Vixen (5 page)

After we rang off, I went in to brief Tamara. She said, “Weird. What d'you think the Beckett woman's up to?”

“No idea … yet.”

“How about I do a deep backgrounder on her? That stuff I pulled up last week only scratched the surface.”

“Go ahead when you have the time.”

“Like right now.”

*   *   *

The Beckett apartment on Nob Hill was only ten minutes or so from South Park, but street parking up there is always at a premium and garage parking fees are exorbitant. It took me another ten minutes to find curb space, one that was only marginally legal and two steep uphill blocks away.

I was short of breath by the time I reached the building, a venerable four-story pile near Huntington Park that may or may not have been some fat cat's private mansion a hundred years ago. Nob Hill, or Snob Hill as the locals sometimes call it, is where many of the city's upper-class families and affluent yuppie transplants hang their hats. It takes big bucks to live there, and I found myself wondering if Cory Beckett had dragged enough out of her two marriages to pay the rent, or if somebody else—not her deckhand brother—was contributing to the monthly nut.

Right. Somebody named Andrew Vorhees.

In the coincidental and serendipitous way things sometimes happen, I had probable confirmation much sooner than I could have expected. About ten seconds after I reached the building, as a matter of fact.

Just as I stepped into the vestibule, the entrance door opened and a lean guy with tanned, craggy features came striding out. His glance at me as he passed by was brief and dismissive; I was nobody he knew. But I'd seen his picture and I knew him: Andrew Vorhees in the flesh.

I managed to catch the pneumatic door just before it latched, slipped inside as Vorhees turned out of the vestibule. He had to have been visiting Cory Beckett; that he knew one of the other tenants would be stretching coincidence to the breaking point. It was possible the visit had something to do with his former employee and the theft charge, but more likely his reasons were the same personal ones that had brought her to his yacht the day of the alleged theft. Nice conquest for a scheming woman, if they were lovers—a man in the same wealthy yachtsman class as her two ex-husbands. The fact that he was married wouldn't mean much to a playboy with his reputation, but it might mean plenty to his wife. If Vorhees was having an affair with Cory Beckett, it was a possible explanation for the alleged attempt to frame her.

But I was getting ahead of myself. I did not have enough information yet—and most of what I did have was secondhand and hearsay—to form any definite opinions. If I handled things right, I'd know more after some verbal sparring with Cory Beckett.

The Beckett apartment was number 8, top floor front. I rode the elevator up, pushed a pearl bell button. There was a one-way peephole in the door, but Cory Beckett didn't bother to look through it. The door opened almost immediately, wide enough so I could see she was wearing a shimmery lavender silk negligee at one o'clock in the afternoon, and she said, “Did you forget—” before she saw me standing there.

You had to give her credit: her caught-off-guard reaction lasted no more than a couple of seconds. The rounded O of her mouth reshaped into a tentative smile, her body relaxed, and she was back in full control. Or so she thought.

“Oh,” she said, “hello. How did you—?”

“Get in without using the intercom? Andrew Vorhees.”

Didn't faze her in the slightest. “I'm sorry?”

“He was leaving the building just as I arrived.”

“What would Andrew Vorhees be doing here?”

“Just what I was wondering. Pretty unlikely he'd be visiting somebody else in this building.”

She said, not quite challengingly, “And if it was me he came to see? It's really none of your business, is it?” Pause. Then, in a different, eager tone, “Why are
you
here? Do you have news about Kenny?”

She was good, all right. Stonewall, skirt the issue, then a quick shift of subject. I let her get away with it for the time being.

“News, yes,” I said.

“You've found him? Where is he?”

“Why don't we talk inside, Ms. Beckett? If you don't mind.”

“Yes, of course. Come in.”

It was like walking into an abstract art exhibit. Each wall painted a different primary color, gaudy paintings and wall hangings, multihued chairs and couches, half a dozen gold-flecked mirrors in different shapes and sizes that magnified the riotous color scheme. The place made me uncomfortable, but it also gave me an insight into Cory Beckett. The cool, low-key exterior was pure fa
ç
ade; inside she was like the living space she'd created, with a mind full of flash and intensity and controlled chaos. Her emotional, weak-willed brother must hate this apartment, I thought. So why did he live here with her? Why did she want him to?

