Empty Places, page 12
I took another glass of wine from one of the roving cocktail waitresses. Laurie tugged at my arm.
"Oh, good," she said, "I think they're starting to break up." She let go of my arm for an instant, then suddenly grabbed it again and leaned toward me. "You never met Carlos before, right?"
"Never."
"So, he's not going to scream at you like Tom Wilson?"
"Let's hope not."
Laurie moved off toward Tinnerman with the movements and agility of a great cat stalking its prey. She had the natural instincts of a social animal, with the cunning and the nerve to ingratiate herself in a social stratum supposedly out of reach for a poorly paid reporter from a small-town paper. I put it down to her society page experience. I should have known better.
Laurie called my name.
"Peter, I'd like you to meet our host."
She had captured her prey, and she was bringing me in for the feed.
"Carlos, I'd like you to meet Peter Brandt," she said, looping her hand through my left arm while Carlos Tinnerman shook my right hand. He was my height and at least in his fifties. His handshake was firm and assured. His white suit was spotless, like the white walls of his home. His eyes were as dark as some of the nights I had known.
Laurie finished her introductions. "And this is Anita, Mrs. Tinnerman."
The blond shook my hand with only her fingers. She was much younger than Tinnerman, but she wasn't as beautiful close up as she was from a distance. Her skin had the deep red color that light skinned people get when they force a tan with too many hours under the sun without protection. Small lines like creases in crêpe paper showed at the corners of her eyes and on the ridges above her lips. She was still one hell of an attractive woman, especially standing there in that dress. But she had the early signs of what I had seen in so many of the bored rich wives in The Springs, who had too little to do other than bake themselves in the heat each day, women who aged quickly from the desert and their marriages, until they had the look and taste of last night's stale wine.
The Tinnermans seemed to stare at the scar over my eye, but it may have been my imagination. I had the feeling since arriving that people where glancing surreptitiously at my face, but I kept telling myself that, too, was my imagination.
A much younger man stood to Tinnerman's right. He wore a dark suit to match his dark good looks. He had a John Kennedy haircut, the type that once served as the trade mark of liberals but has since defected to the conservative crowd.
"May I introduce State Assemblyman Jonathan Manchester?" Tinnerman said.
Manchester and I shook hands, and he glanced uneasily at my scar. I had never heard the man's name before.
"Are you a local assemblyman?" I asked.
"Yes, yes, I am," he said, as if I had asked if he were from Mars. "You're not from Palm Springs, Mr. Brandt?"
I shook my head.
"Peter is a journalist," Laurie said. "He used to work at my paper. Now he covers the war in Nicaragua."
Tinnerman's eyes widened and seemed to sparkle.
"Is that so?" he said. "Are you based in Nicaragua or Honduras?"
"No," I said. "Actually, I just cover the region—whether there's a war or not. I'm based in Mexico City."
"And what brings you back to Palm Springs?" Tinnerman asked. His speech had a crisp cultured clip to it, but little other accent.
"A funeral."
"I'm sorry," the Cuban said. "A family member?"
"An ex-wife," I said. "Robin Anderson."
I watched the Cuban's face for any unusual reaction, but there was none. His face was blank for a moment, then recognition flickered into it.
"The young TV woman who was murdered?"
I nodded.
"I'm so deeply sorry for you," he said. "I read about it in the paper. So terrible."
"Thank you."
"The funeral was already held, was it not?" Tinnerman asked. "I think I read about it."
"Yes, but I'm taking care of her things," I said. "Robin didn't have any family."
"So sad," Tinnerman clucked. "To die so young."
Tinnerman provided all the condolences strangers are expected to pass on to each other. Assemblyman Manchester had an altogether different reaction.
The assemblyman's face had turned rigid and pale. His eyes narrowed to tiny dark spots that bored into my face. I hadn't been paying him any attention at first, so I didn't know how long he looked at me like that. When I did notice, I turned to him and he quickly excused himself from our company.
