You’re Insane Donald Tremaine. My brother, my
older
brother, had that poster of you from a long time ago where you were standing kinda like that.”
“Yeah, right,” Tremaine said. “At Pipe, in Hawaii.”
“I thought I recognized the name when you first called, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen that poster. But my brother happened to call while you were talking to Tyler.”
Tremaine nodded. There was some silence, awkward maybe.
“Do you still surf?” she said, moving a step closer to him.
“Yeah, sure.” This girl was unbelievable. Part blonde beach babe, part high-style executive type.
“I used to look at that poster all the time,” she said. “The way you were standing on the board like it was so easy.”
“Give the credit to the photographer. He captured a moment of calm in a pretty intense situation.”
“I remember the bathing suit you were wearing. Red with a lightning bolt down the side. They were kind of short-shorts, too.”
“That was the style back then.”
“I liked them.”
91
Michael Craven
Boy, it had been a while since a young, beautiful girl talked about a surfing poster of his. But she’s way too young, right? This would be robbing the cradle something fierce.
Right?
“Listen, Donald, take my card. If I can ever help you with getting in touch with Tyler or whatever, call me.”
She handed Tremaine her card.
“Thanks, Heather.”
“Aren’t you going to give me
your
card?”
He handed Heather one of his cards, the same one he had given Tyler.
Heather said, “You know, we don’t have to talk about Tyler. We could just have a drink or something.”
Tremaine put on his sunglasses, some old gold wire rims, and heard himself say, “I think we could arrange that.”
That robbing the cradle thing? Yeah, that went out the window.
Then, inexplicably, Tremaine said, “I’m probably twice your age, you know.” It sounded unnatural, off, like a stock comment, like something you say just because you’ve heard it before.
She said, “So.”
Sometimes the simplest logic was the best.
Tremaine said, “You make a good point.”
She smiled and said, “I can see myself in the reflection of your glasses. I look funny,” she added.
Tremaine thought, I can think of another word for how you look.
“Well, bye, Donald. It was nice to meet you.”
92
B O D Y C O P Y
“It was nice to meet you, too,” Tremaine said.
And it was nice. Yes, very nice.
She walked away. Toward the entrance of Think Big. Her blonde hair falling to the top of her tight, but not too tight, black pants. Tremaine, sitting in his Cutlass, idling, said out loud to no one, almost involuntarily “She’s special.”
Then he cranked up the Cutlass and pulled out of the parking lot.
Tremaine got home, straightened up the trailer, walked Lyle, thought things over. Later, he grabbed his longboard and drove down to the surf break nearest his house, just down the hill, a great little Malibu break. It was the evening glass-off. Waves weren’t big, but the ocean was smooth, calm. The sun was a big orange ball slipping behind the horizon and the air was warm but not hot. Tremaine was alone out there. He’d see cars go by on the PCH and a person or two on the beach, but he was alone, just him and the waves, just him and his thoughts.
And he loved it.
He picked up a wave, rode it right, toward the shore. He glided up and down, up and down, not pulling any serious moves, just doing a little soul surfing, and searching.
Tyler Wilkes, he thought. A poseur, an asshole, probably a liar. Probably aware that his investments are shady.
But a murderer? Who knows? You don’t have to be cun-ning and convincing and impressive to kill someone. Quite the opposite, most of the time. A power–hungry, jealous 93
Michael Craven
drug addict could kill someone, might kill someone. But why, exactly? Was it just to get more business, to take out the other big shot in town? Did he have any other kind of relationship with Roger Gale, business or otherwise? According to phone records they never even spoke. Not once.
Tremaine thought, I got him a little confused, though. He’s not sure what I’m after. I’ll use that to get what I need.
Eventually . . .
And what about Roger Gale’s late nights? The cops looked into his running around. Sawyer mentioned it.
Tyler, too. Was there anything there other than a hard worker and an eccentric? That might be for Evelyn Gale to answer tomorrow, if he could get her to talk.
Tremaine, back at the trailer, having a beer, giving Lyle a pet. Roger Gale, Tremaine thought—who is this guy?
What was he doing that nobody seems to know about or want to talk about? What got him killed?
