Country of Old Men (12 page)

Karen Goddard looked at the floor. “She didn’t ask. I volunteered. Where I live now—it’s a new place. Cricket wouldn’t know about it. She’d be safe there.”

“So why did she return to her own apartment, the one she and Shales had shared, the first place he’d look for her? At midnight, of all things. Alone?”

The police sirens grew nearer, louder.

“I never would have let her go alone. She always needs someone. She can’t think for herself. She’s sweet, and I love her”—tears made her eyes shine—“but she’s got no sense of self-preservation. Jordan Vickers calls it a death wish. I call it innocence.”

“You’re both right,” Dave said.

She sighed, licked tears from her upper lip, sniffed, and said shakily, “Anyway, I was asleep and she didn’t wake me. She was too upset to sleep, and something she saw on late television reminded her that Cricket had hidden his gun in that apartment. She knew he’d come back for it. She was afraid of what he’d do if he got his hands on it—to her, to Jordan Vickers, to me. She was sure he still had his key. She crept out without my knowing a thing about it, and drove off to get the gun before he could find it.”

“A few minutes too late,” Dave said.

Karen Goddard was staring at the floor again, but she nodded. “That was the gun that killed him.” She looked up. “But it wasn’t Rachel who fired it. She heard the shots as she was parking her car. She—”

“And she didn’t see the killer?” Dave said.

“Only the little boy. And she thought he’d get the story wrong. She was afraid she’d get the blame. After all, she’d helped send Cricket to jail—”

Three uniformed L.A.P.D. officers came through the open door. A pair of green-clad paramedics, carrying a kit. And Jeff Leppard. He looked Dave up and down. Bruises. The blanket. “I thought you didn’t need Samuels,” he said.

“I said he’d get shot,” Dave said, “and he would have.”

Leppard tilted his head at Karen Goddard. “This the lethal lady?”

“Here’s her gun.” In true TV cop show tradition, Callahan handed him the weapon wrapped in a handkerchief.

Startled, Leppard looked from him to Dave. “Am I supposed to believe this man is really who he looks like?”

Dave said, “We storybook heroes all know each other. Lieutenant Jefferson Leppard, Cliff Callahan.” The two men shook hands. Dave pointed upward, pain grabbing his arm. “Your lab men will find matching bullets for that revolver stuck up there in the rafters.”

Leppard’s eyebrows rose. “More than one?”

“Two,” Dave said, and looked at Karen Goddard, as a uniform unroped her from his desk chair. “She didn’t want me telling you where to find Rachel Klein.”

Leppard looked at the .32. “This Klein’s gun?”

“Shales’s, at a guess. The one that killed him.”

One of the uniforms touched Callahan’s arm. “My kid sure would like your autograph. For once, I’d come home a hero.”

Callahan laughed, took the cop’s ballpoint pen, and scrawled his name across the back of a ticket.

Leppard asked Dave, “So where do I find Rachel Klein?”

Dave watched the cop handcuff Karen Goddard and lead her out into the night. “One seven five eight Boatwright Lane. A new development. Where the wetlands used to be.”

“Thank you.” Leppard started off. “I’ll send a unit down there to bring her in.” He dodged. “Hey!”

“Dave!” Cecil came in the door at a run and nearly bowled the stocky detective over. Cecil’s eyes were wide with alarm. “What happened?” He folded Dave in his long, lean arms. “Jesus, are you all right?”

“I slightly fell down stairs,” Dave said.

“Ah, no. Dave, if you—” Cecil let the protest go, let Dave go, walked down the room, and picked something up from the floor. The Sig-Sauer. He knew how to use it, had used it once, killed a man with it, to save Dave’s life. He still hated guns. He sniffed the barrel and frowned. “You fired it.” He looked toward the door. “Who at—that girl?”

“It was her idea.” Dave hitched up the blanket. “You want to get me some clothes, please?”

The next morning, he was sore in many places. He sat on the edge of the bed and drank the coffee Cecil had left for him. Then he tottered to his feet and found he moved like a cripple, wincing at every step. All the same, he switched on music. He needed to hear music. The CD happened to be Haydn piano sonatas. Just right. Clutching the rail, he limped downstairs. There was a large black-and-blue mark on his forehead, a dull red graze along his jaw. As he faced the bathroom mirror, shaving, he was reminded of little Zach Gruber.

