Innocent Blood (34 page)

Back in his apartment, he toweled himself quickly and pulled on a pair of Ralph Lauren jeans and a pale-blue rollneck sweater. He was punching out Lieutenant Chessman's number on the telephone when – right on cue – Lieutenant Chessman appeared in person, followed closely by Detective Booker. Lieutenant Chessman looked hot and tired and his shirt was hanging out. He made a show of knocking on what was left of Frank's door.

‘Mr Bell? What happened here? Forgot your key or something?'

‘I was just about to call you,' Frank told him, holding up the receiver. ‘Two guys came knocking at the door, pretending to be cops. When I wouldn't open up, they just went
blam
!'

Lieutenant Chessman pulled a face. ‘They said they were cops?'

‘That's right. It was lucky for me that I didn't let them in.'

‘Certainly was. Why
didn't
you let them in?'

Frank shrugged. ‘I don't know. Intuition, I guess.'

‘Did anybody else know that I was coming around here?'

‘No, nobody.'

‘Seems like kind of a coincidence, doesn't it, that they should have pretended that they were cops, when you were expecting the real cops?'

‘I don't know. Yes, maybe.'

Lieutenant Chessman came into the living area and looked around. ‘How many shots did they fire?'

‘Four or five, at least. I jumped off the balcony, into the pool.'

Lieutenant Chessman went outside and peered down at the rock musicians and the three topless girls. ‘Well, at least you had some incentive.'

There were three bullet holes in the wall next to the couch. Lieutenant Chessman peered at them closely, and then he said, ‘Booker, you want to call CSI?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Lieutenant Chessman lifted his head and sniffed. ‘You were alone here, Mr Bell, when this happened?'

Frank nodded.

‘I can smell perfume, that's all.'

‘A woman friend called by, earlier.'

‘I see.' Lieutenant Chessman lifted the cushions on the couch, as if he expected to find some incriminating evidence underneath. ‘So what's all this about Charles Lasser? You don't seriously think that he's involved in these bombings, do you?'

‘I had a personal confrontation with Charles Lasser only a couple of days ago.'

‘A personal confrontation?'

‘An argument. He was beating up on . . . a woman I know. I went to his office and warned him to leave her alone.'

‘Really? Can you tell me this woman's name?'

‘I know it sounds bizarre, but I only know her first name – Astrid.'

‘You know this woman but you don't know her name?'

‘Look,' said Frank, ‘do you think we could leave her out of this?'

‘What's the problem?'

‘Well, I think she may be married or something like that. She's never told me.'

‘All right. Just for the moment, let's go back to you and Charles Lasser. You thought he was beating up on this woman, whose name you don't know, and so you went to his office and gave him a hard time?'

‘That's right. He denied it, of course, and he said that if I ever repeated it, he would have me hunted down, “like the vermin you are, and exterminated.” Those exact words. The next thing I know, my office is bombed, and Dar Tariki Tariqat puts out a statement that “anybody who accuses God of being cruel will be hunted down like vermin they are.”'

Frank handed him the transcript. Lieutenant Chessman read it with his lips moving. Then he looked up and said, ‘This is pretty tendentious evidence, Mr Bell. Maybe Dar Tariki Tariqat
are
referring to you, even if they don't actually name you. But they aren't necessarily referring to your accusations against Mr Lasser, are they? More likely they're talking about something that you've written in your TV program. For instance, did any of your
characters
ever say that God was cruel?'

‘What? I don't think so.'

‘All the same, it seems like a much more logical explanation, don't you think? It's what you're putting out on television that these terrorists are objecting to, Mr Bell, not you personally.'

‘So what about “vermin?”'

‘“Vermin” is a pretty common pejorative, Mr Bell. It doesn't really establish a connection.'

‘But two guys came around tonight trying to kill me.'

‘Dar Tariki Tariqat are fanatics, Mr Bell. You write a TV show that they think is blasphemous, and because of that they want to get rid of you. That's all.'

