Private Eyes

33

The first pay phone I found was at a mall on Santa Monica Boulevard. The shopping center was brand-new- empty storefronts, the lot freshly tarred. But the booth had a lived-in smell. Gum clots and cigarette butts littered the floor. The directory had been ripped off its chain.

I called Boston Information and asked for the number of the GALA Banner. There was no listing for the paper, but the Gay and Lesbian Alliance had one that I dialed.

A man answered, “GALA.” I heard voices in the background.

“I’d like to speak to someone on the Banner, please.”

“Advertising or editorial?”

“Editorial. Someone who knows Kathy- Kate Moriarty.”

“Kate doesn’t work here anymore.”

“I know that. She’s living in L.A., which is where I’m calling from.”

Pause. “What’s this about?”

“I’m an acquaintance of Kate’s and she’s been missing for over a month. Her family’s concerned, so am I, and I thought someone in Boston might be able to help us out.”

“She’s not here, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’d really like to talk to someone on the staff who knows her.”

Another pause. “I’d better take your name and number.”

I gave him both and said, “That’s an answering service. I’m a clinical psychologist- you can check me out in an American Psychological Association directory. You can also call Professor Seth Fiacre over at Boston U.’s psych department. I’d appreciate hearing back as quickly as possible.”

“Well,” he said, “it may not be that quick. You’ll need to talk to the Banner’s editor. That’s Bridget McWilliams and she’s out of the city for the rest of the day.”

“Where can she be reached?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Please try to contact her. Tell her Kate’s safety may be at stake.” When he didn’t respond to that, I said, “Mention Eileen Wagner’s name, too.”

“Wagner,” he said, and I heard the sound of scrawling. “As in the composer- No, guess that would be Vahgner.”

“Guess so.”

I’d forgotten about Seth Fiacre’s move to Boston until his name had popped into my head as a reference. The social psychologist had left UCLA for the East last year, when an endowed chair in Group Process had been thrown at him. Seth’s specialty was mind control and cults, and the Forbes 400 father of a sixteen-year-old girl rescued from a neo-Hindu apocalyptic sect living in subterranean bunkers in New Mexico had consulted Seth on deprogramming. Shortly after, the money for the chair had come available.

Back to Boston Information. I got the number for B.U.’s psych department and dialed it, was informed by the receptionist that Professor Fiacre’s office was at the Applied Social Science Center. A receptionist there took my name and put me on hold. Seth’s voice came on a moment later.

“Alex, long time.”

“Hi, Seth. How’s Boston?”

“Boston is wonderful, a real city. Hadn’t been back for any length of time since graduation- kind of a nice homecoming. How about yourself? Do any teaching like you were thinking of?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s hard to return,” he said. “Once you get out in the real world.”

“Whatever that means.”

He laughed. “I forgot I was speaking to a clinician. What’ve you been up to?”

“Doing some consulting, trying to put out a monograph.”

“Sounds admirably well-rounded. So, what can I do for you? Another bunch of true believers to check out? My pleasure. Last time I gave you data I got two abstracts and a paper in JPSP out of it.”

“The Touch,” I said, remembering.

“They put the touch on lots of suckers. So who’re the loony tunes this time?”

“No cults,” I said. “What I’m looking for is some information on a colleague. Former faculty at your alma mater.”

“The H place? Who?”

“Leo Gabney. And wife.”

“Dr. Prolific? Yeah, I seem to have heard he was living out there.”

“Know anything about him?”

“Not personally. But we’re not exactly paddling the backwaters, are we? I remember having to immerse myself in everything he’d written for my Advanced Learning Theory course. The guy was a factory. I used to curse him for turning out so much data, but most of it was pretty solid. He must be- what? Sixty-five, seventy? Little old for mischief. Why’re you checking him out?”

“He’s a little younger than that- sixty or so. And a long way from the glue factory. He and his wife have a clinic in San Labrador specializing in phobia therapy. For the rich.” I quoted him the Gabneys’ fee schedule.

