The Twenty-Year Death (38 page)

“You may not think so when you hear the rest of it.”

A note of caution entered the baritone. “Go on.”

“He’s dead.”

A sharp intake of breath sounded over the line. There was a moment in which he collected himself, preparing before going on. When he spoke, his voice had lost its usual tone of command, but there was nothing else to indicate that he was upset. “What happened?”

I told him. I left out that Greg had been seen with another man.

There was a pause. At last, “Did he suffer?”

“I’m not a doctor, but it didn’t look like it.”

“Good,” he said.

“I need to call it in, and I want to know what you’d like me to say. I’m down in Harbor City and the police are going to want to know why.”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Where were you last night?”

“Home. Why?”

“Anybody with you? Was anyone else in the house last night?”

“My butler was in. I asked him for some coffee at, I don’t know, ten o’clock, maybe later. The maids were in also. They’d all vouch for me. But why does that matter? Wasn’t it the drugs? We’d fought about that so many times; Greg always promised to quit.” His voice had grown tight and risen half an octave. “Damn him. It was an overdose, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you think I’m a suspect?”

“No, but the police are going to. Did Greg know Mandy Ehrhardt?”

“They might have met once or twice. Why? Does this have anything to do with that?”

“No. I can’t see how it does. I’m just thinking of ways to leave you out and I don’t see any.”

“That’s all right. You do what you have to. The police have always been kind to me before.”

“These aren’t S.A. cops. They’re Harbor City cops. They don’t tend to be kind to anybody. You told me Greg was on your payroll. Was he really or was that just a story?”

“He is. He was. He always claimed he didn’t like it, that it made him feel like a kept man. I always thought it was a good precaution.”

“It was. People will guess the truth, there’s no avoiding that, but it should mean that everyone keeps to the story officially at least. I can’t speak for Parsons and Hopper.”

“I can’t worry about that,” he said. He paused. “Thank you. For finding him.”

“I’ll call tomorrow if I know any more. The police may be there tonight. This phone call never happened. They don’t like me very much already. I don’t need to give them another excuse. Your butler...?”

“Nothing to worry about,” he said without any hesitation.

“I’ll call tomorrow,” I said, and hung up. I picked up the phone again and called the police.

It was only five minutes before a prowl car pulled up alongside me. In this neighborhood at night they probably had a black-and-white every ten blocks, so I wasn’t too impressed with the timing. They popped the spotlight on. I hadn’t finished my first cigarette yet, so I let them watch me smoke it. The passenger door opened and a uniformed officer stepped out. “You call the cops?” he shouted from behind the safety of his open door.

“Yeah. That was me,” I said.

He looked in the open car and said something and then he shouted over at me again, “Where’s this body?”

“Under the boardwalk,” I said, and started down the block without waiting for them.

The door slammed behind me and there were rapid footsteps and the sound of an engine being gunned. The car lurched ahead of me, pulling to a stop at the end of the block where Renaldo had been standing ten minutes before. I hoped the smell of his marijuana hadn’t lingered. The cop who had called to me came up behind and said, “Stop right there.”

I stopped. His partner got out of the patrol car and went over to the wooden lattice at the end of the street. The spot from the car was still on, and he peered through the holes trying to make out Greg Taylor’s body. I finished my cigarette and threw away the butt.

“There’s a body all right,” the partner called.

“Turn around, buddy, and give it to me slow.”

I turned around and said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait for the homicide boys. I hate to repeat myself.”

The cop was young, at the utmost twenty, and the attempt at swagger in his posture was laughable. He wore his hair in a military crew, which made his hat fit him loosely. He had his hand on the butt of his gun and looked a little too eager to draw.

His partner came up. He was older, thicker in the gut but more comfortable in his own skin. He wore wire-rimmed glasses with round lenses. “How’d you find him?”

“He don’t want to talk,” the younger one said. “Wants to wait for the homicide boys.”

“I just don’t want to waste any of our time,” I said. “You know in five minutes you won’t have anything more to do with this.”