Tremaine fell asleep right there on his couch in the main room, tired from lots of nights out. The one with his old friend Lopez, the one in a Honda Accord with his new friend Laurie Donnelly. Tired. Like dog, like owner.
94
C H A P T E R 1 4
Tremaine pulled the Cutlass up to Evelyn Gale’s palatial house in Bel Air. He thought, again, about getting into advertising. Then he remembered that Evelyn Gale had money, too, had money before her Roger Gale days, so advertising didn’t necessarily buy the house.
He got out and looked at the fortress before him. Huge and beautiful. But, like a lot of the houses in Bel Air, it was isolated. Hidden by walls of greenery and shrubbery, a perfect lot, big and beautiful and manicured, but no sense of community. And no ocean nearby. At least at my place, Tremaine thought, you could see the ocean. Yes, you could also see some fast food joints and a Dumpster or two, but, whatever, you could indeed see the ocean.
He rang the doorbell. He heard some dogs barking—
Michael Craven
not open-the-door-and-I’ll-kill-you barks, just augment-ing-the-doorbell barks. The door swung open and there was Evelyn Gale, flanked by two brown curly-haired dogs looking at Tremaine skeptically. Tremaine looked at Evelyn. Elegant, beautiful. Thin and perfectly dressed.
Classic-looking clothes and a gold necklace fashioned to look like a rope. Tighten it up and tie it into a knot and it could be a noose, a golden noose.
Introductions, and then she led him inside. Tremaine bent down and gave a proper hello to the two dogs.
“Portuguese water dogs,” Tremaine said. “I love these things.”
“That’s Clio and Addy.”
These were the names of advertising awards, Tremaine had learned. “After the awards,” Tremaine said.
“Yes. They were given to us by my son, Phillip.”
Phillip Cook. Tremaine had an appointment to talk to him.
“He named them,” Evelyn said. Then, “Shall we sit outside?”
Shall? Funny word, Tremaine thought. Who uses “shall”?
People who live in Bel Air? Moses?
Tremaine followed Evelyn Gale through the house. Beautifully done. Wood and white everywhere. Big windows and doors, sunken rooms, the place impeccably designed to feel cozy despite its size, and open and warm despite the obvious wealth that buttressed it. Tremaine looked at the pictures that sat on end tables and hung on walls. These told a slightly different story. A little more pride, a little less dignity. Lots of Roger still up. Some with the two of them, some with friends, some with celebrities. But only dignified 96
B O D Y C O P Y
A-listers. Movie stars with a political bent. Tremaine sure as hell didn’t see Evelyn and Roger standing with Lou Dia-mond Phillips or Webster or the bass player from Foghat.
There were even some photos with presidents. Tremaine looked at a picture with Roger and Evelyn Gale standing next to a smiling Bill Clinton. He wanted to ask if it was real, but his private-eye skills told him it was.
It occurred to Tremaine that Roger’s semi-celebrity status mattered to Evelyn. And he was the perfect kind of semi-celebrity. He wasn’t a matinee idol, he was a businessman with a creative side. People at the L.A. Country Club could respect him, not be thrown by the fact that others knew of him by name and sight. Because the people who did know who he was weren’t mall rats in Oklahoma. They were other smart business and advertising people. He was like a famous CEO. Like Jack Welch or Sam Walton. That kind of fame is what Evelyn liked, was
proud of
.
Outside, there was a garden and a sprawling lawn. Because the house was atop a hill, you could see down into the grounds of other Bel Air estates, estates that sat lower than Evelyn’s on the hill. There was a quiet up in these hills.
The other houses Tremaine could see almost looked like photographs. Still and small down below. Evelyn guided Tremaine to a table underneath an umbrella. A pitcher of iced tea waited for them.
She said, “This isn’t easy for me to talk about. I was close to putting it behind me. Not his death, obviously, but the constant thinking about who is responsible.”
She said it with that impatient edge, the one Tremaine had already heard on the phone.
“I understand. Thank you for talking to me,” he said.
97
Michael Craven
“My husband loved surfing. He’s smiling somewhere knowing that you’re on this case.”
