Free Draw (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 2) (19 page)

“Where can we talk privately, Franklin?”

The other two writers looked up briefly and went back to their work. After all, they were used to intruders by now.

“Why should we?” Franklin blustered. I just grinned nastily back at him and asked him if he’d rather talk right there. He got up and followed me out the door, down the hall away from the communications offices, and into a small vacant room. I closed the door behind us, grabbed a hunk of shirt and tie, and shoved him up against the wall.

“I don’t like getting shot at, asshole. And I don’t like the bullet holes you put in my window and my dash.”

“You’re crazy.”

“What kind of car do you drive, you moron? That nice blue Merc that’s parked in the lot outside?”

“There must be a thousand blue Mercurys in Marin County, what’s mine got to do with anything?”

I gave him a poke in the gut. I was a little surprised he felt it through all that padding. “If you’re going to shoot at people you should wear gray flannel. Not green and yellow plaid. And you should learn to drive without sticking your elbow out the window.”

He started to cry. His nose got all red and runny and tears dribbled down his fat little cheeks. I didn’t feel bad.

“Stop that,” I told him, banging his head against the Sheet-rock. He cried harder. His body turned to dead weight and I let him slide down to the blue carpeting. He hit with a bump, still crying. I stood over him.

“Did Morton tell you to follow me? Did he tell you to kill me?”

“I didn’t kill you. I wasn’t even trying to kill you. I just wanted to scare you. Really.” He was looking at the floor. The tears had stopped falling. His eyes were puffy and his nose was still running.

“Blow your nose, fuck-up. Maybe you didn’t mean to kill me, but you came awfully damned close.” He pulled a hanky out of his pants pocket, a real, white cloth hanky, and blew his nose delicately. “You didn’t answer my question about Morton. Did he tell you to shoot at me? To scare me off, if not to kill me?”

He looked up, defiant. “No one told me to do anything. You’re trying to close down Bright Future. I’d lose my job.” His lip quivered pathetically in his ugly face. “How many jobs do you think there are for a man like me? I’m not a kid anymore, you know. I just wanted you to lay off.” He could have been telling the truth, but I didn’t let that stop me. I wanted to talk about Morton.

I squatted down in front of him and took hold of his shirt again.

“You’re lying. I know you’re lying. You’re not exactly the self-starting type, Franklin. I can’t see you playing hoodlum all on your own. Morton always tells you what to do, doesn’t he? He brought you with him from that cosmetics company— why did that fold, Franklin? Who closed that down? He gave you a job here and you do what he says. Isn’t that right?” I banged his head against the wall again, not very hard. He clamped his lips together like a fat little kid who wasn’t going to tell the grownup anything and shook his head, once, from side to side.

I let go of his shirt. He unclamped his lips and said, “You can’t prove anything, Samson. It’s your word against mine.” I wanted to kick him but, even more, I wanted never to touch him again. So I made a few threats and left him sitting there.

And ran all the way to Morton’s office, past his secretary and through his open door, trying to beat Franklin’s warning call. Maybe I beat it and maybe I didn’t, but Morton wasn’t in. His secretary told me stiffly that Mr. Morton was out of town and was due back after lunch the next day if I wished to make an appointment. I told her no thanks.

My next stop was out on the street, at a pay phone near the corner. I put in a call to Chloe. Yes, she was fine. No, she hadn’t seen Morton that day, he was out of town. Bert Franklin had not been his usual friendly self when she’d said good morning, but he hadn’t pulled a gun or anything.

I told her I was coming back the next day to see Morton. She said fine, just don’t stop by and visit me, and dinner is still on for tomorrow night.

Rosie was doing the follow-up on Andy, and his presence in the Bay Area the weekend Smith was killed. I would be seeing Hal that night and he might have something for me on business scams. That left one other person I wanted to talk to. I had some questions I wanted to ask Mrs. James Smith.

I drove south to Mill Valley and got my second strike of the day. Morton had been out of town. Mrs. Smith wasn’t home. I sat outside for a while before I went back to the canyon to take a nap. There was a note on my door from someone in the Perrine household. It said “Hal says sure. Six p.m.”

