34
Outside on the front lawn, three finely formed girls in skimpy bikinis ran in and out of the sprinklers’ spray. Nearby a forty-something wild-haired guy filmed them on a Super 8. He shouted out instructions which they seemed to only half-listen to, the main one being to run towards the camera.
Clark looked up at the door of the mansion, and at the piece of paper Dougie had given him. This was 8448 alright, just like the cabbie said when he’d dropped him at the curb. Inside a party was in full swing. It was just after 4 pm. He could see clear through the house, along the corridor, through the vast living space and out onto the deck and beyond that the pool where people were diving off the board, one, two, three at a time. He should have brought his bathing suit. The city sat below it all, a mass of grey and white buildings, huddled where the V ended between the towering canyons. He walked through toward the pool, scanning for Dougie as people darted in and out of rooms along the corridor. A butler. In full white-tailed livery. His hand under a silver salver filled with crystal goblets. He pushed the tray toward Clark. Clark took one. ‘Thanks, man.’
The butler nodded and was about to move away.
‘Do you know where Dougie’s at?’
‘Sorry, sir. I don’t know who that is.’
‘But you work here?’
‘Just for tonight.’
‘Oh.’ Waiter not butler. What was with the outfit? ‘You know who owns this place? The name of the guy? Maybe he knows where Dougie is.’
‘No. Sorry. My supervisor’s around here someplace. He’ll have the name of the client, unless it’s all organized through a party organizer.’
‘Thanks.’ Maybe Dougie wrote the address down wrong. Great. Clark looked over to the pool. A buffet along one entire side. He was pretty hungry. Maybe he’d stay a while.
Lobster tail and filet mignon. Clark slipped off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. He was eyeing a spare seat he could grab at the tables laid out where the pool met the landscaped garden when, into his vision, came a stunning blonde in a long white evening dress, her hair crimped into a ’30s style. She smiled at him. At least he hoped it was him. He smiled back. She smiled wider. ‘So glad I’m not the only one overdressed.’ She put her finger on his chest where the open buttons on his shirt ended. ‘You must be hot in that jacket.’
‘Baked.’
‘Well, I’m parched.’ She held out her empty glass. ‘Where did that waiter go?’
‘Inside. I just saw him.’
‘There must be more than one.’
‘Didn’t see any. You can have this.’
He handed her his half-full glass.
‘And what about you?’
‘I’ll wait until he comes back.’
‘He might never come back. Say, why don’t you go find him and I’ll find us a table. Here, let me take that for you.’
She took the plate off him, handed him her empty glass and walked away toward where a table was freeing up. ‘I’ll be over there. Hurry back. If you find the bar, I’ll have a White Russian.’
He knew that. Clark watched as she picked her way through the revellers. He had been her, not so long ago. Large K, a whole selection of vowels in the surname and amongst it all a g that seemed to be detached from the rest of it. She had been a challenge. It was important to ensure that the gaps between the g and the letter preceding and after it were precise to a fraction of a millimeter. He had churned out twenty of her signed photos after that film she did with De Niro broke box-office records. Once the signature had been mastered it had taken less than ten minutes to sign the photos in her favorite red Sharpie. Hopefully, soon, she’d be an even bigger star and instead of five hundred dollars for ten minutes of his time, it’d be five thousand. There was that waiter guy, his tray full again. ‘Hey, sir, can I get one of those from you?’
The waiter didn’t even turn around before he disappeared into the house and made his way toward a door at the end of the hall. Clark followed him quickly, stepped through the door after him. The door led into another hallway. The waiter was nowhere to be seen. Off the hall was door after identical door. All shut tight. There was no one through here and he couldn’t hear the disco music or any of the guests. Weird. He turned around, but where the door had been now there was nothing but a wall. ‘What the hell?’ He looked back down the hall. ‘Hey! Hey, waiter!?’ he tried one door after another: all locked. He banged on one after the other. No one behind them, or if there was they sure as hell weren’t answering. And then he saw him again. The waiter. At the far end of the hallway, coming out of a room, the door closing behind him. ‘Hey! Hey you!’ He ran after him, the hall was sliding downwards, round and around and around.
Down, down, down into the bowels of the earth.
Clark turned a bend to chase him but there was nothing there at all. Nothing but a long winding corridor and the waiter nowhere to be seen. Clark turned around, tried the handle of the door the waiter had emerged from, amazed when it swung wide open. He stepped inside.
