Double

23: McCone

At nine-thirty Monday morning I called Elaine’s lawyer, Alan Thorburn. At first he was reluctant even to see me — Elaine’s affairs were confidential, he insisted — but when I mentioned I worked for All Souls, he allowed as how he had gone to school with our tax attorney, Anne-Marie Altman. Could he get back to me in a few minutes? he asked.

I waited, knowing Thorburn was calling Anne-Marie to check me out. I wondered if she would guess I’d stumbled onto an unofficial investigation. Probably; she’d been with the co-op as long as I had and had been watching me do just that for years.

After about fifteen minutes Thorburn called back, sounding considerably more friendly. He could see me at eleven-thirty, he said, and gave me a suite number in one of the newer high-rises downtown.

Since I had time to kill, I went to the kitchen to see if there was any coffee. A couple of cups remained in the percolator, so I poured myself one and sat down in the breakfast nook to think. The house was quiet; my mother was off at Safeway, Pa was out on a job, and Charlene and the kids had gone back to L.A. the previous evening. Joey was at work, his latest attempt at a career being a supervisory position at a McDonald’s. John, as far as I knew, was still asleep.

After I’d left Ibarcena’s apartment late yesterday afternoon, I’d tried to hunt up Beddoes, but with no luck. Either he hadn’t gone home or he wasn’t answering his phone or his door. Then I’d gone back down my list of other people to talk to, but had similar bad fortune. I didn’t know what they did, but the people Elaine had known must have made the most of their Sundays. Finally, at around eight o’clock, I’d taken myself back to my parents’ house.

John had been the only one home, and I’d joined him in the living room to watch an old movie on TV and drink a couple of beers. We’d said little until about ten-thirty, when, during one of the long commercial breaks, he’d again brought up the subject of getting custody of his kids.

Maybe it was the general frustration of the day, or maybe it was the nagging worry in the back of my mind about Don and his so-called cousin, but whatever caused it, I became very stuffy with John. “You know,” I said, “before you start any expensive court proceedings, you might consider going back to work and finding your own place to live.”

“I’ll get to that.”

“Like hell you will. How long has it been since she threw you out?”

“A couple of months is all.”

“And how long since you worked?”

He shrugged.

“Also a couple of months. John, you’ve got that contractor’s license. If you don’t want to work for yourself, there are lots of firms that would hire you.”

Nothing from him but the sound of a pull-top popping on a beer can.

“If you really want custody of those kids, you’ll have to prove to the court that you can support them — and give them a decent home.”

“Ma—”

“Ma’s already raised her family.”

“She said she’d help.”

“Sure, help. But not raise them. Besides, no judge is going to take the kids away from their natural mother under circumstances like these.”

“Since when are you a lawyer?”

“I don’t have to be a lawyer to know that.”

He turned to face me, his long chin jutting out defiantly. “I want those kids, Shar.”

“Do you? Maybe you just like to talk about it. Because it makes people feel sorry for you.”

And at that he got up and stalked out of the room. And I had watched the rest of the movie feeling stuffy and self-righteous and ashamed, because I loved him and I’d hurt him.

Now I sat in the sunny breakfast nook, drinking my coffee and wondering what I was really accomplishing here. I’d missed the whole convention, and instead of spending time with my family as I’d planned, I was chasing all over San Diego trying to prove Elaine Picard hadn’t killed herself or fallen from that tower by accident. And why? She had been a friend, but not a close one, and that friendship had been put on hold years ago. There were lots of people here I’d been closer to, including the women who’d acted scared of me at the party the other night. Why all this frantic activity over Elaine?

Because, I told myself, you’re an investigator. Not somebody who just works at it nine to five, but a person who lives it every hour, every day. You can’t escape it; it’s in your blood.

Besides, I added, there’s something illegal going on at the Casa del Rey, something involving the little boy Wolf met, and you want to get to the bottom of it. And you keep seeing Elaine’s pensive face, with the little lines of tension and shadows under her eyes — strain that was probably caused by her awareness of the illegal goings-on.

And, finally, I kept on thinking that if only we’d had the talk Sugarman had said Elaine had wanted — a real talk rather than superficial chat about houses and boyfriends — she might not have died the other day...

