The Killing of Bobbi Lomax (17 page)

Clark, his empty plate in front of him, was staring at the newspaper. He couldn’t believe that he had done it. He looked to where, behind the ketchup and menus, he’d tucked the large envelope to give to Kenny. He hadn’t told him anything on the phone. Just that it was a courier job. And it was urgent. And to pack his overnight kit.

Behind that envelope was an identical one, inside which were three lists. Wish lists. One for the Faith, one for the Real Faith and one for the more literary-minded collectors and booksellers and their clients. Clark would get them copied up later. On the lists were individual lost gems. And many gems that had never even existed. Clark thought that was the ideal scenario. That way you could create the ultimate document for each client. Bespoke forgeries. Clark hated that word, ‘forgery’. ‘Creation’ was far less unpleasant. ‘Forgery’ was such a negative word. He was an artist, not a forger. A creative artist.

‘Good?’ Clark looked up from his newspaper. Gloria, a forty-something career waitress, was stood over him. ‘The schnitzel?’

‘It came highly recommended.’

‘Looks like it sure lived up to the recommendation. Room for dessert?’

‘I shouldn’t.’

She leaned down toward him.

‘See that line by the door?’

Clark looked up. While he’d been lost in thought, the diner had filled up, not a spare seat in the house. By the entrance a gaggle of seniors were stood, menus in hand, primed to shuffle at a pace towards the first table that looked like it might be ready to expel its diners.

‘If they see you just sipping on coffee, gazing out the window, they’re gonna turn you to stone with their stares.’

Clark looked back over to the seniors. They caught his stare and heads tilted almost in unison, seemed to be waiting for him to get the hell out of Dodge and relinquish the four-person booth he was hogging all to himself.

‘Look what they did to those two.’

She indicated out to the thin green strip of what passed for lawn outside the diner, where, planted in the lawn, were two stone grotesques. ‘I obviously missed the warning. Maybe in a few minutes. I’m waiting on a friend,’ Clark told her.

Gloria looked down at Clark’s open newspaper. ‘He as famous as you, this friend?’

Clark’s eyes followed her gaze to where in the center of the page sat the Faith’s official group photo from yesterday, all of them grinning out at the world as they gathered way too proudly around the Testament. ‘It’s not me.’ Gloria picked up the newspaper, held it up to her face, peered over the top of it at Clark, then back to the newspaper.

‘Not you? Your twin then?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Says here that old bit of paper was worth fifty grand, that’s more than my house!’

‘Everything’s only worth what people will pay for it,’ he looked at her name badge, ‘Gloria – and you gotta take into account a whole bunch of criteria. How much would you pay for your house today?’

‘With my old man in it? Nothing!’

‘And with Harrison Ford in it?’

‘Well, I’d sell my soul for that – and throw in the house ’n’ all.’

‘I rest my case.’

She took up his plate. ‘Well, Mr Houseman, if you or your twin ever bump into Harrison, be sure and send him to 1321 South Beacon.’

‘Sure will.’

Clark had just turned back to his newspaper when he heard a commotion over by the door. He looked up to see a blond man in biker’s leathers squeezing past the diners. Kenny. Now everyone had a reason to stare. ‘Sorry! Sorry! I had a drop-off downtown. Jeez, this place is out of the way.’

‘That’s kind of the point.’

Kenny threw himself down into the booth, made a grab for the envelope. ‘This it?’

‘Careful.’ Clark grabbed Kenny’s wrist, moved the envelope out of his reach. ‘It’s fragile.’

‘Can I have a look?’

‘Not here, no. When you get it to its destination.’

‘LA?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s why I brought the Harley.’

Technically, it wasn’t a Harley. Not an official one, off the production line. Kenny had spent the past decade cobbling original Harley used spare parts together to create his very own dream machine. Discount version. ‘Sweet ride.’

‘The Harley? Where you gonna put this?’

‘I got a studded calf-leather side satchel. Beautiful detail. I’m gonna pop it in there.’

