The Cactus Club Killings (Joe Portugal) (28 page)

The history department is headquartered in Bunche Hall. Like the U.N. guy, as Iris had said, and entering the building made me think of her and her bucket of seaweed. I found my quarry lounging around his cramped, cluttered office. More than lounging; he was fast asleep. He slumped in a wheeled wooden chair with his feet up on his desk beside a stack of blue exam books. One arm dangled; the other lay protectively atop his crotch. He wore a pair of gray slacks, a button-down blue oxford, and a hideous tie with a foxhunting theme. Soft snores emerged from his nostrils. In between the snores he was mumbling something about Annabella.

I walked in, sat on the desk, and shoved his feet off it. They clonked onto the floor. This jerked the rest of him out
of his seat. His butt crashed to the carpet. His arms went every which way. “Annabella,” he wailed.

His eyes opened, shut a second later, popped open again. After several tries they focused on his desk. He saw my legs. He moved his view up, up, until he was staring idiotically at my face.

I grinned down at him. “Does Maria know about Annabella?”

“Shit,” he said.

“And does Annabella know about Maria? Important questions, these.”

I reached down a hand to help him up. He looked it over, tilting his head to view its other side as if expecting to find a joy buzzer hidden there.

“It won’t bite,” I said.

He took my hand and I hauled him up, then pushed him back down into his seat.

“Do the Regents of the State of California know you take little nappies on their time?” I said.

“I don’t have a class.”

“Oh, that makes it okay.” I dragged over a side chair and sat nice and civilly, with my legs crossed. “I thought we’d better have a chat under slightly less chaotic circumstances. By the way, how was the game Saturday?”

“I didn’t see a lot of it. I was out on deck with Maria.”

“Making all better, I suppose. How come a jerk like you does so well with women?”

“I don’t have to answer that. In fact, I don’t even have to talk to you, so why don’t you just—”

I jumped up and swept my hand into the pile of blue books. They soared through the air and arranged themselves all over the floor. I snatched a framed certificate from the Organization of American Historians off the wall and held it high above my head. “Why don’t I just wreck your office?”

“I’ll call security.”

“I’ll call Maria and tell her about Annabella.”

He chewed on his lip. “What do you want?”

“I want to know why you killed Brenda.”

“You think if I killed Brenda the police wouldn’t have figured it out by now?”

“It was worth a try. Look, she was a real good friend of mine and—”

“Yeah.” A carnal smile. “A
real good
friend.”

I bit my tongue. “What I was getting at is, I want her killer caught, and I thought even a jerk like you might have had a slight amount of feeling for her and want him caught too.”

He shrugged. “At this point it’s better for me that she’s out of the way.”

“You creep,” said a voice from the doorway.

Farber turned to see who it was. I already knew, since I was the one who’d asked him to drop by.

“You utter creep,” Eugene Rand went on. He stormed up to Farber, wearing his work gloves and carrying a fresh piece of
Euphorbia ammak
. Not something I’d foreseen. “How can you speak about her like that? That woman was the embodiment of everything good. You treated her like a toy and then you killed her, and you regard the whole thing like tiddly-winks. I was wrong about you. You are not a nice fellow.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“You know who I am. You met me at the Botany department’s spring social. I saw you there, fondling Brenda’s buttocks when you didn’t think anyone was looking. Well, Mr. Henry Farber, you won’t be fondling anyone’s buttocks anymore.”

He drew back the ammak, preparatory to one of his barndoor swings. Farber hopped up, vaulted the desk, and cowered behind it. The cowering I expected; the vaulting was
something of a surprise. “Jesus,” he said. “You’re a maniac. I didn’t kill your damned Brenda.” His eyes flashed toward me. “Tell him, would you? I didn’t kill anybody Shit, she was a great lay I had everything I wanted. Why would I want her—”

Rand wailed, uttering an animal sound I’d have thought that soft man incapable of, fearful and lonely and hurt. “You just said you were glad she was dead.”

“That was just macho bullshit,” Farber said. Back to me. “Tell him, Portugal. Tell him it was macho bullshit.”

“You’re all macho bullshit, Henry” To Rand: “Put the plant away.”

“I will not.”

“You will.”

“Not.” He waved it at Farber again. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Eugene, I’m going to tell you one more time: Put the euphorbia away.”

He waved his club in my direction. “Don’t try to stop me, or I’ll have to use it on you.”

I took a step toward him. “Eugene, Eugene. Who bathed your eyes when you euphorbiated yourself?” Another half step. “Who listened while you poured out your heart?” A baby step. “She was my friend too, Eugene, and—”

I leapt. He dodged, found the range on Farber, and hurled the euphorbia at him. He threw like a girl, but the Dodgers could have used a girl with control like he had. The branch end-over-ended across the room and clobbered Henry Farber directly in the left temple, breaking in half and splattering sap all over the place. Farber collapsed like a burst balloon.

“Oh,” said Rand, all meek all of a sudden. “Oh. I think I’ve hurt him.”

“And I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.” I
went around the desk and found Farber sprawled on his back, with his hand clapped to his forehead and little streams of blood dribbling out between his fingers. He moaned, tried to get up, and failed. He groaned and tried again, and I took pity and helped him to a sitting position. “I’m ruined,” he said.

“Hardly,” I said. “Move your hand.”

He didn’t want to, but I finally got him to display his wound, a nice cut about an inch long surrounded by globules of latex. “Doesn’t look that serious, Henry,” I said. “But we don’t want to get that sap in it. Here, use this.” I pulled his ghastly tie up to the damaged area, pressed it down, laid his hand over it. “There. Now you’ll be fine.” I picked up the halves of Rand’s weapon.

