Limits of Justice, The (29 page)

“How paternal of you.”

“Judge me if you must, Justice, but I’m quite comfortable on the issue. The only problems that derive from men loving boys are created by the ridiculous and antiquated attitudes of the puritanical society in which we live.”

“You sound like a card-carrying member of BLAST.”

“We never hurt the boys, never force them to do anything they don’t want to do.”

“Who finds them for you and Miller? Who’s your pimp, Felton?”

“I resent that term.”

“Freddie Fuentes, maybe?”

“He seems to know a lot of boys who enjoy a good time.”

“I’ll bet he does.”

Felton swallowed dryly but spoke with more urgency, like a nervous but true believer.

“These are all poor boys, Justice, boys with no future. We’re able to help them financially, help their families. Dr. Miller provides the boys with medical care they’d never have otherwise. It works to everyone’s advantage. Can’t you see that?”

“Do they enjoy being bought, Felton, then tossed aside like used merchandise?”

“We don’t live in a perfect world.”

“You seem to.”

“There has to be a pecking order.”

“And what happens to the boys when you’re done with them?”

“After they’ve enjoyed the gifts we lavish on them, the parties, all the attention?”

“Yes, after that.”

“They grow up. Richer in experience, wiser for it. No harm done.”

“You’re not worried about criminal charges or lawsuits coming back to haunt you? Or maybe a wealthy guy like you doesn’t lose sleep over things like that. Maybe you just plan to buy your way out of any problems that surface down the road, like you did back in Tennessee thirty-odd years ago.”

He grew testy again, angry at being caught off guard.

“I see you’ve done some research. A shame, Justice, what you wasted when you blew your career to smithereens along with your credibility.”

“We were talking about you, Felton. You and the boys.”

“We have an arrangement. It’s business. Fuentes and Miller handle all of that. They choose the boys very carefully, with discretion guaranteed.”

“Hear no evil, see no evil?”

Felton’s steely manner was softened just a bit by weary tolerance.

“Compartmentalization, I think it’s called. It’s a valuable trait in a world where the rules are often blurred. As a former journalist, you must know that.”

“Does it work equally well when murder’s involved?”

“So we’ve come back around to Charlotte Preston.”

“I don’t think we ever left her.”

“As I said, Justice, I was here with my young friend. Dr. Miller left around seven. The boy and I were together until midnight, when Freddie Fuentes picked him up.”

“You have any witnesses besides a boy whose name you don’t know?”

“My houseman can verify my alibi, as well as the guard up on the road.”

“They may have to.”

His patience suddenly ran out, and he spanked me firmly with his words as if I were an exasperating child.

“Cease your amateurish sleuthing, Justice. You haven’t a shred of credibility with anyone who matters, and you can only get yourself into further trouble. If I thought anyone would take you seriously, I’d never have spoken this candidly.”

“I’m surprised you did.”

“I told you what you wanted to know because it’s obvious you already know quite a lot—and because I want you to stop your annoying questions and leave me the hell alone. Am I quite clear on that?”

“Sure, Felton, I get the idea.”

“Not that anyone will listen to you, but if you open your mouth about what you saw at this house the other night—”

“I could find myself in serious trouble?”

“I think you understand.”

“I think I do.”

His lips reformed the self-satisfied smile that had briefly crumbled.

“In that case, I’d like to finish my doubles match.”

He bowed slightly, gesturing toward the house.

While he followed, I retraced the path we’d first taken, around the pool, up the stone steps, onto the cool, arcaded porch. He saw me through the house and to my car, where I paused before climbing in to empty my loafers of sand from his pristine, artificial beach. Then I was pulling out of his motor court and through the big gates, while Felton walked in the direction of the tennis courts, practicing an imaginary serve.

I followed his guarded road back up to the highway, where I waited out the busy weekend traffic for a break, then turned north in the direction of Montecito.

A landslide from a rain-sodden cliff along the coast highway had caused the closure of two lanes near Point Dume, and traffic slowed to a crawl for fifteen miles.

By the time I turned off into the hills of Montecito three hours later, the locals were taking their early evening cappuccinos and pastas at the sidewalk tables in the village along East Valley Road. The sun had moved around the peninsula to baste Santa Barbara with its final warmth, leaving the slopes of south-facing Montecito in shadow as I followed the labyrinth of roads that led me up to the ornate iron gates of Equus.

The gates that formed at the top into two clashing stallions were open when I arrived, wings pulled back and pinned in place by melon-sized stones. I drove through, up the cobbled drive until I’d circled the fountain in front of the house and parked. I rang the doorbell and pounded awhile, but no one came. When I checked the elaborate gardens around the side, all I saw were more weeds. I took the path down to the stables, where I found the horses quiet in their stalls. Each of them was dry to the touch, including the spirited black mare George Krytanos had reared up and ridden so furiously during my first visit.