‘Isn’t that near the exhaust?’

‘It’s
above
the
side
of the exhaust.’

Why was Kenny talking to him as if
he
was the idiot?

‘It’s paper.’

‘It’s padded, this envelope, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t sweat it, it’ll be fine. I’ve got a T-shirt in there, for my overnight kit. I’ll wrap it in that also.’

‘You got insurance?’

‘’Course. Some of those big rig guys out on the highway, they don’t even see us. Wipe you out just like that.’

Clark did not want his document wiped out, just like that or any other how. ‘This envelope is worth twenty K to the dealer and I don’t want it getting lost or burned up by the exhaust.’

‘Twenty K!? The envelope?’

Now he was a comedian.

‘What’s inside.’

‘Another document? Where’d you find this one? You’re better than those guys, y’know, the ones with the sticks that find water out in the desert.’

‘Diviners?’

‘Yeah. Them. So, where’d you get it?’

‘A collector.’

Kenny waited for him to tell him the collector’s name or details. Instead, Clark just smiled at him. ‘Anonymity – a God-given gift.’

‘And one I’d happily forgo for ten million greenbacks or a roll in the hay with Kathleen Turner.’ Gloria was clearing the booth behind them. Kenny turned to her, ‘Can I get the special and a Coke float, miss? Thanks.’ He turned back to Clark. ‘You not eating?’

‘Apparently, I’m having dessert. Whatever pie you got today, Gloria. Thanks.’

‘Vanilla float?’

‘That’d be great. Thanks, Gloria.’ Kenny smiled, winked at Clark.

‘Coke float. How old are you?’

‘Old enough, dude.’ Kenny laughed to himself.

Clark leaned forward in his seat. Kenny copied him.

‘OK, listen up, here’s the details.’

Kenny moved even closer. Maybe it was because Kenny was pissing him off, but Clark wrapped his right hand gently around Kenny’s wrist, pressed his fingers into the inside of the wrist and dropped his voice down into a muted hum. Kenny didn’t say anything, he just stared curiously at him. Thought it might be part of the details.
Idiot.
Kenny leaned forward a little. Clark placed the fingers of his left hand on Kenny’s left temple.

‘Close your eyes.’ Kenny closed his eyes. ‘Now imagine you’re in California. By the ocean. Maybe Redondo, Laguna, Malibu. Wherever the girls are more beautiful. The surf’s up.’

‘I’m liking this trip already,’ said Kenny.

Not under yet. Keep trying. ‘Ssssssh. You need to be quiet. Really, really quiet.’

Clark took a quick look around, everyone had their nose in their food or their menus. Clark dropped his voice even lower, moved closer to Kenny. ‘There are bikini-clad women everywhere and as much weed as you can smoke in a lifetime.’ Clark noticed that Kenny’s stooped head was looking a bit heavier. Clark glanced to the side. Kenny’s eyes were firmly shut.

‘You’re going to take off all your clothes and swim in the surf, the sea is amazingly warm and soothing, like the best hot tub ever. You forget about your long journey and all your aches and pains, life’s disappointments just ebb from you. But first, before you can do any of that, you’re going to drive very, very carefully with this package to the Harris Salesroom, 415 Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills. They’re expecting it. Tell them your name is Dave and that Cliff sent you. Clifford Hartman. He’s the dealer.’

Kenny could so easily have been a Dave. Or a Neanderthal.

‘And if you look inside the package, or get sight of the document, you are going to instantly forget what is in there.’ Kenny’s head looked super-heavy now. Clark’s head was bent down next to his, they looked like they were in prayer so no one in the diner batted an eyelid. Clark had forgotten something. ‘Ensure you get a receipt. And when I click my fingers in a minute, you will open your eyes and remember that you’re in a hurry and have to leave so you can get most of the way there before nightfall. When you come back from Cali, you better come see me right away before you do anything else.’