Manchester's position next to Tinnerman was taken by another man. This one was shorter, and far less attractive than the assemblyman or anyone else in the room that he bordered on being ugly. His meaty body was draped by an expensive suit tailored with less artistry than Tinnerman's. A thin wire looped out of his coat collar and ran up to a plug in his ear. He held his finger to the plug in such a way that I knew instantly it wasn't a hearing aid, and a wild guess told me he wasn't listening to a ball game.
The ugly man jerked his head around and looked at me. He seemed to recognize me, and not like the recognition. I had never seen him before. His ugly, stupid eyes scanned my face, and hovered around the scar. They seemed to lighten at that.
"The main gate just reported Senator Borman has arrived," he told Tinnerman.
Tinnerman glanced at his watch. "That's fine, Morgan," he said. "Very punctual."
The Cuban glanced at a very short, plump woman standing next to the man he called Morgan. "Good evening, Mrs. Morgan," he said. "A pleasure to see you again."
"A pleasure seeing you, Mr. Tinnerman," the plump lady chortled. "A real pleasure being here."
"If you will excuse me, I must meet the senator." Tinnerman turned to me. "A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Brandt. I hope we have a chance to talk later in the evening. I would like to hear your views on the Freedom Fighters."
"I would like that, too," I said, knowing full well he'd only be disappointed in my view of anything.
Laurie and I watched Tinnerman and his wife walk through the crowd toward the front door. We weren't the only ones following the couple. The sensual movement of Anita Tinnerman's full hips beneath the tight dress was almost hypnotic. It cast a spell on most of the men in the room, and some of the women. I wondered if she had to practice much to achieve such perfection.
The man called Morgan snapped the spell by lumbering into my view. He was sans his plump wife. I turned and saw her collect a glass of champagne from a waitress. She sipped from the glass slowly as she stood alone staring out the huge windows.
I turned back to Laurie. "Senator Borman? The Senate's right-wing firebrand?" Laurie nodded. "What's he doing here?"
"Carlos arranged for him to be a guest speaker."
"This should be fun."
"So, what do you think of Carlos?" Laurie asked.
"He's very polite."
"I told you he wasn't a monster." Laurie hooked her hand into my arm and started leading me toward the door. "Do you still think he killed Robin?"
"I never said I thought he killed her," I said. "Who was—"
"Brandt, what the hell are you doing here?"
Miles Hampton appeared in front of me. He was dressed in a tailored pinstripe suit cut to make his soft bulk look solid.
The same HAMPTON FOR CONGRESS campaign button adorned his lapel, just as it had when Matt and I saw him at the sheriff’s office. His voice was calm, but his pulpy face was darkening with the first shades of red.
"The press wasn't invited," he said.
"The society page press was, captain," I said, nodding at Laurie. "I'm her date."
Hampton smiled politely at Laurie. He grasped my shoulder and guided me a discreet distance from Laurie and the other guests. His smile disappeared.
"I don't give a damn if you're Borman's date," Hampton said. "I want you out of here."
My mind flashed on Matt, standing in the sheriff's station lobby, shaking with fury. I leaned close to Hampton's face, and smiled.
"Back off, Hampton," I said. "Or I'll write a story about that night you whacked your wife and smashed your car."
It was like throwing cold water on him. The red drained from Hampton's face, leaving a bleached white pallor. His eyes became hollow caves. His large bulk actually seemed to wither within the pinstripes. He glanced around the room, smiling tightly.
"Don't stay long, Brandt," Hampton whispered. "Not here, or anywhere near here. Hear me?"
Hampton marched toward the front door to join the senator's greeting party. Laurie watched him go, her mouth slack and her eyes agog.
"Peter, what did you say to him?" she asked.
"Nothing," I said. "Just a little advice." I took her arm again. "I was asking you what you knew about this guy Morgan?"
"Morgan?" She seemed to discard the homely little man with the tone of her voice. "He's Carlos' security man. He owns a security guard service, but I think Carlos is his main client."