After closing the door she made a vague apologetic gesture with one hand, the other holding the top of her negligee closed at her throat. “I'm sorry I'm not dressed. I haven't been feeling well.…” Quick change of subject again. “Kenny. You
have
found him, haven't you?”

“One of our operatives has, yes.”

“Is he all right?”

“More or less.”

“Where is he?”

“Before I tell you, I have some questions.”

“Questions? I don't understand.”

“About the lies you told in Abe Melikian's office.”

“I don't … Lies?” Injured innocence now. “I don't have any idea what you mean.”

“I think you do. Your brother's alleged amphetamine use, for one. He's not into drugs at all.”

“Of course he is—when he's stressed, as I told you. Why would you think otherwise?”

“His word. And no illegal substance of any kind where he's living.”

“His word? You spoke to him?”

“Our operative, Jake Runyon, did. Judgment call on his part.”

“Then … Mr. Runyon's bringing him home?”

“No. Your brother refuses to leave with him. Seems he's not too keen on seeing you again.”

“Oh, God, I was afraid of this. That's why I asked that Kenny not be spoken to by anyone but me.”

“His version of the theft business is nothing like yours,” I said. “He claims Margaret Vorhees' necklace was supposed to be planted in your car, not his van.”

“What? Why would I be the intended victim?”

“Because the woman has cause to hate you, he said.”

“That's ridiculous. I don't know her except by reputation.”

“But you do know her husband.”

“Not very well. Hardly at all, in fact.”

“Your brother says you were with Vorhees on his yacht that day.”

“Did he? Well, I wasn't.” She sighed in a put-upon, long-suffering way. “What else did Kenny say?”

“That you talked a man named Chaleen into stashing the necklace in his van.”

Her stare had shock in it, just the right amount to be believable. “Why on earth would I do a thing like that?”

“Important to both your futures that he take the blame, your brother claims. Keep from rocking the boat.”

“That doesn't many any sense. How could your man Runyon believe such a wild story? Poor Kenny's not stable … couldn't he see that? Can't you?”

I didn't say anything.

“He imagines things,” she said, “makes up stories that aren't true. What did he say about me? That I don't really care about him, that I force him to do things against his will? That I'm a bad person? Well, that's not so. He's my brother and I love him, I only want what's best for him—”

“Who is Chaleen, Ms. Beckett?”

No response other than two or three eye bats.

“Never heard the name before?”

“I may have, it's vaguely familiar, but…” She gnawed at her lower lip for a little time, then in a hesitant, tentative way she walked over to where I stood. Close enough so I could smell the musky perfume she was wearing. Close enough for those luminous eyes of hers to probe intently into mine. “I'm sorry you think badly of me,” she said then, “but please, just tell me where Kenny is so I can bring him home.”

Nice little performance, not too obvious—she still held the negligee closed at her throat—but I was not fooled by it or affected by her scent or the nearness of her. Vamp stuff doesn't work on me; I've been around too long, seen too much, and I happen to believe in the sanctity of marriage.

I said, “He's at a place called Belardi's on the Petaluma River, about forty miles north of here. Third of three fishing shacks along the shoreline north of the pier. Runyon's there keeping an eye on him.”

“Thank you.” She held eye contact for a few seconds more; then, when I still showed no signs of responding to the sexual pheromones she was putting out, she produced another of her sad little smiles and slowly backed off. “Now if you'll please leave so I can get dressed.…”

I left. It had been an unsatisfactory interview, but Cory Beckett was not easily rattled—practiced liars and deceivers usually aren't—and I'd prodded her as far as I dared.

 

6

JAKE RUNYON

It was almost three o'clock before Kenneth Beckett's sister showed up at Belardi's.

