Tremaine thought, maybe Roger did leave, but instead of going home he came back to work so it
looked
like he spent the night. But he didn’t say it.
Two beers later, Tremaine said, “Laurie, it might be time to head home. I’ve got an old bulldog to walk.”
Laurie looked at Tremaine and narrowed her eyes a bit.
“When you walked in my office this morning, I got a little 70
B O D Y C O P Y
excited. I saw your old pictures online, but I still didn’t expect you to be so cute.”
“Oh, well, that’s awfully nice of you to say.”
“Don’t be modest.”
“It’s my nature.”
“Sure.” Then Laurie said, “Want to come over? I live right in Santa Monica.”
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” Tremaine said.
“Oh, yeah? Why not?”
“I don’t want our relationship to be awkward. I might have to talk to you again about the case.”
“Tremaine,” she said. “I’m an adult. I’m not going to call you tomorrow and ask you to take me out to dinner.”
“Laurie,” Tremaine said, looking at her looking right at him. “You’re very convincing. And I won’t lie to you.
I’ve thought, just during our time here, about what it would be like to go spend a little time together and possibly play a game or two of Twister. But I’m only good for a couple of nights. Then I run home to my trailer and my bulldog.”
“I’m not looking for two nights,” Laurie said. “Just one.”
Laurie moved closer to Tremaine, her face was inches away from his, and her breasts were now pressed against his arm. He took a deep breath.
She said, “We don’t even have to go to my house. Why don’t we just go get in my car right now.”
“What kind of car do you have?”
“A Honda Accord.”
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Michael Craven
“It might be a little cramped,” Tremaine said.
“Well, then we’ll just have to move our bodies into interesting positions.”
Tremaine downed his beer and said, “I have been taking yoga.”
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C H A P T E R 1 2
The next morning, Tremaine woke up in the trailer, slammed some coffee, slammed the
New York Times
, slammed the Jumble, then called Evelyn Gale, Roger’s widow.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello, Evelyn?” Tremaine said.
“Yes, who’s calling?” she said.
“My name is Donald Tremaine, I’m a private investigator.”
“Yes, Nina said you would be calling.”
“Is this a bad time?” Tremaine heard some anxiety in Evelyn’s voice, that unmistakable tone people exude when they want the other person on the line to know that it is indeed a bad time.
“No,” she said. “It’s fine.”
Michael Craven
“If you would be willing, I’d like to talk to you about your former husband.”
“I don’t think I can tell you anything that I haven’t already told the police. Can’t you just ask them?”
“Yes,” Tremaine said, “but it would help me more to talk to you.”
“So you can determine whether or not I had anything to do with it?”
Evelyn’s comment was terse; she was on the offensive.
She had the speech, even the voice, of a well-bred woman.
And like so many well-bred women, she could inflect her words with an authoritarian edge and make it clear that she was not to be challenged by anyone.
Tremaine said, “Yes. So I can determine whether or not you had anything to do with it. And, so I can determine if you can help me determine who did have something to do with it, if you didn’t.”
Evelyn said, “I didn’t mean to be rude, I know you’re just doing your job. But we’re finally putting all of this behind us. It’s very painful to have a loved one killed. You may not understand this, but you can get to a point where you don’t even care who did it; you just want it to be over.”
“I’d like to talk to you in person, will you talk to me?”
“I suppose,” she said. “By the way, the other detectives called me Mrs. Gale.”
“Is that what you want me to call you?”
“I’m just wondering why you didn’t?”
“Evelyn’s your name, right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s why I didn’t.”
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All right, Tremaine had made contact with Evelyn Gale, but he hadn’t heard back from Tyler Wilkes. He’d called him twice and hadn’t heard anything. Talked to his assistant—Heather, nice girl—but had gotten no confirmation through her of a meeting. And no call back.
Tremaine, at his desk, Lyle at his feet, thought about the fact that this guy Tyler Wilkes, this guy who lots of people were pointing the finger at, hadn’t called him back. In his time as a P.I., Tremaine had learned a number of things to be true. One of them was that when people are contacted by a cop or a private investigator, they call back. And damn quickly, nine times out of ten. That one time out of ten that they don’t call? It’s usually because they’ve got something to hide. Occasionally, occasionally, someone is extremely busy or for whatever reason doesn’t get the message. Or, in the rarest of cases, the person is so confident that they have nothing to hide, they’re content to just wait until the investigator contacts them again. That’s very rare, though.