It was painful to climb the stairs again, to make the moves necessary to get dressed. Then, coffee mug in hand, he limped through the leaf-dappled shadow of the old oak, across the uneven brick paving to the cookshack. When he came in the door, Cecil was at the stove and at the table sat a chunky boy in a Levi’s jacket with the arms torn off, and army fatigue pants. He was drinking coffee from one of the yellow mugs. His sun-streaked brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail fastened with a rubber band, and he hadn’t shaved for a few days. Dave had seen him before. Where?

“You was at Tomorrow House the other morning.”

Dave blinked at him. “That’s right. You came out of the stable. You’re the carpenter, right?”

“There’s always plenty to do.” The boy stood up, wiped a hand on his pants, held the hand out. Dave shook it. The boy said, “That old house is falling apart. I’m Noah.”

“He built the ark,” Dave said. “Is that why Vickers made you carpenter? Because of your name?”

“I had a little experience before I got on drugs. My old man was a carpenter. Time I was eleven or so, he’d take me with him on his jobs. He’d drink. I’d work.”

Cecil brought coffee and filled Dave’s mug. He put a light kiss on the black-and-blue mark. “How do you feel?”

“I’ll live.” Dave sat down. “Any phone calls?”

“No, but there will be. Soon as Amanda sees this.” The
Times
lay on the table, the front page of the Calendar section. Cecil tapped a headline story with a long finger. Dave said to Noah, “Excuse me a minute,” put on his reading glasses, peered.
Cliff Callahan To Marry Wealthy Beverly Hills Decorator.
Ceremony will be aboard Icarus, famous brainy helicopter.
He snatched the glasses off and looked up at Cecil. “She’ll kill him,” he said.

“The understanding was”—Cecil returned to the stove and loaded plates there—“the studio wasn’t to know a thing about it till it was all over. I thought Callahan was smart—at least for an actor. He’s done a stupid thing.”

“I can’t believe it,” Dave said.

“Then how did they find out?” Cecil brought plates of ham and eggs and toast to the table. Noah had pulled the paper around so he could read it. He slid it aside so Cecil could put down his breakfast. He said:

“You know him?” He was awed. “He a friend of yours?”

“The bride-to-be,” Dave said, “we’ve known for a long time. How long we’ll know Callahan remains to be seen.”

Noah whistled, eyes round. “Wow!” he said. “We watch that show every week at the halfway house.”

Cecil sat down. “Eat it before it gets cold.”

Noah pitched in. Dave looked at the paper again. “Typical. They mean to exploit it for all it’s worth. Photos in every magazine the world around.” He put his glasses away and picked up knife and fork. “What a circus. Cliff must have trusted somebody on the set. And old trustworthy ran straight to the publicity department.”

“I hope that whoever leaked it admits it to Amanda. Because she isn’t going to like it. She is not that kind of lady. Getting married in a helicopter jammed with camera crews, hovering over Universal Studios, ten thousand screaming fans milling around below? No way.”

Dave smeared guava jelly on toast. “If Cliff can’t convince her it wasn’t his fault, I’m afraid no amount of computer magic can make that marriage happen.” He felt bad about it. Pretty and bright as she was, her success had kept getting in Amanda’s way when it came to men. Dave thought Callahan honestly wanted her for herself alone. He’d been pleased. “Or maybe she’ll surprise us. She loves him. Maybe she’ll laugh and go along with the glitz.”

Noah said, “Excuse me, but what time is it?”

Cecil read his bulky black watch. “Nine-thirty-five.”

“Jesus.” The ponytailed boy let the fork rattle onto his empty plate. “I’ve got to go.” He stood up. “Listen, Mr. Brandstetter, why I came was—Mr. Vickers lied to you. It makes me feel rotten to say it and I been putting it off. But it’s murder we’re talking about here, isn’t it?”

“It’s murder,” Dave said. “Lied to me? About what?”

“Those back steps gotta be replaced. I was outside measuring them,” Noah said, “when you asked him where he was that night, and he said he was working at his desk.”

“And he wasn’t working at his desk?” Dave said.

“He was out all evening. Reason I know is, it was the night we have our private talk. Always. Once a week. Six-thirty, right after dinner. Only when I went back there, he was going out, and he apologized and said something had come up and he had to see somebody. And we’d reschedule our conference another day, okay?” The boy looked miserable. “God, I feel like Judas or something.”

“You don’t know what time he came back?”

“Heard his car. I got no watch, but it was after the church clock up the street went midnight.”