"Morgan Security."
Laurie stopped walking and looked at me as if I were psychic. "That's right. How did you know?"
"It was on the gate guard's uniform."
She thought it over.
"Of course," she said. "Of course." We walked on. "So, what did you think of Carlos Tinnerman?"
"I liked his wife," I said, catching a final glance of her departing performance.
Laurie tugged at my arm and brought me around to face her. She stood so close I could feel her breasts brushing against my chest.
"Not more than others in your company, I hope?"
I simply smiled and started walking again.
CHAPTER 15
SENATOR BORMAN WAS WOWING them with his hardcore rhetoric when I decided to step out of the chill and get some fresh air. With his fiery red beard and intense eyes, Borman looked like a crazed Viking. He railed against the wholesale slaughter of babies in the womb, launched into a diatribe against welfare mothers, then slipped into a rallying cry for the Nicaraguan Contras. As I walked away, the senator was pressing a tirade against pornography and nuclear disarmament. There must have been some kind of logic in the congressman's speech, but I couldn't follow it.
I stepped out into the pool area and felt the damp heat envelop me again. The hard rock of the mountainside had been turned into a soft blue concrete plateau, surrounded by a windbreak of full grown palms. The pool was nearly Olympic size, and its dark azure sides gave the clear water the color of the Mediterranean Sea. A service bar stood at the shallow end, with small concrete eruptions shooting from the pool bottom serving as bar seats. A hot spa bubbled at the deep end, with steps leading directly from the giant pool to the smaller one. I granted myself a moment of indulgence as I imagined Anita Tinnerman stepping slowly into the spa, an arrogant smile her only wardrobe.
Where the windbreak of palms ended, the panoramic view of the valley began. I stood there, tracing the twinkling trails of headlights along Highway 111 as it curved through the valley, trying to identify the illuminated patchwork of cities etched against the black empty expanse of desert not yet carved up by developers. An airplane landed at the regional airport, looking like a falling star as its bright landing lights traced its dive from above the mountains to the desert floor. I was engrossed by the view and didn't hear the foot steps behind me.
"Mr. And—. That is, Mr. Brandt?"
I whirled around, instinctively stepping to the side and raising my fists.
Assemblyman Jonathan Manchester stepped back and put his opened hands up. His eyes were big and his skin was still the same shade of white I'd seen it turn earlier. "S–sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"My fault," I said, straightening. "I've been a little on edge lately."
"I understand. With your wife being murdered and all."
"Ex-wife."
"I'm sorry?"
"Ex-wife," I corrected. "We'd been divorced for some time."
"Oh, yes. That's right. I'd forgotten."
The assemblyman realized the mistake immediately. His white face tightened and his breathing stopped. His eyes darted away. He was hoping I hadn't noticed, but I did.
"You knew Robin Anderson?"
"I, uh . . . "
"You knew Robin Anderson."
"Yes," he finally said. "Yes, I did." He stared off toward the illuminated city and took a couple of breaths. His face tightened more, then relaxed. He let the last breath go as a sigh.
"Some time ago, Robin Anderson did a story about me. A rather unflattering story. There's nothing I can do about that now. But—" He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, his eyes focused somewhere down valley. "—I am concerned now about the disposition of any and all files she might have on me."
My heart quickened its pace. I stared at the assemblyman as if trying to see into his mind. My mind ran through the stories I watched on Robin's videotape, but there was nothing about Manchester. I pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and said nothing.
"I heard you tell Carlos that you were taking care of Miss Anderson's things," Manchester continued. "I assume that includes her files?"
The assemblyman waited for an answer but I still said nothing. He grew uncomfortable waiting. "Mr. Brandt, I would be willing to make it worth your while if you could provide me with those files."
"Just how much would it be worth to you, assemblyman?"
"Could I have one of those?" Manchester said, pointing to my cigarette.
