tired as he fumbled with his house keys. I really had no desire to see Edward Lacey, but I couldn’t think of how to get out of it without hurting Ted’s feelings, so I followed him into the house.
A wide entry opened into a large, comfortably furnished room that was all glass in the direction of the sea. The walls were covered in rough grass cloth, and the sofa and chairs were upholstered in plush, soft leather with lots of ottomans handy so you could put your feet up. Logs were ready to light in the fireplace. When the fog rolls in, it’s cool enough here for a fire even in summer. A bookcase lined one wall, half of it devoted to a collection of sea creatures sculpted in glass. A few more pieces were displayed on the end tables. My favorite, a whale, had been displaced by a pair of cavorting sea otters.
Edward stood at the window with his back to us. The view was magnificent. This half of the house rested on angled supports that jutted out of the cliff, giving the illusion that there was nothing between you and the restless ocean. From the deck that ran the length of the house, the feeling was even more pronounced. Directly below, waves smashed against a headland of rock, separated and churned inward to the bays on either side of the cliff. Oriented slightly toward the south, Ted’s view encompassed the half circle of North Bay Beach. The private beach was guarded on the other side by a similar cliff. It was possible at low tide to breach the granite barrier, but several broken arms and legs plus a couple of drownings discouraged most outsiders. Today the beach was almost empty. Fog combined with a cold gray sea filled the window with a panorama of intense, sullen power.
Edward turned, saw me, and something jumped in his eyes. “Mrs. West, what are you doing here?”
“I invited her,” Ted said. “If it’s any of your business.”
“Of course. Sorry,” Edward said stiffly. “Just surprised me.”
He was tall like Ted, but the soft, dark brown hair was cut short and trained to he exactly in place. The lips were pinched and narrow; the eyes fish-scale gray, devoid of expression.
Ted went directly to one end of the bookcase wall and opened doors that cleverly disguised a bar. “Gin and tonic?” he asked tightly.
I nodded, but Edward said, “I’d rather have a martini.”
“Fix it yourself.”
Ted mixed two gin and tonics, added generous slices of fresh lime, and brought one to me with a paper napkin while Edward carefully measured and stirred. The glass was wet where Ted had slopped the drink over the side. I wiped it off and chose a chair across the room from Edward. Ted gulped most of his drink before he sat down, ignoring the dripping glass.
Edward’s presence always seemed to promote irritation; tonight tension jumped in the room like an electric wire severed from a pole, sizzling and sparking, keeping everybody edgy and on-guard.
“How’s business, Mrs. West?” Edward crossed one perfectly pressed pant leg over the other and made the casual remark sound like an inquisition.
“Great. Terrific.”
His eyes told me he knew better. “I imagine it keeps you busy.”
“Very busy.”
“Still you have time to drop in on father. Or perhaps this is a business call. Are you still investigating your husband’s death?”
Ted stirred uneasily. “Edward, I don’t think Delilah wants to talk about it.”
“Oh, but surely—I mean, it’s been six months now. Grief subsides after a while, doesn’t it, Mrs. West?”
I had always known that Edward was an insensitive bastard and suspected he could be deliberately cruel. He seemed determined to confirm my suspicions.
“Yes,” I said, as steadily as I could. “A little time helps. So do friends,” I added and smiled at Ted.
“Oh, I imagine father has been a great help to you.”
“Edward—”
Edward ignored him. “I wonder, though. It seems as a friend he ought to discourage this investigation of yours. In six months you’re no closer to a solution, are you? It must be terrible for you, Mrs. West. I mean, you were right there seconds after the murder took place. You saw the murderer just before he knocked you unconscious. To be unable to remember his face—”
“Shut up, dammit!” Ted roared. “Delilah—”
“It’s okay, Ted,” I said. It wasn’t. My insides were one big cramp but damned if I’d let Edward Lacey see it.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. West.” Phony concern dripped from Edward’s voice. “Have I upset you? I certainly didn’t intend—why you’re practically a member of the family.”
Good God, I thought as insight hit me like a meat cleaver. He’s jealous of my relationship with Ted.
“That’s why I’m concerned for you,” he went on. “I mean, one can’t allow guilt feelings to destroy one’s work…You did say you were busy these days?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
Knowing how he felt about my friendship with his father put a few things in perspective, but it didn’t make me enjoy his company any better. For the first time, I was delighted to go look for Cathy Crowell. I finished my drink and stood up with the glass in my hand.
“Another one, Delilah?” Ted asked.
“No, thanks.” I walked over and put the glass on the bar. “It’s getting late, Ted. I have a job tonight.”
“But dinner—”
I felt a little like the hunter staking out a goat for lion bait, but as much as I sympathized with Ted, I couldn’t take any more of his son. “Let’s make it another time. I’ll call you.”