Frank said, ‘Maybe you're right. But I still think Charles Lasser could be involved in this.'

‘OK. I'll talk to Mr Lasser. I'm obliged to, since you've made a complaint. But I'll have to be honest with you and tell you that I don't think it's going to come to anything.'

‘All right,' said Frank. He hesitated, and then he said, ‘Ask him about Astrid.'

‘Oh, I will, and I'll talk to her, too. Do you have some way that I can contact her?'

‘I'm sorry. I don't know where she lives and I don't know her phone number. She always gets in touch with me. But I do know that she's been seeing Charles Lasser, both at home and at his office. And I do know that he's been hitting her, and worse. I've seen the bruises for myself.'

Detective Booker wrote that down. ‘To your knowledge, sir, has she ever made any complaints to the police about the way that Mr Lasser was mistreating her?'

‘Not that I know of. She didn't even complain to me.'

Lieutenant Chessman took out a tiny ball of Kleenex and blew his nose. ‘Women . . . who can understand them, huh? The bigger the bastard, the harder they fall. Listen, I'll talk to Mr Lasser tomorrow and then I'll call you to put you in the picture, how's that?'

‘What about protection? What do I do if those guys come back?'

‘Well, I was going to suggest that you find someplace else to stay. Maybe another hotel.'

He was just about to leave when the night manager appeared – a young man with a wispy black moustache and a jazzy pink and orange shirt, and shorts.

‘What's going on here? What the hell happened to this door? I mean, look at it! What the hell happened to this
door
?'

Lieutenant Chessman gave Frank a sympathetic slap on the back. ‘Like I said, maybe another hotel.'

He stayed that night with Carol and Smitty. He told Carol that his room at the Sunset Marquis had been double booked, and that a late-arriving guest had shown up from Japan. He didn't want to frighten her. But when Carol had gone to bed and he and Smitty sat down to some late-night TV and a couple of beers, he explained to Smitty what had really happened.

‘Shit,' said Smitty. ‘Who did the cops think they were?'

‘They think that they probably came from Dar Tariki Tariqat, and that they were trying to finish what they started.'

‘They didn't see any connection with Charles Lasser?'

‘They said that it was probably coincidence, him using the word “vermin.” That's all.'

‘And they didn't offer you any protection?'

‘They suggested I change hotels, that's all.'

Smitty put down his can of beer, stood up, and went through to his study. After a short while he came back with a folded chamois leather. He cleared aside the ashtray and the empty beer cans, and then he laid it down on the coffee table.

‘Here, I bought this in ninety-eight, when we had that burglary.' He unfolded the leather, and revealed a .38 nickel-plated revolver in a belt holster. ‘Why don't you borrow it – you know, just till this is all over? It's loaded.'

‘I don't think so,' said Frank. ‘I'm not at all happy about guns.'

‘I don't care if you're happy or not, so long as you're alive. Here – no argument, take it. You won't ever have to use it, now you've got it, but at least you've got it, in case you need it.'

Twenty-Four

T
he next morning he was on his way to Nevile's house when his cellphone rang.

‘Frank. It's Margot.'

‘Oh, yes? What do you want?'

She hesitated, deterred by his aggressive response. But then she said, ‘I just wanted to tell you how sorry I was about Lizzie and Mo. You must be devastated.'

‘Yes, well, thank you. It was a miracle they didn't get me, too.'

‘If you want to meet me, Frank, and talk about it . . .'

‘No, thanks. But thanks.'

‘Frank . . . I don't want things to come to the point where we're not even speaking to each other.'

‘No, me neither. I'll call you later, if I get the time, OK?'

‘All right, then.'

He was still thinking about Margot as he overshot the entrance to Nevile's house. The truth was, he was beginning to miss her, in a way. She might have taken herself way too seriously, with her Eastern philosophy and her paintings and her macrobiotic diets, but that was one of the things that had first attracted him, because it had brought stability and order into his life, whereas he had always been susceptible to sudden enthusiasms, and to rush off and do things before he had thought them through – followed by deep depression because they hadn't worked out.

