Sooner or Later (16 page)

“How much?” he asked, getting back to basics before he became too poetic.

Carlos tugged thoughtfully on his mustache, considering. “Good cabernet budwood, maybe ten cents each one.”

Dan brightened, that number didn’t sound too drastic.

“For the whole hillside”—Carlos swung round, surveying the slope—“maybe thirty, forty thousand dollars.”

Dan sighed resignedly. He might have known it. In winemaking everything sounded reasonable until you added up the quantities. “I guess I’d better make an appointment with the bank manager again.”

“Buying budwood is like making love,” Ortega announced, ignoring the mundane bit about the bank manager. “You get: to know your woman, you know her scent, it lingers in your memory … that is what you look for when you choose your vines. The rich aroma the wine produces that lingers in your nostrils.” He breathed in deeply, then exhaled, shaking his head with pleasure. “First, Señor, you call the Foundation Plant Material Service at UC Davis. If they no have the right cabernet, we go to Napa. I know exactly the vineyard. Later, closer to harvest, we go taste the grapes on the vine. And I shall know if it is the best.” Carlos rolled his eyes, in ecstasy. “We shall produce a beautiful cabernet.”

Dan surely hoped he was right. “How soon can we graft?”

“July is good. Farther north, it would be August, but here we have more warm.”

Dan looked at the gentle slope imagining it filled with
leafy vines, burdened with luscious ripe grapes, ready for harvest. Already a half-dozen Mexican workers were spread out down the hillside, backs bent as they chopped out the weeds and cleared clogged irrigation pipes. Mariachi music blasted gaily from Ortega’s rusty old pickup, where Pancho sat, tongue lolling, surveying the scene as if he owned the place. From the top of the hill, he could hear the whine of a saw as the carpenter tackled the sagging boards on the porch, and see Florita hanging out washing on a line beside the lean-to outside the kitchen. His horses were in the stables and in a few days he would be sleeping in his own bed. The place was almost beginning to feel like home.

Back at the office, the phone was ringing.

He picked it up on the run. “Running Horse Winery.”

“Almost sounds like it’s real,” Piatowsky said.

Dan could hear the grin in his voice. “It sure is. It just cost me another thirty thou today, maybe forty.”

“What the hell for, man?”

He sounded outraged and Dan laughed. “For budwood, Piatowsky. And you don’t know what that means and I’m not about to tell you. Just trust me. Ortega says we’ll have great cabernet.”

“Whoever Ortega is, if he’s talking you out of thirty thousand bucks for buds he sounds like a terrific con artist. That’s a lot of bouquets, fella.”

“Yeah, I’ll tell my bank manager that. So?” Dan propped his booted feet on the desk and ran his hand through his dusty hair, thinking how great a shower was going to feel. “When are you coming out?”

“I just want you to run this little nugget of info through your Californian sun-addled brain. Just before it atrophies, y’understand? I caught something on the
computer this morning, I don’t imagine you’ll have heard about it on TV yet, other than just another murder, because the LAPD won’t have given out any details. About a hooker murdered in an alley, not too far from Sunset Boulevard?”

Dan’s ears pricked up as Piatowsky paused dramatically.

“There was a cross carved into her forehead, Cassidy. Temple to temple. Scalp to nose.”

Dan gave a low, surprised whistle. “It’s the signature killer. I was right.”

“Unfortunately for the hooker, you were. And this one’s in your neck of the woods, buddy. I contacted the LAPD, and the FBI, gave them the info on the Times Square woman, to compare notes. It’s the same fella all right, he used the same knife, probably a switchblade. Seems like he’s hit his stride, and I’ve no doubt he’ll do it again. Sooner rather than later.”

“When the mood is on him,” Dan added, thoughtfully.

“We’re issuing warnings,” Piatowsky added. “Much good it’ll do. For the girls, it’s business as usual, and hooking’s always been a risky business. Anyhow, I thought when I get out there, I’ll check in with the LAPD, see what’s doing. A little collaboration, y’know.”

“When do you get here?”

“In a couple of weeks. Around the fifteenth. That okay with you?”

“I’ve got Honey ready and waiting.”

“Who’s Honey?” Piatowsky sounded suspicious and Dan laughed.

“Wait and see, Detective. I guarantee it’ll be a surprise.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Meanwhile, how are the women out there in sunshineland?”

