The Monkey's Raincoat (5 page)

The bathroom door was still closed, the water was still running, Janet Simon was still smoking, Ellen Lang was still
standing with her arms crossed, cold. I went into the kitchen. Every cupboard had been emptied, every bag of sugar and rice and flour and box of cereal spilled. The grill had been pulled off the bottom of the refrigerator and the stove had been dragged away from the wall, scarring the vinyl with ragged furrows. I found a bottle of Extra Strength Bayer aspirin in a mound of Corn Chex, ate three, then went back out into the living room.

Janet Simon gave me frozen eyes. Ellen Lang watched the floor. I cleared my throat. “Someone was looking for something and someone knew where someone else might want to hide it,” I said. “This was professional. Mort didn't do this. You're going to need the police.” Stating the obvious is something I do well.

Ellen Lang said, “No.” Softly.

Janet Simon crushed out her cigarette and said, “
Yes
.” Firmly.

I took a deep breath and smiled sweetly. “I'm going to check around outside,” I said.

It was either that, or hit them with a chair.

I went out to the Corvette and got the big five-cell I keep in the trunk. I looked for jimmy marks on the front door lock stile and the doorjamb, but didn't find any. Three bay windows at the front of the house overlooked a flower bed with azaleas and snapdragons. The windows weren't jimmied and the flowers weren't trampled. I walked around the north side of the house and there were four more windows, two and a space and then two more, each still locked on the inside. I let myself through a wooden gate and walked the back of the house past a little beaded bathroom window to the pool. No openings punched in the wall, no sliding door off its track, no circular holes cut into glass. No one slugged me with a ball peen hammer and disappeared into the night.

I stopped by the pool and listened. Motor sounds from the freeway to the south. Water gurgling through pipes to the little bathroom. Somewhere a radio going, Tina Turner coughing out
What's Love Got to Do With It?
. Through the glass doors, I could see Ellen and Janet in the living room, Ellen with her arms squeezed across her chest, Janet making an explanatory gesture with her cigarette, Ellen shaking her head, Janet looking disgusted. I thought of great teams from the past: Burns and Allen, Bergen and McCarthy, Heckle and Jeckle. I took a deep breath, smelled jasmine, and kept going.

On the south side of the house it was the same thing. No footprints beneath the windows. No jimmy marks. No sign of forced entry. That meant a key or a lock pick. Maybe Mort had hired somebody to go in there and given them his key. But if so, what could he have wanted? Stock certificates? Negotiable bonds? Nudie shots he was scared Ellen would show their friends?

I went back out to the front just as a black and white pulled up. They pegged me with their spotlight and told me not to move.

“Should I grab sky?” I said.

The same voice came back, “Just stand there, shithead.” Service with a smile.

One of the cops came forward with his hand on his gun. The other stayed behind the light. You can never see what they're doing behind those lights, which is why they stay there. The cop who came out was about my height but thicker in the butt and legs. It didn't detract from his presence. His name tag read SIMMS.

I spread my arms, careful not to point the five-cell in their direction. “White pants and jacket. The latest in cat burglar apparel.”

Simms said, “Little man, I've cuffed'm that went out in red tights. Let's see some ID.”

“I'm Cole. I work for the owner. Private investigator. There's a Dan Wesson .38 under my left arm.”

He said okay, told me he was going to reach under and take the gun, then did it. “Now the paper,” he said.

I produced the PI license and the license to carry, and watched him read them. “Elvis. This some kind of bullshit or what?”

“After my mother.”

He looked at me the way cops look at you when they're thinking about trying you out, then gave me the benefit of the doubt. “Guess you take some riding about that.”

“My brother Edna had it worse.”

He thought about it again, figured I wasn't worth the paperwork and handed back the gun. “Okay. We got a B&E call.” The other cop came around and joined us but left the spotlight on. I clicked off the five-cell.

“They're inside,” I said. “The client's name is Ellen Lang. She owns the place. She came home and found it busted up. Another woman is with her. I checked the windows and the doors but it looks okay.”

The new cop said, “You don't mind if we see for ourselves, do you?”

I said, “This guy is good, Simms. He's a comer.”

Simms put his hand on my arm and pointed me toward the house. “Come on, let's you and me go see the ladies. Eddie, take a walk around.”

When we got into the living room I said, “Look what the cat dragged in.” Ellen Lang said, “Oh, Lord,” and sat down as the two girls walked in. The oldest was fourteen, the youngest maybe eleven. The older one was tall and gawky and had a
couple of major league pimples forming up on her forehead. The younger one was slender and dark and looked a little bit like Ellen. They were carrying pink-and-white overnighters. The oldest had a pissed-off look on her face. “We're packed,” she said. She ignored me and the cop.

“Oh, honey, that's not warm enough. Get a sweater.”

The younger one stared at Simms, then at me. “Is he the detective?”

“Wanna see my sap?” I said.

Ellen Lang took off her glasses, rubbed at her eyes, put her glasses back on, and said, “Please, Mr. Cole.”

The younger one said, “What's a sap?”

Simms ignored all that. “This place looks like hell.”

The older one said, “It's not the arctic, Mother. We're only going to Janet's.” Her face reeked of disapproval. Teenage girls reek of disapproval better than anyone I know.