The cop in glasses shrugged and started to walk back towards Seaside Avenue. His partner stepped to the side so that he was within his partner’s path but still had his eye on me. “Carter, we need to watch this guy. What’s he doing out here at this time of night?”

Carter didn’t stop. “He’s a dick, wetbrain. He’s out here because he’s snooping.”

The younger cop trained his eye back on me, and I gave him a smile and reached for another cigarette. His hands jumped to his gun again until he saw the cigarette and matches in my hand. “You’re a dick?” he said to me, jutting his chin to show he was in control.

“You want to see my license?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. So I got out my license and held it out to him. He stepped close enough to read it and then stepped back. “What are you doing out here?”

I didn’t say anything. An unmarked car pulled up alongside
Carter, who took a step back on the sidewalk. A short man in plain clothes got out the passenger side and started in our direction without waiting for his partner. He wore a brown felt hat with a yellow feather in the brim. His face was a closed fist. He had a pocket notebook out and was writing in it with a pencil as he approached. Carter fell in beside him. His partner brought up the rear. He was broad at the shoulders and not much narrower below. His blue shirt required quite a lot of yardage and even so there wasn’t enough at the collar for him to close the button comfortably. His knotted neckie rode halfway down his chest. The three of them walked past without a glance at me or my young interrogator. They went up the stairs to the boardwalk and then were out of sight. A moment later a flash could be seen under the stairs.

I smoked my cigarette. The young cop watched me smoke it.

Eventually the other three came back. Carter went to his patrol car and got in it. The small man and his broad-shouldered partner came up to me. As they approached, the short one said, “Where’s Renaldo? Make sure they bring him in.” The big man nodded. Then the small man addressed me, “I’m Captain Lang-staff, this is Detective Graham. You are?”

“He’s a private dick from S.A., Captain.”

The captain looked over at the kid, and then back at his notebook. “Graham, show Officer Stephens how to get into his cruiser. Maybe he and Carter can find Renaldo.”

Graham stepped around and the kid actually took a step back as though he expected to be punched. He then walked in a wide arc around all of us and went back to the cruiser. He opened the passenger door still looking back at us as though we were planning to attack him. He called, “We’ll find Renaldo,” and then he climbed into the car.

Graham walked back, stopping when he was just behind my shoulder, visible out of the corner of my eye.

The captain left his eyes on his notebook. “Private dick from S.A.”

“That’s right. Dennis Foster. Do you want my story?”

“Hmm-mm,” Langstaff said.

“I’m working a missing persons job. A fairy, so I went to The Market to ask around. Nobody knew anything, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“But then a junky said he knew where my man scored his dope. He brought me here.”

He nodded, writing in his notebook the whole time. “You talk to Renaldo?”

“I didn’t ask him his name.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Langstaff looked up. “And the body, is he your man?”

I nodded. “Greg Taylor.”

“Who are you working for?”

“I’d rather not say.”

The folds in his forehead deepened.

“But I won’t insult your intelligence. It’ll take you ten minutes to find out. John Stark.”

“The movie actor?”

I nodded again.

Langstaff said something under his breath. I couldn’t make out the words, but I got the idea. He nodded to Graham. “Check his license. Get his info.” He looked at me. “Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

“Nothing that I think is relevant.”

“It’s not your place to make that decision, Mr. Foster, but honestly, some fairy o.d.ing that’s going to be covered up anyway,
I don’t really give a damn.” He walked back towards the beach again, and started up the stairs.

“You’re his new favorite person,” Graham said behind me. “Let’s see the paperwork.”

I got out my wallet again and handed the whole thing to him. He took out his own notebook and wrote down all the details in careful tight letters.

I threw away my butt and waited for Graham to finish. The night was cooling off, especially near the water. My chest hurt when I breathed, and the exhaustion of the last two days had finally hit me. My knees were suddenly unsure if they wanted to keep working in my employ.

Graham tapped the wallet on my shoulder and I reached up and took it. “Got a car?” he said. He was a gentle giant. He was a pal. Don’t believe what they say about cops. They’re there to protect and to serve.