“Mrs. West.” Across the room Edward raised his glass to me. It was too shadowy to read his face and his voice was bland. “A very successful evening.”
FIVE
I headed north and watched the sun’s nightly death throes. The flattened disk hung on the horizon, bleeding pale orange streams of watery light into the fog bank over the ocean.
Damn Edward Lacey! He’d ruined a lot more than a pleasant dinner. Brushing off Rita’s half-joking remarks about my relationship with Ted was one thing; Edward’s suspicions were quite another. Stupid and ridiculous—of course they were, but—yes, but. Now, there would always be a doubt in my mind because when you got right down to it, I really couldn’t trust my own judgment. My emotional reactions had been dead for months, that sensitive sexual antennae completely disconnected, useless.
So, much as I hated it, much as I hated Edward for planting the idea in my mind, I’d have to back away from Ted.
Edward, you possessive S.O.B., you better be glad I don’t want your old man, I thought bitterly. Because if I did…
Well, I didn’t, except as a friend, and while Edward might be a pretty sorry excuse for a human being, he was Ted’s son. I wouldn’t come between them.
Enough of that, I told myself, pushing away the sense of loss. Concentrate on the job, that’s what I had to do. Get through the night.
First of all, I knew I’d better eat. I wasn’t hungry, but common sense dictated a meal. God knows how many bars I’d have to hit or how many drinks I’d have to order to get my questions answered. Coast Highway offers a variety of eating places. I didn’t have the time or appetite to dine Middle Eastern style under mosque-type domes or to eat fresh Pacific sea bass on an authentic riverboat. I settled for a drive-in.
Service was speedy, but that was because the food had been cooked hours before. The greasy hamburger swam in mayonnaise inside a soggy bun along with a dried-out pickle, an anemic slice of tomato and a brown lettuce leaf. The coffee was hot, but tasted like it could be recycled to tan leather. I crumpled up the paper wrapper and the plastic cup, put them in the trash, and drove away with an unpleasant taste in my mouth. I couldn’t tell if it was the food or the memory of that scene at Ted’s.
I still had time to kill so I stayed off the freeway and drove north along the ocean through Huntington Beach. On the right side of the highway clusters of oil pumps, like oversize grasshoppers, bobbed and dipped. Long sandy beaches curved on my left. Fog had driven away the crowds, but a few hardy souls huddled around beach fires. The smoky scent made me remember another night when I watched burning driftwood from the circle of Jack’s arms, the memory so piercingly clear that I could feel the heat of his body against my back and the scratchy stubble of his cheek against the side of my face.
A traffic light changed red in front of my unheeding eyes. I slammed on the brakes and jerked the car sharply right to avoid rear-ending a station wagon in front of me. Horns brayed as I slid through the intersection.
“Up yours,” I shouted to all the indignant motorists and the whole damn world in general.
My hands shook badly, but I kept driving. I had a job to do. I decided to skip the scenic tour of Long Beach refineries and swung inland to pick up the freeway.
By the time I located the area George Crowell had suggested as a starting point, fog canceled the twilight in chill, gray finality. I parked my car under a streetlight and delivered it into the hands of the gods. Outside the fog smelled of neglected garbage and human debris, of unburned carbon from old cars and sulphur from the new ones equipped with catalytic converters that were supposed to clean up the air. I walked warily. Every alley was not occupied by a rapist, and every doorway did not house a homicidal maniac, but it never hurt to be on guard just in case. The street looked as though it could spawn any manner of depravity and probably had. If this was where Cathy Crowell had come, God help her.
An X-rated movie house promised erotic savagery, complete with whips and chains. Sleazy bars advertised Coors, live music and nude cocktail waitresses. A sample of the music screamed discordantly into the street. Maybe it was too early for nudity. The waitress who brought me a screwdriver was clothed, at least partially, in an abbreviated outfit that revealed thighs marbled with fat and let you look at the sweat running down between pendulous breasts.
She barely looked at Cathy’s picture before grunting no and stomping away. I hoped I wouldn’t have to come back when she took off her clothes.
The rest of the places were just as helpful. All I got were vague replies, a proposition from a recruiting pimp, and a headache. A few people thought they’d heard of Bo Brumley, but he wasn’t around anymore. Nobody recognized Cathy Crowell, or rather nobody admitted to it.
Detective work is ninety-nine percent persistence so I kept slogging away. By ten o’clock I was sitting in a coffeehouse called the Down Under, a particularly dreary place stinking of hash, with cheap plastic booths and walls papered with torn travel posters that featured outsize wallabies and pot-bellied pygmies. The waitress plodded over and leaned one hip on my table. She looked as exhausted as I felt. I took out the picture of Cathy.
“Have you ever seen this girl around here? She’s not in any kind of trouble. I’m a private investigator hired by the family.”
She glanced at it briefly and shook her head. “I ain’t got all night. You wanta order?”
