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  “Did Teddie have a fan club?”

  “Yes. Most of my stars do.”

  Her stars. Her property. Another possession like a new Beamer or cellular phone.

  “Do you know if there were any fans, in or out of the club, that were, shall we say, getting overly friendly? Overly familiar?”

  “I really don’t know of anything myself. Perhaps Ralph Clauson, our head of security might know something.”

  “Had Teddie ever complained about receiving any threatening mail or phone calls?”

  “Isn’t that the same question as before? You need a good rewrite man.”

  “You don’t seem very interested in helping solve this case.”

  “Of course, I’m interested.” She stood. I stayed put. “But I’m very busy. I think Ralph would be a better bet for you.”

  I was out of the office after only a couple minutes. My chat with Ralph Clauson didn’t last long either and netted the same results.

  Jack’s bike was parked in Laurie’s driveway. I had called him earlier to see if he wanted to make a few bucks bodyguarding her at night. He was leaning against the wall, fiddling with an unlit cigarette. Jack had smoked in the Navy. Quit the day he exchanged a uniform for mufti. It was a rare occasion he toyed with a cigarette in his fingers. I hadn’t seen him do it for months.

  “Hey, Dukie.”

  “Gonna take up smoking again?”

  “One-a these days I just might.”

  “Tobacco companies’ll be glad. Let ’em know. Maybe you can be a poster boy.”

  He did his Adonis pose for me.

  “Uptight about the gig?”

  “It ain’t the battle or firefight makes me nervous. You know that. It’s the waiting. You said you was up most-a the night. Just listening. That’s what I hate. The waiting.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Makes me nervous.” He rolled the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger until it tore open, shreds of tobacco plummeting to the ground. He tossed the cigarette, what was left of it, on the ground, crushing it under his heavy black motorcycle boot. Took his kit bag and sleeping bag from the back of the bike. Went to the front of the house, knocked. It didn’t take Laurie long to answer.

  “Laurie Hoffman, Jack Riggs.”

  He put out his hand for her to shake. Hers was on delayed action. Her eyes were wide, unfocused. Staring. I should have prepared her for Jack’s appearance. I had thought it might scare her off. I was having second thoughts. She finally managed to push her arm away from her body and shook Jack’s hand.

  “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

  “Yeah, I’m really a teddy bear inside,” Jack said.

  Laurie invited us in. We sat in the living room. She and I went over the history of her being stalked. Jack nodded politely, as if he were bored. He probably was.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “His bite’s as bad as his bark.”

  “And his bite’s bigger than his bark,” he said referring to me. Laurie tried not to laugh. Couldn’t help it. I was relieved. The ice was finally broken.

  Laurie told us about her latest encounters with Craylock. “He keeps calling me at work, pretending to be a client. Then he won’t let me off the phone and if I hang up he calls right back. The receptionist doesn’t want to bother with him so she passes him onto me. The boss said if I don’t get my personal life in order I won’t get the promotion I’m up for. That I’ve worked hard for.” Laurie’s eyes danced with fear.

  Jack set about unloading his kit bag. Toothbrush, hairbrush, razor-sharp Ka-bar knife. Colt .45. 9mm Beretta backup gun. He was ready. Laurie reached for her purse, pulled out the .38 I had loaned her. Jack dived for the deck, rolling, coming up with the .45 aimed point-blank at Laurie’s mid-section.

  “Whoa, boy. A little fast on the trigger.”

  “See a gun, take defensive action.”

  The fear returned to Laurie’s eyes. Would she be safe with this madman for even one night? I made excuses to leave. She walked me to my car.

  “Are you sure you can’t stay? Cost isn’t a problem.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, I’m working this other case day and night. It’s not fair to you. Jack’s a good man. Don’t let his looks fool you. He’s a little crude on the outside, but he’s okay.”

  “It’s not the looks that—”

  “He didn’t fire at you. He knew what he was doing.”

  “Yes, but he seems a little—”

  “—insane? If he’s insane, so am I. Don’t worry.”

