Private Eyes

37

Milo came by my house at four. I was working on my monograph and led him into the study.

“Lots of dirt on Douse,” he said, shaking his briefcase and putting it on my desk. “Not that it matters much.”

“It might,” I said. “In terms of recovering anything he’s already looted from the estate.”

“Yeah,” he said, “let’s hear it for private investigation. How you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“Really. How about yourself?”

“Still on the job- Attorney LaFamiglia likes my style.”

“A woman with taste.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. There are baby fish down in the pond, they’re surviving and growing, and I’m in a great mood.”

“Baby fish?”

“Wanna see?”

“Sure.”

We went down to the Japanese garden. It took a while for him to see the hatchlings, but finally he did. And smiled. “Yeah. Cute. What do you feed them?”

“Ground-up fish food.”

“They don’t get eaten?”

“Some do. The fast ones survive.”

“Aha.”

He sat down on a rock and exposed his face to the sun. “Nyquist showed up late last night at the restaurant. Talked to Don for a few minutes, then split. Looks like farewell. The van was packed up for long-term travel.”

“You get that from your guy?”

“Every detail. Along with your departure, down to the second. He’s a demon for particulars. If I’d been smart I’d have told him to tail you.”

“Would he have been able to help?”

He smiled. “Probably not. We’re talking arthritis and emphysema. But he’s got damn good handwriting.”

He looked at the paper in my typewriter. “What’s that?”

“My paper on the Hale School.”

“Everything back to normal, huh? When do you see Melissa?”

“As in therapy?”

“As in.”

“Soon as possible after she gets back to L.A. I called up there an hour ago. She didn’t want to leave her mother’s side. The doctor I spoke to said it should be about a week before Gina can be moved. Then there’ll be extended care.”

“Jesus,” he said. “Melissa’s sure going to need it- seeing you. Maybe everyone involved in this should go into therapy.”

“I did you a real favor, huh?”

“Actually you did. When I write my memoirs this one’ll get a chapter of its own. Attorney LaFamiglia said she’d be my agent if I ever do it.”

“Attorney LaFamiglia would probably make a good agent.”

He smiled. “Balls-in-the-grinder time for Douse and Anger. Almost feel sorry for them. So, you eat recently? If not, I’m up for something solid.”

“Had a big breakfast,” I said. “But there is something I could go for.”

“What’s that?”

I told him.

He said, “Christ alive, don’t you ever get enough?”

“I need to know. For everyone’s sake. If you don’t want to pursue it, I’ll grope along by myself.”

He said, “Jesus,” then: “Okay, run everything by me again- the details.”

I did.

“That’s it? A phone on the floor? That’s all you’ve got?”

“The timing’s right.”

“Okay,” he said, “it should be easy enough to get hold of the records. The question is whether or not it was a toll call.”

“San Labrador to Santa Monica is,” I said. “I already checked the bill.”

“Mr. Detective,” he said. “Mr. Private Eye.”

The place didn’t look like what it was. Victorian house in a working-class section of Santa Monica. Two stories, big front porch with swings and rockers. Yellow clapboard sides with white and baby-blue trim. Lots of cars on the street. Several more in the driveway. Better landscaping and maintenance than the other houses on the block.

“My, my,” I said, pointing to a car in the driveway. Black Cadillac Fleetwood, ’62.

Milo parked the Porsche.

We got out and inspected the big car’s front bumper. Deeply dented and freshly primered.

“Yeah, looks right,” said Milo.

We walked up the porch and through the front door. A bell over the lintel tinkled.

The entry hall was filled with houseplants. Sweet-smelling. Too sweet- concealing something.

A dark, pretty woman in her early twenties came out. White blouse, red maxiskirt, Eurasian, clear complexion. “Can I help you?”

Milo told her who we wanted to see.

“Are you family?”

“Acquaintances.”

“Old-time acquaintances,” I said. “Like Madeleine de Couer.”

“Madeleine,” she said, with fondness. “She’s here every two weeks, so devoted. And such a good cook- we all love her butter cookies. Let’s see what time it is- six-ten. He may be sleeping. He sleeps a lot, especially lately.”

“Getting worse?” I said.

“Physically or spiritually?”

“Physically, for starters.”

“We’ve seen some deterioration, but it comes and goes. One day he’s walking fine; the next, he can’t move. It’s hard seeing him that way- knowing what’s in store. It’s such an ugly disease, especially for someone like him, used to being active- though I guess they all are. I’d never even heard of what he’s got- it’s even rarer than Lou Gehrig’s. I had to bone up, and there really isn’t much in the medical books.”

“How about spiritually?”

She smiled. “You know how he is- but actually he’s been real good to have around. He cooks for the others, tells them stories. Prods them when he thinks they’re getting lazy. He even orders the staff around, but no one minds- he’s such a dear. When he… when he can’t do those things anymore it’s going to be a real loss.” Sighing. “Anyway, why don’t we see if he’s awake?”

We followed her up to the second floor, passing bedrooms, each containing two or three hospital beds. Old men and women occupied the beds, watching television, reading, sleeping, eating orally or intravenously. Young people in street clothes attended to them. The place was very quiet.

The room she stopped at was at the rear. Smaller than the rest. A single bed. Punch caricatures on the wall, along with an oil painting of a young, beautiful woman with an unscarred face. A.D. initialed in the lower right corner.