When I pulled up in front of the Smith house that afternoon, I caught myself glancing nervously around for Bunny and was much relieved that she wasn’t lurking anywhere in sight. Precocious is nice for spelling bees and science fairs. Other than that, I can live without it.

Mrs. James Smith was in. She raised her eyebrows at me with tremendous self-control and good breeding and said nothing about unexpected visits.

“I was just making some coffee, Mr. Samson. Would you like some?”

I didn’t want any, but it seemed like a good idea to go along with her offer of hospitality. She asked me to “be seated” and went off to get the coffee. That gave me a few minutes to rehearse my approach.

She returned with a silver coffeepot, sugar bowl, and cream pitcher perched in the middle of a silver tray and accompanied by delicate flowered cups and saucers. I fought the urge to turn my cup over and check out its pedigree. She poured.

“And what can I help you with today, Mr. Samson?”

I smiled shyly. “I don’t know quite how to approach this, Mrs. Smith.”

“Be straightforward,” she said coolly. If she had been another kind of woman she would have told me to spit it out.

“Okay,” I said, taking a deep and boyish breath. “It’s about your husband’s relationship with Bright Future. I know he believed in that company. Yet I’ve just heard he was planning to quit. Gave his notice, as a matter of fact. Can you tell me why?”

Her eyes glazed over. “I’m afraid I don’t see what relevance information of a personal nature could have to your magazine article.”

I could see I wasn’t going to get any help from this woman as long as she thought I was looking for a story. And I needed information from her.

“Mrs. Smith,” I said, “I’m going to level with you. Do you want to see your husband’s killer caught and punished?”

She set her cup carefully in its saucer and looked directly into my eyes for the first time. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Samson. The police have caught my husband’s murderer.”

“No,” I told her. “They haven’t.”

“But I told them everything they asked. Are you a policeman? May I see your identification?”

“I’m not with the police, Mrs. Smith, but I am trying to find out who killed him.”

“Why? Are you some sort of private detective?”

“In a way. I’m a friend of the accused man’s family. I believe he’s innocent.”

“I see,” she said. “You are neither a reporter nor a policeman.” Although she didn’t use the word “liar,” her look was slightly accusing. At the same time, she seemed softer, as though she liked me better. Apparently a friend of someone’s family, in her mind, had higher status than either journalists or cops.

“Well, Mr. Samson, I would like to help you, but I’m not altogether sure why he made his decision, and I don’t know why he made it when he did. He had been somewhat dissatisfied with his work for some time. He had made inquiries about other positions. A few weeks ago he received an offer to become headmaster of a private school in Southern California. It was a very good offer, complete with a lovely family home on the campus. Still, even then, he was reluctant to leave Bright Future. He was a very loyal man. He didn’t want to leave this area, either. We were making plans to build a new home. We had decided to purchase a lot. In the canyon where he passed away, as I told you before.”

I’ve always hated that particular expression, and it seemed especially inappropriate in this case. Passed quietly away while being stabbed with a hunting knife and tossed down a spillway. Sure.

She continued. “Then, just about two weeks ago, he made his decision. He would accept the new position and we would move south.”

“So, the decision surprised you?”

“Oh, not exactly surprised. But it did seem sudden.”

“And you didn’t question that?”

“Of course not. A man’s work is very important to him. He must be happy—” she stopped, a flicker of pain crossing her face.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith. I know this is hard for you.”

“I’m quite all right, thank you.” She sipped at her coffee. I swallowed the first mouthful of mine. Lukewarm, but good and strong.

“When I first talked to you,” I said, “you told me that your husband was in the canyon that day because you were planning to buy property there. I don’t understand. He made the decision to move days before that.”

“Yes, but James was a shrewd businessman. We would have the money from the sale of this house to invest. He wanted to invest in real estate, either here or in Southern California. That morning, that Sunday, when he left the house, he said he wanted to have another look at the lot. To look at it and decide whether to withdraw the offer we had made or to go ahead with it.”

“And you believe that’s all there was to it?”

“Oh, yes. James always said the best decisions are made— let’s see, how did he put it?— on the site of the issue. I suppose that’s the sort of thing he meant. And there was his concern about the runoff.”

