Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) (16 page)

"I can't thank you enough," I said. Then I paused ten seconds. "Well, actually I could, but you probably have plans for the rest of your life."

He gave me a strange open-mouth look, and then, suddenly realizing it was a joke, broke into a smile.

I drove away, mentally kicking myself all the way home.

I lay awake a long time, replaying the scene with Carl but with a different ending, then dropped off at last. I overslept and made a mad dash to the airport the next morning. Thank goodness I didn't have to compete with rush-hour commuters between my house and SFO.

Once more, I hailed a taxi at LAX and let someone else do the driving. The traffic on that Saturday seemed lighter than it had been the last time I'd come, but that's only relative. Compared to driving around San Ricardo, it resembled a not-very-well-organized stock car race. I used the time, as I had while flying south, to relive my action of the previous night. I decided I had foolishly let my maturity get in the way of a possibly meaningful relationship. I vowed not to make that mistake again if the opportunity reappeared. Somehow, I had a suspicion it would.

I also worried about the ethics of getting involved with a man suspected of murder. I didn't think Carl had committed the crime. My instincts were sufficiently sharp, I hoped, to keep me from falling for a killer. Brad might not understand if I let things go that far, but my love life didn't concern him.

I directed the taxi driver to take me to the address Hammond had jotted down on the secretary's desk calendar, and as I suspected, he stopped in front of a jewelry store on a busy street. Not Rodeo Drive but posh enough. I paid the driver and entered the shop.

Three couples, their backs to the door, peered into the glass cases in front of them or gazed at jewelry displayed on black velvet pads. Each couple had a salesclerk in front of them, with no one left over to help me. I moved off to the side of the room to wait, but a young woman, who wore a tailored black suit and no jewelry at all, appeared like magic from a partition and offered to be of assistance. I asked if she was the manager.

"No, but I'll get him for you."

She retreated behind the partition again, and soon a short chubby man with a fringe of gray-black hair appeared and came over to me. "I am Philip Leibowitz. How may I help you?"

I handed him one of the cards Brad had made for me. "My name is Olivia Grant, and I'm with the Featherstone Detective Agency, which is currently investigating the murder of Harry Hammond."

Mr. Leibowitz's eyebrows rose at the word "murder."

"I understand he visited you a week ago."

Leibowitz frowned and suggested we go into his office for privacy. I followed him, walking between two of the glass cases and behind the partition. A right turn brought us to a small, richly-furnished office, and he sat behind his desk and offered me the tapestry-covered antique chair in front. I put my handbag in my lap, took out the recorder, and turned it on, nevertheless leaving it out of sight.

"I don't know anything about a murder."

"No one suspects you, Mr. Leibowitz. The murder took place in San Ricardo a week ago, and perhaps it didn't make the papers here." I gave him my most reassuring smile. "We only want information about Mr. Hammond's movements. We know he flew to Los Angeles and that he intended to come here on Friday."

"Hammond, did you say? Do you mean the Hammond of Hammond Jewelers? If he planned to come to see me, he didn't make it."

I reached into my bag and pulled out the photo of Harry. "This is Mr. Hammond."

Leibowitz glanced at the photo and handed it back to me. "No, I didn't see that man. I'm sorry."

I took a deep breath, wondering what to ask next. "Were you here that day?"

"Yes, I spent both Friday and Saturday in the store."

Saturday. Harry didn't return to San Francisco until late that afternoon. Perhaps he made his appointment not for Friday night at all but Saturday. And, come to think of it, he saw Epstein, not Leibowitz.

"Are you familiar with a diamond dealer named Epstein?"

"Of course."

"Did
he
come here on Friday or Saturday of last week?"

"Yes, we had a short meeting on Saturday."

"Is it possible Mr. Hammond saw Mr. Epstein that day?"

Leibowitz straightened in his chair, frowned, reached out for the photo, and pulled reading glasses from his breast pocket. He leaned forward and studied the picture carefully that time before returning it again. "If this is Mr. Hammond, yes, he did."

"And you saw him too."

"Yes. After we concluded our business, Mr. Epstein asked if he could wait in my store for a few minutes because he'd told a client to meet him there. He didn't tell me the man's name, only said the meeting would save him a trip to San Francisco."

"So then Hammond came into your store."

"Yes, about five minutes later."

"That would have been about what time?"

He returned the glasses to his pocket. "About eleven. I'd expected to take Mr. Epstein to lunch, but when this man arrived, they talked for almost an hour in my office, then Epstein said good-bye to me, and they left."

"Together, presumably to lunch?"

"Perhaps. I didn't follow them, but they may have gone to Caesar's restaurant in the next block." He raised an arm and pointed to his left. "Rather pricey, but the food is good, and they specialize in New York cheesecake."

"So you didn't see Hammond or Epstein again that day?"

"No, I didn't."

