The Killing of Bobbi Lomax (15 page)

Time was running out. He needed to find somewhere. And fast. Had to make the call. The last place he’d stopped he had just got through to her when a shrill sound somewhere off in the distance made him stop and turn. Over on the other side of the parking lot, near the road, a woman in a bright blue uniform, one that had probably last fit a decade ago, was calling his name and waving like she was drowning. Mary-Beth, Edie’s best friend, after her sister of course. ‘Hey, Clark. You going in?’ He looked to where she was pointing, to the diner the other side of the dry cleaner where he stood, still holding the handset. ‘I got thirty minutes, I gotta run to the bank, but I’ll be back if you wait.’

Why hadn’t he remembered Mary-Beth worked there? He didn’t want to yell back over, draw attention, not more attention anyhow. A couple of people peered out from their window booths to see who their disappearing server was yelling and waving at so frantically. He shook his head. Held the handset up. ‘Just got an urgent page. I already ate. Thanks.’ Whatever kind of urgent pages coin dealers get. She looked confused.

‘Not Edie, I hope? Baby Lori?’ She was still yelling.

‘No. Work. A meeting. I’m late.’ He pointed at his watch.

She didn’t yell. Instead, she was just stood staring at him, half in half out of her car blocking the exit.

‘I better go,’ he spoke as if she was next to him and pointed over the lot to his car. A kind of mime. She waved at him. Hopefully, that was a goodbye, the end of it. He didn’t want her coming over. Standing by him. He hung up the phone. He would try somewhere else. She was back in her car. Before she could drive over to him he began walking, weaving in and out of parked cars towards his own. Behind her another driver had just pulled out from the dry cleaner’s. She couldn’t stop any longer on the narrow exit, thank goodness. But just in case she turned around, or looked in the mirror, Clark forced a wave back in her direction and a kind of sad face with a shame-we-couldn’t-catch-up half-smile. He would try somewhere else. They had said the morning. It was now almost midday.

He had headed out over surface streets towards the mostly undeveloped area just a few miles away on the edge of the city. Here was good. He looked at the strip mall, a diner behind it, just a handful of cars in the car park. Quiet. And the wrong side of town for any of his or Edie’s friends. Hopefully. He could see a couple of payphones next to the diner. At least one of them might be in service. It was ten after twelve, there was no time to start again.

Ring, ring; ring, ring. Eleven times. Pick up. Pick. Up. ‘Newsdesk, Debra Franklin.’ He shoved a dime in. An impatient voice. Denver. He had guessed she was an out-of-towner from the slant of her articles.

‘Hi, Debra.’

‘Did you just call, earlier?’

‘Technical problems.’

‘What can I do for you . . . ?’

‘Cliff. Cliff Hartman. How interested are you in the Faith, Debra?’

‘Are you recruiting me, Mr Hartman?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘I’ve got something that might interest you.’

‘What?’

‘Information.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘The cover-up kind.’

‘Keep talking.’

And so they’d talked. Or at least Clark had, while she scribbled notes and asked a ton of questions. He hoped he had disguised his voice enough. He had spoken low. Not exactly Deep Throat, but something that hopefully didn’t sound like Clark Houseman or his close associate Clifford Hartman or anything in between. She had been invited to Monday’s press conference. The Faith were going to present the Testament of Faith to the world. He told her that there was something far more important, and it definitely wouldn’t be on display. He called it the Bright Bible. Reporters love that kind of shit. He told her that the Faith had bought it, beaten the Real Faith out of the deal. When she sounded surprised they would buy it with its polygamous details writ large, he laughed and told her they hadn’t bought it to sit on display in their museum next to the Testament. For all he knew, they would probably burn it. She really liked that. Book burning always made for great copy, especially if you wanted your articles syndicated across the globe. She was impressed he didn’t want money for the tip. He said he would call again, he was sure of that. And wished her good luck for the press conference. He could almost hear her planning Monday’s ambush as he replaced the handset.

As he moved away from the phone, he stopped for a minute outside the diner. It was lunchtime and excitement always made him thirsty but his flask was empty. Maybe he could get some lunch instead. A man, his skin crisped by long exposure to the desert sun, lines burnt deep into his face, shuffled past him. A paperback book clutched in one hand. He nodded towards Clark. Clark nodded back, smiled, and watched as the man moved to the back of the diner and disappeared inside a tiny low-built hut, just a few yards behind the payphone. Clark had been so busy concentrating on his call, he hadn’t even noticed it. He looked at the hut, at the phone, back at the diner. He smiled. It might just work. It was certainly worth a shot. He moved towards the hut. ‘Hey, sir? Excuse me?’ There was a piece of dark fabric over the entrance. You would have to duck down and push it aside for the person inside to see you. Clark didn’t want to stick his head in there. Silently, the man opened the fabric. Clark noticed he was sat cross-legged on the floor like a skinny version of Buddha. He didn’t say anything, just stared out at Clark. Clark crouched down a little. Not too far. But near enough so he didn’t have to raise his voice any.

