Voodoo, Ltd.

Thirteen

Artie Wu, pushing a loaded baggage cart, was in the lead at 1:37 that same afternoon when he, Otherguy Overby and Quincy Durant came up the long ramp that led from customs and immigration to the airport’s international reception area where Booth Stallings waited with Georgia Blue.

Durant watched as Wu gave Georgia Blue a smile, a hug, a kiss and some words of warm greeting before turning to shake hands with Stallings. Overby was next. He patted her on the cheek, which almost made her flinch, then said something that almost made her smile.

An unsmiling Durant went up to her and held out his hand. She took it and said, “Let’s hear it, Quincy.”

He let her hand go and said, “Don’t try to fuck me over again, Georgia.”

They stared at each other for several seconds before she replied with two thoughtful nods, which Durant interpreted as, “Maybe I will” and “Maybe I won’t.” What she actually said was, “You look about the same.”

“So do you.”

“No, I don’t.”

Durant studied her streak of white hair. “You going to keep it?”

“As a reminder.”

“I like it,” he said and turned away to greet Booth Stallings.

With his coat and tie off and the sleeves of his custom-made white shirt folded back two careful turns, Otherguy Overby headed the rented Lincoln Town Car into the Airport Return shortcut that led back to the international terminal where Artie Wu by now should have completed his phone call.

Next to Overby in the front seat was Georgia Blue. In the rear were Durant and Stallings. After the four of them had reached the third floor of the parking lot and loaded the luggage into the Lincoln’s trunk, Overby offered to drive. Stallings tossed him the keys and said, “It’s all yours.”

“Which way?” Overby said.

“Malibu,” said Stallings, who thought of himself as one of those rare Americans who regarded automobiles as more nuisance than necessity. There had been times in his life, especially when abroad and poking around in terrorism, that he had gone for as long as eighteen months without ever riding in a private automobile. He had instead walked, bicycled or taken taxis and public transport. He was now almost sure he would never buy another car — unless, of course, he stumbled across an incredibly cheap Morgan or maybe a Jowett-Jupiter.

Overby spotted Wu waiting at the curb. After the Lincoln pulled over and stopped, Wu got into the rear seat next to Stallings and said, “Quincy and I’re—” He broke off as Overby expertly cut off a hotel shuttle van, then bullied his way to the airport road’s far left lane. Wu realized he had been holding his breath until assured of safe passage. He used the withheld breath to complete his announcement. “Quincy and I’re to meet Ione Gamble at five this afternoon.”

“You talked to her?” Durant asked.

“No. To Howard Mott.” He looked at Stallings. “Your son-in-law asked me to tell you your grandson and namesake is thriving.”

The new grandfather smiled slightly. “They named the kid Booth Stallings Mott. It didn’t occur to either of them that by the time he’s in the second grade, or maybe even the first, the other kids’ll be calling him B.S.”

Georgia Blue asked, “Have you seen him yet?”

“Not yet. But I haven’t been back to Washington in five years. Anyway, the kid’s still in the gurgle-and-coo stage so maybe I’ll wait till he’s three or four and has something to say.”

Overby had turned north on Sepulveda, heading for Lincoln Boulevard. Wu leaned forward and asked, “Where to, Otherguy?”

“Booth says Malibu.”

Wu leaned back and asked Stallings, “Any problem with the checking account?”

“None. I have blank checks and signature cards for you and Quincy in my pocket.”

“Any leads on a house yet?”

“Remember Phil Quill?”

Wu frowned, then brightened. “The Razorback quarterback.”

“He rented us a house.”

“His?”

“No, he’s a Malibu real estate agent now — when he’s not acting, which seems to be most of the time.”

“Nice place?” Durant asked.

“Right on the beach.”

“How many bedrooms?”

“Six bedrooms, seven baths.”

“How much?”

“Quill was asking fifteen but came down to thirteen-five.”

“Whose house is it?” Wu said.

To make sure he didn’t miss Wu’s reaction, Stallings turned to look at him. He noticed Georgia Blue had also turned around in the front seat. “The house is in a kind of legal limbo right now,” Stallings said. “But it belonged to William A. C. Rice the Fourth.”

Artie Wu expressed surprise in his usual manner with a series of small judicious nods and a slight wise smile.

“Well?” Stallings said, ready for either praise or condemnation.

“I think Rice’s house could prove useful,” Wu said. “I also think you and Georgia have done remarkably well.”

“I can’t think of any use we can make of it — except to draw attention,” Durant said.

“Exactly,” said Wu.

From the driver’s seat, Otherguy Overby said, “Christ, I can think of half a dozen ways we can use it.”

Wu settled back into the seat, clasped his hands across his belly, closed his eyes and said, “Let’s hear two of them, Otherguy.”

By 3:15 P.M. The travelers had unpacked, toured Billy Rice’s $15-million beach shack, taken a short stroll along the beach itself and were now gathered in the enormous living room, where Artie Wu had been drawn, as if by a chain, to the dead man’s favorite chair — an elaborate leather recliner the color of port wine.