  She looked like she wanted to say something. Her lips curled into talk-mode, then retreated. Again.

  “Say it.”

  “I, I don’t even know you that well.”

  “So you don’t know who you can trust? Me? Jack?”

  She nodded.

  “But you know who you can’t trust: Craylock. And I’m telling you, the cure—Jack—isn’t as bad as the disease—Craylock. If you don’t trust him, or me, say the word, he’ll leave with me now. And we’re outta your life. Or tell him later. He’ll leave.”

  “I guess I’m just not very trusting right now. Because of what’s happening.”

  “I understand.”

  “I guess I need to learn to fend for myself. Stand on my own two feet.”

  “You’re learning. People aren’t born tough.”

  “I’m going to do this even if it kills me.”

  “We won’t let that happen.”

  She thanked me.

  I drove to Mary’s apartment in Santa Monica. The sun was sinking over the horizon. It reminded me of the giant ball that’s dropped every New Year’s Eve in New York. There were no noisemakers or confetti for this descending ball.

  The streets hadn’t yet come back to their full capacity. There was traffic. Not as much as usual. I still had the feeling I was being followed. I changed lanes. No cars behind me made a move. I continued down Santa Monica Boulevard toward the beach. The feeling didn’t leave. I told myself it was nerves, stress, anxiety. All those good things that people buy paperbacks by doctors and quacks to cure. I changed lanes again. No one made a move. I turned down 26th Street. Several cars followed suit. If I pulled over to the curb, the tail, if there was one, would suspect I knew I was being tailed. I didn’t want him to know that. I kept on 26th. Turned right on Washington, left on Princeton. A couple cars followed down Washington. No one turned on Princeton after me. I pulled up in front of Mary’s apartment building, parked and waited. After five minutes, with no one suspicious to take my attention, I went up to the front door, rang the buzzer. Mary buzzed me in.

  The building was modest. One of those cheap ’50s stucco jobs. Of course, the name wasn’t so modest: Le Grand Villa. The apartment was comfortably, though cheaply furnished. Mary was saving for a house. No sense throwing money away on rent.

  She favored prints of classic paintings. Everyone was there: Rembrandt, da Vinci, Gainsborough. She offered me something to drink. I declined and sat at the dining table.

  “I showed the notes to my friend, the handwriting expert.” She continued on through a merry melange of her history with this guy. I didn’t care. I was trying to be polite. My fingers were dancing on my thighs. She finally came to the part that I wanted to hear. “Anyway, he says they’re both from the same hand.”

  “One hundred percent?” My heart raced. This was the first real breakthrough I had on the case. Something to tie them together. Teddie and Pilar. A definite connection.

  “Nothing’s a hundred percent,” she said. “He said there’s a ninety-nine percent probability they’re by the same hand.”

  “Close enough.”

  She put the two notes on the table side by side. “Notice the way he makes the loops on Gs, Ys and the like. And the way he crosses his Ts, dots his Is. Also, the same slope of the letters. They fall at the same angle. It’s very close.”

  Silence filled the room. She looked at me. “Are you still with me?”

  “Yeah. There’s a co
nnection now. You proved it. So the Weasel knew them both, or if not knew them, knew of them.”

  “But there isn’t really a connection yet.”

  “No?”

  “You don’t know if these notes are from the Weasel.”

  “I’ve got something with his writing on it. A piece of paper he dropped in the hallway of Teddie Matson’s apartment building.”

  “Then you’ll know for sure.”

  “I’ll still be nowhere. Okay, so I have him tied to the two actresses. What then? It doesn’t help me find him.”

  “Talk to their families.”

  “Easier said than done. Much easier. They’re stonewalling me. Even the ones that talk don’t tell all.”

  “They don’t know you.”

  “It’s not that. They’re hiding something. I have no idea what.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “Yeah. Hey, what about that old movie trick of trying to figure out where the paper came from, tracing it that way.”

