Thursday's Child (23 page)

Beau nodded and stood.

Robert looked up at him. “Tomorrow night this business with Boyd will all be over,” he said. “That will make things easier.”

“Yeah, I guess it will.” Beau, in a sudden frenzy of movement, kicked the pile of sand down. When that was done, he grabbed Robert's arm and pulled him up. “Home,” he said.

Robert looked at the pile of wet sand, then sighed and followed Beau.

18

1

Robert suddenly realized that it had been over three weeks since his last visit to the gym. Under normal circumstances, he tried to make it there twice a week. Of course, his life lately had been far from normal. God, yes. Which fact, he recognized, was absolutely no excuse for letting his body fall into disrepair. It even occurred to him that what was happening to his body might be seen as a reflection of what was happening to his whole damned life.

And wasn't
that
a cheerful thought.

In the daylight, he was less concerned about what Rocco had told him last night. The sunshine seemed to eradicate the shadows of lurking gunmen. He pushed aside the second jelly doughnut that he'd been about to eat for breakfast. “I'm going to run,” he said suddenly.

Beau was eating his third doughnut and reading an old
Mad
magazine he'd found in a drawer. “Run? From who?” he said, not looking up.

Robert frowned at him. “Not
from
anybody, stupid. I'm just going to
run
. For my health. I'm getting too damned soft.”

Beau looked skeptical at that, but then he nodded agreeably. “Okay. I'll run, too.”

That wasn't exactly what Robert had in mind, but he didn't say so. Besides, maybe it was a good idea to keep the kid close to him. Just in case somebody was looking for him, it wouldn't be a good idea to have him stumble across Beau alone.

The idea of a solitary and simple run immediately got complicated, of course. Beau needed to borrow shorts and a T-shirt. He came out of the john in the somewhat oversized clothes looking like a recent refugee from some Third World nation. Only the brand-new Nikes, bought to replace the ones stolen the other night, fit properly.

They went out to the patio and Robert showed him some warming-up and stretching exercises. When Robert pulled his sweatband on, Beau immediately decided that he needed one, too, so that meant some more time spent searching through drawers until another one was found.

Finally they set off. Robert kept the pace slow enough so that neither one of them would get winded. After a few minutes, he started getting into the rhythm of the run and it felt good. Maybe, if he worked on getting back into shape really fast, the rest of his life would fall back into place at the same time. It was worth a try, anyway.

Keeping pace at his side, Beau had been quiet for about as long as he could. “So tonight is it, huh?”

“Yeah. Tonight is it.”

“What happens then?”

They ran in place at a corner, waiting for the traffic to pass. “Nothing happens. I'm done chasing around after Boyd, that's all. Life can get back to normal.” They started across the street.

“Can it? What about me? The detective and all?”

“I don't know what about you, Tonto.” He remembered his conversation with Marcello in Vegas. “You're a complication.”

“I'm sorry.”

They parted to get around a woman pushing a baby in a stroller. “Don't sweat it,” Robert said when they were side by side again. “I can handle it.”

Well, that sounded tough and competent.

And why the fuck not? He
was
tough and he
was
competent. To hell with Rocco and his warnings. To hell with old man Epstein and his hired dick. This wasn't some two-bit hood they were dealing with. Robert Turchek had a rep and it was a rep he'd earned honestly.

Beau came to a stop suddenly and pointed. “Ice cream,” he said. “All this running makes me hungry. How about it?”

“We've only been running fifteen fucking minutes,” he said.

“I could
really
use some ice cream,” Beau wheedled.

Robert wanted to argue some more; they were out here to run, for Chrissake, not to pig out on Haagen-Dazs. But then he gave up and followed Beau into the crowded little shop.

Shit. You'd think he had adopted the damned kid or something. Here he was again, taking care, just as during all those years with Andy. Taking care, and because of that, he couldn't get on with things the way he wanted to. Not that he had ever begrudged Andy the time and trouble; not at all. And, he admitted only to himself, he didn't really mind all the trouble Beau was causing him. But it did sometimes seem that things were moving in sort of a vicious circle.