“On Second.”

“Okey, get going. We’ll call if we need you.”

The meat wagon pulled up then, taking the spot where the black-and-white had been parked. A wizened looking man with a large black leather case got out and started for the boardwalk stairs.

I bowed my head and left.

It was almost two in the morning when I stepped out of the automatic elevator onto my floor in the Olmstead. The injuries from Mitch’s thoughtful beating had settled into one continuous ache that covered my body from my neck to my hips. I pulled out my keys, and separated the apartment door key from the others on the ring. Halfway down the hall a phone was ringing. Its shrill insistent call was the only sound on the floor, a nasty, unwelcome sound at this time of night that could only mean bad news, somebody died, you’re wanted at the hospital. When I got closer, I could hear that it was my phone. It was the same noise I had walked away from nearly five hours ago; as though it had been ringing the entire time I was gone.

I got the door opened and crossed to the phone without turning on the lights. “Foster.”

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all night.” The accent was thicker in his panic.

“Well you have me now, Miguel. What is it?”

“Miss Rose, she’s not well.”

“Was she ever?”

“No, you don’t understand, she wants to die. She cut her wrists.”

I let out my breath like I’d been thumped on the chest, and I didn’t have to imagine what that felt like either. “When did this happen?”

“I tried calling you many hours ago. At dinner time at least.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“She wouldn’t have wanted...” He trailed off.

No, she probably wouldn’t. They couldn’t have helped much anyway, and they might have taken the act as an admission of guilt. But surely someone could have helped. Anyone could have more than me. “How is she now?” I asked

“She’s sleeping. I gave her some pills. I’ve been keeping her pills away from her for many months now. The doctor didn’t think it was safe for her to have them. But I didn’t know what else to do...” He was getting worked up again.

My mind was racing. Something wasn’t making sense. “Keep an eye on her. I’ll be right there.”

“Thank you. I’ll leave the door unlocked so you don’t have to ring.”

I hadn’t had to ring once yet, but I didn’t bother pointing that out. I hung up and went back out into the hall.

The streets were mostly empty at that time of night. The city’s neon still flashed and blinked, reflected in chrome façades and plate glass store windows, even as the stores themselves were dark. In the residential district, all of the house lights were out, giving the impression of an abandoned city whose traffic lights flashed red and green for no one. I made the turn onto Highlawn Drive and parked in the driveway this time. Unlike the neighbors, the Rosenkrantz house was lit up with what appeared to be every light they had.

Once more Miguel opened the door for me before I could reach for the knob. “She’s sleeping still, upstairs in her room.”

“Where’s Mr. Rosenkrantz?”

Miguel shook his head. “I don’t know. He hasn’t been home since morning. At dinnertime, Miss Rose started to get very excited. I tried to call you. Where were you?”

“Out. Give me the rest.”

“She started shouting. Then she locked herself in her room. After a time, she quieted down, and at first I thought this was good, but when I stopped hearing any sounds at all... I went in with another key.”

“Did she know you had another key?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“She was on the floor in the bathroom with her wrists cut. There was blood, but not so much. I bandaged her arms and carried her to her bed, gave her the pills, and I’ve been calling you ever since.”

“When was the last time you checked on her?”

“Every ten minutes.”

It sounded believable. It also sounded like a headstrong movie star who needed drama in her life as well as in her pictures. Knox had mentioned that she was prone to moods, and I had seen that. But no one had said anything about suicide.

“Take me up,” I said.

We went up the staircase opposite the one that led to Rosenkrantz’s study, along the catwalk hallway, past two closed doors to a third that had been left ajar. Miguel knocked enough to satisfy propriety and then opened the door the rest of the way.

The only source of light here was a pair of wall sconces made to look like lit candles in brass candelabras. There was one to either side of the four-poster bed. The soft glare from each shone on the green patterned wallpaper, turning the wall at those spots yellow. There was a nice chandelier in the center of the ceiling that wasn’t doing anything but looking pretty. An open door just past the bed was the bathroom.