Like, bloody.
People when they’re contacted by a P.I. immediately think something is wrong. They think
they
have done something wrong. They’ve forgotten to pay some bill or that some obscure, wholly unintentional misdoing from their past is coming back to haunt them. The initial reaction to a call from a P.I., whether innocent or guilty, is a defensive one.
This must be some mistake. I’ll call that P.I. back right now
.
Another frequent scenario is, a person will think he or she is being contacted to provide information on a case. As a result, a sense of self-importance is created. The person will think, of course this P.I. wants to talk to me, I’m the 75
Michael Craven
kind of sensitive, intuitive thinker who will help them crack this case.
It’s very similar to the reason reporters often don’t have trouble getting people to talk to them. People
want
to talk to them, they want the attention, they want to obtain that feeling of importance and know that when the case is done or the article is written, they contributed.
But seldom do they not call back. Unless something is up.
So, Tremaine put in a call to John Lopez. He had a question for him, a question about Tyler Wilkes. He knew this question was going to cost him a steak dinner, they always did, so that night they decided to have just that, a steak dinner, at Taylor’s, just west of downtown. Tremaine’s treat.
When Tremaine entered Taylor’s, John Lopez was already sitting down.
“Insane Tremaine,” Lopez said as he stood up, Tremaine now within earshot.
“You know I don’t like that nickname,” Tremaine said.
“Yeah,” Lopez said. “That’s why I use it.”
“Lopez,” Tremaine said. “It’s good to see you. Wait, no, actually it’s not.”
The two sat down, in the dark back booth that Lopez had selected. The AC was on full blast, it was damn near freezing in the place. Perfect. It had been a hot day, it felt good. There was a cold Budweiser on the table for Tremaine, another plus. Lopez had one too, his half drunk.
Tremaine and Lopez caught up, got a couple beers down, ordered.
About halfway into their steaks, they began to discuss the 76
B O D Y C O P Y
matter at hand, Tyler Wilkes. “I looked into Wilkes for you.
Looks like he may not be such a great guy,” Lopez said.
“Surprise, surprise,” Tremaine said. “Like I said, I got no call back from him after two messages.”
“As you know,” Lopez said, “he was never officially named a suspect in the Roger Gale case. And he was questioned pretty extensively by some of the detectives.”
“Yeah, I read that. Larry DeSouza and Bill Peterson.”
“Right. You can call them if you want. I told them about you.”
“Cool.”
“Peterson’s actually in Atlanta now,” Lopez said.
“What, he transferred?” Tremaine said.
“Yeah, I know, it’s rare for detectives to transfer.”
“Won’t he have to start at the bottom? What does he know about Atlanta?”
“Usually that’s the case. But Peterson knows the captain down there. He was able to keep his position and make more dough. I probably would have made the move, too.
Cops don’t make P.I. money.”
“That’s why I’m getting dinner,” Tremaine said.
“No, you’re getting dinner because I’m giving you priv-ileged information on Tyler Wilkes.”
“Oh, yeah,” Tremaine said.
Lopez said, “DeSouza said Tyler Wilkes was really jealous of Roger Gale.”
“Yeah, Wilkes has an agency down the street that doesn’t get half the respect Roger Gale’s place does.”
“Right,” Lopez said. “Everyone thought Wilkes might have been obsessed with Roger Gale. His agency looks like Roger Gale’s, he used to always talk about him . . .”
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Michael Craven
“On top of that,” Tremaine added, “no matter what Wilkes does, the rest of the ad community always accuses him of just copying the stuff Roger Gale did.”
Lopez took a big swig of his beer and said, “They could never really get anything on him, though. You know that already. But the detectives then didn’t know what I’m about to tell you. It hadn’t happened yet. And it doesn’t pertain to the Roger Gale thing.”
