The Cactus Club Killings (Joe Portugal) (29 page)

H
E’D ALREADY CHECKED OUT. JUST FIFTEEN MINUTES
before, according to the chipper young man behind the desk, who believed Mr. Schoeppe had taken a shuttle to the airport but wasn’t sure.

I ran back out. A flock of parking attendants surrounded my truck where I’d left it in the circular drive. I asked when the shuttle left, and one of them said five minutes or so ago.

How would they have gone? You could take the freeway,. but that meant picking up the 405, and at that time of day that was chancy at best. I took Ocean south to Abbot Kinney to Washington, cut through a car wash, and hit Lincoln running. A couple of minutes later I was chugging up the hill into Westchester.

A little past the Furama Hotel and its KARAOKE EVERY NITE, Lincoln swells into a six-lane divided highway and remains one until it spills into Sepulveda right before the airport. As I pulled onto that stretch, I spotted something blue up ahead that looked like it might be a shuttle. I floored the accelerator. The truck backfired nastily before responding to my call. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty, ninety, and there I was on the shuttle’s tail. I drew even and waved frantically to get the
drivers attention. He was Indian or Pakistani, and his eyes bulged. When I got him to notice me, I pointed at his left front tire. “Flat,” I hollered. “Danger. Better stop.”

His mouth opened wide. He nodded quickly and guided the shuttle to the shoulder. I pulled over in front of him.

The driver hopped out and inspected the tire. As I reached him he said, “There is no problem with this tire.” His nameplate identified him as A. Telang.

“It’s the other one,” I said. “The right front. Go look at it; it’s flat, I promise.”

A. Telang went off to check, and I hauled open the sliding passenger door. “All right, folks, just stay calm,” I said. “Immigration and Naturalization Service. Border check.” A couple of businessmen acted miffed at this delay to their very important business flights. A Hispanic woman crossed herself and tried to blend into the upholstery. “Willy Schoeppe” simply nodded and said, “Well done, Mr. Portugal.”

“You’ll have to get off, sir,” I said.

“And if I choose not to?”

“I’d hate to create an incident, sir.”

A. Telang returned to the scene. “I have thoroughly checked the tire you have mentioned, and it does not seem to have any injury.”

“It doesn’t? My mistake.” To “Schoeppe”: “Please, sir.”

He sighed dramatically and said, “Very well, then. I suppose I owe you an explanation.” He hopped out of the shuttle.

“I have a very important flight to Cincinnati,” said one of the businessmen, a florid fellow threatening to burst his pukey-green suit.

“Yes,” said the other, equally overweight but slightly better dressed. “And I have to be in Minneapolis to close a very important deal.”

I fixed him with a steely glare. “Is any mere business dealing
more important than protecting our country’s borders from the assault of the unworthy?” The Hispanic lady melted further. Poor woman. I said to A. Telang, “Would you please pass his baggage out as well, sir? You may then proceed to your destination.”

It’s amazing what the mere hint of authority will do to some people. In seconds a familiar suitcase clomped to the pavement. In a few more the shuttle peeled away. Overhead, a 747 marked JAL CARGO screamed in for a landing.

“Get in the truck,” I told my Teutonic friend.

He shrugged. “Certainly.” He climbed in.

I went around to my side and did the same. “Okay, Mr. Schoeppe,” I said. “You mind telling me what this is all about? But that’s not your name, is it?”

“It certainly is, Mr. Portugal.”

I grabbed the incriminating book, opened it to where I’d slid the dust jacket in to mark the place. “This isn’t you.”

He shook his head. “It is not. But my name is indeed Schoeppe.”

“Meaning?”

“The man in the photo is my brother, Willy. I am Hermann Schoeppe.”

He let me digest that for a second or three, then put his habitual smile back in place. “Poor Mr. Portugal. I feel sad to have misled you. But only about my identity, I assure you. No one in our organization would ever think about murdering anyone.”

“What about that ranger in Madagascar?”

“The incident never happened. It is a story advanced by those who would have us end our business. I suspect your friend Sam Oliver invented it.” Another giant airplane swooshed above our heads. Schoeppe consulted his watch.

“Don’t worry about your flight,” I said. “You have bigger problems right now.”

“Oh?” He reached in his pocket, took out a tube of lip balm, touched himself up. “It is so dry here in Los Angeles. I will be glad to leave.”

“You’re not leaving anywhere.”

“I believe I am.”

“You’ve been impersonating your brother. The police would be very interested in that.”

“Would they? I am not certain they would care. Although they might be curious about your ever-so-clever impersonation of an officer of the Immigration Service.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Ah, but I might. So. Allow me to finish my explanation. You will then please drive me to the airport.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

He cleared his throat. “It was natural for you and all your friends here to assume those in my trade had something to do with Miss Belinski’s death. After all, we have been painted as despoilers of nature, as a bête noire for you all to fear and rail against. But we are honorable businessmen. We exist to provide a product to those who want it.”

“You rip up habitats and kill off species,” I said, a bit sanctimoniously.

A small shrug. “Yes, in some instances. It cannot be helped. But we bring tremendous joy to those who desire our product.” He waved a hand dismissively “But enough of this philosophical argument. The simple fact of the matter is, I chose to come here after Miss Belinski’s murder to make certain no residue of suspicion hung over my associates and myself. But now a new species of
Pseudolithos
in Namibia requires my attention.” You’re scum.

“Please, must we engage in pejoratives? We were getting along so well.”

“Pseudolithos
or no, you and your ‘associates’ are still under suspicion.”

