Laguna Heat Page 7

  Harmon laughed heartily, but his eyes said I’d like to break your neck. “Somebody conk you?”

  “Somebody conked me outside the Hotel Sebastian.”

  “Well, what can I help you with? I’ll tell you right now I don’t know a damn thing about this Algernon guy except what I read in the papers.”

  “Algernon was killed about six o’clock Wednesday morning. The man who did it left the scene on foot and made it to the Hotel Sebastian by seven. He left less than two hours later. He got two visitors, one was me and the other was you. I want to know why you were looking for him.”

  Harmon shifted heavily in the chair. “How do you know all that?”

  “Hylkama told me a friend of his new tenant showed up a half hour before I did. He had Michael Stett’s card and your face.”

  Harmon reached into a desk drawer and brought out a tape recorder. He turned it on, tested the microphone, and set it at the end of the desk closest to Shephard.

  “Don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Now, you say I was at the Hotel Sebastian on Monday morning, looking for your suspect, I take it. Can you substantiate that?”

  “I could by bringing Hylkama down here, but that’s not what I’m after. You’d be making a lot of dumb trouble by trying to tell me this isn’t your card.” He placed Michael Stett’s business card on the desk. Harmon glanced at it and nodded.

  “I cover when I can. Yeah, it’s my card and there isn’t any Michael Stett.”

  “Then what’s up, Bruce, buddy?” Shephard put the card back in his pocket and lit a cigarette.

  Harmon leaned forward again on his massive arms. “What’s up isn’t for me to know, Tom, buddy. I’ve been retained by an attorney to locate Ed Steinhelper. Since he’s my client, we enjoy a legally confidential relationship, which means I don’t have to tell you shit about him and he doesn’t have to tell you shit about me. And as employees of his client we all three share the same confidential relationship. What it all boils down to, Shephard, and I give you all that legal crap for the record only, is that I don’t know why I was hired and I don’t care. As far as you’re concerned, I’d like to help, but I can’t give you much. I didn’t find him, if that helps.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Same thing you did. Nothing.”

  “I’d hate to think you found what you needed and locked it up in that safe in the corner,” Shephard said.

  Harmon looked at the safe, then back to the detective. “And I know you can get a warrant and have it opened. But I’ll save you the trouble by telling you there isn’t anything in it.”

  “And if there was you’d move it by the time I got back here.”

  Harmon smiled and nodded. “Hell, wouldn’t you?”

  Shephard knew that getting such a warrant would be impossible. He also saw that the man sitting across from him knew the law as well as he did. Probably an ex-cop, he thought. He would get nothing from Harmon. But the next best thing was to try for a glimpse of what it was he wouldn’t get.

  “How did you know he was Steinhelper when he checked in as Hodges?” Shephard asked. He watched Harmon closely.

  Sometimes, while the brain takes its milliseconds to form a response, the eyes in front of it will hesitate and go blank: the mind concentrating only on the task at hand. Harmon’s eyes dulled fleetingly, then came back to Shephard with redoubled confidence.

  “Hodges is a common alias,” he said slowly. “For Steinhelper, I mean.” Good, Shephard thought, smiling. Harmon turned off the tape recorder casually.

  “You want him?” Shephard leaned forward in his chair.

  “’Course I want him, that’s what I was hired to—”

  “I got him.” Shephard offered a blank stare.

  Harmon’s face flushed slightly, its wrinkles seeming to deepen. If he were a TV show, Shephard thought, it would be time for a word from his sponsors. Harmon offered a stranded smile. “You do?”

  “I do.” Shephard waited. “I got him the same place you did. Out of that wallet in cottage five.”

  “Get out of here, Shephard. Your games bore the shit out of me.”

  “No charge, Bruce. I’ll tell you where he is because I think you’re such a swell guy. Come on, turn your machine back on and get it down. He lives on Fallbrook Street in Sacramento with his wife, and that’s where he is right now. He got mugged and lost his wallet.”

  Harmon stood up, and for the first time since Morris Mumford faced him with a hunting knife on a drizzly night in L.A., Shephard felt afraid. Harmon’s face was a heavy yellow, his eyes almost too sunken to see. For a moment, the room seemed to diminish around his bulk.