“How depressing,” he said. “Here I was, thinking this endowment was serious money, and you’ve gone and made me feel poor again.” He repeated the numbers out loud, then said, “Oh, well… What do you want to know about them, and why?”

“They’ve been treating the mother of one of my patients, and some strange things have come up- nothing I can get into, Seth. Sorry, but you understand.”

“Sure. You’re interested in his libidinal history, and related matters, when he was back at H.”

“That,” I said, “and any financial indiscretions.”

“Ah… that can of worms. Now I’m intrigued.”

“If you could find out why the two of them left Boston and what kinds of work they were doing during the year or so before they left, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Do what I can, though people around here don’t like to talk about money- because they lust after it so much. Also, those folks at That Place Uptown don’t always condescend to talk to the rest of us.”

“Even alumni?”

“Even alumni who stray too far south of Cambridge. But I’ll churn the chowder, see what bobs to the surface. What’s the wife’s name?”

“Ursula Cunningham. She hyphenates it now, with Gabney. She’s a Ph.D.-M.D. Gabney was her adviser in grad school and sent her on to med school. Her faculty appointment was at the med school, Department of Psychiatry. His may have been, too, as a matter of fact.”

“You just raised the hurdle a little higher, Alex. The med school’s an entity unto itself. Only one I know there is my kid’s pediatrician, and he’s only clinical faculty.”

“Anything you can learn would be helpful, Seth.”

“We’re talking ASAP, of course.”

“The quicker the better.”

“Except in matters of wine, cheese, and carnal pleasure. Okay, I’ll see what I can do. And think about paying a visit some day, Alex. You can take me out to Legal Seafoods for untrammeled lobster gluttony.”

My last call was to Milo. I expected a machine but Rick answered with a “Dr. Silverman” that sounded rushed.

“It’s Alex again, Rick.”

“On my way out, Alex- call from the E.R., bus accident, they’re short-staffed. Milo’s out in Pasadena. Spent the morning on the phone and left about an hour ago.”

“Thanks, Rick. Bye.”

“Alex? I just wanted to thank you for getting him the job- he was pretty low. The idleness. I tried to talk him into doing something but I wasn’t making much headway until you got him the referral. So thanks.”

“It wasn’t charity, Rick. He was the best man for the job.”

“I know that and you know that. The trick was convincing him.”

Afternoon traffic slowed the drive to San Labrador. I spent the time thinking about connections between Massachusetts and California.

The gates at Sussex Knoll were closed. I talked to Madeleine over the talk box and was let in. Neither Milo’s Fiat nor Rick’s Porsche was in front of the house. A cherry-red Jaguar XJS convertible was.

A woman opened the Chaucer doors before I got to them. Five three, mid-forties, a few extra pounds that rounded her nicely. Her face, in contrast, was lean and triangular under a cap of black curls. Her eyes were the same color, large and round and heavily lashed. She had on a soft pink dress that would have gone well at a Renoir picnic. Bracelets jangled as she extended her arm.

“Dr. Delaware? I’m Susan LaFamiglia.”

We shook hands. Hers was small and soft, until she turned on the grip. She wore lots of makeup and had applied it well. Rings graced half of her fingers. A strand of black pearls rested on her bosom. If it was real, it was worth more than the Jag.

“It’s good to meet you,” she said. “I’d like to talk to you about our mutual client- not right now, because I’m in the middle of talking to her, trying to unravel her finances. How about in a couple of days?”

“Sure. As long as Melissa consents.”

“She already has. I’ve got a release form inside… I’m sorry, did you come to have a session with her?”

“No,” I said. “Just to see how she’s doing.”

“She seems to be doing okay- considering. I was surprised at how knowledgeable she is about money, for someone her age. But obviously I don’t know her very well.”

“She’s a complex young lady,” I said. “Has a detective named Sturgis been by?”