  “Unless it’s a very unusual specimen that’s a waste of time. And I don’t think it’s that unusual.”

  “I had to ask. I’m grasping for straws at this point. It does give me a direction to head.”

  We made small talk for a few more minutes. Jack used to bug me about my friendship with Mary. Why hadn’t we clicked? We’d met on a blind date. We went to Yamashiro’s, overlooking the city. Then drove up the coast. With anyone else it would have been a very romantic evening. With Mary it was a course in forensics. Checking the sushi for traces of heavy metals. Worrying about the mercury in the ocean. We never even kissed good night. A week later she called me about a little research she needed for a case she was working. We decided we actually did have something in common, even if it wasn’t in the romance department. After that we became fast friends. Heading out to my car, I scanned the street. It was dark. A street lamp was out at the north end of the block making it even harder to see. Nothing out of the ordinary. No one sitting in a car, waiting. Stalking.

  I drove off down the road. I had to find Pilar. Had to find out what the connection was. I was too wired to go home. I could go to the office or get a bite to eat. Wasn’t hungry. I wanted news. I needed news. I jammed the pedal to the floor. Burned rubber, heading east on Olympic. Heading back to Beirut.

  There were less cars on the road now. I could count them all. I still couldn’t see anyone in particular. But I still had the eerie feeling that I was being followed.

  CHAPTER 28

  La Revolución was jumping. People in and out. Mostly men. A few women. Whores from their appearance. Ramon would more likely be here than at home. It was dark. I hung low in my front seat, just over the dash. Enough to see who was coming and going. Popular hangout, for everyone but Ramon. Unless he’d gone in before I got there. No way could I check out the bar myself. After the last visit, my company wouldn’t be welcome. And I had no backup.

  California law says you have to stop serving liquor at 2:00 a.m. Maybe they did. They sure didn’t close the doors. People kept on coming. Still no Ramon. When the sun crested the sooty building across the street, I decided it was time to go home, get some sleep. At that hour, the drive was quiet. No rush hour traffic yet. A few cars here and there. Nothing out of the ordinary. And still I felt a pair of eyes on my shoulders. If I turned right, they turned right. If I slowed, they slowed.

  Paranoid visions.

  Monsters in the rearview.

  Jam on brakes.

  Shrill howl.

  Brakes squealing.

  Lay rubber.

  Skid marks.

  Hand on the Firestar.

  Cursing drivers.

  Slamming brakes.

  Fingers flying.

  Flipping off.

  Swerve around me.

  No guns pointed.

  Lucky me.

  Accident avoided.

  Lucky me.

  Suspicious persons.

  Everyone.

  No one.

  Sign of the Weasel?

  Nowhere to be found.

  Craylock?

  No shiny new Beamers.

  Not down here.

  By the time I got home, my eyelids were held up by perseverance and muscles that were locked in place. Sugar plum fairies danced on the lids, closing them tighter. Tighter. Park the car. Autopilot to the house. The bedroom. Crash. Sweet dreams, sweet prince.

  Ocean waves swim over me.

  Schools of fish brush my shin.

  Depleted bubbles rise to the surface.

  The direction I should be heading.

  No.

  Nitrogen narcosis.

  Diver’s disease.

  Loss of orientation.

  Swim down when you mean to swim up.

  Deeper.

  Deeper.

  Into the abyss.

  Dark chasm.

  Gaping open.

  Bidding: enter,

  Sweet prince.

  Enter.

  Never to return from here again.

  Oxygen tank spent.

  Muscles exhausted.

  Drift.

  Drift

  Into the darkness.

  Where light doesn’t penetrate.

  Where men fear to tread.

  Dark waters.

  Cold.

  Angry.

  Surround you,

  Sweet prince.

  Suck you down.

  Papier-mâché Neptunes fire spears at you.

  Swim for the surface.

  Exhaling all the way.

  Don’t get punished with the bends.

  Drop your weight belt.

  Clear your mask.

  Pop your ears.