  “Get out, Shephard. Or I’ll break your bones.”

  Shephard stood up with an exaggerated sigh. “Sorry I couldn’t make your job easy, Bruce. Buddy. Chum. You must be getting a thousand or so to find this Steinhelper fellow. But I understand how it is. You don’t want me to tell you where he is because you weren’t hired to find out where he is. You’re a lousy liar and a lousy dick, too. You’re not a bad back-seat lawyer though. You like dogs?”

  Shephard opened the door. Harmon was still standing behind the desk, his huge hands open at his side.

  “One more thing, Harmon. This man you’re looking for is a killer. If you find him first and I don’t hear about it, you go to jail for obstruction. Promise.”

  He slammed the door and walked slowly toward Marla Collins’s desk. He heard no footsteps from the office, no opening of the door behind him. Standing in front of her desk, he smiled and shook his head.

  “Did you get everything you needed?” she asked cheerily.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Don’t understand what, Mr. Cox?”

  “How a girl like you can work for a guy like him, Marla. Maybe you’d explain it to me sometime if I were to call you.”

  “Well, I don’t think—”

  “Please give your number to me, Marla.”

  “Collins, Corona del Mar,” she said worriedly.

  “Keep it quiet,” he said, nodding toward the office.

  “I will.”

  He stepped outside to a raw sunlight, the manicured emerald lawns of Newport Center, and the deafening roar of a power mower being ridden across the grass by a Mexican in a big hat.

  He had stepped down a short flight of stairs to the underground parking structure before he was fully aware that he had done it. At first the shadows offered relief from the bright morning, but as he moved past the cars in their stalls, he was aware he was looking for something. Nameplates were bolted to the wall over the appropriate stalls: ADAMSON & LIFSCHULTZ ATTORNEYS AT LAW, THE FAIRCHILD GROUP, GOOD LIFE MAGAZINE, LYTTLE PUBLIC RELATIONS, MAGNON ASSOCIATES, ORLANDO FOR HAIR, STANLEY PEAVEY, D.D.S. South Coast Investigators had two stalls reserved, one for clients and one for Mr. Harmon. The client space was empty, but glinting tastefully under the neon light in front of Mr. Harmon’s sign was a midnight blue Porsche Carerra.

  Shephard brought his face up close to the tinted window. A CB radio, telephone, and radar detector graced the dash and console, while the back seat contained nothing but tennis gear. Just looking at it made his head hurt, all ten stitches. He noted the license plate, overcame a strong urge to kick the door, then turned and walked back out to the sunlight.

  Back at the station he gathered what he could on Bruce Harmon, most of which came from Chief Hannover, an acquaintance. Former Newport Beach police sergeant, distinguished service, retired ten years ago to go private, active socially in Newport Beach, a “respected if not altogether well-liked” man, according to the chief. “Bit of a brute,” he added confidentially.

  The afternoon consumed Shephard in routine, giving him a relentless headache. He called the hotels and boarding houses again, but no one close to answering Hodges’s description had checked in anywhere. Neither Robbins nor Yee had found anything new. Marty Odette had called and left a number for Little Theodore, which Shep
hard tried throughout the afternoon. Wade had called twice. Eight newspapers had called, ranging from UPI to Laguna’s Tides and Times; Shephard scooped up all the numbers and dumped them into the trash. Joe Datilla had sent him a bottle of premium Scotch and a get-well card.

  It was nearly four o’clock before he got through to Little Theodore. His voice was guttural, harsh, and rude as always, and strangely welcomed by Shephard. When he hung up, he entertained the image of Little Theodore—all six feet four, three hundred and fifty pounds of him—sitting in the first pew of Wade’s newly opened Church of New Life one sweltering Sunday, sweating conspicuously, but still concentrating on Wade’s sermon. Little Theodore was something of a friend. They arranged to meet at eight o’clock at the Norton Hotel in downtown Santa Ana. Shephard left the station at six to give himself time to prepare the Jota.