A vast double-level library. Books pushing up to the skies of the windowless room. And no one in there but him. What heaven this was. He was feeling a bit tired, but he had to get back upstairs, find a drink and deliver it. To a very beautiful woman. Maybe if he just sat down for a second. There was a leather chaise in the corner almost calling to him. He kicked off his shoes and lay down and before his eyes could even close, sleep overtook him.
*
Muffled voices out in the corridor. Laughter. He was still lying down when the door opened and two middle-aged men appeared through it.
‘Speak of the devil and he appears. Hey, Hartman, I’ve been looking for you all over, didn’t realise you’d turned into Goldilocks. Come and meet Sanford T. Winkleman.’
‘Winkleman?’
‘That’s right, son.’ His voice was even deeper than Dougie’s, his handshake firmer, and his stogie twice the size.
‘Sanford here’s in the movie biz.’
‘I AM the movie biz, don’t you mean?’ The two men laughed loud.
Clark smiled. Sanford still clutched his hand. ‘Good to meet you, sir. I’m Cliff. Cliff Hartman. Are you related to a Travis J.?’
‘Yes I am. That’s my errant brother. Hasn’t been causing you problems, has he?’ He looked around them. Towards the door. ‘He’s not here, is he? He could sour anyone’s party.’
‘I didn’t see him, sir. I met him earlier.’
‘At the pink palace? That’s what they call it, isn’t it, Sanford?’
‘That it is.’
‘Not at the hotel. He was over at the auction house.’
‘Was he?’
‘He was sat next to me.’
‘I didn’t see him,’ said Dougie.
‘Nice guy.’
‘Ha. Some say that and some say the truth,’ said Sanford.
‘Is this your library, Mr Winkleman?’
‘All mine. And, please, call me Sanford.’
‘It’s awesome, Sanford. Absolutely awesome.’
‘You had a look around?’
‘No, just admiring from afar.’
‘What’s your favorite kind of book, Cliff?’
‘For reading or collecting?’
‘Collecting. Don’t think I read all this shit, do you?’
‘More lifetimes than a cat, you couldn’t read all this,’ said Dougie, sucking on his stogie.
‘Children’s, for collecting.’
‘Good choice, Cliff. I like this guy, Dougie.’
‘He’s a good kid. I told you.’
‘Telling and seeing are not the same. Come over here, Cliff. Let me show
you
something that’ll blow your mind.’
Over in a darkened recess was a tall glass cabinet and inside it, on a raised glass slope inside yet more glass, was a manuscript with a scruffy edge. Aged yellow long before Sanford had put it in there. Clark strained to see what it was as Sanford took a set of keys off his belt and unlocked the cabinet. ‘Come on, Cliff, follow me.’ Sanford put the manuscript in the crook of his arm, lightly pinching the corner to keep it in place, and took Clark to a side table and laid it out for him.
Alice’s Adventures Under Ground.
‘How do you like them apples, Cliff?’
‘A million bucks of apples,’ said Dougie.
Clark leaned in towards it.
‘Here.’ Sanford passed him a pair of white gloves.
Clark almost ripped them in his rush to put them on.
‘This one’s Alice’s own copy.’
‘I thought that was in that library. In England?’
‘That’s right, Cliff. They have one. I have the other. And mine is far superior. Mine is signed from Carroll to Alice. See.’
Clark was turning the page, looking at Carroll’s reasonably accomplished illustrations and his strange, childlike, fastidiously neat feminine hand. The illustrations were simple pen sketches, but the chapters had flourishes of angry red ink in their headings. All was not as it seemed in the life of Alice’s creator.
A hand on his shoulder.
‘So, Cliff. Dougie and I have a proposition for you.’
‘For me?’
Sanford was behind him now, sweeping up Alice Under Ground and ushering her back into her glass cage.
‘You might not be interested. You might like it way out there in Abraham City too much.’
‘What Dougie’s trying to say.’ It was Sanford, speaking from beside the cabinet, as he locked it up and placed the key back onto his belt. ‘Is that we’d like to offer you an opportunity.’
‘An opportunity?’
‘If you’re interested. We’re gonna open up a store, over on Hollywood Boulevard.’
‘Hollywood Boulevard?’
‘Yeah, I know it’s a flea-pit, but it won’t always be like that.’
‘He’s right. Look at Vegas. Sixty years ago it was a dustbowl.’
‘What kind of store?’
