"Not too smart."
"That's what pissed Daddy off, I suspect."
"Did he press charges?"
"Are you kidding? Of course. He said that was the only way Lance would ever learn."
"And did he?"
"Well, he got in trouble again, if that's what you mean. Lots of times. Daddy finally threw his hands up and sent him off to boarding school."
The subject veered off. We finished lunch, chatting about other things. At two, Ash glanced at her watch. "Oh Lord. I've got to go. I promised Mother I'd take her shopping this afternoon. Come along if you like. I know she'd love to see you." She signaled for the check.
"I better take care of some other business first, but I do want to talk to her."
"Give us a call and come up to the house."
"Are you living there now?"
"Temporarily. I just bought a place of my own and I'm having some work done. I'll be staying with Mother for another six weeks."
When the check arrived, I reached for my handbag, but she waved me off. "I'll take care of it. I'll claim it as a business lunch and charge it off to the company. It's the least I can do with the bind you're in."
"Thanks," I said. I got Ebony's personal telephone number from her and we walked out together. I was relieved that the valet service brought her car first. I watched her pull away in a little red Alfa-Romeo. My car appeared. I tipped the fellow more than I should have and got in with care, humping myself onto the seat to avoid snagging my panty hose behind the knee. The valet slammed the door and I turned the key. Honest to God, it started right up and I felt a surge of pride. The damn thing is paid for and only costs me ten bucks a week in gas.
I drove home and let myself in the gate, steadfastly disregarding the yawning air of emptiness about the place. The winter grass seemed ragged and the dead heads on the zinnias and marigolds had multiplied. Henry's house stood silent, his back door looking blank. Usually the scent of yeast or cinnamon lies on the air like a heady perfume. Henry's a retired commercial baker who can't quite give up his passion for kneading dough and proofing bread. If he isn't in the kitchen, I can usually find him on the patio, weeding the flower beds or stretched out on a chaise inventing crossword puzzles filled with convoluted puns.
I let myself into my apartment and changed back into jeans, my whole body sighing with relief. I hauled the mower out of the toolshed and had a run at the yard, and then I got down on my hands and knees and clipped all the dead blossoms from the beds. This was very boring. I put the lawn mower away. I went inside and typed up my notes. As long as I was investigating in my own behalf, I decided to do it properly. This was boring, too.
Since Rosie's was closed, I ate dinner at home, preparing a cheese-and-pickle sandwich, which entertained me no end.
I'd finished the Len Deighton and I didn't have anything else in the house to read, so I switched on my little portable television set.
Sometimes I wonder if my personal resources aren't wearing a little thin.
Chapter 6
* * *
Tuesday morning, I went into the gym at 6:00 A.M. As I no longer had an office to go to, I could well have waited until later in the morning, but I like the place at that hour. It's quiet and half empty, so there's no competition for equipment. The free weights are neatly reracked. The mirrors are clean and the air doesn't smell like yesterday's sweat socks. Weight-lifting apparatus are a curious phenomenon – machines invented to replicate the backbreaking manual labor the Industrial Revolution relieved us of. Lifting weights is like a meditation: intermittent periods of concentrated activity, with intervals of rest. It's a good time for thinking, as one can do little else. I did ab crunches first; thirty-five, then thirty, then twenty-five. I adjusted the bench on one of the Nautilus machines and started doing seated military presses, three sets, ten reps each, using two plates. The guys lift anywhere from ten to twenty plates, but I work just as hard, and I'm not really preparing for the regional body-building championship.
I was thinking back over the details of the frame-up... a clever piece of work, dependent on a number of events coming together just as they had. The phone call to Mac must have come from Ava Daugherty, but who put her up to it? Surely she didn't cook up that trouble by herself. Someone had access to the Wood/Warren file, and while it was possible that the office keys had been lifted from my bag, who at Wood/Warren knew enough to make a mockup of a fire-department report? That must have been done by someone who knew the procedure at CF. Insurance investigations usually follow a format. An outsider simply couldn't guarantee that all the paper switching could be done in the necessary sequence. Darcy could have managed it. Andy might have, or even Mac. But why?