I looked at my watch and realized I’d just have time to get downtown for my eleven-thirty appointment.

Alan Thorburn’s office was plush and modern, with a fine view of the bridge and Coronado Island. Thorburn himself surprised me. He was young-looking, bespectacled, and saved from being homely only by a boyish, almost bumbling charm. I wondered how he could afford such offices; surely anyone of his appearance could not attract the high-paying clients necessary to foot the bills. But when I shook his hand, I saw the wrinkles that the boyish manner had at first made me overlook and I caught the gleam of keen intelligence in his eyes. Alan Thorburn was neither young nor incompetent; his mannerisms had probably fooled a good many people — and fooled them to his advantage.

We sat down and I explained my relationship to Elaine and my suspicions about her death. Thorburn listened quietly, only reacting when I mentioned the carbon of her letter to him and the clipping she’d supposedly enclosed. “I guess,” I said, “that the sheriffs department will be calling on you soon, wanting to see that clipping. But I’d like to get a look at it too.”

He thought a moment, then reached over and pressed a button on his intercom. When a woman’s voice answered, he said, “Linda, has anyone from the sheriff’s department asked to see me regarding Elaine Picard this morning?”

“No one.”

He glanced at me. “That shows how strong their interest in her death is.”

“I’m sorry?” the voice on the intercom said.

“Never mind. Will you bring me her file, please?”

In a moment the secretary entered and placed a large manila folder on Thorburn’s desk. He looked through the papers in it, then extended a newspaper clipping to me. “Maybe it will make sense to you. Frankly, it’s had me puzzled, and I’d be glad of an explanation.”

The clipping was from the San Diego Union, dated on a Thursday about six weeks before, and headlined MYSTERY DISAPPEARANCE OF LA JOLLA FINANCIER. I read on.

I turned the clipping over, just to make sure there wasn’t something on the other side that was more relevant to Elaine’s letter, but found only part of an ad for men’s suits. I reread the clipping, but could make no sense of it. What did a missing oilman have to do with the illegal activities at Casa del Rey? Or with Elaine?

When I looked up, Thorburn was watching me expectantly. “This doesn’t mean a thing to me either,” I said. “Did Elaine know this Roland Deveer?”

“I’m not sure, although I doubt they traveled in the same circles — Deveer is married to a socially prominent woman and active in high-toned civic causes. But then I didn’t know much about Elaine’s personal life.”

“Apparently no one did.” I remembered Rich Woodall and his claim that Elaine was mother to a gorilla named Fred. “Do you know anything about her tax situation?”

“A little.”

“Had Elaine made any large donations to the San Diego Zoo in the last year or so?”

“The zoo?”

“Their Adopt-an-Animal Program. The adoptee may have been a gorilla.”

Thorburn smiled faintly. “I doubt it. She and I met semiannually with her tax practitioner, Hugh Katz. I’m certain that kind of deduction would have come in for some humorous comment.”

“I guess so. May I have a copy of this clipping?”

Thorburn nodded and took it out to the reception area, then returned in a minute with a Xerox copy. “Do you intend to pursue this unofficial investigation?” he asked.

I put the clipping in my purse and stood up. “What makes you think it’s unofficial?”

“Something Anne-Marie said when I called her.”

I smiled. “She knows me too well. But in answer to your question — yes, I do.”

“Well, I suppose you know the dangers of that. If you need any legal advice, call me. And let me know what you find out.”

I thanked him and assured him I’d be in touch — only to report my findings, I hoped. But on the other hand, it was nice to know who to call if I got arrested again.

I stopped at a phone booth down the street and called Roland Deveer’s wife in La Jolla. She agreed to see me as soon as I could get there. If anything, the woman, who spoke in a low, cultured voice, seemed overly eager to talk with a total stranger who had merely identified herself as a private investigator interested in Mr. Deveer’s disappearance. Perhaps I would find out something useful from her.

The Deveer home was English Tudor, set well back on a pristine lawn. A uniformed maid answered my knock and led me through a large hallway and across a sun porch to a terrace paved with old-fashioned flagstones. A tall, thin woman rose from one of the wicker porch chairs and came forward to greet me.