Clark sat back in his seat. Clicked his fingers loudly. Kenny sat back in his seat, startled. ‘What happened?’

‘I think you nodded off. Something I said?’

Kenny didn’t answer him, instead he looked at his watch.

‘What’s up?’ said Clark.

‘I gotta get on the road, man.’

‘What’s the rush?’

‘It’s getting late.’

‘One special: bacon, mac ’n’ cheese, and a coke float. Vanilla.’ Gloria had appeared beside the booth, hands full of bounty.

Kenny looked at the food. Back at Clark. ‘I don’t have time to eat this.’

Gloria looked at Clark. ‘He’s kidding, right?’

‘Something tells me no.’

Kenny was up now, out of the booth. Taking a twenty out of his pocket.

‘Forget it, I got the check,’ said Clark, passing him the padded envelope.

‘OK, man, that’s great. Thanks. I’ll keep it real safe.’ He headed for the exit.

‘What am I gonna do with this?’ Gloria pushed the plate towards Clark.

‘Why not give it to Ziggy?’

‘That’s kind of you, Mr Houseman. What about the Coke float?’

‘I’ll take that.’

Clark took the Coke from her and she made back towards the kitchen.

Clark could hear the roar of the Harley as Kenny rode out of the lot. He dug his spoon into the ice cream, took a few bites. Not bad. He finished it and went back to reading his newspaper.

The ’69 Mustang twisted high up into the canyon, its lights picking out half-lit entrances to driveways which grew less frequent the higher it climbed. It was a full minute since he’d passed the last house when the heavy wrought-iron gates of 6700 Jericho Drive reared into view. Robert must have been watching him wind his way up the canyon, for the gates swung wide open before he’d even stopped the car, let alone thought about reaching out to ring the buzzer at the side of them.

His headlights lit up the house, a palace of wood and glass. The snow fell deeper up here, but it was neatly piled in white walls on either side of the drive. Robert stood at the open front door.

Handshakes and Marty was inside.

Robert took his coat from him, hung it on a hanger and tucked it away into a discreet cupboard to the side of the vast entrance hall, a glass cathedral at the center of the house, reaching out to the stars and beyond.

‘Where’s Cerise?’

‘Gone to her sister’s in Palm Springs for the week. Back Tuesday. Her case finished early. Your call broke the silence.’

‘Some winter sun? I could do with getting out of town.’

‘I heard.’

‘The Mission? Alan?’

Robert held up his hands. ‘I am not my Brother’s keeper. And he sure as hell isn’t mine. But, in my job, it pays to keep abreast of local news.’

‘And gossip?’

‘Always gossip. Although usually that comes via Cerise’s circle of real nosey friends.’

Marty smiled, shook his head. ‘Shame no one can tell me who the bomber is.’

‘Come on, it’s through this way now. Cerise had the whole place remodeled in the spring. Colonial style. All this, it’s Canadian maple.’

They were inside a vast study which led off the hall. Through the floor-to-ceiling window that formed the outside walls of the room, the entire city was at their feet, marked out by a carpet of white lights.

‘The view hasn’t changed.’

‘Yeah. I’m still not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.’

‘I’ll second that.’

Robert moved across to the drinks cabinet. ‘Not going well, your case?’

‘Too many suspects, not enough evidence.’

‘You remind me why I quit the DA’s office.’

‘I got to find this guy.’

‘Can’t help you much on that one, gossip or no gossip. But I might have something better.’

‘Yeah?’

‘A fantastic Calvados, I got it last time we were at Amanda’s in LA. Remember, Cerise’s sister?’

He remembered. She was too beautiful to forget.

Robert slowly poured two fingers into each cut-crystal tumbler. ‘She’s on her third multimillionaire husband now. Each time the cellar gets better. I should tell her to divorce this one and trade up again. Ernest, that’s the latest one, he gave me a couple of bottles when we were leaving. He’s a good guy, straight up. You’d like him.’ He handed the drink off to Marty. ‘I’m hoping Cerise will bring a case of it back this time.’