He ordered extra hot fudge on his ice cream, just to help even up the score with fate a little.

2

George McBain, Boyd's parole officer, was home sick with the flu, but when Gar called, he agreed to a visit. The house Gar parked in front of was a tidy bungalow on a quiet side street in Glendale.

A plump white-haired woman opened the door to his knock. She didn't seem to approve of this intrusion into her husband's convalescence, but her greeting was polite as she led him into the tiny living room.

McBain himself was as plump and white-haired as his wife. He was watching a nature documentary on TV, but he muted the sound as Gar came into the room. “Mr. Sinclair,” he said, half-rising to shake hands.

“Sorry to bother you when you're sick,” Gar apologized, sinking into a worn overstuffed chair.

“Hell, I'm okay,” McBain said. His wife had left the room and he leaned forward. “If it was left up to me, I'd be back at work, but you know how it is with wives.”

Gar nodded. “Well, this is a real crisis or I wouldn't have come.”

McBain picked up a pipe and began to fill it. “You're the detective looking for the Epstein boy, right? I saw your name in the paper.”

“That's right. And I'm hoping you can help me find him before it's too late.”

“If I can help, sure.”

“The name of one of your parolees has come up in my investigation. Danny Boyd.”

McBain nodded. “Boyd is one of mine, yes. But I don't see him involved in a kidnapping, if that's what you're leading up to.”

Gar shook his head. “No. In fact, I don't think that he's necessarily involved directly with Beau at all. I'm really just hoping that he can point me in the right direction. But first I have to talk to him.”

“And that's where I come in.”

“That's it.”

McBain finally got the pipe going and he puffed thoughtfully for a moment. “Okay, I'll give you Boyd's address. If you find out that he knows anything about this, you'll let me know, of course?”

“Of course.”

McBain got up and excused himself.

Alone, Gar stared at the voiceless picture on the television screen. A flock, if that was the right word, of penguins was waddling across an ice floe.

Gar was trying his damnedest to work himself into a party mood. This was the anniversary of the date on which he and Mickey had moved in together, so they were celebrating with dinner at Il Giardino's in Beverly Hills. Pasta and then
battuta
, all washed down with a good red wine. It was an evening that they'd planned for weeks.

He wasn't feeling really festive because of the hours he'd spent—wasted—sitting in front of a cheap motel near downtown, waiting for Danny Boyd to show up. Which Boyd never did.

Mickey, of course, looked beautiful and extremely desirable in a very short white dress that sparkled under the lights. Every man in the place had watched her walk across the room to their table. Gar knew that they were all wondering what a woman like that was doing with him.

Well, let them wonder.

The dinner was delicious, and listening to Mickey tell him about her encounter with Mr. Cruise the night before almost took Gar's mind off business. Almost. But he still found himself glancing at his watch frequently, although he tried not to.

During dessert, Mickey finally gave up. “What's the matter, Gar?”

He gave a guilty shrug. “I'm sorry, Mick. It's just this damned case. I can't get it out of my head. I know that something is going to happen tonight, I just
know
it, and I'm scared for Beau.” He wasn't quite sure where the hell the word “scared” had come from, but, thinking about it, he didn't change it.

She slowly licked frosting off the spoon, which probably made more than one male in the dining room groan inwardly. “In that case, Sam Spade, maybe you should be out there doing something about it, instead of sitting here.”

But he shook his head. “No. We've been looking forward to this. I want to be here.”

Mickey fed him some cake from her spoon. That should make the horny males watching them grit their teeth. “I've been looking forward to spending an evening with you, yes.
All
of you. And, frankly, darling, your body is here, but your mind is somewhere else.”

“I'm sorry,” he said again. He took a sip of coffee to wash the sweet taste of the frosting from his mouth. “Damn it, I don't want to be obsessed by this case.”

She laughed softly. “Gee, can you choose your obsessions? I can't.” She patted his hand. “I think you should go. I'll sit here and finish my dessert, maybe have some more coffee, and then catch a cab home.”

