

DAVID'S CASE

Jerry McIlroy

Copyright 2016 Jerry McIlroy  
Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, or events used in this book are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, events or locales is completely coincidental.

Ebook formatting by Maureen Cutajar  
www.gopublished.com

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 1

Death is, among other things, something to think about. That was what I was doing. Not thinking about it in the philosophical, to be or not to be sense, no, it was more personal than general, in fact not thinking about it so much as trying not to think about it. There are places where one should never contemplate such subjects as the pointlessness of life or the frailty of human existence, the former while standing atop some desolate cliff, the latter while flying in an airplane. I am nearly always able to avoid desolate cliffs but I do often fly in airplanes where I spend much of the flight trying not to think of the frailty of human existence. I try not to think that my existence is dependent upon a million variables; an untightened bolt, metal fatigue, a computer glitch, a pilot with an overwhelming death wish, any number of things. I try so hard that I think of them all the time. I am nervous about flying. (I don't have a fear of flying, I have a fear of crashing, ha ha ha.)

From my aisle seat I took a quick glance out the window as the plane banked before the final descent. Far below the lights of the city sprawled innocently, shining rather cheerily into the night. For my part I stared, rather uncheerily, at the back of the seat ahead, hardly breathing, forgetting to chew my gum, no longer trying to look unconcerned. Landings are always the worst. Take-offs aren't too great either, nor for that matter is the time in the air.

The final descent that always feels too sudden, too fast. It is too fast. They've miscalculated, of course they have. Then the slight bump and tremor as we touched down and the small inward sigh of relief as we taxied to the terminal. We had all cheated death one more time. On my feet too soon, like most of the others, bustling and bumping, shoulder bags and attache cases, an unlistened to speech from a flight attendant, then smiled good-byes as we hurried from the plane, freed from our unnatural airborne state.

Out side the air was chilly and invigorating, cold for the time of year. The sky was filled with stars. Thankfully the cab driver did not try to make conversation, he allowed himself only a few yawns and a badly hummed tune to intrude upon our silence while I stared out the window at the mostly gray and silent streets of the suburbs.

My apartment building, a squat, three storied nondescript building was depressingly unchanged—not that I expected or even hoped it would change in my month's absence—but even the oily smear on the front door glass was still there. I still had to jiggle and push my key a certain way to get the front door to open. The caretaker has been promising to replace the lock and someday he might just do that and surprise his tenants.

My building, perhaps like me, is just this side of seediness, or perhaps the other side depending on your point of view. Half a block from my building, on the corner of Delaware, hookers ply their trade outside the all night restaurant. I often go to that restaurant late at night, for coffee and maybe to place a bet. Every once in a desperate while I think about taking one of those hookers home with me. I never do though. Maybe out of vanity, or maybe I know it would just make the emptiness more profound. I do like to talk to them though, although few of them are into conversations, chatting is not what they are selling, but there is the odd one with whom I can sometimes exchange world views.

I like the restaurant, in the early morning hours with the odd hooker or cab driver on coffee break, and the others, the other people that you find in all night restaurants after midnight. There are always a few horseplayers, quietly thoughtful, waiting for the bookmaker's runner to make his regular call here at about two a.m. So we horseplayers, and I am one, we smoke our cigarettes, drink our coffee, and we study the form. We puzzle over it like pursed lipped alchemists intent upon creating gold from nothing, nothing but our own sense of logic. It is all there if we can but decipher it, find the proper logic in it so that A+B+C must equal D. It is all there; in the weight and the distance and the jockey and the last times out, it is all there and must be taken into account, all the pieces that must be factored into the equation. We all say the same things; its moving up in price, its dropping down in price, they put it in at seven furlongs, its dropping five pounds, they've got Gomez up he's a hot jock, and so forth and so on. Its all there if can just interpret it correctly. Then about two in the morning Ewan, who looks and talks like a college boy which he well might be but who for certain works for a bookmaker named Len calls in to pick up our bets; our two, or five, or ten dollar pledges of faith. I think he regards us with contempt, not understanding what is really taking place here. It is the eternal Einstein like quest to impose logic and reason into an absurd world, not to put too high a note to it

The lobby of my apartment was, as always, neither clean nor dirty, just sadly dingy with a thin layer of dust on the plastic flowers and a crumbled envelope on the floor. Over the copper block of mailboxes there was a new notice from the rental agency regarding NSF checks. There was nothing of interest in my mailbox, three pieces of junk mail and a telephone bill, Ryan would have the rest.

At least no one had broken into my apartment. We must always be grateful for small mercies, and I was. The air was stale and thick, overly warm. I opened the windows, put on some music, made myself a drink and sat down. The cool air, the music, and the drink helped, but not enough. I was at loose ends, too wide awake, energy with no place to put it. I am too often at loose ends, most of my life, I sometimes think. I don't know why that is. I made another drink. My month in Mexico, my temporary escape, the rightness of how I felt there; I knew it would all slowly slip away, it would disappear like a forgotten dream, no matter how hard I tried to hold onto it.

There I was, home again, not hungry, not sleepy, at loose ends. The little red light of the answering machine blinked impatiently; a lot of hang ups, a few people asking me to call, Ryan saying he had my mail plus, which I took to mean the five hundred he owed me. The last message was from Claire expressing the hope, in her usual cold and well modulated tones, that my holiday had been pleasant and there was a meeting scheduled for Monday at two-thirty.

The same walls, the same pictures, and me, sitting in the same chair listening to the same music. Monday I would be back at the agency seeing and doing the same bullshit things. Not a cheery prospect, not at all. What I needed was a little conversation, some drinks and some laughter. Friday night, there would be a poker game at Marv's but I didn't want that. Ryan almost surely would not be home but it would be worth a try.

The phone rang. I let the machine answer. Anne. "Hi, its me. Are you home yet? I hope your holiday was great. Can you phone me in the morning, I'd like to get together. Thanks, bye." She sounded serious, as well she might, as well she always did. End of the affair, died of boredom, but it would be a long post postmortem.

Five minutes later the phone rang again. Ryan this time so I picked up. He was at Carmichaels, a bar we both like, and I said I'd be there in an hour.

Chapter 2

Carmichaels is what used to be called, and perhaps still is, a cocktail bar. It is located in the basement of a modest hotel; it has comfortable booths, a few tables, and a long bar. The decor is old English private club with lots of dark wood and leather, and there is a real functioning fireplace at one end of the room. The entertainment is provided by a pianist, the same one for at least the last ten years; she provides background music of easily recognizable standard tunes. It is a popular place for business men who want a quiet drink while they read their reports and plan their strategies. It is never crowded, never noisy, and both the service and the drinks are better than most.

"And here he is. You look good, doesn't he Gail?" Ryan was sitting in a booth, Gail, a mutual friend was seated across from him. I slid in beside her. Gail is another long time friend, six or seven years, she works as a cocktail waitress and has a teenage daughter from an early went nowhere bad choice relationship. We've gone out together a few times; movies, theater, a concert, even dancing once, as friends. As friends, but every now and then there would be something in the air, something that made me feel it might just go past the friendship thing. I had certainly thought about it. This night she looked especially attractive; she was wearing a black silk blouse which was good with her blonde hair, the hair done a little differently, and a little blonder. Her eyes sparkled. She smiled and put her hand on mine. "He does, he does, he certainly does. You were gone a long time, we missed you."

"And I missed you, there weren't that many things I did miss."

A waiter was at our table, we always get excellent service at Carmichaels, we tip well. Ryan asked. "So then my friend, what will it be? What do they drink in Mexico?"

"Mostly beer, at least I did but I'll have the usual, Cutty Sark on the rocks and a tonic water."

Ryan is a solid guy, the kind of friend you know will go to the wall for you. He is a handsome, composed man who moves through life with a good deal of grace, almost but not quite, thankfully, with elegance. We grew up together, Ryan and I, in the Docktown area, in the days when it was a tough neighborhood. We hustled pool, scuffled about, did the odd b and e, one thing and another, just a couple of fun loving kids from the corner. Then we drifted apart. I went on to work my through college, my first major waste of time, then joined the cops, my second major waste of time. Ryan went on to become, among other things, a competent and successful burglar, specializing in stamp and coin collections. When I was a uniform cop I'd sometimes wonder what if I came upon him at work. What would I do? I always knew the answer though. I'd look the other way. After I left the cops we hooked up again and he became, once more, my best friend. I guess he still is a burglar but maybe he's moved on with the times and is into credit card scams or computers or some such. We never talk about his business in any kind of detail. Its one of those things.

After the waiter brought our drinks Ryan handed me a large manila envelope. "This is your mail, and this is this. Thank you very much." He handed me a thin sheaf of crisp new bills folded in half. The five hundred. I slipped them into my shirt pocket and looked through my mail. Nothing much, a couple of bills, a business letter, a postcard.

"A card from Sylvia, she's still in France, still happy." I explained to Gail. "Sylvia is an ex, an ex lover I guess, I guess you could say that, anyway she sends a card every month or so. We were together then she became a Buddhist and decided to travel the world. I don't know what that says about our relationship."

"One of two things; Ryan said. "After you the only thing that could possibly be better would have to be God, or more likely, after you she just gave up on men completely."

"Something like that I guess, probably the latter."

Gail was wearing long silver earrings that swung about whenever she moved her head, something that for some reason I have always found erotic, earrings like that, I don't know, the way they move, the pierced lobes, whatever. "That must have been pretty rough." She said. And did I sense her move just a millimeter or so closer, those soft thighs and shapely buttocks moving just a little on the leather bench?

"I thought I told you about her, it was about a year ago, and (and I could smell her body beneath her perfume) we liked each other, we enjoyed each other, she's a good person, but somehow we just didn't seem to connect. Do you know what I mean?" Her eyes were on me but I stared into my glass, took another drink and in so doing shifted my body that half a millimeter closer. "Anyway it ended with regret but not too much agony."

About an hour later when she left she hugged me good-bye, as she did Ryan, as she always did. But this time was the hug a little tighter, did her left hand linger just that extra second on the small of my back, and her lips on my cheek was that more of kiss than a friendly brush across?

"She likes you, you know." Ryan said. "Especially since you became a hero, some women like that, I don't know why, its not very practical. She's a terrific lady. Anyway, do you ever think about it? I thought maybe you were coming on a bit there."

"Sure, I think about it, lots of times, tonight for sure... but..."

"But?"

"You know, she's a friend, a long time friend and a good person. I think she wants something serious, and she does have a kid, that's a lot of... anyhow there's Mexico. I always hate coming back. I have to try to figure out a way to move there which I guess means money and how do I get it."

"Man, you really do like it that much don't you?"

"I do, I really do. Fourth time there. Its so different, nice and easy. I feel at home there. Drifting from place to place, if I moved there I'd do the same, just stay longer in each place, finally I'd find the right place to settle in, a place with a beach. That's the fantasy. So I guess I'll have to save some money."

"Yeah, well saving money is fine as long as it doesn't become a habit. Listen I have something for you. I told Gail before you got here. The next thing to found money. A horse. No, really. You know me, I don't even play horses, but in this case there are some important people involved one of whom owed me a favor. Anyway I went for the bankroll, mortgaged the farm as they say. The horse is Noah's Dream, in the sixth tomorrow, should open nine, ten to one, it'll get bet down at the track but will still be a good price." With that little half smile that meant he was deadly serious.

"Noah's Dream."

"That's it."

"Okay, thanks. So how is Christopher?" Ryan has a fifteen year old son that he gets to see from time to time, mostly on weekends.

"He's fine. We're going to a basketball game on Sunday, bores the hell out of me but he likes it." He paused, as if listening to the background music, identifying the song before continuing. "I took him out for dinner Tuesday night. Its hard to find things to talk to him about. You know he has no idea what I do, he thinks I work for an insurance company. So I always have to keep up this dumb charade and sometimes it pisses me off. I have some really great stories I could tell him."

"He might not think they're so great. Teen age kids are naturally hard to talk to but you guys seem to be doing okay. The thing is though you're still in action, what if you do get nailed, wind up doing time, he finds out everything then. Does that worry you?"

"Not much, no really it doesn't, if it happens he'll just have to handle it, it might even be good for him." He paused, sitting back, eyes half closed, then he said. "But I'll tell you one thing, the older I get the more scared I am of doing time." He sighed, as if having made some terrible confession. "True. I'm a very cautious guy. I turn down a lot of work."

"So why not pack it in and get a job."

"Be serious, what kind of job? I don't even have a social security number. What could I do? Door to door salesman, bartender, cabdriver, all I know is what I do and besides which I couldn't stand it."

"I didn't mean a real job, I meant maybe making book, running a game. You know a lot of people."

"Yeah, right, and what would be the fun of that? I'd go nuts."

"I don't want to sound like I'm giving advice but you are forty-eight years old, maybe you should stop thinking about fun and settle down."

"That's really great coming from you, my friend. You too, are forty-eight and all you want to do with your life is backpack around Mexico like some seventeen year old kid who just read, On The Road."

"Maybe, I guess we just never grew up."

"No, we grew up all right, by the time we were fifteen. We're just doing everything ass backwards. One more and then I have to go, busy day tomorrow. Two things;" he held up two fingers and ticked off the first. "Gail, why not go for it, she doesn't expect any big commitment, just a reasonably nice guy in a reasonably warm body, and she does have this thing for heroes so you fill the bill. Two." He ticked off his other finger. "Noah's Dream."

"That's what you offer me tonight, Gail and Noah's Dream?"

"Who could ask for anything more?"

Chapter 3

The next morning there was a message from Anne on my answering machine, she had phoned at nine and I had slept through it. She was on her way out but would be back at two, would I phone her. Only Anne would phone someone at nine o'clock on a Saturday morning. Well, okay, I'd give her a chance for a farewell speech, let her mount the podium for the last time even though it would be at least a two hour analysis of me, of her, and of the relationship. I have never known anyone, man or woman, who could talk as endlessly as she could, and almost exclusively about Anne. In that field alone she was in a class by herself.

I phoned Brannigan's and made an eight-thirty reservation for two then left a message on Anne's machine asking her to meet me there.

Noah's Dream. Had it been anyone other than Ryan I would have ignored it but in the last two years Ryan had given me three things and I'd made money on all three. The last had been a stock market tip and in four weeks I had made three thousand dollars. Like found money. I was so excited I bet eight hundred to win on a horse.

Noah's Dream. I phoned a cop named Gelman and gave him the horse. Gelman is an old-timer cop that work in administration, he sometimes does me favors in the way of information and I sometimes send him money. That cements our relationship. Then I phoned Rick, a co-worker at the agency and gave him the horse. "Thanks boss." He likes calling me boss, just as if I was Eddie G. Robinson and he was Marc Lawrence.

Noah's Dream. Things had been good to me of late and I had a bankroll of forty-four hundred dollars. So then why not? Bet the four thousand. I had a job, there was always a pay check, I'd have food and shelter, so then why not? Because on the plane coming back I had made a vow. I f I wanted to retire to Mexico I needed a good bankroll, so I vowed I would save my money. I would stop what Anne called my "self destructive lifestyle". No more horses and a lot fewer bar bills. I would save my money and I would invest it. I would put my money to work for me, send out those crisp little bills with their picks and shovels and with their baloney buckets tucked under their arms, make them work for me.

I could not decide what to do. I had made a vow and if I was going to do it I was going to do it and today is the first day in the rest of my so-called life and so forth and so on. With a deep sigh I phoned the bookmaker and made a fifty dollar bet. A token bet. Ryan might ask if I had made a bet, he would never ask how much. Then I tried to forget it.

I phoned Claire, my partner at the agency, just to touch base, as she would say. She sounded... different... relaxed, (it was a Saturday morning but...) she sounded... languid, if one can sound... languid, so unlike her usual self. There was an odd tone in her voice, and she chatted, Claire never chats, about the office, about my trip. Of course! She's just had a night of great, or good, or even passable sex. That was how it sounded. Wait, even better, her partner was still with her in bed, we all know that scene; she is on the phone, mundane conversation, he (or she), playful, nuzzles her neck, touches a nipple, strokes a thigh, she, smiling, continues conversation, moves his (or her) hand away, or doesn't move it away.

Now I listened closely for any background sounds, for her covering the phone, for any hint of hanky panky. The phone was pressed tightly to my ear. Please God make my day, have her let out just one little couldn't-help-myself moan, one little moan, or a soft grunt or a giggle, but a moan preferably. Please God, do this for me and I will say forty-eight Hail Marys and light a candle every Tuesday for you. Then suddenly she said. "Oh, there's the doorbell, that will be Dad, he's taking me to brunch. You should drop over and see him soon. See you Monday."

"Yes, have a good brunch." She was gone before I could finish. Damn, damn, damn.

Claire's sex life, if she has one, is a mystery and the cause of some speculation at the agency, probably because she is a beautiful (gorgeous) young woman and that naturally makes people curious about such things. There were times at the office when I would look at her and think that if there was just another person in that body I would crawl on my hands and knees through a mile of broken glass to etc. etc. However we do not like each other. She does not approve of me and I do not approve of her.

I was on time for my dinner with Anne and she, unusual for her, was already there, a good table on the deck, overlooking the river. People like Anne always get good tables, the smell of money clings to them. There was a glass of white wine in front of her and she was hunched slightly forward as if in concentration. I sat down without the usual perfunctory kiss on the cheek. She looked tired, thoughtful, determined, frowning, a not unusual expression for her.

I ordered the fried oysters and the seafood salad. I was not in a good mood. I was sad, but more than sad I was angry at myself. Noah's Dream had won of course, by a length and a half, at six and half to one, which meant twenty-six thousand dollars if I'd gone for it, if I had followed my instinct. There are some things in this sad old world that you just have difficulty forgiving yourself for.

Taking my glum demeanor as a sign of encouragement Anne began the post affair analysis as soon as the meal arrived, declining small talk, picking at her food, re-arranging it on the plate, frowning in concentration. I ordered a bottle of wine and wondered why I was going through all this. Why did I feel I owed her something? This all could have been done very well in five minutes on the telephone. But I knew I did owe her, at least this much.

Dear Anne, I used to think that if I just had your vocal cords removed we might get along fine, but I knew you would learn sign language and drive me completely crazy. Still, I had been attracted to you, had pursued you in my fumbling way. What was that all about? Well, you are physically attractive and you were usually nice to be in bed with; the one place where you stopped talking. Perhaps that was what made you seem good in bed like being grateful when someone stops hitting you over the head with a hammer. To be fair you were sometimes very loving and tender, sometimes too, very demanding. And you are very very rich, maybe that was part of my attraction to you even if I don't like to admit it, not just the novelty, money as an aphrodisiac, we all know that one. When I was a kid I used to fantasize about screwing a rich older woman in the back seat of her chauffeur driven Cadillac.

Once when she stopped for a moment's reflection, or perhaps to remember her shrink's latest analysis of her life, I said. "Look, Anne, sometimes the best way to say good-bye is just to say good-bye. Why don't we agree to do that and then enjoy the wine and the night air and the view of the river."

"Francis, this is not just about me, its about us, what happened, its about you too. This should be a learning experience." She gave me that patronizing, almost smile, slight lift of eyebrows look; a look she often bestows on most of the world. "We can both learn from this, and evolve. That is what life is; learning and evolving..."

I did not know whether to laugh or swear. I did neither, just looked away, at the river and the setting sun. Anne, Anne, Anne, why do you never tire of telling people what life is really all about and never realize how pretentious and insulting you are? Dear, dumb Anne. You were born into money, an only child with doting parents, you grew up with a live-in maid and a live-in nanny, you had your own tennis court and swimming pool, you had a summer house and a sailboat. You floated through school and college, vice president of something or other, you have gone from interesting "job" to interesting "job"; media, the arts, film, dance, you have been in therapy for eight years, twice a week at three hundred dollars an hour, like buying a high priced hooker, exactly like buying a high priced hooker. You have never comparison shopped or waited for a sale, you buy only the best at certain shops and all it ever means is signing your name. You drive a Mercedes sport convertible and to you it is just a car. And most importantly, why do I resent you so bloody much because of that?

When I tuned in again she was going on about how she had never been able to find some missing element in her life. "Sometimes it seems no matter what I do there is always something missing, something missing inside."

"Of course there is something missing, there always is. That, my dear, is called the human condition. It is why we fall in love, fall out of love, why we crossed oceans, fought wars and created religion."

"You are not being serious." Tone and expression of rebuke.

"Maybe, but I find it hard to take you seriously because finally you are just another rather dull snob. You are, and I don't want this to sound harsh, kind of a bad joke." I held up a hand to silence her response. "Please let me continue, remember everything is a learning experience. Sometimes I feel sorry for you, I do. You had the bad luck to be born without any imagination, you have no center. It is as if you peeled off all the layers of an onion and found nothing in the middle. I think you should marry your therapist, I'm sure you would both be very happy."

She looked as if she had been slapped in the face, but she clenched her hands, closed her eyes for a second then said. "We thought you might be bitter. You are a very angry person."

"We thought, right. Listen Anne," I pulled my chair over until we were very close, almost touching, and stared into her eyes. "I'll tell you something, the only important thing out of all this, the one thing to remember. You should have had the seafood salad, it was really delicious."

I walked out and left her with the bill.

Driving away I had that old familiar feeling of quiet desperation (all men lead...etc), mixed with a soupcon of self anger (Noah's Dream), a touch of self pity (why do I always pick the wrong women?), and a large dollop of existentialist angst (just because it sounds so good).

But the truth is I did not feel very proud of myself, I had been stupidly mean and petty. She was right, I often am a bitter and angry person, and maybe she does bring out the bad things in me, but the bad has to be there for her to bring out. So I can hardly blame her. She is not an evil person, just rich, pampered, and dumb. I could have left her with something better. I should have left her with something better.

So I did what I generally do when I screw up or when I find myself not liking myself very much. I sought comfort first in alcohol, then, hopefully, in the arms and thighs of a member of the opposite sex. I had two drinks at Carmichaels before I made the phone call.

"It has been a really bad day, I need someone to talk to."

Later we were in bed, where we both knew we'd be as soon as we each hung up the phone. Maybe Ryan was right, maybe she did have a thing for heroes. Her thirteen year old daughter was away on a sleepover. The Gods, for good or bad, always put things in place for you.

In bed, in bed where I did my practiced little tap dance around the deep dark well and her knowing response then going, going, gone. Come in she said I'll give you, shelter from the storm. Afterward she whispered a compliment, (the angler compliments the fish) and we said the usual things, half lies half truths, that most people say the first time in bed together. She ran her finger along the scar just under my left arm.

"Is that from where you rescued the little girl?"

"Melanie, yeah. It wasn't much really, the bullet just grazed me, tore up some flesh a little but no real damage, bled like hell though." She wanted to ask me about it, to hear all about it. I kissed her forehead. "The truth is I wish it had never happened, I mean I wish it had been someone else that found her, not me." That was true and it was all I wanted to say about it. To let her know that I kissed her on the lips, and she, good friend, turned to other things.

Chapter 4

It felt good, surprisingly enough, to be back at the agency; hearing the office gossip, talking about my holiday and exchanging jokes and small talk. Our employees were a little disgruntled; Claire, like her daddy before her, is a workaholic and she often expects too much, in the way of hours and dedication from our staff. My more casual take on things kind of balances things out, or so I like to think.

The agency; Ellman Investigations and Security, had been started by Mr. H. C. Ellman, Claire's daddy, eight years ago. H.C. had been my boss when I worked vice, I had been one of his fair haired boys, or so I liked to think. When we both quit the cops, (a long story) he started the agency and brought me in as a one third partner, which at the time was one third of nothing. Four years ago H.C. retired and Claire took his place. I suppose that had been the long range plan. She had always spent a lot of time around the office, working there on college breaks where she studied business administration. In her four years she had done well for us, concentrating on the security end, running the place like a real business, increasing our staff and even moving us into swank new offices a year ago.

I like our new offices, they look good, lots of chrome and glass, black chairs, tasteful pictures on the walls, modern equipment, all very high tech, which is the image we want to present. We operate like a real business now too, regular staff meetings in the staff room rather than in the neighborhood bar, time management, accurate and comprehensive reports, good accounting, even staff evaluations based on actual guidelines. Do I miss the way things used to be? Not a bit.

Claire is an only child, her mother died in a boating accident when Claire was only four years old. She was raised by an aunt and of course H.C. whenever he happened to be home. She is bright, ambitious, dedicated, and very remote, and she is, very definitely, the apple of her daddy's eye, and he of hers.

I sat in her office and skimmed through the reports. Most of the security stuff doesn't interest me; at best it is Mickey Mouse, at worst distasteful, nailing some poor minimum wage clerk trying to take home a silk blouse or a bottle of perfume. One investigative report did interest me. "This is really a very good job Tommy did for the lawyer. He put in a lot of extra hours." There was a long pause, our conversation is always rather strained. "He's got about three days coming, let's give him a week, he deserves it."

She tapped a finger slowly on the desk, always the same shade of pink nail polish that always looks freshly put on, never a chip. "We hired him to do a good job. It would set a precedent." The finger never stopped tapping.

"Lawyers talk, this is worth its weight in gold in word of mouth. We should talk about this. Some of the big outfits have noticed us, they might make a play for some of our good people. We should think about it, maybe even some kind of profit sharing deal."

"Have you heard something?"

"No, but these things happen. You studied business."

"We'll put it aside for now. I have a meeting with Frobisher, again." Grim smile. "Don't forget we have a two-thirty here."

"Yeah, what is that all about?"

"I don't know, a law firm, they don't do criminal law, they were specific that you be there, so... I have to go now, we'll talk about the other later."

Our meeting was with a young man, a lawyer complete with briefcase and harried expression. With little in the way of preliminaries or idle chit chat he got right down to business, even refusing our offer of coffee. "In this matter we are representing Miss Elizabeth Barnes of Aquarius Television Productions." He looked at each of us as if expecting a reaction, but we deadpanned him. "Miss Barnes would like to discuss the possibility of employing you to find her son. She would like to discuss this with you in person, she specified that it be with you Mr. Connor." He let that lay there for a second or two then shrugged a little nervously. "Ah, Miss Barnes does feel that time is of the essence and she would like this meeting to take place tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow morning?"

"She was very specific about that." He paused. "So in that regard we have booked a ticket on an eleven o'clock flight to Los Angeles tonight and made hotel arrangements for you."

"I've just come back from holiday and there are a lot of loose ends to tidy up." Not true of course, but I had to say something and that was better than telling him to go screw himself which is what I wanted to say. "I assume you need an answer right away."

"I'm afraid I do. If you choose to meet with Miss Barnes, and this is only a meeting, there is no obligation on either party's part, you will of course be paid for your time. The amount is three thousand dollars, plus any expenses. You will be paid whether the meeting is productive or not." He sat back, his spiel done, concise and to the point. "Perhaps you would like to discuss this in private."

I looked at Claire. She wanted it, no surprise there. I paused, oh what the hell. "Okay, we'll do the meeting."

He looked over at Claire, she gave a little nod. "Good, I'm glad that's settled, if its all right with you I'll just phone my office to inform them. He did just that, from a little cell phone that he carried in his jacket pocket.

When he had gone Claire absolutely beamed. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, (the sweet whispered sound of nylon against nylon)."Well, well, well," she said, "this could really be something."

"Betty Barnes, Bitsy Macguire, The Bitsy and Benny Show. She was a pretty funny lady."

"She's a pretty rich one now, her studio makes half the sitcoms on TV

"Sounds like a bloody demanding one too. Say, wasn't there some kind of deal about her, years ago, didn't she shoot her lover or something?"

"I know, it seems there was something, I know who will know." She made a phone call while I felt sorry for myself, I would be flying again. "...thanks, ask her to call Claire then, as soon as she can." She turned back to me and leaned even further back in her chair showing another inch or two of enticing black nylon. "Her son wouldn't exactly be a little kid, would he, not unless she's doing some kind of Mia Farrow kind of thing. Interesting."

"Probably some juvenile playboy that will turn up in a seedy motel, drunk or stoned with a transvestite hooker."

"I don't think so. Why use us? She must have a big agency down there. She must have heard about you finding little Melanie, but still... Well, at least you'll get to meet a celebrity."

"Something I've prayed for every night since I was twelve."

We had some coffee while we pondered and mused. I had thought about having a drink with Gail, oh well, I would phone her anyway. We pondered and mused a bit more and then Claire's friend returned the call. Claire listened attentively, as she always does. She hung up the phone and said. "This really is interesting. Seems Betty Barnes had a husband who was also a partner in the company. They were divorced. I guess he was an abusive man because, so the story goes, one night he attacked her. The little boy, who lived with his mom shot him, shot his dad to protect his mom, he was only nine or ten at the time. Quite a story eh?"

"Yeah, quite a story. He shot him?"

"So my friend says. Shot him dead. The little boy was put in a mental institution."

"And you think this is who I'm supposed to find? Don't get your hopes up

Chapter 5

The airplane flight was the usual, nothing more nor less, I thought about trying hypnosis. I was met at the terminal by a driver, a chauffeur really, he had a uniform and everything, who held up a sign saying Aquarius Productions. He offered to carry my bag. I refused. I had a headache.

In the first few minutes we got rid of the small talk and for the rest of the trip I sank back into the upholstery, closed my eyes and listened to the pounding in my head. He dropped me off at the hotel saying he would call for me at nine-thirty the next morning. And a very nice hotel it was, first rate, well why not, Aquarius Productions was very, very rich, I guess it still is their age and of course this is the town and the business where image is everything.

It was late and I needed to be sharp for the next day. I took a shower, put in a wake up call for seven-thirty, ordered a large glass of milk and a roast beef sandwich with cole slaw. I ate my sandwich, got into bed, turned on the TV, and fell asleep almost immediately. Too bad, it was a good movie, one of my favorites, the one where Orson Welles is this corrupt cop, you know the one.

In the morning, before going down to breakfast I popped a little pick up pill. It was not something I often do but I was feeling a tad groggy and one likes to be mentally alert when doing business, don't want to sell the family farm for a mess of pottage, say something inappropriate, or stumble over the furniture.

It was quite an impressive estate, at least I was impressed. The grounds were large and meticulously cared for with flowers and shrubs in patterns around fountains, lots of fountains and benches. You felt that you could be a thousand miles away from the noise and hubbub of the city. The first word that came to my mind was cloister and I half expected to see a covey of nuns moving quietly in the background, maybe to the sounds of Ave Maria or the tolling of a bell. The grounds gave me that feeling although I have never been in a cloister, or a nunnery, and seriously doubt that I ever will be. There were also very high walls with electric gates and I imagined, all the latest in electronic security. You never know when the peasants might take it into their heads to storm the fortress.

The fortress, the place where Elizabeth Doren called home, was not as big as I had expected from the size of the grounds, still she wasn't exactly cramped for space. It was a modern looking house, almost entirely white with only a few touches of blues and grays, a color scheme that was carried through into the interior of the house as well.

I was met at the door by a woman, fiftyish I would guess, solid looking, plain slacks and blouse, severe haircut and just as severe expression, small, hard blue eyes. Tough.

"Mr. Connor, I'm Doris Harding, Miss Barnes personal assistant. Please come in. Miss Barnes will be here shortly."

"The grounds are beautiful."

"Yes, they are."

She led me from the foyer, down a hallway, to a room; a rather extraordinary room, very large, high, two stories high, again all whites and grays and washed out blues, gentle curves and arcs, no hard angles, almost no furniture and one window, round, and quite high up. Sunlight from the window made a large bright circle on the gray floor. It was noticeably quiet, as if soundproofed, insulated from the rest of the world. The furniture consisted of three chairs spaced evenly around a small table, a couch, and a long low table upon which there were three plates, very white plates, two of the plates held stones, very ordinary looking pebbles, the third plate held a large blue crystal on a bed of leaves.

"Would you care for some refreshment? Iced tea, juice, coffee?"

"Some ice water would be nice, thank you."

With the touch of a button a portion of the wall slid away to reveal, of all mundane things, a refrigerator, complete with chilled glasses. She poured me a glass of water but nothing for herself. She gestured for me to take a seat, then sat down herself. It was all quite cosy. We said nothing, we waited. I was about to say that it was a beautiful room but then I had already said the grounds were beautiful, she might think I was in a rut or at least that I had a limited vocabulary. I sipped my ice water. She was content with silence so I would be too.

Finally Elizabeth Barnes made her entrance, hesitating just a second at he door then entering in a completely unhurried manner as befits a queen. "Mr. Connor, how do you do? Please, please sit down." She smiled at Doris, then she smiled at me, not really a smile, just a hint of one.

She really was quite impressive, no more feisty, spunky little Bitsy Macquire, a completely new role here, the queen of all Egypt, sleek and pampered, milk baths and aromatic oils. She wore a loose white dress, bare legs and leather sandals, the only jewelry a blue crystal on a golden chain around her neck. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back, held by a ribbon. Her skin glowed. I felt myself tense up under her very direct gaze with its hint of a smile and knowing (gray-green) eyes. Here it is everything said; the power of sex, money, and position. But on the other hand she was Betty Barnes who had once been a waitress and then a high kicker in a chorus line and had probably laid a few casting directors in her day. That thought relaxed me.

She just stared at me, studied me, with no attempt at conversation. This, I thought, is all part of something, God knows what, but I couldn't appear nervous. I did not want to stare back so instead I studied the blue crystal that hung from her neck. She stroked it gently with thumb and forefinger. Finally I looked up to meet her eyes, enough is enough. A few seconds of eye to eye then she gave her head a little shake as if waking from a day dream. Something about my appearance seemed to shock her in some way. "I am sorry, Mr. Connor, staring like that, I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable." She didn't sound at all sorry but she still seemed a little shaken, as if I'd brought back some almost forgotten bad memory. I smiled and shook my head to reassure her. "It is just that I like to get a sense of people, feel who they are, what they are all about and what they might mean to me."

She leaned back in her chair, relaxing for the first time then gave me a look that implied she had just looked deep into my soul, which if you were into whatever it was she was into you might even believe. Then, all the spiritual razzamatazz taken care of, she got down to business, even the tone of her voice changed. "As you know I am trying to locate my son. I think you can help me, can even find him. Two reasons; you are a local agency in the city where my son was recently seen, and then of course the way you found that missing little girl. I want to know more about that."

"Melanie Brinowski." Why was it no one remembered her name?

"Yes, you found her when the police couldn't. I'm sure you have been asked this many times. Why did you keep looking? After the money ran out, not just for a few days or a week but for months. I'd like to know why."

"Two months actually. I've thought about the why quite a bit, not at the time but later. I think it might be hard for people to understand, I'm not sure I do myself."

"Please try me."

"Simply put, I became obsessed, obsessed with finding her, that was all that mattered. All. I don't really know why. How can you explain an obsession? An obsession, nothing else matters. I don't know what else to say."

She spliced the fingers of both hands together, signifying I suppose, destiny or the smiling of the Gods or the orbit of Uranus into Mars. Then she gave me a surprisingly warm smile. "I understand obsession, I understand it very well. Doris will give you all the details. I am sure we can reach a satisfactory arrangement." Then to Doris. "I'll stay here a few minutes then be in the office."

"If you will come with me, Mr. Connor." Doris led the way and we exited. She picked up some papers then took me outside where we sat on a bench by a fountain beneath some sort of flowering tree. "Now then." She sorted out some papers. "In case you were wondering we ran a check on you and your agency, just a routine, we do it with anyone with whom we might do business. This is a contract we would need you to sign on behalf of your agency." She handed me a two page document.

The document relieved Miss Barnes of just about everything legally possible, no way anyone would be able to sue her through us. The rest was the usual and encompassed in it pretty much what is contained in our agency contracts. "Would you like to refer it to your lawyer, perhaps you could phone...?"

"No, that's all right, I get the gist of it, its pretty much like our agency contract. I can sign it now."

"Good, we are in agreement. This is a picture of David, taken about five years ago. About a year ago we had an agency do a search, they looked for five months and came up with nothing. This is all that." The document was the size of a small novel. I skimmed through it, a little background, mostly just reports.

"I wonder if you would mind telling me the whole story, everything you know about it." She made a small gesture towards the report. "Yes, I know, but I don't think there's much there, if you wouldn't mind. Not just the facts but any ideas or feelings you might have about it at all. Sometimes something seemingly inconsequential can be very important. Have you known Miss Barnes long?"

"Yes, a long time, since the first year of her marriage."

"Can you tell me about that?"

"The marriage, it was the coming together of the best and the worst. Richard Giradello, he had a nickname, his friends called him Bull, a vile and abusive man, physically abusive, a professional gambler. He came up the hard way but that is no excuse. Anyway they put together a television show, she the star, he the producer. Of course you know about the show, a big success, the biggest, one of the best shows ever, the best I think. She was the star and he was sitting on a gold mine. David was born, one of the most publicized babies ever. They formed their own production company, Richard had good business sense I don't deny that. Aquarius Productions." She didn't waste words, old Doris, brisk and to the point. She wasn't all that crazy about doing this.

"But the marriage didn't last."

"No, of course not. They divorced. It was very bitter, Elizabeth was terribly depressed. She was given custody of David, Richard had visiting rights. He was furious about that, not that he cared about David, he just hated to lose. He thought he owned the world."

"How did the shooting happen?"

She looked off into the distance, as if this was a waste of time. "I wasn't there, of course but, well, it was a Friday evening, just after dinner. Richard came to take David for the weekend. There was an argument, Richard knocked her down and tried to strangle her, the maid was there she saw it all, a Mexican woman. There was a gun in the desk in the hall. David took the gun and shot, trying to save his mother. Poor little David."

"And then David... ?"

"He went into a state of shock, it was too much for him, something snapped. He wouldn't speak, wouldn't eat, or couldn't, he had to be fed. It was terrible, it was all terrible. They thought it might be temporary but it wasn't. He had to be put into care, the best of places, the best of doctors, but it was years before he began to speak again. He was depressed, suicidal even, but he never regained the memory of the shooting. Then when he was eighteen the doctors said he could resume a more or less normal life. Elizabeth was overjoyed. But two weeks before his release, his coming home, he just walked away, disappeared. That was four years ago. We've tried to find him many times since."

I had been skimming the report while she spoke. "What is this about a legal firm? David has been in contact with them?"

"Yes, Richard's old lawyers, a small firm, Bechtman was Richard's personal friend, they went back a long ways. He probably kept Richard out of jail in the old days. They look after David's estate."

"David's estate?"

"Richard left everything to David, H came into it when he turned twenty-one. That is half of Aquarius Productions."

"And Bechtman won't... ?"

"Naturally we explored that avenue, many times and many ways."

"Has David tried to... to exercise any authority or...?

"No, not yet at any rate."

"I see, okay, so what was David like as a little boy? What did he like, dislike, how did he like to spend his time?"

"Pretty much a loner as I recall, he seemed frail, not physically but... sensitive, very sensitive, almost delicate. Maybe that's why he snapped the way he did. Did well in school, no sports I don't think so, played chess, liked music but I can't remember what kind. Quiet and polite, no trouble at all."

That seemed to be all she had to say. "Okay, well every little bit helps. Thank you. I'm sure Miss Barnes can supply a few more details."

"That won't be possible. Elizabeth won't talk about him. It has all been too traumatic for her. She just wants you to find him. She is very sensitive about her private life, I'm sure you can understand that." I started to protest but she closed it off with, "I'm sorry that's the rule. Of course I, and whatever resources we have here will help you any way we can."

"Okay, well then, this person who saw David, do you know where I can get in touch with him, or her?"

"That's easily done, he's an employee here. I can arrange something for tonight if that's convenient. Lawrence Rodman, he grew up with David, he and his sister spent a lot of time with David. They might be of some help. I'll have Lawrence phone you."

That seemed to be all so we went back inside, to the office, a rather small office but with all the modern tools of her trade, and where she held queenly sway. We signed the papers. We shook hands, she held my hand that extra second and said. "I look forward to seeing you again." And all the while her expression, direct and intense, the unblinking gray-green eyes, hinted at... hinted at whatever you wanted to find there. I gave her my best half-smile and echoed her sentiment.

On the way to the car Doris said. "There is one more thing, I've saved the best for the last. There is a bonus for you if you find David. Fifty thousand dollars." Dramatic pause, and why not? "I thought you would be surprised. We often give bonuses, it creates incentive. It is a lot of money but this is important. The money would be given directly to you, it would be in cash, there would be no record of it anywhere. Tax free. It would just be between you and us, Elizabeth and myself." For the first time she smiled. "Maybe that will help you become... obsessed, wasn't that it?"

"That's quite a bonus."

"The other week we paid an actress four times that for three weeks work, she was always only half sober and could hardly remember her lines. Four years ago she was turning tricks." Doris gave a little shrug, what can you do, it's the world, it's the business.

Back in the hotel I had lunch sent up, took off my shoes and socks, and thought about things. There was not really a whole lot to think about although those fifty big ones did dance around in my head a bit. First things first. Find the guy, but the guy doesn't want to be found and the guy has money to hide with, find him anyhow, other people have tried with no luck. We have a small edge, he was in our town and hopefully he still is. Find him. How? I guess the usual ways. Maybe this Lawrence guy will have something. All in all my thinking about things was not too productive. I dozed off and slept for about two hours then phoned Claire to tell her the news.

"I know, she phoned me, Elizabeth Barnes. (in person, wow!) Congratulations on closing the deal. She was quite impressed, you certainly must have charmed her. She asked a lot of questions about you."

"I doubt that anyone has charmed her since she turned twelve. What did she ask?

"Were you; dedicated, have high moral standards, and obsessive? I answered definitely to tall three." Claire sounded very happy. "I've been asking around about her, nobody seems to know much but the words spiritual and very religious kept coming up. Is that how she strikes you?"

"Spiritual? I guess, whatever, certainly very rich. I guess you can be both, spiritual and rich, all that old stuff about the camel and the eye of a needle doesn't hold water these days. Anyway, as far as I know I'll be back tomorrow. I have to see someone and hopefully I can do that tonight."

I phoned an old friend of H.C.'s, a retired cop now living in L.A. He didn't know anything about the case but he did know of someone who was writing, or had written, a book, or at least an article, about the case. He would try to chase that down for me.

