"Now Detective, I have already scratched your back. You've haven't scratched mine."
"Why should I?" Jenkins asked.
"Internal Affairs can give you lots of assistance and let you take all the glory. Maybe there's a job with the Bureau for you, if you'd like."
"The pay's better. Why haven't I heard from the L. A. Bureau office?"
"Sad to say, Detective, there's a lot of bad apples out there. This is being handled from Washington. Tell me, what can you confirm or add?"
"I could send some lab results to you," Jenkins said. "No problem."
"Great. That's great. What do they show?"
"You may examine it when you get it."
"Detective Jenkins, this same informant told us that our agent contacted the local authorities, including you, I believe, and gave some song and dance telling the locals to back away from the Boyd murder case for national security reasons."
"You have a good informant," Jenkins said.
"So-- what do your lab results show?"
"We lifted a print from the hood of Mr. Boyd's Mercedes. It belongs to your boy. I won't give a name over the phone."
"You don't have to. I'll request permission from his superiors to put you in touch with our informant. Has a murder weapon been recovered?"
"I'll confirm that."
"Is our agent linked to that in any lab tests?"
"Well, no. . . not directly."
"We have another report from our informant, who says that a blond hair was found stuck in the handle of the murder weapon. Can you confirm that?"
"I can confirm it."
"Has it been analyzed by your lab? Is it the hair of a female Cauc?"
"There was a peculiar thing. I don't know, I probably shouldn't. . . "
"Whatever you have could be sent to the FBI lab in Washington for further tests. What's so peculiar."
"There was . . . There was a strand of hair found stuck on the murder weapon. A long blond hair, a woman's-- "
"Yes?"
"But our lab guys say it probably came from a human hair wig."
"A wig? That's very interesting. I'll contact our lab guys right away and they'll be calling."
"Sounds good."
"Bye."
Clendon hung up the phone in their motel room at the Hermosa Beach Travelodge and imagined Detective Jenkins blinking like crazy. He listened to the shower running in the bathroom and waited until Shelley came out, drying off naked.
"Asp's prints were on Brooks's Mercedes," Clendon said.
Shelley frowned. "Doesn't mean Asp shot him. Just means that sometime he put his hands on Brooks's car."
"And didn't wipe for prints?" Clendon said. "That's careless for a G-man."
Shelley chewed on her lip.
"Nobody's perfect," she said.
"Jenkins said a peculiar thing on the phone."
"What?"
"There was a long blond woman's hair found stuck to the pistol used to shoot Brooks."
Shelley frowned again. "It's not mine," she snapped.
"He didn't say it was."
"Brooks lied to me and he stole my money for gambling and whores and coke, but I didn't shoot him."
Shelley finished drying off, tossed her towels aside, and sat down in the bed. Clendon ran his hand on her thigh.
"After Brooks got the Eskimo shoes, I took one and didn't tell him," Shelley said. "He got pissed and thought Adolfo put his wife up to stealing one, so he hid the other six, but I didn't know where. He had become a raving paranoid towards me and was convinced that I was going to rat him out to somebody, but I didn't shoot him." She pushed Clendon's hand away. "Sometimes I'm sorry it wasn't me."
Clendon smiled. "Don't worry. Jenkins said that this blond hair on the murder weapon probably came from a wig."
* * *
D. C. Lyman was listed in information at an address in Palos Verdes. It was Sunday evening and Clendon figured Lyman would not be going out. At sundown he called the number and Lyman answered. There was some laughter and racket in the background. Clendon hung up without speaking.
It was half an hour to Palos Verdes as they fought through the end-of-the-weekend beach traffic over to Hawthorne Boulevard then followed Hawthorne on south past shopping centers and gas stations and hotels and more shopping centers and gas stations. Clendon suggested they stop at a liquor store. Shelley didn't.
After a few miles, they began to climb a steep incline. The night air chilled and dampened and fog rolled past. Shelley turned down a residential street with tall eucalyptus running on either side into the darkness. Clendon rolled down the window and caught their scent. She pulled over.
"Map check."