‘You always here, sir?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You here all the time?’

‘Between here and my suite at the Waldorf.’

Funny.

Clark smiled. The guy smiled back. Something caught the corner of Clark’s eye. Writing. Printed writing. Rows and rows of names. Titles. And then he noticed. The hut was constructed entirely of paperback books, all laid like bricks, so the spines faced outwards. A paper igloo.

‘This is pretty neat. You do this yourself?’

‘Yeah. But now people bring me the books. I don’t have to go digging in the garbage outside the Mission any more.’

‘Banned books, hey?’

‘They’re the free ones.’

‘You like books?’

‘They keep me warm. And dry. And it’s pretty soundproof in here. So the breakfast folks don’t wake me up. In winter, I put that tarp over the top. The extra layer of books on the floor and around the base. That way the snow and rain don’t seep in.’

‘That works?’

‘Still alive, ain’t I?’

‘Do you want to make some money?’

‘That would kinda depend how.’

‘Answering the phone.’

‘The phone?’

‘Yeah, that one. The payphone. Politely.’

‘I can do polite.’

Clark looked at him. Eyebrows raised. ‘You sure about that?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Clark. Clark Houseman.’

‘Clark Houseman’s . . . office.’

‘Great. You’re a natural.’

A surge of chatter and laughter behind them. Clark turned around as a large group vanished into the diner. Another group of smartly dressed people were jaywalking on the opposite side of the road, towards them, from what looked like a newly built retro building.

‘What’s that building?’

‘You not from around here? That’s the new synagogue.’

‘What happened to the one over on Providence?’

‘Sold it to the Faith. Built that one. It’s bigger.’

‘What’s it like? The diner?’

‘You ask a lot of questions. You a cop, mister?’

‘Not today. Seriously, what’s it like?’

‘Great schnitzel,’ he smiled. ‘That’s the newest thing on the menu. Gloria, she usually gives me her dinner. You know they get a free dinner?’ Clark guessed Gloria was a waitress. ‘And sometimes half the dessert. She likes dessert. I like the pie best. Apple.’ Clark took that as a hint. ‘She doesn’t mind I don’t tip. I always offer her a book. She likes books. Thrillers, mostly.’ Clark liked thrillers, a lot. Schnitzel was good too, but had to be cut razor thin. And the fat at just the right temperature before the breaded chicken hit it. Otherwise it became a soggy rubbery mess.

‘Here’s my pager number.’ Clark took out a pen and an old receipt and wrote on the back of it. He didn’t want to give him his card. If something happened to the guy, he didn’t want people finding his business card in amongst the possessions crammed inside the igloo. ‘I’ll give you a dollar for every call you take for me. Get the caller’s name, number and what they’re looking for: books . . .’

‘Books, huh?’

‘Yeah, first editions, manuscripts, that kind of stuff. That’s what we sell. And then you page me as soon as you can. My associate’s name is Clifford Hartman . . .’

‘Oh, yeah. Where’s he at, then?’

‘I don’t let him out much. He’s a little unpredictable. We only sell. And don’t get either of us mixed up. I’m Clark. He’s Cliff. It’s all highly confidential. Think you can handle it?’

‘I can handle anything.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘Sell, sell, sell. Make it two bucks a pop and you and your unpredictable friend Cliff Hartman, you got yourselves a deal.’

‘Alright. Two bucks – every time you send through all the correct info. Here’s a pen – and a bunch of dimes for the pager calls. And here’s five bucks, get yourself some of those Post-It notes and extra dimes for spare. I saw a stationer’s right along the street. You can stick them up on the walls, inside. That way, in case I can’t understand the page, you won’t have lost the original note.’

‘That’s good with me.’

Clark handed him the dimes and the pen and fished another twenty out of his pocket. ‘That’s an advance. I’ll stop by every couple of days, eat schnitzel and pay you. There’ll probably be a lot of calls, starting Monday, you OK with that?
’

‘Not going anywhere.’

Clark started to move towards the phone.

‘Where you going?’