“I’m Celia Deveer,” she said, extending her hand. “You must be Ms. McCone.”

“Yes. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

“I’m glad to meet with anyone who may have information concerning my husband’s disappearance. May I offer you some coffee?”

“That sounds good.”

She nodded at the maid, and the woman went back in the house. As we sat down on the wicker chairs, I studied Celia Deveer. She was almost painfully thin, with coiffed dark hair and a long, angular face that was too sharp-featured to be really attractive. Though her beige pants suit was expensively tailored, the overall impression she gave was not of money but of good breeding. As a girl, she would have attended private schools, had riding lessons at the hunt club, gone to summer drama camp, and acquitted herself nicely in piano recitals. And because she was so unattractive, she would have been the debutante whom the organizers of the Cotillion had worried about, the one they’d despaired of ever finding a suitable match for. Looking at her, I wondered what Roland Deveer was like.

The terrace where we sat was at the top of a hill that sloped gently to a formal garden. A Mexican man, wearing a straw hat against the heat of the sun, was at work down there, edging the lawn around the flower beds. I said, “You have a lovely home. It’s refreshingly old-fashioned, compared to so many places in this area.”

“Thank you.” She helped the maid settle a tray onto the table between us, then poured coffee into delicate white cups. “It was my family’s home, and I was glad to move back into it after my father died. Mr. Deveer didn’t care for it, I’m afraid. He would have preferred a modern house in the hills, or perhaps a place at the beach. Although he never said so, of course.”

Why “of course”? I wondered.

Celia Deveer handed me my coffee. “Now tell me, what information do you have concerning my husband?”

“It’s not much to go on, but you may be able to tell me something that will give it more significance. Did Mr. Deveer have any connection with the Casa del Rey hotel?”

“You mean on the Silver Strand?”

“Yes.”

“Not that I know of. Oh, we’d attended the usual functions there from time to time. I came out in its ballroom, in fact. Why?”

“Their security chief, who died last weekend, seemed to think there was some connection.”

She sipped her coffee, looking meditatively off at the garden. “I can’t think what it would be. My husband was nowhere near the Casa del Rey when he disappeared.”

“They found his car at the airport?”

“Yes. But he didn’t take a flight out — at least not a commercial flight. That, however, means very little. Roland had a number of friends and associates with private planes. He could have left on any of them.”

“But surely the police have checked that.”

“Yes, they did. No one with any connection to my husband filed a flight plan that day. But again, that doesn’t mean much.”

“Why not?”

She smiled bitterly. “For a price, almost any pilot can be persuaded not to file a flight plan.”

I paused, unsure how to ask the next question. Finally I just plunged ahead. “In the newspaper account I read, you said you didn’t know of any reason your husband would disappear voluntarily. Now you seem to have changed your mind.”

The bitter lines around her mouth deepened. “Yes, I have, because certain things have come to light since his disappearance. Roland’s business enterprises were quite far-flung and complicated. A few months ago, he mentioned there might be some tax complications, something to do with our personal tax affairs having become mixed up with those of one of his holding companies. I was not to worry, he said, but I might be required to sign some forms.”

“And did you?”

“No.”

“So perhaps the trouble amounted to nothing.”

“Or perhaps Roland didn’t want me to know how bad it was.” She set her cup down and turned to face me, anger plain on her face. “You see, Ms. McCone, my husband attempted to shield me from the crude realities of his business whenever possible. I was to keep the home, raise the children, and amuse myself in typical genteel ways. But the home keeps itself, the children are grown, and I’ve never been contented with bridge or with volunteer work. I begged Roland to give me a more active part in his business affairs, but he flatly refused. I’m not a stupid woman, though, and I’ve done a fair amount of reading about finance. I know when something is wrong.”

“Did you ever broach the subject again, after the first time he mentioned it?”

“Yes. He told me not to trouble myself about it. I wasn’t equipped, he said, to understand.” She smiled, a caricature of mirth. “I find his assumption highly amusing. After all, I was the one who put Roland Deveer where he is today. Or where he was before he disappeared. I was the one who forced him to success. It was my money that founded his empire and kept it going through those first rough years. It was my prodding that kept him going. Roland Deveer was nobody when I married him. Nobody. And now he’s gone off and left...”

