I walked out of the hospital trying to look like someone who worked in ahospital. The cab arrived ten minutes later. I was home by seven p.m.
The Seville was parked in front; somethingelse Milo had taken care of.
The taxi driver had hit several potholes in West Hollywood. The city that loves decorating avoids the unglamorousstuff.
Pain on each impact had been reassuring; I could stand it.
I stashed the Percocet in my medicine cabinet, opened a fresh bottle ofextra-strength Advil.
I hadn’t heard from Milo since yesterday’shospital visit. Maybe that meant progress.
I reached him in his car. “Thanks for getting my wheels home.”
“That wasn’t me, that was Robin. Are you being a good patient?”
“I’m home.”
“Rick okayed that?”
“Rick and I reached a meeting of the minds.”
Silence. “Real smart move, Alex.”
“If you listened to him, you’d be wearing better ties.”
More silence.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks for handling Hauser.”
“As much as I handled.”
“I’ve got problems ahead?”
“There’ll be some shit to deal with, but those in the know say you’ll beokay. Meanwhile, the asshole’s in the jail ward wearing yellow pajamas andlooking at inkblots. What happened, he imploded?”
“He made bad decisions and projected them onto me. How badly did I woundhim?”
“He won’t be playing soccer any time soon. Allison’s little shooter came inhandy, huh?”
“Sure did,” I said. “Did you find any properties Nora Dowd owns in or near805?”
“Back in the swing,” he said. “Just like that.”
“On sound advice.”
“Whose?”
“My own.”
He laughed. “As a matter of fact, Nora’s got three 805 deeds to her name.Condo in Carpinteria, couple of houses in Goleta.All of which have been leased out long term. Her tenants have never met her but they like her because she keeps the rent low.”
“BNB manages the buildings?”
“No, a Santa Barbaracompany does. I spoke to the manager. Nora gets checks in the mail, nevervisits. That’s it, Alex. No tryst-pad, no direct link to Camarillo,no Malibugetaway. Maybe she and Meserve made the calls and took off for that tropicalvacation.”
I said, “Do the brothers own anything out there?”
“Why would that matter? Billy’s a mope and Brad hates Meserve. So farlooking for Peaty’s hidey-holes has been a big zero. Once I finish with ArmandoVasquez, I’ll look into private flights.”
“What’s to do on Vasquez?”
“Second interview. First time was last night, call from Vasquez’s D.P.D. at11 p.m., Armando wanted to talk. Faithful public servant that I am, I trudgedover. The agenda was Vasquez embellishing the phone call story. Claiming thenight of the murder wasn’t the first time, same thing happened a week or sobefore, he can’t remember exactly when or how many times. No hang-ups, justsomeone whispering that Peaty was a dangerous pervert, could hurt Vasquez’swife and kids. D.A. wants to blunt any justification defense so I’ve got tostick with it, meanwhile they’ll be pulling a month’s worth of phone records.While I was there I showed Vasquez my photo collection. He’s never seen theGaidelases, Nora, or Meserve. The thing is, I finally got a shot of Billy, andVasquez also doesn’t recognize him. But I’m sure Billy’s been to the apartmentwith Brad. Meaning Vasquez, not being there during the day, is pretty useless.Like everything else I’ve come up with.”
“Anything you need me to do?”
“I need you to heal up and not be a foolish mummy. One other thing that cameup is Peaty’s body just got claimed by a cousin from Nevada. She asked to speak to the D incharge, says she left a bunch of messages, thanks again, Idiot Tom. I’msqueezing her in tomorrow afternoon, to see if she can shed some light onPeaty’s psyche, D.A.’s orders. With the defense painting him as a psycho-brute,I’m supposed to learn his good points.”
“Speaking of Idiot Tom.” I recounted Beamish’s disgusted expression.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Maybe Beamish remembers more stolen fruit…whatelse…oh, yeah, I called some taxidermy supply houses. No record of Nora orMeserve buying creepy accoutrements. Okay, here I am at Le Grande Lockup readyfor Mr. Vasquez. Time to add a few more lies to my daily diet.”
 
Daybreak brought the worst headache of my life, stiff limbs, a cottonymouth. A palmful of Advils and three cups of black coffee later, I was movingfine. If I kept my breathing shallow.
I phoned Allison, thanked her message tape for its mistress’s presence ofmind, apologized for getting her involved in serious ugliness.
I told Robin’s tape I was eager to see its mistress.
No listing for Albert Beamish. I tried his law firm. A crisp-voicedreceptionist said, “Mr. Beamish rarely comes in. I think the last time I sawhim was…has to be months.”
“Emeritus.”
“Some of the partners have professorships so we like the term.”
“Is Mr. Beamish a professor?”
“No,” she said, “he never liked teaching. His thing was litigation.”
 
I reached Beamish’s Tudor at eleven a.m. The same Indonesian maid answered.
“Yes!” She beamed. “Mister home!”
Moments later the old man came shuffling out, wearing a saggy white cardiganover a brown knit shirt, pink-striped seersucker pants, and the same houseslippers with wolves’ heads on the toes.
His sneer was virtuoso. “The prodigal policeman arrives. What does it take tomotivate you people?”
“There’ve been some problems with the phones,” I said.
He cackled with the joy of omniscience, cleared his throat four times,hacked up something wet and swallowed it. “My tax dollars put to good use.”
“What did you call about, sir?”
“You don’t know?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“You still haven’t seen the message? Then how did you—”
“I figured it out, Mr. Beamish, from the look of contempt on your face whenI drove by.”
“The look of…” A puckered, lipless mouth curled ambiguously. “A veritableSherlock.”
“What’s the message?” I said.
“When you talk you flinch, young man.”
“I’m a little sore, Mr. Beamish.”
“Carousing on my dollar?”
I unbuttoned my jacket, undid a couple of shirt buttons, and revealed thebandages around my middle.
“Broken ribs?”
“A few.”
“Same thing happened to me when I was in the army,” he said. “Not combatheroics, I was stationed in Bayonne, New Jersey, and some Irish lout from Brooklynbacked a Jeep right into me. But for the grace of a few inches, I’d have endedup childless, singing soprano, and voting Democrat.”
I smiled.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “Got to hurt like hell.”
“Then don’t be funny,” I said.
He smiled. A real smile, devoid of scorn. “Army doctors couldn’t do a damnthing to patch me, just wrap............