I snapped off the machine, put it back in my purse, and stood up. "Thank you very much, Mr. Leibowitz. I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me."

"I'm glad to have assisted." He walked me to the door.

"You've been very helpful." I meant that, as I'd already run into too many people who seemed bent on saying as little as possible. We shook hands, and I let myself out then walked up the sidewalk, glancing into store windows as I went, continuing on to the next block, looking for Caesar's restaurant. The street seemed to be lined with jewelry stores, boutiques, and antique shops, all very glamorous and definitely out of my price range.

I finally found Caesar's at the very end of the block, with a side entrance. Its brick exterior, with short striped awnings over its windows, differed from its chrome, glitzy neighbors. The door was heavy and carved out of some dark wood, and when I gratefully stepped out of the sunshine, I had to adjust my eyes to the gloom of the interior. I shivered from air cooled beyond the comfort zone, as if, unless the temperature stayed under sixty degrees, the restaurant's machine wasn't doing its job.

A young man, holding a handful of menus, materialized out of the darkness. "Table for one?"

"Um, no." I pulled out the photo of Harry again. "I wonder if you could help me. Do you remember seeing this man come into the restaurant a week ago?"

"A week ago? You mean like today, Saturday?"

"Yes, at around lunchtime. Were you here last week?"

"Yeah." He studied the photo and returned it to me, shaking his head. "I don't recognize him. He's not one of our regulars."

"He might never have come here before, but I hoped—"

"We get a lot of customers. Heck, I can take the picture into the back and ask around."

I nodded and let him go, waiting in the small foyer and thinking that idea was bound to be unproductive. Maybe stupid. Even if a waiter knew they'd been there for lunch a week ago, he wouldn't be able to tell me what they discussed or where they went when they left. I sighed.

I'd have to find a taxi and go back to the airport. Worse, I'd have to admit to Brad I'd been mistaken, and this had been a wild goose chase. All I knew for certain was that Harry had been in that area on Saturday afternoon and saw his diamond dealer. We could have waited to find that out—and what they talked about—when we called Epstein Monday morning. So much for my intuition.

A different waiter returned with the photo. He was also young, with a small mustache, and wore the same dark pants and white shirt as the other. He smiled at me. "I remember him."

"You do?" I could have kissed him.

"Yeah. He and another guy sat at one of my tables."

"Are you sure?" I found myself repeating what the other waiter had said. "That was a whole week ago, and you get so many customers."

"Normally, I wouldn't have remembered, especially since they weren't regulars, but this guy…" He tapped the photo. "…left twice and came back."

"What do you mean, 'left'?"

"They ordered, and the guy walked out of the restaurant."

"He didn't just go to the men's room?"

"Nah, he went outside. Stayed away a long time. When I brought their lunches, the other man asked could I keep his friend's hot a little while. So I took it back to the kitchen, and luckily, someone else had ordered the steak sandwich, so we served it. That just does
not
keep." He spoke with authority, nodding for emphasis. "We made him a fresh one when he got back."

He looked a little smug about the way he'd handled the situation, probably got a big tip for the special service. Perhaps that helped his memory.

"You said he left twice."

"Yes. The first time, the other guy handed him something out of his briefcase. Then this guy, the one in the picture, took it with him when he went out and came back without it."

"You're sure?"

"Pretty sure. Of course, I didn't watch every second."

"When did the man go out the second time?"

"They ordered cheesecake and coffee, and the guy gets up and goes out again. I served the cheesecake, but I didn't pour his coffee. That time he didn't stay away so long though."

"Do you have any idea where he went when he left the restaurant?"

"Nope, but when he came back the second time, I noticed he had a package with him."

"What kind of package?"

"I figured he had brought back the thing, whatever it was, that he had taken with him when he went out before."

"What did the thing look like? What size?"

"About like—" He indicated with his hands that it was about the size of a hardcover book. Considering the state of secondary education these days, I wasn't surprised he didn't describe it that way. Probably hadn't touched one since being forced into reading
Moby Dick
in high school.

"You said when he came back the second time he held a package. Wrapped? Or in a paper bag? Did you see a store name on the bag?"

"In a bag, I think. I didn't see a name, but there coulda been one."

"Did you notice anything else about him or his companion?"

He thought for a moment. "Nope, that's it."

"Thanks. You've been a great help." I gave him five dollars, put the photo away again, and stepped back outside, letting the Southern California sunshine warm my chilled body.

I stopped to think. Where had Hammond gone on his mysterious errand? And had he visited the same place both times? What would cause a man to buy a book in the middle of lunch? I hadn't passed a bookstore on the way, but maybe one occupied a spot beyond the restaurant or, perhaps, across the street.

I moved over to the curb and looked across. I saw more boutiques and another restaurant. A red sports car pulled away from in front of a video store, and I looked to the right, scanning signs.