I stepped from the stable and called out his full name, waited, listened, and hollered one more time. There was a sudden movement from the eaves, a flutter of wings, a few bats taking to the air, nothing more. Then I remembered the stone cottage down by the gate, recessed enough into the trees and shadows that I hadn’t noticed it on my way in. I climbed back in the Mustang, and when I reached the two-story cottage I saw a vintage black Cadillac pulled up beside it, deep beneath the spreading branches of the old oaks. The slender, upswept fins and the license plate told me it was the same Caddy I’d seen back in Los Angeles, on the grounds of the Gothic landmark in the West Adams district where Freddie Fuentes had gone the day I’d followed him.

Three stone steps led to a splintered, oaken door that was rounded at the top, with a heavy brass knocker, badly tarnished. I used it to deliver three solid thuds on the old wood. When there was no response, I tried the thumb latch above the handle, and when I pressed down, the door opened. I leaned in, struck by the pungent aroma of hay and horse manure, more potent here in this small, enclosed house than up at the more airy stables. I called out Krytanos’s first name, and when nothing came back, I stepped over the threshold into a small anteroom that was bare except for a pair of riding boots beside the door and several bridles hanging from hooks on a board mounted to the nearest wall. The primary source of light was a small window near the top of a wooden stairway leading to the second floor. Given the hour and the lowly position of the setting sun, the light that did find its way in was minimal and muted.

“Anybody here? George—George Krytanos?”

Doorless passageways were situated on either side of the anteroom, right and left, with the stairway occupying most of the space directly in front of me. The passageways were both arched, a combination of stone and mortar like the walls of the cottage itself. I stepped to my left and found that the passage opened into a small kitchen, with a window over the sink that looked out on the drive. Back across the anteroom, the other doorway ushered me into a room slightly larger than the kitchen. A four-poster bed just big enough for one person occupied one side of the room, near a modest bathroom with a pull-chain toilet and a cast-iron tub on four clawed feet. On the other side of the bedroom, up against the wall, several bales of hay were stacked. Loose straw littered most of the floor, along with horse droppings the size of small apples, some of which were relatively fresh. A bucket of water sat atop a stool near the hay bales, and feed bags hung from more hooks along one wall, above a barrel filled with what looked like oats when I lifted the lid.

I examined the unmade bed, found a few long, dark hairs on the pillow. Then I heard a floorboard creak overhead, causing me to stand up straight, stock-still. After that, I heard nothing but my own rhythmic breathing.

I stepped back into the anteroom, to the foot of the stairs.

“George? You up there?”

Another floorboard groaned above me, less distinctly than the last. I started up the stairs, moving slowly, taking light steps, listening. For a time, the only sound was the old wood protesting faintly under my own weight. Then I heard what sounded like twin window curtains on rings being snatched together upstairs, and the pallid light along the stairway suddenly dimmed even more.

“George, it’s Benjamin Justice. I’m coming up.”

As I reached the top, squinting, I was able to make out the obscure outlines of a single room that seemed to occupy the entire top floor. The curtains were drawn across two windows, casting the distant corners in pitch darkness. As I reached the middle of the room, floorboards creaked again, just to my left. A moment after that came a rush and flurry of dark cloth and quick footsteps, and a pale arm that I seized at the wrist just as it was about to come down on me. The hard, furious face of a sharp-nosed woman thrust itself toward mine, close enough for me to see the hairs growing from a mole on her jutting chin. She bleated as I twisted her wrist and yanked her arm down and away from me, until I was able to wrest away the bladed weapon she clutched in her hand. On closer inspection, it proved to be a surgeon’s scalpel, honed sharply enough to make a lethal slice with a single, well-aimed stroke.

She stood rubbing her wrist and glaring at me with gray eyes that seemed to have no feeling in them but quiet fury. I stepped to the nearest window, pulled open the curtains, and saw a light switch, which I flipped on. Old-fashioned electric bulbs designed in the shape of candle flames and set around a chandelier fashioned from a wagon wheel came on with a modest glow, while the woman shrank away from me. Her eyes darted about the room, as if searching for escape, or perhaps another weapon.

When she spoke, her words came in a breathy whisper, cutting the air like gusts of dry wind. I thought I detected the trace of a European accent, Slavic or German.

“How dare you come in here, where you have no business!”

“I was looking for George Krytanos.”

“Yes, I heard you call his name.”

“And what’s your business here?”

“I’m the boy’s mother.”

“He’s hardly a boy, is he?”

“Just the same, I belong here. You don’t!”

“You claim to be his mother. My understanding is that you gave him up as a child.”

“That’s hardly your concern.”

“Where is George?”

“Out, obviously.”

“When do you expect him back?”

“Not for some time, so there’s no point in staying.”

“How did you get in?”

“I have keys. George gave them to me for emergencies.”

“Even for the big gate out by the road?”

She turned to a small desk cluttered with papers, grabbed a ring of keys, and shook them at me. “Everything—I have keys for everything.”

“Do you always attack strangers like this?”

“You’re an intruder. You expected hospitality?”