‘To get the number.’

‘Six, thirty-three, forty-six, fifty-five.’

Clark turned and looked at him.

‘Check if you like. But I know it by heart. My mom calls me on that. I don’t want her to know I’m . . .’ He looked at the book-gloo surrounding him. ‘Y’know.’

Clark nodded. ‘Yeah. I know. Six, thirty-three, forty-six, fifty-five.’

‘You got it.’ He held the money up. ‘Thanks, man.’

Clark begin to walk towards the diner.

‘Hey, Mr Houseman! What are my hours?’

Clark looked back over his shoulder. ‘Nine to five. Monday to Friday. Start Monday.’

‘Dress casual?’

‘Yeah.’ Clark smiled back at him.

‘My name’s Ziggy!’

Clark, one hand on the diner door, looked back over his shoulder. ‘Ziggy . . . Bookman. Thanks.’

Ziggy smiled, waved the cash at Clark and let the cloth door drop back down.

Marty watched from across the room as the Captain got up, his phone cradled to his ear, its cord overstretched, and closed his office door, casting a glance in Marty’s direction as he did. The Faith – Laidlaw – probably calling to complain about him. About his tactics. Too bad. He had got what he wanted. Correction. What he knew they had to give him in terms of information, if they wanted him to go away and not cause them any immediate problems. They had more. He knew it. And they knew he knew it. He had meant it about closing down the city. It was easily done. A few roadblocks, searching for evidence – or bombs – in vehicles, at each of the three freeway exits serving the various parts of the city. Traffic would be backed up for miles. Their Followers would lose money: their tenants in the offices, hotels and retail outlets downtown would lose the most. And when they were losing money, the Faith was losing their ten per cent of all that, not to mention fielding a deluge of calls from pissed-off tenants and business owners wanting to know what the hell was going on.

‘Still alive, huh?’ It was Al. He was smiling. Wider than the Cheshire Cat. And walking fast toward him, not his usual meander.

‘Looks that way.’

‘Man, I thought I’d see your head on a stake above the Mission.’

‘You might get that wish before you know it.’

Al flung himself down into his chair and spun around to face Marty. ‘How did it go?’

‘The usual.’

‘That good?’ He smiled. ‘Screw them, we got a break.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah. For sure. We got ourselves a witness.’

‘To what?’

‘To the parking of the car, and the parker.’

‘The parker?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Who’s your witness?’

‘The dog walker.’

‘Our eye-witness is a guy that’s about to lose an eye.’

‘Yeah, but he hadn’t lost it before he saw the guy.’

‘So, it’s a guy then? Not old Mrs Miller?’

‘They’re still looking for her. And Angel’s not gonna lose the eye. I was there when the doc was looking him over. He’s gonna have an op. Later today. But it’s all looking good for the eye.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘For him too, I guess.’

‘Yeah. But for us, it’s good not to have a blind guy as the only eye-witness.’

‘Better than no witness.’

‘I guess. Funny how none of the so-called sighted have seen a damn thing. No one’s even phoned in with any credible suspects, not for even one of the bombings. It’s like this guy’s a ghost.’

Al flipped open his notepad. ‘Maybe he was, until now. But by tomorrow we might have a picture of him, courtesy of the dog walker. Some kind of likeness we can circulate.’

‘Did he recognize him?’

‘No, never seen him before. There or around. I just got the basics. The doc was pretty keen on getting me out of the way. But Angel saw him, our guy that first morning.’

‘Or who we hope is our guy.’

‘Yeah. That day Angel’s got an appointment to get to. A potential new client. A lawyer lady. One of his current clients, a Mrs Nickalls, she recommended him. It’s at ten fifteen downtown, her offices. She wants to buy a dog she can keep in the office. Something small, but that likes kids. She works with traumatized kids. Thinks the dog might put them at ease. But she doesn’t want it barking all day when she’s trying to work, or biting the kids’ hands off. So, she wants some advice on picking a good breed – and also to see if Angel can come over and walk the thing a couple of times a day. Anyway, so he tells his other clients he has to do the poo-walk earlier than usual. Thirty minutes. So he can get home, showered and back downtown as it’s the only time lawyer lady can do. When he gets to the space opposite the deli, it’s mayhem. His usual space has some kind of machinery parked in it, there’s a road gang already going at it with a digger. And the last space in that hour row just gets snaffled by some guy.’

‘In the Nissan?’

‘You got it. Anyway, Angel doesn’t sweat losing his spot too much because he thinks the road gang don’t look too bright, they’re working right next to his spot and he’s thinking they might drop some bit of machinery on his precious jeep. So he goes and parks further up, nearer the park.’