Chapter 6

I met Lawrence Rodman at a small, elegant, and I am sure very expensive restaurant called Beldons. He was a carefully groomed, meticulously tanned young man in a good suit, if you like Italian casual, it was light brown linen, three buttons. With it he wore a dark brown open neck polo shirt that looked to be cashmere. Cashmere is big again, I understand.

We did the introductions and the small talk, he was charming and gracious and slightly self depreciating in what seemed to me a very practiced way. I thought he must have hosted a lot of visiting fireman. I imagine that was a big part of his job at Aquarius, professional schmoozer, a pretty frail thing to build one's career on. But that was neither here nor there.

"Janice, my sister Janice, should be along soon, she's almost always late, not that she thinks it's the thing to do, she just doesn't think about it." He then told a joke about women being late and we shared a good old masculine camaraderie laugh together, God, women and their periods, what can you say.

Underneath it all he was a little nervous, maybe understandably, and he did study me very closely when he thought I was unaware. For my part I was casual, almost going through the motions, a little bit the out of town rube, impressed by the world of celebrity. Well, my goodness here was a man who had not only met Jack Nicholson but had had a conversation with him. I sipped my drink and looked around the room. "Well maybe you can tell me how you happened to know David, I understand you knew him from when he was a little kid?"

"From early childhood. My mother is Monique Cadet and my father is Steven Rodman, the director."

"That's a talented family."

"Not really very talented, not really very interesting, just in the business." He gave me his wry little laugh. "They divorced when I was a baby, father spent most of his time in Europe we never saw much of him, and mother had her career. We were those stereotypical "Hollywood" children. Elizabeth was our neighbor, that was in the old house, we spent a lot of time there. Not really so much because of David, he is four years younger than me and when you are children that's something of a gap. It was because Elizabeth was always so good to us. Anyway, David was a quiet kid, let me see, read a lot, played chess, I don't know what else to tell you. People assumed he was good in school because he seemed so studious but he was only average. I remember we played a lot of board games together, you know, monopoly, clue, that sort of thing. He was never any trouble. Shy, yes, very shy.

"Sports? Play any? Follow any?"

"No, terrible at anything like that, though he certainly tried hard enough. I spent hours trying to teach him tennis and then baseball, not that I was any good but he was absolutely terrible. David was awkward, forever awkward, if something could be knocked off a table he would knock it off, if a foot could be stepped on he would step on it. Even in his speech, he would suddenly blurt things out. Awkward, always trying to please, but a nice boy."

At that point Janice made her entrance. She had had a little too much to drink, or perhaps not enough depending on her point of view. She didn't look at all like Lawrence, plain sister, handsome brother. He must have inherited momma's genes in that department.

Lawrence looked downcast but began the introductions. She cut him off half way. "So you're Sam Spade. Good evening, Sam, Mr. Spade, Mr. Private eye. Peeped in any good keyholes lately?" She sat down heavily and ignored us while she caught the eye of a waiter, easily done in this place, and ordered a martini, very dry of course. Then, the important task done, she returned to glare once again at me. It wasn't much of a glare though, I was probably moving in and out of focus.

"So, Sam, you want to know all about David?" She paused and more or less gave up on the glare. "So tell me what is it like to be a professional... a pro... a peeping tom. Is it a good job? Do you like it, huh? Do you get some kind of thrill? Do you get your, your jollies, huh?" She draped herself over her brother, burying her face in his neck. "Oh little brother, little brother, why did you walk into that fucking bar, and why did you... oh my poor sweet little brother."

"I told you Janice, it wasn't in a bar, I saw him on the street. Please, you'd better go home, I'll get you a cab. I'm sorry, Mr. Connor."

She straightened up. "Don't apologize to him, he's the fucking help. He does people's dirty work for them, snoops and spies and goes through their garbage. Right Sam?"

"Come on Janice, I'll get you a cab."

"Hey Sam, why don't you just leave things alone, mind your own business, you ever thought about that?"

"A mother wants to get in touch with her son, if he doesn't want to talk to her that's his business."

"Is that right? Well good for you, good for you, and I wish you bad luck, all the bad luck in the world." She stood up, awkwardly, bumping the table but somehow not knocking anything over. "All right, little brother, I made my appearance." She patted his hand. "I made my appearance." And she made a not bad exit but for the fact that she stumbled into a concerned looking waiter who managed to stop her from falling on her face.

Lawrence hurried after her. "Sorry about this, I'll be back in a minute. I was left with my thoughts and my scotch. I didn't have much of either so I ordered another scotch.

Lawrence's minute was closer to ten and when he came back he was filled with apologies. "I really am sorry about that. Janice has been having a hard time lately, personal problems, she's not herself, really she isn't. I know there is no excuse for her behavior, but... well anyway thank you for the way you handled things, that was good of you..."

"Hey, forget it, no problem, a couple of drinks too many, been there myself a few times, don't worry about it."

"That's very good of you. I was wondering... Oh I think we could use a refill." He signaled the waiter. "I was wondering, when you make your report, well I suppose you would include this meeting, I was wondering how much detail you went into."

I knew where he was coming from on this one. Good Queen Bess sure could inspire fear. "Actually I'm pretty big on detail, sometimes in reviewing your... okay I think I get your drift. In my report I'll say you were both very cooperative. At least I'll be half right which is more than I am most of the time." Ha, ha, ha, jolly, jolly, the green giant private eye. We jollied back and forth a bit more then got down to cases. He had been on a two day business trip, in a cab, had seen David on the sidewalk but by the time he got out of the cab David had disappeared. He was positive it was David. He was also positive David had not seen him.

"I'm going out to the home, where David was a patient, tomorrow, they might be of some help. Did you visit David very often?"

"Yes I did, at least once a month." He paused but I didn't say anything. "You really are quite thorough. I really liked David. Sometimes Janice came with me."

"Did he have any other visitors?"

"Only one that I know of, and I don't know who that was. An older man, in his fifties they said, I asked David about it but he never answered me. David never answered questions."

"So as far as you know, you and Janice, this guy, and his mother."

"Elizabeth never went. She just couldn't, it was all too much for her, it almost killed her, she's such a strong woman but this just too traumatic. She can hardly talk about him."

"So what was he like? What did he talk about? Did he have any plans, any likes dislikes, eccentricities?"

"For the longest time he didn't speak at all, then when he did he never had much to say. I'm not sure he even remembered who I was. He wasn't interested in much, just chess, I think. He always had the board out with some problem or classic game and he'd talk about that but I don't play so I wasn't too interested. I can't think of anything else. He was difficult to talk to."

We talked for another ten minutes or so but basically that was all I got from Lawrence Rodman, which was not too much. We parted with mutual expressions of thanks and handshakes and his hope that the next time I was in town I would get in touch, which I think was at least partly true. I think he wanted everyone to like him at least a little, even me, which must be a handicap in the world of showbiz. I felt a little sorry for him. He seemed like one of those people who are always a bit frightened of something or someone, always, all the time. It must be a hell of a thing, and with just one little tap in the right place he would shatter into a million pieces.

I went back to the hotel and wrote everything out in detail, as much detail as I could remember. I thought about things. What did I have? Well, he was in my town, at least I hoped he still was, a pretty good photograph, a quiet guy that played chess, that maybe remembered what he had done. That thing about Lawrence seeing David, did he see him on the street or in a bar? In a bar, I think. So what kind of bar would he not want people to know he went to. A gay bar, first thing you think, but this is Hollywood, half the town is gay, its even cool, so if Lawrence is a still closeted gay man, why? Sister Janice knows, he told her about the bar. Elizabeth is his employer but why would she care, what with all that new age love one another jazz, she's into and she would figure it out anyhow. What difference did it make? Only that there is a good chance that David is gay. And a lawyer with whom he is in contact, an old friend of his father's, probably the someone else who visited him. And fifty big ones if I find him, hard not to think about that.

I went for a short walk, incredibly dull neighborhood, nothing but hotels, had something to eat at the hotel, a few drinks at the bar, bought a book at the newsstand and went to my room.. I fell asleep reading.

Chapter 7

I dreamed about her again, Melanie, this time we were sitting on some kind of dock, only very high up it seemed. We were about twelve feet apart, she wasn't wearing my sports jacket this time, but a black lace shawl. She stared straight ahead, she didn't know I was there. I couldn't speak, just looked at her. I was filled with the most terrible sense of apprehension and dread. I could not speak, nor could I move.

I woke up and as always paced about the room, all those damn feelings bouncing around inside; anger, sorrow, frustration, I don't know what they are. Just not like anything else, like you've just stepped into hell, or maybe had a vision of it. Once every week or two she's in a dream, never the same place but always the same thing. And , sometimes when I'm not sleeping, sometimes just for a second I see her, as she was the first time I saw her. I thought about seeing a shrink, I'm sure they have some kind of therapy for this, but I know it will fade away in time, eventually they all do.

When I was a cop there was this crackhead couple that pimped out their nine year old daughter. One night a customer cut her to ribbons with a broken bottle. She lived. We found the body of a five year old boy that had been raped and strangled. There was a half eaten chocolate bar beside him and he wore a Donald Duck tee shirt. I saw a lot of things, eventually they all fade. But sometimes I think; what if they don't fade, what if they just keep piling up inside you until there is no more room, filled to the brim, what do you do then, what happens to you, what do you wind up doing?

Melanie is how I got to be a hero. Melanie was five and a half years old when they scooped her, just drove right up beside her and scooped her into the car, I guess it could have been any little girl. Just a block from her home. They had a pretty good description of the guy, a blonde woman was the driver

There was a big search of course, a special task force was formed, and I know they tried. I know cops. But after a while it settles into a routine, you do everything then you hope for a break. After two months of nothing happening the parents came to us, wanted us to look for her. We tried to talk them out of it but then we realized they had to feel they were doing something so we took the case, at least I did.

I did become obsessed, it took control of me, I worked twelve or thirteen hours a day, every day, searching, searching, chasing down a thousand leads, talking to a thousand people, showing those pictures over and over again. After two months the money ran out but I couldn't stop. I knew I would find them and I did. Finally you ask the right person, a fiftyish lady just checking out of the motel. "I can't say for sure but it certainly could be her, I didn't get much of a look. They bundled her right into the car. I thought she might be ill, the look on her face." I had missed her by an hour but I had a car, make and color, and a direction.

Ten days later I found them, in a small broken down cottage on the edge of a drab little town called Hankers. The sun was just starting to come up. I didn't even think about it, just walked quietly in the front door, the lock was easy. I had my gun out, the safety off, but the last thing I wanted was a gun fight. Melanie was curled up on the floor asleep, she was naked and her hands and feet were tied. I just wanted to get her out. I covered her with my jacket and gently picked her up, hoping she wouldn't awaken. As soon as I touched her she woke up, wide awake, but she didn't make a sound, just stared at me in absolute terror. It was only a two room shack and I could hear snores from the other room. As quietly as I could I started back out the door but there was a yell, the guy was awake. I ran, I was bout half way across the yard when I heard the shot and felt the searing pain in my side, like what a hot iron must feel like.

Cradling Melanie I dived behind a couple of trees. The guy was coming down the steps running towards me, he had a very big gun in his left hand, I remember noting that, a southpaw. He was in his underwear. I don't know what he was thinking, that I didn't have a gun, or if he was thinking at all, maybe half awake, maybe half stoned, running at me. I fired two quick ones and the second one got him, smack dab in the middle, knocked him back like he'd been hit by a baseball bat. He lay there, gurgling and moaning and bleeding, just about twenty feet away from me. Then there was a couple of shots from the cottage, rifle fire. I fired one back. It was a standoff, my car was a few hundred yards down the road and hers was in the driveway.

I looked down at Melanie and tried to talk to her, softly, gently. She had that awful look on her face, the one I see again and again, and her body, her frail little body was covered with round scars and scabs, old and fresh, cigarette burns, slash marks. The little finger of each hand was missing. I covered her as best I could with my jacket.

"The house is surrounded." I yelled. "Put down your weapon and come out with your hands up." Come out you fucking bitch, I prayed, come out with your hands up and as soon as you are within range I'm going to put one in your stomach too. Then I'm going to stand here and watch the two of you bleed to death. I suppose I went a little crazy, I even thought of storming the cottage. Yet all the while I was talking to Melanie, saying, "Its all right now, everything is all right, you're safe now." Over and over again.

After about fifteen minutes or so the state police came, someone had heard the gunfire. They took Melanie to the hospital, but no one wanted to risk getting shot by trying to rescue the guy. They surrounded the house and I waited with them but the woman had escaped through a back window. They picked her up five hours later.

So I was a hero, the papers interviewed me, television interviewed me, there was a magazine article, there was talk of a book deal. I didn't feel like a hero, I felt detached from everything and of course I was physically exhausted. I had lost fifteen pounds, but it was more than that, I imagine its something like the way men feel when they come back from a war, knowing that something had changed, you will never quite see life the same way again. The media, especially television treated it as though somehow it was a story with a happy ending when of course it was neither, neither happy nor an ending.

My fifteen minutes of fame lasted about a week, then I was usurped by a pretty nineteen year old who tearfully admitted that her uncle, the senator, had been having sex with her since she was fourteen. She had a good month of fame and did get a book deal.

Yet there were some good things; a Melanie fund was started, people did bake sales and raffles, high school kids washed cars, business men kicked in money, the baseball team had a Melanie day. There would be more than enough for medical and therapy expenses and an education fund. People felt good about it, and so they should, it at least was something.

I begged off from most of the events, pleading exhaustion or illness, even from getting together with the Brinowskis, Melanie's parents. It was two weeks before I finally went to visit, I said it had to be in the evening, because of work I said. I didn't want to see that face again.

I came after dinner, Melanie was asleep, she slept a great deal her father said. We sat on the small deck at the back of the house, drank some beer and talked. I felt awkward and oddly enough a little guilty, as if I was there, receiving their thanks again, under false pretenses. They told me what the therapist had said, it would be a long process. It would be a forever process, I thought. They told me about the fund. He, Ted, was a blue collar guy, a freight handler at the airport, she, Louise, stayed at home. Louise like country western music, Ted liked jazz. I guessed they were in their late twenties. Melanie was an only child, I wondered if they had planned on having more and would they now. Melanie would be the center, everything would revolve around her. Now, in their lives, everything would be forever and completely changed.

Before I left I went into the bedroom to see Melanie, she was sleeping quietly, not moving at all, breathing gently. She had kicked the light cover half off and was wearing white pajamas with ducks and elephants on them, you couldn't see any of the scars. Louise gently covered her up again and Ted said. "She sleeps right through the night now, she doesn't wake up." He said it as if it was a good sign, a hopeful sign.

As I was leaving Louise took my hand and said. "I just wish there was something we could give... something we could do for you."

I was a hero, people recognized me on the street, of course they still do, just not so often. I was on the national news services. I think Claire was a little pissed at first, I had cost the agency all that free time, two months of it, but it turned out to be a real boon for the agency. Melanie's bad luck, our good luck. To begin with a local business man sent us a check to cover the unpaid for time on the case, and asked that it be anonymous. We got quite a few new clients, I guess they wanted to see me, something to talk about at the club or on the golf course.

For my part I mostly let Claire do the talking, I would sit there and look tough and let them read into me whatever they wanted; hero that saved a little girl or Dirty Harry tough guy that blew a big hole in the sicko's stomach. I almost stopped going out in public, I didn't like people recognizing me and wanting to talk to me.

I went to the trial, they both pleaded guilty, it was no plea bargain, they had nothing to bargain. The guy, his name was Ted oddly enough in a sick way, read out a statement in which he tried to take as much of the rap as possible; he had been responsible, she had been a dupe more or less. The next day's tabloid said "Devil or Dupe?" Ted looked in really bad shape, he was in a wheelchair, would never walk again, thin as a rake.

His partner was named Marylyne and she looked like nothing; the person you would never notice, small and dumpy, dull brown hair, dull eyes, bad complexion, she looked more like a victim than a perp, at least to the non cops. Whatever the judge gave him twenty and her eight. Eight, out in five. I couldn't believe it, eight years. I thought a lot about that one. Anyway that is how I became a hero.

Chapter 8

I went top the "home", asylum really, where David had spent about half his life. I talked to the doctor, more accurately I met with him, for the good doctor would not discuss David at all, in fact he was almost rude about the whole thing.

Nothing left to do I flew home.

I was met at the airport by Claire and her daddy. That was a surprise, Claire had never done that before, also it was one of the few times I had seen the two of them together since H.C. retired. They insisted we go for drinks and discuss the case.

It was an odd and rather illuminating meeting. Claire came close to being actually animated in her conversation and listened intently, furrowing her usually clear and pretty brows. Attentive, attentive and sharp, that was her theme. H.C., he was the tough old pro, authoritative, that was his role. I could actually feel the chemistry between them, they could manage to beam at one another without even looking at each other. That might be okay when you are fifteen, Claire, but you are now twenty-five. There is a point in your life where your focus should change, read the opening of Othello and Lear, but then both Desdemona and Cordelia wound up strangled so who knows.

H.C. began it, dead serious, no formalities. "All right, Francis, begin at the beginning, all the details." He tapped his forefinger on the table, something familiar about that. I felt like an agent being debriefed which is how they probably looked at it.

"The beginning, okay, I took a cab to the airport, the flight left on time I think, I had an aisle..."

"Come on, don't screw around, this is serious, it can be very important. You should appreciate that." Strong reproof from old H.C.

Just who the hell are you tell me not to kid around, I looked up and met his eyes briefly, my fuck you look, you think I don't know all about you and your leaving the cops? Something in him crumbled just a little, it was in his eyes and his mouth, all in a millisecond, just a shell, nothing in there, all a role, nothing I hadn't known for a long time.

"What is Elizabeth Barnes like? What did she have to say?" This from Claire whom I almost expected to be taking notes.

"She is attractive, rich, powerful, smart, probably ruthless, not much like Bisty Macguire I'm afraid. Something odd about her, and she's into some kind of new religion I guess. She has nothing to say about David. Look I'll tell you what we have here. We have a twenty-two year old guy, worth millions, wants to be lost, a loner, probably plays chess, probably, lives here, probably, might be gay. We have a pretty good photograph. There isn't much else."

Of course they couldn't let it go at that so eventually I recounted almost everything in detail. H.C. tried to reassert himself, the tough, shrewd old head cop. "We pull out all the stops on this one, no slacking off." Claire played the clever analytical mind, weighing each answer carefully, as if from all this there would suddenly come a blinding flash of inspiration. "Eureka!" they would shout in unison. "He is living under the name Herman Melville and he resides at 234 Elm St."

H.C. tapped his forefinger on the table, I hoped they both wouldn't start doing that, it might be too much. I might run screaming out into the night. "Too bad you couldn't get anything out of the doctor." H.C. said. "That might have been the most help." Just the slightest tone of criticism; had I been more diplomatic, more clever, had it been H.C. himself well then... "How do you intend to proceed, what's the plan?"

Screw you. I gave a careless shrug and mumbled. "Oh, the usual."

"Hey, I said this was very important and I'm getting much enthusiasm from you. What the hell is that all about?"

I deliberately looked casually around the room, caught the eye of a waiter and signaled for another round of drinks while I said, in what I hoped was an off handed manner. "I'm enthusiastic all right." No lie there, fifty thousand very good reasons to be enthusiastic, (something I had not mentioned). "But if you think I'm not up to it that's all right too. I don't mind dropping out. Maybe use Rick and that new guy, they know the routine. You'd probably have to okay it with Elizabeth though."

Claire leapt in to heal the breach. "He's just tired. It's the airplane ride, the only thing in the world that can phase him." She then reached over and put her hand over mine, physical contact from Claire, this must be really important to her. "You're the best Francis, the best, you've proved that. If anyone can find him you can. We have complete faith in you, we're just eager to help. Now tell me, what is Elizabeth Barnes really like, and what kind of house does she live in?"

I told her, I told her in great and at times imaginary detail, because after a minute I realized that the question had not just been a tactical changing of the subject, she really did want to know. She was fascinated. So I decided to push things a bit, bullshit is like axle grease. "But Jesus, do you know what the best is? I should have told you, I didn't think you... When I went to the restaurant to meet Lawrence who do you think was there? Jack Nicholson."

"Jack Nicholson."

"My hand to God, I kid you not. And I wouldn't even have noticed him, he was sitting in this booth at the back with four or five people, laughing it up pretty good. Lawrence told me and sure enough it was him."

"Who was with him?"

"I didn't recognize any of the other people. Most people I wouldn't care, but Nicholson, he's a guy I'd really like to meet." I looked at Claire, she had the expression of a fourteen year old meeting her rock and roll hero. Bingo, breakthrough. "I think I've seen everything he's done, Chinatown, he was great in that."

"That was a great movie. Did people ask for his autograph?"

"No, everyone seemed to leave him alone, probably why he goes there. Lawrence told me a story about him, Lawrence knows him, I guess jack was a bit of a wild man in his day." I patched up some story that it seemed to me I had once heard about Errol Flynn or John Barrymore or someone. She was impressed, she couldn't hide it, three degrees of separation between her and Jack Nicholson. So that is it, couldn't mistake the expression, something in there I hadn't known about; celebrity, the aura of celebrity, of fame, wannabe starfucker. Not that it mattered, not that it meant anything, just interesting. Maybe it came from all those days and nights of growing up with no mom and a part time dad. Maybe movies filled something that needed filling. Anyway for a moment or two she had become quite human, a bit weird, but human. So here's to you, Jack Nicholson, wherever you are. Sorry about taking your name in vain but if I'm any judge of character you've probably jerked a few people around in your time, and you can know that for one brief moment your name, only your name, created a bridge between two people, a frail, tenuous, short lived bridge perhaps, but a bridge nevertheless. And hey, I really liked the thing with the golf club and the Mercedes.

The evening ended on a happy note, at least for me, we put the drinks on the expense account.

Chapter 9

The next morning, bright and early, we began. First was Captain Marvel, our computer genius, I don't pretend to tell him what to do, just tell him what I have and what I want. He can get into all kind of systems; driver's licenses, house sales, employment records, and even some of the tougher ones like the cop shop system, although that one is courtesy of my friend, Gelman, whom I hope made a good bet on Noah's Dream.

David might have kept his first name, guys often do, women not so much, he might keep his real birth date, guys often do that. But David was not some deadbeat dad or reluctant witness, he was a chess player, a careful planner, and very rich.

Tommy was next. "You are going to be our chess man, do you play?"

"I play, I'm not that good."

"That's okay. I want you to immerse yourself in the chess subculture, whatever the hell that is, you join every chess club in the city. Listen this is going to involve a lot of evenings, a lot of extra hours, is that a problem?" He shook his head. "Fine, if we find this guy there is a bonus in it for you, whether its you that finds him or not. There's a lot of guys play chess in the park by Laurent St., hang around there in the daytime, the chess clubs whenever they meet, you can work out a story for them. But this is important, you don't show any pictures, you don't even take his picture with you, you might be tempted to look at it, you don't ask any questions, you just hang around and be patient. We can't afford to spook this guy, he'll run like a rabbit. Okay you're our chess man, its your ball game, whatever you can think of. This is the best lead we have, I think maybe the only lead. Maybe there are chess magazines, there are magazines on everything else, maybe Captain Marvel can get a subscription list. Leave a note on my desk every couple of days, let me know what's happening. That's it, be creative, I promise it will be a nice bonus."

"Ricardo, you and I will go out and do some work."

"I'm with you, boss."

Rick and I left, not that I had any work I could think of at the moment, but I didn't want to stay in the office and look like I was doing nothing. We went to a coffee shop, I had coffee, he had tea. Rick waited patiently, he always does, he's a zen kind of guy, martial arts and all that. Rick is Thai, a Buddhist, sharp with a good if slightly off beat sense of humor. I like him and I trust him implicitly.

"I had the photograph blown up, almost poster size, a copy in my office and a copy in my bedroom, I'll study it every day." That meant I wanted him to do the same. "I really want to find this son of a bitch. You and I are going to try to get into the mind of David Barnes. You know about as much as I do, what do we have? This kid does this terrible thing, something in him snaps, he's a sensitive kid, blocks it all out, hospital etc. etc., time to go home but he doesn't go, he takes off. Why did he do that? Did he remember what happened? I think so."

"But why not go home to mom, he did it for her?"

"I don't know, maybe it would all remind him, lots of guilt though. He moves to a new city, starts a new life. But he keeps in touch with his old legal firm then he turns twenty-one and he's a millionaire. Does he buy a Porsche and a big house? All that guilt, all that money, what does he do?"

"But we don't know that he has touched the money. I don't think he does the rich man thing."

"I tend to agree. St. Francis of Assissi? Anyway I want you to think on it, you're good at that sort of thing, just don't give it to me in the form of a zen koan. Now the only other thing we have going for us is that he might be gay and maybe frequent gay bars. I know someone can help us there, at least give us a list of the bars. We'll split them up and check them out. Like we always say, it's a process."

"Right, boss." He sipped his tea while I sipped my coffee and we thought.

No great insights coming I said. "It's a process." I shrugged and he returned the shrug. "Okay so before we go any words of wisdom to help us on this endeavor?"

He hesitated just a second. "When we look at the world we see things not as they are but as we are."

"I'll try to remember that one."

It became a routine. Every morning I would stare at his picture; pretty ordinary looking guy, a smile but not much of a one, hesitant, forced, the eyes, sad, distant, or did I just read that into them, what can you know from a photograph... but then I remember a photograph I saw once of a kid, about twelve, when they used to send them down to work in the mines, you could see a lot in that one, and those pictures from the depression, the okies, the dust bowl, sad, lined faces, more than sad. So there you are, David, and what are you all about now? A ten year old boy blows away his father, okay protecting his mom but still, a sensitive boy, "delicate" Doris said, so something snaps, you block it out, don't need Freud for that one, but you remembered didn't you that was why you couldn't go home to mom. All that guilt, what do you do with it? With some people it would just eventually wash away, but not you I don't think so, maybe you try to atone, work with the poor or something.

Chapter 10

It became a familiar routine. Spend some time around the chess players in the park, hit a couple of gay bars in the evening, sometimes I'd park by a hostel for the homeless or a soup kitchen and watch, a long shot, but they were all long shots. Hang around and watch, hang around and watch, like a stake out, hours of boredom then two minutes of action, just like a war, at least so they say, I've never been in a war. Check in at the office every day, write reports, reports with nothing to put in them. Captain Marvel came up empty. Maybe David didn't play chess any more, maybe David wasn't gay, maybe David was holed up in some fancy apartment building drinking himself to death, maybe he had become a recluse, maybe he'd had plastic surgery, maybe he'd gone to Mexico, or Monte Carlo or Minneapolis.

After a few days the routine became almost pleasant, hanging around watching the chess games. I used to play a little but not on that level. Mostly the same faces every day; you wonder about those guys, almost all guys, only saw two women, how many hours of their lives have been spent staring at chess boards, every game a different set of problems, how many games they must have played, still, no different than golfers or anglers or horseplayers. Most of the guys would play for money if they could, if not they would just play. A kid used to play sometimes, a kid of about ten or eleven, on his way home from school, he'd be carrying his schoolbag, and he'd play the better players and he would sometimes win. I liked to watch him, we all did, he played with such intensity, it was exciting for him and his eyes glowed with such a fierceness as if they might devour the board, the pieces, and all. I figured in a year or so he would be beating all of them easily. But not necessarily so, or so I was told, sometimes kids like that come along like the next Bobby Fischer but suddenly they stop, they lose the intensity, they lose interest, or they have reached a peak and can go no further.

I liked to eat my lunch there, pick up a sandwich and a cup of coffee, sit on a bench in the sun, sometimes talk to a few of the players. I even got to understand the game a little, appreciate what was happening. Always I would think one time I'll look up and David would be there, watching a game, maybe even playing, maybe come and sit upon my bench while I ate my lunch. I didn't sweat it, if anything I felt almost unconcerned, that bothered me a little and I would have to think about those fifty big ones, but even they became kind of an abstraction. Anyway I couldn't think of anything else to do, so you put things in motion and you see what happens. Claire, always anxious, would ask, "What do you think?" I could only shrug and say, "We'll find him or we won't." That was about the way I looked at it.

The gay bars felt a little awkward (all right very awkward) at first but they turned out to be okay as well. I would sit at a table as close to the back of the room as possible, nurse a few drinks for a couple of hours and watch the action, who was trying to hit on whom, did they get lucky, who didn't try, and so forth and so on. I certainly didn't get hit on very often, a little hard on the old vanity that was, I mean despite what we know and I know a few gay guys, don't we all feel a little like that every gay man is going to try to get into our pants, I mean just a little, I mean despite what we know. I mean do we think every woman is anxious to get hot and steamy with us, no of course not, only the discerning ones, the ones with good taste, yeah right. Just like straight bars there generally are the preliminaries; eye contact, look away, a little body language, eye contact again. I avoided eye contact as much as possible.

All in all gay bars are all right, nice atmosphere, people seem to enjoy themselves more than in most straight bars, and after a while you don't feel nervous about using the washroom. It seems to me gay men don't dress as well as they used to, less sense of style, even black gay men, but they certainly do take good care of their hair, the all look like they just came from the barber shop, a really good barber shop. Maybe the clothes thing is just a passing fad. One good thing about a gay bar is that you are not too likely to have some bozo at the next table try to assert his manhood by asking you to step outside because you stared too long at his old lady. Gay bars are all right but, but there is that one important element missing, I mean if you are straight its an important element. And without that element there aint no possibility nor even fantasy, and life without those is a pretty dreary thing.

So I would sit, drink my scotch, hope to see David suddenly walk in the door, and watch the action, and there always was some action. And come on now guys, didn't we used to envy that a little, in the old days I mean, the bathhouses and all, all that sex, sex for the sake of sex, those guys had more sexual partners in a year than I had in my whole life, find em feel em fuck em and forget em, jump em pump em dump em, as we used to say when I was a kid (but we never did). Those guys had the ultimate male fantasy. What does a gay man bring on a second date? What second date. Then along came AIDS.

The gay bars soon became boring, I always felt a little awkward and about as lonely as you can feel in a crowded room. Most of the bars had entertainment and it was always pretty bad, I guess you had to take it for what it was, like a high school concert. At one of these bars one evening one of the entertainers, a torch singer, came to my table. "Do you mind if I sit here?"

"Ah, no, that's okay."

"I'm going to order a drink." She didn't offer to buy me one but she did tell the waiter to put it on her tab. She was young, early twenties maybe, slim, black hair and large brown eyes, very feminine, in the way she held herself, the way she moved, her gestures feminine but not with drag queen exaggeration. She had the beginnings of breasts, not a whole lot happening there but definitely something developing. She wore a low cut dress so I guess she was pretty proud of the cleavage, slight though it was. I supposed it was the result of some kind of hormone treatment. Incredible thing it must be to go through, that really is the courage of your convictions. She sipped her drink and looked about the room.

I said. "I enjoyed your performance, you have a good voice." Not really true, she had an only ordinary voice, but at least she looked good.

Still looking around the room she dismissed that with a shrug. Then she turned suddenly to me, focusing all her attention directly at me, elbow on the table, chin cupped in her hand, the hint of a mischievous smile. An instant flash of memory, in a bar, a woman I had just met that evening, exactly the same movement and expression, and this woman had said. "I want you to fuck me." Quite a thing to say, more than a little disarming and maybe a little threatening. That turned out to be the only unusual or even interesting thing about the woman and it was something she said very often, to many men in many places.

The torch singer said. "Can I ask you something, to settle a bet between me and my friend."

"You can always ask."

"Are you a cop?"

"Not the question I expected. No, but I used to be. I quit a few years ago. Do you win the bet?"

"I said no, so I think I win on a technicality. I said you didn't look like a cop."

"Cops look just like anybody else, they only look like cops when they act like cops. I worked undercover once, successfully, so they didn't think I looked like a cop, and they were pretty good at that sort of thing."

"Well, thank you. My name is Angelica." She extended a hand.

"Francis. Angelica, that's a beautiful name, like the actress."

She smiled warmly. "That's so right. That's who I took it from, I'm a fan. Do you like her?"

"Sure, one of the few celebrities I would like to know, sure." I guess that was true although I had never thought of it before, well sure, I would like to know her.

"I should be going, I have another set in a few minutes. Thanks for settling the bet."

"You're welcome, thanks for the company. Take it easy, Angelica."

"You too, Francis."

I stayed long enough to watch her set. She didn't have much of a voice but she tried hard and she liked it, she liked being up there, good voice or not she sounded like she meant it, all those tender, torching lyrics. The crowd, maybe more understanding than most, appreciated that, she got a nice round of applause.

And so it went, day after day, night after night; soup kitchens and chess clubs and gay bars and never that face. Three weeks that seemed like three months. Every morning I would stare at that face, blown up to life size, the prominent nose, deep set eyes, the tentative attempt at a smile, not much to smile about, quite a load for a sensitive young man to carry. What does he do to try to ease the guilt? Does he work in a soup kitchen, volunteer for medical experiments, or just live a solitary life getting through each day. He didn't just kill someone, he killed his father, something primal there, mythical. But none of this helped. We wrote our reports, had our little meetings, brainstorming as Claire would say, but basically we just kept doing the same routine. The brainstorming produced no storms, not even a little cloud that was helpful, there was a drought throughout the land and we all felt it. We put another staff member on the case, a woman, she dressed appropriately and checked the soup kitchens, the food banks, the homeless shelters, all the growth industries. She thought it was cool, at first she thought it was cool, after a while she thought it was something else.

Instead of waiting for me to phone as she had said, Elizabeth would phone the office once or twice a week and because I was rarely there she would talk to Claire. That was okay by me and it certainly pleased Claire. "She is really nice, and bright, very bright. I think we've established a kind of rapport, I think I know how to handle her." Yeah, right, the day you can handle her is the same day I play middle linebacker for the Miami Dolphins. On the best day of your life you couldn't begin to handle her. She could tie you in knots, wrap you with a ribbon and throw you in the deep blue sea before you figured out what time it was. And she wouldn't even work up a sweat, matter of fact I am sure Elizabeth (as we had all come to call her) never works up a sweat, I'm sure she never sweats, not even perspires, just glows a little. Somehow, from our one brief meeting, Elizabeth had made quite an impression on me.

Chapter 11

I was still seeing Gail, not often enough though what with her kid and all, her job and my job. She had changed to working the day shift and sometimes she would take off a little early and we would spend a few hours together, in my apartment, in my bed. Once or twice a week we would go out for dinner, once a movie, then a little hurried sex. It seemed we were always getting into or getting out of bed, it sometimes felt frantic, not the best way to establish a relationship. "I wish it didn't have to be this way." She would say. "I wish that too." I would say, holding her tightly and meaning it, wanting to take her back to bed. I think there are two kinds of women; those you want to wake up with in the morning and still spend time with, and those you don't. Gail was definitely the former.

But there were times I was glad things were the way they were. I didn't want to get bogged down in anything, I was starting to get a little desperate about the case, about the fifty big ones really and what they would mean.

Sometimes I felt Gail was getting too involved and that bothered me a little, (but it secretly pleased me too), other times I felt I was getting too involved and that bothered me a lot but there wasn't much I could do about it, just feel bothered I guess. This thing with Gail was new to me, that is I had never become romantically involved with an old friend before. It had all happened so easily, we had just kind of slid into it, had never even questioned it. Despite how well I had known her as a friend, knowing her as a lover was still different, still a discovery. For once I knew, more or less, what I was getting into.

I spent two Sunday mornings in the park with Gail and her daughter, Christina. That was okay, I gave the kid a lot of room and she did the same for me, we were both a little wary. She was very protective of her mom. We only had one real conversation, Christina and me, that about a homework assignment and from that into theater, something she was interested in, but it was fine, I think I did well, very low key. "She likes you." Gail told me the next day. An exaggeration I knew, it meant she didn't think I was a complete idiot. "She thinks you're 'kinda cool' and pretty good looking for an old guy." That meant I didn't look like some kind of slobbering sex maniac. Give me time, Christina, give me time.

We talked a lot, Gail and I, often about things I almost never talk about, a real danger sign that. I am a very private person, (secretive I'm accused of) and I practice evasion and sometimes deceit to stay that way. It is something I learned at an early age. Maybe it was just that she was a good listener, or maybe it was just the right time, or maybe I always knew I could trust her, or maybe... well whatever.

"It was true what I said about Melanie, I wish it had been someone else that found her." It was in bed, in the dark, passion spent, lying a little away from her, not touching. "I have nightmares about her, the dreams are never the same but they are all similar. I always feel so helpless and so sad. And that is how I feel when I wake up, and angry. And then I think about that bitch, that in five years or so she'll be out, getting on with her life as if nothing had happened, meanwhile Melanie, Melanie and her parents, what happened to their lives, yeah forever. Sometimes I get a little crazy about it, sometimes I fantasize, you know, and I think... I see myself, I see myself with a high powered rifle, waiting outside the prison then as soon as that bitch steps outside, takes a few breaths of free air I blow her away. I don't know, maybe it will all fade away in time, things do. I'm sure I'll never actually do it. But you know I drove out to the prison one day. I know how I would do it, where I would be, where I would have my car, yeah I know how I would do it. I'm an ex cop, I know how to do these things, I could set it up. You know they made videos of it, all the psychos do now, videos of all the things they did to her. They weren't admitted into court but some cops I talked to saw them. Don't worry, I'm sure I'll never do it. But I keep seeing myself doing it. People like that. I just wish the whole thing would go away."

And she, thankfully, didn't say anything, didn't move, waited, waited until I turned to her, then just held me, silently.

Chapter 12

Another week went by, another week of the same, and I was getting pretty anxious. I thought more and more about those fifty big ones. I had missed out on Noah's Dream and I didn't want to miss out on this. There was still one long shot; the lawyer.

I met Ryan at Carmichaels. He kidded me a little about Gail. "See, what did I tell you? I never give you losers. What would you do if I wasn't around to look after you?"

"Listen, I need your expertise on a business matter." I told him all about the case and about Bechtman, the lawyer. "So what I want you to do is put me in touch with a first class burglar, someone who can get me into that office. There has to be something there, he's handling millions of dollars for the kid, obviously David trusts him. I think Bechtman used to visit him when David was in the institution. They keep in touch, there's got to be something; an address, a phone number, the name he's using. So I want to get into that office."

"Very interesting. Let's have another round." He signaled the waiter. "You're sure the kid has been in touch with Bechtman, I mean fairly recently?"

"Oh yeah, documents signed by him, notarized, in Bechtman's presence. Bechtman just refuses to give out his whereabouts on his client's instructions."

"Well, I'd say there was a very good chance there would be something there, yeah a good chance."

"So who do you know that can get me in there?"

"So who do I know? Come on you know that much, I'm as good as there is in this town."

"No, no, no, this is business not friendship, as a matter of fact I didn't know for sure you still did that."

"Exactly, it is business, the business I'm in. I'm treating it as business."

"Jesus, I don't know, Ryan."

"I'm a big boy, remember, this is what I do and I'm good at it, I'm also very cautious. This is how it would work. If it is doable I do it alone, no offense but I work better alone and I don't want to have to worry about someone else, in a professional way. I know what you want and I probably know better than you how and where to find it. I've done this sort of thing lots of times, its quite a field, information is quite a commodity."

"What, you mean like industrial espionage, pretty glamorous stuff."

"I would never call it that, sounds like you're going to blow up General Motors or something. No, all that big glamorous stuff you are never going to get to, so you supply little pieces; all the memos a branch manager has received in the last six months, sales reports, inventories, who knows what it means? Politicians, or at least groups acting for politicians use guys like me too. Just information on demand. But anyway the point is I know the field and this is what I do. So basically it amounts to this; I check out the situation, you never can tell with lawyer's offices, they could be in a strip mall or a big fancy building with lots of security. Lawyer aren't usually that big on security, especially old timers, yeah I've done a few lawyer's offices, so if I like it I do it if I don't I don't. We haven't talked money yet."

"The bankroll is four thousand so that's the best I can offer, but the thing is there is a bonus if I find the kid, so if this leads to me finding the kid it becomes ten thousand."

"Well four isn't exactly cause for dancing in the streets and normally ifs ands and buts don't count for much but coming from you... coming from you it does. So I'll check it out, If I don't like it I can put you in touch with someone else that might be willing to take it on but you would probably have to come up with at least twice the four, the harder the nut to crack the more it costs. But anyhow I'll check it out. One more thing, financial thing."

"Financial? I don't... what... expenses?"

"See, you're getting the hang of it, always expenses."

"Well of course, plus expenses."

"Exactly, and this having been a business conference it means you get to pick up the tab."

We talked quite a bit more, business about David, his father, his mother, Bechtman, the point being something that might be used as a password on a computer. I told him everything I could think of and he took notes. Finally all done, he said. "You know if Tricky Dick had just known a couple of real professionals like me there never would have been a Watergate and American history would be completely changed."

"And if my grandmother had any balls she'd be my grandfather, that's something to ponder over on a sleepless night."

"Hmmm. Indeed it is. So tell me, are you and Gail going to walk hand in hand into a Mexican sunset?"

"Anything is possible, sometimes I think yes, sometimes I think no." And that was how we left it.

I worried about the burglary thing. I had never mixed friendship and business before, but now I had, of course Ryan is a big boy and no one held a gun to his head, that is his business etc. etc., but if he did get nailed I would feel very bad and very guilty and I would wind up visiting him every week for as long as he was in.

When I wasn't worrying about Ryan I worried about Gail, not exactly worried but thought a lot about her, sometimes she was more important than Mexico, sometimes Mexico won out; maybe the three of us; her, her kid, and me, we could move to Mexico, yeah, I'm sure her kid would go for that. I don't even know that Gail would.

This is one of the problems in the world, so many women are in the wrong bodies, like if Gail was only Anne with no dependents and all that money why we would travel the world, making love and enjoying ourselves. For that matter if Claire only had a zestful, flirtatious, joyful woman in that gorgeous face and body it would make work much better, and make my lust for her seem somehow healthier. But then if Anne were Gail she would have been happily married years ago to a much nicer man than me. So the thing is my children, I guess we just have to take the world the way we find it and sort it out the best way we can.