I pulled out my pack, shook a cigarette free and offered it to him. He took it and I lit it. Manchester inhaled deeply then exhaled as if he enjoyed it.
"I quit these some years ago," he said. "I shouldn't be smoking this now."
"How much are Robin's files worth to you?"
He took another drag and shoved one hand into his pants pocket. He stared back over the shining valley.
"I have a very promising career, Mr. Brandt," he said. "I've been identified by the Republican hierarchy as one of their rising stars. It won't be long before I run for another office—Congress, maybe Senate. After that, maybe the governorship of this state."
I tossed in another possibility. "Maybe president?"
The assemblyman regarded me with a sudden arrogance. "That has been discussed, yes."
"So how much?"
The arrogance disappeared. "Five thousand?"
"That's a lot of money for something that's already been aired," I said. "Why worry so much about something that's already in the public domain?"
"I'm assuming, Mr. Brandt, that she may have had other information she did not use."
"Such as?"
Manchester looked at me disapprovingly.
"As if I would tell you," he said, with distaste.
"I could simply read her files."
"That's why I'm offering this—finder's fee," Manchester said. He thought a moment. "I could go higher."
We faced each other and said nothing. The assemblyman dropped his cigarette, stamped it out, then kicked it into the palm trees. I did the same with my mine, then lit another one. Manchester refused a second.
"I'd like to help you, assemblyman," I finally said, "but Robin's files seem to have disappeared." Manchester grabbed a sharp breath and went rigid. "There were burglaries at her apartment and her studio. All her files are missing."
Manchester's mouth opened, and he uttered a guttural groan. What color was left in the politician's face drained out completely, leaving him a ghostly apparition against the dark silhouette of the trees. "This—this isn't some kind of bargaining tool, Brandt, is it?"
I shook my head.
"Oh, my God," he said. "Who? Why?"
"I thought maybe you could tell me, assemblyman."
"Me? Why, no. I can't."
"Nor can I."
Assemblyman Manchester took some deep breaths and tried to compose himself. Some of the color returned to his face, but not much of it. His eyes still had the blank stare of a man who has seen the entire substance of his future crumble into dust and blow away.
"Well, thank you, Mr. Brandt," he finally said. "I'm sorry we are not able to complete this matter here." He swallowed hard and continued. "If you hear anything more—anything at all—about Miss Anderson's files, please contact me. I'll be at the Spa for the next few days, resting. Then you can contact my office in Sacramento."
Manchester walked away like a broken robot. He didn't see Carlos Tinnerman step out of the door. They bumped and the assemblyman nearly fell over. "Jon, are you all right?" Tinnerman asked.
"I'm . . . not feeling well, Carlos," Manchester said. "I think I should be going."
The assemblyman continued his broken-robot walk into the house. Tinnerman looked at me. I shook my head.
"He decided to start smoking again," I said. "I don't think it agreed with him."
✽ ✽ ✽
Tinnerman let the assemblyman go without fanfare. The Cuban entrepreneur stepped into the darkness next to me and inhaled deeply.
"Wonderful view, eh?" he said.
His left hand rested lightly in his coat pocket, while the other slipped inside his white jacket and removed a small thin cigar. He rolled the cigar between his fingers as I held my lighter's flame up to its tip. He nodded his thanks.
"It is a great view," I said. "How'd you get the city to let you to build up here?"
Tinnerman's cigar glowed, then died. He took the stogie from his mouth and exhaled. His eyes regarded me steadily.
"I have many friends in government, Mr. Brandt. As you can see." He pointed the cigar toward the house. "And I bought the city a new park."
I nodded and said nothing.
"So, you've written about Nicaragua, Mr. Brandt." Tinnerman pronounced the country's name the way Mexicans and Americans do, with a hard G instead of the soft W in its native pronunciation. "I'd be interested in hearing your opinion about the situation there."
"Hot and damp in the low lands. Cooler in the mountains," I said. "Nice people, but you have to watch out for the ones with the guns—which seems to be just about everyone these days."