I looked her over more closely, saw a pale, older woman, a harsh face with grim lines around the mouth, and drab brown hair going gray, drawn back and wound tightly into a bun. She was a spare, angular woman, above average in height, wearing a dark ankle-length dress and matching jacket that draped her in long, loose folds. Her shoes were sensible low pumps, and I discerned not a trace of makeup on her face. The only ornamentation was a small brooch with gold braiding around an ivory stone in which the initials A.M. had been carved. The brooch, which held a gray scarf together at her throat, looked to be a vintage piece, maybe from the same period that had produced the well-preserved Cadillac out by the front steps.

“That must be your car parked outside.”

“I asked you to leave.”

“So you did.”

“Why are you still here then?”

“Something’s not right with what you’re telling me. Maybe a lot of it.”

“I gave you my reasons for being here. Now get out!”

Instead, I made a slow tour of the space around us, which apparently served as George Krytanos’s library and reading room, as well as a shrine to all creatures equine. There were shelves lining one wall, filled with hundreds of illustrated books and magazines dating back decades, all of them dedicated to horses—their breeding, training, histories, beauty. Framed paintings and photographs of famous show horses lined the remaining walls, along with photos of Krytanos and Rod Preston with horses of their own, as Krytanos matured, looking more and more like Randall Capri, and Preston aged, eventually losing some of his lines and sags, thanks to Dr. Delgado’s expert skills.

Everything was organized, arranged, and tidy, except for the corner desk from which the woman had snatched up her set of keys. Its surface was littered with personal documents, bills, and other papers bearing George Krytanos’s name. The drawers had been pulled open, the desk gone through rather hurriedly.

“It appears you’ve been searching for something.”

“I’m here to help George pack up. He’s moving, you know. The Preston woman is selling the place.”

“The Preston woman is dead.”

“Still, the place is up for sale.”

“George wasn’t too happy about that the last time I talked with him.”

“He’s won’t be back for some time. You might as well go.”

“You’ve already said that, but you haven’t even asked why I’m here.”

“You told me—to speak with my son.”

“No more curiosity than that?”

“I’m not comfortable with you here. I don’t feel safe.”

“Then why did you leave the gate wide open, so anyone could drive through? Or maybe you hadn’t planned on staying long yourself.”

“George must have done that, on his way out. He’s forgetful about things like that.”

“Doesn’t seem right. He’s been the caretaker here most of his life.”

Her voice grew haughty, forceful. “If you aren’t going to leave, then I will.”

I held the scalpel up between us.

“Funny weapon for a visiting mother to keep handy.”

“I find it practical, for self-defense. Are you going or not?”

I tossed the scalpel on the desk, amid the messy papers.

“I’ll go. Ask George to get in touch with me, will you? Benjamin Justice.”

“Yes, I heard you call out your name.”

“You’ll tell him?”

“Of course.”

She attempted a smile.

“I’m sorry for coming at you like that. You frightened me.”

“No harm done. I like your Caddy, by the way—a real classic. Nostalgic for the forties, are you?”

“Somewhat.”

She kept the smile propped up for my exit, which I made without further conversation. I found my way back down the stairs, out of the old cottage, into the Mustang. When I looked up, she was peering down at me through the window curtains I’d drawn open, and stayed there until I was backing out. Then she was at the other window, pulling open the curtains there, watching my every move as I rolled back down to the road.

*

Out over the Pacific, a fine thread of pale gold lay across the horizon, pressed between the heavy sky and the nocturnal sea. Festooned across the bay like Christmas trees, the oil derricks were lighting up, twinkling their colorful warnings.

I remembered the landslide and long delays on Pacific Coast Highway, and decided to take the back road, through the Santa Inez Mountains and Ojai. I left behind the glowing galleries and cafes of Montecito, East Valley Road quickly grew darker, and the traffic sparse. As I followed the road for several twisting miles, past high stone walls entangled in thick, thorny bougainvillea that concealed the opulent estates within, until reaching a lonely stop sign at the bottom of a short incline facing the two-lane blacktop known as Highway 150.

There were no headlights in sight and I turned left onto the highway, heading east through deep, narrow valleys and low hills shrouded in mist. All around me orchards were laid out with grapevines and trees that looked, in the gloomy light, like they might be lemon and avocado. Mature oak and eucalyptus trees lined the sides of the road, which had more turns in it than the path of a sidewinder, curves that came up suddenly in the nearly moonless night and kept my foot on the brake as often as the gas pedal.

A pair of headlights appeared behind me as I was nearing Lake Casitas, a manmade body of water that covered nearly three thousand acres and looked, from my vantage point several hundred feet above, like an inkblot spreading into the deep mountain valley. The headlights were high, indicating a sports utility vehicle or a truck, maybe a recreational vehicle of some kind. They stayed at a steady distance until we were beyond the lake and the lights of a bait-and-tackle shop a half mile below the highway, down by the water. After that, the twin beams quickly started gaining ground. When most of the gap was gone and the headlights failed to back off, I started looking for a turnout to allow the impatient driver behind me to speed past. Then the last of the gap was suddenly closed and the vehicle bumped me hard and I knew the driver wasn’t interested in passing, at least not until I was off the road and tumbling into the depths of a desolate ravine.