Chapter 13

The search dragged on, there was nothing else but to continue the routine. I remembered all the times I worked vice, all the stakeouts that led to nothing, all the putting guys undercover and things going wrong, there were many more failures than successes, a lot of work and risk that led to nothing. It was not a cheerful memory.

Claire fretted a good bit, came up with a few entirely unworkable ideas, but all in all was in, for her, a surprisingly good humor. It was due to her phone conversations with Elizabeth; really they turned her on, she would tell me about them and her beautiful brown eyes would sparkle and she would seem almost to glow. Once she actually giggled, well almost giggled. It was strange but there it was. But then as all con men and politicians (big difference there) know everyone has that one irrational soft spot. Elizabeth had certainly found Claire's and I would bet she found it in the first five minutes of their first conversation. "She knows just everybody, I guess she would, she can just phone... well anyone. She's even been telling me some inside gossip. We just have to find her boy for her." Lonely little Claire with her little girl fantasies, a teenager in love, with a crush on fame.

So Claire, just like everyone else, was not quite what she seemed to be, although in pretty well every other aspect she was the mirror of her daddy, old H.C. Maybe that was why they had that glowing relationship, each could look at the other and see themselves mirrored there which I guess is a kind of self love. But that's not so bad, most days I could use a little of that.

One evening, shortly after Claire had taken over the agency we had a nice long chat, it was at a bar and we had quite a few drinks. It all began as a business discussion, just general business but eventually it got to what she really wanted to ask.

H.C. left the force under a slight cloud, nothing formal, no charges, he took early retirement for medical reasons, mental strain and stress. It was all very quiet, no one wanted another police scandal and no one ever wants Internal Affairs nosing around, God knows what they might turn up. I thought H.C. had done a pretty good job of running the department, he was always more of an administrator than a cop. However there was a little clique that wanted to control the department and H.C. stood in their way. So they got him out. I thought he had been railroaded so I, in a great show of sympathy, or solidarity, or righteous indignation resigned. I'm such an idealist.

"Dad, I know he told you, but he appreciated so much what you did, it was such a show of loyalty, when I think about it. It was your career."

"To be honest sometimes I don't know if I should have done it, it didn't do any good."

"Dad never talks about it, except for telling me what you did. I've always sort of wondered about it, I know Dad would never do anything wrong I just never understood what happened."

"I'll tell you everything I know about it if you like." I took a long pause, of course she liked, that was what this was really all about. "Your dad was a straight cop, you know that. If he had been on the take you guys would be millionaires now. That is not an exaggeration, your dad ran vice for what, twelve years, there's guys that just worked vice that made a million in less time, if you believe the stories. If you have the inclination and are willing to take the chances there is a lot of money to be made in vice. It was office politics, cop office politics, a little more hardball than most, but still just office politics. There was this little clique, three guys, that wanted to run vice and your dad stood in their way, so they got him out. They framed him, I don't know the details but that is what it was. Don't look surprised, cops, at least vice cops do it all the time. We know how to do it better than anyone. You want a snitch, you carry a bag of crack with you, pick up your man and threaten him with possession of the crack you just "found" on him. Witnesses, same thing. Listen when I worked vice I could have come up with ten witnesses that saw Mr. Wilkes shoot Mr. Lincoln."

"Was it because he's black?"

"No, it would have been the same if he was white or Chinese or Mexican, just office politics played the cops can play it."

"It can't be that simple, that easy to do. Why didn't Dad fight it? That isn't like him, to just roll over."

"I wondered about that too, because no, it isn't like him. I don't know, if he fights it he risks losing his pension, and it could be messy, people remember the accusation they don't remember what follows. But I think the reason was probably you. Yeah you. These boys are no dummies, they'd know about you, the frame would probably be something really ugly; sex rings, teenage hookers, drugs, boys, I don't know. It would be something he would not want you to read about in connection with him. There was a lot at stake, it would be a good frame."

"And so you..."

"The whole thing made want to puke so yes I did what I did. I knew the new guys would ruin the department anyway. Maybe it was all for the best, I like to think so."

And that was that. Pretty good story, eh? Once again I came out rather heroic. Not quite an accurate story though, The truth is that old H.C. was on the take, nothing serious, I doubt that any money changed hands. There was this very expensive call girl outfit and I guess you might say that H.C. looked the other way in exchange for regular sexual favors. No big deal, as a matter of fact I had known about it for a couple of years. I didn't begrudge him, hell the guy was a widower, he worked hard, so he liked to get laid, pretty human to me. Also when it comes to nooky I am an ardent socialist. I think it should all be spread around more equally, Karl should have put that in his manifesto. Then too, I had taken a few freebies myself. But the thing is the boys had him, they had him by the short and curly, they had the pictures, they had the tapes, they had a case. They let him out easily and quietly.

So why my self-sacrificing gesture? I wanted to quit anyway, that was the final push. I couldn't get a transfer out of vice, and vice would destroy me, I could feel it. There are some cops that can handle working vice like it was just another job, but others it just gets to you in some strange ways. Cops that have been straight for years are suddenly on the take, others become what they call rogue cops, a law unto themselves. It is a sinister, surreal world where everything is up for grabs, all mixed up; good guys, bad guys, right, wrong, real, unreal, until you begin to feel there is no point, no meaning to anything. And there is all that fucking money. Nothing you do seems to make any difference anyway.

I used to have this same dream, I had it often, it still comes to me sometimes. I would be walking around the lip of this large and very deep well (bottomless I guess), trying to keep my footing, always looking about, afraid that someone or something would push me in. Vice cops have a very high suicide rate. So I quit.

Chapter 14

Nine days after our meeting Ryan phoned, it was eleven at night, I had only come in ten minutes earlier, another evening at the gay bars. "Hey man, I'm glad I caught you at home. I'm at the airport, just got in. Stay where you are, I'm coming right over." There was a note of triumph in his voice.

I made myself a drink while I waited impatiently, it was the best I'd felt in a while, I couldn't stop grinning. It was not just that Ryan had almost assuredly found something good, it was that he was safe. He would not be rotting in some jail cell because of me. He was home.

He came in wearing a grin and a well cut navy chalk stripe suit, a muted red and blue tie, soft collar white shirt, and properly shined black shoes. He carried a briefcase. The very picture, (he could have modeled for it) of a top level executive.

"Man, its good to see you."

"Good to see you too. I think I have something for you." He laughed, he felt pretty good about it all. "How about a drink and I'll tell you all about it, no, make it a beer if you've got one." He came all the way in, sat down, opened his briefcase and began taking out papers. I went to the kitchen for his beer and to freshen my drink. "You know, you really should move, this place is depressing, it looks like a John Dillinger hideout. You want something a little more upscale, something a little brighter, and with a balcony. Balconies are great, on nice mornings you can have your coffee there and in the evening you can gaze at the stars with your sweetie in your arms."

I brought him his beer and sat opposite him. "Its really good to see you."

"Yeah, I know. Okay, business, the kid is using the name David Victor Stone and this is his mailing address." He handed me a slip of paper. "It's a post office box, at a sub station."

"That's great, Ryan, that's terrific."

"I thought I might find a phone number for you, but no luck. These are copies of the phone bills, nothing to this area code, but these incoming from this area, different numbers, right, pay phones. Looks like he checks in once a week. Bechtman probably has an emergency number to reach the kid but I couldn't find it. See that number penciled in beside each call, that's a file number, tells the bookkeeper who to charge it to, the file number is the kid's trust account. Here's all the stuff on the trust fund, I don't know if its helpful but I thought I'd bring it."

"Great, good stuff. My computer guy couldn't get into his system. So how did you get all this?"

"The computer. You are going to love this, its pretty funny. It comes down to I need the damn password to get in, pretty much what I figured. This can be a real problem, a guy can use anything; his wife's middle name, the first broad he laid, his kid's birthday, anything. But there is usually some kind of connection. So I ran through variations on the kid's name, the trust fund name the mother, the father, backwards forwards, it's a long process. The father, "Bull", Raging Bull, DiNero, El Toro, then eureka. What do you think the password is? B.WINKLE, right, Rocky and Bullwinkle, must be an old private joke between the two of them. There was a Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon framed on the wall. That made my day."

"That's a hell of a story. Here let me get you another beer."

"No thanks I'll pass, I have to go soon. But I have to tell the whole thing was dead easy, the getting in I mean. I was afraid it was going to be some big prestigious law firm but no way. To begin with the office is in one of those nice old houses that are redone into business premises, you know the kind, with an alarm system at least three hundred years old. Absolutely no problem and he'll never know I've been there. There is just him, two juniors and a secretary. I read up on the guy, old time criminal lawyer, pretty good in his day, now I guess semi-retired, just likes to keep his hand in, and handle the big trust fund for his ex buddy's kid. Anyway there it all is. Just remember all this stuff is evidence."

"Don't worry, I'll read it and flush it. Thanks again."

"Its only business. I really have to go, I'm dead tired, no sleep and that plane ride."

We went to the door where he took a long look around and shook his head. "You should definitely move, I know some people, get you a good deal."

"I'll think on it. About the money thing?"

"We'll talk about that later, its been a long day. I'm taking my kid to the ball game tomorrow."

"Right. Do me a favor, don't hustle the kid at pool or sell him a bridge, okay."

"Of course not, but I might just teach him gin rummy and get a little of my money back. Take it easy."

"You too.'

I checked the post office sub stations in the phone book then I phoned Rick at home, where, thankfully he was.

"What's happening, boss?"

I did my Eddie G. for him, (sometimes I really do feel a little silly). "Hey kid, you up for an early morning stake out?"

"Cool, boss."

"This is big, kid, really big. (I dropped the Eddie G.) So the kid is using the name David Stone and he gets his mail delivered to p.o. box 146, sub station C. That's on Grosvenor near Corydon. Its open from eight to eight, so meet me about a quarter to and we'll work out a stake out."

"This sounds like something."

"It sure as hell should be. See you in the morning."

I made myself another drink and put on some music. The fifty (forty now) big ones were starting to look close. I didn't want to think about that too much, nothing counts till its in the bank, but it did look like a real possibility. I could feel the old adrenalin start to flow, that sense of elation, the little rush when you know you are getting close. If I couldn't find him with this information then I should be in another business, but then I often think I should be in another business.

Chapter 15

The stake put was easy to set up, we did it from a car parked on the street, full view of the building and pretty much all of the street. Had he used the main downtown post office we would have had some problems; three entrances plus a sky walk, lots of pedestrian traffic, crowded sidewalks, traffic jams. We had been given a break, the universe was unfolding as it should. Even cautious chess players make mistakes and no matter how smart you are you only have to make one. Or so I hoped. He probably lived fairly close by, got tired of trying to find a parking spot downtown, and I would guess felt pretty safe.

I went to the local doughnut shop and picked up some coffee for me, tea and juice for Rick. We sat in his car and discussed the stake out. "How does this sound to you?" I asked. "We each do a six hour shift, I'll get Tommy to come and fill in for an hour mid shift, so it would be like three hours, an hour break, then two. What do you think? That work for you?"

"Sure, sounds okay. This is the big break I guess." He sipped his tea. "Tell me, what do you think about all this? You know, the kid, the mother, the whole situation, all that money and power. She never visits him, not once over all the years, that's more than neglect. It would be interesting to talk to the kid. What do you make of the mother?"

"Strange, even a little scary, all that new age religion stuff, maybe just a number she does. I don't think she wants to find David out of any great maternal feelings, hell, the kid owns half the company, her company. Like you say, money and power. I think she wants to get him under her wing, take him back to L.A., get him under her control, using the kid's guilt I would guess."

"Not a very attractive proposition is it?"

"Not if that is the case, but who the hell knows? And the kid is not a kid, he's an adult, he's got a lawyer. All he has to do is say no, refuse to talk to her, he's not a little kid."

"When I study his picture that is what I see, a sad little kid."

"Maybe, maybe, but a picture isn't necessarily better than a thousand words, sometimes you can read things into them that aren't there, I've done that. Anyway this is the business we are in, we provide a service, our responsibility ends there. Ours is not to reason why, etc. etc."

"You don't really believe that though do you?"

Sometimes Rick makes me uneasy.

Chapter 16

In bed, in the late afternoon, Gail said. "My, my, my, that was good, I must have... oh yes... that was fantastic."

I said. "I've always felt that sex was a religious act and try to treat it as such."

She snuggled against me, holding me tightly. "I think the Pope said the same thing in his last Easter message. Feel my heart, its still pounding. Come on now, that's not my heart."

She would have to leave for work in an hour; never enough time, no sleepovers for Christina, none for me. I kissed her forehead. She sighed and turned her body around, snuggling her back into my chest, like two spoons, she held my left hand against her breast and from time to time she kissed my fingertips. After a while she asked. "Have you ever wanted to be married?"

Normally in those circumstances, when that sort of question is asked I am up and into my clothes very rapidly, so rapidly in fact I look like a character in one of those old movies with the speeded up motion, the lover when he hears the husband on the stairs. But Gail was different. She was definitely different, and from time to time, like most people, I had given some thought to the idea of marriage. "Sure. More often when I was younger, I guess. I even proposed once but she turned me down, didn't want to be married to a cop. Came pretty close another time. Sure I've thought about it, I just don't know if I'd be any good at it. I have this kind of restlessness. I don't know if I could change enough."

We were both quiet. I waited for her to say something but she didn't, she kissed the palm of my hand and held it against her cheek. I went on. "And kids, I think about that, or a kid, I always think of one, that is a big experience to have missed out on. I used to think it wasn't worth it, you know, too much trouble, too much responsibility, too big an investment. Maybe it was just scary, the one thing you really don't want to screw up. And I know kids aren't for everyone, but I look at Ryan, look at his marriage, it lasted four years, all the fights, the bitterness, the hurts, so what happens, all the time the kid is growing up Ryan only gets to see him part time. All the bad feelings but Ryan is still pleased, he's happy with his kid. Look at you, you brought up your daughter all on your own, completely on your own. I can't even begin to imagine how hard that must have been. And then you say that having Christina was the best thing that ever happened to you. I don't know, I guess at the end of the day, when you're ninety-five and sitting on the park bench what do you regret?"

She turned to face me, took my face in her hands and gave me a long, gentle kiss. When she looked into my eyes her expression was serious, maybe just a bit sad. I wanted to change the tone, I said. "And do you know what else? Do you know what else, my dear?"

"No, what else? What else my dear?"

"I just cannot get enough of you. I absolutely cannot get enough of you."

"You can always try."

Chapter 17

Of course Claire was curious as to why we were staking out a post office and she pressed me in a very determined manner as to why. What did I have? Was it really a lead or just a hunch? If a lead how did I get it? I did my little verbal tap dance, my practiced buck and wing, being deliberately and I thought obviously evasive. She moved quickly from irritation to anger. "Don't play prim ma donna with me. I won't stand for it. You are not a one man operation, these things have to be cleared. I want to know and I want to know now what this is all about."

"Well, Claire, it is all somewhat complex." I just stared at her. I thought I was going to have to spell it out for her, nice easy words of one syllable. Finally she got it. I had obtained the lead through some illegal method, probably the computer. She backed off immediately. We had done this little dance before. When it comes to some of my methods Claire definitely likes to look the other way. That is why it is always me that deals with Captain Marvel and his magic computer. Some of the things he does are not, as the gentiles like to say, strictly kosher. I know it bothered Claire, not from any moral standpoint, but only that it might endanger the agency. The age old dilemma, you like the profit but you aint so crazy about the risk.

It took her a moment or two to compose herself, she stared out the window, lips pressed tightly together, while her perfectly manicured finger which had been beating a rapid staccato on the desk top slowed to a nice easy rhythm. She might have been keeping time to old R. Johnson doing Love in Vain.

I did not want this to be the time she decided to press the issue. My story would be that I had bribed a clerk in Bechtman's office. That sounded reasonable. Still, I would rather things remained the way they always had been. "Nothing serious, Claire, I promise, small potatoes, done more to find a deadbeat dad, no repercussions I guarantee, small potatoes." She stared blankly at me, she might still be deciding so I pressed on. "I'm nobody's fool, I like this job, I need this job. I will not do anything dumb or risky. This is just another case. We've been there before. Don't worry."

Finally she gave a small, almost imperceptive nod and her finger slowed down to a tap about every five seconds. She spoke softly and clearly, and in time to her tapping finger. "All right, fine. This is your investigation. I won't mention any of this to Elizabeth, we'll wait and see what happens. I hope this is it, I'll keep my fingers crossed."

I thought there had to be a half-assed clever line about keeping her legs crossed but I couldn't think of it then (nor would have said it), and have not been able to think of an even remotely half-assed clever line about her crossed legs since, so maybe there isn't one. Maybe I just think about her legs too much.

I had Captain Marvel check out David Victor Stone and after a while he came up with something. He began as he always did. "So there was nothing in vehicle registration, nothing on the police computer, he's never applied for credit and doesn't seem to have a bank account." This meant the Captain had something, so I waited while he showed off his technical expertise by telling me where David wasn't. "But he did join the public library, three and a half years ago." He handed me a slip of paper that read; 3385 East Seymour St., and a phone number. "Can't tell if he's still there, people don't always put in changes of address to the library."

"Thanks Captain, good work, very good indeed. Next I think I'll get you to give me a good credit rating."

"I just might be able to do that."

I took a drive along East Seymour. This would be the logical place for a stake out but I didn't like it. It was an older, not quite middle class neighborhood, a neighborhood where people knew one another. The house had a little balcony on the third floor, that might be where he lived. He might spend a lot of time looking down at the street. The house was in the middle of the block, using a car, even a van was risky and I didn't see a room for rent sign any where. I had the feeling David would spook very easily and I did not want that to happen. If he decided to take off there was nothing we could do about it. I would give the post office a few more days.

Three days later it happened. It happened on Rick's watch, he got me on his cell phone. "Hey boss, we got him. I'll get some more pictures when he comes out. I know its him." The phone went quiet while I mentally thanked Claire for investing in all that high tech camera equipment. "He picked up a package, he's on a bicycle, going back the way he came, going east along down Grosvenour."

"Okay, be careful, if it looks like Seymour Street don't follow him down there. I'll try to pick him up from the other end. I was scrambling out of the apartment and into my car, saying little prayers that the traffic would be light, that he was a slow cyclist, trying to calculate times and distances. I almost did get there in time, just as I came up from the other end of the block I thought I saw a figure enter the door of the house at 3385. I was too far away to be sure, but as I drove by I noticed a blue bicycle with a white plastic carrier on the back leaning against the house.

Rick was parked just around the corner. I got into the car beside him. He asked. "Did you get a look at him?"

"No, I just missed him I think. Blue bike with white carrier on the back? Damn it. You know what it is? I just wanted to see the guy, after all this looking, waiting to see that face, I just wanted to see him. Oh well."

"Looks just like his picture. Didn't dye his hair or grow a beard or even get a nose job."

"Okay, I'll get the pictures developed and fax then to Good Queen Bess and give her the news. Hang around for a while, an hour or two, keep your eyes open for any taxis, if our boy gets in one follow him, if he goes to the airport get a ticket to wherever he's going, don't let him out of your sight You have enough plastic to cover a plane ride.?" He nodded, smiling, about as close to being pumped up as Rick gets. "I'm sure you weren't spotted but we'll cover all the bases. After we finish in the office you want to go for a beer?"

"Indeed I would, boss, indeed I would."

"Good. See you in a bit. Ricardo my boy you done good. You are absolutely the best, the asbestos."

I took the film to the photo guy that does all our work and waited while he developed the film. I had him blow up a couple of head shots but there was really no need. It was David all right. I phoned Rick, there was nothing new there. "Give it another hour then come in. We'll go for that beer."

Claire was not in the office, out schmoozing one of our more lucrative accounts, something she was very good at, but then God had given her some excellent equipment in that regard. For some reason I felt a little pleased that she was not there, maybe I wanted to bask a bit, all by myself. I couldn't get through to Elizabeth but I did get Doris Harding. "Ms Harding, this is Francis Connor. We've located David. He's using the name David Victor Stone." I gave her the address and phone number. Brief and to the point, classic private eye style.

"I see." She repeated the address and phone number to make sure she had it right, very thorough old Doris. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm quite sure. I'm faxing some pictures so you can judge for yourself, but there are other... ah elements that make me certain this is David. Yes, I'm sure."

"Very good. Elizabeth is in a very important meeting right now, but I will interrupt with this. She might want to thank you personally. Are you in your office?" I told her I would be in my office for the next hour or so. "Good. Oh, and Mr. Connor, when you send us your statement be sure to mark it to my attention. That's very important."

"I'll do that."

"Thank you. Good-bye."

Anti-climatic to say the least. Jolly old Doris didn't exactly jump up and down for joy. I wondered what there was that would excite her. But then on second thought I would probably rather not know. The finish, the wrap up of a successful case is always rather anti-climatic, no elation, maybe a little pride if you've done something clever, but not even much of that. It isn't sadness, more a feeling of being a bit lost, a little disconnected. Its as if you had a small part in the middle of a movie but you never get to read the whole script or see the movie. Even with Melanie there was no elation, no pride. Especially with Melanie.

It was half an hour before Elizabeth phoned, I guess she hadn't exactly bounded out of the meeting. She too, did not sound terribly enthused, her voice was very low, soft, and I thought sad. "Francis. Elizabeth. I just wanted to thank you. You did a very good job." There was a long pause. "I knew you would."

"Thank you. One other thing, the phone number. Its an unlisted number three or four years old. Do you want me to check it out, make sure it is still correct?"

Another long pause. "No, that's all right, if I have any trouble I'll phone you. As to the bonus we discussed I'll have someone take it out to you tomorrow. They will phone you and make arrangements." Another pause. She sounded, if not quite disinterested, certainly distant. "Francis, once again thank you. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

And that, dear friends and companions, was that. Not quite what I had expected. But then maybe it had been a trying meeting, maybe she had only made half a million, maybe Uranus was orbiting Jupiter, always a bad sign, maybe she had a headache, maybe she was just a royal pain in the ass. I had not expected the Hallelulah Chorus but after all we had just found her long lost son not informed her she needed a root canal.

In the best Phillip Marlowe tradition I poured myself a drink, put my feet up on the desk, and contemplated life, the world, and rich people. Despite all my earnest contemplation I came up with no new insights.

I had just finished both my drink and my contemplation when Claire came in. She stood in the doorway of my office looking just a little haggard, just a tad irritated, and just a tad disconcerted. It must have been a trying meeting for her as well, maybe there was something to that Uranus Jupiter thing. "How was your meeting?"

She was wearing a short, rather tight skirt. "The same way it always is with him. He has to spend the first fifteen minutes trying to grab my ass before he can get around to talking business."

"Well you do have a very grabbable ass. You probably supply him with an exciting and rich fantasy life."

She gave me a sharp look, then another longer look, she sensed something. I held the pause as long as I could and then, in the best Sam Spade tradition, quiet and matter of fact, said the line. "We found the kid." Just like Bogart would have done it.

She looked like a little kid on Christmas morning, opening the present she wanted with all her heart. "Really! Francis, that wonderful. That's great! Are you sure? Do you know for sure?" I told her I knew for sure, was absolutely certain. She began to, not exactly pace, take a step or two one way, stop, a step another way. She was, as the sports commentators say, pumped. "What a day! Did you phone Elizabeth?" I nodded. "Was she pleased? She must have been pleased."

"She was pleased. Maybe you can give her a call, kind of wrap it up."

"I will, of course. You did it, Francis, you came through." She looked like she wanted to high five me, or throw her arms around me, maybe even kiss me, maybe even let me grab that very grabbable ass of hers. She did none of the above, but she did give me a most heartfelt beaming smile, which, coming from the ice maiden as it did made it something of a red letter day.

She went into her office and I went to stand beside the water cooler, because from there I could see into her office. She made two phone calls, each about five minutes. I wondered whom she phoned first; Daddy or Elizabeth. I bet on Daddy.

Rick and I went to a small bar just around the corner from our office. When we were seated Rick said. "So boss, another day another dollar."

That was the understatement of the year. "Yeah I reckon. So what is on your work agenda?"

"Day after tomorrow I have three days body guarding Mr. James Delworth, defender of the faith."

"That fruitcake, I can't believe anyone still listens to him."

"He still fills the lecture halls, some people like what he says."

"Pretty desperate people. Oh well, maybe you can shoot some dirty liberal agitator or radical feminist and make his day."

"Say boss... well..." He expelled a long breath.

"Go ahead. What is it? Hey, its me, you want to ask something go ahead, as long as its not about that incident in the men's room of the S. Francis back in eighty-eight, ask away. Oh shit, just a minute, you're not thinking of leaving are you?"

"No, no, that's not it. I was wondering if there was something up at the agency, something big in the works."

"Not that I know of, its been a pretty good year, nobody's going to get fired, certainly not you. What's this all about?"

"Just a feeling, an odd feeling about Claire. Like the cat that swallowed the canary, like everything is going along according to plan, something big too. Maybe its my imagination."

"Claire is always planning something, its her nature, and give her her due it usually turns out well. Maybe its just this David case, she really got off on it, talking to a celebrity about celebrities. She must be sorry its over. Amazing but there it is. If I promised to line her up with Alfred Hitchcock I could get into her pants just like that."

"Hitchcock's been dead for years."

"Exactly. They'd make the perfect sexual pairing."

"And you my friend, do you really want to as you put it, 'get into her pants'? Such an interesting phrase that, a declaration of masculinity while at the same time..." He pretended to ponder.

"Please, I don't think you can be a Buddhist and a Freudian at the same time. Actually I don't want to get into her pants, either way you see it, really I don't. It is just that she looks so good I think I should. Its kind of an obligation, a duty to my sex, someone that looks like that you feel duty bound as a guy to express those kind of desires. It's a duty thing. Please don't roll your eyes like that, you Buddhist guys are supposed to be tolerant and understanding. But on the other hand, sometimes, sometimes, yes, a little bit, ruffle her feathers. So there you have it, my innate contemplative nature at war with my baser instincts. What would a zen master make of that?"

A zen master would probably slap you three times on the head and tell you to go home and grow your radishes."

"That does not sound too profound to me. Are you sure you are really into that stuff because that definitely does not sound very zen."

"Good. When zen does not sound like zen that means you are on the way to enlightenment."

Chapter 18

The next morning was spent in the office, doing a little paper work, putting things in order, a new day but same old routine. I went with Claire to a ten thirty meeting with a customer. The customer owned three discount stores and looked like a weasel. That was the first thing you thought when you met him; that he looked like a weasel. People who worked for him and people who did business with him often described him as a weasel. I wondered if physically looking like a weasel had influenced the way he acted, like some sort of self-fulfilling prophesy. On the other hand, had he been a big, good looking, ivy league kind of guy, with the same business ethics, he probably would have been described only as a shrewd businessman.

It was not an important meeting, just p.r., just follow up. We had sold the guy a new security system a month ago so this was just schmoozing. Claire was in great form. She flirted outrageously; all the standard stuff; fiddling with the blouse button, twirling the lock of hair, she must have crossed her legs a dozen times in a twenty minute meeting. Not quite as bad as Sharon Stone in that movie, but damn near. It was a different side of Claire, so to speak. I mentioned something about it after we left the meeting but she just gave me a sour look and said. "Business is business."

After lunch I went to my apartment to wait. I was sure Elizabeth would send the money when she said she would so I waited for the phone call, expecting it to come. Aquarius must have quite a hidden slush fund. The tax man is always fair game. I knew that by accepting the bonus the was it was given gave Elizabeth a hold over me so I had already decided to report it to the tax man.

The idea of the money did nothing for my mood, there was no elation, no sense of joy, but rather I felt aimless, sitting in the middle of nothing with nowhere that I wanted to go. I tried to think of Mexico and the time there that this money would buy. It was more money in one lump sum than I had ever had in my life, but it felt unreal, unreal or unimportant. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, it was the way I always felt when a big case was over. I put on some music, stretched out on the sofa and let my mind drift, floating somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, not quite listening to the music, not quite thinking

The phone rang at four o'clock. "Mr. Connor. Lawrence Rodman."

"Hi, Lawrence, how are you?"

"Oh, ah, fine. Francis, I have a delivery for you. I imagine you've been expecting it. I'm at the airport now, just got in. I wonder, would it be possible for you to come here. You see there is a flight back to L.A. in a couple of hours and I really would like to be on it. It would make everything so much easier, not having to stay overnight. I would certainly appreciate it." He sounded tired.

Lawrence looked tired as well, not the kind of tired from lack of sleep or hangover tired but the tired that comes when the world and its doings seems too much to cope with. He was dressed casually; tee shirt, leather jacket, jeans, and soft leather moccasin loafers.

"Francis, that was fast. Good to see you. You're looking well. Do you have time for a drink with me?" There was a partially eaten sandwich on a plate in front of him.

When the waiter brought our drinks he raised his in a toast to me. "Congratulations are in order. To tell you the truth I didn't think you would do it, find David. I didn't think anyone would. I thought he would always be out there somewhere, an unsolved mystery, a ghost. But you found him." There was more than just tiredness about him, there was a sort of contemplative sadness, it made him seem unguarded, without the studied glibness of our first meeting. It made him more likeable.

I shrugged. "We were lucky, sometimes you are, sometimes you aren't." He stared at me curiously, I'm sure he expected more in the way of zip or elation, he must have known, or could have guessed what was in the attache case at his feet. I took a drink and tried to explain. "After a case, a big case, works out, there is always a let down. Win or lose, there is always a let down. At least for me. I don't know why."

"But tomorrow, or the day after, there will be another case, another puzzle, that's something."

"I guess it is, I guess. How is your sister?"

"Not too well I'm afraid, not too well at all. Would you like another drink?"

"No thanks, I'm fine. Sorry to hear that, I hope things work out."

"Thank you." We seemed to have run out of things to say.

"And Elizabeth, how is Elizabeth?"

He looked at me rather sharply. I suppose there was something in my tone, something like a lack of sincerity or even sarcasm. He became defensive. "Elizabeth is not the person you think she is, or how I imagine you see her. You can't begin to know. She is very complex, and very troubled. She is also decent, a truly decent, kind, person. But I suppose none of that matters now." There was a long pause. "Back to business, I should make my delivery." He placed the attache case on the table in front of me. "I must apologize for the case, it looks like something office supplies must buy by the gross. If I'd had a little time I could have picked you up something with a little class."

"That's okay, I'm not really much of an attache case kind of guy."

He smiled. "Amen to that."

I stood up. "I should go. Thanks for the drink. It was nice to meet you. I mean that. I hope you have a good flight back."

He stood up. "Thank you. I wish you well, Francis, I wish you well." We shook hands, rather solemnly I thought. Given the circumstances the occasion was unusually solemn.

I took the money and ran, walked quickly anyway, to my car, and thence to my apartment. I looked at the money but didn't count it. I phoned Ryan and left a message on his machine. I looked at the money again. Hundreds, fifties and twenties, in packs of one thousand, not new bills. I was hoping to feel something from the sight of all that money but there was nothing. I felt tired and bored. I put on some music. I made myself a drink. I thought about phoning Gail, but I didn't. I hoped Ryan would phone, phone and then come over.

So there it was, a good solid bankroll, and what did it mean? It could mean a lot of time in Mexico. It could mean an investment. Or I could piss it all away on horses and bar bills. I thought about Gail and what the money might mean in regard to our relationship. Would I say to her. "Hey, Honey. I'm going to Mexico for a couple of years. Just be patient, okay?" Did I really want to go to Mexico for a couple of years? Could I really do that anyway? Come back to no job and then what? Not enough money to really change my life but enough to make me feel that it should.

Gail phoned and we talked for a while, I didn't tell her about the money but I did tell her the case was over, I would have more free time. We arranged to go out the next night. I thought I would buy her something, something really nice, but I couldn't think what it could be. It seemed as though my whole thinking apparatus had slowed to a sluggish crawl, the old gray cells were either on strike or half asleep. Well, as Vivian Leigh once said, I would think about it tomorrow.

Ryan phoned, he would pick me up about eleven the next morning and drive me to the bank. We could have lunch together. He offered to buy.

Chapter 19

We disposed of the money quickly, mine in my safety deposit box and Ryan's in his. At lunch he was in good humor, and for good reason. He raised his glass in a toast. "Here's to crime, without it what would the two of us do?"

"It does keep the wheels of commerce rolling."

"So what next?"

"I don't know. I don't know what next. What do you think about Gail?"

"You know what I think about Gail. We go back a long time. She and you are exactly half of the people I consider my closest friends. So what are you really asking?"

"I don't know, I don't know what I want to do. She's made me rethink things. I'm pretty involved. And her daughter, Christina, that makes things difficult. I don't know."

"So she has a daughter, maybe it makes things difficult, maybe in the long run it makes things better, who knows? What it does mean is you can't be casual about it. What can I say? When it comes to matters of the heart we are all babes in the woods, no matter how old and how wise we have become. It doesn't matter anyhow, you can brood and think and muse and ponder and then wind up deciding because of the color of her eyes, or the way she smiles, or whatever, the same way you did when you were seventeen."

"No, not me, I'm far too mature for that. Anyhow I thought maybe I should buy her something, something nice, after all I made a nice score. Maybe jewelry."

"Sure, jewelry is always good, never wears out, you can always pawn it in bad times. I know where you can get a deal if you're interested. A third of what you would pay downtown, lots of new stuff but also some beautiful antique pieces. I've got a couple of hours, if you like I could phone him and we could drop around and take a look."

"A little warm maybe?"

"Not so you would notice, not so anyone would notice, not now. Better than throwing money away to those thieving vultures downtown."

"Yeah, I can't stand thieves."

So I bought a very nice pendant and earrings for a G note, but I did have some second thoughts afterwords. Gail does not have a whole lot of money, maybe it should have been something more practical, like a television, but no, I wanted it to be something beautiful. The fact is I didn't know if there was anything Gail really needed, or really wanted. There are times when I begin to doubt my sensitivity, not often though.

She liked the gift, of course she did, they were beautiful she said, and she said it with that gentle smile and that deep, deep look from those wonderful blue-gray eyes. She put them on and hugged me, a little awkwardly, we were in my car, kissed my cheek and thanked me again.

We had only a few hours before she had to go to work. We went to the park, strolled through the English Gardens, holding hands like teen aged lovers, and like teen aged lovers stealing the occasional furtive kiss and the more than occasional gentle hug. The day was overcast, threatening rain, there were only a few people in the park, mostly grim faced joggers and determined cyclists. Once a gaggle of long legged young teen age girls on roller blades swooped by, laughing and shrieking in that kind of loud exuberance that every once in a while is completely charming.

We sat on a bench, my arm around her shoulder, and we talked a little, just casual conversation, but I would look at her, when her head was turned away, see her profile, and be aware of her; this person with all the bits and pieces, the mysteries, the surprises, that we all have. How did she see things, things like me, what did she want, what did she hope for? I wondered what she was like as a kid. Not that I had never thought these thoughts before, come on, I'm not quite that insensitive, but this time it was a little different. I guess what I am trying to say is that I could feel my focus shifting from me towards we. While that made me thoughtful it did not make me uneasy, a very big step for old Francis.

"I wish I didn't have to go into work. We could spend the day together." She said it looking away from me, quietly, just stating a sad fact, then turned to me, explaining, a bit anxious that I should understand. "Its just too late to phone in now, you know, and... well, things haven't been that great at work lately. They had to let a girl go last week, and she had been there almost a year. I just can't."

"That's okay, of course it is." I kissed her lightly on the lips. "I understand and its okay, it really is." I did understand, that was her life, it was what she had to deal with, and it was okay, it really was.

"But," she said, "tomorrow is my day off and, well, I don't know what your schedule is...?"

"I know tomorrow is your day off and by an odd coincidence it is also my day off so the only real question is, what would you like to do?"

"Do you know what I would really like? I would like to go on a picnic." She said it with a slightly questioning smile. I guess I don't seem much like a picnicy kind of guy.

"A picnic is a great idea, I'll even make the food. No, I insist, I'll make the food and I even know a great place. Don't look surprised, a nice secluded beach, just an hour out of town, not much good for swimming but generally very private."

"A secluded beach, hmm, is that where you take all your women to romance them. You are such a sly dog. Oh dear, I suppose I will have to compete with all those beautiful ghosts from your past but I warn you, if you call me by some other woman's name I'll drown you." She kissed me. She had said it with a smile, teasing, but there was a little something underneath it, a bit of what we used to call kidding on the square. What did she think my life was about? Some glamorous pageant of beautiful women falling all over themselves to hop into bed with me? That was worth a major chuckle. Of course she knew about Anne, Miss Beautiful Rich Bitch, she had seen us together and maybe she thought that was the circle I moved in. The idea of comparing her to Anne did make me chuckle, more than chuckle, I laughed.

"What? What is it?"

"Its you, little old you. You don't know how terrific you are. It really is kind of funny." It really was kind of touching. "If you like you can bring Christina, she can play hooky for one day, if not we can get back for when she gets home from school."

"No, I would rather it just be the two of us. We don't have to hurry back, she's a big girl, she can make her own supper."

We had our picnic and I did make the food, most of it anyway, I was not about to try the potato salad and the pate, but I did do the sandwiches and the green salad. Predictably I made roughly enough to feed the offensive line of the Dallas Cowboys, which seems to be one of the laws of male picnickers everywhere.

The day was overcast again, and breezy, but the rain held off and we did have the beach all to ourselves. We walked along the beach, sometimes together sometimes alone, she picked up some shells, I skimmed some stones. We nibbled at the food, we drank some wine, we had our picnic on the beach. We hardly talked at all, she was quiet, sometimes distracted, but nothing serious, it might be something to do with Christina or her job, or just her mood.

We lay together, on our blanket on the beach, for a long time, close together, her head buried into my shoulder, one arm tightly around me. She was still, so quiet she might have been asleep were it not for the pressure of her hand on my back. I sensed I could feel her heart beating just as I sometimes really could when we were naked together in bed, and I moved my hand to caress her neck, to feel her pulse beneath my fingers.

It was nearly six o'clock when we arrived at her apartment building. She didn't go in right away, we sat in the car and smoked a goodnight cigarette together. She leaned back in the seat, her eyes closed. She has a small crescent shaped scar on her back, faded, almost invisible, from a playground accident when she was eleven. I like to kiss that little childhood scar as though it was some very intimate part of her, as though I might touch something in her past. She said softly. "It was such a wonderful day, it was one of those days you want to never end." She put out her cigarette and turned to me, smiling. "But they do all end and now I can go in and make supper for my daughter if she hasn't filled up on junk food, wash the dishes, try to get her to stop watching television and do her homework, then sort some laundry."

It was then, at that moment, that I almost said it, those words of commitment; I love you, I want to be with you, I want us to live together. Almost. I wanted to say those words, I felt them, I meant them, but I didn't say them. I did not say a Goddamned word. She kissed my cheek. "I'll phone you tomorrow." And in silence I let her go.

I did not go home, I wanted to "think things through", so I went to a bar. Some people go to church, I go to a bar. As though being in the presence of all that alcohol would somehow stimulate all those neurons or whatever bouncing around in my rapidly diminishing little gray cells. The truth is that when it comes to my personal life I am never able to "think things through"; I ponder, I muse, I reflect, mostly I just run the same loop over and over again without ever coming to a solution or a course of action.

On the one hand there is Gail, which means commitment, Christina, blah, blah, blah, on the other hand there is Mexico, not just Mexico but the way I live, blah, blah, blah. I am forty-eight years old and I can't figure out what I want or even how I feel. Other people seem to know where they are going, where they want to be, or are contented to be where they are. It is a curse I tell you, a genuine curse. Gail means commitment, genuine up to the wall commitment, Mexico means more than a place but how I want to live. Right now Gail was leading by five lengths with Mexico fading fast. But. Yes there is always a but, always. The thing is nobody gets it all, nobody, if you want something you give up something else. I believe it is called making choices. And with that mind-numbing piece of philosophy I left the bar, no wiser, no more certain than when I entered. I knew that would be the case. They even watered the damn scotch.

Home sweet home. Be it ever so humble, (humble it certainly was, that there was no place like it was another question). I got myself a beer and a couple of sandwiches from the picnic basket, put on some music, sat in my chair, and tried to ignore the blinking red light of the answering machine, at least until I had finished eating. Blink, blink, blink. I tried to stare it down, gave it my hard private eye look, (it blinked first, ha ha ha). Damn nagging electronic fishwife. I knew it would be bad news. Maybe not, maybe it would be Gail. I didn't get through the first sandwich before I gave up and pressed the listen button.

There were two calls, both from Claire, one from the office, one from her home, both asked me to call her right away, that it was very important. She sounded badly shaken. My first thought was that it was her father, but she wouldn't phone me for that, someone at the office then, Rick maybe.

"Claire, its me. What happened?"

"Where have you been? Why don't you carry your cell phone? Something terrible has happened. David. David is dead."

"Jesus, what happened?"

"They found his body this morning, at the bottom of the south bluffs, right by the bridge. I guess he jumped. They gave his name as David Stone and the address so I knew who it was. Its so awful. I phoned the police and told them who he really was, that we had been working on the case. They said they would look into it and they want you to phone them in the morning. I said it was your case, Detective Margolis at Central. Do you know him?"

"No. The poor little bugger. Did the cops ask you anything? Did they ask how we found him?"

"No, nothing. Why?"

"In case they do it happened just the way it reads in the report, he stopped off to play a game of chess at the park. Rick spotted him and trailed him to his address. That's it."

"What about that business with the post office?"

"Forget it, never happened, just what's in the report."

"Jesus Christ Francis, if you have done anything that gets the agency into trouble..."

"Don't worry I'd never do anything to get the agency into trouble, its nothing, nothing illegal, forget it. I'll talk to you first thing in the morning."

I phoned Tommy and I phoned Rick to make sure we had our stories straight, then I went to the kitchen and poured myself a large drink.

The poor little bugger, a sad wasted life, no life at all really. I didn't even know him, had never seen him. But I found him. I found him and now he's dead. Clever, clever Francis, just like the fucking Mounties I always get my man. Good for me. I went to the bedroom and tore down the blow up of his face, I sure as hell did not need that. Then I made myself another large drink. And then another.