“Dazzling,” Dan said, thinking of Ellie. “Terrific, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, at least that was positive. I’ll bet she’s less expensive than the budwood. And more fun.”

“Bet all you like. But if you act civilized, I might let you meet her.”

“If she likes her men civilized, what’s she doing with Daniel Patrick Cassidy, scourge of the Eleventh Precinct?”

“Get lost, Piatowsky.” Laughing, Dan put down the phone. He circled the fifteenth on the wall calendar with the picture of the John Deere tractor, wondering about the signature killer.

He’d have bet money on his being a just-released prisoner. One killing on the East Coast, one on the West. Could be a long-distance driver? Or just some bum who’d hopped a Greyhound to satisfy his Hollywood fantasies? He shrugged. Either way, it wasn’t his problem now. He had the budwood to worry about.

His hand lingered on the telephone. He could call Ellie, just to say “Hi, friend, how are you doing today? Thanks for coming by. And for providing the food, the conversation, the company…. I loved having you sleep over on my sofa.”

He dialed her number.

Ellie’s heart jumped when she heard his voice. “I was just thinking about you.”

“You were?”

“I wanted to call to say thank you. I enjoyed myself.”

“Me too. And thanks for bringing the food. Sorry about the steaks and Pancho.”

She laughed. “That’s okay … next time …”

“About that
next time.”
He jumped in quickly. “I know you’re a busy woman, or I’d suggest sooner. But
what about next week? I thought maybe you’d like to take a look around the vineyard.”

“I’d love that.”

She sounded as though she really would love it, and he added eagerly, “We could have dinner somewhere after.”

“Where?”

“How about Mollie’s?”

Ellie laughed. “Is she any competition for me?”

“Not a bit, she’s Italian, not French. A trattoria, not a bistro.”

“In that case, I’d like it.”

“Good.”

Silence hung like a silken thread between them.

“And how is the rugged farmhand?” she asked softly, cradling the phone under her cheek.

“Hot and sweaty, with dirt under his nails.”

“Sounds like the real thing.”

“I’m getting there, with Carlos’s help.”

“I’ve got customers. You can tell me all about it later. I can’t wait to hear …”

“I can’t wait, either …” he said.

He was still thinking of her when he dialed the number of UC, Davis, about the cabernet budwood.

B
UCK WAS BACK IN
S
ANTA
M
ONICA AT
6:00
A.M. PARKED
on the hill at the end of Ellie’s street. Rolling down the windows, he let the early-morning air cool his brow, sipping Starbucks coffee from a paper cup and reading the L.A.
Times.

At seven, the yellow Jeep drove past him. He followed at a discreet distance, just keeping her in view, all the way to the produce market, where he parked and waited again.

A while later, Ellie emerged pushing a dolly piled with cartons of fresh vegetables. She loaded them into the back of the Jeep, then took off again.

Buck was right behind her.

He kept watch for a week. By then, he knew her routine, knew her hours, where she went, who she saw and what she did. He knew she left the house at seven every morning and most nights didn’t return until after midnight. He knew that she visited Miss Lottie every Monday and they had tea at the Biltmore.

It was just dark when he parked opposite her house.
He was smartly dressed and looked like a prosperous businessman if anybody should see him, but there was no one around to notice. Hurrying across the street, he pushed open the little white gate and strode the four paces up the brick path to the front door. It took seconds to jimmy the lock, then he was inside.

He leaned back against the door, buzzing with excitement. A lamp was lit in the tiny sitting room on his left. He took a seat on the sofa and propped his feet on the coffee table, looking calmly round as if he owned the place.

A pretty Venetian mirror hung over the pinewood mantel, adorned with a pair of old silver candlesticks and some photos. He got up to look at them, greedy for a glimpse of her, but none were of Ellie. An antique French giltwood console stood along one wall, with a faience urn filled with gaudy overblown parrot tulips. There was a painting of a Pre-Raphaelite maiden, who looked quite a lot like Ellie, and another of Journey’s End, painted in the thirties when it was first built. Books were piled haphazardly on every surface. It was clean, but had the air of a room rarely used.

Disappointed, he walked back across the tiny entry hall into the dining room. A dozen gilt-framed paintings covered the walls and an open archway led directly into the minute white kitchen.

A mug of cold tea stood on the kitchen counter with an imprint of Ellie’s lipstick on the rim. Trembling, he pressed his own lips over it, drinking her in with the Earl Grey. A shiver of ecstasy throbbed deep in his gut.