“Before you tell me, let me tell you my suspicion,” Tremaine said. ”He talked to the cops at the time, willingly and regularly, right?”
“You saw the report. They grilled his ass.”
“Well, I haven’t told Wilkes why I’m calling. So he must not think I’m calling about that. Because even if he is hiding something about Roger Gale, he’s figured out his spiel regarding that matter. He’s got no reason to duck me. He didn’t duck the police, why would he duck me? So maybe he’s worried about something else.”
“That’s why you make the big bucks, Tremaine.”
“Like I said, I’m getting dinner.” Tremaine continued,
“And if he is worried about something else, maybe I can confuse him into telling me something about Roger Gale before he figures out what exactly I’m going for.”
Lopez grinned. “I’ll tell you what I know.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Guy’s been to rehab a few times. Probably into drugs and running a little paranoid.”
“Good to know.”
“This next piece of information, well, it’s confidential.”
With that, Tremaine flagged down the waitress.
“What do you need, boys?” she said.
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B O D Y C O P Y
“Get this gentleman a scotch on the rocks, top-shelf.”
“My pleasure.”
The waitress scurried off.
“Go on,” Tremaine said.
“Tyler Wilkes made a huge investment in a cement company called L.A. Stone. This was after the Roger Gale investigation went cold. Here’s the thing. A guy named Paul Spinelli started the company.”
“Don’t know the name.”
“He’s a guy we’ve suspected—we know—is involved in a tremendous amount of organized crime.”
“How involved?”
“Very. He runs the show. He’s the head guy.”
“Family?”
“Not by blood. It’s just an organization. And he’s at the top. But for all the same reasons we always have trouble with these fucks, we’ve never been able to prove it.”
“Tell me more about L.A. Stone.”
“It’s a real company and a total bullshit company all at once. Spinelli is connected to lots of the builders around town. So, knowing that, he creates a real cement company, hires some people who actually know what they’re doing to run it, and then seizes all the business he can. Most of his employees just think they’re working for the most successful company in town. Little do they know, the mob is arranging all the contracts they get. Other companies go through the bidding process, but L.A. Stone has a certain knack for obtaining business.”
“So you don’t know whether or not Tyler Wilkes has any knowledge of what he’s into?”
“No one knows and no one cares. Regarding this issue, 79
Michael Craven
no one is concerned with Tyler Wilkes. He’s a pawn. But the reality is, Paul Spinelli approached Wilkes with a win-win business proposal. And Paul Spinelli, when you see him, when you look at him, he’s scary. He’s shady. You can tell. I’d bet a lot of money Wilkes has some suspicions of his own. He may even know exactly what’s up. That he’s in bed with some serious people. Either way, your having that information could frighten him a little bit, keep him off balance.”
“Let me ask you this,” Tremaine said. “How scary is Spinelli? How scared would Tyler be if he thought he’d pissed off Spinelli?”
“Very,” Lopez said. “They call Spinelli the Shark. For three reasons. One, he goes after business like a shark.
Two, he’s always moving. And three, he kills with no re-morse.”
“Well then,” Tremaine said, “that’s the perfect nickname for him.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Tremaine looked at Lopez.
“What?” Lopez said.
“You parting with this confidential information? Lemme guess, some of the higher-ups down at the old station house are involved in this whole bullshit and are intentionally making it difficult to make a bust. And it’s pissing you off.”
“You said it, not me.”
“You’re a good man, Charlie Brown,” Tremaine said.
Lopez didn’t respond. He just downed his top-shelf scotch on the rocks.
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C H A P T E R 1 3
Tremaine’s hangover, from his night with Lopez, made the Jumble slow-going. He sat there, at his desk in the trailer, big cup of coffee, medicine, sitting never too far away. The words were: myait, dahyn, cabeem, and boedul. The riddle was
What the hairdresser did when the
rack of clothes went on sale. He
“_ _ _ _ _ _ _” _ _ _ _.
It took him almost three minutes to turn myait into amity, dahyn into handy, cabeem into became, and boedul into double. It took him another forty-five seconds to get the riddle. To turn mthdecmobe into combed them.
What the hairdresser did when the rack of clothes
went on sale. He “combed” them
.