Chapter 20

Detective Herb Margolis was a big, rawboned looking guy with short cropped, iron-gray hair and a wide, thin unsmiling mouth. He had a hook nose and small, hard blue eyes. Stern, stern and tough, that was his thing, he might as well have worn a big sign on his chest saying, "Don't even think about fucking with me." That was okay, that was his thing, he didn't bother me.

He sat at the desk, hands clasped together. His partner, Ed Chalmers, sat to one side, sat uncomfortably, too big for the small wooden chair. I knew Ed from the old days, a big easy going, always wisecracking kind of guy, a little sloppy, a little lazy, but not a bad guy. He was close to pension time so I imagine he was pretty much coasting along, which wasn't much different than what he had always done. When I came in Ed and I nodded to one another and Margolis said. "That's right, you used to be on the force didn't you?"

I sat down. "Yep, worked vice out of here, a while back."

He gave me about five seconds of his hard look, just to let me know that he didn't think much of cops that left the force, but I figured that the list of people he didn't think much of probably took in most of the world's population so it wasn't a big thing. I wondered how he and Ed got along, that would be something to see. "We will be recording this interview. Do you wish to have an attorney present?" He might have been reading out the death sentence which he probably wished he was doing. I declined the attorney and he read all the usual stuff into the machine. Who did he think he was questioning, the Boston bloody strangler?

I wondered what god old Ed thought of all this, not his style at all. He would have taken me out for a couple of beers, we would have bullshitted back and forth, tried to pick each others brains, than ambled over to the station to write up a statement.

Finally we got on with it and I told my story. More or less, there were a few omissions, like the bonus money and Ryan for instance. It was a pretty skimpy story but when dealing with the law always say as little as possible.

Margolis, leaning back in his chair now, still giving me his hard look, said. "A Miss Donna Kardan identified the body as David Stone, no next of kin. Do you know her, or anything about her?"

"No."

Ed got up and ambled slowly across the room to look out the window, rubbing his ass all the while. He had put on a lot of weight since I had last seen him, I hoped he never had to chase a suspect further than four yards. Not much chance of that. "Turned out your people were right, Francis, after your office phoned we checked it out, made a positive. We phoned the mother this morning."

"How did she take it?"

He shrugged, didn't turn from the window. "Hard to tell on the telephone. What do you think? You think the kid was a jumper?"

"You know as much about him as I do, I never even met him. From his history I would say he could be. Why don't you ask his friend, this Donna Kardan woman?"

"Hey, that's a great idea, now why didn't I think of that? Damn. I guess that's why you are such a famous private deetecative." He was smiling.

Margolis jumped in, slightly pissed off, which I guess was partly Ed's intention. "All right, do you have anything else that might help?" I shook my head. "You have anything else, Ed? Let's wrap this up. That's it, Mr. Connor, thanks for coming down."

End of interview, and after a few hard looks Margolis headed out. As we followed more slowly Ed said. "What a prick, you wouldn't believe it. Hey, but only thirteen months to go. Take it easy."

"Yeah, you too, Ed." Like I had to tell him.

I went back to the office, I don't know why because I wasn't up to doing any work. The atmosphere in the office was somber, people talked in slightly hushed voices. They let me alone for the most part and it was only Tommy that broached the subject directly. He brought in a couple of coffees. "Here, coffee break time. Black, right?"

"Black is okay. Where is Rick today?"

"Working, he's got that bodyguard thing."

We each took tentative sips of the coffee, too hot to drink. I knew he was trying to find the right words. "It's a hell of a thing." I nodded, and we each tried sipping the coffee again. "But, you know, I mean that was something that was in him for a long time. We find people, and mostly to a good end. We can't tell..."

"I know, Tommy, but is just kind of hard, just kind of hard you know."

I remembered the advice Lawrence's drunken sister had given me and I thought about the forty thousand in my safety deposit box, my big fat bonus, my big fat holiday. No bonus no deal with Ryan and maybe we never find the kid and maybe the kid is still alive. But hey, like Eichman I was only doing my job.

I didn't know what to do, so I smoked a lot of cigarettes, and then without really knowing why I was doing it I copied the kid's file and put it in my briefcase.

Claire had been secluded in her office all the time, she had not acknowledged my return from the cop shop, which was a little odd. I knocked on her door and stuck my head in, she waved me in and when I sat down she asked. "How did the thing at the police station go?"

"It went all right, no problem."

"Good." She seemed distracted, worried about something, even her hair was slightly mussed. It was not often one saw Claire like that. Given the recent events it was to be expected, even for her.

I said. "Too bad about David, Jesus, it's a hell of a thing."

She didn't look at me, just stared at the desk. Tapping a well manicured finger on the polished wood. "It was unfortunate. Sometimes these things happen, there is nothing you can do about it. Its not anyone's fault." Telling me or herself.

"What do you think happened? Did Elizabeth phone him? What the hell could she have said to him?"

She stared at me for five or six seconds with that hard appraising look she has. "Elizabeth was here. She flew in the day before yesterday morning on her private jet. She was going to talk to David. I had a brief meeting with her. Anyway it is no longer any concern of the agency. The case is closed. Closed. All right?" She pretended to busy herself with a file. "If you don't mind.... I have a lot of work to do."

"Sure." I closed the door gently on my way out.

I went home. I wasn't hungry, didn't want a drink, I just sat. In the bedroom the crumpled blow up of David was on the floor. I picked it up and smoothed it out. Just another face in the crowd. For whatever reason I didn't want to throw it out. It was a different picture now, sadder, and with a completely different meaning. I folded it up and put it in a dresser drawer with my tee shirts.

Gail phoned. "Ryan told me what happened. How are you doing?"

"Not so bad, I guess, been better though."

"Would you like me to come over?"

"I would be lousy company."

"Would you like me to come over?"

"Yes, I guess I would."

Gail come over, she didn't say much, just gave me a hug and asked if I had eaten. "I didn't think so. How be if I cook something up." She kissed my cheek. "Won't take but a minute or two." She busied herself in the kitchen while I sat on my sofa and didn't hear the music I had put on. "Mushroom omelet okay, and a beer?"

"Mushroom omelet is fine, no beer though, coffee please."

We ate pretty much in silence and I managed about half the meal. "It's a good omelet I just don't have much of an appetite. I sipped my coffee. Patient, concerned Gail, she was wearing the pendant and earrings.

"What? What is it?"

I had been staring at her. "Sorry, I didn't mean to stare like that, lost in space, a million miles away. Let's take our coffee into the other room." I had not been a million miles away, I had been right there in the kitchen and I had been thinking, in my usual vague way, about her. About us. I wanted to tell her how right this felt, the two of us together, how I wanted this and how I wanted to make it permanent. But I didn't tell her instead I mumbled a thank you to her for coming over.

I sat at one end of the sofa and she at the other. We sipped our coffee. I tried to explain. "This thing with David, I don't know why it bothers me so much. I can't put it out of my mind, maybe because I figured out how to find him. Poor kid, the innocent bystander. Somehow I feel I failed him even betrayed him, guilt I guess. I just can't put it out of my mind. I can't explain it. But its like Tommy said, it was in him, it had been for a long time. You can't bleed for all life's victims you'd have no blood left. Just watch the evening news. I guess it will pass. Just sad that's all. The poor kid had no life. Just fucking sad, that's all."

She was quiet for a long time then asked. "What do you want to do?"

"About this? There is nothing to do. It is over. The kid is dead, the case is closed. I just can't let go, something nags at me, maybe its only guilt, and maybe I've been in this business too long. I even thought of trying to talk to the woman that identified him, someone that knew him. I don't know what I would say, what I would ask. What would I want to hear? Was he a nice guy, a jerk, what? Were you acquaintances, good friends, were you lovers, did you have plans for the future? I might just want to apologize to someone to whom it would mean something."

"It might help."

"She's hardly going to talk to me, the guy that found him. No, it will pass."

Chapter 21

The next morning I decided I would try to talk to the woman, David's friend, Donna Kardan. In truth I always knew I would try, the only decision was when. I found out where she lived and where she worked, (that's my racket, remember). She ran a place called Boswell house, Boswell House is a place for adolescent girls that "have come in contact with the criminal justice system", which pretty much means that they are hookers or addicts, usually both.

Boswell House was pretty much I expected, I'd been to places like it a few times. There are a few in my town, there are in yours too. Staff that was overworked and underpaid, most on the edge of burnout, not enough space, not enough money, too many problems, too many disappointments.

Donna Kardan was mid or early forties, heavy set, not plump so much as solid, pug nose and short brown hair, a bit of a double chin, and a pair of very thoughtful, intelligent brown eyes behind a pair of gold rimmed glasses. Just a trace of lipstick. She had a manner about her, brusque and business like. Nobody's fool.

I told her I was a private investigator and what it was in regard to, I asked for just a few minutes of her time. She sighed and looked down at the papers on her desk. "I don't think so."

"I know this is an intrusion and I am sorry. This is very important to me, please believe me. Just a couple of minutes. As much or as little as you want, anything, please."

I suppose there was something in my voice, she looked a little startled then studied me for a second or two. She looked back down to her papers. "Maybe. Just maybe, but not here. I'll be through in about half an hour. There is a restaurant across the street." She looked up at me. "I'm not making any promises, Mr. Connor."

"I know. Thank you very much."

I knew she would come, she might come and tell me to screw myself but I knew she would show up, that was her style. It was closer to an hour before she arrived during which time I drank three cups of coffee, smoked four cigarettes, and longed desperately for a drink. She was wearing blue jeans and a bulky black turtle neck sweater. She sat down, waved the waiter away, clasped her hands in front of her on the table, and stared quizzically at me.

"Thank you for coming." I said.

She ignored that and said, slowly and precisely. "First off I have to know what your interest is. You are a private investigator, I have to know who you are working for, what is it you are trying to find out."

"I'm not working for anyone, this is on my own. You see I was hired by David's mother to find him, and I found him. And then whatever happened..."

"I think I'll go." She made a movement as if to leave, then changed her mind. "May I see your identification again?" She took my wallet and looked through all the pieces of identification then pushed the wallet back across the table to me. "You are the one that found the little girl." I nodded. "I see. And you found David. What is it you want? What do you want me to say? It wasn't your fault, you're not to blame, you were only doing your job? I can say that. I can say that because it's true. Is that all you want?"

"No. That is not at all what I want. First I wanted to say to someone, someone who knew him, who was close to him, how sorry I am. And I wanted to know something about him, what he was like, what kind of person he was."

She thought about that one, staring at me all the while, then said. "All right." She ordered an iced tea and I had another coffee, she looked at the ashtray and said. "You can smoke, it doesn't bother me. What was David like? He was kind, gentle, considerate. He was also moody, sometimes irritable and angry, always secretive. How do you sum up a person?" She paused. "May I have a cigarette? I've pretty much stopped, just every now and then." She lit the cigarette and took a long, deep drag. "The big question? He was suicidal, it was something he was always fighting. He talked about it, sometimes he would phone me up, usually late at night, when things got too much for him. Sometimes I would go over but usually just talking on the phone was good enough. I've been a social worker for fourteen years and most of my work has been with abused children, that's the story of most of the girls at the house. When I first got to know David that was what I thought, an abused child. All the guilt churning around inside, often it turns into anger, more often into being self-destructive. They have to try to deal with it, usually for the rest of their lives. Abused children have a high addiction rate and a high suicide rate. Its odd isn't it, how the victim, the innocent one, gets to bear all the guilt, all the torment. Another one of God's little jokes on the world."

"How did you happen to meet?"

"He came to the house looking for work. That was almost three years ago. He was nervous, he stammered when he was nervous. Anyway we did need someone, cleaning up, odd jobs, part time, minimum wage, so I hired him. He was a good worker, exceptional really, far more than I had expected. And I got to know him, slowly of course, he was so cautious, and we became friends. Real friends, close friends." She gave a little laugh. "About a year ago we received a check, two hundred thousand dollars, from this foundation in Los Angeles, a foundation I had never even heard of let alone tried to beg money from. There was just a short note with it, asking that it be kept confidential, listed as anonymous. I wrote them but they never replied. Now the mystery is solved. And some good does come out of all this."

I ordered another coffee and asked if I could buy her dinner. I was surprised when she said all right, just a sandwich or something light. So we ordered sandwiches, salads, and beer. She relaxed more then, she really wanted to talk, just to put into words some memories of a good friend. "He loved chess, games, problems, classic matches. I play but not at his level, he was so good about it; praising me when I did something half smart, teaching a little, he even let me win a few games. It was one of the few times he was ever happy, when he would smile." She didn't have to add, just a few memories of a troubled friend. We ate most of the meal in silence. I asked about her job.

"We have twenty-two girls at the house, full capacity, we always are. We do counseling, some job training, try to get them some kind of work, get them back to school, not the easiest thing. Then we are always trying to get new staff or keep the old ones, lots of burn out. And we are always begging money, scrounging materials or services. There is always something. Right now we are looking for a second house, that's thanks to David. Most neighborhoods don't want us. We love what you do just don't do it in our backyard. So they block us. But that is how it is, like they say it goes with the territory."

She paused, took a long drink of her beer, and sat back. "Right now we have two fourteen year olds at the house, both are ex prostitutes, one had been on the street for a year, the other two years. That is not unusual, run of the mill, really. Twelve year old hookers. I know you know all about that, everybody does, its no big secret. About once a year one of the papers will do a story on it or one of the t.v. stations will send a camera crew down to Chicken Boulevard and they'll have all those murky pictures of the little girls in their tight little mini-skirts or in school uniforms, that's the latest twist, school uniforms. And they make it sound like they are doing this big expose, or performing some civic duty. Maybe they are. But sometimes I question their motivation. All those pictures. Maybe just a little titillating. I know its good for the ratings. Damn it I'm starting to preach aren't I? Sorry, I don't often do that."

"I was a cop for a long time. I worked vice. After a while I couldn't do it anymore."

"That happens, happens a lot. But its not hopeless, not completely, but its always about this close." She held her thumb and forefinger about an eighth of an inch apart. "Don't get me wrong, I'm no Mother Theresa, as a matter of fact I'm an atheist. I like my job, for whatever reasons I like what I do. I guess I would have to." She gave a little self-depreciating laugh. "Yep, that's me, on the street, in the front lines, on the ground as they say."

We finished our dinner in silence and then I asked about David. "I wonder if you could tell me... I'm not even sure why I want to know. Was he gay?"

She gave me a sharp look, a little surprised. "No. No, but he was interested in, I don't know what you would say... the gay lifestyle. He even got some books from the library. And he asked me to go with him to a gay club, he was too shy to go alone. We went three or four times. I thought he was trying to work out something about his own sexuality but he said he was only curious. He wanted to understand it. It was odd. I'm sure he wasn't gay, not practicing anyway. And in case you are wondering, there was nothing physical between. No, it was something else." She hesitated as if deciding whether or not to continue. "I don't think David could... was capable of having sex. He was a virgin. I think even the idea of it frightened him. That was one of the reasons I was so sure he'd been abused as a child."

"And he never told you who he was? Who he really was?"

"No, he told me his parents were dead, that was it. He would never talk about his past. I didn't find out until after. A detective phoned me, Chalmers I think. He told me. He asked if I had known and if I had anything I wanted to add to my statement. I said, no I hadn't and no, I didn't."

Good old Ed, don't get off your ass when you have a telephone on your desk. "That must have been a bit of a shock."

"It was a surprise. I felt a bit hurt at first, that he hadn't told me, we had shared so much, trusted each other so much. But then I know better, its like the girls in the house, nobody tells you everything. Everybody has their secrets, all of us, we all try to keep them." She paused. "Yet it was odd, all that money and there he was in his thrift shop clothes, riding his bicycle, going to the library. Until recently his whole life it seemed was the house, me, and chess."

"Until recently?"

She took one of my cigarettes and I lit it for her. "Thank you. God, if I keep this up I'll be back to a pack a day. I think I'd like another beer. I ordered two beers and she continued. "Yes, recently. About two months ago he fell in love. Madly, head over heels in love. He could hardly talk about anything else. He was so naive, he was like a fourteen year old boy with his first crush. In a way that is what he was, a fourteen year old boy, at least emotionally. I worried about him, tried to tell him not to have expectations. I didn't know what the situation was, how much was real or how much was just in his mind. I did know he was in danger of being badly hurt and what that might do to him. Maybe that is what happened. Some kind of rejection, it wouldn't take much."

"Do you know who the woman was?"

"I know her name, Monica Smith, I never met her. She lives somewhere on River Crescent, in Eastwood. I don't know much about her, either David didn't either or he didn't want to say. I got the impression she might be a little jealous of my relationship with David. I suppose that's natural."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

That morning, at work. We talked a little, had coffee together. I phoned him at home around five, something about work. He said he was going to stay in, read a book, same as he did most nights. He talked a bit about the book, something about conspiracies."

"Do you remember what the book was?"

"No, it was something he'd just picked up at the library."

"But he didn't seem upset, he didn't sound troubled?"

"No, not at all. At the same time I know it was easy for him to suddenly go into these moods, these depressions. Maybe something happened."

"Yeah, maybe it did. I wonder what. Did you tell all this to the police?"

"Yes, of course." She paused. "You're going to talk to Monica Smith, aren't you?"

"Yes, I think I probably will. At least I'll try."

"Mr. Connor..."

"Francis, please."

"Yes, sorry. Francis, is there something behind all this, other than what you said? I find it hard to believe... Is there something else? Is it something you don't want to tell me?"

"No, its not that, honestly. I don't know. You know as much about this as I do. But whatever happens I'll let you know, I promise."

"Francis. You don't meet many men called Francis. I like it better than Frank."

"Yeah, named after the saint, that got a big laugh in my neighborhood. I think he gave his money to the poor and talked to the birds. I never gave my money to the poor but I've had a few bad evenings where I wound up talking to the birds."

We each had another beer and talked for another half hour or so, not about David, just things in general. She was very easy to talk to, I guess in a way it is part of her trade but it didn't feel like that. I could understand how David would have wanted her as a friend. At one point, just before we parted, she said. "I think you might be a little bit crazy." I think she meant it as a friendly joke. I think

Chapter 22

The next morning Claire and I had a meeting with a potential customer at his office. My heart wasn't in it, (I suppose it never really is but I can usually pretend), nor was Claire's. That was a surprise, I had expected her to carry the show as she usually does, but we both just went through the motions. She was nervous and distracted. I thought it must have something to do with David's death, perhaps a few feelings of pity or remorse, feelings I always thought existed somewhere beneath the ice queen demeanor.

I met Gail for lunch and she too seemed distracted. I wondered if there was some kind of virus going around, like the apathy flu, or maybe I am even more boring than I sometimes suspect I am. I told her about my talk with Donna. "She thinks I might be a little crazy." Gail looked up briefly from her food and gave me a small, half-hearted smile, then returned to her food. "Is something the matter? You seem sad?"

"Just things on my mind. So what happens now? You go and see this other woman and she says yes we fought or no we didn't, and then what? Does it end or do you find someone else to talk to?"

She said it gently enough but it seemed to me there was at least a touch of criticism or maybe frustration underneath. Well, why not? I could hardly blame her for that, she had a kid and a job to worry about, she didn't have the luxury of being able to dick around rather pointlessly. Still, I do not take criticism well, (this has been pointed out to me many times), as a matter of fact I take it terribly. I usually reject it completely, stamp my feet and go into a sulk.

So it was not a great lunch, no reason why they all should be I suppose. I did feel somewhat contrite after a while but I couldn't find the right thing to say, maybe I didn't try too hard. It was all somewhat uneasy and unsatisfactory, but what the hell, it was only lunch.

Back at the office I phoned Monica Smith, (a cunning piece of detective work, she was in the phone book). I told her who I was and where I worked, I offered my condolences and asked if she could spare me a few minutes of her time. She was hesitant but finally agreed, somewhat. "I suppose it would be all right, I'm not sure, its not something... I think so. Not now though, after dinner, eight o'clock. You can come here. You'd better phone first, I'm still not sure."

A few minutes later my phone rang. It was Monica smith. "Mr. Connor, I wondered if you knew how to find my place."

"Sure, Eastgate, I know the area. Thanks for asking though."

There was a slight pause. "Actually I wanted to make sure you were who you said you were. I was afraid you might be from the media."

"That is understandable, and wise. I know this has all been very hard for you and I will be as brief as possible, and well, just whatever you feel comfortable with." She didn't reply. "I'll phone you tonight then, about seven-thirty."

"Fine. Good-bye then."

I ate dinner alone, in the apartment. I thought about things, or tried to, there wasn't much to think about, just this stupid, restless need to find out more. Maybe Monica Smith will talk to me and that will be the end of it. Then I can get on with my own life. Life goes on, as people keep telling me, maybe they have something there, what the hell else can it do?

I phoned Monica Smith and she said she would see me, "But I hope it won't take too long." I assured that it would not and told her how much I appreciated it. She was bound to ask me whom I represented so I would have to kind of tap dance around that, imply without stating. It would not be the first time I had done that.

The house was a little old cottage, rather quaint but probably uncomfortable, where nothing worked quite properly. Except for the quaintness it sounded like my place. It was set far back from the street and the large front yard was filled with trees and shrubs so that the house was almost invisible from the street. There were light on so I knocked on the door.

Monica Smith was not what I had expected, not that I had formed any real picture in my mind, I just supposed, I don't know, another Donna Kardan type. Monica Smith was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that stops you cold for a second or two, the kind of delicate beauty where you even want to speak softly to her, not the Sophia Loren kind of beautiful, more the Jean Simmons or Vivian Leigh kind. I guess that rather dates me but childhood crushes are childhood crushes.

Her hair was black, parted in the middle, gentle waves down to her shoulders, large brown eyes, (yeah, you could drown in them), delicate cheek bones, perfect mouth and although she hadn't smiled I knew the teeth would be perfect too.

"Mr. Connor, come in please."

It was a tiny hallway, in three steps we were in the front room. It was a large room, nicely furnished in a pleasantly tasteful, homey kind of way. Two comfortable looking sofas and a fire going in the fireplace. She led the way. She was wearing blue jeans and a soft white sweater, and she was barefoot. She was small boned, thin waisted with small breasts and a really great little ass. "I've already talked to the police, I don't know how I can help you."

I knew the question that was forming so I jumped right in. "It is really just routine. We do some work for Aquarius Productions, Elizabeth Doren. I guess you knew that David and his mother had been out of touch for a long time?"

"I didn't know anything about his past, he never talked about it. I only found out when the police told me. Please sit down. Can I get you something?"

"That's all right, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I was going to have a glass of wine anyway."

"That would be nice, thank you."

When she brought the wine from the kitchen she placed my glass on the coffee table in front of me. She took hers and kneeled in front of the fireplace, putting the glass on the rug beside her. The bare feet gave it all a hint of intimacy, or maybe eroticism. She took the poker and prodded the fire a little, the way one does. It was just like that scene in Vertigo, with Kim Novac in Jimmie Stewart's apartment. For a second I wondered if she had seen the movie. My next immediate thought was that she would really be something to come home to. She looked up at me, the firelight had a nice effect on her face. "What was it you wanted to know?"

"Something about David, what he was like. You two were close?"

She looked back into the fire, when she spoke her voice was soft, little more than a whisper. "Yes, very close. What was David like? He was..." She took a sip of wine and was quiet for a long time, staring into the fire. I thought she might stop the whole thing, ask me to leave, but after a while she continued. "I haven't talked to anyone about it. I don't have any close friends here." She sighed and drew her knees up to her chest. She would only occasionally look at me when she talked, staring instead into the fire or into her wineglass. I found myself leaning forward, hanging on every word. "I haven't been here all that long. I come from out west, California, a small town. I'm a teacher, little kids, I like what I do, that is what I'm going to do here, I can't imagine doing anything else." She moved her index finger slowly around the rim of her glass. "I haven't had many... romances, the few I've had were not very good, very painful... David was different, so completely different, I always felt safe with him. He was the gentlest person I've known, and he had compassion, real compassion. He had an innocence about him that I almost couldn't believe at first." She kneeled in front of the fire again and gave it a couple of gentle prods with the poker. "He made me happy. I know he had a troubled past, he would never talk about it. He had his demons, but I thought that over time these things would work out. It doesn't matter now though does it? None of it matters."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"The day before, he didn't work that day. We went to the zoo, spent most of the day together. We came back here and I made dinner, then we watched t.v. for a couple of hours. That was it. I talked to him the next day, he phoned around lunchtime. I had a class that night, I take an evening Spanish course and he gave me a little quiz. We made vague plans to get together the next day."

"And he didn't sound upset? Distraught?

"No. He sounded the way he always sounded that's why I can't believe it. I know he liked to go there sometimes, to look out at the river, but I can't believe that he would want to, to end everything."

"Nobody knows what happened for sure, people are making assumptions. He might have slipped, lost his footing, it happens. How did you meet him?"

"In an odd way. I was taking groceries out of the trunk of my car, I had these two big bags and suddenly I started to lose one, then I, well I don't quite know what I did but all at once I was sprawled on the road with two bags of spilled groceries and a scraped knee. David was going by on his bicycle, he stopped and helped me, took the groceries inside and then, I made coffee and talked a bit. He was interested in my job, in teaching, he liked children. At first I...What was that? I heard something!" She stood up quickly, startled, eyes wide, hand jumping to her mouth. "There's something outside, on the porch. Did you hear it?"

She moved quickly to the window and I followed. The porch light was on, there was nothing to be seen on the porch. "I know there's someone out there, in the yard." She whispered it.

"You stay here, I'll take a look." I switched off the light and went out onto the porch but she didn't stay, she was right beside me. I stared out into the darkness of the yard, I wanted to let my eyes accustom themselves to the darkness and to figure out the best way to go about things. The yard looked like a miniature forest. "I'll go take a look."

"No, please wait, stay here." She put her hand on my arm. "Please, just for a minute, please." It was the softest of whispers.

So we stood there, silently staring into the yard, it was one of those times, the feeling of possible danger, when all your senses are intensified, when the old adrenalin pumps into action. I scanned the yard, concentrating, trying to look into every shadow, looking for the shadow that might be something other than a tree or a bush. Listening, straining to hear the snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves, even the sense of smell was more pronounced; the fresh night air, the slightly rank, green smell of vegetation, and from her, beside me, the faintest touch of perfume, or maybe shampoo, clean and delicate.

It was a quiet neighborhood, just the sound of distant traffic. Suddenly somewhere further up the block a car door slammed. She gave a little jump, an almost inaudible gasp and moved against me, her right hand pressed the small of my back. My arm instinctively went out and around her shoulder. There was the faint sound of a car driving away. My eyes kept searching the yard. I was aware of the feel of her shoulder cupped in my hand and the slight pressure of her hip against my thigh. It lasted only a few seconds then dropped her hand from my back and moved away, but only inches away.

"I can check out the..."

"No, please, its all right." She put both her hands on my arm as if to restrain me. "Please let's go inside."

I hesitated, but what the hell, I hadn't heard anything anyway, so I followed her inside. She sat in the middle of one of the sofas, didn't sit really, kind of curled up sideways, knees bent, back curved, head buried in hands. She trembled a bit. "I'm sorry, you must think I'm... It was probably nothing, just nerves...I've been so upset. I was sure someone was out there, watching me. She never looked at me, just stared at the carpet.

"Look, is there someone you can call to come over, to stay with you? Or someone you can go to?"

"No, there is no one."

"Can I get you something?"

She looked up at me, her expression almost pleading. "Would you mind? A cup of tea would help. It always does. And please, would you close the drapes on the window?"

"Of course." I went to the window looking out for a few seconds before I pulled the drapes closed then I padded out to the kitchen and set about the tea making, not something I ever do for myself, but I did get it all together, complete with tray and sugar and milk. As I brought the tray in I saw she was still in the same curled position, the back of her sweater had pulled up a little and there was a strip of bare flesh between the bottom of her sweater and the top of her jeans. There was a small brown mole almost in the center of her back, just touching the bump of spine. I put the tray on the coffee table and moved the table closer to her.

She sat up. "Thank you. You're not having any? Please have some wine then." She sipped her tea. She was perched on the edge of the sofa, knees pressed tightly together, shoulders slightly hunched. "I'll be all right in a few minutes. You' ve been very patient, I don't like to impose on people."

"It was I that imposed on you."

"I don't want to talk about David any more."

"No, of course not, that's fine."

We were silent for a while, she sipped her tea, I sipped my wine. I felt I should say something. "Do you like the city so far? It must be something of an adjustment."

"I think so, sometimes it seems cold and frightening but I'll get used to it. It takes a while. Once I get teaching again things will get better. Are you from here?"

"Yes, born and bred, but I always think I should be living somewhere else." That was about it for the small talk, we sat a while longer, she finished her tea, I finished my wine.

"I'm fine now really, I don't want to keep you any longer." She stood up.

At the doorway she said. "I want to thank you again for... for being there for me." She reached out and touched my arm, just the lightest touch. "Do you have a card?" I gave her my card and she read it. "Francis." She extended her hand. "Monica." Her hand was small and warm. For the first time that night she smiled. It was a hell of a smile.

I didn't check out the yard, but on the sidewalk, before I got into my car I stopped and looked back. I felt a little on edge with that kind of prickling on the back of the neck when you feel someone is watching you. I waited in the car watching to see if anyone came or went. Nothing happened so after ten minutes or so I went home.

Chapter 23

No message on my machine. Answering machines are a kind of problem for me; when there are no messages its usually a little disappointing, (nobody cares about me), but when that little red light is blinking my first thought is that if it not actually bad news it will be some general kind of pain in the ass. But now that Gail was in my life the unblinking red light was definitely disappointing.

I thought about phoning Gail, picked up the phone then changed my mind. She had seemed worried about something lately, well why not, single parent with a teen age daughter, not exactly a good job money wise or security wise. Maybe it was Christina. Maybe she was strapped for money. I would talk to her about it, now that we were more than friends that might be awkward, difficult for her, and for me. I would talk to Ryan about it, if it was money I could work something through Ryan

I got myself a beer and flicked on the t.v. Nothing worth watching, big surprise there, when was the last time there was?

David and Monica, not the most likeliest of couples. I couldn't picture it. Donna Kardan thought David was a virgin. I wondered if he died a virgin, quite a thought. But then again maybe not so bad, my so called sex life had not given me any kind of enlightenment. Only kidding folks, sex is as close as I have ever come to enlightenment.

If I assume that Donna and Monica were telling the truth, an assumption I rarely make, then David was not in a suicidal mood. And he was in love, he had Monica waiting for him. Had that been me the only jumping I would be thinking about would be into the sack with Monica, but then my baser animal instincts always rise to the fore, thank God. Monica Smith, she was something else, indeed she was, quite a package, almost too good to be real. It was hard to imagine her falling for David but then the ways of the human heart are forever a mystery, or so the poets say.

What then? He hadn't slipped, I had been to the site and there was a guardrail. Had he been pushed? Who gains from that? Not Donna, not Monica, not as far as I can see. Mommy dearest would certainly benefit, half an empire. She was in town, but still, knocking off your own kid, that did seem a bit much even for her, but then old time royalty did it all the time; the Romans, the Egyptians. And wasn't there a lady named Medea? No, I really can't buy that one, not even her. Follow the money. Who gains when someone dies? Obviously the beneficiary of an insurance policy or someone mentioned in a will. How can I find out about that? Not so easy. I wondered what the cops knew, fat Ed Chalmers and tough guy Herb Margolis. I would see what my inside cop, Gelman, could find out. It might be worth a few bucks.

I wasn't sleepy so I took a stroll up to my neighborhood all night restaurant. I bought a form and a newspaper and sat down with my coffee and cigarettes. I couldn't get much interested in the horses. I t was a slow evening, the neighborhood was unusually quiet. There weren't many people in the restaurant; a couple of horse players, a couple of strangers, and three hookers. The hookers all looked bored; sipped coffee, muttered a few monosyllables, played with their earrings and kept glancing out the window in case there might suddenly be some potential traffic or in case their old man might come upon the scene and wonder why they were inside drinking coffee when they should be moving them cute little asses out on the corner like any good girl would be doing. And he just might be somewhat stern about it.

One of the hookers that I knew slightly, (not in the Biblical sense) came to my booth and sat down. She had been around the corner for a long time, well over a year, mostly they come and go, anonymous faces, not many that you remember. "You were kind of staring at me there."

"Yeah, well you certainly are worth staring at but I'm not into doing any business."

"I didn't think so, but I'd rather sit here." She ordered coffee and picked up my newspaper.

"Slow night it looks like."

"You wouldn't believe it. Shit, it hasn't been this bad for years." She pointed to a story on the front page of the paper. "That's the reason, that freaking serial killer. What do you think about that?"

"He kills gay men, six so far, at least. I've given it a lot of thought. I'm beginning to think he doesn't like gay men, but I'm not sure."

"No kidding." She read from the paper. "Special task force, all out effort. If it was working girls instead of fagots no one would give a shit. I hope they catch the bastard though." She went on reading. She was great looking, I always liked talking to her, she had this great head of hair, wild brown curls all over the place and a great body. No stirrings though, not even dutiful, abstract lust. "That's why business is so bad, cops all over the place, you wonder where they all come from, the donut shops must be suffering. Nothing to do with us but nobody wants to come into the district, not even the regulars. I guess all the t.v.s on Higgins Avenue are nervous, that's where three of them came from."

"I'm sure if he knew it was bad for your business he'd find something else to spend his time on. Listen, you ever bet the horses?"

"I'm only dumb, not stupid."

"Okay think of a number from one to seven, right, now think of another one. What did you pick?"

"Three and five."

"Okay, third race, fifth horse. Let me see. Alterboy, never heard of it." A horse player, a regular named Alvin was in the booth across. "Hey Alvin, do me a favor, when the kid comes in bet ten to win on Alterboy inn the third for me." I gave him a twenty. "And ten to win for... sorry I forget your name."

She gave me a look, and a little mock roll of the eyeballs. "Monica."

"Monica, you have to be kidding."

"Whatever. So if this horse wins, what's it worth?"

"Not much, it's a favorite, three, four, to one."

"So I guess I won't wet my pants over that. Thanks anyhow." She stood up. "I better get back to work." She made a small production out of straightening the mini skirt, pulling down the sweater, putting on a little lipstick. Business is business. Then she gave me a smile and a wink. "See you later, honey. I'll keep it warm for you."

Back at the apartment I saw that no one had phoned me in my absence, no blinking red light and I had wanted there to be one. Gail liked to phone at night, usually from her bed, and we would have long meandering conversations about nothing much, not exactly memorable for content but enjoyable.

I phoned. "Hello, I hope I didn't wake you up."

"No, in bed though, almost drifting off. I'm glad you phoned."

We only talked a short time, she sounded sleepy but something else as well, distracted, even sad. I said. "Lately you' ve seemed worried about something, I mean its your business but I want you to know, if there is anything I can do, any way I can help, if you need anything... This is as a friend, you know, we go back a long way. If there is anything I wish you would let me help." She was quiet a long time. "Or am I finally becoming really boring?"

"No, that certainly isn't it. Can we talk about it another time, not tonight?"

We made arrangements for lunch the next day.

Chapter 24

At work the next day I had Captain Marvel punch the keys and see what he could find on Donna Kardan and Monica Smith. Nothing of interest came up. Donna seemed to be everything she said she was and everything she appeared to be. I wish I had that good a credit rating. All there was on Monica was a driver's license and car registration, nothing else. No credit rating, no check ups, no traffic violations. That was interesting, nothing; like the barking dog in the Sherlock Holmes story. It might mean nothing; she moves here, has cash saved, doesn't need credit, pays cash for everything, landlord doesn't run a check. Could be. I wished I had asked the name of her home town in California. But what would she gain?

Lots of questions about Mommy Dearest; when she got here, who she was with, when she left etc. Did she have something to gain? Maybe Bechtman the lawyer had something to gain. Or maybe the kid jumped. A very good maybe. And the really big maybe, maybe I would feel less responsible if he was pushed. Why? The bottom line is I found him when he didn't want to be found. My job. I know I am not responsible. It is all random. Every action leads to other actions and who knows what the outcome is. What if I do find out? The kid is dead, nothing changes that. This was not trying to find some little girl, to prevent something terrible from continuing. Then why do I feel responsible, and why can't I just put it all away and get on with my life. Because it nags at me like a toothache, I have to try to find out what happened. Why? Because I am obsessive, like the story about the frog and the scorpion crossing the river, I can't help it, its my nature.

It would help if I knew what the cops knew and maybe Gelman could help me there. I phoned him and he said he would get back to me when he could talk. He phoned back in half an hour or so and I told him what I wanted. "Anything and everything you can find out. It might be a bit dicey, this kind of case, so don't stick your ass out. If it can't be done that's okay."

"No problem, the place is a madhouse, you wouldn't believe it, cops falling all over themselves, big fucking deal task force, using everybody to find the faggot killer. That one's Ed Chalmers case, smart assed son of a bitch that thinks he's a comedian. No problem, Francis, I'll find out whatever I can. Chalmers is so sloppy I could probably copy the whole damned file and he'd never know."

"Hey, take it easy, don't take any chances, you got a lot to lose, it isn't all that important.."

"Don't worry, I'm always careful. I'll phone As soon as I get something."

I hung up the phone feeling a little uneasy. Great, he'll get caught, lose his job, lose his pension, get depressed and swallow his gun, then I can really feel guilty. But like they say, he's a big boy. Aint we all.

It was a slow day at the office. Claire had taken the day off, a rare occurrence that, but a welcome one. So I did a little paperwork, kidded around with the staff, then went to meet Gail for lunch. I was feeling pretty good.

Gail made me feel even better. She seemed more like her old self, she gave me a warm hug and a smoochy kiss on the cheek. We ordered our food and I asked about work. She gave a shrug. "Same old, same old."

"Yeah, me too. How's Christina?"

She let out a long protracted, "Ohhhh. Moody, very moody, I never know what to expect. Some nights she goes to her room and just lies there, not reading, not listening to music, doesn't want to talk. So I just let her be. Other times she's like a little mother to me. I'll come home and she will have cooked supper, she'll run a bath for me, even clean the place a bit. Then she'll tell me how I should stop smoking, eat healthier food, get more exercise, look both ways before I cross the street. Then the next day I can't get two words from her. Teenagers, just a phase they tell me, but it lasts till they're about twenty-five. But she's a good kid. I'm lucky. Anyhow..."

"But it works doesn't it, you and her, that's something, something she will always have."

"I like to think that. Single parent from day one, I'm all she has, for better or worse. I know its hard for her, she doesn't have as much to spend as most of her friends, especially for clothes." She smiled. "Clothes and make up, c.d.s and teen magazines. Sometimes I forget about that, how important those things are at her age. I wish I could spend more time with her, I think she's lonely a lot of the time. No boyfriend, not that I know of. No, I'm sure there isn't, she's too much of a homebody. These are difficult times for her. And not having a father, I don't know if that bothers her, she says not, there are lots of kids like that, but she's never even seen him, just a photograph, never talked to him. I never had that experience. I don't know if there is this blank spot, something missing, if that makes it harder for her, sometimes I think it does. I wondered how you.... felt about it."

"What? Me? Oh, because I never knew my father, not even a picture. I really wanted there to be a photograph, I was always curious about what he looked like. I don't think it is necessarily good or bad. Kids take the world the way they find it. If that's how it is, that's how it is. Personally I never felt it was any kind of liability. When I was a kid though, a little kid, I used to fantasize about him, all the usual stuff. Anyway she has you, she has someone, that's the big point, you know what I mean. Maybe if it was a threesome you wouldn't be as close. Who knows? Listen, you are doing fine with her. When she grows up and sees the world it won't be the money thing she remembers, it will be you and her, all the good memories. Believe me..."

She smiled. "And like the old man says, 'you gotta play the hand they dealt you.' so I'll just have to play mine. Now, the important business at hand. You are invited for dinner tonight. I have to warn you, Christina is going to do the cooking, probably spaghetti and meatballs."

It sounds great I would love to."

She asked about work again, and the David thing. I had already decided it was not something I wanted to get into with her again so I shrugged it off. "Just dicking around a bit, there is nothing new at work, nothing to get started on, just routine paper work, pretty boring."

Dinner was not quite great but it was certainly okay. Christina had made lasagna, salad, and garlic bread, I supplied the wine. During the meal Christina asked me very direct questions; what did I think about capital punishment, the drug laws, war, etc. Like most kids she wasn't making idle conversation, she wanted to know what I thought, where I stood on matters she had given some thought to, although she rarely ventured her own opinion. After dinner we played Trivial Pursuit.

The dynamics between the two of them was interesting to watch; sometimes mother daughter, sometimes like a couple of teen age girls with a bit of a giggle and a nudge, sometimes like a couple of old friends gently bickering. They shared the same sense of humor, at least about men. Women always seem to have a better sense of humor about the opposite sex than men do. It must be something biological. Usually it is the accepting, the hey what can you do about it kind of humor, often accompanied by the mock rolling of eyeballs. Men sit around in bars moping that they don't understand women. Gee, big surprise there, you don't understand men either, not even yourself. What do you want; a relationship with no surprises, a woman that thinks like a man? Women know they might get around to understanding their mates some ten years or so down the line. Or they might not.

After the Trivial Pursuit game Christina said she would clean up, (I did offer to help, but my offer was refused), and Gail and I went for a walk. It was all kind of funny, like I was some teen age character out of a sitcom come a courting the daughter, not an experience I knew from my own youth. I always tried to keep as far away as possible from the families of girls I was trying to get next to, especially if there were tough brothers around.

It was a very family evening, dinner and a board game, and when we left Christina said, as a joke. "Don't you kids stay out too late now." The tender trap Mr. Sinatra once sang about. I did not feel too trapped.

"So," I asked. "Do you think I passed the test?"

"She is so funny. She's in her mom mode, kind of sweet though, don't you think? She is just checking out the boyfriend, making sure he's not just hanging around for the sex."