  Save yourself.

  Shoot to the surface.

  Exhale.

  Exhale.

  In the Navy I never got tired. Wasn’t allowed to be tired. The stress had served me well. I knew how to carry off long operations. This was different.

  The ocean had permeated my thoughts on the drive home. Another world. With its own inhabitants. Its own set of laws. An escape. I was always at home in the water, from the time I was a baby. Could swim before I could walk. Fish out of water. Yet when I dove into a deep sleep after the all-night stakeout, the ocean of my dreams sucked me in. Under. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t find the surface. I’d swim up, but I was really swimming down. That had never happened before. Not even in a dream.

  The unexamined life may not be worth living, and the unexamined dream may not be worth dreaming. No way was I going to analyze that dream. Not now.

  Dropping weight belts.

  Nitrogen narcosis.

  Papier-mâché Neptunes.

  What a paranoid dream. I was glad to be up.

  Paper. I had to find the note the Weasel had scribbled. Compare the handwriting. Shower. Shave. A quickly devoured onion bagel. Daylight streaming in the windows. Nothing unusual. Yet still the feeling. Eyes watching. Was I a puppet on a string being worked by an unseen puppeteer?

  No time for that BS now. Where was that damn paper? Home? The office? My car? Still at Tiny’s. The car would be the last place to look. Might not still be a car. Might be an empty charbroiled hulk.

  Had I saved the paper?

  Last I remembered seeing it was in my car right after Mrs. Perlman had given it to me. Damn car again.

  Where had I gone after the Perlman’s? The William Tell Motel. If I left it there it was long gone. Did I bring it to my office? Home?

  And why wasn’t the damn phone ringing? Where was Ramon? Did he have a spy in the sky letting him know when I wasn’t home so he could only call then? It was getting to me. The whole case was getting to me.

  I tore through the drawers in the kitchen where I sometimes put things when I got lazy. No paper. Began working my way through the rest of the house. In a hurry. I wasn’t putting things back. By the time I was finished, it looked like a hurricane had ripped through the house. Made it easy for whoever’s spying on me. Ever
ything out in plain sight, including me.

  “Come and get me, you bastard,” I shouted. “I owe you a little payback for Baron.” I shook my head to clear it. Continued through the house. Damn paper wasn’t anywhere. I was about to head for the office when I thought I should look in my clothes. Might be in a pocket somewhere.

  What was I wearing that day? Couldn’t remember. I hadn’t sent any clothes to the laundry or done any laundry myself in several days—too busy working the case. That gave me hope.

  Jackets. Shirts. Pants.

  Tear ’em inside out.

  Nothing.

  Laundry hamper.

  Zilch.

  Damn.

  Car.

  I raced out to the driveway. Jerked open the rental car’s door. My windbreaker sat on the front seat. I turned the pockets inside out. Hard candy wrappers. An old piece of paper from the spiral notebook I carry. Paperclip. Shriveled piece of paper. Unfolded it carefully. Smoothed it out. Eureka!

  The notes to Pilar and Teddie were in a large envelope I had with me. I spread them on the hood of the car next to the Weasel’s scribbled note. Examined them for several minutes. The letters that looped below the line looked the same. Ts and Is crossed and dotted the same. To my untrained eyes it was a match. Mary and her friend could confirm it later.

  My heart did somersaults. The case was closing. Things were coming together. Finally. It was a good feeling. It lasted about ten seconds. Until thoughts of Baron flashed my mind. The joy turned to anger, which turned to determination. I’d get the S.O.B. I still wasn’t sure if the Weasel or Craylock or someone else had killed Baron. Short of the two of them, there were no major suspects. Warren? Ramon? Someone I’d found for a previous client? Someone who hadn’t wanted to be found? All possibles.

  I had an unlisted home phone number and address. It wouldn’t have been easy for them to find me. But then it shouldn’t have been easy for the Weasel to find Teddie Matson. Anything was easy if you knew how to do it, or someone who could do it for you.