The Killing of Bobbi Lomax (18 page)

The last lots he’d sold at an auction house were a series of framed lobby cards signed by Monroe, Lemmon and Curtis. Signed just by Curtis back in the day, but Clark had spent a happy night in his den with round after round of Upper Berth Manhattans and soon Monroe and Lemmon, flourish perfect, appeared right alongside Curtis.

Clark had hoped there might be a movie buff out in the desert someplace, but there’d been two. Luckily. One in the room and one on the phone. Clark had bought them from a yard sale he’d passed on his way down to Scottsdale the previous month. Forty bucks the lot. A hundred fifty for new frames. On the day, they’d sold for five thousand.

Usually, when he was selling, if it was a coin, he’d take Kenny with him. Let him get out of the car first, go in and register. He’d hold back ten minutes. Kenny always registered under his mother’s address in Santa Fe, that way no one noticed two lone guys, pretending to be strangers, arriving almost at the same time from the same place. Clark didn’t want people marking out dots and joining them up. Once the auction was in full swing Kenny would bid on a few random things, come in low, bid a couple of times and then drop out early; then, when it came to Clark’s lots, bid a few rounds, up the price, and drop out at the last minute.

Always stand at the back of the room. There you can read the backs of people’s heads, how tight their hand is clamped on the paddle; what page the catalogue is open on, even where they’ve kindly marked out what they’re after – multiple inked rings around something usually equalled very interested. Some even scribbled down next to the item the maximum price they were prepared to bid for it. At the back of the room, it was like a game of faceless poker. Kenny was good at poker. Some days he was almost as good as Clark. At auctions it’s always good to have someone on your side in the room, bringing heat, buzz to the crowd for your lots. Just like a good game of craps. Money follows money. Everyone wants in the game when they watch someone else putting their coin on chance. You can’t wait for the roll of the dice to decide, the dice fall faster than the gavel and then it’s too late. Kenny had helped bid up Clark’s coins to way more than they were worth on many an occasion. He didn’t know they were counterfeits and Clark had no intention of telling him. Ever.

Today, in the unfamiliar room, the auction in full flow, there was no Kenny, so Clark was working a different plan. He’d already bid on a few items he wasn’t remotely interested in, just so he could appear disappointed when he didn’t get them. Next to him was Travis J. Winkleman the Third, who, according to the envelope for his catalogue, resided at 613 North Arden Drive, Beverly Hills. Clark had spied him during his earlier pre-sale tour of the items. He’d been lingering near Clark’s lot, gazing curiously at it as he peered in to where it was laid out flat in the temperature-controlled glass cabinet. Clark had watched him as he read the blurb in the catalogue and then stood watching while a few other people approached it, almost like he wanted to ask them something but didn’t dare. TJ had marked its entry in the catalogue with a question mark. And then another.

The auctioneer was barely through the first twenty lots and TJ had already spent almost twenty-seven thou, on a clutch of French furniture, an art deco diamond bracelet, and a gaudy golden filigree and enamelled confection that looked like the poor cousin of a Fabergé egg.

Going, going, gone.

The gavel came down again. The successful bidder’s number was quickly jotted down and almost instantly the auctioneer’s assistant was up again walking around the room, showing off Exhibit 21. Clark’s. Up at his lectern the auctioneer was glossing its merits as TJ and some others leaned forward to hear anything of note that might help them determine how high to bid.

‘Do I have eighteen thousand?’

A numbered paddle towards the front suddenly shot up. One of the staff manning the telephones also nodded and back and forth the trio went until the bid hit twenty-nine thousand. TJ hesitantly clutched his paddle as it hovered a few inches off his lap. Clark leaned towards him and whispered, ‘You’re not sure if you want to bid?’

‘Not at all sure,’ TJ whispered back.

‘It’s not my money – but I’d go for it.
’

TJ was looking at Clark now. Clark switched his smile to megawatt. ‘Religion never goes out of fashion. And the Faith’s the fastest-growing religion in the world. You got a growing audience and not many historical documents or manuscripts: you’ll always find someone to buy it from you.’

‘Really?’

‘Sure. And for a good price.’

‘Forty-two thousand,’ said the auctioneer’s phone assistant.

TJ leaned in towards Clark. ‘How much should I bid?’

‘Oh, only what you can afford.’

‘Thanks.’ TJ’s paddle shot up and with it the price. ‘Forty-five.’

‘Forty-five to our regular gentleman in the back there. Thank you, sir. Late to the party on this, but here all the same.’

On the phone. ‘Forty-six.’