  He uncovered the machine and wheeled it to the center of his garage. Chrome and black, it sparkled under the single bulb in the ceiling with the splendor of a warhorse preened for battle. The handlebars were short and well forward, the seat narrow and built for one. The seamless gas tank was swept low beneath the seat, a small but flattish tank that would offer his knees a hold through the racking jolts of low-gear speed. The bars, the seat, and two tiny footpegs just above the back axle were the only connections between rider and the hundred and fifty horsepower engine that at high rev could render him deaf and half-blind with velocity and sound. Shephard had owned several motorcycles and driven many more before settling on the LaVerda Jota. He was not the kind of man who often owned the best of anything, but to him, having the Jota was a necessity that transcended its price. He had found the German machines too sluggish and domesticated, the Japanese bikes lacking in character, the American models more nostalgic than functional. But the Jota—which meant a kind of frantic dance in Italian—was perfection. More than perfection, he thought as he opened the fuel lines and checked the gas level; even more than perfection it was release. Aboard the Jota, there was always release.

  A minute later Laguna Canyon Road was disappearing under his headlight, his skin tightening against his skull. He took the curves in long bites, leaning into them and accelerating out, straightening the bike and laying himself almost flat in a fifth-gear crouch when he hit the passing lane and shot past cars that seemed to be backing up. He wore goggles to keep bugs from hitting him and tears from spreading across his face, keenly aware that at the Jota’s speeds a helmet was vanity. The deep, hollow rasp of the engine droned under him. Telephone poles bunched closer and closer together. Hilltops slipped by against the pale night as if on fast film. Halfway down the road he found his rhythm, bounding back and forth between the lanes for high-apex turns that ended in straights of purest speed.

  Downshifting into fourth, Shephard leaned into the long arc that connects Laguna Canyon Road to Interstate 5 and climbed onto the freeway at a modest ninety. From behind a lumbering truck, he crossed three lanes with a faint tilt of bodyweight and braced himself against the footpegs for the blast into Santa Ana. The airport lights flickered before him and were gone; the stars blurred as Irvine became Tustin became Santa Ana, and just when the entire continent seemed to be spreading itself out for him, slowly, like a lover across a bed, the First Street sign flashed by and he had only a mile to cut his speed. In a moment of lucidity before he turned off the freeway, Shephard likened the trip to making love, or what he remembered of it.

  He found Little Theodore’s chopped Harley Davidson parked across two spaces outside the Norton Hotel. The night was warm and there were mariachis playing in the café next door. He looked through the window at them: short, wide men dressed in black, their music happy and imprecise, the guitar lagging the rhythm by a fraction of a count.

  The hotel lounge was dark and smelled of beer. Little Theodore took up most of a corner booth, dressed as always in a black T-shirt from which his huge arms emerged, mirrored sunglasses, and a broad black hat. Shephard noted an addition to the hat: a band of silver dollars wrapped around the crown. Little Theodore’s beard was still red, tangled, gigantic. Before him on the table were two glasses and a full bottle of tequila. A grin cracked across his face when he saw Shephard. “Hey, little jackass,” he called. “Come over here.”

  Shephard sat down and Theodore filled the glasses. The Cuervo Gold made Shephard shudder when it went down. Sitting with Little Theodore is like sitting with the past, he thought as Theodore refilled the glasses. He hasn’t changed in ten years, not since Wade first hired him as a temporary bodyguard.

  “Someone bash your brain pan?” the big man growled.

  “It’s too hard for serious damage. Just a little dent.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to this all night, little jackass. Man shouldn’t drink alone.” Theodore hooked down the tequila and set the glass on the table with a slap. The shot glass looked like a thimble in his hand. He pushed Shephard’s face to the side. “Who did it?”

  “Someone who doesn’t want me working the Algernon case. You heard about it?” Shephard drank his second glass.

  “Heard about it? It’s all over the goddamn papers. I figured you’d be callin’ me soon.”

  “The guy who hit me is a private dick named Harmon. He’s an ex-Newport cop, a sergeant. He took me out at the Hotel Sebastian and wrecked my apartment when I was sleeping it off.”

  Theodore filled the glasses again and leaned forward. “You mentioned business on the phone. Want me to break his arms?”

  “No. I need him functional so I can get to his boss. But I do have some business. Tim Algernon got your number from Marty the Friday before he was killed. Did he call you?”

  Little Theodore shook a cigarette from a pack on the table. “Yeah. Friday night about eleven.”

  “And?”