“Milo? He was here before, just went over to the stepfather’s restaurant. The police came here to question Melissa about this McCloskey character’s death. I told them she hadn’t been informed of it yet, and that under no circumstances would I allow them to talk to her. Milo suggested they talk to the stepfather- there was a bit of pawing and snorting, but they agreed.”

Her smile said success had been no surprise.

The Tankard’s lot was so full of cars that it appeared open for business: Ramp’s Mercedes, Noel’s Toyota, the brown Chevy Monte Carlo, Milo’s Fiat, and a dark blue Buick sedan that I’d also seen before.

Milo’s hired surveillance was nowhere in sight. Either not on the job or damned good.

As I got out of the Seville, I saw someone exit the rear of the building and run across the lot.

Bethel Drucker in a white blouse and dark shorts and flat sandals. Blond hair loose and flying, chest bouncing. A moment later she was behind the wheel of the brown Chevy, revving noisily, backing out of her space in a squealing fishtail, then speeding down the driveway toward the boulevard. Without stopping, she hooked a sharp right and roared away. I tried to catch a glimpse of her face behind glass but caught only a boomerang flash of hot white sunlight.

Just as the sound of her engine faded, the Tankard’s front door opened and Noel stepped out, looking confused and scared.

“Your mom went that way,” I said, and he swung his eyes toward me convulsively.

I walked over to him. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “The cops came by to talk to Don. I was in the kitchen, doing some reading. Mom went out and served them coffee, and then when she got back she looked really upset. I asked her what the matter was but she didn’t answer and then I saw her leave.”

“Any idea what the cops said to Don?”

“No. Like I said, I was in the kitchen. I wanted to ask her what the matter was but she just left without saying anything.” He looked down the boulevard. “It’s not like her…”

He lowered his head, forlorn. Dark and handsome and forlorn… James Deanish. My scalp prickled.

I said, “No idea where she might have gone?”

“It could be anywhere. She likes to drive- being cooped up in here all day. But she usually tells me where she’s going and when she’s coming back.”

“She’s probably under stress,” I said. “What with the restaurant being closed. The uncertainty.”

“She’s scared,” he said. “The Tankard’s been her life. I told her even if worse comes to worse and Don doesn’t reopen, she can easily get a job at another place, but she said it would never be the same, because…” Shading his eyes with one hand, he scanned the boulevard some more.

“Because what, Noel?”

“Huh?” He gave a startled look.

“Your mom said it would never be the same because…”

“Whatever,” he said angrily.

“Noel-”

“It’s not important. I’ve gotta go.”

Reaching into his jeans, he pulled out a ring of keys, ran to the Celica, and drove off.

I was still preoccupied as I walked up to the Tankard’s front door. The NO BRUNCH sign had been replaced with one that said CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Inside, the lights had been turned up to cheapening brightness, exposing every raw spot in the wood paneling, every snarl and stain on the carpet.

Milo sat on a stool by the bar, holding a coffee cup. Don Ramp was in one of the booths along the right wall, a bottle of Wild Turkey, a glass, and a cup that matched Milo’s within arm’s reach. Two other coffees sat near the outer edge of the table. Ramp had on the same white shirt he’d worn at the dam. He looked as if he’d just returned from a guided tour to hell, traveling stand-by.

Chief Chickering and Officer Skopek stood over him. Chickering was smoking a cigar. Skopek looked as if he would have liked one, too.

When the chief saw me, he turned and frowned. Skopek did likewise. Milo sipped coffee. Ramp didn’t do anything.

It looked like a chapter meeting of the Big Man’s Club gone sour.

I said, “Hi, Chief.”

“Doctor.” Chickering moved his wrist and a pellet of ash dropped into a tray near Ramp’s bottle. The bourbon was two-thirds gone.

I went to the bar and sat down next to Milo. He raised his eyebrows and gave a small smile.

Chickering turned back to Ramp. “Okay, Don, guess that’ll do it.”

If Ramp responded I didn’t see it.