"But I am just hanging around for the sex." (Ha ha ha, lesson number forty-six; do not make stupid jokes like that). No, of course I was not hanging around just for the sex. But. But the thing is had we not become lovers would I have been over there for supper, would I even have met her kid, we had been friends for years and that had never happened. More importantly would we have told each other the things we had, would we have each come to know the other the way we now did? One is tempted to think that the way to a man's heart is not through his stomach but through his dick, it is rather like hitting a mule over the head to get its attention. One is tempted to think that but I prefer to think of it another way; the sex is a part, (can't deny that), and it can be, as in this case, a meaningful part, but still just a part of the whole ball of wax. Hell, sex is like conversation; it can be funny or serious, casual or important, loving or hateful. As Aristotle, I think it was, once said, sex is what you make it.

In any event there was no sex for us that night. I walked her back home, kissed her good-night at her door, and drove home. I had spent an evening playing Trivial Pursuit, eating a home cooked meal and answering the questions of a curious teenager. It was an odd feeling; a pleasant easy feeling but somehow tinged with sadness, seeing the two of them, how they were, and knowing no matter what happened, how good we were together, I could never be a real part of it, I would always be something of the outsider. I felt lonely in a way I don't think I had felt before.

Gail was still troubled about something; the odd time it showed through, a certain look in her eyes, and once she was, for just a second, close to tears, but she got up quickly and went to the bathroom. She was fine for the rest of the evening. I asked her about it when we were walking but she said it was nothing. I told her once again. "Besides everything else we are old friends, real friends, I'd go to the wall for you, you know that." She said she knew that, she appreciated that, but it was nothing and I shouldn't think of it anymore.

Driving home and for the rest of the evening I did think about it. I didn't think it was Christina and I didn't think it was money, it was more than that. So what could it be? Some bad ass old boy friend come back to bug her, maybe even Christina's father. I could handle that. I know that ninety percent of what people worry about never happens. But there is always that ten percent, isn't there? All I could do would be to let it play out.

I slept badly.

Chapter 25

I felt somewhat better in the morning. I stopped obsessing about Gail and began obsessing about David and his death. Maybe David was gay and he'd tried to hit on the wrong guy and the guy had given him a shove. Maybe David had tried to hit on our gay serial killer, that would be just David's luck. I was really clutching at straws, desperately clutching. Nobody felt right. Why could I not just say the kid was a jumper and he jumped? Why could I not say that? Good question. I have no idea. Bechtman might have something to gain, I would have to look into him.

Claire was back at work, looking pleased with herself; new hairdo, long jangly earrings, short, tight skirt. Soft smiles and sparkling eyes. I thought she must have finally found a boyfriend and wondered if Daddy approved.

I had Captain Marvel find out what he could about Bechtman, then I phoned the ex-cop acquaintance in L.A. He had never heard of Bechtman but he had been in touch with the woman who was writing the book on Elizabeth and her empire. The woman, Jane Steele, wouldn't mind talking to me. That was fine, I wouldn't mind talking to her. I phoned and left a message on her machine.

We had a small job for a local lawyer that Tommy and a new staff member were working on and we discussed that. I checked with Captain Marvel, nothing too electrifying on Bechtman; sixty-six years old, bachelor, good credit, no trouble with the law society, blah blah blah.

Jane Steele returned my call. She was, although she tried to hide it, eager to find out what I knew. She had been working on the book, off and on, for three years. This "new development" might be interesting. We tap danced about, who had what to offer whom, quid pro quo, as the guy said in the movie. She was flying in the next day anyway so we arranged to meet, we both said we looked forward to that.

Then Gelman called me. He had something for me, why didn't we meet somewhere, like for dinner, and he named a restaurant, seven o'clock. Very odd for Gelman, we did business over the phone as a rule, matter of fact I had not seen him in person for three or four years. Still, it was a good idea, cement the relationship, sit down and yak for an hour or two. He was an all right guy.

Gelman looked twenty years older since the last time I'd seen him, a lot grayer, thinner, somewhat stooped over, his limp more pronounced than I remembered it. His personality was more pronounced now too, bitter, judgmental, and petty. He'd always had a kind of hard on for the world but in the past it had always been covered by a kind of sardonic sense of humor. Now the humor was gone. He had very little good to say of anyone and he spent a long time saying it. Well, give him his due, he had been a good cop, a young ambitious uniform, then he'd stopped a couple while answering a domestic quarrel. Not even a big drug bust or a bank robbery, just a domestic quarrel. The department let him stay on as a glorified file clerk, and he had stayed, going nowhere. There was something about his wife too, either she had left him or died or something. I could understand how that might do something to your sense of humor.

We had a couple of drinks before dinner and I listened to him while he poured out stories of incompetence and stupidity. Most of the names I knew but it was all another world to me now, I had been away too long. I pretended interest and the appropriate indignation when called for. It seemed I was one of about three or four cops about whom he had something good to say. It was not because I had been such a good cop, I had only become that in his mind now, some of the guys he badmouthed were better cops than I had been. The fact is I had been nice to him, treated him with respect, discussed cases, ideas, theories; he had taken criminology at college and enjoyed showing that off a bit. I had no ulterior motive, I liked him, he was a bright guy and better conversation than most of the other cops.

All that was gone now, life had sucked everything out of him leaving just a shell, a bitter old man driven only by venom. Hey, that's the world, you answer that one fateful call and your life changes completely. Maybe you thought of booking off that day, maybe they almost gave the call to someone else, and maybe now you would be a captain planning your Florida retirement. It is all a crapshoot, nothing more.

We were half way through the salad before I could steer him onto the case. "Oh, yeah, Ed Chalmers, can you imagine putting that lardass in charge of a case? He can't even find his dick, sarcastic son of a bitch. Another year and he'll be gone, off to pension land, like me in four years. God, I'll be glad to be out of that shithole."

Not too likely, I thought, you will really have nothing then, you'll wither up and die. "What about Margolis?" I asked.

He's not on it anymore, they put him on the big task force, everybody is on the big task force. They gave Chalmers some rookie and another case to boot, so you can figure out what will happen, nothing. Margolis is dumb, he has the imagination of a doorknob, but at least he's hard working, methodical, you know the kind, good for leg work. But he's a shit, too. Its all changed so much, Francis, you wouldn't believe it, the whole attitude has changed. I mean cops are cops, always have been; good, bad, or indifferent, but most of us we had a sense of honor, you know, a kind of personal thing, personal pride too. All gone. Not just cops, everybody. You see it everywhere, just walk down the street."

"That's certainly true." We ate in silence for a while. I thought of something Rick had once said. We see the world not as things are but as we are. Indeed, indeed. "So do you have any idea what they have, what they're going on, anything?"

"Can I ask you something, Francis?" He didn't wait for an answer, so I guess it was academic. "What's your interest in this?"

"If you mean who am I working for, nobody, just me, its personal, all on my own time. You know I was the guy that found him, I just want to satisfy myself about what happened."

"I can understand that, once a cop always a cop. And you smell a rat, I think even Chalmers smells a rat but he doesn't know what to do about it, or he doesn't care."

"But he hasn't called it suicide yet."

"No, okay here is what I know, the kid died some time after nine-thirty, probably nine forty-five, something about the watch, everybody connected to the case has an alibi so far as I can tell, there's two women and the mother apparently."

"The kid really was suicidal, its in his hospital records. Why aren't they writing it off as that?"

"DNA."

"DNA?"

"Skin particles under the fingernails of his right hand. Forensics came up with it. Every four or five years they do something intelligent on their own. It could mean a struggle."

"It could mean nothing too. They must have something else."

"They have a couple of maybe witnesses, you know the kind, 'well, I'm pretty sure', not much good in court, mostly from the sweatshirt he was wearing, name of some kind of house. Not too dependable, anyway they think they saw him in the park about nine or nine fifteen, with a woman they think was wearing a trench coat. You know what I think? I think if this was some transient Chalmers would just write it off as suicide and go back to sleep but because the mother is this Hollywood big shot they want to make it look like they are leaving no stone unturned. But the department doesn't have the resources right now, any other time it would be a high profile case, famous mother and all that, but it was a one day wonder."

"Yeah, David showed a definite lack of judgment in picking the wrong time to jump or get pushed. But everybody's alibi, mother and the two other women, they all checked out?"

"So far as I can tell, but I don't know how hard they checked."

And that was about all the bitter Mr. Gelman had to offer. I think he just wanted someone to have dinner with, I don't imagine he has much of a social life. I wondered if they had checked out anybody's DNA. I wondered how good the alibis were. I wondered how hard Ed Chalmers would work the case. I wondered if maybe I should not just forget the whole thing and get on with my life.

It was a pleasant evening, big full moon, cool breeze, a nice evening for a walk. And that, I thought, was what I would do; grab a shower, look at the paper, then take a leisurely evening stroll through the neighborhood, maybe wind up at my friendly corner bistro to check out the horses and the hookers. Not to participate in the actions of either, I assure you, just looking as they say. Well, maybe the horses.

I was fumbling the key in the front door lock and cursing the janitor when I heard something, or maybe I sensed it, I turned. He was coming at me on the dead run, and he had a sawed off kid's baseball bat just arcing back for a swing. I pushed off as hard as I could, driving headfirst into his chest. It surprised him somewhat, the bat went flying out of his hand and I heard the sound of glass shattering. I tried to give him a head butt and was half successful but it didn't phase him much. Hey, he was at least fifteen years younger, in much better shape, and much more practiced at this sort of thing than I was. He had me in a headlock with one hand around my throat, squeezing, squeezing very, very, hard. Not only could I not breathe but it felt as if my eyeballs were going to pop right out of my head. Everything began turning red with right flashes and I knew that a few more seconds of this and I would pass out whereupon he could take his own sweet time about jumping up and down upon my head. I tried to pull his hand away and did manage to ease the pressure a bit, I tried to knee him, but he, no stranger to this sort of encounter, turned his body sideways to me. I could look right into his face and his expression was one of complete calmness, no anger, nothing, if anything a hint of contempt, a kind of ho hum this guy won't be much trouble look. I'm sure he'd had much tougher assignments.

Then I managed to kick him a pretty good one on the ankle and both his arms dropped away. I thought that was a point for me but not so, he brought a left hook right into the old solar plexus. I knew it was coming but I couldn't block it. It felt as if my whole stomach was going to come up through my throat. I had no air, I gasped, my legs started to buckle. I tried to hold onto him and then the side of my head exploded and I felt myself falling. He hit me once more on the way down and I remember thinking vaguely, this son of a bitch is going to kill me. Instinct took over when I hit the ground, I curled, arms trying to protect my face and head, trying to roll away. Where the hell was a cop when you needed one? I was rolling he was kicking and now someone was screaming. The kicking had stopped, someone was holding my head sideways while I vomited, a woman's voice said. "Don't try to move, we've phoned for an ambulance." There were people around me, my hand was covered with blood, everything began to spin so I closed my eyes. I wanted to die. Just lie there and die. Then there was an ambulance, then there was the emergency room of St. Mikes hospital, where people looked at me, bandaged me, x-rayed me, stuck a needle in me, and at some point tucked me into bed.

Chapter 26

I awoke, as they say, in the hospital, and I do not think I have ever felt so bad in my entire life. My whole body ached, my head was pounding and my stomach kept wanting to throw up but with nothing left to throw up. My left eye was swollen shut, I couldn't take a deep breath without a stabbing pain in my side, and my left arm was almost useless. I tried a tentative exploration of the body and bad as I felt I had to admit it could have been, and I am sure it was meant to be, much worse. Good point number one; he had not managed to kick me in the nuts, number two; all my teeth were still there, number three; none of my bones seemed to be broken. My eye was a worry but I kind of presumed the eyeball was still in there someplace, maybe a cracked rib, maybe a concussion. Some very painful bruises for sure, but all in all I knew I was lucky; that the bat had gone flying out of his hand, and that someone must have come along and scared him off, another ten seconds and he could have seriously messed me up. Even knowing all that it was hard to convince myself that I was, indeed, fortunate.

At that moment what I wanted was to leave this stupid city, this stupid way of life, and this stupid business. To be in Mexico, sitting peacefully on the beach with a cold beer, chatting up one of those so very sweet, so very pretty, Mexican ladies. Dream on MacDuff. Failing that. A little sympathy would be nice, maybe Gail, her eyes tearing slightly, bathing my wounds, feeding me chicken soup, changing my bandages. On second thought change the chicken soup to clam chowder, but the rest is okay.

My first visitor was Rick. No sympathy there. Not that Rick was not sympathetic or concerned but Rick is a guy and I am a guy and guys have a great deal of difficulty in expressing sympathy towards another guy. This difficulty is only exceeded by the difficulty the second guy has in accepting sympathy. All guys know this. I mean you could have the love of your life leave you, your uninsured house burn down, and your only child run off to live with a heroin addict, and your best friend, if it is a guy, will offer something like, "Geez, that's kind of a tough break. Then the two of you will go on to talk about the weather or football, or the movie he saw last night.

Rick's attitude would be one of pragmatism, that's the kind of guy he is, like let's find out who did this and do them double, which in the long run is better than sympathy. He pulled a chair over beside my bed. "I hate to tell you boss, you look like shit."

"I only wish I felt that good. Pour me a glass of water will you. How did you hear?"

"The cops phoned the office, said you'd been mugged. So what's the deal?"

"I don't know what the deal is. I know it was no mugging, this guy was just out to damage me. I don't know what the connection is. Amazing though it may sound to all those that know and love me I have made a few enemies in my lifetime. Maybe its an old score being settled. Anyway I can't think too clearly right now, all those painkillers, we'll figure it out later. One thing, I got a good look at his face."

"Well that 's something. Listen, Francis, I'm with you on this, whatever it is you want me to do I'm with you, all the way. Whatever it is."

"Thanks Rick, I'm going to take you up on that, I appreciate it. Right now I need a couple of favors; first phone Gail, you have her number, right, tell her what happened but downplay it, then come back with your camera and take some pictures of me, bandages, hospital bed and all. Okay?"

"Sure. Oh, by the way Claire sends her concerns."

My next visitor was the doctor. He did not seem very concerned. I suppose that compared to most of the things he dealt with I was pretty small potatoes. He asked, rather abstractly, how I was feeling and I replied, in a rather non-committed manner "So, so."

He offered a little smile. He was young, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, slight, with horn rimmed glasses and a worried expression. He never once looked at my face while he spoke. His bedside manner left something to be desired. Where are all those great doctors like the ones you see on the tube; caring, concerned, spending all sorts of time yakking with their patients? I'll tell you where they are, they all quit medicine and got jobs as actors on television shows. "The good news is, nothing major; a mild concussion, nothing to worry about, the eye isn't damaged as far as we can tell. Lots of bruises of course, but the body will heal those on its own. We taped your ribs but they aren't cracked, a slightly torn ligament. Leave the tape on for a week or so, you can come back here and we will remove it and check the eye again, or you can have your family physician do it."

"How long do I have to stay here?"

"You can stay overnight if you like, you need the rest. Or you can rest up at home. If you prefer that I can check you out this afternoon. Really, all you need is rest and let the body heal itself. You seem in pretty good shape physically for someone your age, so I'm sure you will heal quickly enough."

"I feel pretty God damn awful. Is there some kind of prescription you can give me?"

"I can give you something but you might be as well with over the counter pain killers. Rest is the important thing. Take a few days off work and rest up. Don't enter any marathons. In a week or so you will be as good as new."

"New was never all that good." But he was already half way out the door.

I did have an attractive nurse though, I didn't see much of her but she did elicit a little tingle on those occasions when I did. There is, I have to admit, something erotic about nurses, not a big deal, at least not for me, but there is something. I know some guys have these whole elaborate fantasies about them, get hookers to play the part. And they have been featured in quite a few stag films which helps to keep the whole thing going. When I was a little kid there was this mythology that all nurses liked to screw all the time and that they were especially good at it, knowing tricks other women never knew. I don't know if that explains the eroticism, I rather think it is something else, something primal, something to do with the caring for, the tending of wounds, something very feminine about that, very basic. I hope it has nothing to do with mothers, I don't want to go there. Hell, maybe its just the idea of a woman you don't know touching you in such a rather personal way.

Gail came, and was concerned, and was sympathetic, and stroked my cheek, and looked at me with the expression of a mother whose little boy has just fallen out of tree he was told not to climb. "Ah, Francis, me boyo, me darlin, are yah forever gawn tah be gattin yourself inta trouble?" She did a very bad Irish accent, which was kind of charming. While she was there a uniformed cop came in to write up a report. I was getting more visitors in one morning in a hospital ward than I got in a month in my apartment. The uniform did not seem overly concerned, just another day at the office, which of course it was. I said I would go to Central the next day and look at mug shots. He finished writing in his little note pad, said he would advise Central, and gave Gail a great big smile, bigger than politeness called for I thought. What a deal, a good upstanding citizen, I'm talking about me here, gets brutally assaulted and all society says is ho-hum. Big surprise there. Anyway Gail said she would come to my place that evening and make me supper. I requested clam chowder.

I checked out of the hospital at four-thirty or thereabouts and took a cab home. I looked like hell which was considerably better than how I felt. My left eye was an interesting deep purple and swollen shut, my left cheek was swollen, there was a bandage on my head and on my hand. Actually I did feel somewhat better, or maybe I was just getting used to the pain. My head still throbbed despite the pain killers.

Once again I had to fumble with the lock on the front door and once again I cursed the caretaker, only this time with more vehemence than usual. And who should be standing in the lobby but my caretaker, arms folded, looking blankly at the broken window. When I entered he looked blankly at me. "Hey!" I said. "When are you going to fix the fucking lock?"

He continued to stare at me and I could almost see the rusty, cobwebbed wheels start to grind together in what one assumed was his brain. "Yeah, I'm gonna fix it." Then he gave me a look of pure contempt as if to say why should he fix a lock for some dumb dick that is stupid enough to get himself beaten up. He went back to looking at the broken window.

"Asshole." I said. I picked up my mail and went to my apartment. Now I know it is never a good policy to get on bad terms with one's caretaker, all renters know that. That is why we suck up to them. Not that we think that will make them be nice to us, or even civil, but just in the forlorn hope that they might take out their sadistic tendencies on the other tenants first. I am sure there must be some good natured caretakers out there just as I am sure there must be some good natured South American dictators out there. I even had one once, caretaker that is.

There was a message on my machine. Jane Steele, the writer, in town, could we meet. We certainly could. I phoned her and set up a meeting; nine-thirty, the Oak Room at her hotel, she would be wearing a black suit, blonde hair and glasses. She was, she said by way of further description, thirtyish.

Gail came over and while she did not exactly tend my wounds she was sympathetic and motherly. "You might have been killed." she said. That was something I had already thought of; killed or crippled or blinded.

"He didn't mean to kill me, just put me out of commission for a while."

"Do you know who did it? What it is all about?"

"Don't have a clue, maybe it's some ghost from my past. I am going to find out though, I'm not going to give him a second chance."

She made dinner, including the clam chowder, and I ate heartily if slowly. "Great meal, you truly are an angel of mercy

Later, we were sitting together on the sofa, close together, holding hands and I told her about the appointment with the writer. She gave a long sigh but said she would drive me there. My head was back, my eyes closed, I was almost dozing off, and I said something to the effect of, "You know you really are too good for me, too nice. I don't deserve you." There was this odd noise and I opened my eyes. She was crying, holding her head in her hands. "What is it? What's wrong?" She wouldn't answer, just shook her head, still sobbing. "Please tell me what it is."

She stood up, shaking her head, took a few hesitant steps this way then that way, then went to the bathroom. She stayed in there a long time, ten or fifteen minutes. When she came out her eyes were red, her face freshly washed. All she said was. "I'd really like a drink. Would you like one?"

"Sure." She went into the kitchen, made a couple of drinks and brought them out. She sat beside me on the sofa but a little apart. We sipped our drinks and she gave me a little half apologetic smile but mostly just stared into her drink or at the floor. I didn't know what to say. "Forget about this thing tonight, I'll cancel it. We have to talk. Please, we'll talk, maybe there is something I can..."

"No, no, its all right. Another time. I'm sorry about this, about all this. Some nurse." She gave me a little smile and patted my hand. "I'll drop you off. Its hardly out of my way."

Neither one of us had much to say after that. It was not that there were not things I wanted to say, for there were. It might be that I wanted her to say something, to tell me what was wrong, to tell me how she felt, it might be that I did not know quite how to say the words or if that was the right time, or it might be that I was still a little hesitant. Whatever the reason I said nothing. So she dropped me off at the hotel, with a grin and a soft kiss upon my cheek, and said. "Take care of yourself, now."

I watched her car drive away, standing on the side walk in a light sprinkling of rain, feeling suddenly very much alone, stupid and directionless. I had no excuse, it was just me, the way I am.

Chapter 27

I entered the hotel prepared to try to do a little business. Thank God for business, good old capitalism, keeps us all on our toes. The great leveler, all equal in the eyes of Mammon, consumers all, because everything is for sale; people, things, emotions. You can buy the works of Shakespeare or a twelve year old hooker, you can hire a shrink or a beautician, or someone to kill your wife. It is all out there, and it is all for sale. Almost all, the trick is to find those things that aren't.

Jane Steele fitted the description she had given me but she was not what I had expected. Not that I expected an author to necessarily be quietly contemplative, murmuring quotes from Foucault or somesuch, but Jane Steele seemed much more like one of those frazzled, high strung executives one sometimes sees, usually in the media business. She was lean and hard, not at all unattractive, one of those people that seemed to exude energy all the time. She chain smoked. I imagined she worked too hard and too long, took too many pills, had a screwed up personal life, was almost always on the edge of hysteria and spent a lot of money on psychiatrists and clothes.

We introduced ourselves and ordered drinks; I had a scotch and she had a Bloody Mary. "You look like you lost an argument with someone."

"You should see the other guy, not a mark on him."

She got right down to business. "I'm charging these drinks to business expenses so perhaps we should talk business, which is why you are here I presume." She paused but I didn't say anything. "I might be interested in buying something, local background, an interview with you telling how you found David, something like that. It depends, I'm on a limited budget."

"Actually I had in mind something a little larger in scope." I lit a cigarette. "Now my general impression is this, and please correct me if I'm wrong, okay. You have this in depth study of an American success story, Elizabeth Doren, hoofer in the chorus, gets married, they create this television show, Bitsy Macquire, win the hearts of America, start their own production company, then tragedy strikes, blah, blah, blah, the kid disappears. Not bad, but now you have your big ending, mother finds kid and kid jumps off cliff. So even the rich and powerful have their problems, we all like to hear that. Not bad."

I paused but she didn't say anything, just watched me carefully. "Not bad, but it could be so much better. That is where I come in. Here read these." I gave her some press clippings from the Melanie Brinowski case. "The thing is I found that little girl when the cops couldn't, and I kept looking for her after the money ran out, its all there. I even had a gun battle with the kidnappers and was wounded. Because of that case Elizabeth Doren hired me. Other agencies were not able to find David but I did, I found him. I think I can be a good part of your book but more of that later. You see I am still investigating the case, on my own, no one is paying me, because I want to get to the bottom of it, to know for sure what really happened. So what happens I get badly beaten up, if not for a couple of passer-byes I'd be in the hospital for a long time, maybe dead. Why?"

"It might have nothing to do with this case."

"It might not, or it might. Come on."

"I don't see where this is going."

"I think you do. Anyhow, the cops are very tight lipped on all this, they are giving out nothing, but they haven't declared it suicide yet, and I know why. I was a cop for a long time, I have a pipeline right into Central, I know what they're doing as soon as they do it. The cop in charge of the investigation is a friend of mine, Ed Chalmers, he isn't the pipeline but he is someone I can talk to. I have interviews with people that knew David, one of whom her name was never made public, that one would be really interesting. I have pictures, photographs; David in the institution and when we found him, here, tailing him, pictures of me in the hospital looking even worse than I do now and I know I'll get more and better ones. I have a complete background done by another agency, I know the financial structure as regards David and Aquarius. I know all kinds of things. But the point is I don't think David jumped, it doesn't seem the cops do either. And if he didn't I'm going to find out who pushed him. And I will find out who before the cops do, Ed is a nice guy but lazy, close to retirement, and he's short staffed. We have a local serial killer here, you must have read about it, that's the top priority right now."

I looked inquiringly at her. "I'm interested." She said.

"So what I thought was, you and I would do the investigation together, you'd record everything, take lots of pictures, we have some great camera equipment, maybe I'd get in a gun battle or get beaten up again, that would really be great. What an ending for your book, better than, In Cold Blood. Just think about it, start putting it all together, because I am going to find out what really happened. So you can be in or you can be out. I've given you just a bare outline, I'm sure you can see all the possibilities. You even get a rep as a great investigative reporter."

She wasn't stupid but she wasn't a good poker player either, her eyes flashed and she even squirmed a little in her seat. I let her think about it for a while.

"All right, it has definite possibilities. I'm interested, that is if what you say is true."

"Check me out, I'm a local hero."

"And the cost is... the cost to you is twenty-five percent. Twenty-five percent of everything you make from the book. That includes any television or movie sales."

She laughed, it was not a laugh with much humor, but it was a laugh. "I don't whether to give you an A for audacity or a D for dreaming. You must have taken one too many punches to the head. Can we be serious now?"

I shrugged. "I'll take that as a no. Let's have another drink here." I signaled the waiter. "Don't worry about your expense account, I'll pick up the tab." The waiter brought our drinks. "So, is this your first visit here?"

"I'll tell you what I might be willing to do. I might go along with this, let's say that I hire you, at whatever your going rate is, for a month."

"Now you be serious. I'm not here to haggle. I made you an offer and you said no. that's okay with me, no problem." I sipped my drink. "I thought I would give you first refusal."

"I see, and you know someone else that's writing a book on Elizabeth Doren, do you?"

"Not yet, but I have a friend, an investigative reporter on one of the local papers. He's done quickie books before, not exactly memorable prose but he sure is fast, has a couple of college kids that help him. I have all the background and he and I will do the investigation, complete with photos. We will concentrate more on the case, that's what is really interesting anyhow. You don't have anything we don't have, yours isn't an authorized biography, Elizabeth doesn't give interviews. I'll bet I've talked to her more than you have. And of course I'll do better than twenty-five percent with him, more like forty or fifty. It might not sell as well as yours, or then again it might do better, and of course you would have to compete with us for any movie or television deal.

"What if you get nowhere and the police decide it is suicide?"

"We will have set up so many questions, like my getting beaten up, so many possibilities it will look like a big cover up. Almost as good as solving it, you know that."

"Twenty-five percent is ridiculous, but we might be able to work something out." She was doing a lot of thinking though, seeing a lot of possibilities.

"I'm tired of drawing you pictures. I made you an offer, you said no, that is the end of it. You go your way and I go mine. I wish you luck."

"There is nothing to stop me from hiring my own private investigator."

"No, there isn't." I looked at my watch.

"I'll have to phone my publisher, get his advice. How soon do you need an answer?"

"Tonight. All right, tomorrow morning. Ask him about someone to represent you legally. If it's a go we'll draw up the papers tomorrow. Are you going to be able to reach him this time of night?"

"I'll try, I have his phone number."

She was gone for about fifteen minutes and when she came back she looked worried. She lit another cigarette and I ordered two more drinks. "He thinks it's a gamble."

"And you don't like to gamble, right?" I sighed and stared off into the distance.

"If it does all come off, storybook ending, well that's really worth something, we could be talking about an awful lot of money. But then if there is nothing to it..."

"You still have an exciting ending. I don't believe you people, you sit around with your finger up your ass waiting for someone to hand you the whole ball of wax. Jesus. Okay I'll tell you what, if nobody goes to jail or to trial it drops to ten percent." I paused. "On one condition."

"That is?"

I looked at my watch. "Last offer. You have exactly ten seconds to say yes or say no. After that we are completely done."

At six she said. "Yes, okay, deal." We shook hands.

"Okay, tomorrow after we draw up the papers we'll fit you with a special camera or two. We have one that we hide in a handbag, works great. We'll get you to practice with it. We is me and Rick, Rick is my number one man at the agency, he'll be helping out. I'll feed you every bit of information I get. We'll get lots of pictures, pictures of everybody, people like pictures. With any luck there will be some bloodshed and violence and we will get pictures of that. Maybe we can even find some sex."

Her whole attitude changed abruptly, she was laughing and excited, I thought she might be a little drunk. "My God, this could be great. You'd better not be bullshitting me. What do I call you, Francis? What a name for a tough guy. It could be great. To tell you the truth the book needed something, maybe that's way its taken three years." She finished her drink and waved at the waiter for another round. "Tell me something, about that case with the little girl, tell me about the gunfight where you shot the man." So I told her the story, with a few minor embellishments and exaggerations. "And how did it feel, Francis, how did it feel?" She put her hand on my arm. "To shoot a man in the stomach, watch him lie there, probably dying, hear him beg for help. How did it feel?"

"It felt completely justified."

"Yes, I like that." She leaned back and made a toast, draining what was left in her glass. "This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

I hate it when people quote from that movie.

Chapter 28

I was at the cop shop bright and early the next a.m. browsing through photo albums of various characters that had somehow come in conflict with the criminal justice system. I was left alone, in a small dingy, familiar room, furnished in a minimalist way with two chairs and a table. There was a no smoking sign and aptly enough no ashtray. I used the floor. I found the guy within the first ten minutes, not a face I would be likely to forget. Beside every photo is a number, in this case LU 347. I made a note of the number.

I had another cigarette then wandered off to find the uniform that had given me the photo albums. I told him I hadn't found my guy. He acted a little disappointed but gave me his card and said they would continue the investigation. He seemed a sincere young man, not too long in uniform I guessed, and quite sympathetic. We agreed to keep in touch.

Once outside I phoned my cop, Gelman, gave him the number and told him I needed to find out who the guy was. He said he would phone me as soon as possible. I was tired, very tired, and sore, sore all over. My head was throbbing. I took a couple of pain killers. Sometimes, as Mr. Locke once observed, life is just pure crap.

I went into the office, Claire was away at some meeting, Rick was out on a job. I drank some coffee and thought about David. Who profits from his death? Insurance or a will. I had Captain Marvel search the L.A. papers, an estate like that with the showbiz connections would make the papers. Nothing there. I decided to phone Bechtman. What the hell, when in doubt blunder on.

Mr. Bechtman's secretary put me right through, unusual in this day and age but then Bechtman was an old fashioned guy. I told him my name and asked if was possible to find out when the will would be made public. He had a soft, thoughtful voice. "May I ask what your interest is in this matter, are you a journalist?"

"No, its personal."

"Personal. Were you a friend of David's?"

"No." I paused, he waited. "I'm a private investigator."

"I see. The will was read this morning. It is public knowledge, as a matter of fact we are sending out press releases this afternoon. I can send you one if you wish. The entire estate goes to a charitable foundation David formed some time ago. Our office oversees the operation of the foundation. I don't know how much detail you want."

"You said the entire estate, no single person was mentioned, everything went to the foundation?"

"That is correct. Everything."

"I see. That's fine. Thank you very much."

"You're quite welcome."

So that was that, end of the money trail. Maybe. Maybe not. Bechtman, if he was any kind of smart lawyer could make himself a millionaire administering a huge fund like that. And the others; Mommy and the rest, they might have thought they would be in the will. Donna and Monica both claimed they didn't know who David really was but it has been my sad observance that in this bad old world people don't always tell the truth.

While I was ruminating on this sad state of affairs Gelman phoned. He had a name to go with my number; Gregory Austin Langston. "Hell of a name, no wonder he turned to crime, sounds like he should be in a Noel Coward play."

"Yeah, whatever, he goes by the name John Lang." Gelman read me she sheet. Thirty-four years old. In and out, in and out, assault, living off the avails, assault with intent, assault, and an old b.and e. Rehabilitation had not seemed to work. Gelman added. "Listen I know about this guy, a real mean son of a bitch. He is a freelance muscle and a pimp, has a couple of broads on the street. We had him in a couple of years ago, murdered hooker they found in a dumpster, couldn't make a case, then about a year ago he poured bleach on the face of a seventeen year old hooker, again couldn't make a case. What I'm saying is watch your step, if in doubt shoot the son of a bitch, the boys in vice would chip in to buy you a present." I thanked Gelman, put a couple of twenties in an envelope and mailed it to him.

I would have to find Mr. Langston and ask him a few questions, but business before pleasure, and in this case the business was getting a contract signed with the fidgety Miss Steele. I had phoned my lawyer first thing in the morning telling him what I wanted, that it was an emergency etc. etc. etc. My lawyer and a kind of friend named Pat Kincaid said he couldn't attend personally but would have a junior partner look after it. We set up an appointment for two-thirty. Then I phoned Jane Steele and set it up with her, she wasn't too happy about being rushed but managed to okay it with her lawyer.

The meeting, and the agreement, was not quite as cut and dried as I had expected. With two lawyers involved why would it be? The whole thing took the best part of three hours. My lawyer was a keen young woman with a pleasant sense of humor who seemed to know her stuff. She would want something added and Jane's lawyer would want something else added and these clauses would be explained to us and added or modified or rejected and so forth and so on and so on and so forth. But finally it was done, agreed upon, typed up, copied, signed and witnessed. So Jane got what she wanted, I got what I wanted, and the lawyers got paid. The best of all possible worlds.

Jane shook my hand. "I guess we're officially partners now."

We went for a drink to cement our new relationship. She was completely different from the night before, she seemed, and looked, tired, haggard, she had not bothered too much with make up or hair. There was a kind of languid, spent out sensuality about her, as if she had just finished a four day orgy. I found that quite appealing, something about decadence or perceived decadence always presses a button in me somewhere. However it was not so appealing as to make me want to do something about it.

She finished her Bloody Mary in two drinks and ordered another. "So what now, partner?"

"Well I'm, going to try to find the guy who laid this beating on me. I can't take you with me on this one because it involves what are called as I am sure you know, snitches, and they won't say anything in front of you. What we can do however, is we'll go to my place and I'll give you all the background stuff I have including the pictures. You can start figuring out how to put it all together. Remember that camera I mentioned, the one that fits in the handbag, I've got that in the car. I'll go over that with you. Besides that there are these two women, I'll tell you all about them, and what I think the cops think, and oh yeah, a will and a lawyer named Bechtman. After that you will be right up to date and you can let me know what you think."

She nodded and yawned. "Then what?"

"Then we attempt to explore all avenues, as they say."

She had no comment on my apartment, as a matter of fact she had little comment on anything. She wondered about, checked out the books and the music library but said nothing except to ask for a glass of water. She helped herself while I got the stuff ready. She was not in great shape, just trying to get through the day. I could understand that, I felt much the same way, the difference being that she had a great time arriving at her sorry state. I gave her all the materials and cautioned her about the material from Bechtmans office. "This is something you received over the transom, mailed anonymously, you know the bit, because I will deny ever having seen it, so copy what you want then destroy it." She nodded and managed a smile.

On the ride over and in her hotel room I told her everything I knew about the case and a few thoughts and opinions, leaving out, of course, Ryan and my bonus money. She didn't ask how I got the Bechtman stuff but I think it impressed her. I showed her how to operate the camera, it was operated by a clasp on the strap, and she said she would practice by taking a few shots. She asked if I wanted a drink, I declined and she didn't have one for herself. She was sprawled lazily, or probably wearily in an armchair, her skirt rising considerably well above her parted knees, not at all to be enticing, I felt, but rather she just could not have cared less, which somehow made it kind of enticing.

I had a glass of water then took my leave, leaving her to contemplate on her sins or to bemoan the painful price sometimes exacted by the pleasures of the flesh. Hopefully to get some work done.

Back home I started to make myself something to eat then realized I had no appetite, so I had a beer, put on some music, and relaxed in my easy chair. There had been two messages on my machine; the first from Rick, the second from an insurance investigator named Martino that I knew slightly having done some work for him over the years. I phoned Rick and asked him if he was free for the next couple of nights, that I might find the guy that had done me. He said he was free and he would be more than happy to assist me. A solid guy, Rick, a little scary at times, but a solid guy. I would phone Martino in the morning.

I phoned Gail but it was an awkward, uncomfortable conversation, as if we were both struggling for things to say and not doing very well at it. Something was wrong but I didn't know what to do about it, only hope that it would straighten itself out.

My body wanted nothing more than to curl up with a couple of good numbing drinks and snooze the night away. I could not do that, I had to find Gregory Austin Langston aka John Lang, not just for revenge but to find out who hired him. I had the bad feeling that it was something from my past, something I had thought about a lot. I had to find him as soon as possible. So, with a weary sigh I set out in search of Casey Tull.

Casey Tull is a small time hustler with a small time habit, he does this and that and one thing and another, and among those things is the selling of information. Some people might call him a snitch. Our association goes way back to when I worked vice but I've used him a few times since. I hoped he was still around.

He was still around and I found him, although not for two hours and I don't know how many bars and restaurants later. He was sitting by himself in the corner booth of a Greek diner. H looked to have aged fifty years. His hands trembled as he drank his coffee. I caught his eye, gave a little nod and left.

I waited in the car and a few minutes later Casey came out of the restaurant, he stood on the sidewalk, hands jammed into his jacket pockets. I drove slowly past him, turned the corner and parked. A minute later Casey scuttled into the back seat, scrunching himself down while I drove away.

"So, Casey, its been a while. How's it going?"

"Been better. Been better."

"I need a little information. I need to find a guy and I figured you might save me a few hours. The guy goes by the name John Lang, early thirties, brown hair wears it long in a pony tail, blue eyes, stocky, five ten, eleven, probably works as a muscle has a couple of broads on the street. Ring a bell?"

"Yeah, I know the guy."

"So what do you know?"

"Not much. Been around for years, muscle guy, does a little freelance work, a couple of shylocks use him sometimes, has a couple of broads on the street. Mean fucker. You guys had him in, what, about two years ago, that dead hooker they found out on that country road, she worked for him. Yeah, he did her. I guess you guys couldn't nail it to him. Is that what this is all about?"

"I want to find him, you know where he lives, where he hangs out?"

"I don't know where he lives, one of those hotels on the strip, I think, but he hangs out at the Stafford, he's there almost every night, making sure his ladies don't slack off."

"Okay fine." I handed him thirty dollars. "You want a lift anywhere?"

"No, I'll walk, but hey could you do a little better, I mean these days this don't go very far. Things have been tough."

"Casey, I didn't buy much, where a guy hangs out, maybe. Maybe you saved me a couple of hours." I looked at him, huddled in the dark, lids blinking over eyes so far sunken there was just blackness, tongue flicking nervously over his lips. What the hell, not a bad guy and someday soon they would find him dead in some alley, died from natural or unnatural causes. I gave him another twenty and watched him in the rear view mirror as he hurried away, back to the strip.

Then home and sleep, blessed, blessed sleep.

Chapter 29

The next morning I felt better, relatively speaking, maybe my recuperative powers were better than I thought. I took a long shower and ate a hearty breakfast. I phoned Paul Martino, the insurance guy and we arranged to meet for lunch. Lunch, or dinner, with Paul is always an event. He is something of a gourmet and wine connoisseur and like most of those guys enjoys explaining the whys and wherefores of everything edible and drinkable on the menu. He also likes opera. All that not withstanding he is a dead smart guy and very good at his job.

Claire was not in the office, had left word that she would not be in until after lunch. I didn't have much to do so mostly I sat around and thought about things. Nothing earth shattering came out of that so I phoned Gail.

I started out talking about the case but my words, my sentences, just seemed to hang there, empty words in empty space. "Well, anyway, I'm going to be tied up tonight, and maybe tomorrow night. How is your schedule? When can we get together? I really miss you."

There was a pause. "Why don't we wait until you're done with this thing. One thing at a time, then..."

"No, come on, I know I get a little carried away. Let's have lunch, I promise I will make it up to you."

"No. Its better this way." She sighed. "It is. I have to go now. Take care of yourself."

Dead air. Nothing deader than that air, nothing more final, nothing more "case closed". Damn it, what was wrong with me? Who cares about David Barnes, did he jump, was he pushed, who pushed him? Who cares? What the hell difference does it make? I would drop the whole thing. Screw it. Gail was the important thing. I would phone her back, promise to drop the whole thing, start all over. I stared at the phone for a long time. But I didn't pick it up.

Paul Martino looks like a top executive or business man should look, only maybe more worldly, more sophisticated, the kind of guy who gets his shoes made in London and can knowledgeably discuss politics, business, the arts, or the Yankees. He works for a large insurance company where he investigates insurance claims where it is thought there might be a little hanky panky involved. He has a lot of connections and so access to a lot of information, which, as we are so often told, is the currency of our time.

He was at the restaurant when I arrived and he greeted me warmly, standing up to shake my hand. "Its good to see you again, Francis." He didn't comment upon my rather beaten up appearance.

Good to see you, Paul. And you, at least, are looking well."

It had been nearly a year since I had last seen him. There was the usual food discussion, he recommended a particular dish, some kind of fish but I opted for a salad. I wondered vaguely how he managed to always look so trim and thought he probably exercised an hour a day. Or maybe it was just good genes, somehow that was a more satisfying thought.

A little way through the meal he said. "I understand you worked on the David Barnes case. Maybe you still are?" I nodded. "I don't know what your obligations are but I thought it might be possible to share some information. All off the record, of course."

"I have no obligations. As you probably know we were hired to find the kid, by the mother. And we found him. That ended the case. Then the kid was dead, I'm not sure he jumped so I'm still snooping around, just on my own. I don't mind telling you what I know, but it isn't much." I gave him a brief synopsis.

"That's all very interesting. So you met Monica Smith. What did you think of her?"

Something about how he asked the question made me pause. "I just met her the once, beautiful woman, hard to imagine her and David."

"About a month ago David took out a life insurance policy, a million dollars. With our company. Monica Smith is the beneficiary. He did it in L.A., his lawyer set it up. Heavy premiums, something of a bad risk. Paid the year in advance. How do you like the wine?"

"Good, very good. God, why didn't he just give her the money, maybe he'd be alive today. He had this thing about the money, the money and who he was, guilt I guess. So I guess you looked into Monica Smith's background."