“What are you doing?” Farber asked. “That’s evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“That he assaulted me. And he probably killed Brenda too.”

I shook my head. “No assault took place here today. Did it, Eugene?” The little guy shook his head too. “You see?”

“What do you mean?” Farber whined. “He threatened me with a spiny club. Then he threw the damned thing at me. If that’s not an assault I don’t know—”

“Shut up, Henry,” I said.

“Huh?”

“I said keep your big yap shut. Nobody was in any danger here today. A little bump on the head? You could do worse getting on your boat. Now, if I hear about anybody filing any assault charges as a result of our little encounter here, I swear to God I will track down every last one of your girlfriends and tell them about the others. Maria. Annabella.”

“Even Phoebe?”

“Even Phoebe. I mean it, Hank. So just keep your cool, such as it is.”

“But he probably killed Brenda.”

“I doubt it. And you probably didn’t either, because you’re all bluster, Hank, and if you tried to hurt Brenda, she would have made mincemeat out of you.”

I left Farber on the floor, led Rand out of the office, and closed the door behind us. I threw the euphorbia pieces in a trash can and escorted Rand back to the conservatory. I made him promise to behave himself What else could I do? Bind and gag him?

I went over to the Loews to try to track down Schoeppe. But he wasn’t in his room, nor in the lobby or any of the eateries. I considered leaving him a message but thought that might put him on his guard, if he had anything to be on his guard about.

Another look at the sheet of paper Gina had given me told me nothing. It still could have been him and could have been not him. And even if she were right, what could I do about it if I couldn’t find him?

I went back out and stood at the curb like a fool, not knowing what to do next, feeling sad and realizing it was a delayed reaction to my argument with Gina. A red Chevy Malibu drove by. It passed right in front of me, heading south on Ocean. I could see the driver’s face clearly. When he realized I’d spotted him, he got a weird expression I couldn’t quite place, and he stomped on the gas and zoomed away. Something nibbled at my mind. I was supposed to do something.

Right. The license plate. I squinted and I had it. It was an old blue one with orange letters. 555XYY. Did that mean anything, or was it just a random assignment from the Department of Motor Vehicles? XYY. Wasn’t that the weird combination of chromosomes sex offenders had?

Okay. I had a license number. Now all I had to do was call the DMV to find out if it was registered to the LAPD or not.
I grabbed a phone inside and waited on hold for fifteen minutes before getting through to a supercilious young man who informed me that such information was
confidential
and that no one but the
forces of law
were entitled to obtain it. They did not want
stalkers
or other
undesirables
to use the data for their
depraved purposes
. His tone clearly said he thought I was one of those very
undesirables
.

Forces of law, huh? I pried Burns’s card from my wallet and dialed. “Can you run a plate for me?”

“‘Run a plate’? You been watching
NYPD Blue?
”

“Can you?”

“This is not standard procedure.”

“I know its not standard procedure, damn it. But the number goes with the guy who’s been following me. If, as you say, he’s not one of you guys, then the number should tell you who it is. Why would you not want to find that out, unless you’re lying to me and he really is a cop?”

“Makes sense. But I still can’t give out information about plate numbers to any Tom, Dick, or Harry who calls up and asks me to. Besides, the computer’s down.”

“How convenient. Tell you what. I’ll give you the number. You do what you want with it. If I don’t hear anything back, I’ll assume you and Casillas were lying. That work for you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” I recited the number.

“Where will you be?” she asked. “Just in case?”

“Try me at home first, but my machine’s broken, so try these next.” I gave her Gina’s cell phone, home, and business numbers.

As I walked out of the hotel, I placed the expression the guy in the Malibu had been wearing. It was embarrassment. Like I’d caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.

It was past four, and I hadn’t had anything to eat since morning. My stomach had gnawed me into irritability. My brain needed sustenance. I drove west on Pico to a frankfurter-and-bun-shape hut called the Puppy Tale, a near-clone of a landmark called Tail o’ the Pup near Beverly Center. Ripping off the name and ambience of well-known establishments is a long and honorable Los Angeles tradition.

I ordered a hot dog with mustard and sauerkraut, some fries, and an orange soda. I took them to the truck and threw Jefferson Airplane’s
Crown of Creation
into the player.

I downed my dog, savoring the sourness of the kraut, barely tasting the meat, which was probably a good thing. When I was done eating I didn’t go anywhere, because I had no idea where to go. I noticed the pile of
Euphorbia Journals
on the floor. Maybe I’d see something significant in one of them. I grabbed the top one, Volume Five. I leafed through half a dozen articles on euphorbia habitats, euphorbia culture, euphorbia lore. I stopped briefly to read a one-pager illustrated with a photo of two laughing African despots. They were equal-opportunity despots, one black, one white.

I turned the page and ran across an article by Sam, complete with a photograph of the author. He was holding up some euphorbia or other with a fierce botanical gleam in his eye.

“I am such a moron,” I said.

The book had a cumulative index to the first eight volumes. I scanned it and found the entry I needed. I shuffled through the books until I found the one I sought. A frenzy of page-turning brought me to an article entitled “Euphorbias of the Madagascar Thorn Forest.” It was rife with photos of
its author, a German fellow by the name of Willy Schoeppe. One showed him standing in front of a Mahafaly tomb, I realized what had been bothering me when I looked at the Rauh books at Austin and Vicki’s. On Saturday evening Schoeppe, supposedly an expert on such things, had called Brenda’s tomb “a fine example of the Merina tradition.” Not Mahafaly. Right island, wrong people.

But that hardly mattered in light of what else the photo, and the others, revealed. The gentleman in the article looked like he’d never smiled in his life. Gina had been right. He was not the man who’d shown up on my doorstep the previous Thursday night calling himself Willy Schoeppe.