‘Fifty,’ shouted TJ, and with that, his phone rival was silenced.

He turned to Clark, smiling. ‘Great. Thanks.’ Shook his hand, before turning back to the auctioneer and yelling out ‘One thirty-one.’

‘Well, if you’re ever looking for anything, coins, books, manuscripts – religious or otherwise – give me a call.’ He handed TJ his card.

TJ took a quick look. ‘Thanks, Cliff. I’ll do that. I’m Travis, by the way. What you bidding on?’

Clark flicked open his catalogue. A double-page spread. ‘
Peter Pan
, first edition.’

‘
Peter Pan
. Neat. That’s all of us, isn’t it? You know, the little boy that never grew up.’

Clark smiled back at him.

‘How high you going to bid, Cliff?’

Clark casually shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh, no more than fifty thousand.’

TJ stood up, shook his hand again. ‘That’s what you say now. Wait until the auction devil gets inside you.’ He laughed. ‘Good luck. I need to get out of here. I’m way over my limit for the day.’

‘Have a good day now, Travis.’

‘You too, Cliff.’

‘No doubt about it, Travis.’
Fifty thousand
for a non-unique piece of Faith history, just one of several Faith documents he’d traded for the Testament of Faith. Clark was going to have a very good day indeed.

His head full of his little game with Travis and his subsequent successful, but bank-breaking, bid on the
Peter Pan
of eighty thou, Clark had just started to move away from the cashier’s desk toward the exit when he saw people near him turn back to stare toward someone who was yelling. Yelling for Cliff Hartman. It was a voice he vaguely recognized. He really hoped it wasn’t Travis J. Winkleman the Third ready to confront him about why he had encouraged him to bid on his lot. And then the voice again: ‘Hey, Hartman!’ The voice was louder this time. And nearer. ‘Cliff Hartman!’

He recognized the voice now, for sure. No need to even turn around, but he did. It was Dougie Wild, larding toward him, stogie in one hand, waving the sales catalogue in the other. Clark felt like somewhere in his head he’d pressed repeat. ‘Hartman, you lost your hearing?’

‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

‘Great to see you, son.’

‘You too, Mr Wild.’

He grabbed Clark’s hand and shook it, hard. ‘Dougie. Please. What brings you to town?
This
town?’

‘I could ask you the same.’

‘That you could. Staying the night?’

‘Sure am.’

‘Did you drive?’

‘I got a cab, from the hotel.’

‘A
cab
in LA? Your first time in town?’

Clark nodded.

‘
Figures.
You ordered one to take you back?’

‘I was going to ask the girl at the . . .’

‘Don’t. You’ll be waiting an hour for it. At least. And they’ll know you’re a tourist. And rip you off. Crooks all of them. I bet you got ripped off on the way here.’

‘Probably.’

‘I got a ride outside. Where you staying?’

Staying
.

Clark was going to drive his car to the beach and sleep in it. Just like last night. He liked to go to sleep listening to the back and forth of the ocean, it was like a lullaby, so he had cranked his front passenger window down a tad. Not too far. It was LA after all.

‘The Beverly Hills Hotel.’ He’d spotted the sign pointing off the road as he’d driven east up Sunset from the beach, not long before he’d parked his car six blocks away where it was quarter the price of the auction house’s valet service. Besides, an Oldsmobile wasn’t part of the impression Clark was trying to create, squeezed as he was into his wedding suit and silk tie and freshly shined shoes, trying to look like he belonged in Beverly Hills, not Nebraska.

‘Beverly Hills Hotel? Business good, hey, Cliff?’

Clark smiled. Said nothing. A man like Wild respected discretion. They were by the valet now. But Wild wasn’t handing the guy a ticket. Instead, he was waving at a chauffeur. ‘Harry! Hey, Harry! Over here.’ The driver stubbed out his cigarette, threw his cap back on and hopped back into the stretch. ‘I’m up at a friend’s house. Near Mulholland. I never stay in those hotels. Total rip-off, you can’t breathe but you have to tip some schmuck. Worse than the Strip. Why don’t you come over, later? Hit the hotel, freshen up and drive on over.’

‘Sure. Why not?’

‘Unless you got other plans?’

‘No. No other plans.’ Not unless you count chowing down a bargain bucket and watching the sun drop out of the sky.

They were in the back of the limo now as it turned onto Sunset. Dougie was scribbling on a strip of paper he’d ripped off the bottom of the
LA Times
. ‘Here’s the address, for later.’ Clark looked down at it. ‘8448 Wonderland Avenue, in case you can’t read my scrawl.’