There were no unsightly levers to even hint it was a recliner. It looked instead like an ordinary brass-studded wing-back chair — providing three or four thousand dollars was what one ordinarily paid for a chair. A cleverly concealed button made it recline and adjust to any number of positions. Another button switched on the electric vibrating mechanism. Still another one controlled the room’s sound system.

Next to the chair was the six-line telephone console Ione Gamble had used to dial 911. There was also a swing-away reading table. On the chair’s lower left side was a deep leather pocket still stuffed with screenplays. Light came from a floor lamp whose chrome stand and flat-black metal shade were still positioned just so.

Booth Stallings and Georgia Blue shared one of the room’s three couches, as if to imply, if not announce, some kind of loose alliance. Overby had chosen an Eames chair, the genuine article, and had his feet up on its stool. Durant stood at the wide expanse of glass, his back to the room, inspecting the ocean.

After asking if anyone would care for a drink and getting no takers, Artie Wu said, “Booth has given each of us a thousand in cash for walking-around money. He’s to be our exchequer, logistician and householder. Should anyone ask, you’re colleagues of Dr. Stallings and his charming research associate, Ms. Blue. Any comment?”

Stallings had one. “I think during the next day or so I’ll work the neighborhood, Artie. Introduce myself as old Doc Stallings, the motormouth academic, who’ll talk your arm off if you give him half a chance. I’ve found that people will tell you all sorts of interesting stuff just to make you shut up and go away.”

“Try to find out what Billy Rice did for fun and who he did it with,” Wu said.

“Plan to.”

Wu looked around the room. “Any other questions?”

Durant had one. Without turning, he said, “What’ll you tell the neighbors you’re working on, Booth?”

“Nothing. By that I mean I’ll tell them I’m resting from my labors in Amman while my associates at Wudu, Limited, negotiate a confidential research project in L.A.”

“Good,” Durant said and continued his inspection of the ocean.

“As I mentioned earlier,” Wu said, “Quincy and I are meeting with Ione Gamble at five. Howard Mott’ll also be present. I should add he’s associated himself with one of the old downtown law firms, which enables him to represent Gamble in California. Her personal attorney, Jack Broach — who’s also her business manager and agent — may be at the five o’clock meeting. I’ll spell Broach for you.”

After spelling it, Wu looked at Georgia Blue and said, “Check him out, Georgia.”

“Something specific or all the way?”

“All the way.”

Wu next turned to Overby. “Otherguy, I want you to begin the hunt for the missing hypnotists. Quincy managed to locate one of the Goodisons’ promotional leaflets that has photos of them. He also talked to an ex-Paddington Police Station detective, a woman, who gave him a rundown on their habits and peculiarities. It’s all in a memo he wrote.”

“He already gave me a copy,” Overby said.

“Good. After Georgia does Jack Broach, she’ll join you in the hunt for the Goodisons.”

“How much time’ve we got?” Overby said.

“Not much. Mott says the trial date is set for March twenty-third in Santa Monica Superior Court. He hopes he can get a continuance, but he’s worried that if it does come to trial, she’ll lose.”

“Does anybody know of any connection between this dead guy Rice and the Goodisons?” Overby said.

“None that I know of,” Wu said. “But it won’t hurt to look for one.”

“What if we find the Goodisons dead?” Georgia Blue asked.

Wu thought for a moment. “Then our job’s done — unless Enno Glimm says otherwise.”

“And what if,” Durant said, still staring at the ocean, “we stumble across something that indicates Ione Gamble killed Rice and had something to do with the Goodisons’ disappearance?”

Before Wu could reply, Overby said, “We could sell it and retire — all of us.”

Wu sighed. “That’s a bit raw — even for you, Otherguy.”

“Don’t tell me it didn’t cross your mind, Artie.”

Wu sighed again and said, “I think we should proceed from two assumptions, the first being that the Goodisons are alive, but in hiding, maybe of their own volition, maybe not. Our second assumption is that Ione Gamble didn’t kill William Rice. Since the cops have gone at her from the opposite direction, there’s a slight possibility that our approach will turn up something new and even exculpatory — although I really don’t have much hope.”

There was a brief silence as he looked at each of them, taking his time, especially when his gaze reached Durant’s back. Wu was still staring at it when he said, “Anything else?”

“We need more cars,” said Overby.

“There’s a Budget place just down the highway,” Stallings said. “We can rent what we need there.”

“Anything else?” Wu said.

After a somewhat longer silence, Georgia Blue said, “One thing bothers me. It’s about the two hypnotists — the Goodisons. Under California law, the testimony of any witness who’s been hypnotized is considered tainted. So why did Mott send all the way to London for a pair of hypnotists if he knew that Ione Gamble, once hypnotized, couldn’t testify in her own defense?”

Durant, still staring at the ocean, said, “That’s the second question I’ll ask Mott.”

“What’s the first?” she said.

“Why he imported two bent hypnotists.”

“Maybe he didn’t know they were bent.”

“That’s my third question,” Durant said. “Why didn’t he?”