It was possible. It was also possible that he had an appointment to meet his killer. I guessed I wouldn’t know one way or the other until I knew who the killer was.

“One other thing, Mrs. Smith. Did you know your son’s lover was involved in a child custody fight with his ex-wife?” She flinched at the word lover, but her upper lip stayed stiff.

She frosted up again. “I had heard something about it. I believe there was something in the newspaper. But really, this is not a matter I wish—”

“Mrs. Smith, did you know your husband was going to testify against him? Did he know something about the man?”

She stood up. “I’m afraid I can’t help you anymore, Mr. Samson. I know no such thing. I know nothing about this man. I wish to know nothing about this man. I do not wish to discuss my son. It is simply too painful.” I stood up, too.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Please leave.”

“Just one more thing, Mrs. Smith. It’s not about your son. Can you tell me why your husband was dissatisfied with his job?”

“No, I cannot. He said he believed the company was moving in a direction he did not care for. That was all he said. That was enough for me.”

I was sure that it was. I thanked her for her help.

Bunny was waiting at my car. Today she was wearing at least two sets of eyelashes, lavender pants that bunched up around the ankles, three-inch heels, and some kind of leather pullover, like a closed-up vest. Her lipstick was the color of ripe tomato. The sixteen-year-old lowered her eyelashes and smiled seductively.

“Barbara,” I said, “don’t look at me that way. It will get you nowhere. I’m not attracted to younger women.”

She laughed. “Too bad. I sure like older men. How about another lift into town?”

“Sure. Get in.” I wasn’t crazy about carting her around, but maybe she could tell me things her mother wouldn’t even think about.

She had one answer to all my questions, including the ones about her father’s threatened intervention in the custody case. “Yeah,” she said. “I could tell you a lot.”

I was patient. “What?”

She ran her long red fingernail down my forearm. “I’ll tell you if you’ll go out with me.”

“I do not go out with sixteen-year-old girls.”

“Okay.” She sat looking straight ahead, smiling to herself.

“This is extortion.”

“I guess.”

“Why are you playing this little kid game with me, Barbara?”

“Because I’m a bored little kid.” She was still smiling that tiny smile.

“What do you mean by ‘going out’?”

The smile got bigger. “We could go dancing.”

“Forget it. Any place I’d want to go dancing wouldn’t let you in.”

“Fuck you, Samson.” But she didn’t stop smiling. We’d reached the center of town. “Still got my card, Jake?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if you want to know what I know, just give me a call. I’d settle for dinner. You won’t be sorry.”

Sure, I thought, I’ve heard that line from women before. And always from women who made me very sorry indeed.

Bunny got out of the car and headed for the bus station.

The kid made me tired. I didn’t realize how tired until I was standing at the bottom of the canyon steps. They looked steep and damned near endless. Afternoon sunlight was sifting down through the redwoods. Gold and green and red brown. The water in the spillway ditch was shallow, and eddying around the rocks and outcrops of root-bound clay instead of crashing and foaming. But this was still March, and there would be more rain. Alan had been unlucky. That knife could easily have stayed hidden in the mud until May. Or even forever.

I didn’t see Rosie sitting on the steps below my room until I got all the way up to the path-called-a-lane. She was holding a pair of binoculars in one hand and using the index finger of the other to give me the “shh” signal. I crept up and sat beside her.

“What’s happening, Rosie?” I whispered. “What are you doing?”

She flashed me a grin. “I’m watching Hanley watching Carlota.”

I laughed as quietly as I could. “Are you also watching Carlota?”

“Oh, every so often I take a look just to see what Hanley’s seeing.”

“What’s he seeing?”

“Nothing very much. She’s fully dressed, and she and Nona aren’t rolling all over the floor in uncontrollable lust or anything. Nona’s not even home. I don’t know why he does it. Can’t be all that entertaining.”

“What’s he doing while he’s seeing nothing?” I bent over and peered around the corner of my room. Hanley was just visible on the other side of the bridge, crouching behind a fuchsia.

“The last time I looked he was drinking beer and belching.”