Even her paintings didn't seem so bad, in retrospect. They were calm; they were peaceful. And, as Mo had once remarked, they were no more objectionable than a blank wall, after all.

He U-turned outside the Earth Mother Juice Stand, his tires squealing, and doubled back. Further up the road a hitch-hiker, his thumb already half lifted, frowned at him in annoyance, as if his future had suddenly changed in front of his eyes.

Nevile was sitting in his study, laying out picture cards on his polished black marble table.

‘How are you feeling?' he asked. His black shirt was buttoned up to the neck but he wasn't wearing a necktie, so that he looked like an ascetic priest.

Frank eased himself down on the opposite side of the table. ‘I feel like I've been over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Twice nightly, with an extra performance on Saturday afternoons.'

Nevile looked up. ‘How about mentally?'

‘Sad. And very angry. Revenge? Jesus . . . if I could lay my hands on those bastards . . .'

‘When are the police going to talk to Charles Lasser?'

‘Today sometime, they told me. It probably won't do any good.'

Nevile dealt more cards, then frowned.

‘What's this?' asked Frank. ‘Fortune-telling?'

‘No, it's a game. Cats and Moons. It's like solitaire except that you play it with a spirit.'

Frank couldn't help looking around the room. ‘You mean you're playing with somebody now?'

‘A very old spirit. He was one of the first who ever came to me when I moved to California. His name's Erasmus and he used to own a fruit farm near Bakersfield. He died at the age of ninety-seven.'

Frank watched Nevile picking up cards and placing them one on top of the other. ‘How does Erasmus, like, play his hand?'

‘He gives me instructions,' said Nevile, tapping his forehead with his fingertip. ‘And in no uncertain terms, too. “The Dog Star card next to the Siamese card, you moron!”'

Frank sat back. Now that he had seen spiritual manifestations for himself, he didn't find it at all unbelievable that Nevile was playing a game with a man who was long dead. In fact, he wished that he had known about spirits years ago, especially how close they like to cluster to the living.

‘Do you think it was Charles Lasser who sent those men to kill you?' asked Nevile.

‘I don't have any proof apart from that news broadcast, but I'm pretty sure of it.'

‘Three cats!' said Nevile, triumphantly. ‘Beat that!'

‘I'm just wondering how they knew that I was waiting for the cops to show up.'

Nevile began to gather up cards. ‘I hate to say this, but your prime suspect seems to be Astrid. You told her, didn't you, that you suspected Charles Lasser of bombing your office, and you told her that you were going to call the police? Not only that, she made sure she left before they arrived.'

‘I don't know. The police thing could have been a coincidence. I mean, if you want somebody to open up their hotel room door for you, then shouting “police!” is a pretty logical thing to do, isn't it? You're not going to say “hitmen!”, are you?'

‘There's something very unusual about Astrid,' Nevile mused. ‘It's not just the fact that she won't tell you what her name is, or where she lives. Do you think she's still seeing Charles Lasser?'

‘I don't have any idea. I can't follow her everywhere. I don't have the right.'

‘You have the right to protect yourself.'

‘What do you mean? You think she's dangerous?'

‘If she called those two men last night, of course she is. But even if she
didn't
call them, it seems to me that she's getting you involved in something very complicated and very risky, although I can't think what.'

‘Whatever you say, she's given me comfort, she's given me reassurance, she's kept me from falling to pieces.'

‘Of course she has,' said Nevile. ‘But at the same time, she could have been trying to win your trust, for the sake of her own agenda.'

‘What agenda? I mean, I'm a comedy writer. What else could I possibly do for her, except make her laugh?'

‘Maybe Danny knows.'

‘Danny?'

‘He's appeared to you twice this week, to save your life. The chances are that he knows who's trying to kill you. He may also know what Astrid wants from you, too.'