‘Like my store. The one you came to. In the hotel. All that stuff for the tourists, signed this, signed that. Memorabilia. Film, music, sports, you name it – we’ll sell it. Everyone wants a little sprinkle of gold dust in their life.’
‘And we’ll give them that, Cliff. Franchise the whole outfit, send it around the world. Just like my movies.’
‘You interested, Cliff? We could make you richer than your wildest dreams. You may get to own
Alice
one day, if you play your cards right.’
‘So, Cliff, how about it?’
He thought he might still be asleep. Dreaming. But this was a dream: the best offer he’d ever had. Perfect. He could ‘get a store’ like Dougie had told him last year and provide it with its finest stock. His creations. ‘On one condition.’
‘Stand by for the haggle, Sanford.’
‘You answer me one question.’
‘Sure, Cliff. What is it?’
‘Where in the hell’s your bar?’
*
When he woke up he could feel his back damp, cold. He opened his eyes. His hand felt wet, he followed the sensation of liquid to his fingers where his hand was splayed in the pool. He tried to lift it but couldn’t. At the opposite end of the pool was the pool boy. Clark looked at him. He had the deepest of tans, bluest of shorts and a smooth naked torso. The early morning smog burnt behind him and then Clark realized who it was. It was Robert Bright. Bright spotted him staring at him, smiled and waved, began calling to him. Around Bright three naked women danced and sang. Clark could see their faces clearer as each woman moved slowly to the end of the diving board and slipped silently into the water before they completely disappeared under it. Bright’s three Graces: Elizabeth, Rebecca and Ellen. Robert moved onto the dive board, put his staff into the water and moved it back and forth, very very slowly before pulling a clump of something out. With the other hand he waved again at Clark, beckoning him over to the light. Clark wanted to move towards him, but for some reason he couldn’t get up, couldn’t make his body move. That tab. The one she’d given him. It must have paralysed him. Oh no, not the hands. He couldn’t feel them, nor his arms or his chest. The pressure inside his chest was intense, he could barely breathe. He looked down and realized there was a woman, in a gold lamé bikini, sprawled on top of him.
All that glitters isn’t gold.
It was her.
His wedding tie was knotted around her waist. He shifted a little, trying to wake her. Suddenly, she woke up, moved quickly off the lounger and crawled over to the pool and vomited into it. Over and over again. Robert Bright quickly made his way over to her. Clark could see him now, out of the sun. ‘I throw a damn good party, don’t I, Cliff?’ It was Sanford. He put down his cleaning net, shrouded her in a white towel. As they passed him Sanford dropped Clark’s waterlogged jacket into his lap, turned and led her away as she groaned and sobbed, ‘I’m sorry,’ over and over again until they vanished back into the house, where, through the glass, Clark could see people dancing to an almost silent track.
35
Gudsen Residence
In the open-plan living space Betty Gudsen sat watching Whittaker and his lab assistants search her kitchen, silently guided by Al. Marty made his way over to where she sat. ‘Ma’am, Mrs Rose has kindly agreed to help observe the search. That way, we’ll get out of your hair a lot faster.’ Marion bent down to where Betty sat on the sofa and silently embraced her as she looked up at her, broke out a small smile.
‘Thanks, Marion. Thanks so much.’
‘It’s the least I could do.’
‘Mrs Gudsen, do you know if your husband had any collections? Possibly a Bible collection?’
‘Peter just had the one Bible. His Faith Bible. It was his mother’s. It’s still sat by our bed. He read it every night. Used it to prepare his sermons. Would you like me to fetch it?’
‘No, ma’am. Thank you. Leave it where it is. We’ll get to it as we go.’
‘As for collections, Detective, we don’t possess things of value. Not material value, anyhow.’
‘Did Mr Gudsen use his study often, ma’am?’
‘Peter lived in that room. Just last year he had some carpenter friends from Mission come over and fix up those shelves. They made him that desk from scratch.’
‘It’s a beauty, ma’am.’
‘Peter loved it.’
Her tissue went back up to her face. ‘Don’t you upset yourself, Betty. They’ll be finished soon enough. I can stay all afternoon,’ said Marion.
Marty turned away. Al waved silently at him, held up a finger, mouthed, ‘One minute,’ and beckoned over toward the study.
‘This way, Mrs Rose.’ She turned and followed Marty into the study.
‘Oh, I forgot my magazine. It’s OK to read a magazine?’
‘Sure, as long as you peer over it now and again, so I can tell the judge we had an independent observer at all times.’
‘I’ll ask Betty for a magazine.’