Chickering picked up one of the coffee cups near the edge and took a long swallow. Licking his lips, he came over to the bar. Skopek followed but remained several feet behind.

Chickering said, “Doing some routine questioning for my good friends over in Los Angeles, Doctor. About what happened to the late Mr. McCloskey. Anything you want to add to the current pool of ignorance?”

“Nothing, Chief.”

“Okay,” he said, then took another swig of coffee. When he finished, the cup was empty. He held it out without looking back, and Skopek took it and placed it on Ramp’s table. “Far as I’m concerned, Doctor, it’s just deserts. But I’m following up as a courtesy to L.A. So now I’ve asked you and that’s it.”

I nodded.

He said, “How’s everything else going? With little Melissa?”

“Fine, Chief.”

“Good.” Pause. Smoke rings. “Any idea who’s going to be running the household?”

“I couldn’t say, Chief.”

“Well,” he said, “we were just over there and a lawyer was talking to the girl- lady lawyer. West side firm. Don’t know how much experience she’s got with this side of town.”

I shrugged.

“Glenn Anger’s a good man,” he said. “Grew up here. Known him for years.”

I said nothing.

“Well,” he said again. “Got to be going- never a dull moment.” To Ramp: “Take care of yourself, Don. Call if you need anything. Lots of people rooting for you- lots of people want to sniff T-bone and New York prime and F.M. on the grill again.”

He winked at Ramp. Ramp didn’t move.

After Chickering and Skopek had left, I said, “F.M.?”

“Filet mignon,” said Milo. “We had a nice little chat about beef just before you got here. The Chief’s a connoisseur. Buys those packaged steaks from Omaha.”

I looked over at Ramp, who still hadn’t budged. “He join in the discussion?” I said, very softly.

Milo placed his coffee cup on the bar. The broken St. Pauli Girl mirror had been removed. Bare plaster in its place.

“No,” he said. “He hasn’t done much of anything except suck bourbon.”

“What about Nyquist?”

“Not a word- not that anyone’s looking.”

“Why’d LAPD send Chickering around?”

“So they can avoid ruffling San Labrador feathers and still say they did the job.”

“Chickering have anything new to say about McCloskey?”

He shook his head.

“How did Ramp react to hearing about it?”

“Stared at Chickering, then took a big gulp of Turkey.”

“No surprise at McCloskey being dead?”

“Maybe a glimmer- it’s hard to tell. He’s not registering much of anything. Not exactly your stalwart coper.”

“Unless it’s an act.”

Milo shrugged, picked up the coffee cup, looked at it, put it down. “Don,” he called across the room, “anything I can do for you?”

Nothing from the booth, then a long, slow shake of Ramp’s head.

“So,” said Milo, switching back to a soft tone, “have a chance to go to West Hollywood?”

“Yup- let’s talk outside.”

The two of us went out to the parking lot.

I said, “Is your surveillance guy anywhere around?”

“Trade secret,” he said, smiling. Then: “At this moment, no, but it wouldn’t make a difference, believe me.”

I told him what I’d learned about Kathy Moriarty and Eileen Wagner.

“Okay,” he said, “your Gabney theory’s looking better. They probably scammed in Boston, got found out, and came west to scam some more.”

“It goes beyond that,” I said. “Eileen Wagner was the one who referred me to Gina. A few years later, she’s dead in Boston, the Gabneys leave Boston, and shortly after, they’re treating Gina.”

“Anything in Moriarty’s clipping implying Wagner’s death wasn’t suicide?”

I handed him the scrap.

He read and said, “Doesn’t sound as if anyone was going to look into it. And if it developed into something fishy, wouldn’t Moriarty have kept those clippings in her book?”

“Guess so,” I said. “But there’s got to be some kind of connection- something Moriarty thought she had. Wagner was studying psych at Harvard when the Gabneys were still there. She probably came into some kind of contact with them. Kathy Moriarty had an interest in all three of them. And all three knew Gina.”