"Yes we did, and not an easy task either, but we were fortunate. Up until a couple of years ago Monica Smith was Margaret Steadman, she had her name legally changed. About four years ago she was in a place called Bentonville, Illinois, she got involved with a business man there, a man named Hamilchuk who owned a car dealership. Mr. Hamilchuk had a wife and children. Monica put the squeeze on him, she had pictures, and she took him for nearly sixty thousand. The she upped the ante, a hundred thou and she would go away. Hamilchuk went to the police. They set him up with a wire but somehow everything got botched up. The police still felt they would have a case. You really should have tried the fish, excellent. But then Hamilchuk was attacked and beaten, very badly beaten. It was a miracle he lived; every bone in his face was broken and he lost the sight of one eye. When Hamilchuk could talk he refused to testify. The police threatened him with obstruction and so forth but he still refused. Rather hard to blame him. So Monica walked away. We don't know what happened to her from then to now but we are working on it."

"A million dollars is a lot of motive, even for a sweet kid like Monica. I guess she didn't know who he really was or she would have married him then offed him and been a lot richer. She thought he was just some schmuck. He was really in love with her you know, his first love. Jesus, of all the women, he must be the bad luck guy of all time. But then the way it was done... there must have been a suicide clause in the policy."

"Of course, David had even tried it a couple of times, if the decision comes down suicide Monica doesn't get a dime. My sources tell me that if nothing new comes up in the next week or so they call it suicide. Monica is not stupid, they, I think she has a partner somewhere, could have made it look like an accident, hit and run maybe. When you came in, in your present condition, it did make me think of Hamilchuk."

"I've thought a bit about this, I think it might be a thing from a long time ago, something I've been kind of expecting. Maybe it does have something to do with this case but I don't see the tie in, I wasn't on to anything and I'm still not. What do I know that I don't know I know?"

"I should tell you I talked to the cop that worked the Hamilchuk case, in his opinion the beating was not a professional kind of thing, there was a lot of rage involved. It was done with one of those long, heavy flashlights and he was beaten in two areas; the face and the genitals, beaten to a pulp."

"Cheery news. Anyhow I think I'm going to rattle Monica's cage a bit, just to see what will happen. I'm not getting anywhere anyway.' He nodded and sipped his wine, it was probably what he wanted anyway. "Oh, and another thing, I know who did this." I gestured to my face. "A hired muscle guy, so I'm going to find him and ask who hired him."

"Do you think he will tell you?"

"Oh sure, you just have to know how to ask."

Chapter 30

So once again Rick and I were on a stake out, outside the Stafford Bar. Rick is a good guy to be with on a stake out, he doesn't talk too much and what he does say is usually interesting. And he is constantly alert, as a matter of fact he seems to be almost always constantly alert in a way that most people only rarely are, as if he operated on a different plane than the rest of us. It must be all that Zen and martial arts stuff. I told him about John and the two hookers. "That is what we are dealing with here, so the point is it would not be uncalled for if we hurt him a little."

We had not been on the stake out more than an hour when I saw my man, Gregory Austin Langston aka John Lang. He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket. He walked quickly into the bar, a tough guy walk, a don't mess with me walk. Stake outs are like that, sometimes you wait five days, sometimes five minutes. We were lucky.

"You get a good look at him?"

"I got him, boss."

"Good, we'll take him when he comes out. He probably won't stay too long, he'll want to be out on the street, checking on his ladies."

My prediction was correct, about an hour later he came out and Rick was on him like... well, like one of those t.v. cops; flashed the phony badge, fast frisk, hands cuffed behind his back, into the back seat, and we were mobile. I drove, Rick sat in the back with John. All in the blinking of an eye as they say, or damn near.

Once in the car Mr. Lang became quite vocal. "Hey what the hell is this? I haven't done anything. What are you charging me with?"

Rick replied by bringing his hand down on John's leg in one of those judo chop karate kind of things, you know where they break the boards and stuff which Rick tells me is not difficult at all. It looked like he caught him just above the knee. John made a kind of squealing noise and bent forward, his head almost touching his knees. He was quiet for a while but good old John was no cream puff, no rollover guy, I imagined he had been slapped around by a few cops in his day. He spoke again, in a very low voice. "Listen, just tell me what... " Again the chop, probably with more intensity this time and probably in exactly the same place. In the rear view I could see John, his head back now, biting his lips, fighting the pain. For a while none of us had anything to say.

"Hey John, or Gregory or whatever," I said, finally, "You have to be the stupidest asshole ever, you got shit for brains, John, anyone ever tell you that?" I switched on the dome light and turned so he could see my face. "Yeah, me. You are one stupid fuck, John. Did you really think you could try to do a cop and get away with it? Did you think we would stand for that? Cops. A piece of shit like you. You are one sorry, stupid fuck."

"I don't know what you're talking about. You got the wrong guy, honest to God."

Rick said softly. "This isn't a courtroom, John. There are no lawyers, there is no trial."

As he looked out the window John saw that we were not going to take him to a precinct to charge him with something but had turned onto the highway out of town. "Listen you got the wrong guy, tell me what happened, tell me when. I can probably tell you where I was. I been around a while, I'd never work over a cop, I'm not that stupid." Neither one of us replied, we just let his words hang there, in the silence.

I turned off down a dirt road and drove in a long way, at least a mile. There was nothing around but deep, dark, woods. I stopped the car. "Okay John, out of the car. We walk from here."

John was a little reluctant to leave what he must have thought was the comparative safety of the car so Rick had to bundle him out. Coming out of the car John fell down onto one knee, his leg seemed to be giving him trouble.

I went to the trunk of the car and took out a shovel, some thin nylon rope and a couple of flashlights. I gave one of the flashlights to Rick. "Okay John, down that path, its just a couple of hundred yards. Let's go."

"Fuck you bastards." He sat on the ground. "I aint going anywhere. You want to work me over you do it here. Fuck you guys."

I knelt down beside him, very close, I pressed my gun into his crotch. "You want to be a tough guy, say fuck you, not cooperate, okay fine, that's your choice. But if that is your choice I'll tell you what we will do. We will shoot you to pieces, piece by piece, right here on the fucking road. First we'll shoot off your ankles, than after a while your kneecaps, all of you, piece by piece. Then, hey, you know what those hardasses down in central America do? They cut off a guy's dick and cram it in his mouth. Guys live through it but it must hurt like hell. Bits and pieces, we have all night, then one in the gut. It could take all night but this is what we will do if you fuck with us." We stared at each other for maybe ten seconds and I wondered what he would do, I thought he might spit in my face. But he didn't, his head dropped and he kind of collapsed a bit. Rick helped him onto his feet.

And so, just like Little Red Riding Hood, we started off into the woods. John led the way, limping somewhat, Rick was close behind, prodding him every now and then with the flashlight. I brought up the rear, carrying the other flashlight, the coil of rope and the shovel. I could not resist it. I had to sing a little song. "Hy ho, hy ho, its off to work we go."

We came to the clearing and while I kept my flashlight and gun trained on him Rick removed the cuffs. "All right, John, take off all your clothes."

"What?"

"Just do it, asshole."

He did it quite quickly, then Rick put the cuffs back on and pushed him down into a kneeling position.

"Come on you guys, for Christ sake, okay it was me, but it was just a job, I didn't know who you were, just a job. Okay, okay, you want to get even, I can see that. I can see that, but... but okay, work me over but not..."

We let that sit a long time in the silence. We both kept our lights on his face, I stayed still, Rick walked a slow circle around him. John had slumped forward, staring at the ground. I came close to him and kneeled on the ground in front of him. I spoke softly. Listen to me, maybe you noticed we brought a rope and a shovel out here, the rope was so we could tie you to a tree and do a little target practice, remember like I told you, shoot you apart piece by piece. You can figure out what the shovel was for. We're serious people here." I wanted him to come up with it.

He looked up at me. "Don't you want to know who gave me the job?"

"I'm pretty sure I do know, but all right asshole tell me how it all went down, lots of details and no bullshit."

"I give you that...?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

You are in what is called a weak bargaining position. Maybe. Lots of details. Begin at the beginning and be fast, don't fuck around."

"What the hell the guy aint nothing to me. In the bar, this guy has been in a few times and he..."

"What's he look like, this guy?"

"Small guy, five six five seven, red hair, gimpy leg, walked with a limp."

"What leg?"

"The... the right one, yeah, and glasses. So he asks Fred the barman does he know anybody can do a little muscle work so Fred sends him to me. The guy has this story, somebody is humping his old lady and he wants me to lean on him. The guy is like some kind of nut case, like he's wired on something, nervous all the time, can't sit still."

"How much you get?"

"We settled on three fifty."

"Keep going, faster."

"So he gives me a hundred down and we drive out to your apartment, he tells me your apartment number and gives me a description of you but the description could be anybody so by now this guy is driving me nuts he's so jumpy all the time so I figure I'll just keep the hundred and forget the whole thing then you come walking down the street and this guy is screaming that's him that's him and he has this sawed off bat in the car, and he yells do it now, so..." He stopped. "That's the way it was."

I hit him across the face with my gun and yelled at him. "You're lying to me, fuckhead. I don't know anybody like that. There is nobody like that! What did you see that in some movie, red headed guy with a limp? You are lying to me." I hit him again. "Who you protecting, who you afraid of, mob guys, no, they don't use you, who you afraid of? Who gave you the job? Was it a cop? Is that why you're afraid of him? Was it a cop, maybe an ex-cop? Stop lying to me."

We both yelled at him and batted him around for about half an hour or so but he stuck to his story. I called a halt to it. "You must think we're stupid, John, you gave us all the wrong answers, you are one stupid man. Anyway I'm tired of all this bullshit, time to go home I think." I dropped the flashlight to the ground, holstered my gun, walked a little ways away, and turned my back on them. "I have to take a piss. Make this idiot dig his own grave and we'll get out of here."

Rick took off the cuffs and John knew this would be his only chance. I guess he tried to spin with a punch and then make a run for it, which was pretty much what we thought he would do. Of course the punch didn't land and I turned to see Rick's hand connect with John's throat. It made me wince. It was not really a fight or even a contest, it was, as someone once said, short, harsh, and brutish. I had never seen Rick in this kind of action before, it was kind of like watching a guy with a chainsaw, only smooth. I strolled back to the arena. Rick was putting on his jacket, John was lying on the ground, there was a lot of blood on his face and he was unconscious, he made strange gurgling noises. That brought back a memory. I was surprised he was still alive. He was game, I gave him that, but then given the circumstances I guess he wouldn't be anything else.

"Well, well, well, that was really something. Remind me to never get on your bad side."

Rick stared down at the body with a rueful, even sad expression. "There are times," he said, "there are times when you..." He shrugged.

"You've got something your shirt."

"Its nothing, it will wash out ."

"No way. Burn it, just in case. I'll buy you a new one, I'll buy you three new ones, good ones. You think he'll live?"

"Probably, he's in good shape, looks like he works out. You can never tell though." He turned the body over and adjusted the head. "He could choke on his own blood."

"What kind of damage?"

Rick did inventory. "Damaged right eye, probably permanent, broken nose, the throat could be serious, maybe permanent hard to tell, broken left forearm, a few broken ribs on both sides, that's very risky, the bone can pierce the lung, kidney damage, that will give him a lot of trouble, he'll piss a lot of blood, that might be permanent too, probably a cracked right ankle, multiple bruises."

"I though I saw you drop kick him in the nuts."

"Yes, that too, you never know with those, for sure it will interfere with his sex life for a while."

"He's got a long way to go to get out of here, you think he can make it?"

"Hard to say, those ribs might do him in, he'll have to crawl. Fifty fifty. Anyway its up to him."

We took his clothes with us and threw them out the car window just before we reached the highway. "I appreciate this, Rick, I really do, and listen this is paid time. Please don't take that as an insult because I know it was a personal favor, otherwise you would never do it. I know that. But at the same time I'm going to be asking for your help on this thing, nothing like the last thing I hope, but you know, your brains and your skill and there is no way you should work for nothing. We will work it out. But the main thing is that I hope you will come to me if there is anything, anything at all you need, any way I can help, that you will come to me. Please. Okay? Listen, now don't get all shy and blushy or quote zen but you are a special guy and nobody knows it better than me."

Rick responded with a small smile and a nod. He was quiet for a while then said. "A man like that, the things he's done, the things he will do, do you ever think about really doing it, doing the guy? Do the world a favor, like getting rid of a mad dog?"

"Yeah, I do, I think about it too much. I thought about it a lot back there. This guy, he kills a woman, but he's lucky or smart, doesn't leave a print, nothing, so he walks. If he isn't lucky we put him away, but he walks and another woman winds up blinded and disfigured and God knows what other things he's done, lives he's ended or ruined. I could have put one in his head and never lost sleep over it. But I didn't. I don't know why I didn't. You know when I worked vice there was this guy, raped and strangled five little boys, five that we knew of. I didn't work the case, that was homicide, but we found one of the bodies, that's a picture that never leaves me. I saw him at his trial, he sat there smirking. We put him away. He gets protective custody, private cell, no double bunking, doesn't have to deal with the inmate population, no chance he'll get raped or knifed like some poor burglar. I say put him general pop see if he's as tough with adults as he is with little boys." I told Rick about Melanie, the dream parts and all the rest. A lot of stuff I never talk about, and it was kind of a relief. "I know all about vigilante justice and all the rest, how dangerous it is, its just hard you know, that's the main reason I left vice. But sometimes its like I never left, I have all these pictures."

We were quiet the rest of the way to Rick's place then he asked. "This red headed man, does that mean anything to you?"

"Not a damn thing, maybe it will sort itself out later."

"What now?"

"The usual, we stumble on, ever onward, must go on, can't go on, will go on, tapping our white cans before us."

"Sounds good to me."

Chapter 31

I was at the office, at my desk, bright and early the next morning, I was early the morning was bright. I thought about phoning Gail, I stared at the phone for a long time. I knew something was wrong so why the hesitation? I wanted Gail. Could I handle the responsibility, the loss of freedom, maybe that was the question I did not want to ask myself. I stopped staring at the telephone and stared out the window. That failed to make anything clearer. "Oh, well, we'll see." I said half aloud, expressing a philosophy that I have carried with me most of my life.

I phoned Jane Steele. "Good morning, its Francis. Did I wake you up?"

"Oh, Jesus, yes, yes you did. I was up most of the night." She yawned noisily. "Anyway I wanted to talk to you."

"I figured, and like I said I'll keep you abreast of everything, not there is anything exciting to report."

"Hmmm. Well I need some background from you and I want you to take me to that apartment hotel you mentioned. This place is costing me a not so small fortune. Can you come for lunch?"

"Sure. What time is lunch?"

"Noon. Just like regular people."

I drifted into Claire's office. There was a case I wanted to talk to her about, it was something our firm had slightly screwed up. She gave me a look that was far from welcoming but I sat down anyway. I had the case file in my hand but before I could get started she said. "I don't have time this morning, handle it the best way you can or leave it until tomorrow. I have to prepare for a meeting so if you don't mind..."

"A meeting, you want me to come along?"

She gave me a long, strange look. Smug I thought, like the proverbial cat that swallowed the proverbial canary.

I had never done anything to harm her, nor she me for that matter, but we disliked each other, just one of those things in human relationships. This time however felt slightly different, like she was finally going to put me in my place but I thought no more about it.

Jane Steele looked pretty good, as a matter of fact for someone who had been up most of the night, she looked very good. Hair was good, make-up was good. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, her feet were bare. She was finishing her packing, doing it quickly. Her name didn't suit her; plain Jane, second fiddle to Tarzan, she wasn't plain and I'm sure would never be second fiddle to anyone. She was really zippy, smiling a lot, filled with energy. I didn't know whether that was due to good genes, determination, or pharmaceutical aids. It was attractive and even somewhat infectious.

"I found the guy that gave me the beating, he told me who hired him."

She stopped what she was doing and gave me this big, incredulous smile. "Really! That is amazing, you'll have to tell me about it."

"Sometimes you get lucky, anyway its just a description; short red headed guy with a limp, that is if the guy wasn't lying to me. It doesn't mean anything to me, doesn't ring any bells, so I don't know, it might have nothing to do with this case."

"Something from your checkered past you think?" She had finished packing and gave the room a quick look around. "You must have had a very interesting life, Francis."

"Some people might think so, I don't particularly. You about ready?"

"Five minutes."

She went into the bathroom. She was only two.

She checked into the apartment hotel but didn't bother unpacking, we went straight to lunch, at the hotel's small dining room. "The food here is extraordinarily ordinary but there is a couple of good restaurants in the neighborhood."

She shrugged. "So I guess you are not going to tell me how you found out about the red headed man with the limp?"

"It would have to be off the record and I don't know if I trust you that well yet."

"That's okay." She made a note in her ever present note pad. "It might even be good. First things first, I need some more background on you; what kind of person you are, what makes you tick. Are you married, ever been married, in a relationship? Give me something. I don't have time to try to get to know you however appealing that may be."

"Is this really necessary? Okay, okay, we have a deal. Never been married. Am I in a relationship? Yes, at least I think I still am, I suppose so. I'm not very good at relationships."

We were eating now, we had both ordered salads. She gave me a flirtatious smile. "Nor am I, personally I don't care much for relationships, not any that last any longer than three weeks, after that they drag you down. I know you don't like this, you're a private person, I understand that I am too, but the better the book the better for both of us. I need this." I nodded okay. "So what I have is this tough guy; ex-cop, private eye that did at least one remarkable thing, the thing with the little girl. So he's obsessive, that's good but I need something to balance it with, you know, you love opera or the theater, or spend hours in the Museum of Modern Art, something like that. Come on."

"What can I say; I like to play the horses and talk to hookers. Okay, okay. I like music, jazz, Miles Davis, I read a lot, even poetry, Yeats, Auden, Shakespeare of course. Listen I am pretty much an ordinary guy."

"No you are not, nobody is. Anyway you can't be, this is not a book about ordinary people. Elizabeth Barnes is not ordinary, nor was David, nor are you."

"Theater then, I guess, Shakespeare, that hardly makes me an oddity."

"I wish it were something jazzier but it will do, I'll punch it up a bit, make you something of a scholar, your escape from the harsh world you've always known, the Bard is always good for a few quotes, maybe head up each chapter with one. Anyway let's go on."

I told her about growing up in a tough neighborhood. What it was like to be a cop, what it was like to be a private investigator. When she asked about my parents or Gail, I shut the door. She took a lot of notes. "Not bad." She said. "Not great, but not bad. I can do something with it."

"Okay, that's me, now like they say in the movies, quid pro quo, how about you? You always want to be a writer? And does it give you some kind of satisfaction?"

"It gives me very little in the way of satisfaction, only relief when the damn thing is finished. I'm quite good at what I do, for me it's a craft. And yes, I always did want to be a writer, at least from some time in grade school. I finished my first novel by the time I was twenty. I thought it was marvelous. It was all about a girl growing into adulthood. It was never published. I didn't know there were about four million unpublished novels just like it floating around. So I did a biography, Jimmy Desmond, the old silent screen comic, moderately successful. Lots of articles, I've sold four screenplays one of which was actually made into a movie, not very successfully. And that is all you get from me, at least for today. Now let's talk about the case. What about Monica, she sounds like one very tough lady, she should be top of the list, certainly capable of it. I know she has an alibi but it sounds like she has a partner, maybe the red headed man."

"Yeah, except that whatever Monica is she isn't stupid. This is what I think; Monica meets David, doesn't know who he really is, thinks he has no family and few friends, a naive loner who falls hopelessly in love with her. I would guess Monica is pretty good at that kind of thing. So she gets him to take out the million dollar policy, then, naturally, they plan to kill him. Yeah, I think there is a partner somewhere. Fine, straight as an arrow, easy as pie. But like I say Monica is not stupid, she would never have him killed that way, it would look like suicide. It probably will be called suicide. If it is called suicide she doesn't get a dime. For a million dollars she is going to be very careful, make it look like an accident. She's nobody's fool."

She gave a long sigh. "So what happens now?"

"I know you are dying for a little action so I thought you and I might pay a visit to Monica. I will try to shake her up a bit, let her know what I know. Shake her up and see what happens. You can take pictures."

"What do you think this will accomplish?"

"I have absolutely no idea, maybe nothing, but I don't know what the hell else to do, and anyway it might be fun."

"Not exactly the Holmesian method of crime solving."

"Not exactly, but he was brighter than me. I'll pick you up about eight-thirty."

Chapter 32

As soon as I entered the apartment the phone began to ring, I picked it up and immediately wished I hadn't.

"Hello, Francis, its Ed Chalmers. How you doing?"

"Been better. How about you?"

"Same. I think its time we had a little talk.

"Okay, sure, but not now, okay, its kind of a bad time, tomorrow."

"Naaah, I'd like to do it right now. I'm right in your neighborhood, bar called Ozzies, come on down, we'll have a couple of beers and chew the fat."

"Come on Ed, can't we do this another time?"

"Don't make me make this official okay, not you and me. Don't be too long."

It wasn't so much that I didn't want to talk to Ed, but it really was a bad time. I wanted to sit down and think for a bit. What to do with Monica? I wasn't sure that I could shake her up and there might be a better approach, some way of flushing out her partner.

I knew nothing much would come out of the meeting with Ed, we would sit around and try to pick one another's brains and both come out with nothing much, due to either poor picking ability on both our parts or the dearth of anything worthwhile to pick. Ed must be getting desperate, the longer a case goes the tougher it gets. Well, I was more than a little desperate myself and at least the idea of a beer sounded good.

Ed was sitting at a booth with a half empty glass of beer and a couple of bags of salted peanuts. Ed is a muncher, a constant muncher, maybe its some kind of oral fixation but it doesn't do his waistline any good. He greeted me with an amused smile and a vague wave at the seat opposite. "Have a seat. Well will you look at you. I heard you got worked over. What was it, business or pleasure? The result of a case or a jealous husband?" He beckoned the waiter over and opened a new bag of peanuts.

We both ordered beers. "I don't know what it was, only I know it wasn't a jealous husband. I was thinking it might be something from the old days, from when I was on the force. Remember Steiner?"

"Steiner? Stei... oh, yeah, sure, that's right you and him had that run in. He was one mean son of a bitch that guy. Then he got hit by the car." He gave a little chuckle. "When I heard that I thought we should check out the driver, see if he wasn't a friend of yours."

"I know it's a long time ago but he always swore he would get me, and he's the kind of guy that would try, no matter how long it took."

"You're not kidding me are you, Francis? Whatever. Shit, Steiner died five or six years ago, retired to some hick town out west, yeah, died of a heart attack, surprised everybody cause nobody ever thought he had a heart. Not long after you quit the force. You never heard about it?"

"No, I never heard about it. I never did. Jesus, he gave me a lot of nervous moments. Even after he was dead. I guess in a way he did get even."

"So who was it then. Who did you?"

"I don't know, that's the truth, I can't think of a reason."

"I know you are still working the case so I have to ask myself who is paying you. The mother? Yeah, I know, officially the case is closed, I talked to that broad at your agency, but unofficially, maybe. That Kardon broad, I don't think so. Monica Smith, some looker that one, maybe working for tail, let me tell you something, you go to bed with that broad you wake up with a knife in your back."

"I know all about Monica."

"Maybe the insurance company, doubtful but maybe, or maybe the lawyer. Maybe it doesn't matter, but maybe what you're doing does, you know what I mean. Like maybe you are hired to just kind of muddy up the waters, screw things up a little, maybe even fabricate a few things. Its been done before."

"Its not like that."

"Listen to me, I want this, I want to make this case, very, very much. For a lot of reasons. I don't want you fucking me and this case around. Don't make an enemy out of me, Francis."

"Jesus, Ed, come on. Look, you aren't going to believe me but I'm doing this on my own, no fee, that's the truth. Look, the mother hired me to find the kid, I find the kid and boom the kid is dead, I feel..." I shrugged. "Things are slow at the office anyway." We drank some beer and regarded each other in silence for a bit. "I know what you want but I've got nothing to give you. You know more than I do, I've come up with zip. I only found out about Monica from a friend in the insurance company. You think the beating I took means something, well if it does I can't figure it out. If you guys had just called it suicide I would not have bothered. The kid was a jumper. I would have felt bad for a while but I knew you guys had to have something; a witness, forensics, something. Some cases just get to you. Believe it or not, if this isn't suicide I want to see whoever did it draw some time."

He shrugged. "How about this Monica? I have a hunch you two were maybe a little tight, you know what I mean? Did you ever meet the partner or the boyfriend or whatever because that is somebody I would like to talk to."

"No. I only talked to Monica the one time, and I didn't know what she was all about then."

"What about the mother, what's your take on her? Does she still look as good as she used to on that t.v show?"

"Same thing, I talked to her once, I don't know, she's into all this new age stuff, or pretends to be. Hard to figure, I think underneath she might be one pretty tough broad. I don't know if she's tough enough to knock off her own kid though. You know as much as I do. You never interviewed her?"

He gave me a big grin. "That's right, not yet, when she got the news she had a kind of mental breakdown, pretty sad, eh, under doctor's care. The L.A. cops took her statement, her and her two friends that flew down with her, that's all we have. L.A. doesn't seem to give a shit, not their jurisdiction, her with her million dollar law firm. But I'm going to talk to her pretty soon, and the lawyer. Anyway you just happen to find Monica's boyfriend you be sure to let me know." He gave me an inquiring look. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well this is where you are supposed to say, what's in it for me."

I sighed. "Okay Ed, what's in it for me?"

"Like I said before, you get a good friend, I'll do whatever I can to help you, whatever it is you're doing." He took a long drink of his beer. "Otherwise you get a bad enemy and that won't be so good. I mean this Francis, you cross me up and I will do you a lot of serious harm."

"Ed, you're a nice guy but go fuck yourself, that first part okay, I hold you to that if I find the guy, but don't fucking threaten me. Who do you think I am, some jerkoff from the corner. Don't ever fucking threaten me."

He gave a big laugh. "Oh, Francis, you've been away too long, you've completely lost your sense of humor. Let's have another beer, I'll even buy."

Chapter 33

I left Ed and went to a nearby restaurant that serves a quite good lasagna, with that and a glass of red I thought about things. There wasn't much to think about, dead end conversation with Ed. One thing though, Steiner was dead, been dead for five or six years.

Steiner was a cop that worked vice the same time I did, I didn't know him that well, mostly by reputation, and his reputation was bad, a very mean and nasty man. There are times when you have to be mean and nasty because that is what will get the job done, but Steiner was like that all the time. It was just the way he was.

Steiner had booked this kid for dealing, just a little pot, a little speed, a little acid, nothing serious, but we have these insane mandatory drug laws so the kid was going to do time. The kid was not a street guy, just a novice, a nice middle class kid that thought he could gain a few bucks and a little reputation by dealing to his friends and his friends' friends. He was scared stiff, he was in a way over his head.

So Steiner gave him the old song and dance. "Let me tell you how you're going to do your time, sonny, good looking kid like you. You are prime pussy, prime virgin pussy. Guys might even fight to see who gets you. One thing for sure, the first day you are in the joint some hard guy is going to take you over, you'll be his property and a couple of days later this guy and five or six of his buddies are going to gang bang you. Its what they do, its called "breaking in". After that you are really his property, you do whatever he wants whenever he wants. Then after a while he'll start pimping you out, selling you to whoever has a few bucks or a few decks of smokes and wants a blow job. That is how you are going to do your time, kid, you may not be a faggot now but you sure will be by the time you get out. Shit, you might even get to like it, some guys do."

And so forth and so on, all in great detail. Some cops do this to try to squeeze out a little information, but it rarely works, not with street guys anyhow. The thing is Steiner had nothing more to get from the kid, he just did it because he liked to do it. It was his idea of fun.

He did a hell of a job, I guess he was good at it. There are things guys can fear worse than death. The kid was in tears when it was done and that night he managed to kill himself in his cell. When Steiner heard about he laughed. "Good." He said. "That's one less piece of shit on the streets."

The next day my partner and I were just coming in off our shift when I saw Steiner. It was in the parking lot and he was talking to his partner. I walked up to him and sucker punched him, I got in four or five good shots and he went down then my partner pulled me off. He hustled me back into our car with Steiner yelling. "I'll get you, Connor. You're a dead man, Connor."

We drove for a while and I cooled down, then we parked. My partner was a lanky Scot named MacDonald, a good cop, a good guy, solid as a rock. The best partner I ever had. He looked out the window for a while then said. "You know he's going to get you, don't you, going to try. In the back, it's the way he is."

"Yeah, I know, but what the hell can I do about that."

Mac kept looking out the window. "You get him first."

But I didn't, instead it became a war of nerves with me definitely on the defensive. Of course Steiner didn't report it, that wasn't done. Anytime he saw me Steiner would make his hand into a gun and point it at me. I challenged him to come outside and settle it but he just laughed at me. "No way, asshole, I'll get you in my own way in my own time. You just keep looking over your shoulder because one time I'll be there."

I became very cautious and more than a little jumpy. I never went anywhere without my gun, I was careful entering and leaving my apartment, had an extra lock put on the door. He left messages on my answering machine. I changed the number but he got the new one right away.

I remember once I was sure someone had broken into the apartment, nothing trashed or stolen, a few things just seemed to be out of place. I thought he might have planted drugs to set up some kind of frame so I spent most of the night searching the apartment. Then I got the idea he might poisoned my food so I threw most of that out. He was the kind of guy that could make you think that way. In the war of nerves I was definitely not the winner.

But time went on, as it mostly does, and nothing happened, then Steiner got hit by a car chasing some perp, wound up in a wheelchair and was pensioned off. Not long after that I left the force but I never got him completely out of my mind. Every now and then, some night noise, some sudden movement on the street brought him back. And he had been dead for years, well, yes, he really did get even.

Chapter 34

Back in the apartment I took a shower then I phoned Gail. It was her answering machine and I hung up without leaving a message, then I phoned again and left one. I missed her, could we get together. I sounded pathetic. I thought that if we could just sit down and talk we would be able to work it out. On the other hand maybe there was nothing to work out. I had shown her who I was and that might not be what she wanted or needed. I was uncertainty. She deserved better, certainly stability, some nice guy with a regular life and a normal view of the world.

I made myself a drink, watched the news, and relaxed for half an hour. Then I went to pick up Jane.

Jane looked good, well rested, alert, she seemed calm enough but beneath the calmness you could feel her excitement, see it in her eyes. It would be an adventure, she thought. I hoped something eventful would happen to make it worth her while. I didn't really think it would, Monica did not seem the type to fluster easily.

"I've been practicing some more with the camera."

"Good."

It was just beginning to grow dark, there were lights on in Monica's cottage. An elderly couple with a small dog on a leash strolled arm in arm, halfway down the block a car parked and a couple took some groceries from the trunk and entered a house.

We walked quietly up the walk, Jane knocked on the door while I stood to one side. The door opened, it opened about a foot, good sign, not on a chain. I heard Monica's voice. "Yes, what is it?"

"Good evening, my name is..."

I pushed the door open, shouldered Monica aside, and walked right in. "Hi, Monica, we were in the neighborhood so we thought we'd drop in."

In three steps I was in the living room, and I stopped dead. There, just rising from his comfortable easy chair was a small man with bug eyes and red hair. I would have bet he walked with a limp. "Well, well, well, I kind of thought I might find you here, Red."

Monica was holding onto my arm, trying to push me back. "Get out! Get out now. This is my house, you are trespassing. Get out now or I'll phone the police."

I pushed her aside but I never took my eyes off Red. "Go ahead, honey, phone the cops, we'll all sit around and have a little chat, we'll talk about that car dealer, Hamilchuk, and maybe we will see what kind of alibi Red has for the night David got it. Sit down you're out of this."

She didn't sit down, instead she went and stood in front of Red, trying to hold his arms, whispering quickly in his ear. There had been a brief flash of surprise when Monica saw my rather beaten up face. Of course that was why it made no logical sense, Red had done it on his own. Done it because of that old green eyed monster. I remembered the other time I had been there with Monica; that charade about the noise, on the porch, her suddenly putting her arm around me. She knew Red was out there watching. Jealousy was one of the things she used to keep her little pit bull obedient. Sad to say, Monica, sometimes pit bulls get off the leash and act on their own.

Red's eyes were bugging out even more than usual, his face was flushed and he kept kind of hopping up and down, halfway trying to get around Monica but not able to push her aside. When he yelled at me the words came out with a spray of saliva. "Ggg get out of hhhhere, you son of a bbbitch, I I I I'll kill you."

I gave him a little mocking come here gesture. "Sure Red, come on, why don't you throw me out? Come on. Take your best shot. That's why I brought a witness, it'll be self defense and I will beat you to a fucking pulp."

Monica never stopped holding on to him and whispering in his ear, but Red didn't seem to be listening. He never took his eyes off me. It was quite a staring match. I figured if he was going to do anything it would come in one of those mad headlong rushes and I was ready for that. A part of me wished he would do try it, I owed him something for putting me in the hospital. To get to me he would have to push Monica aside and he didn't seem able to do that.

"You know, Red, you two are a couple of real assholes, you are both so stupid its disgusting. The other night when Monica and I spent some... ah quality time together," I gave him a little smirk. "I thought she and I might do some business together, but you are both rank amateurs. And you, you Red, you are worse than her. When she told me she had this gimpy friend she said you were pathetic but she didn't tell me you were stupid too." I wondered if my words were getting through to him, probably not now, but he would think about them later.

"You screwed up, you hired some cheap muscle to do me and he only did a half assed job. You should have had me killed because I found the guy and he turned you over, just like that." I snapped my fingers. "I got him and I'll get you. You go back to the Stafford, you won't find him around anymore. You're next on my list." I took a fast glance back at Jane, she was standing a little back and to one side, hopefully getting lots of pictures. She had an expression of astonishment, taking it all in. I decided to keep pushing it.

"The thing is you are both stupid, you had this kid, had him good, and he was worth millions but you were too stupid to find out, so you had him take out the policy. Hey a million bucks aint bad, but then when you kill him it looks like suicide. How dumb can you be? Suicide you don't get a dime. But think about this Red, let us say that we can prove that you killed the kid, yeah, I think you're the guy, Red.. If we can prove that, well then it isn't suicide and sweet little Monica here gets her million. Of course you spend the next twenty years or so taking it up the ass in the big stone warehouse, but hey, that's the way it goes. The cops are anxious to hang this on someone, one way or another, whether you did it or not doesn't matter. You wouldn't be the first guy we've framed. Do you want me to draw you a picture, asshole?"

All the time Monica was talking into his ear, no longer whispering, trying to make him listen to her and not to me. I didn't know which of us was winning but I thought there was an edge of desperation in her voice.

"You are a fool, Red, we can all see that, especially Monica, but I know why you're a fool. You are a fool for love, oh yeah, love, love, love. You have a bad case for little hot-pants Monica here. I can kind of understand that, I mean look at you, what with the gimp and the bug eyes and the bad attitude you don't get a whole lot of girls knocking at your door. And Monica here, good looking lady, pretty good in the sack too. Not the best I've had, but pretty good. Yeah I can understand."

Monica kept repeating the same phrases over and over again, loudly now, trying to drown out my words. "Don't listen to him, he's lying. He's trying to get to you. Be stronger than him. We've always been together. We will always be together. Be stronger than him." It was like some kind of mantra.

I continued to plug away. "Yeah, she is pretty good in bed, kind of sweet really, I mean after the wild stuff, lying there curled up, buck naked, with that sweet little ass of hers. I remember when I left last time I gave her a kiss there, well you know, she has this little mole right above her left cheek, yeah, that was sweet. Women like stuff like that, Red."

Then the oddest thing happened, one second red was hopping up and down, eyes bulging, too furious to speak, the next second he went completely immobile, still as a rock, eyes closed, as if he was asleep or in a trance. Monica kept holding him tightly and never stopped talking into his ear.

I felt I had done a fair job of sowing the seeds of dissention among the ranks and there was not much more to be done. It might be a good time to call it a night. For some reason, Red, in his weirdly immobile state made me a trifle nervous, he had gone to some far away place beyond reason.

"I think we might take our leave now." I signaled Jane to start leaving but I never took my eyes off Red. "We don't want to overstay our welcome and I'm sure you two kids have a lot of things you want to talk over."

I backed out and closed the door behind me. We hurried to the car with me constantly looking back, half expecting Red to come charging out with a meat cleaver or maybe even a gun. But nothing happened

In the car all Jane could say was, "Wow!"

"Yeah, did you get the pictures?" She nodded. "Good, you are a natural for this kind of work. Lock the doors I'll be right back."

I walked down the sidewalk and wrote down the license numbers of all the parked cars, there were only seven. All the time I tried to keep my eye on both the cottage and my car. Back in the car I explained. "We'll check out all the license numbers, maybe one of them belongs to Red."

"What now?"

"Monica has a bit of a problem, Red is in a bad state but she can't let him stay there in case I do tell the cops to drop in. But she also knows we'll try to follow him. If I were him I'd go out the back door and keep cutting through yards until I got out of the neighborhood."

"We could split up, one watch the back door, one the front."

"No, this guy is too dangerous, I'm not going to leave you alone."

"I'd stay in the car, lock the doors."

"A locked car is no protection, you can smash a window with a tire iron, or put a bullet through it. No, we stay together. We'll do the routine even though I don't expect it to work. We'll drive around the block, park on that side street where we can see her house. We won't be able to see the back door but we can see the parked cars. I f he takes off on foot we can't follow him in a car anyhow."

We drove around the block and parked. We both lit cigarettes. "God," she said. "I could use a drink."

"Me too. We'll hang around for a few minutes just in case, then we'll go get one."

We were both quiet, she finished her cigarette and ground it into the ashtray. "Tell me, Francis, did you really sleep with Monica?"

"Hell no, I was just rattling his cage a bit."

"You did that all right." She gave a mock shudder. "Very strange man, scary, something about him. Yuk." She was silent for a few minutes, then lit another cigarette. "You know, back there, you were almost..." She paused. "You were very quick thinking, the way you sized up the situation."

"What were you really going to say?"

She smiled. "All right. That was some number you did back there and I thought you might be enjoying it. Almost vicious, not that they don't deserve it. Getting even or what?"

"That wasn't vicious, not even close. I told you about those people, what they've done. I was just being mildly unpleasant. Did I enjoy it? A bit. There was some getting even but not much, I wasn't even that anxious to physically hurt him. On the other hand I would not have minded. Okay there was some pleasure in it, but only because of the people they are. And I did promise you a fun evening."

She gave me a peck on the cheek. "You certainly provided that. You sure know how to show a girl a good time on a first date."

Later, in the bar, both of us drinking scotch this time, I felt relaxed and comfortable with her, almost as if we were old friends. It was a pleasant bar, soft lights, soft music, not many people, all rather subdued, a good place for conversation, or I suppose for seduction.

I took a long drink, and ordered another round. "What I'll do, I'll give my cop the red headed guy's description, he will want to talk to him. The cops can find him better than I can, unless one of those license plates checks out."

We were both silent, sipping our drinks; it was getting late, a couple sitting in a bar, not too late, not late enough to call it a night, a couple sitting in a bar, feeling at ease with one another, a couple sitting in a bar, aware of the possibilities, a couple sitting in a bar. There was that feeling. Without moving a muscle it was as if I could feel myself moving physically closer to her.

She put down her glass and looked directly at me and smiled. "I was thinking, or rather I was feeling, it would be so nice, for us, so easy, it seems the natural thing to do. You know what I am talking about, especially this evening. But let's get this straight right now. I am not going to go to bed with you, should you be so inclined, and I have the feeling that at times you are, tonight I have that feeling." She cupped her chin in her hand, elbow on the table, and stared into my eyes. "I have gone to bed with men much less attractive than you and not nearly so nice. Too many probably. So it isn't that. As a matter of fact from time to time I have found myself quite attracted to you, which does not exactly make you a member of an exclusive club. I know you have something going on in your life and perhaps have some kind of commitment which you would never be so unhip to own up to, but it isn't that. In this world everybody is on their own. No, it isn't that, although I do find it charming. Whatever we have here, a friendship or a working relationship or both, I want it to remain the way it is. The book comes first." She paused. "So there you have it."

"Well, hmmmn. Okay, as a matter of fact I agree, business is business and the book comes first, no pun intended. Sure I have been attracted to you and yes there is a kind of commitment, but at the same time one little nudge and who knows, and tonight does seem so natural. You are an attractive woman; you come on with all that energy and kind of sexual decadence that is pretty enticing. Take that for flattery if you want. Anyway you're right, this is a big deal and we don't want to complicate things. I agree, no sack time for us. I promise on my part to keep it platonic, scout's honor." I gave a long sigh. "I suppose we will both have to pray for strength."

She was silent a while, smiling at me. "Well then, that should clear the air of what they like to call sexual tension. I think you might have put up more of an argument though, and what kind of line is that sexual decadence stuff? You make me sound like the town pump."

"Its not a very good line is it? I thought it might work in some weird psychological way. I don't have any good lines. Maybe lines don't work any more. Anyway I thought I might bounce it off you and if it got me into your pants why then I would move it to the top of my list."

"Not with that, my dear, that is about the lamest line with the worst delivery I've ever heard. Lines still work though, even when you know they are lines. The skill is knowing the right one at the right time. Incidentally women are much better at that than men, it just comes naturally to them." She sipped her drink. "Do you have a lot of affairs?"

"I don't know what a lot is, I don't know the average. No, not many. The women I like don't like me and the ones who do like me are all a little crazy. Except for my present situation, and I think I've screwed up that one. I think it is now in the past tense. How about you?"

"Not nearly as many as you probably think. Not so many, and only a couple of memorable ones. That sexual decadence is more in the style than in the being. Hmmm, you know that may not be such a bad line after all, the right time, the right place. It needs some work though, and a much better delivery. Then who knows?"

"Not with you though, you are much too smart to be taken in."

"Flattery will get..."

"It always has in the past."

I took her home and kissed good-night. The kiss was sweet and chaste, planted gently on her forehead, the kind of kiss a brother might bestow upon his baby sister, at least in a normal family.

Chapter 35

At home the red light of the answering machine blinked urgently. It was Ryan wanting to get together for a drink. It was not Gail. I could drop around and see her at work. That would be pathetic. She wouldn't find it pathetic but I would. To hell with it, Gail will do what Gail will do, the best thing I could do would be to let her make up her mind. The book deal had changed everything, I couldn't drop the case now. Maybe I couldn't without the money, I don't think I could. But no matter now. It just might be a considerable sum of money. Money so that I could go to Mexico and travel for a while, or money to buy a little house in the burbs and settle down with Gail, if that was still an option.