“Oh, honey, please,” Ellen Lang said. It wasn't nice to hear. It's never nice to hear an adult whine to a child. The older one closed her eyes, sighed dramatically, and said, “Come on.” They went back down the hall and disappeared.

Simms said, “I'm Officer Simms. There's another officer outside checking the yard. What we're going to do is look around, then sit down with you and talk about it, okay?” He had a good style. Relaxed and easy.

Ellen Lang's “Yes” was very soft.

Eddie tapped at the glass doors that led off the dining room out to the pool and Simms went over. They mumbled together, then Simms said, “Poolhouse is inside out. I'll be right back,” and went out to see. The jasmine floated in the open door.

I said, “You want the cops in on this or not? They're in now and it's smarter if they stay in.”

She shook her head without looking at me.

Janet Simon said, “Oh, for God's sake, Ellen,” for maybe the 400th time, and took a seat on the hearth.

I said, “It is my professional opinion that you allow the police to investigate. I checked Kimberly Marsh's apartment this afternoon. It looks like she went away for a few days. If she did, there's a good chance she went somewhere with Mort. If Mort's out of town, then he couldn't have done this. That means you had a stranger in your house. Even if Mort hired somebody, that's over the line and the cops should know.”

Janet Simon said, “Wow. You work fest.”

Ellen Lang went white when I mentioned Kimberly Marsh.
She tried to swallow, looked like she had a little trouble, then stood up and said, “I won't have the police after my husband. I won't do that to him. I don't want the police here. I don't want ABPs. I don't want Mort in any trouble.”

“A
P
B,” I said. “All Points Bulletin. That went out with Al Capone.”

“I don't want that, either.”

My head throbbed. The muscles along my neck were tight. Pretty soon I'd have knots in the trapezius muscles and sour stomach. “Listen,” I said. “It wasn't Mort.”

Ellen Lang started to cry. No whimpering, no trembling chin. Just water spilling out her eyes. “Please do something,” she said. She made no move to hide her face.

The cops came back and glanced into the kitchen. Eddie mumbled some more to Simms and headed out to the radio car. Simms stayed with us. “We're gonna get the detectives in on this,” he said.

Ellen Lang folded up and sat down like she'd just been told the biopsy was positive. “Oh, God, I can't do anything right.”

I watched her a moment, then took a long breath in through the nose, let it out, and said, “Simms?”

Simms' eyes flicked my way. Flat, bored eyes. Street-cop eyes.

I brought him aside. “She thinks it was her husband,” I said. “It's a domestic beef. They're separated.”

Simms said “Shit” under his breath and called out the front door for Eddie to wait. He stood in the living room, one thick hand on his gun butt and one on his nightstick, looking around the place like he was standing hip deep in dog shit. The older girl came back in, saw her mother crying, and looked disgusted. “Oh, for Christ's sake, Mother.” She went back down the hall. Maybe she wanted to grow up to be Janet Simon.

Ellen Lang cried harder. I went over to her, put my hand on her shoulder, and said, “Stop that” into her ear. She nodded and tried to stop. She did a pretty good job.

Simms said, “All right. Do you want to report anything missing?”

She shook her head without looking at him, either.

“A lot of this stuff is ruined,” he said. “You could maybe file a vandalism claim with the insurance, but only if we file a report, and only if we can't prove it's your husband. Okay, even if we forget your husband, the detectives still gotta come out here
and file a vandalism report. That's the insurance company, see?”

“You're okay, Simms,” I said.

He ignored me. Ellen blew her nose on a little bit of Kleenex and shook her head again. “I'm very sorry for the bother,” she said.

Simms frowned around the room. “Husband, huh?”

Janet Simon said, “Ellen, you should have this for court.” I felt Ellen Lang tighten like a flexed muscle.

“Forget that,” I said.

Simms stood there a second longer, breathing heavily, then nodded and walked out.

Nobody moved for a long time. Then Janet Simon pulled out another cigarette. “You're a dope.”

Ellen Lang began to tremble. I felt it deep in my chest and up through my arm, a high-strung from-the-lonely-place resonance that left the tips of her collar shaking like leaves in a chill breeze. “You want me to stay?” I asked. “I can bunk on the couch.”

Ellen lifted off her glasses, wiped at the wet around her eyes, and sniffled. “Thank you, no. We're going to stay the night with Janet.”

I gave Janet a look. “Gosh, I was hoping I could. I'm into pain.” Janet ignored me, but Ellen Lang smiled. It wasn't much of a smile, but it was real.

I told her I'd be back tomorrow to look over the bills and bank statements and that she should gather them. I let myself out. The chill had a bite to it now and I could smell a eucalyptus from a neighbor's yard along with the jasmine. There were times when I thought it might be nice to have a jasmine and a eucalyptus to smell. But not always.

I woke up just before nine the next morning and caught the tail end of
Sesame Street
. Today's episode was brought to us by the letter D. For Depressed Detective. I pulled on a pair of tennis shoes and went out onto the deck for the traditional twelve sun salutes of the hatha-yoga, then segued smoothly to the tai chi, third and eighth cycles, Tiger and Crane work. I started slow the way you're supposed to, then increased the pace the way you're not until the tai chi became a wing chun
kata
and sweat trickled down the sides of my face and my muscles burned and I was feeling pretty good again. I finished in
vrischikasan
, the second-stage scorpion pose, and held it for almost six minutes.