Both men sat down in the large leather armchairs. Robert took out a large cigar from a box of Cubans on the side table and offered it to Marty. Marty waved his hand, no. ‘May I?’ He took out one of his roll-ups.

‘If you must. It’ll insult the Calvados, but why spoil the habits of a lifetime?’

‘Cheers.’ They leaned forward and clinked glasses.

‘To Ernest,’ said Robert.

‘Ernest.’ They took their first sips.

‘Delicious, isn’t it?’

‘You’re right about that. That new too, the drinks cabinet?’

‘I got it in Scottsdale. Antique store. It’s on wheels. I’m too old for lifting heavy crap. Makes it easier to slip out of sight when I have more, how can I say,
particular
guests.’

‘Playing with fire.’

‘No fun not to. I keep reminding myself I’ve a lifetime appointment. They have to pay me off to get rid of me. And you know how the Faith hates to part with its money.’

‘And its information.’

Robert smiled. They took another sip. Fell into silence. Only the crackle of the logs on the fire filled the room. ‘What can I help you with, Marty, I know you’re not here to chew the rag.’

Marty took another drag of his roll-up. Exhaled. ‘I need some warrants.’

‘Warrants? For murder? I can issue warrants, but not for murder.’

‘I don’t want you to issue it for murder.’

‘What then?’

‘Fraud, financial misdemeanor. I’ve no idea. I just need to get inside some houses and a couple of business addresses.’

‘Not a fishing expedition, is it?’

‘No. But I’m going in with my eyes open.’

‘What is it you’re looking for?’

‘A ledger, details of secret bank accounts, illicit payments in or out. All that jazz. Oh, and not forgetting the bomb factory.’

‘You think that’s it, fraud, the motive for the bombings?’

‘I think it might be. And right now I’d really like to rule it either in or out. We got a list of three thousand investors and I don’t want to have to interview every damn one of ’em, not if there’s another way.’

‘Three thousand potential complainants. I can see your problem. You got probable cause?’

‘Not much. But I got two victims on the slab and two in the hospital. And a dead dog. And who knows how many victims tomorrow and if that’s not cause I don’t know what is.’

‘Death and injury’s not enough. Tell me what else you got.’

Marty told him about the ledger and about Linda Lomax’s divorce, the investment company’s vanishing money and Peter Gudsen’s concerns, ending with a brief overview of Houseman and Angel. When he’d finished they were on their second tumbler. Robert Laidlaw exhaled deeply, shook his head. ‘You know what I’m going to say?’

‘That it’s not enough.’

Robert nodded. ‘It’s not enough, Marty. Besides, isn’t this a Federal case already?’

‘No. Not yet. Nothing filed.’

‘The fraud will be filed soon enough. After the Sheriff’s little stunt on TV the other day.’

‘But, in the meantime, while the Feds are snoozing, can you do anything . . . ?’

‘I can’t get you warrants for them all. But . . .’

Marty sat up in his seat. ‘But?’

‘It’s not going to be easy – and you probably won’t be much ahead of the Feds – but I can grant you warrants for searches for Gudsen and Lomax. House and business addresses.’

‘The others?’

‘There’s no link. Nothing. But. And this is down to you now. I need you to get complainants.’

‘Complainants?’

‘For the fraud. If it’s not a Federal case. We have to file a case into the Chancery court records. It’s an antiquated system. Which has its benefits. And in a case like this I need ten per cent of the total potential complainants before we can put it on record.’

‘That’s three hundred people, Rob.’

‘Thanks, Einstein. I already did the math. And that’s the minimum. Without it, you can’t file and I can’t issue the warrants.’

‘Signing up three hundred people. That’s going to take forever.’

‘Not if they think they can get back their lost money and that without the warrants, every minute that ticks by their case is probably being destroyed.’

‘How are they going to get their money back? Linda Lomax said there wasn’t enough money to settle her divorce case.’