‘So the deli guy was wrong.’

‘You know witnesses. Memory and trauma don’t work too good together. But it’s virtually the only time Angel’s not parked in that exact spot. So, actually, it’s an easy mistake to make. He still gets his coffee, but he brings his dogs with him as he wants to save a bit of time and is starting to worry he’ll be late for the meeting. When he comes out of the deli, the car guy is still there, he’s putting something in the trunk, or getting something out. Anyway, the beagle starts barking at the car guy.’

‘The beagle? Interesting. I wonder if he could smell something on him.’

‘Possible. And then all the dogs start. Angel almost scalds himself with the coffee trying to yank the dogs away from the edge of the road. Car guy looks over at him, “as if looks could kill”. And then another dog coming down their side of the road distracts Angel’s dogs, and he yanks them all off towards the park.’

‘So he didn’t get much of a look?’

‘Not a long look, no. I said I’d send the sketch artist over tomorrow morning. But I got a description.’

‘Go on.’

‘Thick glasses, green jacket, slim. My height. So five ten. White.’

‘Hair colour?’

‘He thinks dark.’

‘Thinks.’

‘The dogs were distracting him.’

‘Age?’

‘Thirty-five maybe.’

‘How old’s Houseman?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘Shame. You think this is Hartman?’

‘Time will tell.’

‘Maybe the sketch artist and Angel will flush him out.’

‘Let’s hope.’

‘I called the artist already. She’s going over there at ten. The doc said they’re operating tonight. But the sketch might get delayed if Angel is groggy or still in recovery. I told the sketch girl to wait at the hospital, no matter what. And I put a uniform on the door 24/7.’

‘Good call. Where’s Hobbs?’

‘Didn’t you send him after the AWOL guys?’

‘Yeah. Haven’t heard from him. Thought you might? Radio him or page him for me? Give him the description of the suspect and the time and all that. See if it tallies with anyone he’s seen so far – or any of the AWOL guys. And circulate it, but make sure you tell them it’s just interim. We’ll have something better tomorrow.’

Al got up off his chair. ‘Hopefully. What did Laidlaw have to say?’

‘It wasn’t so much Laidlaw. Although he did most of the talking. It was all twelve of them, lined up like a firing squad.’

‘All twelve . . .’

‘Yeah, but I wasn’t leaving there without some kind of answers. Even their versions. But they’re still holding back. Something. And it must be big because they’d even rolled out the Supreme Leader.’

‘Trying to intimidate you?’

‘I guess. I told them the Chinatown tale.’

Al smiled. ‘Works every time.’

‘Lifted the veil of silence, that’s for sure. But not enough. They seemed pretty focused on Lomax and the missing money from his property investment scheme. They mentioned him a lot, Bobbi Lomax, Linda Lomax. They even suggested Bobbi Lomax’s high-school fiancé. Neither Bobbi nor him were Faith, needless to say. So they
really
thought he should be in the frame.’

‘Yeah. Weird that.’

‘For they can do no wrong.’

‘Unless it’s lose a million, like Lomax.’

‘Every flock has its black sheep.’

‘What about Angel and the beagle? What’s Bobbi Lomax’s ex got to do with them. He a dog hater?’

‘I don’t think the Faith’s figured out a connection yet.’

‘Give ’em time.’

‘But they as good as admitted that Peter Gudsen was tipped for the top job. His main focus though, until he ascended to world domination, was looking after the Faith library, which occupied much of his spare time when he was working, plus a lot of his time when he left Lomax in the summer.’

‘Worth getting Bobbi Lomax’s ex in here?’

‘I don’t think so. Get Hobbs and Carvell out to his place though, just in case. We can’t be seen to be ignoring tip-offs.’

‘Even the ones that seem like they’re giving us the runaround?’

‘Depends on the source. What interested me was what they weren’t saying. There were no helpful suggestions of a connection between Gudsen, Lomax – Bobbi or Arnold – and Houseman.’

‘No one else seems to know about one, either.’

‘But what about that miniature Bible?’

‘The one Gudsen gave Marion Rose?’

‘And which Gudsen might have got off Houseman.’

‘He didn’t have a store, did he?’

‘No. So he must have had some kind of client–dealer network going, selling to regulars.’

‘He might have an address book at his place. Might have the names in.’

‘He might. But we’re not going to get any kind of warrants unless we can put pretty overwhelming evidence on the table.’ Marty picked a folded newspaper off a pile of them on his desk, and pushed it towards Al.