“I can't do that,” he protested, although it was exactly what he wanted to do.

“Of course you can.” She leaned closer and whispered, “We'll finish the celebration whenever you get there. No matter how late it is.”

“Promise?”

She smiled and he felt a lurching in his gut. “Absolutely.”

He felt only a little guilty as he left her sitting there.

There was a light on in Danny Boyd's motel room.

Gar thought about it for a moment, then decided that he'd had enough of this sitting-around-and-waiting shit. It was time for some direct action.

He gave a solid rap on the flimsy motel door, a cop's knock, which an ex-con like Boyd would recognize immediately. It was nearly a minute before the door slowly opened. Danny Boyd was tall, blond, handsome in a rough-hewn way. Clean him up a little and any mother would be glad for her daughter to bring him home to dinner.

“What?” Boyd asked.

“We need to talk, Boyd,” Gar said.

“Show me a badge.”

“Did I say I was a cop?”

Boyd frowned. “Then who the fuck are you?”

“I'm a private investigator. Trying to find a missing kid named Beau Epstein.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You have heard of Marnie Dowd, though, right? And Camden Hunt?”

Boyd had started to close the door, but now he paused. “Marnie Dowd is dead,” he said.

“And so is Camden Hunt.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “Shit, I didn't know that. Guess that explains why he never returned my calls.”

“I guess. He was killed in the same way as Marnie. Probably by the same person.”

Boyd frowned. “You ain't trying to pin the rap on me, are you? I had no reason to off either of them.”

“No, that's not why I'm here. I'm just trying to follow a trail that goes from Dowd and Hunt to you and then maybe to the killer.”

“I don't get you.”

Gar sighed. “Who do you think might have killed Marnie?”

“Marnie was a hooker,” Boyd said. “It could have been a john.”

“It was a hit, Boyd.”

Boyd shook his head. “Man, I just can't get into this. I don't know nothing about Marnie getting killed or Hunt. I never heard of that Epstein kid.” He glanced at his watch. “And I've got things to do. Places to go.”

“You might be next on the killer's list, you know,” Gar said as the door started closing again.

Boyd paused. “Anybody comes after me, he'll be fucking sorry.” The door closed firmly.

Great. Tough prison talk. Boyd was an idiot.

And, Gar knew, the hitman they were dealing with wasn't that stupid.

He went back to his car, swallowed a pain pill, and settled back to wait for Boyd to come out.

Boyd led him to a darkened warehouse down by the docks. Gar drove past the building for half a block or so, then made a U-turn and went back. He parked at the far side of the building. Boyd had already disappeared inside.

Something was going on in the warehouse. There were several other cars—all of them newer and fancier than Boyd's—parked nearby. Gar couldn't really convince himself that whatever Boyd was into here had a damned thing to do with Beau Epstein. But at the same time, he also still had the feeling that something was going to happen tonight, and since Boyd was all he had, this was where he'd stay.

He got out of the car and walked around to the rear of the building. After a quick tour of the premises, he stood in the shadows and lit a cigarette. He stood there and thought about the many pleasures he was missing out on by being here rather than at home with Mickey. He wondered, when all was said and done, whether Beau Epstein would appreciate the sacrifice.

Probably not.

It was about thirty minutes before another car appeared, cruising slowly through the lot, its lights off. Gar didn't like that much. The car didn't stop where the others had, but moved on into the shadows. Inside the car, he could see two dark forms in baseball caps. He dropped the cigarette and crushed it out. A surge of adrenaline coursed through him. Just as he'd known it would, something was going to happen. And he was going to be in on it.

A moment later, the door opened and the driver got out, fleetingly illuminated by the inside light. He headed for the building. The passenger stayed put, sliding down into the seat until all Gar could see was the top of the baseball cap.

Now Gar wished that he had a gun. But who went armed to an anniversary dinner? Or maybe he should try to find a phone and get some backup. But it could take him a long time to find a working phone in this neighborhood. It was pretty stupid of him to be out here alone, with only his cane. Unfortunately, it was a little late to be worrying about that.