Shelley found it on a sloping, curving street overhung with bushes and eucalyptus trees. The large, rambling stucco house glowed lavender under the night lights. It looked like three gardeners worked on the landscaping full time. New cars-- a Mercedes, a BMW, and two Porsches-- sat parked in the street. The semi-circle driveway was also filled. Parked close to the front door was the white Lincoln limousine from the house in West Hollywood.
The night fog had crept up off the ocean and into the hills. It was chilly. Clendon tucked Asp's .38 in the front pocket of the blue suede jacket he had bought that afternoon at a used clothing store. Shelley had the other .38 in her purse. They rang the doorbell.
The fat woman opened the door. She was dressed in the same muumuu and house slippers.
"We're here to see Mr. Winston."
"Come in. I'll tell him you're here."
She went down a short entrance hall. They stood and waited. When she opened another door, they glimpsed a large room with thick sky blue carpet and a sunken Jacuzzi. The room was filled with a half dozen half-naked young men dancing to drum machine racket playing through a stereo. Clendon glanced around for hidden video cameras.
The fat woman came back in two minutes. D. C. Lyman, dressed in an ankle-length monogrammed lavender bathrobe, followed her, along with her husband Hachiro, who was wearing only a white loin cloth. Hachiro closed the door to the party room and it was quiet.
"Mr. Winston," Clendon said.
"Yes," D. C. Lyman said.
Strong alcohol sat on Lyman's breath.
"We have the Eskimo shoes."
"Where did you find them?"
"Do you have a comfortable room with a comfortable chair?" Clendon asked.
Lyman opened a door on the side of the hallway and they followed him. Then they entered another, longer curving hallway and went down that to the last door on the right. Lyman motioned for Hachiro and the fat woman to wait in the hall. He gestured for Shelley and Clendon to go in.
It was Lyman's study. It had shelves and shelves of books, model airplanes and missiles, a thick lavender carpet, and a personal computer. Lyman sat down in an executive's leather chair behind a large mahogany desk. They sat and faced him in two black leather easy chairs. He pushed a button on his desk.
"Would you like a drink?"
"I don't drink when I do business, but you go ahead. And keep both hands in sight."
"I can get you a hundred thousand in twenty-four hours and arrange a similar trade as before. This time everything will be smooth and we'll all be happy. Otherwise. . . "
Lyman raised one eyebrow, then lit a European cigarette and puffed on it.
"I've talked with the Russians," Clendon said.
"The Russians?" Lyman laughed. "There are no Russians. You need more practice in the art of lying." He looked straight at Clendon. "The idea of the Russians, of course, is very necessary. It's been very good to me." Lyman sighed and looked at Shelley. "Is Agent Asp still trying to do his Russian impersonation?"
Adolfo entered the study. He was wearing the same red outfit as before and he still needed a shave. In one hand he was carrying a bottle of wine. Lyman stood.
"Mr. Lindsey, I believe you've met Adolfo."
Adolfo extended his other hand lik
e a woman.
"Don't get up, Clendon. I do love your beard," Adolfo said. "And you must be Shelley."
They didn't shake his hand. Adolfo frowned and wiggled his hips and went over behind Lyman's chair. Lyman sat back down. Adolfo leaned over, placed the bottle of wine on the desk, and put his arms around Lyman.
"Are they being mean to you, D. C.?"
Adolfo smiled and fussed with his black-haired wig. Clendon tried to figure out where Adolfo might be hiding a pistol.
"Asp knew everything about the last deal we set up at the airport." Clendon said.
"A very disappointing ending," Lyman said.
"Since then, a friend of ours was shot."
"I heard," Lyman said. "I'm sorry he's dead."
"Asp must have your phones tapped," Shelley said. "That's why we came unannounced."
"I know that." Lyman giggled. "I've also had the house checked for bugs."
"Asp has your money," Shelley said. "Why hasn't he arrested you?"
"He wants the disks, too."
Lyman emphasized the word "too" and drew it out into three syllables.
"One million dollars," Shelley said slowly and forcefully.
Clendon blinked and tried to keep a poker face.
"Is patriotism really out of style?" Lyman said.