‘There’s some here.’
Marty was over at the shelves now, he picked up a couple of magazines. ‘
Accountants’ Gazetteer
or
Faith Weekly
.’
‘I think I’ll pass, if it’s all the same,’ she smiled that smile, ‘you don’t want me to nod off, do you?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Marion.’
She made her way back down the corridor, past Al who was headed in Marty’s direction.
Marty looked at the shelves. Five of them and a cupboard underneath to the floor. On the other side, in the same glossy mahogany, the alcove was covered up with a large fitted panel, intricate wooden beading all round the outside. In front of it sat a sculpted wooden plinth mounted with the statue of a golden angel. Marty would have counted that as material possessions – ethereal or not.
‘I heard from her. The sketch artist.’
‘Good. How’s it going?’
‘Do you want the bad news, or the randomly good news?’
‘Bad news. But wait a sec, does that look odd to you?’
‘What?’
‘This. One side shelving, the other side that panel?’
‘Maybe he didn’t have anything to put on the shelves, except those magazines.’
‘Why build shelves you got nothing to put on them? Did you guys take anything off this shelf?’
‘Nothing much. A couple of client files, that’s all,’ said Al.
Marty crouched down to the floor, opened the cupboard, peered inside.
Al bent down towards him. ‘She paged, gave me a number over at the hospital, no incoming calls. So, I got through to Grady’s kid on the radio. There were complications in the surgery. Angel. Something to do with the anaesthetic. Bad reaction. He’s in the ICU. Room next to Houseman. Last night and overnight again, at least, according to the docs.’
‘He gonna make it?’ Nothing in the cupboard they hadn’t already checked. And, at the back, just the same coloured paint was on the walls. Marty tapped on the wall. Nothing hidden inside unless it had been bricked up and concreted over.
Al nodded. ‘They think so.’
Marty looked up at Al. ‘Well, that’s something. We really need a sketch of this guy.’
‘I told him to tell the artist girl to go home. No point her staying there, getting all tired. But to keep in touch with Grady and his shift replacement. You wanna hear the other news?’
Marty stood up now. ‘Is it any worse?’
‘I spoke to Hobbs.’
Marty tapped on the paneled-over alcove. ‘Doesn’t sound too hollow.’
Al tapped it. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
Marty tapped a few other parts of the panel. Same dull sound. ‘Might be something behind there.’
‘You might be right.’
‘What’s Hobbs doing at the hospital?’
‘Grady put him on the line. He’s the lead detective on the case.’
‘What case?’
‘The drugstore cowboys.’
‘They found them?’
‘They found us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll get to that. But they finally found
her
.’
‘Who?’
‘The old lady whose car went boom yesterday.’
‘Mrs Miller. That’s good. What did she say?’
‘Nothing. She’s in the morgue.’
‘In the morgue?’
‘Yep. Getting buried tomorrow.’
‘Murdered?’
‘No. Apparently people die of other stuff.’
‘So I’d heard.’
‘This one had a stroke. She’s been in the hospital for ten days. Her son says the car was parked out front of her house, way out in the boondocks. She’d been housebound almost a year. When he went back to hers, after the ambulance got her to hospital, the car had gone.’
‘He didn’t report it stolen?’
‘No, he thought his son might have
borrowed
it. Dopehead. Didn’t want to get him arrested. Again.’
‘And?’
‘That’s where the drugstore cowboys come in. They called 911 this morning. Emergency ambulance. No police required, but Curtis from the traffic boys was nearer so they sent him first.’
‘Curtis, the paramedic?’
‘As was.’
‘Well, he goes to this hotel. Where they’re supposed to be staying, but they’re out back hid near the laundry room amongst a pile of bloodied bed linen. And the receptionist says they never checked in. One guy’s shredded real bad. He certainly didn’t get those injuries in any hotel room. Not any normal one, anyhow. His buddy has somehow managed to stitch him up. Trouble is, the wound keeps erupting. Curtis says the kid looks like Frankenstein’s monster.’
‘Sounds a mess.’
‘Curtis thinks it looks like he went through a windshield and figures these two might be the guys Hobbs is looking for.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘So Curtis IDs the kids. They claim they don’t have any. While the paramedics are working on the younger kid, he searches the older kid. Bingo. ID. Last name?’
‘I give up.’
‘Miller, same name as the old lady.’
‘So where’d they get this other car? The one they put through the pharmacy?’
‘Stole it, of course.’