‘I can read it perfectly.’ He smiled at Dougie.
I could copy it perfectly too.

‘You’d be the first.’

Don’t tempt me.
Clark held the ragged strip of paper up. ‘Thanks for the invite.’

‘No problem, Hartman. What are friends for, hey?’

It had started with Al’s mechanic just after 9 pm. And ten hours later ended with Mrs Dreyfus the beekeeper’s wife over in the Saints Valley. Three hundred and fourteen Claimants, most of whom knew someone who knew someone else that had invested with Lomax, and through that night the phones of Abraham City had never known so much chatter.

Who needed sleep anyhow?

Investor Number 1784. Eduardo Reynaldo, City Motors, a car shop Al had been taking the family’s cars to for the couple of years since they’d moved from LA. Once Marty had explained to Al what they needed to do in order to get their warrants and that it could only include investors who weren’t Faith, Al had found Eduardo, a devout Catholic, on the list. Eduardo was many things, said Al, but Faith he definitely wasn’t. Marty hadn’t understood what Al said in Spanish to Eduardo over the phone, but he knew what he’d briefed him in English. It was a lie. They both knew that, Al just had to sell it to Eduardo. Pump Eduardo up, so he would tell the next person and so on and so forth. There was no margin for error, the first pitch would have to work, without that there wouldn’t be a second.

Maybe it wasn’t so much of a lie as a distinct possibility that the Faith would likely cut or at least marginalize non-Faith investors out of any financial compensation deal they were planning with Lomax’s insurers or the financial authorities. It’d be in their interests to get the most compensation for their Followers. They didn’t get ten per cent of anyone else’s income.

Hopefully, Al had told Eduardo that the trick was to ensure he and his fellow non-Faith investors got to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow before it vanished into the ether. But they had to work fast, for if news of their plan got back to the Faith then it would fail. Marty’s advice, delivered via Al, was to tell no one and to meet in the Hilton’s ballroom at nine the next morning. The final request was for the names and numbers of any other non-Faith investors Eduardo might know. He had given them five names. Customers and also a couple of friends. Some Hispanic. Some American. Al and Marty split up the list and got dialing. Mostly one name led to several others and so on and so forth. Until Marty and Al’s phones were seared into their ears. Everyone agreed on discretion and to their 9 am appointment at the Hilton. Eduardo had been happy to be counted as the spokesman. It was vital to get an Everyman. Someone you could put up in front of a judge as Mr Average who had lost money he couldn’t afford. Money from a legitimate business that employed locals. Not some professional investor trying to recoup the stake on one of his failed gambles.

Before they’d started the ring-around Marty had called the Hilton and booked the ballroom. There was a lunch in there at 1 pm, they could use the room until 11 am. Pastries and OJ, sales tax, city tax and room hire was a grand, all in. Marty charged it to his Visa and breathed a sigh of relief when they hit over three hundred claimants. Judge Laidlaw was right, they were motivated. He’d probably never see the money back, but if he could get to the bottom of this case it’d be worth every cent to wipe that holier-than-thou smirk off Alan Laidlaw’s face.

The claimants couldn’t wait to sign. Some were out in the Hilton’s lot and hanging out in the lobby an hour or so before, formed into hushed groups, frightened someone from the Faith might overhear and scupper Marty’s great plan. So when Damien Jones rolled up fifteen minutes early, with a couple of paralegals in tow, Marty had to head him off at the pass and take him in a side exit in case he got mobbed before the main event.

A couple of hours later, Damien’s rousing speech on due process resulted in 314 new clients and a drafted, signed and sealed Notice to the Court, together with a bunch of requests including the issuing of urgent warrants in case vital documents in the case were destroyed by certain parties.

After a short recess in the Chancery case of
Burtleson’s Metals vs Ridgeway Construction
, presided over by Judge Laidlaw – and without informing the Captain – Marty, Al, Whittaker and two of his guys were inside the Gudsen home effecting the first of the four warrants they’d been granted by the good judge. Marty knew they were deluded to even think that they’d be able to effect all four warrants before the Faith or the Captain found out, but he had a plan for that eventuality and she should be here in less than an hour.

‘Marty, where you want us to start?’

‘Show us where you saw the keys.’

‘Keys? What keys?’ It was Mrs Gudsen. Marty had informed her either she or a proxy had to be present throughout. She was the only one in the house. Besides, she offered, perhaps she could help them find things. Things that might catch her husband’s killer. Or implicate Gudsen in events leading to his own death and even beyond it. Depending which side of the fence you were standing.