"Some people confuse money with patriotism," Shelley said. "I don't."
"Why does Dr. Symmes-Boyd think that?" Adolfo asked.
"But I don't have that much cash," Lyman said. "You have to give me a few days to raise it."
"I know you have it," Shelley said. "I read about your half million shares of Positron stock in the paper. You can leverage something. Three days. That's all. We're tired of worrying about constantly hiding."
Lyman looked away and took a long drag on his cigarette.
"I'll meet your price on one condition," he said. He sounded drunk and weary. "That as soon as I get the disks and you get the money, you both leave the country."
"I love to travel," Shelley said.
"Permanently," Lyman said.
"You'll have to help us with travel arrangements, of course," Shelley said.
"Travel arrangements? No problem."
Lyman puffed rapidly on his cigarette while Adolfo massaged his shoulders. One of Adolfo's hands slipped out of sight behind Lyman's chair. Clendon watched, putting his hand around the .38 in his jacket pocket and his finger on the trigger.
"If you mess with our agreement," Shelley said, "you'll never get your Eskimo shoes."
Lyman sighed.
"Adolfo, she's right. Shelley, I have a mobile phone. I'll give you the number.""
"I'll call you Wednesday afternoon, at exactly 3 p.m."
"Then we have a deal," Lyman said. "Adolfo, let's open the wine and celebrate."
Adolfo opened a desk drawer and took out a corkscrew. He removed the foil capsule from the neck of the wine bottle and quickly twisted the corkscrew into the cork and popped it out. Lyman opened another drawer and took out four wine glasses. Adolfo offered the cork to Lyman, who sniffed it delicately.
"Ahh," Lyman said, "the bouquet has an aroma of berries and currants. Vintage of 1978, the best year ever in California. Will you have a glass of wine with us?"
"No, I don't drink wine," Shelley said. "It gives me a headache."
"I'm sorry," Lyman said. "Mr. Lindsey?"
Clendon shook his head no. Adolfo poured a few ounces of red wine into Lyman's glass. Lyman sniffed again, more deeply.
"Berries," he murmured. He took a small sip and rolled the wine around his mouth before swallowing. "You're missing a truly fantastic Meritage," he said. "A hint of toasty oak. Smooth and silken. Just the right amount of tannin. Vinted by the wine master at the Chateau du Coq winery. The Rothschilds would be envious."
Adolfo filled Lyman's glass over halfway and then poured the same amount for himself.
"To successful and peaceful business transactions," Lyman said. He and Adolfo clinked glasses and drank. "This particular wine is from grapes grown in the Napa Valley," Lyman continued, "a blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc."
"Stop trying to show off," Shelley said.
"You're making all that shit up," Clendon said.
Lyman giggled. "It's printed on the label." He pushed the bottle across the desk towards Clendon. "And I own the winery."
* * *
Thirty minutes before midnight on Wednesday, Shelley and Clendon went to the veteran's cemetery in Westwood. Clendon took the new pint bottle of Jack Daniels he had bought, broke the seal, opened it, and took a drink. They sat on the cool grass near the fence with a clear view of the street and apartment. There was a crane next to the billboard of the hat woman, who was partly dismantled.
"We should send Madeline a postcard."
"We should send her some money," Shelley said.
"You really think Lyman's going to do this?"
"Sure he is. He answered the phone this afternoon like he said he would, didn't he? Face it. He's a poof. That's the difference. He just wants to get the millions from the patents and copyrights from his stupid fucking computer program. He doesn't want any more trouble, he doesn't want to kill or hurt anybody. It's Asp who's crazy and dangerous."
"I feel much better. Want a drink?"
"No."
"I'll have another."
"Clendon, you're an alcoholic."
"No, I am not."
"You drink every day."
"I just like to drink Jack Daniels. I like the taste."
"Why do you have to drink tonight?"
"I'm just a little anxious. I have to calm down."
"One drink would calm you down. You've already had two."
"Maybe I need two."
Clendon had another.
"That's three," he said. "It helps my self-confidence."
"That's just long for self-con."