He could smell her scent, even before he reached the top of the creaking stairs. He stood in the bedroom doorway, his eyes closed, inhaling her. Then he opened them, and knew he was in paradise.

Clothes were flung carelessly across a chair, and a trail
of discarded undergarments led to the bathroom. Kneeling, he ran his fingers over the lacy white thong, the flimsy bra. Then he picked them up and held them to his face.

When he came to his senses, he went systematically through her closet. He noted that her clothes were size six, and her shoes an unexpectedly large ten. He wrote down the name of her perfume, her bath soap, lotion, powder. He saw that her favorite color was blue, that there was Evian in her refrigerator, Fuji apples in a bowl, a half-full bottle of good Médoc, Château Beychevelle. He went through every cupboard, every drawer.

When he left, an hour later, he knew all there was to know about Ellie Parrish Duveen.

He put the car in the lot round the corner from Main. Then, stoked with power, he swaggered into Ellie’s Place. The beautiful blonde greeted him again.

“Hi,” he said, “how are you? It’s Ed. Ed Jensen, remember? You helped me the other night.”

“Oh, sure. How are you, Ed? Good to see you back.”

“Alone again, I’m afraid.”

He smiled cockily at her and warning signals flickered suddenly in Maya’s head. “Too bad. How about the same table, by the window?” His harsh voice grated like sandpaper on her spine. There was just something about him, maybe it was the eyes, they didn’t smile when his mouth did.

“Where’s Ellie tonight?”

So that’s it, Maya thought, catching on. He was interested in Ellie. Well too bad, Ellie would never look at a guy like this once, never mind twice.

“Busy,” she said briskly. “Can I get you something to drink, sir?” Placing the relationship back on a formal footing, she handed him the menu, then brought the glass of red wine he asked for.

In the kitchen she said to Ellie, “Who is this Ed Jensen, anyway? He seems pretty darn friendly with you.”

“Jensen?” Ellie lifted her eyes from the grill where she was about to burn a fine piece of ahi tuna if she wasn’t careful. Chan had quit again and she was in charge. “Oh, him. I’ve only seen him a couple times. I bumped into him at the Biltmore, then he came here.”

“Yeah, well, he’s here again, and he’s asking after you, he knows you.”

Ellie grinned. “It’s my fame as a chef, and a restaurateur. Everybody wants to know Wolfgang, now they want to know me too. I guess I’m doing something right.”

“But this one’s creepy, Ell. You know how sometimes you get that gut feeling?” Maya rubbed her stomach, frowning.

“I think he’s from out of town.” She was busy with the fish. “He obviously doesn’t know too many people out here, I guess he’s just lonesome.”

“Oh, sure.” Maya’s voice had a skeptical edge. “And that’s probably exactly what they said about your everyday ax murderer. He was just lonesome.”

Buck ordered steak and
pommes frites.
After a good day’s work, he was in the mood for a hearty meal. He was disappointed when the blonde served him and still Ellie did not appear but contented himself picturing her in her home, in her room, in her bed. He’d almost forgotten the grandmother in his overwhelming obsession with Ellie.

Lingering, he drank another couple of glasses of wine and was the last to leave the restaurant. Maya rang up his bill, then took his money briskly. Cash, she noted, not a credit card. Hmmm, this guy was leaving no traces….

“What’s your name?” Buck was waiting for his change.

“It’s Maya,
sir.”
Politely, she handed him his receipt and the change.

“Thank you, Maya, I enjoyed it.” He gave her that sly smile again, but she refused to lift her eyes from the cash register.

“Good night, Mr. Jensen,” she murmured, still avoiding his eyes.

“Good night, Maya. And the name is Ed.”

He walked confidently to the door, then turned and grinned at her. Maya’s cheeks burned. He’d known she would be looking at him.

Remembering his strangely cold eyes, she told herself he looked like a man who knew too much. Hurrying to the door, she locked it securely after him.

P
ROMPTLY AT FOUR ON
M
ONDAY
, M
ISS
L
OTTIE WAFTED
into the Biltmore for afternoon tea. She was wearing a linen skirt in a color she called “fawn,” a cream silk shirt, her pearls and the Paris hat with the roses. Ellie was outside, talking to someone who had admired the Cadillac, but Miss Lottie’s arthritis was bothering her today and she wanted to get to her table and sit down.