I guess I'm at that age where you start thinking that this might just be for the rest of your life. Gains and losses. The losses I am acutely aware of; the degree of privacy you can only have when living alone, the freedom of acting on whatever whim takes your fancy, the not having to phone and explain where you are and when you will be home, the routine of schedules. All that stuff we all know so well. As opposed to. All the other stuff. All the Hallmark greeting card stuff. This life style or the other. Give up one to get the other.

I am not a kid anymore, not the youngster entering the party and casually checking out a world of possibilities, no, its more like closing time at the bar when those few of us left are more appreciative. And far more ready. One day you might look around and find that everything has passed you by, there are no more options.

Maybe Gail was stepping back, thinking things out, figuring out what she wanted. She had a lot of things to consider, certainly Christina would be a large part of whatever she thought would be for the best.

I slept poorly with odd unsettling dreams and was awake at five-thirty, unable to go back to sleep. I made a half-hearted attempt at breakfast but had no appetite. I showered but didn't bother shaving. It was too early to phone Gail and what was the point? I had already done that. I felt restless and angry, generally angry, at everything, and a little lost. The feeling that once again I had screwed up. I wanted to wake up in the morning with Gail beside me. That was what I wanted. I think. I think that was what I wanted.

Chapter 36

I was the first one in the office, with my two large coffees and foul disposition. I needed a rest, I needed a holiday, I needed to start my life all over again. None of these seemed like an immediate possibility so I sipped my coffee and brooded, something I am quite good at.

Catain Marvel arrived, as he always did, fifteen minutes before opening. I gave him the license numbers and asked him to run them through. He was even more cheerful than his usual cheerful self. He energetically hummed a tune that sounded much like The Ride of the Valkyries. I hoped he wasn't some sort of closet nazi that had spent a fun evening painting swastikas on synagogues or goose stepping about while singing Deutschland Uber Alles. Or if he was I hoped he wouldn't tell me about it.

"Jesus, Captain, don't be so damned cheerful so damned early in the morning, I'll think you have been embezzling company funds. Also it might be catching and we wouldn't want that."

"Can't help it Mr. C., sometimes as this great freaking universe unfolds things work out exactly as they freaking should. In other words I am getting some freaking beautiful sex, beautiful. Better freaking sex than any man deserves, even me."

"Right. I am happy for you. Say another word and I'll murder you out of jealousy."

The computer gave us nothing. Seeing my reaction the Captain said. "Sorry about that."

"Oh well, I guess you are the only one getting lucky these days." I stopped at the door of his office and turned back. "Speaking of that great sex thing as you were, if there ever is a time when, you know, you want a day off, or an evening, and you need a replacement, don't forget me. Remember our long and enduring friendship."

"Mr. C., you are my number one relief man should the occasion arise."

I phoned Ed Chalmers. "Ed, Francis Connor, how you doing on this beautiful summer morning?"

"Screw the morning waddayawant?" He sounded to be an even worse humor than I was.

I have a piece of something might help in the David stone thing, thought we might get together and talk about it."

"You got something give it to me, otherwise its obstruction of justice."

"Come on, Ed, just get together for a few minutes, swap ideas, have a meeting of the minds."

"A meeting of the minds, that would really be a summit meeting wouldn't it? You got something to say just say it or hang up the fucking phone." Silence for about ten beats, then he gave a harsh little mirthless laugh. "Sure, why the hell not. Fuck em all. You know The Horseshoe on Templar Ave? See you there at three o'clock." He hung up without waiting for an answer.

I knew The Horseshoe, you could not work vice and not know The horseshoe; pimps and hustlers and small time drug dealers. Not such an odd place to meet, he would not want to meet in a cop bar. I hoped his disposition would have improved by three o'clock.

My disposition was not improving and hanging around the office would only make it worse. I phoned Jane Steele and made a lunch date with her, she sounded not just wide awake for so early a call but absolutely upbeat. I hoped I could handle that. I went out and enjoyed a long and leisurely breakfast while I studied the racing form. I phoned my book and made three one hundred dollar win bets. That made me feel much better, it always does. I was in an almost good frame of mind. Gail would do what Gail would do. I would go to L.A. and talk to Bechtman, really push things, talk to Lawrence Rodman again, get this thing done with, get the book done. I would get out there and start taking care of business

I picked Jane up at her apartment hotel, she was wearing a velvety maroon miniskirt with a frilly white top and a pale green silk vest. I guess she had figured out some time ago that she had long shapely legs and that watching her get in or out of a car was a distinct pleasure to any guy watching. Settling into the car seat, tugging down the skirt, what, half an inch or so, then giving me that little smile. I guess she just liked to keep in practice. I had no problem with that.

"And how are you?" she asked.

"I've been better."

"You do look a little grouchy. Too bad, I was hoping you could cheer me up, bad timing on my part."

"Something wrong?"

She gave a little forget it shake of her head and was silent for a few minutes then said. "Oh, what the hell, I phoned my mother, I do that every now and then. God know why, its always the same story, ever since I was fourteen God damn years old, exactly the same. You would think I would know better by now. Sometimes I can just laugh at it, at her. Sometimes I can't. She has this instinct, she knows just the right buttons to push."

"Yeah, well, she probably put them there, parents and lovers same deal, its all about control, I guess."

"Thank you, Dr. Freud. Look would you mind if we didn't... if we just went for a walk instead, just have a hot dog or something."

"Fine with me. How about a walk down by the river, we can flip a coin to see who jumps in first."

We sat on the river bank, in the shade of a huge oak tree and ate our hot dogs. The river, dull green but sparkling in the sunlight, went slowly by. We threw pieces of hot dog bun to the squirrels. She did not mention her mother again and our conversation, what little there was of it, was casual and rambling; an odd statement or question for which no response was expected. "Sometimes I feel I don't know what I'm doing, where I'm going, what is real or what isn't. There should be a map or a plan, a book of instructions, something." That was her, but it just as well could have been me.

About half a mile down the river, on the opposite side, was where David had abruptly left this vale of tears, and that was what it had mainly been for him; him and Melanie, and all the others nameless abused and tortured and murdered. I know life is absurd, a meaningless series of random events, of course it is absurd. But why does it have to be so fucking tragically absurd?

Walking back to the car I said. "I have to meet with this cop this afternoon, tell him about the red headed guy, hope to swap a little information. Then I'll stake out Monica's for a bit, check the license plates again."

"Can I come with you?"

"Sure of course, maybe we can have another fun night."

Chapter 37

Ed was in the bar when I got there at ten to three, and he looked to have been there for a while. He had a bit of a buzz on. His white shirt looked like it was in about its third day of service, the collar curling and the top two buttons open, his tie, complete with some kind of grease stain was loosened. He hadn't shaved. There were a couple of bags of salted peanuts on the table.

"Mr. Connor, the demon private eye. "What'll you have?"

I ordered a scotch, Ed had a double rye. "You don't look so good, Ed. Its none of my business but I don't think you should go back to the office like this."

"No shit. I don't look so good. I'm overweight too, you notice that?" He gave a harsh laugh. "Not to worry pal, I booked off today, on my own time. What the fuck, eh?"

"Yeah, what the fuck, Ed."

"You come here often, this place, quite the place, quite the fucking place."

He was considerably drunker than I had at first thought. "Never. Haven't been here since I left the force, I worked undercover here once."

"Except for the help you and me probably the only guys here ever worked a day. Thieves, rounders, hustlers, pimps, all living the good life and what fucking difference does it make?"

"Thing is you and me we don't go to jail. How is the case going, the David Stone?"

"We are exploring several avenues of investigation and expect a major breakthrough shortly, or whatever the fuck it is they say." He laughed again, not a pleasant laugh. "I know guys that worked with you, guys in vice. The guys say you were all right. I thought you were nuts to leave the force, maybe you were the smart guy after all. Right, the fucking case; I'm like the lone fucking ranger, just a jerkoff rook with me and all he does is try to stab me in the back. He wants to call it suicide, close the file, get onto something more important. I'll tell you something; yesterday Harrison calls me in, you don't know him I guess, he's what, thirty-four, thirty-five, act like he's some kind of C.E.O., the new wave I guess. He tells me I don't come up with something in the next week I'm off the case. Just the rook. Shit, when did you ever hear of that? Can you believe that? Fucking cop solidarity, what bullshit. All they want to do is close the file, shuffle me off to pension land. You know how long I been on the force? Twenty-eight and a half years. Long fucking time. You ready for another?" He didn't wait for an answer but gestured to the waitress for another round.

"Yeah, well that's the cops for you, the sow that devours her own. What the hell, so far as I can see it's a tough case, nobody with a clear motive, everybody with an alibi, what the hell. Listen, they are putting the screws to you, I'm not saying we work together I know you can't do that, just we cooperate a little. I'm going to keep working the case anyhow and I might just be a better cop than your rookie partner. I already know most of what's going on."

"You said you had something for me?"

"Yeah, I have a description of Monica's partner; late twenties, early thirties, five six, seven, slight, slight, hundred twenty, thirty, thin red hair, bug eyes, walks with a limp, a real whacko, he's the guy had me beat up."

"I figured she still had a partner around somewhere, even staked her place out a few times but came up empty. No name or anything?"

"I'm working on that, maybe something from the car dealer thing or maybe from her hometown, but one thing for sure, the guy is capable of it, so is she."

"Some kind of plan that went astray you think?"

"Maybe, seems like the only real lead so far, at least that I know about. So what do you day? Share and share alike?"

He stared into space for a good minute or so then said, very softly. "Its my case, Francis, at least for the next week. I don't know what your angle is." He gave a shrug.

"You get some extra help, I'll stake out Monica's whenever I can, whatever I get goes to you, if there's a collar you get it even if you're off the case. That I promise. My angle? At first I just wanted to find out what really happened. Straight goods. But then something else happened. I met this broad, she's writing a book on the case. I'm a kind of technical advisor. I'll make sure she writes the real picture, you know, about you and the department's lack of cooperation."

"Really, so you're the smartass private eye and all the cops are too fucking dumb to tie their own shoes."

"All I can do is make the offer, you trust me or you don't. You don't have a hell of a lot left to lose. Listen, if I was a real asshole I wouldn't even be talking to you, I'd be dealing with that rookie partner of yours. I'd be better off having him owe me a favor than you. He'd jump at the chance, you know it."

Ed stared into space again, lost in his own private thoughts that it seemed to me had nothing to do with the case or the offer. "You know I was a straight cop, never had my hand out, made some bad investments, bad, bad, bad, thinking about bankruptcy, so I wind up with just my pension and my ex she'll get half of that, what the fuck eh paison, what the fuck, fucking furnished room and a hot plate."

Ed, I know you're a good cop and you got some feelings about this case, something about it that isn't right, and maybe something concrete, like forensics, maybe something in the way the kid died, maybe a fingerprint, maybe some DNA, some kind of physical evidence."

"And maybe you got some kind of pipeline. Okay, Francis, share and share alike. Yeah, we have some DNA, under the kid's fingernails, same day he died, indicates a struggle I guess, doesn't match Monica, doesn't match Donna Kardon. If it matches the red headed guy that would settle it. Haven't been able to check the mother yet, she's had this big fucking nervous breakdown and the fucking L.A. cops are too polite to disturb her. I would guess she got a lot of clout there."

"I thought she had an alibi, I thought they all had alibis."

"Not really, Monica is the only one with a solid alibi, the mother and Donna, you know, who knows the exact time, half an hour, fifteen minutes, here or there, either one of those two could break down, and the kid was seen with a woman near where he went over, maybe an hour before. I feel good about those witnesses. The lawyer has an alibi, and unless he hired a female hit man I've kind of ruled him out. So I'm just waiting to try to talk to the mother."

"You're waiting, it's a fucking murder investigation, I don't believe it."

"I wouldn't believe it either, she's had this breakdown, under sedation, even her statement to the L.A. cops was all garbled, didn't make any sense, and they won't take any DNA without her permission which her fucking army of lawyers and doctors say she is incapable of giving. The thing is everybody just wants this to go away, call it suicide and file it. Nobody wants to inconvenience America's sweetheart. What else you want to know?"

"Just your gut feeling."

"Gut feeling. Let's have another here." He made the familiar gesture to the waitress. "One more then I gotta go, can't let work interfere with my social life." Ed was going a little too fast for me but I didn't decline. "Gut feeling, whatever the fuck that is, okay, so at first I liked the mother, too much of a coincidence, she's a pretty weird broad from what I can read, not that she planned it, it just happened. It wouldn't be the first time. Now I don't know. Let's find this whacko red headed guy. I hope you haven't scared him off."

"I have the feeling he won't go far. You know, maybe the kid did just jump, it wouldn't take much, a few words from Monica or maybe from Mommy Dearest, or maybe he sees Monica and Red doing the beast with two backs and it pisses him right off."

"Monica's too smart to say the wrong thing, no, I think a kid like this, he's going to jump he leaves a note, he leaves a note for one of them. Right now I like Red, if he is a whacko like you say he could have flipped out. Speaking of which how come you didn't whack the guy seeing what he did to you, or more important why the fuck didn't you hold onto him?"

"Yeah, I know, maybe a mistake on my part, but the way it went down it might be something I could lose my license over. I don't think he'll go far, he's too locked into sweet little Monica. So what happens now?"

"So I go to L.A., talk to the old lady, she'll have forty-eight fucking lawyers with her, then talk to the kid's lawyer, fucking lawyers, about all I'll get is the wrong time of day. It sucks, it all sucks, but then what the fuck doesn't?"

"The best you can do is the best you can do."

"No shit, is that a fact?" He laughed and put a handful of peanuts in his mouth. "You know what, Francis?"

"What?"

"You drink too fucking much."

Chapter 38

I left Ed with his peanuts, his double ryes, and his pessimistic view of the future. He was going to stay for "just one more". I hoped he straightened out or he might be off the case a lot sooner than next week, he wasn't the best cop in the world but he deserved better, but then most of us do. I know I certainly do.

I picked up Jane at her hotel, she was dressed in black jeans, black runners, and a black hooded sweatshirt. Who knows, maybe it was a Calvin Klein stake out ensemble or maybe she thought we might knock off a few convenience stores if the night proved uneventful. Even in that outfit she looked good, though I did miss the miniskirt somewhat. She asked how the meeting had gone.

"Nothing new." I gave her a brief rundown of the conversation. "I thought he would have more, unless he's holding out on me. Oh well. I should have warned you, stake outs are the most boring things in the world."

"I don't mind, its all background."

"Ed was right, I should have held onto the guy. I don't know why I didn't. Maybe I want to be the lone ranger. Might be better for the book though. I don't think I scared him off but I guarantee I made them both a bit more cautious. Anyway thanks for coming along. We won't stretch it out very long, I'll get the license plate numbers then we'll sit around for a couple of hours and tell lies or think about our sins."

There were only four cars parked on the street and I drove slowly by while Jane copied the numbers then we parked a ways down but still with a good view of the cottage. I didn't have hope for this stake out, but its one of those things you do, part of the process. Only one car plate number didn't match any on the previous list, oh well, maybe the God of bumbling investigators would smile on us.

We didn't talk much, and when we did it was nothing personal, just some more case background for her; I told her about Ed, building him up a bit, and how the department was acting, at least from Ed's point of view.

After a while the conversation began to lag like it always does, we smoked cigarettes and listened to the news on the radio, we made comments on the state of the world and smoked some more cigarettes. She had no interest in sports. She went to the track on occasion but never bothered with a form. We talked about movies and books and found some common ground there.

At the same time it wasn't boring, the first couple of hours usually aren't. Casual, unhurried conversation with no agenda, knowing there are hours ahead, hours of waiting and watching. Lots of time to muse, to ponder, to question the meaning of life, to tell dirty jokes, or just veg out.

We had been there about two hours when we heard the shot. I knew it was a shot, not a car backfire or anything else, and I knew where it had to come from.

"Stay here." I was out of the car and running, gun out, safety off. I came to the cottage from the side, through a neighbor's yard using trees for cover. I managed a fast peek through a side window, I could see about half the living room and there was no one in the half I could see. Slowly, and I hoped quietly I made my way onto the porch, climbing over the railing at the side of the porch, crawling under the large front window to the door.

I looked back and saw that there was an elderly couple standing at the gate, looking in, wondering what all the commotion was about. I frantically waved them to move away, and mimed making a phone call. The man seemed hesitant to move but with some prodding from the woman moved to the far edge of the yard where he was mostly out of sight behind a tree, although his head still stuck out. He wasn't going to miss a thing that guy, with that kind of curiosity I wondered how he had managed to live so long. The woman scurried into the house next door, hopefully to phone 911.

I knew the procedure, a voice in my head kept repeating it, stay where you are, don't do anything, wait for the back up. Instead I did one of my patented fast peeks through the front window. The front room looked empty. I went back to the doorway and standing to one side I slowly turned the knob then pushed as hard as I could. The door flew open. Nothing happened.

I didn't need knowledge of police procedure to tell me to wait, the cops would be here in five or ten minutes, only an idiot would go inside. I went inside, in the proscribed manner, not quite like they do it on t.v., but more or less. Still nothing happened. That was a relief but still there I was, wondering if I should try to check the rooms or just back gracefully out. I knew I was not going to back out, gracefully or ungracefully, and all the time, believe it or not, there was that part of me that was just flying, high on the intensity of it. I stood there, just listening, for seven or eight extremely long seconds.

There was something else, something in the air, besides the smell of gunpowder there was the sweet heavy smell of an abattoir, the smell of blood and death.

I decided to try the bedroom first, its door was half open and I took a cautious look through the crack between the door and the frame. I could only see about half of Red but it was enough, he was seated on the floor against the wall, slumped forward, a gun lay on the floor between his legs and most of the back of his head was blown away.

I pushed the door all the way open with my foot. She was on the bed, there was a lot of blood, more than you think would be contained in one person, soaked into the bed, into her clothing, her jeans and tee shirt. She was barefoot. There was a blood smeared hand print on the white wall behind her head. On the floor, against the wall, a half packed suitcase, overturned, clothing spilling out. Some lingerie, silky and black, something gray, like a skirt, a white sweater.

I walked back out to the front porch. The elderly man was still there, in the same place, now joined by his wife and another couple. I sat down on the front steps. "Did you phone the police?"

"Yes. What happened?"

"Two people are dead. You'd better stay, the police will want to talk to you."

Another man joined the group and I saw Jane crossing the street, running towards us. She stood in front of me, a little breathless. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"I'm all right. They're both dead. I was hoping to keep you out of it, I guess its too late now. Looks like he did her then did himself. When the cops come tell them the truth, but tell them as little as possible, don't volunteer anything."

She sat on the steps beside me and we waited in silence. A few more people had gathered across the street.

It was probably not more than a minute or two although it seemed much longer before a black and white came and two uniforms were coming up the walk. The first guy was slim and quick, dark skinned with a skinny pencil line moustache. "Okay, what's the story here?"

"Two dead people inside."

"Anybody else in there?"

"No. At least I'm pretty sure not. I was inside."

Another black and white pulled up and two more uniforms joined the party. If they waited any longer we'd have a fucking SWAT team here. Finally the first two cops went inside and a third cop went around the back.

When mustache came out he spoke very quietly to one of the other cops. "Its legit. Get homicide will you. Looks like one of those domestic things. What a mess, what an awful mess."

The procedure started; sealing off the scene, talking to the bystanders, taking statements. Mustache stayed with us, he asked our names and addresses and checked our i.d.s. I told him I was a private investigator and handed him my gun. He dropped it into a plastic bag and called his partner over. "Fred, take the lady into the car and take her statement." Fred was young and blond, moon faced and chubby, he blinked frequently and looked a little shaken by what he had seen.

When Jane had gone Moustache said. "All right, Mr. Connor, tell me exactly what happened, with as much detail as you can remember."

I told him exactly what happened, as briefly and with as little detail as I could manage. He didn't ask many questions nor ask for much elaboration, nor did he offer any comments. I supposed he would leave that for the homicide brain trust.

It took ten minutes for the homicide brain trust to arrive, one older guy who looked vaguely familiar and one younger guy who didn't. They huddled with the uniforms for a few minutes, then went inside. I saw Jane standing by the cruiser with the blond cop.

When the cops came out of the house the older one sat on the steps beside me, half turned so he could face me, the other cop went over to talk to Jane. My cop didn't ask me to repeat my story, just shot out random questions, but of course I did wind up repeating the whole story, and this time in more detail. "Jesus, you give out information like it was money. So what's your connection with the lady again?"

"She's writing a book on the David Stone case, I'm a technical advisor."

"You know, you look like you might even have half a brain, (seeing as how I was nothing but a lowly p.i. and not some legit citizen he felt okay about insulting me) so how come you do such a stupid assed thing, going in the house like that, only a moron would do that. You looking for something? Drugs maybe? Fraid I'll have to have one of my officers search you. He can do it inside. You fired your gun lately? You agree to taking a paraffin test?"

"Haven't fired the gun in months, sure I'll take the test."

And so it went, I was searched and tested and questioned some more, and so was Jane. I knew these guys were giving us a particularly hard time just out of general principle, civilians screwing around in police business. Meanwhile forensics came, more huddles, more nodding of heads. I had run out of cigarettes.

Finally we were driven downtown to write out our formal statements. They didn't offer to drive us back to my car and I didn't press it. We took a cab.

In my car, on the way to her hotel, Jane was quiet until we were almost at her hotel then asked. "Was it awful in there?"

"Yes it was, it was a mess."

I parked in front of her hotel but she didn't get out, instead we sat there and smoked cigarettes. "You okay?" I asked. "You need a drink or anything?"

"No. I'm all right. I wonder what her story is, or his."

"Probably pretty tough ones." I remembered her eyes, beautifully brown and deep and the perfect cheekbones, and from the room her feet, almost the only part of her not hacked or bloodied, ankle bones white and delicate. "She was..." I was going to say that she was born to be adored, that sounded trite but it was the first thing that came to mind. I left the thought unfinished.

Jane leaned over and kissed my cheek. "I'll talk to you tomorrow. Take care."

I drove home. Another day, another dollar.

Chapter 39

I checked my mailbox, nothing of any consequence. Ryan was right, it really was a depressing building. I should move. I should think about that. But first things first and the first thing called for was a drink, a large drink. Then a long shower and then another large drink.

The little red light of the answering machine blinked steadily and impatiently. I put on some music, made my large drink and regarded the blinking machine. I felt drained, with nothing left inside me and at the same time sad, terribly, terribly sad. And I didn't know what I was sad for, just sad. I could see the room, I could see it in such great detail, and I could smell it, I could feel its presence. Another page in my scrapbook of memories; quite a few of that kind now and not enough large drinks in the world to make them go away.

I punched the button on the machine. It was Gail asking me to call her.

"Hi, how are you?"

"Francis." There was a pause. "I'm all right. And You?"

She didn't sound all right. "More or less. What's happening?"

"I wondered if we could get together. Talk."

"Sure, of course." She didn't say anything. "Now? Tonight you mean?"

Her voice became faint, far away, as if she was no longer speaking into the phone. "If you could. The bar at the Wiltshire, would that be all right? Do you know it?"

"That's fine. What time?" I looked at my watch. "Ten- thirty or so okay?"

"Thank you, Francis, I'll see you then."

"Right."

It was all there, all in the tone of her voice. We have to talk, that most familiar of death knells. My own fault, stupid, stupid, stupid. I am stupid, have always been stupid and will always be stupid. It was all this stupid fucking case, and why? Who cares what happened? What difference does it make? No, it wasn't the case, it was me, plain and simple, me. Well, nothing to do but do it. At least there would be no bullshit, not from her, not from me.

In the bathroom I could only stare at the shower, it just seemed too much to do, I had neither the inclination nor the energy. I settled for splashing cold water on my face and brushing my teeth.

I sat in my chair and sipped my drink and thought of absolutely nothing until I realized it was ten-fifteen and I would probably be a little late.

In the lobby one of the tenants was having a drunken but fairly mild argument with a woman. He called to me. "Hey you, my friend, my friend, come here for a minute I want to ask you something."

"Fuck off."

She was sitting at a corner table wearing a black turtle neck sweater; black was such a good color for her, it brought out the color of her hair and her eyes.

I sat down, with my little half smile, wanting her more than I had ever wanted anything in my life. "You look great. You know I've never been here before. I think I'd better have a drink." I ordered a drink, she declined with a quick shake of her head. Her hands, clenched together on the table, were motionless. She was wearing no make-up and her eyes, even in the dim light, looked slightly red, puffy.

"Thank you for coming. You look tired."

"Its been an eventful day."

She leaned forward, staring at her hands. When the words came they sounded strained, as if they were physically being pushed out of some place deep inside her. "You know how much... how much you mean to me. But I have to end it. I have to. I'm sorry."

No matter how much I expected it it was still like getting kicked in the stomach. "Look, Gail, I know lately I've... this case... but..." No, I wasn't going to do that, there were no arguments, nothing to say. I was silent then finally I said. "I love you."

Neither of us spoke. The waitress brought my drink silently setting it in front of me with a quick glance from one to the other of us. "I have to tell you." She began to stroke little circles on her temple with the first two fingers of her left hand, it was something she did when she was very tired or worried. "A man, a man I used to go with, that was over a year ago, we went together for a long time. He was going through a divorce, he has a fourteen year old boy, it was a bad time for him. He didn't know what he wanted to do and we talked about a lot of things. But we separated. He kept in touch, he would phone very month or so just to see how I was, then last week we went out for coffee, then lunch, and lunch again. That's all it was, Francis, just coffee and lunch." She was crying now, brushing the tears from her cheek, looking away. "He asked me to marry him and I... I didn't... I had to think. Yesterday I told him I would. I'm sorry, Francis, I'm so sorry."

And what would I have done to take her in my arms and hear her say that she had changed her mind, that it was me she wanted to spend the rest of her life with? What would I have done? Tell me who to kill.

I said the trite, gallant, but true thing. "He's a lucky man, I hope he deserves you." She nodded, fumbling in her purse for another tissue. "Don't cry, Gail, please, its all right, its okay." I took her hand in mine. "Listen, remember this, I'll always be there for you, always. If there is anything you want or need, legal or illegal, I'll be there, to the wall, you know, like we say, to the wall."

She squeezed my hand. "I have to go. This is... I'll always think of you." A soft, damp kiss on my lips, then I turned to watch her leave, black turtle neck sweater, blue jeans and sandals, hurrying past the tables, hand up to her face, some patrons watching her go. And she was gone.

I looked around the bar of the Wiltshire Hotel, dark wood and red plush, dim lighting and soft music, subdued conversation and good drinks. I would never come here again.

The waitress was at my table.

"Would you like anything else, sir?"

"No, thank you. I've had quite enough for this evening."

Chapter 40

I viewed the morning, after a long and mostly sleepless night, dimly, and with something of a hangover. I viewed my life even more dimly. Breakfast was orange juice, coffee, and aspirin. What to do? Mope, muse, and ponder? I'd spent most of the night doing that. Sit in the park, go to a movie, go for a swim, jump off a bridge? It didn't much matter what I chose to do so I chose to go in to work.

I took out the picture of David Stone with its sad, anxious eyes, its hooked nose, its expression of something not quite panic, some private fear. Or was that only what I read into it? Tough story. So what, there a few million tougher. What could I do, and more importantly why should I care? Not even a friend. What then, some quixotic attempt to right a wrong, to resolve something. Or just to get myself off the hook I seemed to have hung myself upon? I was tired of thinking, I was tired of everything. Like Scarlet I would think about it tomorrow.

Instead of going directly to work I drove to the park, to watch the chess players. There were some familiar faces a couple of whom nodded hello to me. I bought a cup of coffee and watched one of the games in progress. One of the players, an old familiar, seemed to be in trouble, down a knight and a castle but up a couple of pawns. I tried to figure out what was happening, it seemed to me that familiar had a chance to threaten a castle and maybe swap a pawn for a knight. He didn't do that though, instead he made a move whose purpose entirely escaped me but then five moves later the other guy conceded. Hell of a game, right out of a text book. I could see how people might fall in love with the game. It has a beautifully clean and precise logic, unaffected by happenstance, governed only by skill and reason. So much the opposite of life.

I was scarcely in the office, just taking a drink from the water cooler, when Claire, standing in her office doorway, called to me, a little more loudly than I thought necessary. "Francis, come in for a minute."

Summoned to the principle's office again, I supposed it had something to do with what had happened at Monica's and I sensed an argument coming on. I didn't feel much in the mood for that. I crumpled the paper cup and dropped it in the waste basket.

"Close the door. Have a seat." She had a new hairdo and looked even sleeker than usual, if that were possible. There was a dramatic pause while she leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. "I've sold the firm."

"You did what? What do you mean?"

"I closed the deal yesterday, with Sentinel, it goes into effect the first of next month."

"You can't do that, you can't sell without my okay, I'm a Goddamned partner here. What is this?"

"Read your contract, you are not a partner in the real sense of the word. You are entitled to one third of all the profits, that is all it says. You might want to see what that amounts to." She pushed some papers across the desk to me but I didn't look at them.

"This is crap. You couldn't just ask me? You couldn't discuss it?"

"No point. I'd taken this place as far as it could go, from now on it meant going head to head with the big boys and we don't have the resources for that. This was the perfect time. Do you know what you are getting from this? You will walk out of here with one hundred and forty thousand dollars give or take a bit. You should be grateful, its an excellent deal and I worked very hard to get it. You really should be grateful."

"You tell the staff yet?"

"I've called a meeting for tomorrow morning."

I took a look at the documents but I couldn't read them, my head was swimming, the type wouldn't sit still, so I shoved them back along the desk to her. I knew she was enjoying this, that it was some small pleasure for her, giving me my comeuppance. Anything I said in a rage would only sound petulant and juvenile and that would give her another little morsel of pleasure. So I bit my tongue, regained my outside cool, managed a small laugh, a "my, my, my.", and what I hoped was a nonchalant shrug. Then I walked out.

H.C. lived in a large modern apartment building, it was, by my standards pretty plush, with a pool, a gym, a sauna, a games room where I'd once taken thirty dollars from him shooting pool, and a twenty-four hour security guy. Slightly more upscale than my place. The security guy phoned upstairs then waved me toward the elevator.

H.C. opened the door almost before my finger was off the buzzer. He was wearing a white track suit and his tough guy face, head tilted back, big scowl. I could smell liquor on his breath. That was a surprise, it was pretty early in the day and I'd never thought of him as much of a drinker.

"I thought you might be coming. All right, come in for a minute."

I walked in and sat down on the sofa, H.C. chose to stand, casually leaning against the mantle of his artificial fireplace, still wearing his tough guy scowl. "What do you want? I have to leave soon."

"What do you think I want? I want to know why you do something like this, you don't even talk to me, behind my back, that's not the way we started out."

He dropped the scowl and replaced it with a half smile and a shrug. "What would you have to contribute? We don't owe you anything. You're a loose cannon, you always were, even on the force. You weren't that great a cop and you're an even worse civilian. You don't know how lucky you are walking out with a potful of money, if it wasn't for us you'd be some minimum wage security guard somewhere. You're an asshole, Francis, an ungrateful, conceited asshole. You come here all pissed off, you people are all the same, pretty good at dishing it out but not so good when the tables are turned."

"Us people? What the fuck is that?" He didn't answer, just went back to his scowl and dropped the casual stance against the mantle, he stood with his legs apart, arms loose at his sides. He must have thought he looked threatening. "Aw forget it, Harold, what the hell. So tell me what's the big plan? There must be a big plan somewhere. Its L.A. isn't it?" He didn't say anything. "Come on, you might as well tell me I'll find out anyway, I'm not that bad a cop."

"Sure, I'll tell you then you can get the hell out. Its no secret. Claire has been offered a position with Aquarius, in security and if you try some stupid stunt to screw it up I'll make you regret it."

"No intention, Harold old buddy, no intention. So she works there a couple of years, makes the contacts, starts an agency, maybe with a contract from Aquarius. That's rich, really rich, you and Claire and Elizabeth. I presume you'll be tagging along?"

"That's all the talking. Get out."

I stood up. "Sure, you're a pretty lousy host anyway. But I'll tell you, I think Claire will love L.A., she has this thing for movie stars, I remember her telling me once how she'd really love to fuck Jack Nicholson."

He took a step toward me. "Get out of here you son of a bitch or I'll break your Goddamned neck."

"Oh fuck off, Harold, you haven't scared anybody in twenty years. Everybody knows what you are, nothing inside, your balls dried up years ago, just a pathetic old fuck clinging on to his daughter. What a life, you're pathetic."

I walked to the door, opened it and turned back. "I'll say one thing for you, you have a beautiful daughter; gorgeous face, nice legs, beautiful ass. Who know, maybe Jack will give her a tumble."

And with that, I left him, not feeling particularly proud of myself. Why did I always go overboard on everything? Oh fuck it. Fuck it all.

Chapter 41

I no longer felt angry, I didn't feel much of anything. I ordered another gin and tonic and watched the bartender absently move a cloth over an already spotless bar. The slow time of day, only one couple and a few other solitary drinkers, quiet, almost hushed. The waitress who brought me my drink reminded me of Gail although she didn't look at all like her. Something in her manner I suppose, or maybe just the job.

What was this anger all about? This often uncontrollable, usually unreasonable something; a something that was always sitting inside me like some huge lump of undigested food. Once again I had overreacted. What was the big deal really? I wanted to quit, I was walking out with lots of money, a few years in Mexico would be a certainty now. Maybe H.C. was right, just petty vanity. H.C. was an asshole but that didn't mean he couldn't be right.

Too many old resentments and grudges, writ large inside, too clearly and too often recalled. There is a line in a Dylan song; "I know the face of every man who put me here." I don't believe in forgiveness, in truth I'm not even sure what it is supposed to mean. I carry too many things around. As a famous character once said, "I am not what I am." And what am I then? What I think I am or what others think I am? Even Gail, even Gail, who I think actually loved me, even she, she knew enough, she knew me well enough. If you want to fuck up your life live with a fucked up person.

I knew one thing well enough, this was not the time to get drunk, for once let me not do the obvious and pointless thing. I phoned Jane.

"Hi."

"Hi, come in. How are you?"

"I've had one or two better days."

"You want a drink or coffee or something?"

"Coffee would be really great."

She brought the coffee and curled up on the far end of the sofa; she was wearing a baggy tee shirt, sweats, almost no make-up and still managed to look sexy. The coffee was pretty bad but I could forgive her for that.

"Something go wrong?"

"Just personal stuff. I lost my girl, I lost my job, I lost everything except my virginity, I'm saving that for you. Ha, ha, ha."

"Hmmm." She got up and made herself a drink, lit a cigarette, and resumed her position on the sofa. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. I didn't come here for a looking for a shoulder. I just thought you should know about the job, but it shouldn't make any difference. I'll be there till the end of the month so I can still use our computer whiz if I need to and we've got copies of all the files. Anyway, how was your day?"

"Very good. I've been working my cute little ass off all day and I got a lot done. Its been a good day. Listen I almost never do this and when I do I usually regret it, but would you like to read what I've done, the chapter on last night? After all you are the hero. But remember it's a first draft, its still rough."

"Sure, I'd like to read it, I hope you described me as ruggedly handsome."

"At least twenty-four times." She handed me a sheaf of papers. "I do a first draft on the computer then I edit it with pencil. Tell me what you think. Remember it's a first draft."

"Okay, but tell me one thing; is it a completed work or just a first draft?"

"Just read the fucking thing."

It was interesting to see the whole scene from her point of view and it was a good piece of writing. There were a couple of awkward places but it was, or would be, good. I wondered if she felt the things she said she felt when she watched me go into the house, or if that was artistic license.

"Its good, it really is."

"There's one thing; I don't have a mental picture of the room, the bedroom, where they were. I can use that, jump to your point of view for it, then back to me. I can make that work."

I described the room for her; the fanlike spray of blood and brains and bone on the white wall behind his head, the dropped gun on the polished hardwood floor, the upturned suitcase with the clothes spilling out, her body slashed and hacked, the Navaho rug beside the bed, the pale blue bedspread soaked in blood, the glass of water on the bedside table, and her feet, the only part of her not bloodied, white and delicate.

She made notes of everything. "And we have pictures of them, Red and Monica, maybe the only ones. That camera was a brilliant idea. Do you think Red killed David? If it was we'll have to get some fast background on him and Monica."

"We should get it anyway, its an interesting and very graphic side to the case, I'll get Captain Marvel to work on it tomorrow. Did Red do it? Somehow it doesn't sit right, but we'll see, see what the cops come up with, if the DNA matches... they might dump it on him anyway. In the meantime that's a good piece of writing, you made me look pretty heroic."

"Its better than having you look stupid, wouldn't fit in with your character."

"Yeah, my character." I held up the sheaf of papers. "Headstrong and obsessive, is that what I am?"

"You are in my book, darling.

Chapter 42

It was almost ten o'clock when I arrived at the office, I'd had a leisurely breakfast, started my new exercise regimen; sit ups, push ups. etc., which if my past was any indication I would adhere to for about two weeks, then had a second cup of coffee at the corner restaurant.

I felt all right, not depressed, not pissed off, not much of anything, but in a good way, distant and relaxed, like those old grandpa guys must feel, sitting on a park bench or in the mall, nodding to acquaintances, smiling at mothers pushing their baby strollers, offering the world their slightly sad, slightly loopy smiles. I was sure the feeling would pass.

From the atmosphere in the office I knew the staff meeting was over and that Claire had passed along the news. Voices were slightly hushed, people pretended to be busier than they were, questions were whispered to which no one knew the answers. Concern was everywhere. Only Captain Marvel seemed exempt.

Rick had already left, he was doing a bodyguard job, I phoned his home number and left a message to phone me in case he didn't come back into the office. Then I phoned Ed Chalmers and left a message for him to phone me. Then I sat around and thought about not very much. In that not very much Gail kept intruding. There was nothing I could do about that

After a while I drifted into Claire's office. "Hi, do you have a minute or two?"

"Come in, sit down. I was just going to go and see you. Her voice was even colder and more business like than usual. She watched me closely, wary, ready to do battle, and with good reason. No doubt she had been talking to Daddy. She opened a file folder on her desk and took out an envelope, she pushed it across the desk to me. "This is your check." I put it into my inside jacket pocket without looking at it. She moved the file folder toward me. "This is the conditions of sale, auditor's report, so forth."

I shrugged it away. "You're not going to cheat me. Anything you want me to sign?"

"Not now, at the end of the month, company car, cell phone, expenses, all that."

We were silent a moment or two than I said. "You know I went to see your dad yesterday, he looks good, retirement doesn't seem to have hurt him. Cops usually have a tough time with retirement but he seems in good shape. We go back a long way." She didn't reply, just leaned back in her chair a little. "I have to tell you something, you and I, we're very different personalities, we see the world in different ways and we act in it in different ways. You don't like me, okay, and I guess I haven't exactly exhibited a lot of fondness for you, okay, that's that, that's just the way it is, but I do have to tell you something." I patted the envelope in my pocket. "This is a lot of money and the reason it is a lot of money is because of you. You made this place into a business, a profitable one. You made it work. Not even your dad could make that happen. Your dad can do certain things and I can do certain things but neither of us could ever have made this happen."

"Well... I, thank you. It has been an interesting four years."

"You know I thought I would miss this place, really miss it, be sort of cast adrift, now I don't think so."

"You can take a long vacation of you want."

"Maybe, maybe, I don't know yet. Listen, are you free for lunch?" She was taken a little off guard, but she nodded and murmured a yes. "Can I take you to lunch? Not business, just a lunch, I won't even put it on the expense account."

"All right, yes."

"Good, I'll make the reservations, one o'clock okay?"

We had a drink at the bar while we waited for out table, another drink after we got to our table, and a bottle of wine with the meal. It was an excellent meal. It was a very expensive restaurant.

We talked, the alcohol made it easier but it was still somewhat awkward at first but we managed to trade a little personal information and swap small idiosyncrasies. She exercised every day, went to the gym three times a week but didn't jog, no surprise there, liked gardening and antiques, that was a surprise. We went quickly through music, she had not much interest, easy listening kind of stuff, as for books mostly non fiction. But then we came, as I knew we would, to movies. This was her thing of course. "I'm the video store's best customer." We talked a long time about movies, she had grown up on them, not on television. Her passion was old movies, Hollywood old movies, from the forties and fifties.

"So, did you ever think, you know when you were a kid, of being in the movies, think of studying acting or anything?"

"What kid doesn't? Of being "discovered", I guess I did, a little." She smiled. "Did you?"

"Sure, for a time, I used to practice stuff in front of the mirror, not impressions or anything, just saying different lines, looking happy, looking mad, posing mostly, kind of like DeNiro in taxi Driver."

"I mostly daydreamed, I had my heroines; Judy Garland in A Star Is Born, Vivien Leigh in anything."

"My name is Mrs. Norman Maine. Not many endings better than that. Who else?"

"Lots and lots; Bette Davis, Susan Hayward, Ida Lupino, Ingrid Bergman, all gutsy ladies, ladies with character, and to dance like Cyd Charisse. All of them white."

"Well if you like old movies... maybe things are a little different now...

"But you see it didn't matter, white or not I was them."

We talked some more about movies until our lunch had stretched almost into two hours, then she said. ""This has been nice, it has been, but I can't help but wonder just what brought this on."

"No ulterior motive, honestly. Every now and then I get the desire to know someone a little better. That's all, nothing more to it than that, its nothing, just talking. After the end of the month we'll probably never see each other again."

"When you said I didn't like you... we do rub each other the wrong way, you are difficult, at least for me, a loose cannon and that is... well... just as you said, that is just the way things are. I know what you think of me. You think I'm this workaholic uptight prude, this kid that thinks she knows it all. It might be we both are a little right." She smiled and shrugged, it wasn't something she was terribly interested in.

"So what you're saying is we shouldn't seriously think about marriage."

Chapter 43

"I wanted to make sure you knew that I didn't know this was coming."

Rick sipped his tea. "I assumed that. It wouldn't matter anyway, whether it was a month ago or yesterday, or next week, it makes no difference."

"The readiness is all, as somebody once said. So what do you think you'll do?"