Nothing happened in the interim. Runyon had gone back inside the shack after the phone conversation with Bill to conduct a careful search for drugs and also for weapons. For all he knew Beckett was suicidal and the last thing he wanted was a dead man on his watch and conscience. He found nothing, not even a sharp knife. Beckett stayed buried under the blanket on the cot, sleeping or just hiding. He hadn't made a sound the entire time.

Outside again, Runyon unlocked the van and poked around among the clutter of tools, paint cans, and other items. Nothing there, either, in the way of weapons or illegal substances.

He did the rest of his waiting in the car. He was used to downtime and he dealt with it as he always did, by putting himself into the equivalent of a computer's sleep mode—a trick he'd learned to help him get through the long months of Colleen's agonizingly slow death. Aware, ready for immediate action if necessary, but otherwise as shut down mentally as he was physically.

Boats passed up and down the river, a few of them stopping at Belardi's dock; cars came and went along Lakeville Highway. Nobody approached the shack until the newish, yellow-and-black Camaro came jouncing along the riverfront track and slid to a stop nearby.

Two occupants, the woman driving and a male passenger. Runyon got out when they did, so that the three of them came together in front of the shack. Cory Beckett was just as Bill had described her, sleek and slender in a white turtleneck sweater and designer jeans, her midnight-black hair tossing in the wind off the marshland. The animal magnetism she possessed was palpable enough, but Runyon would not have responded to it even if he hadn't had the conversation with Kenneth Beckett. The type of woman who attracted him was subtly sexy, like Colleen had been, or lonely, needy, and pain-wracked, like Bryn when he'd first met her. The too-cool, smolderingly seductive type left him cold.

She gave Runyon a long, slow, appraising look, like a prospective buyer sizing up a stud bull. Whether or not she liked what she saw, he couldn't tell. And didn't much care.

She said, “Mr. Runyon? I'm Kenneth's sister, Cory,” then gestured in the direction of her companion. “This is a friend I brought along to drive Kenny's van back to the city.”

No introduction, just “a friend”; she didn't even look at the man as she spoke. He dipped his chin once, sharply, but said nothing, made no attempt to shake hands. He was in his mid-thirties, sandy-haired, well set up and pretty-boy handsome except for a muscle quirk at one of corner of his mouth that gave the impression of a perpetual sneer in the making.

Runyon said, “Your brother's inside, Ms. Beckett.”

“Is he rational? I mean, I understand you talked to him and he told you some wild stories he made up.”

Is he rational
, not
is he all right
. She seemed less worried about the kid's welfare than about what he might have revealed.

“Calm enough. Withdrawn.”

“But not high … drugged?”

“No. No sign of drugs on the premises.”

“Well, that's a relief. Kenny's much easier to handle when he's sober and tractable.” Tractable. Another less-than-concerned word.

Runyon was not about to argue the alleged drug-use issue with her. He shrugged and said nothing.

“I'll get him,” she said. “You don't need to wait any longer.”

“I'll just make sure he goes along peaceably.”

“She told you you don't need to wait,” the sandy-haired man said. “If Cory can't handle him, I can.”

“I'll wait anyway.”

Sandy-hair seemed to want to make an issue of it. The Beckett woman said, “It's all right, Frank,” smiled at him the way you might smile at an overly aggressive pet, laid her smoky eyes on Runyon for three or four seconds, and then moved on past him to the door.

He stood watching the shack. Sandy-hair, Frank, paced back and forth on the weedy ground, his hands thrust into the pockets of a light jacket. The electrical wire strung in from the highway, empty now of birds, thrummed in the wind; that was the only sound until Kenneth Beckett let out a cry from inside and then began shouting.

“No, no, I won't, why can't you leave me alone!”

Runyon started toward the shack, but Frank cut over in front of him and grabbed his arm. “Stay out of it,” he said. “She can handle him.”

“Let go of my arm.”

“Yeah? Suppose I don't?”

Runyon jerked loose, started around the man. Combatively Frank moved to block him. They did a little two-step shuffling dance that ended with Frank trying to shove him backward, saying, “Don't mess with me, man, I'll knock you on your ass—”