"Since we went over to see Lyman," he said, "there's one thing that's been bothering me."
"What?"
"Why did Adolfo call you Dr. Symmes-Boyd?"
Shelley hesitated one second.
"That's my name."
"How'd he know your name was also Symmes?"
"I suppose Brooks told him. Maybe he'd seen my card."
Clendon stared at her. He could see her struggling to maintain his eye contact.
"Nobody's perfect," he said. "Are they?"
She looked down and away.
"No," she said. "They're not."
"It took me three slugs of Jack to tell you that maybe right now you better tell me everything you haven't told me."
"I told you everything I know-- "
"Bullshit!" Clendon screamed. He took a deep breath and tried to control himself. "You're a helluva negotiator," he said. "Got us a million dollar promise. Of course, there was that little problem of the seventh computer disk I didn't know about."
"Turned out that seventh disk was worth nine hundred grand," she said quietly.
"I have the key to the safety deposit box in Mexico City."
"I know."
"Unless you have another plan I don't know about-- "
"I don't."
"Well, I'll never know, will I?"
Clendon rested the Jack Daniels bottle in his lap. When he started to raise it for another sip, Shelley reached over and jerked it from his hand. Some liquid flew out and spattered on his pants. Shelley jumped up and backed away, holding the bottle. She reared back to throw the bottle as Clendon lunged for it. He grabbed her and the bottle. They wrestled and fell.
"Careful!" Clendon shouted. "The .38's in my jacket pocket."
As they rolled on the ground, the bottle stuck between them and whiskey poured over their clothes. His blue suede jacket was soaked. When the bottle was almost drained empty, Shelley wrenched it away and stood up. Clendon lay on the grass and panted. A wave of sickness passed through his belly and his head spun.
&
nbsp; "Shelley-- Shelley, that's expensive whiskey."
"The stench is awful."
She flung the bottle into the gloom. It twirled in the air like a helicopter blade, the remaining whiskey spewing out. Clendon couldn't hear it land.
"You'll be rich soon. You can afford all you want. You can drink yourself to death in a hotel in Costa Rica-- by yourself."
"While you're across the hall barfing yourself to death."
Shelley bent down, put her arms on Clendon's shoulders, and looked at him. Her hair hung across her eyes. She brushed it away. Her face had broken out in a light sweat.
"Clendon, you either care or you don't care. If you care, then you hurt. If you don't care, you'll never hurt, but you'll also never live. What's hardest is to care and to hurt, and to know that there's no way that you will never care or it will never hurt. And you still walk away."
She stood up and turned away. Clendon sat up, shaking, and breathing hard. He leaned against a tombstone. He was damp from dew, spilled whiskey and sweat. He listened to the cars hissing on the freeway and felt in his front jacket pocket to make the sure the Polaroid picture was in there.
"I used to be a romantic, Clendon, but it's been knocked out of me."
"I didn't knock it out of you."
Whiskey regurgitated into his throat, but he held it down. Shelley went over to him and kissed him for a long time.
* * *
"It looks like Lyman's car," Shelley said.
They crept to the fence. Lyman had found a parking spot for his Jaguar in front of the apartment building. He got out, alone, looked around, lit a cigarette, and then paced beside his car. He was carrying a briefcase, and the way he carried it made it look heavy. Other cars passed, but none slowed or stopped or signaled to him. He didn't act like he could see Shelley or Clendon.
It was getting foggy and there were no street lights, only a few lights from the apartment buildings. Clendon took the .38 from his jacket. They let five very slow minutes elapse as Lyman finished his cigarette, lit another, and kept pacing.
"Lyman," Clendon called out.
Lyman froze for a second, then peered toward the cemetery.
"Walk around to the front of your car and put your hands on the hood."
"Where's the Eskimo shoes?"
"I have a .38 on you."
"I don't believe you."
"Listen."
Clendon cocked the hammer. It made a distinct, loud click. Lyman walked around to the front of his car and put his hands on the Jaguar's hood.
"Don't move. We're coming over."
First Shelley, then Clendon climbed the fence. They crossed the street and approached Lyman from behind.