‘The money’s there. At least, it usually is in this kind of case. They’re just not finding it. Even if it’s only assets left which they could liquidate. Who lost the most, perhaps they should be your first three hundred calls?’

‘It can’t be them.’

‘Why not?’

‘It just can’t.’

‘Marty.’

‘Because they’re the ones with the most likely motive.’

‘They’re your suspects?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Do they all have to make depositions?’

‘No depositions, not yet. They just have to agree to make a joint complaint.’

‘How am I gonna get three hundred of them?’

‘Maybe the folks who invested the least? I’m assuming they’re lower down on your suspect list? Even though their loss might have hurt them the most.’

Marty nodded. ‘You’re right. My guys said those who lost tens of thousands seemed to mostly shrug it off.’

‘Professional investors.’

‘Seems that way.’

‘They take the rough with the smooth. Find those whose investment seems smallest – that way you’ll get your ten per cent soon enough.’

‘I guess it’d bite the small investors more. Do they have to have a lawyer?’

‘Of course.’

‘Not a different one for each of them?’

‘No. They just need one lawyer to rep them as a whole. It’s a formality. They sign a very simple form of engagement with the lawyer. And, collectively, they can change the lawyer at any time.’

‘No fees up front?’

‘None.’

‘Where do I get the form?’

‘Do I have to do everything for you?’

‘I’m criminal, not civil. That’s your bag. Call me if you run a stop sign with a gut full of Calvados.’

‘Thanks. Damien Jones. He seems to win everything that comes before Chancery. He’ll give you the forms you need.’

‘Not your golfing partner, is he?’

‘No. Alan’s.’

Marty scrutinized him.

‘Relax. I’m kidding. He’s the best. Works this state and Delaware.’

‘Delaware?’

‘Used to have our system. Helps if you know your way around it. Wins a lot of cases. He’ll be able to help your investors.’

‘You wanna give him a call for me?’

‘Do I look like your secretary?’

‘I dunno. She doesn’t exist. The department can’t afford one, especially not your pay grade. I’ll buy you a pastrami on rye next time you’re down at the Courthouse café.’

‘Can’t wait. Pass me that phone.’

‘Now who’s the secretary?’

Marty picked up the trim binatone dappled with leopard print and passed it, smiling quizzically, to Robert, who quickly began punching in the numbers, whispering, ‘Cerise got it in London . . . Ssssh . . . It’s ringing.’

‘A good start.’

Robert smiled widely, pointed into the handset, ‘Hey, Damien. Yeah, Robert. Judge Laidlaw to you.’ He laughed. ‘I got you a client. Scrub that. I got you three hundred new clients. Great case. You’ll be on the front page of the
Wall Street Journal
again with this one, my friend. You interested?’ Robert’s smile got even wider, he gave the thumbs up to Marty. ‘Great. I’ll get their spokesman to call you in the morning. Yeah, at the office.’

Robert hung up and fished around in his Rolodex, pulled out a card. ‘Here. Get their spokesman to call him in the morning.’

‘Spokesman? We don’t even have one claimant yet.’

‘You’ll get them. Just start spreading the word. Come on. You need to get dialing. Where you headed?’

‘Back to my desk.’

‘That’s the spirit. Talking of which, better you don’t have any more of this.’ Robert took Marty’s tumbler from his hand and downed the remaining Calvados.

Marty was shrugging his coat back on. Robert had his hand on the door. ‘You know they’ll find out pretty quickly, you won’t be able to keep it quiet. Work fast.’

Marty nodded.

‘If you think the Faith are embroiled in this somehow they won’t let you get your warrants, won’t want you finding things out, that’s if there’s still anything left for a warrant to find. You need to get to the complainants before they do. They probably have more leverage than you – unless you’re offering a place in heaven.’

‘Not today. But I’ve got a plan.’ Marty shook Robert’s hand, nodded farewell.

‘A plan is good.’

‘A good plan is even better,’ said Marty, pulling up his collar.