I
T WOULD TAKE CECIL
half an hour to drive in his blue, flame-painted van, rock music throbbing on the stereo, to the television studio over by Dodger Stadium. Dave didn’t go back to bed as Cecil had asked him to. He sat in the cookshack, drinking coffee, reading the
Times,
looking often at his watch. Then he again unplugged the phones Cecil had so methodically reconnected—“I want to be able to find out how you are”—limped out, and climbed painfully into the Jaguar.

He drove south through Venice on his way to Tomorrow House. But when he passed the flat-roofed green stucco buildings of Toyland School, he slowed, peered in the side mirror, made a U-turn. He parked at the curb and got out of the car. Sounds of high-pitched little voices singing came to him. He crossed that very clean sidewalk, opened the gate in the wire-mesh fence, and doors burst open and small children came tumbling out, hopping, chirping. After them came a placidly smiling grandmotherly woman in a smock, and after her Celia Yamashita, a child clinging to her hand.

The children began climbing the jungle gym, tunneling through the barrel, piling into and out of the cars of the little engine that couldn’t. Dave closed the gate carefully. The old woman looked at him, cocking her head, frowning. A question on her lips, she took a step toward him, clean white tennis shoes crunching the gravel. Then Celia Yamashita saw him and spoke to her, and she managed a smile for Dave, and turned away to look after the children, one of whom had started to wail. Celia Yamashita came to him.

“I don’t see Zach Gruber,” Dave said.

“His parents withdrew him,” she said. “They didn’t like it that I’d believed he’d been beaten at home. They said they’d find another school to send him, someplace that would treat them with respect.” She blinked at Dave through her blue-rimmed glasses. Worriedly. “Who’s been abusing you?”

He smiled thinly. “I have my prepared explanations, too. I fell down stairs. Will that do, or must I see the doctor?”

She wasn’t in a mood for jokes. “The elderly suffer from abuse at home, too, you know. Spouses, grown children, caretakers—” Then she must have seen a warning in Dave’s face, because she shut her mouth, blushed redly, and held out a hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I appreciate your concern,” he said stiffly, “but it wasn’t anything like that.” He turned away. “Where did they put Zach, do you know?”

“No, but they’re feckless. I doubt they’ve found a place yet. He’s probably at home.”

“I’d like it better if he wasn’t.” He opened the gate.

She was with him. “So would I. See if you can make them change their minds, will you please?”

Tomorrow House would have to wait. Dave drove up into West Hollywood, parked, and hobbled into the courtyard of the brown stucco apartment complex again. No one was around. They’d set off for work a couple of hours ago, hadn’t they? Those that worked. Not Len Gruber. Dave climbed to the gallery and walked along it, among the fake soccer balls and plastic tricycles, to the Grubers’ door and pressed the button. The door was flimsy, and it surprised him a little not to hear the television set through it. Len should be watching his cop shows, no? He waited a beat, then thumbed the buzzer again. Nobody came. The window curtains were drawn so he couldn’t look inside. Well, maybe they were out hunting for a school for Zach.

He started back along the gallery and halted. At about the spot Zach had pointed to, the spot where he’d been that night in his grimy little T-shirt and briefs when he heard the shots that had killed his idol Cricket. He studied his watch, then started, as quickly as he could manage, for the stairs, down the stairs, toward the rear patio, and to the place where Zach had stopped and seen Rachel bending over the dead man, the gun in her hand. He looked at his watch. Twenty-two seconds. He grimaced. He was crippled this morning, but even in good shape he’d not have covered the distance as quickly as Zach’s anxious little legs.

Now he walked into the breezeway and stopped beside the fading chalk outline of the guitarist’s body. He turned slowly, taking in everything he could see from here. He walked into the patio with the dry swimming pool. In the cool shadow of the shaggy leaning pine he turned around again, looking. A narrow walkway went out to an alley. He followed it. Cars could park here, in marked places, under the floor of second-story apartments. Rachel’s apartment number was painted on the wall. She’d have come this way, then.

He went back to the chalk mark. When the killer heard her coming, where had he run to? Dave’s eyes lit on the storage locker, the one Zach had found so easy to open and crawl into the other day. Dave drew out the loosened screws of the hasp, as Zach must have done, pulled open the doors. Empty. He put his head inside for a closer look. And there it was. A large blue-and-white jogging shoe.

He stretched a sore arm for it. It was stuck. Wincing at the pain, he tugged the shoe, wiggled it, and it came away. A flange of rubber sole at the heel had lodged under an upright backing board of the locker. The wearer had been in too much of a hurry to try to free it. He’d pulled his foot out of it and run away.