  “Hey, slow down, pissant. We got to drink, we got to ride, we got to talk. We got time to get to everything.”

  “I’d like to get to this first. I’ve got a dozen scraps of evidence and not one good reason why someone would kill Tim Algernon. But I think he knew it was coming.” Theodore sighed and downed his tequila. Shephard did likewise.

  “He was scared,” said Theodore. “Not whinin’ scared, but casual, take-your-time, beat-around-the-bush scared.”

  “What did he want?”

  “First he wanted to know if I was working much these days. Then he wanted to know how my book was selling. Tell the truth, I barely remembered the sonofabitch. Played some horses with him once is all. Half an hour later, the story comes out. Says he’s worried some punks know he’s got money stashed on the grounds. He wants me to move in as discouragement. Room, board, five hundred a week. Which totals about a thousand a week the way I eat and drink.”

  Shephard pondered the story. “Why was he worried, anything specific?”

  “Just worried is what he said. He’s a big mouth when he wins big and drinks, so I figured he’d talked and was gettin’ spooked. Anyhow, I said no. I got a new old lady and she’s a real treat to drag this old sack of fat into bed with at night. Got my own place, the book is sellin’ good, me and Ray is going to write up another one. Shit, what I want to go live in some manure heap for?” Theodore shrugged. “Now this,” he said quietly, returning his attention to the tequila. “Now he’s a dead man. Didn’t mean to hold out on ya. Was gonna call, case you didn’t first. Drink up, Shephard. We’re all dead too soon.”

  Shephard drank and felt the tequila eroding his sense of control. Just as well, he thought. He lit a cigarette, which returned him to calm.

  “Whoever killed him didn’t want any money. We found him in the morning, with over a thousand dollars worth of currency stuffed down his mouth. You say he beat around the bush. What about?”

  “Told you. Everything and nothing. The book, the work, the bullshit.” Theodore leaned back; the booth shook.

  “When did he want you to start?”

  “Next morning.”

  “Did he go up in price, or offer the five hundred right off?” Just how desp
erate had Algernon been?

  According to Little Theodore, Algernon had started with an offer of three hundred, then gone up to five. Then, sounding drunk, he “got weepy” when Theodore said no. Then he hung up, and that was the last that Little Theodore heard of him until his wife read him the story in yesterday’s paper. Shephard had forgotten that Theodore could neither read nor write. I only know how to spell ten words, he liked to brag, and all of ’em’s dirty.

  “Whoever killed him smashed his head with a rock, then set him on fire. Whoever killed him sent him a Bible with a little hate mail attached. Whoever killed him has someone else in mind, too, if I’m reading it right. I missed him by two hours at the Sebastian. He’s in town. I know it.”

  Little Theodore poured them two more shots and downed his instantly. Shephard obliged, put down the glass, and found himself looking at another full one. Again they drank. The music wavered in his brain, the smell of the cactus steamed up into his nostrils. Theodore capped the bottle and grinned.

  “Let’s ride to your poppa’s church and finish this bottle,” he said. “I’m feelin’ too big for this little shithole, and sittin’ with a scrawny cop don’t do much for my reputation. Besides, a little motion might be good for the memory.” He pushed away the table and righted his tonnage, wobbling slightly as he made his way for the door. Shephard glanced at the bartender, who shook his head.

  They rode deeper into Santa Ana, through the barrio and its quiet low houses and graffiti-covered walls, past the snug suburban tracts with their houselights dying out even at ten o’clock, across the tracks and the switching yard to the Church of New Life grounds. The night was warm and fragrant. They rumbled into the parking area of what had once been a drive-in theater. The Church of New Life wasn’t the only one in Southern California to start in an old drive-in. The first of Wade’s sermons had been delivered to worshippers in cars who listened through speakers hung on their windows. The old movie screen was still standing but had been converted into a billboard that displayed biblical scenes, changed seasonally. In the midsummer darkness Shephard could make out the figure of Christ in white on the screen before them, a halo around His head, children at His feet. Shephard’s vertical hold was slipping. Jesus rose and fell like a television picture on the blink. Theodore cut the engine of his motorcycle and handed him the bottle. Around them, the speakers of the Church of New Life spread out like rows of well-pruned grapevines.