“When you met Wagner did anything about her strike you as odd?”

“No,” I said. “Not that I analyzed her- it was a ten-minute conversation eleven years ago.”

“So you have no reason to question her ethics?”

“None at all. Why?”

“Just wondering,” he said. “If she was ethical, she wouldn’t have talked to anyone about Gina specifically, would she? Even to another doctor.”

“That’s true.”

“So how could the Gabneys have known about Gina from her?”

“Maybe they didn’t. Specifically. But after learning the Gabneys specialized in treating phobics, maybe Wagner talked about Gina’s case in general terms. Medical conference- that wouldn’t have been unethical.”

“Rich phobic,” said Milo.

“Living like a princess in a castle,” I said. “Wagner used those words. She’d been impressed by Gina’s wealth. She could have talked about it to one or both of the Gabneys. And when the time came for the Gabneys to seek greener pastures, they remembered what she’d said and headed for San Labrador. And hooked up with Gina because Melissa called.”

“Coincidence?”

“It’s a real small town, Milo. But I still don’t see why Kathy Moriarty had the clipping of Wagner’s suicide in her scrapbook.”

“Maybe Wagner was one of Moriarty’s sources. About the Gabneys’ scam.”

“And maybe Wagner died because of that.”

“Whoa, that’s a big leap,” he said. “But tell you what, when I get back, we can pursue it. Get Suzy to pursue it- what a gal. If the Gabneys have been bleeding Gina’s estate, she’d be the one to find out. The Cassatt could be a good place to start. If it wasn’t legally transferred, she’ll be on them like a hound on hemoglobin.”

“When you get back from where?” I said.

“Sacramento. Suzy’s assigned me a trip up there. Seems Attorney Douse has been in some kind of trouble with the Bar recently but they won’t talk about it over the phone, and even in person they’re demanding proper documentation of need-to-know. I’m booked out of Burbank at six-ten. She’s gonna have the papers faxed to me up there tomorrow morning. I’m scheduled to speak to some bankers at one, do my thing at the Bar at three-thirty. After that, she assures me there’ll be other items on the agenda.”

“Tight schedule.”

“The lady doesn’t suffer slackers lightly. Anything else?”

“Yes,” I said. “Was Bethel listening when Chickering told Ramp about McCloskey?”

“She was in the room, pouring coffee. Why?”

I told him about the waitress’s hurried departure. “It’s possible it was just sensory overload, Milo. I spoke to Noel a moment later and he said she’s been under stress, worried about her job. Maybe hearing about another death was just too much to handle. But I think she was reacting specifically to the fact that it was McCloskey who was dead. Because I think McCloskey was Noel’s father.”

The look of surprise on his face was gratifying. I felt like a kid who’d finally bested Daddy at chess.

“Talk about your leaps,” he said. “Where does that come from?”

“My quivering antennae. I finally figured it out. It had nothing to do with Noel’s behavior- it’s the way he looks. I saw it just a few minutes ago. He was upset about his mother, lowered his face, and gave this defeated look that was a carbon copy of the expression on McCloskey’s face in his arrest photo. The resemblance, once you notice it, is really striking. Noel’s short, dark, handsome- almost pretty. McCloskey used to have that same type of good looks.”

“Used to,” said Milo.

“Exactly. Someone who hadn’t known him in the old days would never have spotted it.”

“The old days,” he said, and walked back inside the restaurant.

“C’mon, Don.” Milo propped a finger under Ramp’s chin.

Ramp gazed back with cloudy eyes.

“Okay,” said Milo, “I’ve been there, Don. So I know getting the words out is like passing a kidney stone. Don’t talk- just blink. Once for yes, twice for no. Is Noel Drucker McCloskey’s kid or not?”

Nothing. Then dry lips formed the word yes, and a sibilant whisper followed.

“Does Noel know?” I said.

Ramp shook his head and lowered it to the table. Boils had broken out on the back of his neck and he smelled like the bear cage at the zoo.