‘Back through here,’ said Al, leading the group of them along the corridor to the back of the house and into the dark panelled study, a large captain’s desk at its edge overlooking the garden.

‘What keys?’

‘My colleague saw some keys in here, ma’am. They could be important. To a safe.’

‘We don’t have a safe.’

‘Nothing? Not even a secure place to put jewelry, documents. Stuff like that?’ He knew what the keys were for, but it was worth checking to see if she did.

‘We don’t possess material things, Detective. For papers and the like, I have an old shoe-box I use. It’s upstairs at the back of the wardrobe. Would you like me to bring it down?
’

‘That won’t be necessary, ma’am. We’ll make our way upstairs in due course.’ Marty stood by the entrance to the study with her. The others had followed Al toward the desk, watched as he went right to the drawer. Marty could see him almost hold his breath, and then snatch up something out of the drawer, holding it up with his latex fingers. Two keys. Red ribbon. The Lomax keys.

‘Bag it,’ said Marty, smiling. Whittaker stepped forward and did just that. ‘But don’t take it anywhere. I’m going to try it out someplace first. Here,’ Marty held out his hand for it. Whittaker sealed the baggie and passed it to him. Marty looked down at it as the others carried on, emptying out drawer after drawer. ‘Do you recognize these keys, ma’am?’

‘No, no I don’t, Detective. What are they for?’

‘Did you ever see your husband with a ledger?’

‘A ledger? Peter was an accountant. He was rarely without a ledger.’

‘This would have been recently. Very recently.’

‘Recently? You mean, just before he . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t remember anything in particular. He mostly worked in here. When he wasn’t at the office. The kids kept me too busy to even visit with him in here.’ Her voice began to break, falter. ‘He was in here, the night bef . . . the night before . . .’ Oh no, another one. She began to cry. When Marty looked over to the others for help, they all seemed suddenly engrossed in searching desk drawers.

‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffed.

‘Please don’t apologize.’ Marty looked around for tissues.

Al, without even looking, held out his arm, a large box of tissues in it, swept down off the bookshelf. Marty passed her one and she slumped down onto the chaise and blew her nose louder than a trucker.

If this was going to go on all afternoon, they were going to need back-up or they’d never make it to the Lomax house or Houseman’s.

Marty rang the doorbell. He listened this time for her heels on the parquet, but heard nothing and then the door swung open. He took a step back.

‘Mrs Rose.’

‘Detective Sinclair.’

‘Marty, please. We’re just over at Mrs Gudsen’s today.’

‘Oh?’

Marty had the miniature Old Testament in his hand. ‘We’ve been so busy with the case. I wanted to thank you. It’s a kind gift. I was going to call . . .’

‘It’s better in person.’ She smiled.

Beautiful smile.

He had no idea what to say next.

She watched as he slipped the Bible back inside his jacket pocket.

‘I’m glad you appreciate it. Peter said it was very special, wished he could have kept it for his collection.’

Marty looked at her. Green eyes. ‘What collection?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘He had a collection, I guess.’

‘A collection of Bibles, Mrs Rose?’

‘Marion. I guess so. He didn’t say.’

‘Do you think Mrs Gudsen knows about this collection?’

‘I don’t know, she never mentioned it.’

‘You sure about that, Marion?’

‘Positive.’ She opened the door wider now. ‘Would you like to come in? I was thinking of making some tea.’

Marty shook his head. ‘It would be great if you could come over to Mrs Gudsen’s. We’ve got a search going on.’

‘A search?’

‘Execution of a warrant, ma’am . . . Marion. We need people – not our people – in the rooms with us. We can’t search otherwise. And Mrs Gudsen, she’s a tad . . .’

‘Fragile?’

He smiled. Rather she said it than him. ‘And we really need to get this search done. We’re under some time pressure.’

‘With the boys away, I’m free all day. I could come over now.’ She looked at him. Smiled. ‘If that’s what you’re asking, Marty?’

‘That’s what I’m asking.’

She smiled like that was a good thing. ‘I’ll just fetch my shoes.’

As they moved across the street back towards the Gudsen house he stopped her, his hand in the crook of her arm: ‘Don’t say you mentioned that to me. About the collection. I’ll ask Mrs Gudsen about it when we go back in.’

‘I don’t mind if you say anything to Betty.’

‘It’s best not to. Sometimes knowledge complicates friendships.’

‘Oh.’ He could feel her looking at him, waiting for him to explain.

He didn’t.

But he would bet his life Peter Gudsen hadn’t mentioned anything to wife Betty about a gift to their divorced neighbor. Their absolute knock-out of a neighbor. Bible or no Bible.