‘What happened to their Nissan?’
‘Somebody stole it.’
Marty laughed. ‘That’s their story and they’re sticking to it.’
‘From what Hobbs could find out, they’ve never even been out of Dalewood County before.’
‘Wow, some adventure, huh? Abraham City wouldn’t have been my rebel destination.’
‘Now or then?’
‘Now or never.’
‘Billy-Ray, that’s the cousin, fifteen, he went through the windshield and then got dragged away by Dopehead before the whole place ignited . . . he’ll have a pocketful of memories, that’s for sure.’
‘And the scars so he doesn’t forget. So, our bomber’s also a car thief. That’s interesting. They leave the keys in the ignition?’
‘No. They weren’t carjacked neither. Curtis found the car key to Grandma’s Nissan in the older one’s pocket.’
‘So our bomber knows how to hot-wire a car.’
‘That’s if it was him. Could be someone sold it to him?’
‘Then we need to find
that
guy. How long the cowboys been in town?’
‘Almost a week. They ran out of money fast, could only afford one night in some hotel the other side of town. That night the car got stolen.’
‘When was that?’
‘Night before the first bombing. Twenty-ninth. With no money and no shelter, they broke into an empty hotel room and put the Do Not Disturb sign on before the chambermaid yesterday called security. So they stole the Pontiac, to sleep in. Hit some black ice and skidded off the road.’
‘Right into the pharmacy?’
‘So they say.’
‘They weren’t trying to ram the place, and get some drugs, hey?’
‘Of course not: that would be a felony.’
‘Wouldn’t it now,’ said Marty. ‘Damn it, how in the hell do I get inside this thing?’
‘Maybe you don’t. Stand aside, Shorty.’
‘Go ahead. We can’t all be children of the Amazon.’ Al stood on tiptoe, reached up to the top of the panel, ran his hands along behind it. Nothing but dust. ‘Hang on, Al. If Gudsen was the bomber – maybe this is where he hid his bombing paraphernalia?’
‘Oh, man. Tilts, timers, what’s this one: booby-trapped?’
‘Could be. But maybe this is just where he stashed the ledger?’
‘Sorry it took me so long. Betty didn’t have any.’ Marion was in the doorway now. She dropped her voice. ‘I should have guessed. They’re not allowed anything frivolous.’ She held up a copy of
Harper’s Bazaar
. ‘I dashed home.’
‘Got something, Mart. Now might be a good time for you both to step back.’ Marty and Marion took a pointless step backwards. ‘Gotcha, you awkward son of a . . .’ Al jerked something upwards and the alcove panel, rigged as a door, popped open a little. Al peered curiously around the partially opened door. Marty and Marion stepped forward. Al stepped back towards them, drawing the door open with him. Inside, on the back of the door, were rack after rack of brightly colored hardbacks, cellophane covers around each one. On the exposed shelving inside the covered alcove were beautiful leather-bound Bibles with word after word in gold engraving and at the center of it all a small green cast-iron safe. Marion was by Marty’s side now, her arm brushed against his.
Marty took down one of the books, opened it. Looked up at the others. ‘Well, if this isn’t a collection, I don’t know what is.’
‘So this is what he meant. The one he wanted the Old Testament for.’
‘Not that he’d have anywhere to put it, Marion. Not even a miniature.’
‘Not enough room for another sheet of paper. Unless it’s in the safe,’ said Al.
‘We need to get that safe open. Maybe that’s where the ledger is.’
‘Who’s good with tumblers?’ said Al.
‘Bank robbers. And explosives experts. Call Tex, see if he can get a small charge in there. Before that, you better go fetch Whittaker. Discreetly. Get this safe dusted. And the door. I want to know who’s been in and out of here.’
Al nodded silently, moved back over to the door. Marion turned to Marty. He could feel her breath on his face. ‘I didn’t like to say, it was such a kind gift, but what would Edgar Allan Poe be doing with a copy of the Old Testament in Hebrew?’
‘What?’
She moved her head back a little. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice. He checked himself. ‘What did you say, Mrs Rose?’
‘Marion.’
‘Marion.’
She repeated her question, but there was no need. He’d heard. It was the same second time around. ‘What would Edgar Allan Poe be doing with a copy of the Old Testament in Hebrew?’
What indeed.
Although the bigger question might be what Poe was doing with two copies.
Marty looked down at his watch. Patricia Kent should be here soon. She had promised to get the story on top of the local news. Not that he’d told her what the story was yet.