Milo said, “Noel and Joel. Bethel have a flair for light verse or something?”

Ramp looked up. His facial skin had the texture and color of old custard, and his mustache was clogged with skin flakes.

He said, “Noel because… she couldn’t.” Shaking his head and starting to droop again.

Milo propped him up. “She couldn’t what, Don?”

Ramp stared at him, wet-eyed. “She can’t… She knew Joel… the way the word… looked… so Noel… three letters the same… remember.”

He eyed the bourbon bottle, sighed, closed his eyes.

I said, “She couldn’t read? She named him Noel because it looked like Joel and she wanted something she could visualize?”

Nod.

“Is she still illiterate?”

Faint nod. “Tried to… She couldn’t…”

“How’d she manage to do her job?” I said. “Taking orders, totaling the check?”

Unintelligible sounds from Ramp.

Milo said, “C’mon, dammit, stop blubbering.”

Ramp lifted his head slightly. “Memory. She knew everything… the whole menu… by heart. When there’s… a special… she… we rehearse it.”

“And filling out the check?” said Milo.

“I…” Look of exhaustion.

“You take care of it,” I said. “You take care of her. Just like the old days back at the studio. What was she, a country girl, came out west to be a star?”

“Appalachia,” he said. “Hill… billy.”

“Poor girl from the sticks,” I said. “You knew she’d never make it in pictures, especially not being able to read lines. Did you help her keep it secret for a while?”

Nod. “Joel…”

“Joel blew her cover?”

He nodded. Belched and let his head loll. “Pictures for him.”

“He caused her to lose her contract at the studio and then hired her as a model?”

Nod.

Milo said, “How’d she get a driver’s license?”

“Written tests… memorized all of them.”

“Must have taken a long time.”

Ramp nodded and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He lowered his head to the table again. This time Milo let him remain there.

“Have she and McCloskey maintained contact all these years?” I said.

Ramp’s head shot up with surprising speed. “No- she hated… it… not what she wanted.”

“What wasn’t?”

“The baby. Noel…” Wince. “Loved him, but…”

“But what, Don?”

Beseeching look.

“What, Don?”

“Rape.”

“McCloskey got her pregnant by raping her?”

Nod. “All the time.”

“All the time what, Don?” said Milo.

“Rape.”

“He raped her all the time?”

Nod.

“Why didn’t you protect her from that?” said Milo.

Ramp began to sob. The tears landed in his mustache and beaded in the greasy hairs.

He tried to say something, choked.

Milo put his finger under Ramp’s chin. Used a napkin to dab the weeping man’s face.

“What, Don?” he said gently.

“Everyone,” said Ramp, tears flowing.

“Everyone raped her?”

Sob. Gulp. “Had her… She’s not…” Struggling to lift his hand, he tapped his head.

“She’s not bright,” said Milo. “Everyone took advantage of her.”

Nod. Tears.

“Everyone, Don?”

Ramp’s head lolled and dipped. His eyes closed. Saliva trickled down one side of his mouth.

Milo said, “Okay, Don,” and lowered Ramp’s face to the table once more.

I followed Milo back to the bar. The two of us sat and watched Ramp for a while. He began to snore.

“The studio wild bunch,” I said. “The dumb, illiterate girl everyone passed around.”

“How’d you know?”

“From the way Noel acted just before. We were talking about his mother. He mentioned she said that working anywhere else wouldn’t be the same, started to elaborate, and stopped. When I pressed him on it, he got mad and left. That struck me as unusual. He’s a kid who controls his emotions- needs to be in control. Typical for someone growing up with a druggie or alkie parent. So I knew whatever it was that made him blow up had to be important. Then when Ramp started talking, it all fit.”

“Illiterate,” said Milo. “Living that way, all these years, never knowing when someone was going to blow her cover. Ramp taking care of her and the kid out of guilt.”

“Or compassion, or both. Guess he is a genuine soft guy.”

“Yeah,” he said again, glancing over at Ramp and shaking his head.