I worked through biceps and triceps. Since I jog six days a week, my prime interest in the gym is the three A's – arms, abs, and ass – a routine that takes forty-five minutes three times a week. I was finished by 7:15. I went home to shower and then I started out again, dressed in jeans, turtleneck, and boots. Darcy was due at work at 9:00, but I'd spotted her three days out of five having breakfast first, coffee and a Danish in the coffee shop across the street. She used the time to chitchat, read the newspaper, and do her nails.
There was no sign of her when I got there at 8:00. I bought a paper and settled into the back booth where she usually sits. Claudine came by and I ordered breakfast. At 8:12, Darcy came through the door in a lightweight wool coat. She stopped when she saw me, checked her stride, and slid into an empty booth halfway down. I picked up my coffee cup and joined her, loving the sour look that crossed her face when she realized what I was up to.
"Mind if I join you?" I asked.
"Well, actually, I'd prefer to have the time to myself," she said, avoiding my gaze.
Claudine arrived with a steaming plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, which she set down in front of me. Claudine is in her fifties, with a booming voice and calves knotted with varicose veins.
"Morning, Darcy. What'll you have today? We're out of cheese Danish, but I laid back a cherry in case you're interested."
"That's fine. And a small orange juice."
Claudine made a note and tucked her order pad in her apron pocket. "Just a second and I'll bring you a coffee cup." She was gone again before Darcy could protest. I could see her do a quick visual survey, looking for an empty seat. The place was filling up rapidly and it looked like she was trapped.
While I ate, I studied her in a manner that I hoped was disconcerting. She eased out of her coat, making a big deal out of standing up so she could fold it just so. She's one of those women a glamour magazine should "makeover" as a challenge to their in-house experts. She has baby-fine hair that defies styling, a high, bulging forehead, pale-blue eyes. Her skin is milky white and translucent, with a tracery of veins showing through like faded laundry marks. I'd heard Darcy's boyfriend was a mail carrier, dealing drugs on the side, and I wondered if he delivered junk mail and junk on the same run. I could tell I was ruining her day, which improved my appetite.
"I'm assuming you heard about the trouble I'm in."
"It'd be hard not to," she said.
I opened a plastic locket of grape jelly and spread half on a triangle of whole-wheat toast. "Got any ideas about who set me up?"
Claudine returned with a cup and saucer and the coffeepot. Darcy judiciously elected to refrain from comment until her cup was filled and mine had been topped off. When Claudine departed, Darcy's expression turned prim and her coloring altered like a mood ring, shifting down a grade from woeful to glum. Actually, the change was not unappealing. She's big on pastel shades, imagining, I suppose, that washed-out colors are somehow more flattering to her than bold ones. She wore a pale-yellow sweater about the hue of certain urine samples I've seen where the prognosis isn't keen. The pink in her cheeks gave her back an air of health.
She leaned forward. "I didn't do anything to you," she said.
"Great. Then maybe you can help."
"Mac told us specifically not to talk to yo
u."
"How come?"
"Well, obviously, he doesn't want you to get information you're not supposed to have."
"Such as?"
"I'm not going to discuss it with you."
"Why don't I tell you my theory," I said sociably. I half expected her to stick her fingers in her ears and start singing aloud to drown me out, but I noticed that she was not completely uninterested and I took heart from that. "I suspect maybe Andy's at the bottom of this. I don't know what he's getting out of it, but it's probably some form of financial gain. Maybe somebody's throwing business his way, or giving him a kickback. Of course, it crossed my mind that it might be you, but I don't really think so at this point. I think if you'd done it you'd be friendly, to convince me of your goodwill, if nothing else."