She paused, looking embarrassed. Ladies of her class didn’t blurt out their anger and resentments in front of strangers. Quickly I said, “I understand. So often it’s the woman who is responsible for the man’s success. But the man gets all the credit.”

“Yes. That was exactly the way it was with Roland and me. And now...”

“Now?”

“Now I don’t know. Something had to be terribly wrong for him to disappear the way he did. And I’m afraid that when it all comes out, it will be left for me to clear it up. But after his betrayal of me, I’m not sure I have the strength. Or the resources.”

“You mean financially?”

“Yes, Ms. McCone, financially. One of the things I’ve discovered in this last month is that Roland closed out all of our joint accounts, and liquidated a number of assets.”

“Is there any logical reason for that? Is he a gambler, for instance?”

“No, Roland was very strongly opposed to any sort of gambling. He felt it brought out man’s latent stupidity.”

“What about foul play? Could he have taken the cash out for some sort of business deal and been murdered by someone who knew he was carrying it?”

“His business arrangements seldom involved cash — and certainly not in that amount.”

“Then he disappeared with a substantial amount of money?”

“Very substantial.”

To a woman of Celia Deveer’s background, I imagined, “very substantial” would be large indeed. “Mrs. Deveer” I said, “did your husband have an office here at home? Somewhere he might keep personal papers?”

“His study, yes. But I’ve been through it, and so have the police.”

“Would you allow me to go through it? It’s possible something in there might have some other significance to me than either to you or the police.”

She hesitated. Her instinct for privacy seemed to be fighting with her anger at her husband. Anger won out. “Yes, Ms. McCone, I believe I will allow that. Come this way.”

We went inside and back across the hall to a door at its far end. Unlike the other doors leading off there, it was closed, as if Celia Deveer were attempting to shut off all reminders of her husband. She opened it and motioned for me to go in.

The room was paneled in dark wood, with built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The volumes in them looked old and well-read. On the floor was a worn Oriental carpet, and a large mahogany desk stood in a recess by the windows.

“This was originally my father’s study,” Celia Deveer said. “Roland has not improved the library by so much as one book.”

I went over to the desk and began going through its drawers. The center one yielded the usual paper clips and pens and pencils. The top one on the right contained stationery, some printed with the address in La Jolla and some with Deveer Enterprises’ address downtown. In the drawer below that, I found a handgun — a .22, fully loaded and well oiled. I held it up questioningly.

Mrs. Deveer said, “Roland had a terrible fear of burglars, even though the house is wired with an alarm system.”

I nodded and put the gun back in the drawer. The other drawers held supplies and back copies of annual reports and other business publications.

On the desktop was a blotter, an onyx pen-and-pencil holder, and the standard desk calendar you’d find in any office. There was nothing written on the blotter, or hidden under it. Finally I started through the calendar, beginning a few months ago, when Mrs. Deveer said he had first mentioned possible financial problems to her, and continuing up to the day he disappeared. It contained the usual notations of social and business appointments, including the meeting he’d supposedly left to attend the afternoon he’d last been seen.

There was nothing I could see that was out of the ordinary in the calendar or the desk. I planned to continue searching, of course, taking out each drawer to see if anything was taped to its bottom or had fallen behind it, shaking out the pages of each book on the shelves. But I doubted I’d find anything of significance.

I kept flipping through the calendar, looking at appointments Deveer had made and never kept. There were plenty, but that didn’t mean anything; he could have put them down to make his disappearance seem unintentional. But there, on September 18th, was a notation that did mean something to me: the familiar phone number of the Casa del Rey. Above it was the word “arrangements.” And below it was another number with a familiar look.

Reaching in my bag for Elaine’s address book, I said, “Mrs. Deveer, is the date September eighteenth significant to your husband in any way?”

“Yes, it’s his birthday.”

His birthday. What better place to note something down where he could easily find it but where others would not be likely to look?

I took out the address book, looked up Lloyd Beddoes’s home phone number, and compared it with the second one on the calendar. They matched.