She was paying him a compliment, but there was some condescension there, too. She couldn’t hide it, and even if she could, she couldn’t hide it from Tremaine.
Sitting there, under the umbrella, Tyler Wilkes’s comment rang in Tremaine’s head:
Ask his wife, he used to cheat
on her. . .
. Tremaine took a sip of his tea, thinking, I bet this woman wouldn’t admit it if there was infidelity. No, she was too proud. That would be exposing a scar, a scar she didn’t make but someone else did. No control.
Tremaine said, “Jack Sawyer told me that there was no way anyone at Gale/Parker killed your husband. Do you agree?”
“Yes, I do. In fact, I don’t think anyone in the industry killed him.”
“Why?”
“Advertising is a serious business. These companies live and die by what accounts they have. But have you gone into any of these agencies?”
“A couple.”
“These people aren’t dangerous. The older people dress slick and the younger ones dress hip, but these are normal people with jobs. And aside from a few people like Roger, most people are only half-committed. You’ve got to be committed to kill. But most of the writers in advertising want to be novelists. The art directors want to be artists.
The account people want to be rich. And it’s not like the movies or even Wall Street, where there’s a shot at getting rich overnight. It takes years of work and determination and luck. Years. People pointed the finger at Tyler Wilkes.
98
B O D Y C O P Y
What would he get out of it? Roger being dead doesn’t mean he would get any more accounts. He still has to win them. I mean, really. What good would killing my husband do Tyler Wilkes?”
“The cops thought he might be obsessed with your husband, jealous to the point of obsession.”
“Maybe. Tyler certainly isn’t respected, and I’m sure that makes him crazy. But if he was obsessed, all the investigating in the world isn’t going to help you or anyone else.
You can’t follow clues when someone has killed someone else because of a mental illness. There’s no rhyme or reason to it.”
“And in this case, there’s no evidence either.”
They sipped their tea. Tremaine thought, iced tea, it’s good, I don’t drink it often enough. But it’s kind of a pain in the ass to make . . .
Tremaine said, “Do you have any theories, Evelyn?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think it was a random accident of some kind. My husband was in the wrong place at the wrong time and somebody killed him and then deposited him at the agency to confuse people. It certainly would be easy to figure out who he was and where he worked. I just don’t know why anyone would want to kill him. He didn’t owe anyone money, he wasn’t into drugs, he didn’t have some life I didn’t know about.”
She was so sure of this. Tremaine said, “You mean he didn’t have affairs?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. And I know that’s why you’re here, to ask me that. Everyone else did. And no, my husband did not have affairs. He came home every night.
Every night, unless he was out of town. The employees at 99
Michael Craven
Gale/Parker said he had crazy hours and they’d see him having a drink somewhere late at night. Well, guess what?
He’d just left work and was winding down before he came home. And he’d probably just called me.”
Tremaine thought, well, there was at least one night he didn’t come home. Laurie Donnelly had told him that.
And, man, this woman was defensive. And strong. She definitely wouldn’t have liked the way an affair would have made
her
look. She was protective of herself and her husband and that was understandable, but this was more than that. Evelyn Gale needed to look good in the eyes of others. And she needed to be right.
“Roger and I,” she said, “were married later in life. We didn’t have any kids, which some people use to stay together. We didn’t need that. We had a wonderful relationship. A loving, intellectual relationship. We loved to talk about books and movies and plays and business. We loved each other. He didn’t run around. He didn’t.”
Tremaine sat for a moment, took another sip of his tea, and said, “Let’s get back to Tyler Wilkes.”
“Okay,” she said. Her demeanor a little more relaxed now, she didn’t need to stand quite as tall on this subject.
Tremaine said, “Why do you think he was questioned so extensively? Sure, he copied your husband when he built his new agency. He openly revered the guy, was openly jealous of him. But the two never talked. There are no phone records, nothing. For all intents and purposes, they had no relationship.”
“I’ll tell you why, Mr. Tremaine. They had nothing else. That’s why I don’t know if you or anyone else can solve this case. Nobody had any real motive. And if Tyler 100
B O D Y C O P Y
Wilkes did it, nobody could catch him in a lie or force him to say something he didn’t want to say.”