"I don't know yet, I'll see what happens, how I feel. I'm thinking of going home, Thailand. What about you?"

"I don't know either, at first I thought I might want to start all over again, maybe you and me, Captain Marvel, one other, equal partners, I have some start up money. But. But, but, but, I don't know if I have the energy for it, or the inclination or whatever."

"I think... I think all that, all that is done for you, possibly for me too."

"Right, I know. I guess there are parts of it that I don't want to lose, like you, nothing to do with the fucking business, you know."

He nodded. "No need to lose it." He sipped his tea and we said no more about it.

Chapter 44

Ryan was seated at a booth in Carmichaels looking very relaxed, but then he always looks relaxed, he always looks like he know, really knows, what is going on. I know this can't be true but this is how he looks.

I said. "You're a hard man to get a hold of."

"Been busy, idle hands, all that, but now its rest time, at least for a while."

"Good. How's the kid? How's everything?"

"The kid is good, everything is good, more or less, even my ex, yes even my ex, I think maybe she's mellowing with age, the other night it was almost... cosy. Well, you know, it was never that bad. And you have those nice memories too, the once familiar, would it be... like it was. I mean we never had a problem there, and I think maybe she was flirting just a bit, and you know, you start to feel that old throb again."

"Yeah, I think its called an erection. You thinking of...?"

"No, no, no. Actually I was thinking of lining her up with you, she doesn't seem to have much happening in her life, you've met her, she's a good looking woman. And I think you would totally confuse her." The waiter brought my drink and a fresh one for Ryan. "Francis, relax for God's sake, don't be so antsy, Gail is not going to drop in."

"Right you would have... it would be awkward. I know she would have talked to you about it. Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you."

"It wouldn't do you any good. Here I am juggling my two best friends so they don't run into each other, its like some kind of con game. I listen to her then I listen to you, I'm like that priest or friar or whatever in Romeo and Juliet, Friar Tuck."

"Friar Lawrence, and I don't see the similarity nor do I want to given the ending of the play."

"I guess Shakespeare was never my thing."

"But I tell you, Ryan, it's a bugger, it really is. Here I am, like some God-damned eighteen year old kid, mooning and pining, that's what I'm doing, mooning and pining. Me, can you believe it? Yeah, it would be awkward to run into her, but you know what, I'd like to, just to see her, just to look at her. I want to pick up the phone but there is nothing to say. I'd just like to see her walking down the street, yeah really. Man, I'm like a zillion other guys singing the same old sad song, it's a drag, it really is. You know that song, 'And I Thought About You'? Who is that, Cole Porter?"

"I don't know, Jerome Kern maybe."

"Anyway that's the way it is and there is nothing I can do about it. At the same time there was always this little voice in my head saying I would probably screw up her life. But of course I would never listen to that little voice. I don't know. Oh well, it will pass I suppose, everything does."

"Some do, some don't, most things maybe."

"The other thing that happened in my soap opera life is that as of the first of the month I no longer have a job. I'm not kidding, Claire sold the company, she didn't need my okay to do it, didn't even tell me she was thinking about it, told me after it was done. Her and daddy, what a pair."

"Well, well, well, how do you feel?"

"Not bad, I was pissed at first but now it doesn't seem to matter much and I did walk out with a nice piece of money."

"So what do you think you'll do?"

"Haven't got a clue, don't want to start that business again, maybe get a nice place, run some poker games, that's a living."

"You'd go nuts. What about travel; exotic lands, mountains, beaches, exotic hookers?"

"I don't know, I'll see what happens, how I feel, but that does sound pretty good. Meantime I'm to going to keep plugging on this David Stone thing. I know, I know, I just want to do it, that's all. Hey, I never told you the latest, remember I told you about Monica Smith, the beautiful, beautiful, really beautiful woman. What do you think happened?"

"I read the papers, all very vague, didn't mention you at all."

So I told him the whole story and then we went on to talk of other things, mostly generalities, but a few personal things from him, about his ex and his son. We even talked of old times, cut up old scores as they say, when we were kids, something we rarely did.

It all helped, being with Ryan, casual conversation with a friend, it was all pretty good, Not quite good enough though.

Chapter 45

I met Ed Chalmers at the same bar as before, we even sat at the same table. This time however Ed was changed, gone was the grungy shirt and grungier tie, replaced by something not only new and clean but almost fashionable. His jacket and slacks were newly pressed and his eyes were clear and sharp. He had a drink in front of him but no bag of peanuts.

"Ed, you're looking good. How's things?" I sat down.

"Yeah, I don't know why I'm doing this."

"Because you said you would, because it doesn't cost you anything and because I just might come up with something that could help. I did come up with the red headed guy, granted he wasn't in good shape. So what's the deal on Red, you able to find anything yet?"

"Quite a bit considering. You want a drink? Fucking service here." He waved to a waitress who after deciding she had nothing better to do ambled over to our table, silently took my order and after a bit returned and just as silently placed a drink in front of me. Ed gave her some money and waved the change away. She left without a word. It might well be that she was a mute or an aspiring actor practicing mime but I thought it more lightly she just didn't care overly much. That same general attitude seemed to prevail in this bar. I began to think they didn't like cops much.

Ed had been silent during all this as well, sipping his drink and staring at the ceiling, finally he spoke. "His name is Theodore Alan Benet, did ten months for assault a few years ago, whacked some guy with a baseball bat. Almost a local boy, comes from a little jerkoff town about two hundred miles south, called Blenheim. Pig farm country somebody told me. Same town as Margaret, Monica Smith. He's a few years older but they hung out together all the time, the local cops remember them."

"I guess they would, beauty and the beast. So what do you think, he your boy?"

"Doesn't seem likely, the night the kid went flying off the cliff your buddy Theodore was checking into a hotel, a small kind of residential place, not quite a fleabag, over on Sycamore. He checked in a little after eight, then had dinner and a few drinks, more than a few. The people remember him, seems he was particularly obnoxious which is not too surprising. Then we got the mystery woman the kid was seen with, maybe that Donna broad, maybe the mother, maybe somebody else."

"So what's your gut feeling?"

"Don't have one. Going to fly out to talk to the mother myself, and the lawyer too, not that I think it'll do any good. Too much time has gone by what with her breakdown and all and my own fucking department tying my hands. She's had lots of time to get her story straight, talk to the people that are her alibi, all of whom work for her. So she'll sit there with her army of lawyers and tell me to go piss up a rope. The lawyer, Bechtman, I don't expect anything from him, just a formality. I don't expect anything at all, just have to do it."

"I thought I might fly down there too, I'm sure the mother won't talk to me but the lawyer might. Just background stuff. That okay with you?"

He looked slightly surprised. "A long way to go for background stuff. No, I don't care, talk to whoever you want, it's a free country they keep telling us."

I had one more drink with him and we talked about nothing much. We left together, he said he'd let me know when he was leaving for L.A.

Chapter 46

John Louis Bechtman was a handsome man, not handsome in the American sense, more like a European, a European aristocrat, or at least how I thought, from the movies, a European aristocrat should look. About six foot, slim, well tailored, gray, slightly wavy thinning hair, just a mite casually shaggy, tanned, straight nose, expressive eyes that went from world weariness to amusement to deep interest in whatever you happened to be saying. He was the kind of guy at whose feet I thought many young ladies had passionately thrown themselves, sure that he knew some great secret of the world. Maybe he did. My first impression was that he was nobody's fool and that I would get from this interview only what he had decided to give me.

"Would you like a drink? I'm afraid I only have Scotch."

"Scotch is fine, just a splash of water." It was very good Scotch of course, sipping Scotch.

He made himself comfortable, leaned back in his chair and studied me for a moment or two the smiled and said. "I had a small informal check done on you so I know a little something about you. What is it you want to know?"

"Everything you can, or will, tell me, about David, his mother, his father, what happened, what you think happened, everything."

"You've come a long way, gone to a lot of trouble just for information that almost certainly will not change anything. And if I told you just what I told the local police, just the plain facts that you already know, would you continue your investigation, would you keep at it until you have somehow satisfied yourself?" He smiled and sipped his Scotch. "Of course you would. And for no reimbursement." He smiled again.

"I have to tell you that I'm working with someone that is writing a book on the case, that's a fairly new development, but you're right even if I wasn't involved in that I would still be here, prying and probing, digging and delving. And I don't even know why."

"Sometimes the most interesting things about ourselves are those things we can't rationalize." He went to the sideboard and brought back the bottle of Scotch and a stainless steel pitcher of water. He set them on the desk. "Perhaps we can make this a little less formal. Please, in case I forget my manners, just help yourself." I nodded although it was hard to imagine him ever forgetting his manners under any circumstances. "Now then, Elizabeth. Born and raised in Tulsa Oklahoma, devoutly religious family, very, Roman Catholic. Ever since she was a little girl she wanted to be a nun, dedicate her life to Christ, that was the most important thing in her life. I don't know what happened to that but when she was eighteen she entered a local beauty contest and placed second. After that it seemed she dedicated her life to show business, or at least to succeeding in it. It would seem a rather odd sort of career change but then..." He gave a shrug. Who can understand the ways of the human heart? "In any event she brought to her new career the focus and dedication she might have given to a Holy Order. She was not a natural dancer but she worked hard at it and became proficient, the same with acting, and then again with business. But in the meantime she met Richard, and she fell in love. Completely, one might even say obsessively. Elizabeth can never do anything half way, with her it is either all or nothing, always. To be loved like that by someone can be a terrible burden, sometimes a frightening one." He turned away for a second.

He lit a cigarette and poured a little Scotch into each of our glasses. "They were happy at first, at least as happy as Elizabeth can be. Through a combination of hard work and good fortune they became very successful. And they had a child, a famous child, David was born."

"You said, 'as happy as she can be'. What does that mean?"

"I don't think Elizabeth has ever been happy, not ever, always dissatisfied, and, I think, a little lost. That is a very big part of who she is, or so I believe." He smiled. "I know we all feel that from time to time but with her it is who she is, always. She abandoned Catholicism but she needed something so she has tried them all, from this religion to that, some of them quite strange. Her life has become a course in religious studies. I believe she is now heavily into some sort of new age Christian fundamentalism, strange as that sounds."

"What sort of mother was she?"

"Not a good one. I think the whole thing completely bewildered her. She was overly strict, and overly demanding and the crazy religious stuff; hell and damnation. Richard was the exact opposite and they quarreled about that a great deal."

"Was that what caused the breakup?"

"No. That wasn't it. Richard fell in love with someone else. Tell me, what do you know about him, Richard?"

"Not much at all, just heard one account, I don't know, tough guy from the wrong side of the tracks, some sort of con man, you knew him from your law practice. His nickname was Bull. That's about it."

"Partly right, not a tough guy though. His nickname was Bull and what does a name like that conjure up? Some Mafia hit man, Bull Connor and his dogs, Raging Bull? Brutality? Not so. He got the name when he was a kid and it was short for bullshit because that was what he did to everyone. He outgrew the bullshit thing, at least with his friends, but the nickname stuck. It was a kind of inside joke with his friends. He rather liked to keep the nickname though, said it sometimes gave him a little edge in business dealings. He had a good sense of humor, always able to laugh at himself. He was not a tough guy, in truth he was the kindest and gentlest man I've known." He stopped talking, as if lost in thought.

"And he fell in love?"

He gave a little nod. "Yes, we became lovers. Richard and I. We had been friends for years and then, suddenly, we were lovers. Perhaps there had always been something there. It was all right for me, I had worked all that out years ago, but Richard... Richard had never been with a man before, I was his first. And as it turned out his last. Anyway it was difficult for him, bewildering, frightening even, but he was so honest, never ashamed, never denied." He stood up and stretched, walked over to the window and looked out. "He told Elizabeth, told her everything."

"And she didn't take it too well?"

He returned to his chair, sat down and lit a cigarette. "No. She did not take it well. She said it was a sin against God and I'm sure she believed it. Even without that, the man she loved more than anything else left her, not for another woman, but for a man. To her that would mean she had failed as a woman. So she hated Richard with the same passion she had once loved him." He poured another splash of Scotch into our glasses. "Love, love, love. As my mother used to say, it covers a multitude of sins. None of this would really have mattered much except for the effect it had on David. She was sure that Richard would try to convert David to his sinful way of live, that he would turn him into some 'mincing little faggot'. She did everything she could to fight that. God only knows what things she told the boy. I have some idea from Richard. She put Richard through pure hell. And here was poor little David in the middle of it all. A little kid, how can you not believe the things your mother tells you? And how do you put that together with a father that you also know and love? He never had much of a chance."

"You know, when I started looking for David I thought he might be gay, checked out a lot of gay bars. As it turned out he did go to gay bars from time to time but as far as I know nothing ever happened, as far as I know he had no sex life of any kind. It might just have curiosity. Did he know his father was gay?"

"I don't know. Not from me, but if he remembered... bits and pieces. All the times I visited him we never talked of that, he never asked."

"You visited him regularly."

"Yes, right from the beginning, almost every week, I didn't miss many over the years. It became part of my schedule. You know for the first couple of years he never spoke a word to me, just listened. The first words he spoke to me were just as I was leaving one day, he said, "Will you come back?" I talked about anything and everything; world events, my work, movies, books, just to talk. I never talked about his mother and father, nothing about that. All those years, all those hours, you must wonder why? I don't know, I suppose I felt partly responsible for his being there, or that I owed something to Richard. I used to believe that you could not or should not owe anything to the dead. As though we have a choice. Or simply, I liked David, I liked him and I wanted to see him come out of all this more or less in one piece." He filled his empty glass with water and drank it down then lit a cigarette. "He loved chess, he would bring out his chess board with one of those problems, white to play and mate in three and I would try to solve it. He never did get far with his education, probably grade seven or eight, but he wasn't stupid, just confused. He only once asked me a personal question. What had his father been like? I told him he was a decent and kind man, nothing else. He never asked again."

"All the time he was inside," I said, "his mother never visited him once. Doesn't that seem odd?"

"She's a complicated woman." He shrugged it off. "In any event David and I did establish a relationship. Two years before he left the hospital he became very interested in the legalities of his position, the will and so forth, that is when he decided to set up the foundation. Then as you know a couple of days before his release he disappeared. He showed up in my office two days later and we did all the paperwork. He wanted to go away, visit other cities, so we worked out a system for keeping in contact. He knew his mother would try to find him and he didn't want that, perhaps even a little paranoid about it. He wasn't ready for that. And then you found him."

"And then I found him. Tell me, do you think he ever remembered? Remembered the shooting?"

"The big question. I think he did, but that is only a feeling, nothing concrete to base it on, but yes I think he did."

"Then the real big question is, if he did remember, what did he remember? And this must have crossed your mind, what if it was her that pulled the trigger, saw David's state and put the gun in his hand, a moment of panic, all her success going down the tube. Do you think a mother could do that? Do that to her own child?"

"You were a cop, you worked vice, you have lived through half the twentieth century, is there anything you can possibly conceive of that a human being would not do? It crossed my mind as well as the mind of some of the investigating officers but who can say? Only Elizabeth knows now, Elizabeth and the disappeared Mexican maid." He shrugged. "I don't know, I don't lean one way or the other, six to five and pick em, as Richard used to say. Does it make any difference? Does any of this matter now?"

I drained my glass and refused a refill. "One of our local cops is down here now to take a statement from Elizabeth. I expect he's done by now. He didn't expect anything, neither do I. There was some DNA under David's fingernails but even if it is hers, not enough to build a case on, not with her alibis. My guess is it will all come to nothing. I'm never going to know. Anyway I wanted to tell you he might come around to get another statement from you. The thing is I told you I was involved in a book that's being done on the case and you never said you wanted this confidential, off the record. Do you?"

"No. If I'd wanted it confidential I never would have talked to you. Not that it would have mattered, you're a very determined man, you would have found out. Its not the best kept secret, Richard and I. I just saved you a little work, although I am sure you will check it out anyway."

"No, I don't think I will."

"I would like to ask a favor of you, about the book, believe me what I said about Richard: he was a decent, gentle, generous man. Please do him justice."

"No need to ask. That's the way it was." I stood up. "Thank you for seeing me and thank you for the Scotch, its very good Scotch. I'm glad I met you, I wish it had been under different circumstances... anyway I wish you well."

We shook hands. "I wish you well." He said.

Chapter 47

In my hotel room I booked an early morning flight out and thought about phoning Ed but decided against it. Instead I went for a long walk somehow hoping I might find a movie theater. There were none to be found so I settled for a bar where I nursed a couple of drinks for an hour or so. It was a bar, a club I guess, it was called Club Dave, that catered to young people, those under say twenty-seven and those who pretended they were. The music was loud and monotonous, the people, sleek and pretty, and slightly frantic. Or so it seemed to me. I grow old, I grow old.

Back in my hotel room I ordered a sandwich and a beer and phoned Ed. He had already checked out. So he decided not to bother with Bechtman, save the expense of a hotel night, the department is always touchy about those things. Poor Ed, it seemed his career would not end on a note of triumph, his prowess and intelligence not recognized by a humbled department and a grateful public. Such is life, there are no third acts, to misquote someone or other.

I tried watching some television. I saw the last ten minutes of one of those reality shows where groups of people, twosomes, threesomes, foursomes, fivesomes, loudly bare, if not their souls, at least their sexual peccadillos, and the often bizarre entanglement of their relationships to an audience that loudly hoots its approval or cries shame with surprising enthusiasm. The guests all seem to be from the lower socio-economic class and use bad grammar. We never get to see the philosophy professor rationalizing why he has a penchant for thirteen year old boys or the famous writer discoursing on why she likes to be tied up and whipped by tall masked men. All in all though it was not worth wondering about.

I fell asleep.

On the flight home we encountered, in the soothing, confident words of our captain, some turbulence. It was the hand of God trying his/her/its best to knock us out of his/her/its sky, and nearly succeeding. I don't want to talk about it. I'll keep my airborne promise, say my rosaries and sacrifice my first born.

Chapter 48

Home again, home again, despite what Mr. Wolfe said I constantly seem to be going home again And as usual the little red light of my answering machine was blinking. If we would only go back to using smoke signals no one could bother us on windy days. Three messages, each asking me to call; Ryan, Jane, and Ed. Eenie, meenie, miny, moe. Jane was the one I wanted to talk to, but I phoned Ed first. He had left the station but there was no answer at his home. I imagined he was out at some bar sadly bemoaning his outcast state. Ryan was out. Jane was home.

She answered the door wearing a white terry cloth bathrobe, her hair was damp. "God, you got here fast. I'll be just a minute. There's some white wine in the fridge, pour us a couple of glasses, that's about all I have to drink."

There is something enticing about a woman in a white terry cloth robe just emerging from the shower. I suppose its something about knowing she is naked underneath and that you can, with just a gentle tug on that white terry cloth belt, blah, blah, blah. It wouldn't be as good with a black terry cloth robe. I don't know why that is.

I took care of the wine while she took care of dressing herself which seemed to take about four seconds. She sat down on the sofa opposite me, took a sip of wine and crossed her legs. She had put on a short blue dress, a shift I think it is called and was not wearing a bra. I wondered if she was wearing anything under the short blue dress. Then I wondered what was happening to me, my God, I could be in the midst of a nuclear holocaust and I would be ogling an attractive pair of legs, but then again if you are in the midst of a nuclear holocaust that is as good a thing to do as anything else, and better than most. But the message was I had better do something about my now non-existent sex life.

I related the interview with Bechtman to her, word for word, as much as I could. She took notes. "So tell me," I asked, "you didn't know Richard was gay?"

"No, I'd heard rumors but nothing I could pin down, no party of the second part, and L.A. thrives on rumors, you're nobody there unless you have at least a dozen different rumors about your sex life."

"If this checks out, more or less, can you do what Bechtman asked, do Richard justice, treat him well?"

"Of course, he's a gay man so of course he's gentle, sensitive and caring. This works well, really, really well. Good old Liz looks more and more like the heavy."

"I'm going to try Ed again." This time Ed was at home and the first thing he told me was that he was sitting back, drinking from his bottle of good Irish whiskey and smoking an expensive cigar. Then he told me the story. I hung up the phone.

"Jesus Christ."

"What? What?'

"She confessed. Elizabeth confessed to killing her son, to killing David. My God." I was stunned.

"Tell me what he said, every word." She was right beside me, gripping my arm.

"Yeah, sure, my God. She had no reason, there was no case. I don't believe it."

"Word for word." She had her note pad and pen.

"Yeah, sure, okay. Well Ed goes in with his tape recorder, into her office. She's sitting there with one of her lawyers, but through the whole thing the lawyer never says a word. Okay so Ed gives the usual cautions, presence of your attorney, blah, blah, blah, and the first thing he asks would she volunteer a DNA sample, she says yes and that she would like to give a full statement. Then she tells her story. She says that the reason she has been trying to find David is only to convince him to sell her all or at least part of his holdings in the company because she has to have complete control of it. They're together for about three hours and she's trying to convince him but he's sullen, unresponsive, hardly says a word. Then finally he says they should go for a walk, there is a place where he always goes when he has to think about things. Three guess where, the park, and the cliff with the gorgeous view. They get there and he tells her that he hates her and he is going to use his half of the company to destroy it, to ruin the company. She doesn't claim self defense, doesn't claim anything, she says, 'I knew he could do it and that he would do it. He would destroy everything I've worked most of my life for. I killed him, I pushed him off the cliff. I killed him.' As he stumbled he made a grab at her and scratched her neck, hence the DNA."

Jane was writing furiously, she looked up, smiling, her eyes bright with excitement. I went on. "Okay, so Ed's not the dumbest guy in the world, he gets her to go over her story again and this time he keeps asking for details, she doesn't remember exactly how they got to the park, street names and such but she can describe the park pretty well, very well actually, she says what David was wearing, and what she was wearing, a brown trench coat, she's pretty good on the times. It all works. But get this, this is the best. Ed charges her and says she will have to come back here with him, not only does she have her little overnight bag packed but she has made arrangements for them to fly here on her private jet. And that is exactly what they did. That must be a first in the annals of crime. Anyway she goes before a judge tomorrow morning to plead guilty, probably be remanded for sentencing."

"Beautiful, beautiful, it couldn't have worked out better. I have to phone my publisher." She was on the phone, trying to locate her publisher, pacing up and down and looking very good doing it.

"Francis, can you get me an interview with that cop, a real interview, in depth. Tell him we'll make him look good, tell him anything, no we will make him look good, of course, he suspected all along it wasn't suicide. Some kind of intuition."

"A cop's gut feeling."

"Right. You're a beautiful man, Francis, a beautiful man. Paul, Paul, Jane here, yes, great news, let me tell you what happened." She talked a mile a minute, sometimes into the phone, sometimes looking at me, beaming, top of the world , ma. At one point she gestured for a cigarette so I lit one and handed it to her then sat back to watch her. With the phone in one hand the cigarette in the other, the gestures, the stance, it was Bette Davis in All About Eve. "I know, its almost done, of course I will, the network... you know that end, you will, okay, good, no the script is right there in the book, we could knock it out in three weeks tops... I know, but then I'm going to need some help, great." She put her hand over the phone, winked and said. "I'm getting two research assistants. Okay, Paul, that's great, have them phone me here I'll tell them what to get started on. Okay, right, I'll do the courtroom thing and the cop interview and fly out as soon as I can get a flight... right as soon as I get in."

Then she stood still, head cocked to one side, looking at me. She spoke very slowly. "Him, he worked out very well, worth every penny, probably more, much of this wouldn't have happened without him. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant... Paul you have a dirty mind, as a matter of fact I don't know whether he is or isn't. Okay, bye."

"Wow." She clapped her hands together and did a kind of half pirouette, then she kneeled in front of me and took my hands in hers, she looked up into my face. "We did it, its done, just a little slugging left to do, we did it." She sparkled. "Its going to be terrific, wonderful. And we are going to be rich. Oh, I feel great, I feel wonderful."

I held her hands and laughed along with her, shared it with her and meant it, sometimes joy really can be infectious. If there was ever a perfect time for us to go to bed together this was it.

So we did.

She brought to bed with her all her elation and enthusiasm, all her energy and joy, and if there is a better aphrodisiac than that I don't know what it is. And oh yes, she was wearing something under that blue dress, not much but something.

Chapter 49

We did the courtroom thing, which was rather anti-climatic and took about one minute. Elizabeth pleaded guilty and declined to make any statement, all the while she stared at the floor and never once looked anywhere else. She was remanded for one week for sentencing. She was led away. It would be the last time I ever saw her.

The interview with Ed went well, Jane charmed the ass off him of course, which didn't take much more than the very short skirt she was wearing and a flirtatious smile. But she did it well, even asking him about other cases he had worked on. Ed bullshitted some about those and Jane was so enthralled that unknowingly she let that little skirt of hers ride up to almost indecent heights. As we were leaving Ed pulled me aside and whispered. "Francis, you sure are one lucky son of a bitch." I couldn't argue with him on that count.

In the car I said to Jane. "I think you gave Ed material for a whole year of sexual fantasies."

She seemed to take it as a kind of criticism. "I know, I know. I don't know why I do that. I don't have to. Maybe I'll grow out of it."

"Don't. Everybody needs a little happiness in their lives."

We didn't have much time at the airport thankfully, no drinks and awkward silences. We said our hasty good-byes. We kissed and she patted my cheek. "Its been terrific, Francis, it really has, and we are going to make a lot of money, you and I, a lot of money. Might be a best seller, movie of the week for sure. Oh, right, do you have a lawyer or an accountant, who do we deal with?"

"I don't know, maybe I'll ask Bechtman if he'll handle it. Yeah, I think so, he's in L.A. I'll let you know."

"But you will come to L.A., and you will look me up?"

"Oh, I expect I will, I expect I will."

Another quick kiss and she was gone, walking away with her shoulder bag and her short skirt and her stiletto heels, walking out of my life. She turned back once for a quick wave and then was gone. God, she has great legs, I thought.

I went to the Skylounge and watched her plane take off, watched until it disappeared. It was like those affairs you have when traveling; brief, intense, meaningful, and a month later you can't remember the color of her eyes.

Chapter 50

In my mailbox was a letter, it was from Los Angeles, from Elizabeth, dated before she made her confession.

Dear Francis;

By the time you read this I expect everything will have been settled. Things will have turned out the way you knew they would. As soon as I first saw you I knew who you were, what you were and why you were here. It was in the way you looked at me. I have seen that look in my mind a thousand times since. It was your role to show me, to force me to do what I in my weakness could not do, and finally to lift me from my despair. I am content. I do not know where it is they will send me but wherever it is I will try to do some good there. I will dedicate myself to that. I am content. Things are as they should be.

Elizabeth.

I remembered our meeting and wondered how she could have taken from it what she had, but then I did not see the world through her eyes.

There was a message on my machine from Donna Kardon, she had to see me, it was urgent. I called her and said I would pick her up at her work. I put the letter in my pocket and left.

We went to the same restaurant we had gone to before and as soon as she sat down she lit a cigarette. "I have to... I don't have anyone else to turn to. I have to tell you something."

"Its about David and his mother, right? Okay fine, but first let's order a couple of drinks. Just relax, take it easy. You want anything to eat? I'm going to have a sandwich. And before you say anything I want you to listen to what I have to say, I'll tell you everything I know about the case, and what I don't know but very strongly suspect. Okay?"

I told her everything that had happened, everything I thought about the case, I even told her about the book. When I finished I gave her the letter to read. She read it carefully then pushed it back across the table to me.

She leaned across the table staring intently. "But you see, she didn't do it, she didn't push David off the cliff. I know she didn't. She couldn't have."

"She confessed."

Donna shook her head slowly from side to side. "She didn't do it. I know it. I have to go to the police."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I was with him. I went to the park with him that night, to the Lookout, as he called it." She sighed, ground out her cigarette and lit another. "He called me, he was upset, desperate, so I met him and we went to the park. I'd been through this so many times with him. I knew he was in a bad way, mumbling and crying, I couldn't understand what he was talking about. He kept muttering how he'd fought with her, had wanted to kill her. I thought he was talking about his girl friend. When we got to the lookout he just sat there with his head in his hands, he wouldn't speak and he didn't seem to be hearing anything I said. Suddenly, I don't know, I just got fed up, tired of it all, we'd been through this so many times, I was tired of it. Why didn't he go back to his girl friend, lean on her, leave me alone? I don't know. I told him I had to get back to work and I left him there, sitting with his head in his hands. I'm sure that he did jump. I'm sure."

"Why didn't you tell this to the police, that's not the story you told them?"

"God, I don't know, I don't, I panicked. I didn't know what they would think, they might suspect me, jealousy or something, I know the way police think. I just didn't want any part of it, put it all behind me, I'd had enough. God, how I wish I'd told them." She was quiet, staring at the table top. "But now I have to say something, don't I? Because she didn't kill him."

"She killed Richard, and she killed David that day when he was ten years old and she stuck a gun in his hand. She killed him then. Ever since then he's been a dead man walking. You know what that is? When a guy is walking the last mile to the gas chamber they say dead man walking." I tapped the letter. "She knows that, Elizabeth knows that. She is doing what she has to do and she is content. Maybe you should be too, things don't always work out by the book, you know that. Who knows what happened? Maybe she told him everything, maybe she wanted forgiveness, he didn't give it, even tried to kill her. That would be the end of the line for her." I waited, watching her, but she didn't say anything, just stared at the table top. "The Jesuits have a saying; 'Give me the child till he's six and I'll give you the man'. So finally maybe she's a good Catholic girl and in the end she gets to go to her convent. I think that's how she sees it. Its what she wants."

She was quiet a long time. "I have to think about this." She read the letter again. "But David, David, I'll never... Maybe I could have prevented it. I could have, I'd done it before. If I had just stayed, stayed another hour. I'd stopped him before. I'm always going to see him, sitting there with his head in his hands as I walked away. I walked away."

"I am sure you will, and there is no consolation for that." She bit her lower lip and looked away, close to crying. "How is work? Any new projects, still fund raising?"

The question distracted her and she put it aside with a slight wave of her hand. "Oh, I don't know, the same, its always the same."

"Well, now that we're here I'd like to make a donation to the house." I took out my checkbook and wrote out a check for five thousand dollars and handed it to her. She studied it, folded it up and put it in her purse.

She stared at me for a long time, finally she asked. "What do you think I should do?"

"I don't know, as for me, I always think you should just keep on going, when in doubt or whatever, you just keep on going."

We left the restaurant agreeing to meet again and I watched her walk back across the street to her office. There was a mild rain falling.

Chapter 51

Ryan was waiting when I arrived, a different bar this time, not Carmichaels. Our waitress was young and blonde and friendly, she didn't look old enough to get into a bar.

"Things are pretty good, humming right along, financially anyway. But how about you, partner, how are things with you? Now that this thing is all done do you feel satisfied, content now?"

"I suppose. I don't know, I don't have a job anymore. I do have some cash, and probably a lot of cash coming up. But I still feel like I'm standing way out in left field somewhere wondering if someone is going to hit the ball to me. Spinning my wheels, as they say."

We were both silent for a while, it seemed a rather somber meeting. Finally he said. "You know, Francis, my... my area is getting smaller and smaller. These alarm systems people are putting in now, they're impossible, you have to be some kind of electronics genius to bypass them. I had a close one the other night, really close."

"And?"

"And nothing, I had a close one, it happens."

"Yeah, but again the obvious question.

"Why I keep going? I don't know; its what I do, I like it, its how I feel alive? I don't know." He sipped his drink, smiled and shrugged. "Hey man, I guess its just that scorpion thing."

He was referring to that old story about the frog and the scorpion. Scorpion wants to cross the river, asks the frog to carry him. Frog says, hey man, you might sting me. Scorpion says, hey I sting you we both drown. Frog says okay I'll do it. Halfway across the river the scorpion stings the frog. Frog says now we are both going to drown, why did you do that? Scorpion says, its my nature. And just maybe that is as good an explanation as any, an easy answer to all those unanswerable questions we don't like to ask ourselves.

The waitress, bubbly and smiling, came and we ordered another round. When she had gone Ryan said. "I haven't talked to Gail for quite a while."

"Yeah, I thought it would go away but the torch still burns. Odd expression that, carry a torch, I wonder where it comes from. What the hell could it mean? Anyhow maybe it is just as well, yeah I mean that, hey I've been down that road too many times, too many relationships, and I always screw up, on purpose I think. Really, I'm like that guy at a great party but he always thinks there's a better party somewhere else. So you think well I just haven't found the right lady yet, but Jesus, Gail was as right as there could be and in my own way I love her, yes, but... but I also know that after time, a year, two years, five years, whatever, my life would be filled with a lot of silences and staring out of windows. I guess Gail saw that too. She deserves better. Anyhow its not a decision I have to make, and it is just as well. I hope she's happy and that this guy treats her well."

"So what now?"

"I don't know, travel I guess, when in doubt... that's what I keep thinking about. Yeah, that's the truth of it, that is what I keep thinking about, moving on, maybe Thailand. Beautiful beaches, beautiful women. I don't know yet. But what I do know is that even if I was with Gail I would still have that itch, yeah I know it, and that would definitely be no good. That's just the way it is."

"Right. Some things never change. Listen I have to leave in about twenty minutes, something came up at the last minute. Nothing serious, just a little business. The thing is I have something for you, not quite as good as Noah's Dream but pretty damn good. Jo Jordan in the fourth tomorrow, the two good horses aren't trying and I know the trainer is down for a bundle, probably the jock too. He's got a much better than even chance of winning and he should be about ten, twelve to one. Listen, I'm going to bet it at the track tomorrow, why don't we go together, make a day of it?"

"Good idea, I haven't been to the track for a while, sure, let's."

"I wanted to take my boy too, but he's got some sport thing. The three of us, maybe some other time, I'd like to take Chris, he's never been to the track, see what he thinks of it. What do you think?"

"I think it would be great, just tell me when and I'll be there."

"Good. He likes you, you know, I know you've only talked to him that one time but you really impressed him. Of course you were a hero back then. He wondered how I ever got to know a hard assed tough guy like you. How's that for a laugh?"

So Ryan and I went to the track. It was a beautiful sunny day and we sat in the lounge and ate roast beef sandwiches and drank beer. We studied the form and tried to cheer our horses home. I lost a photo in the first race and that was as close as either of us came in the first three races.

In the fourth I bet a thousand on Jo Jordan to win. He won by half a length, coming from behind. "You bet a G? Good for you, Francis. See, you're getting your faith back." Ryan had bet a G as well. Jo Jordan paid seven and a half to one.

It was a great day, the most fun I'd had in a long time. I had a couple more winners and left the track ahead by almost nine thousand dollars. A very good day. At the rate I was going I would soon be a millionaire, maybe I should start thinking about long term investments and mutual funds and the like. No, I would let Bechtman think about those kind of things, it was all too boring for me. I would rather cash one ten dollar ticket at the track than dick around with some seven percent mutual fund. I haven't grown that old.

Chapter 52

The days went by as they tend to do whether we like it or not. I went to the track with Ryan and his boy. We made two and five dollar bets, Chris made thirty-three dollars, Ryan made twenty and I never cashed a ticket. Chris was a nice kid, straight forward and curious, kind of innocent beneath his teen age bravado. I liked him.

It was something to see the two of them together. All those years, in and out of an angry, bickering relationship, Ryan had hung in there. He had been there for his kid. And so had she, his ex, so had she. And now they had something, whatever else happened, there was Christopher. Flesh and blood. That was really something. Not my thing exactly but I could appreciate it.

I met with Rick a couple of times. He had decided to go home, to Thailand. I said I had thought about checking that out. He hoped I would.

I went to a lot of movies, most of which were bad, I mostly skipped the bars, went to the corner restaurant now and then to handicap the horses, ignored the hookers, and stayed home a lot. Ryan had to go out of town for a spell. I had long ago given up on the weekly poker game. I read, I read and I listened to music. All the time I knew I was just spinning my wheels.

Jane phoned a couple of times. Things were going well, she was, as she said, working her cute little ass off, living on vitamins, uppers, and vodka. They had signed a deal for a movie of the week that she would co-script. She sounded happy, a little freaked out and frantic, but happy. She said she had dedicated the book to me. "Francis Connor, one of the good ones." I rather hoped she was referring to my prowess in the sack but I didn't think so.

Donna Kardon never phoned me, and I guess never went to the cops. She would work it all out whatever way she could, never completely I'm sure, but enough, enough to keep on going, keep on working, keep on pushing that old rock up the mountain.

Chapter 53

It was a Tuesday evening, about eight-thirty, I had watched the chess players in the park and gone to a movie. In the lobby of my building my ever sullen caretaker stood looking out the window, his usual position. I could only presume he was hoping to see an accident. He gave me a glare. I gave him the finger.

I had not moved from my third rate apartment though I could well afford it. It didn't seem worth the bother, and I knew a glitzy new apartment would make no difference. I had trouble sleeping nights.

There was nothing on my answering machine, just a couple of hang ups. I opened a beer and made myself a sandwich all the while wondering just what the hell I was doing, hanging around, watching the days go by. Time to get off my ass. I had made a start, gone to see my travel agent. Now it was just a procedure, buy the ticket, pack the backpack, but I hesitated. I hesitated and I didn't know why, it was as though I had forgotten something.

I had just started a new book by a contemporary English writer. I like the new Brit writers, they are all so damned clever, like their crosswords. Also they don't seem to take themselves and the world as seriously as the new wave of American writers. The English may be among the most savage, vindictive, snobbish and brutal people in the world but they surely have produced many great and good writers. Right up there with the Irish, on both counts.

I was halfway through my second beer and the third chapter when the phone rang.

"Hello, Francis, its Gail. How are you?"

"Well, I'm all right I guess. How are you?"

"All right, I guess." There was a short pause. "I wondered if we could get... if we could meet. There's something I... Would that be all right?"

"Sure, of course it would, just tell me where and when."

"Well, I wondered, if you weren't busy, if you weren't doing anything now. If it's a bad time we could..."

"No, no, I'm not doing a thing, nothing at all. Just tell me where you are and I'll pick you up."

"Actually I'm at the corner of your street, by the restaurant. Would it be all right if I came up?"

"Sure, of course."

"Good, thanks, I'll see you in a bit then."

She would be here in less than five minutes; the place looked like hell and I had a two day growth of beard. I felt like one of those frantic women in the sitcoms, just before the in-laws arrive. Then I stopped to laugh at myself, this was Gail, she knew me, she had seen me and my place in much the same state before. But I did splash a little water on my face, gargle some mouthwash, and put on a clean shirt. Then I stood in the middle of the room and waited for the sound of the buzzer.

She was wearing a light tan sweater, a black silk windbreaker and black skirt, she had a new pair of long, jangly earrings.

"Come in. You look good."

"Thanks, its good to see you, Francis."

"Sit down. Would you like something to drink? I have... what would you like?"

"Do you have some wine?"

In the kitchen I poured two glasses of wine, brought them in and set them on the table. We sat opposite one another and sipped our wine. She seemed tense, looking mostly at the table top or her glass of wine. She said. "Its good to see you, it seems like its been a long time."

"Its good to see you. Your hair is different."

"I just had it done, its shorter now. Do you like it?"

"Yes I do, it looks great, it suits you. I haven't done anything with mine." Go ahead, Francis, keep going, see if you can find something even stupider to say. I cleared my throat. "How's Christina?"

"She's fine, away on a sleepover tonight." She took something out of her purse and put it on the coffee table. "I came to give you this, to return it I mean. It didn't seem right to keep it." It was the pendant set I had bought her.

I pushed it back towards her. "Come on Gail, you know me better than that."

"I guess I do." Pause. "How are things going with you then?"

"Not bad, I guess."

"Are you seeing anyone?" Asked with such casual innocence.

"Not even a psychiatrist. No, I'm not seeing anyone. How about you? How are you doing?"

She watched her wine glass as she moved it in small circles on the table. "Len and I broke up, it was me that broke it off. It wasn't right. He's a nice man, a really good man, but it wasn't what I wanted. I thought I was doing the right thing but I wasn't because in the long run it wouldn't have worked. It wasn't fair to him, and I guess it wasn't fair to me. There was always you, there always would be." She quickly drank the last of her wine and looked away.

"I'm sorry." I went to the kitchen and returned with the wine. I filled our glasses. "Its wonderful to have you here," I said, 'just to see you again, just to look at you."

"It was hard to get the nerve to phone you, there was this, the necklace, but even so I must have paced up and down in front of that restaurant for half an hour. The girls must have thought I was the new kid on the block." She went back to making circles with her wine glass. I was just about to say something when she looked up and asked. "So what do you think, Mr. Connor? Do you think we could try again, pick up where we left off?" It was asked hesitantly.

Now it was my turn to stare at the table. "Jesus, Gail, I want you more than I have ever wanted any single thing in my life. More than anything. Believe that." I took a long drink. "Me... I'm, I'm an uncertain guy, I mean I don't always know where I'm going or... or what I should be... there are times..." I was stumbling around. "Not exactly Mr. Dependability, I get obsessed with things...you know that, and... and sometimes it seems like I'm still trying to figure out things I should have figured out twenty years ago...so I blunder around, sometimes...sometimes.... Oh the hell."

She was quiet for a minute and when I looked up she had this little half smile, she was holding her wine glass with both hands. "Oh my, Francis, do you think I don't know you? Do you think that?" She paused. "And I'm here aren't I?"

"Yes, yes I guess you are."

I took my wine and walked over to the window. I could see the corner restaurant and two hookers, smoking and talking. There are only a very few times in one's life when you realize you are going to make a life changing decision, and that you will probably never know if it was the right decision or the wrong one. I did know. I knew me. I knew that eventually I would screw it up and everything that would mean; for her and for her kid. I would not want to, I would try very hard not to, but I would. It is who I am.

I finished my wine and shut my eyes tightly.... it is a far, far better thing I do... Norman Maine walking into the sea... but I did not feel noble, I felt only terribly and hopelessly sad. I began. "Do you know the story of the frog and the scorpion?"

And not much more than five minutes later I was looking out my window again, watching her walk down the street, watching her walk away. I watched until she turned the corner out of sight. It was a clear, starry night. Had it been the last scene of a movie there would have been a light rain falling. But as we all learn... life...life it just aint anything like the movies.

finis