Darcy opened a paper sugar packet and measured out half a teaspoon, which she stirred into her coffee. I went right on, talking aloud as if she were a pal of mine and meant to help.
"CF hires other outside investigators so I'm imagining that any one of us could have been implicated. It was just my dumb luck that I was up at bat. Not that Andy wouldn't take a certain satisfaction from the fact. He's never been fond of me and he always hated it that Mac let me have office space. Andy wanted to knock the wall out and take that corner for himself. At any rate, I have to assume Lance Wood is the real focus of the frame, though I don't know why yet. What I'll probably do is try working both sides of the street here and just see where all the paths intersect. Should be fun. I've never worked for me before and I'm looking forward to it. Cuts down on the paperwork."
I checked her reaction. Those pale eyes were focused on mine and I could see that her mental gears were engaged.
"Come on, Darcy. Help me out," I coaxed. "What do you have to lose?"
"You don't even like me."
"You don't like me either. What's that got to do with it? We both hate Andy. That's the point. The guy's a shit-heel."
"Actually he is," she said.
"You don't think Mac had anything to do with it, do you?"
."Well, no."
"So who else could it be?"
She cleared her throat. "Andy has been hanging around my desk a lot."
Her voice was so low I had to lean forward. "Go on."
"It started the day Jewel left on vacation and Mac told him to farm out her work. Andy was the one who suggested you for the Wood/Warren fire claim."
"He probably thought it'd be easier to pressure me."
Claudine brought Darcy's OJ and the cherry Danish.
Darcy broke the Danish into small pieces, buttering each with care before she popped it in her mouth. Jesus, maybe I'd have one.
She was just warming up on the subject of Andy Motycka, who was apparently no fonder of her than he was of me. "What irritates me," she said, "is that I got in trouble with Mac because Andy said the file sat on my desk for three days before it got to you. That's an outright lie. Andy took it home with him. I saw him put it in his briefcase Tuesday when the fire-department report came in." "Did you tell Mac that?"
"Well, no. Why bother? It sounds like I'm trying to defend myself by pushing all the blame off on him."
"You're right. I found myself in the same position," I said. "Look, if Andy falsified the fire-department report, he probably did the dirty work at home, don't you think?"
"Probably."
"So maybe we can turn up some proof if we look. I'll nose around at his place if you'll try his office."
"He moved, you know. He's not at the house. He and Janice are in the process of splitting up."
"He's getting divorced?"
"Oh, sure. It's been going on for months. She's hosing him, too."
"Really. Well, that's interesting. Where's he living?"
"One of those condos out near Sand Castle." I'd seen the complex: one hundred and sixty units across from a public golf course called Sand Castle, out beyond Colgate in the little community of Elton. "What about his office? Is there any way you could check that out?"
Darcy smiled for the first time. "Sure. I'll do that. It would serve him right."
I got her home number and said I'd call later. I paid both checks and took off, figuring it wouldn't be a good idea to get caught in Darcy's company. While I was downtown, I hoofed it over to the credit bureau and had a discreet chat with a friend of mine who works as a key-punch operator. I'd done some work for her years before, checking into the background of a certain seedy gent who had hoped to relieve her of a burdensome savings account. She'd had the bucks in hand to pay me, but I sensed that both of us would benefit from a little bartering – "professional courtesies," as they're known. Now I check out any new fellow in her life and, in return, she pirates occasional confirmation copies of computer runs. One drawback is that I have to wait until a periodic updating of the master file is scheduled, which usually happens once a week. I asked her to give me anything she had on Lance Wood and she promised me something in a day. On an impulse, I asked her to check out Andy Motycka while she was at it. Financial information on Wood/Warren I'd have to get from the local equivalent of Dun & Bradstreet. My best source of information was going to be California Fidelity itself, for whom Lance Wood had no doubt filled out countless forms in applying for coverage. I was hoping I could enlist Darcy's aid again on that one. It was amazing to me how much more appealing she seemed now that she was on my team. I trotted back to pick up my car.