‘Check this out.’

‘What?’

‘That story. The one with the picture. On the way back from the Faith, I stopped off at the
Desert Times
. I thought I’d try and find some other connection with Houseman and Gudsen or Lomax. Even the dog guy. Anything, no matter how left-field.’

‘This entire case is left-field.’

‘The archivist helped me track down some stuff. There’s a few entries for Clark Houseman and a whole bunch for Gudsen, his mostly to do with the library, some exhibitions of religious books they ran over there, a bunch of mentions to do with the financial meltdown, Gudsen, Lomax. Even a picture of Bobbi Lomax. Prom Queen.’

Al held up the paper. ‘Is that him, in the center? Houseman?’

‘Yeah. This is the first Houseman article in the paper.’ Marty patted the pile on his desk. ‘I got back copies, a bunch of them and some copies the librarian made for me off microfilm.’

‘Houseman looks different here.’

‘He looks different in every picture. Guy’s a chameleon.’

‘This the Supreme Leader? Laidlaw?’

‘The full line-up.’

‘I think I saw this on TV. They found some old document. An original or something?’

‘The Testament of Faith. And guess who found it?’

‘Houseman?’

‘Yep.’

‘Where?’

‘In an old English Bible. Tucked right inside. Imagine that. After all those years, it just shows up like that. The paper said it’s worth fifty K.’

‘Fifty K? How come nothing like that ever happens to me?’

‘I have a feeling it just did.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at the picture again. See Houseman sat there, looking like the cat that got the cream, and all the rest of them, looking even more smug.’

‘I’m looking.’

‘See that hand on Houseman’s shoulder? The person’s been cut out of the shot. The fingers, long, slender. Almost like a woman’s?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And the varsity ring on the finger?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s Peter Gudsen.’

‘How do you know that, from just a hand?’

‘I saw him, after the bombing, remember? I noticed the ring. And his fingers. It’s him, but just to help that ID along a bit, here.’ Marty gave Al the next paper from the pile. It was a page-size ad in the
Desert Times
. Lomax and Gudsen were standing amongst the painted backdrop of a new development, out at the top of the canyons, appealing for investors. ‘See the suit jacket?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Notice how it’s only got the two buttons. Usually there’d be three on the cuff.’

‘Yeah. But how does that help?’

‘Because in this other picture the arm with the missing person only has two buttons. And if you look close enough you can see a little thread from the jacket, where the missing button was.’ He handed Al a small magnifying glass.

Al looked sceptically at it. ‘The department’s gone hi-tech, huh?’

‘Just look.’

Marty looked at the top of Al’s head as he peered down at the photos. He had a few flecks of grey pushing through the dark mop. Probably not a good time to tell him.

‘Yeah. OK. I’ll give you that it’s the same jacket. And it might be the same hand. But what does it prove? They were in the same room together. Once.’

‘I think it proves more than that. Look at the press conference picture. The way Gudsen’s hand is kind of clasping Houseman’s shoulder. A “well done, man” hand on his shoulder. A tad familiar for two guys no one seems even able to put together in the same sentence.’

Al looked at the picture. ‘Looks like he’s giving his shoulder a good old squeeze.’

‘Like I said.’

‘Strange how none of the wives mentioned them knowing one another.’

‘You mean the live wives?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Question is, as only one of them is dead: what did Bobbi Lomax know?’

‘Pillow talk, maybe?’

‘More pillow talk than a wife of forty years, I’d bet.’

‘You and me both.’

‘You thinking that Houseman might be some kind of accomplice to Gudsen and Lomax and whatever was going on in that property investment firm?’

‘Yeah, because I’m thinking, why are the faith so keen on deflecting me away from Houseman?’

‘Maybe they suspect him?’

‘Or maybe they’re protecting him.’

‘He’d have to be of value to them to be risking that.’

‘Maybe it’s damage limitation? By protecting him, they protect his accomplice.’

‘Why would they protect Lomax? He’s the one center-frame for all that money going missing.’

‘No. Gudsen.’

‘They’re protecting Gudsen?’

‘He who shall inherit the Faith crown.’

‘But then why in the hell is Gudsen dead? And Bobbi Lomax? And Houseman and the Dog Angel in the hospital?’

‘Maybe someone, or something, decided to protect the Faith from the growing investment scandal. And an urgent, growing need to disassociate themselves from it, whatever the cost.’

‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Mart?’

‘That the Faith had them all killed? Or tried to?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’