Nothing out of place. Bay rum aroma fighting to assert itself through the sweetness.

A man sat on the edge of the bed, trying to insert a cuff link through French cuffs. Starched white cuffs. Navy tie. Blue serge trousers. All of it much too large; he seemed to be drowning in his clothes. A pair of mirror-black bluchers were lined up at the foot of the bed. Three identical pairs of shoes edged a wood-grain dresser that had been shined far more than its cheap construction merited. Next to the shoes was a four-legged metal walker.

His hair was slicked and right-parted and bone-white. All the plumpness was gone from his face, and his cheeks hung loosely in bulldog jowls. His skin was the color of a plastic skeleton. The cuff links were small squares of onyx.

“People to see you,” said the young woman cheerfully.

The man struggled with the cuff link, finally inserted it, then turned and faced us.

A look of surprise passed over his face, then great calm. As if he’d experienced the worst-possible scenario and survived.

He worked hard at producing a smile for the girl, worked harder at getting the words out: “Come in.” Voice as fragile as antique crockery.

“Anything I can get you, Mr. D.?” asked the woman.

The man shook his head no. More effort.

She left. Milo and I stepped in. I closed the door.

“Hello, Mr. Dutchy,” I said.

Curt nod.

“Do you remember me? Alex Delaware? Nine years ago?”

Eyes fluttering, he struggled to enunciate: “Doc… tor.”

“This is a friend of mine, Mr. Milo Sturgis. Mr. Sturgis, Mr. Jacob Dutchy. A good friend of Melissa and her mother.”

“Sit.” Motioning toward a chair. The only other furniture was a walnut drum table of much better vintage than the dresser. Leather top, covered partially by a doily. Tea service atop the doily. Pattern identical to one I’d seen in a small gray sitting room. “Tea?”

“No, thanks.”

“You,” he said to Milo, taking a long time to get it out. “Look like. A police. Man.”

“He is one,” I said. “On leave. But he’s not here in any official capacity.”

“I see.” Dutchy folded his hands on his lap and sat there.

Suddenly, I regretted coming and wore it all over my face. Gentleman that he was, he said, “Don’t wor. Ree. Talk.”

“No need to talk about it,” I said. “Consider this a friendly visit.”

Half-smile on bloodless, razor-slash lips. “Talk. Any. Thing.” Then: “How?”

“Just guesswork,” I said. “The evening before McCloskey was run down, Madeleine sat by Melissa’s bed and used the phone. I saw it, on the floor. She called you here and told you Gina was dead. Asked you to take care of it. Step into your old role.”

“No,” he said. “That’s. Wrong. Not her… nothing.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” said Milo, and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “These are phone records. Made from Melissa’s private line that night, itemized down to the minute. Three within a one-hour period to the Pleasant Rest Hospice.”

“Circum. Stantial,” said Dutchy. “She talks. To me all. The time.”

“We saw the car, sir,” said Milo. “The Cadillac that’s registered to you. Interesting front-end damage. I imagine the police lab would be able to work with that.”

Dutchy looked at him, but not with any anxiety- he seemed to be appraising Milo’s clothes. Milo had dressed fairly well. For him. Dutchy was reserving judgment.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Dutchy,” said Milo. “This is off the record. Even if it wasn’t, you haven’t been notified of your rights, so anything you say can’t be used against you.”

“Madeleine had. Nothing to. Do. With…”

“Even if she did, we don’t care, sir. Just trying to tie up loose ends.”

“She. Didn’t.”

“Fine,” said Milo. “You thought of it all by yourself. You’re a one-man crime wave.”

Dutchy’s smile was astonishingly quick and full. “Billy. The Kid. What. Else d’you. Want. To know?”

“What’d you use to lure McCloskey out?” said Milo. “His son?”

Dutchy’s smile quavered and faded out like a weak radio signal. “Dis. Honest. But. Only way.”

“Did Noel or Melissa call him?”

“No.” Trembling. “No. No, no. Swear.”

“Take it easy. I believe you.”

It took a while for Dutchy’s face to stop shaking.

“So who called McCloskey?” said Milo. “It sure wasn’t you.”

“Friends.”

“What did the friends tell him?”

“Son. In troub. El. Help.” Pause for breath. “Pat. Ernal. Heart. Strings.” Dutchy made an excruciatingly slow tugging motion.

“How’d you know he’d fall for that?”

“Never. Know. Po. Ker.”

“You flushed him out with the son story. Then your friends ran him down.”

“No.” Pointing to his starched shirtfront. “Me.”

“You can still drive?”

“Some. Times.”

“Uh-huh.”

“In. Dee. Five. Hundred.” Genuine glee on the pasty face.

Milo said, “You and Parnelli.”

Reedy laughter.

“I guess it’s stupid to ask why.”

Ponderous headshake. “No. Not. At all.”

Silence.

Dutchy smiled and managed to get a hand on his shirtfront again. “Ask.”

Milo rolled his eyes.

I said, “Why’d you do it, Mr. Dutchy?”

He stood, tottered, waved off our aid. It took a full five minutes for him to get into an upright position. I know, because I was staring at the second hand of my watch. Another five to make it to the walker and lean on it, triumphant.

Triumph that went beyond the physical.

“Reason,” he said. “My job.”