As I pulled out of the parking lot behind the building, Andy was just pulling in, pausing while the machine stamped and spat a ticket through the slot. He pretended he didn't see me.
I drove back to my apartment. I'd never paid much attention to the looming importance of the office in my life. I conduct maybe 40 percent of all business in my swivel chair, telephone in the crook of my neck, files close at hand. Sixty percent of the time I'm probably on the road, but I don't like feeling cut off from my reference points. It puts me at a subtle disadvantage.
It was only 10:05 and the day loomed ahead. Out of habit, I hauled out my little portable Smith-Corona and started typing up my notes. That done, I caught up with some filing, prepared some bills for a couple of outstanding accounts, and then tidied up my desk. I hate sitting around. Especially when I could be out getting into trouble. I gave Darcy a call at CF and got Andy's new address and telephone number. She assured me he was sitting in his office even as we spoke.
I dialed his apartment and was reassured to hear the answering machine pick up. I changed into a pair of blue-gray slacks with a pale stripe along the seam and a matching pale-blue shirt with Southern California Services stitched around a patch on the sleeve. I added hard black shoes left over from my days on traffic detail with the Santa Teresa Police Department, tacked on a self-important key ring with a long chain, and grabbed up a clipboard, my key picks, and a set of master keys. I checked myself out in the mirror. I looked like a uniformed public servant just about to make a routine service check-of what, I wasn't sure. I looked like I could read meters and make important notes. I looked like I could verify downed lines and order up repair crews on the mobile phone in my county-owned maintenance vehicle. I hopped in my car and headed out to Andy's condominium for a little B & E.
Chapter 7
* * *
The Copse at Hurstbourne is one of those fancy-sounding titles for a brand-new tract of condominiums on the outskirts of town. "Copse" as in "a thicket of small trees."
"Hurst" as in "hillock, knoll, or mound." And "bourne" as in "brook or stream." All of these geological and botanical wonders did seem to conjoin within the twenty parcels of the development, but it was hard to understand why it couldn't have just been called Shady Acres, which is what it was. Apparently people aren't willing to pay a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a home that doesn't sound like it's part of an Anglo-Saxon land grant. These often quite utilitarian dwellings are never named after Jews or Mexicans. Try marketing Rancho Feinstein if you want to lose money in a hurry. Or Paco Sanchez Park. Middleclass Americ
ans aspire to tone, which is equated, absurdly, with the British gentry. I had already passed Essex Hill, Stratford Heights, and Hampton Ridge.
The Copse at Hurstbourne was surrounded by a high wall of fieldstone, with an electronic gate meant to keep the riffraff out. The residents were listed on a mounted panel beside a telephone handset with pushbuttons, and an intercom. Each occupant was assigned a personal entry code that one had to have in order to gain admittance. I know because I tried several sequences at random and got nowhere. I pulled over and waited until another car approached. The driver punched in his code. When the gate rolled back, I tucked my car in behind his and sailed through. No alarms went off. I wasn't set upon by dogs.
Security measures, like the property's pedigree, were largely in the mind of the marketing team.
There were maybe twenty buildings in all, eight units each, gray frame with white trim in a Cape Cod style, all angles, mullioned windows, and wooden balconies. Sycamore and eucalyptus trees still graced the terrain. Winding roads led in two directions, but it was clear that both came together in the same rear parking lot rimmed with carports. I found a visitor's space and pulled in, checking the building directory which sported a plot map of units.
Andy Motycka's was number 144, located, happily, at the far reaches of the property. I took my clipboard and a flashlight and tried to look as officious as I could. I passed the recreational facility, the spa, the laundry rooms, the gym, and the sales office. There were no signs of children. Judging from the number of empty carports, my guess was that many of the residents were off at work somewhere else. Wonderful. A band of thugs could probably sweep through and clean the place out in half a day.