“Perhaps, but not for long. I have great faith in you.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I have studied you. I have no doubt you, in cooperation with the authorities, will track down the actual murderer.”

“Studied me? You didn’t hire a big Italian guy to follow me around, did you?”

“No. I am here alone.”

I watched his face. He still wore that ever-present smile, but now it seemed a bit deeper, as if he were pleased with me. The awful thing was, no matter what kind of creepy business he was engaged in, no matter that half a minute ago I’d called him scum, I liked the guy.

He gestured at his watch. “I am afraid I do not have the time to discuss this further.”

What could I do? He had me over a barrel with my “ever-so-clever impersonation,” and what was the point in keeping him there? I hopped out and threw his bag in the truck bed, and we got going. “But why impersonate your brother?” I asked.

“Would you have been as cooperative had you known my true identity?”

“Of course not.”

“There is your answer. There were only two possible difficulties with this tactic. One is that your friend Sam Oliver knows my brother well. It is fortunate that he is away from Los Angeles.”

“How did you know that?”

“At the risk of seeming clichéd, we have ways. The other possible problem is a gentleman named Lyle Tillis, whom I met in South Africa. Were I to run into him, I would have been unmasked. Fortunately, I have managed to steer clear of
his path. Ah, the international terminal approaches. You will please drop me off there.”

Which I did. I helped the plant smuggler with his bags, and I shook his hand, and I watched him walk off into the terminal.

At seven-ten I stood outside Gina’s condo carrying a peace offering in a Baskin-Robbins bag. I hesitated before ringing, said the hell with it, and pressed her button. Our relationship had weathered bigger storms than an argument over a web page.

The speaker squawked. “Yes, Mr. Portugal?”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“I saw you out the window. Your truck needs a bath.”

“You want to let me in?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I have many exciting adventures to recount.”

“That all?”

“Because I’ve got a hot fudge—”

The buzzer buzzed and I went up. She was waiting with the door open, holding a big paperback entitled
Fix Your Files!
She snatched the bag and looked inside. “What kind of ice creams under all this sauce?”

“Mint chocolate chip and jamoca almond fudge.”

“You know me so well. Come on in.”

Two steps inside the door I casually said, “You were right, you know.”

“About…?”

“Willy Schoeppe. He wasn’t. Wasn’t Willy, that is. He
was
Schoeppe.”

While she demolished her sundae I filled her in on my encounter with the German, following that with Farber and
Rand and the airborne euphorbia. When I was done I said I was sorry for disbelieving her, and she pooh-poohed it, and we gave each other a hug, and everything was all right in the world of Joe and Gina.

I remembered something else. “I saw the guy who’s been following me again. I got his—”

She clonked her palm to her forehead. “I’m such an idiot. I got a call from your friend Detective Burns. She tracked down that plate for you.” She peeled a fluorescent green Post-it off her phone table. “How’d you get such pull with the cops?”

“Burns believes in community involvement.”

She checked the note. “Do you know anyone named Salvatore Patronella?”

“I knew it. Vicki was right. The Mafias after me.”

“Not everyone named Salvatore’s in the Mafia.”

“No, only the hulking ones who wear sunglasses and follow people around. What did I do to piss off the Mob?”

“You horn in on any vending machines lately?”

“This is serious.”

“Call your friend Burns back if you’re worried.”

“Good idea.”

But Burns was out apprehending killers. I left a message, stealthily checked out the window for suspicious characters, and dropped onto the couch. I drummed my fingers. I scratched my leg. “Now what?”

“Right about now we’re supposed to get a call from one of our informants.”

“We don’t have any informants.”

“We’ll have to cultivate some.”

“You been keeping up with e-mail?”

“Yeah. Nothing interesting. And no more word from Succuman.”

“I wish we could look at some of Brenda’s older e-mail.
But I don’t relish the thought of breaking into her house again. We’d end up in jail for sure.”

She smirked. It was a hell of a smirk. “There might be another option.”

“What’s that?”

“We could dig through the garbage.”

“You expect to find her secret e-mails in her garbage?”

“Not her garbage. My garbage.”

“For what?”

“For the diskette.”

“But it’s bad.”

“The file is bad. The other ones on the diskette may not be.” She snatched up
Fix Your Files! and
shook it at me. “According to this, just because we can’t read one file on a disk doesn’t mean we can’t read the others. As long as the fat’s okay—”

“Disks have fat? Do they have bones too?”

“You’re a riot. It’s an acronym. It means file allocation table. If that’s not damaged we may be able to read the other files.”

“And to think I discouraged your computing education. Go dig out the diskette.”

“That’s your job. Why do you think I let you in?”

“Dig it out” turned out to be more than just an expression. The garbage can overflowed with a variety of trash in various stages of decomposition, all exuding a vaguely unsavory aroma. I gingerly removed a coffee filter full of grounds and an old Häagen-Dazs container dripping brown goo. Several balled-up tissues and half a head of wilted lettuce later, the disk turned up. A glob of something red decorated its surface. I held it by two fingers, grabbed a paper towel, and wiped it off as best I could. Gina took it and jiggled the little metal door. “Seems okay.” She started up her computer and stuck the disk in. Up came a file.

“Which year is this?” I asked.

“Year before last. Right before the one we’ve already seen. Almost seen.”

We paged down through the file but didn’t find anything of interest. Gina went for the one before that. Nothing there either. Soon only the earliest—six years old—remained.

Pay dirt.

The last e-mail in the file, dated December 27, was addressed to [email protected] and went like this: