The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (81 page)

The El Capitan Hotel and Hostel was a three-storey building with eighty rooms. The frontage was decorated with an ornate pediment and a cinema-style awning that advertised OPEN 24 HOURS A DAY and PUBLIC PARKING—OPEN 24 HOURS. It was a dowdy street, full of tatty shops and restaurants. To the left of the hotel was the Arabian Nights restaurant and, to the right, Modern Hair Cuts. Queen’s Shoes and Siegel’s Fashion for Men and Boys were opposite. There were tall palm trees, and the overhead electricity lines buzzed and fizzed in the fog.

“This is me,” Milton said.

She pulled up outside the building.

She killed the engine. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That was fun.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“So—um…?” she said.

He looked at her with an uncertainty that he knew was ridiculous.

“You gonna invite me up?”

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

She smiled. “What do you mean? Two recovering addicts? What could possibly go wrong?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Really?”

“Maybe it was.”

“So?”

He paused, couldn’t find the words, couldn’t even think what he could have been thinking when he said it, and laughed at the futility of it. “Come on, then. It’s at the top of the building, so you’re going to have to walk. And I’ll warn you now, save the view, it’s nothing to write home about. It’s not five star.”

“Not what I’m used to, you mean?” She grinned. “Fuck you too.”

She locked the Cayenne and followed him to the door of the building. The narrow heels of her shoes clacked against the pavement as she took his arm and held it tightly. He was aware of the powerful scent of her perfume and the occasional pressure of her breast against his arm. He opened up and accepted her hand as she pressed it into his.

The reception was incredibly bright; the fluorescent tubes did not flicker, shining down with unflattering constancy onto the occupants roaming the stairs and hallways, occasionally stopping by the front desk with its glass partition and signs apologizing for the inability to lend money and forbidding the use of hot plates in the rooms. The night manager, Ahmed, nodded at them from behind the glass enclosure. There were all manner of people here. For some, it was a permanent residence, and for others, a room for the night. Many of the residents had mental problems, and Milton had seen plenty of disturbances in the time he had been there. No one had ever bothered him—the cold lifelessness behind his eyes was warning enough—and the place had served him well.

They climbed the stairs together, and he gently disengaged as he reached into his pocket for the key to his door. A short, unkempt man with stringy grey hair and an oversized brown jacket peered around a potted plant at them. He stared at them, vigorously rubbing his eyes, and after Milton returned the stare with interest, he darted back around the corner again.

“A friendly neighbour,” he explained. He didn’t mention the man who was found hanging in his room across the other side of the building, or the woman who stood in her underwear in the corridor complaining about “the radiation.”

Milton opened the door. Inside was simple and ascetic, but it was all he could afford. The owner was happy enough to take cash, which saved him from the necessity of opening a bank account, something he was very reluctant to do.

Milton’s apartment was tiny, an eight-by-twelve room that was just big enough for a double bed with a chair next to it and a small table next to that. There wasn’t much else. The bathroom and kitchen were shared with the other rooms on the floor. Milton had always travelled light, so storing clothes wasn’t an issue; he had two of everything, and when one set was dirty, he took it down to the laundromat around the corner and washed it. He had no interest in a television, and his only entertainment was the radio and his books: several volumes of Dickens, Greene, Orwell, Joyce and Conan Doyle.

“What do you think?” he said, a slightly bashful expression on his usually composed face.

“It’s… minimalist.”

“That’s one way of describing it.”

“You don’t have much—stuff—do you?”

“I’ve never been much of a one for things,” he explained.

She cast a glance around again. “No pictures.”

“I’m not married. No family.”

“Parents?”

“They died when I was a boy.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was years ago.”

“Siblings?”

“No. Just me.”

He had a small pair of charged speakers on the windowsill; he walked across and plugged these into his phone, opening the radio application and selecting the local talk radio channel. The presenter was discussing the Republican primary; the challengers had just debated each other for the first time. The candidates were trying to differentiate themselves from their rivals. J.J. Robinson, the governor of California, was in the lead, by all accounts. They were saying that the primary was his to lose. He killed the radio app and scrolled through to his music player. He selected
Rated R
by the Queens of the Stone Age and picked out the slow, drawled funk of “Leg of Lamb.”

“Good choice,” she said.

“I thought so.”

The room was on the third floor, and the window offered a good view of the city. She stood and looked out as he went through the affectation of boiling the kettle for a pot of tea. It was a distraction; they both knew that neither would drink a drop. He took the pot to the table and sat down on the edge of the bed; she sat on the chair next to him. She turned, maybe to say something, maybe not, and he leant across to press his lips gently to hers. He paused, almost wincing with the potential embarrassment that he had misjudged the situation even though he knew that he had not, and then she moved towards him and kissed harder. He closed his eyes and lost himself for a moment. He was only dimly aware of the physical sensations: her breath on his cheek, her arms snaked around his shoulders as her mouth held his, her fingers playing against the back of his neck. She pulled away and looked into his face. Her fingers reached up and traced their way along the scar that began with his cheek and ended below his nose. She kissed it tenderly.

“How’d you do that?”

“Bar fight.”

“Someone had a knife?”

He had no wish to discuss the events of that night—he had been drunk, and it had ended badly for the other guy—so he reached for her again, his hand cupping around her head and drawing her closer. Her perfume was pungent, redolent of fresh fruit, and he breathed it in deeply. He pulled off her sweater and eased her back onto the bed with him. They kissed hungrily. He cupped her neck again and pulled her face to his while her hands found their way inside his shirt and around, massaging his muscular shoulders. They explored their bodies hungrily, and Milton soon felt dizzy with desire. Her lips were soft and full; her legs wrapped around his waist and squeezed him tight; her underwear was expensively insubstantial, her breasts rising up and down as she gulped for air. He kissed her sweet-smelling neck and throat as she whispered out a moan of pleasure. He brushed aside the hair that framed her face. They kissed again.

His cellphone buzzed.

She broke away and locked onto his eyes with her own. Her eyes smiled.

“Don’t worry. I’m not answering.”

The phone went silent.

He kissed her.

Ten seconds later it rang again.

“Someone wants to speak to you.”

“Sorry.”

“Who is it? Another woman?”

He laughed. “Hardly.”

“Go on—the sooner you answer, the sooner they’ll shut up. You’re all mine tonight.”

Milton took the call.

“Mr. Smith?”

The boy’s voice was wired with anxiety. “Trip—is everything all right?”

“Did you see the police today?”

“Yes,” he said.

“They say you’re a suspect?”

“Not in as many words, but that’s the gist of it. I’m one of the last people to see her before she disappeared. It stands to reason.”

“They had me in, too. Three hours straight.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. I think maybe they think I’m a suspect, too.”

“Don’t worry about it. They’re doing what they think they have to do. Standard procedure. Most murders are committed by—well, you know.”

“People who knew the victim? Yeah, I know.”

Milton disentangled himself from Eva and stood. “You haven’t done anything. They’ll figure that out. This is all routine. Ticking boxes. The good thing is that they’re taking it seriously.”

“Yeah, man—like, finally.”

Milton took out his cigarettes and shook one out of the box. He looked over at Eva. She was looking at him with a quizzical expression on her face. He held up the box, and she nodded. He tossed it across the room to her, pressed the cigarette between his lips, and lit it. He threw her the lighter.

“There was another reason for calling.”

“Go on.”

“I had a call ten minutes ago. There’s this guy, Aaron, he says he was the driver who usually drove Madison to her jobs. He was the guy who didn’t show the night she went missing, so she called you. He heard about what’s happened on the TV.”

“How did he get your number?”

“Called the landline. Madison must’ve given it to him.”

“You need to tell him to go to the police. They’ll definitely want to talk to him.”

“He won’t, Mr. Smith. He’s frightened.”

“Of what?”

“He knows the agency she was working for. He says they’re not exactly on the level. If he rats them out, they’ll come after him.”

“You need to tell the police, Trip.”

“I would, Mr. Smith, but this guy, he says he’ll only speak to me. He says he’ll tell me everything.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning. I said I’d meet him at Dottie’s. Nine.”

Milton knew it. Dottie’s was a San Francisco institution, and conveniently enough, it was right at the top of Sixth Street, just a couple of minutes from the El Capitan. Milton yanked up the sash window and tossed the cigarette outside. “I’ll be there.”

The relief in Trip’s thanks was unmistakeable.

“Don’t worry. Try to sleep. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”

Milton ended the call.

“What was that?”

Milton hadn’t told her anything about Madison, but he explained it all now: the night she disappeared, Trip and the days that he had helped him to look for her, the dead bodies that had turned up on the headland, the interview with the police.

“Did you have a lawyer there?” she said. There was indignation in her voice.

“I didn’t think I needed one.”

“They spoke to you without one?”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Are you an idiot?” she said angrily. “You don’t speak to the police investigating a murder without a lawyer, John.”

“Really,” he said, smiling at her. “It was fine. I know what I’m doing.”

“No,” she said, sitting up. “You don’t. Promise me, if they bring you in again, you tell them you’re not speaking until I get there. All right?”

“Sure,” he said. “All right.”

“What did he want?”

Milton related what Trip had told him.

“All right, then. This is what we’re going to do. I’m taking tomorrow morning off. I’ll drive you so you can get your car fixed, and then you can go and see him.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“You don’t listen much, do you, John? This isn’t a democracy. That’s what we’re doing. It’s not open to debate.”

EVA DROVE MILTON to the garage to pick up a new set of spark plugs and then to the meeting hall. She waited while he changed the plugs and until the engine was running again.

He went over to the Porsche. They hadn’t said much during the ride across town to his car, and he felt a little uncomfortable. He had never been the best when it came to talking about his feelings. He had never been able to afford the luxury before, and it didn’t come naturally to him.

“Thanks for the ride,” he said.

“Charming!”

He laughed, blushing. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant,” she said, the light dancing in her eyes. “I’m joking.”

The words clattered into each other. “Oh—never mind.”

“You’re a funny guy, John,” she said. “Relax, all right? I had a nice night.”

“Nice?”

“All right—better than nice. It was so nice that I’d like to do it again. You up for that?”

“Sure.”

“Be at the next meeting. My place for dinner afterwards. Now—come here.”

He leant down and rather awkwardly kissed her through the window.

“What’s up?”

“I was wondering,” he said. “Could you do me a favour?”

“Sure.”

He told her about Doctor Andrew Brady and his potential involvement on the night that Madison went missing. He explained that he had worked at St Francis, like she did, and asked if she could find out anything about him.

“You want me to pull someone’s personnel file?” she asked with mock outrage. “Someone’s
confidential
personnel file?”

“Could you?”

“Sure,” she said. “Can you make it worth my while?”

“I can try.”

“Give me a couple of days,” she said.

“See you,” he said.

“You will.”

TRIP WAS WAITING outside Dottie’s, pacing nervously, catching frequent glances at his watch. He was wearing a woollen beanie, and he reached his fingers beneath it, scratching his scalp anxiously. His face cleared a little when he saw Milton.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic. Is he here?”

“Think so. The guy at the back—at the counter.”

“All right. That’s good.”

“How we gonna play this?”

“I want you to introduce yourself and then tell him who I am, but it might turn out best if I do the talking after that, okay? We’ll play it by ear and see how we get on.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Just talk. Get his story.”

“And then the police?”

“Let’s see what he’s got to say first—then we decide what we do next.”

The café was reasonably large, with exposed beams running the length of the ceiling with a flat glass roof above. The brickwork was exposed along one side, there was a busy service area with a countertop around it, and the guests were seated at freestanding tables. Blackboards advertised breakfast and a selection of flavoured coffees. A counter held home-made cakes under clear plastic covers, and quartered wooden shelving bore crockery and condiments. A single candelabra-style light fitting hung down from the ceiling, and there were black-and-white pictures of old Hollywood starlets on the walls. The room was full.