I said, “It explains Bethel’s willingness to wait tables while Ramp and Gina lived like royalty. She was used to being the doormat. Failed at acting and got into heavy dope and God knows what else. Topped it off by getting pregnant by the guy everyone hated. Posed for pictures that probably weren’t high fashion. The way she’s built isn’t exactly suited to Vogue. It adds up to subterranean self-esteem, Milo. She probably figures what Ramp gave her is more than she deserves. And now she’s in danger of losing even that.”

He ran his hand over his face.

“What?” I said.

“If McCloskey exposed Bethel, then raped her, why would she freak out when she found out he was dead?”

“Maybe it was still a loss to her. Maybe she harbored some small bit of good feeling toward him. For giving her Noel.”

Milo spun on the stool. Ramp snored louder.

“Or,” said Milo, “what if it was more than some little bit of good feeling? What if she and McCloskey have been in contact with each other? Misery loving company. A common enemy.”

I said, “Gina?”

“They both could’ve hated her. McCloskey for whatever reason he had in the first place, Bethel out of jealousy- the haves against the have-nots. What if she wasn’t quite so happy playing the underdog? And what if there was another ingredient sweetening the relationship- money? Blackmail.”

“Over what?”

“Who knows? But Gina was a member of the wild group.”

“You said you didn’t uncover any dirt on her.”

“So she was better than the others at keeping it quiet- making her secret worth even more. Weren’t you the one who told me secrets were coin of the realm out here? So what if McCloskey and Bethel took that literally? If McCloskey had been Bethel’s partner in something nasty, it would make sense for her to bolt after hearing he was dead.”

“Joel and Bethel, Noel and Melissa,” I said. “Too goddam ugly. I hope you’re wrong.”

“I know,” he said. “I keep coming up with them. But we didn’t write the movie- we’re just reviewing it.”

He continued to look pained.

I said, “What if Noel ran down McCloskey? He’s the first one I thought of when I heard a car had been the weapon. Cars are his thing- he has access to all of Gina’s. Think we should open all those garages, see if any of the classics have front-end damage?”

“Waste of time,” he said. “He wouldn’t have used one of those. Too conspicuous.”

“No one in Azusa saw Gina’s Rolls drive up to the dam.”

“Not true. We don’t know that. Sheriff filed it as an accident- no one ever did a door-to-door.”

“Okay,” I said. “So Noel used some kind of utility vehicle. They used to have one- back when I was treating Melissa. Old Caddy-’62 Fleetwood. She called it a Cadillac Knockabout. They’ve probably got one like that today- can’t use a Duesenberg to pick up the groceries. It’s stashed somewhere on those seven acres, or in one of those garages. Or maybe McCloskey was run down with stolen wheels- Noel could know how to hot-wire.”

“From too-good-to-be-true to juvenile delinquent?”

“Like you said, things change.”

He swung toward the bar.

“Oedipus wrecks,” he said. “The all-American kid runs over his old man. How much therapy will it take to patch that one up?”

I didn’t answer.

Across the room, Ramp snorted and gasped for air. His head lifted, sank, rolled to the side.

Milo said, “Be a good idea to get him lucid, see what else we can squeeze out of him. Also be a good idea to wait around and see if old Bethel comes back.”

He looked at his watch. “Got to be getting over to the airport. You feel like sticking around? I’ll check in with you when I’m settled- let’s say before nine.”

“What about your surveillance guy? Can’t he take over here?”

“Nope. He doesn’t come out into the open. Part of the deal.”

“Antisocial?”

“Something like that.”

“All right,” I said. “I was planning to play with the phone for a while- check out a few more Boston things. What do I do if Bethel comes back?”

“Keep her here. Try to get whatever you can out of her.”

“Using what technique?”

He came around from behind the bar, hitched his trousers, buttoned his jacket, and slapped me on the back.

“Your charm, your Ph.D., bald-faced lies- whichever feels best.”