And then I did a double take. A video store. Even in that neighborhood, the patrons needed their Hollywood fix, but what must the rent have been like? My senses had perked up, and my brain made the connection. I waited for the light to change, crossed the street, and walked over to the store. A tastefully printed sign in the window announced that they sold cameras, rented cameras, and videotaped weddings. Also, they would transfer your home movies or anything else to tape or DVD while you waited. Bingo!

What's approximately the same size as a book, at least the book the waiter described to me? Right, a videocassette tape. What had gone missing from Hammond's briefcase? A videocassette tape. Furthermore, there, right across the street from the restaurant where Harry had lunch the day of his murder, was a video store, one that offered to transfer home movies or anything else to tape or DVD. In addition, according to the waiter, Hammond left the restaurant on two brief occasions, the first time with a "thing" the size of a book, and he returned the second time with a package. I didn't need the Los Angeles Coliseum to fall on me to realize Harry might have had the store copy a tape for him during lunch. Now I needed to prove it.

I pushed open the door and went inside. The front part resembled a typical video rental place: walls lined with the small colorful boxes that contained tapes and DVDs of movies. Several rows of five-foot-high narrow shelves housing more films occupied the center of the room, and I saw several people browsing.

Near the front, on the left side, two young women—make that girls who looked every bit of fifteen but were trying for a world-weary thirty—stood behind a long counter, checking out rentals to customers. On the right, a glass-fronted cabinet displayed video cameras and accessories. The back wall held an open doorway to a long hall, but my glance in that direction didn't give a clue about what lay beyond. I waited until one of the young girls finished with her customer and then asked if I could see the manager.

"He isn't in today."

"Is there anyone else in charge, maybe an assistant manager?"

She seemed to be thinking, but I could tell she wasn't good at it. "Uh, yeah."

"Could I please speak to that person?"

Something apparently registered in her mind, and she moved to the end of the counter, retrieved a telephone, pressed a button, and said, "Someone would like to see you," into the mouthpiece. Then she put it down, said, "He'll be out soon," and went back to her position.

While I waited, I watched the girls chattering and giggling to one another. Youth may be necessary, but I thought we had enough of it. How about a fountain of smart?

I moved over to the open doorway at the back, and sure enough, soon a young man appeared and came toward me. He looked about eighteen, tall and thin, wearing jeans, a white short-sleeved shirt and blue bow tie, and his longish, dark brown hair was slicked back with some sort of gel.

He had a healthy-looking smile, however, and good manners. "Good afternoon. What can I do for you?"

Having a sudden, irresistible urge to impress him—he probably watched a lot of crime films—I pulled out one of my Featherstone business cards and gave it to him. "I'm investigating a murder case, and I need some information."

The boy's eyes widened along with his smile. "Of course." Like he helped private detectives every day of the week. "What would you like to know?"

"The sign in your window indicates you rent video cameras and transfer film to tape."

"That's right. We offer a complete video service. If it can be done, we can do it." Proud of his slogan, he threw his shoulders back. "What do you want us to do?"

"I only need information." I pulled out Harry's photo. "I have reason to believe this gentleman came into your store with a videotape and either made his own copy or had you make one for him. Would you be the person who helped him with that?"

The young man looked over the photo and shook his head. "I don't recognize him."

"Were you here last Saturday afternoon?"

"Actually, no, not that day."

"Who took your place?"

"The manager. He usually works Saturdays. I'm just here today because he had to go to a wedding."

Another stalemate. I tried another tack. "Do you keep records of transactions?"

"Oh, sure. The computer records show all the rentals."

"I mean other transactions, not just people borrowing movies."

"Yeah, those too."

"And if someone uses a camera or a video recording machine on the premises?"

"Sure, it would show that."

"May I see the records for last Saturday?"

His face shifted into frown mode. "Gee, I don't know. I think all that stuff is confidential. I've only been working here a year, and nobody asked me for that before, but I don't think I'm supposed to give it out."

"You'd be helping in a murder investigation. I'm sure you realize that time is of the essence. Every day that passes diminishes the odds that the killer will be apprehended."

I heard that somewhere, and it sounded authoritative, but the kid apparently wasn't impressed enough to break the rules.

He frowned some more. "I'm sorry, but I can't do that without approval."

"Can you get approval?"

"I can try." He ambled over to the counter and grabbed the telephone, punching in some numbers and then waiting silently, making faces at the two girls, who giggled some more. Finally, he put the phone down and returned to me. "Nobody answers at the manager's house. Like I told you, he went to a wedding today."

"Do you have any idea when he might return? Did he say he'd come back here afterward?"

"No. I'm on until eight, and then another guy will stay until midnight and lock up the store."

My tolerance for frustration was usually pretty high, but I had a strong urge to kick something. Fortunately, the base of the counter appeared hard enough to break my foot, so I desisted. Instead, I just clenched my teeth and tried to cajole my brain into coming up with a good idea. But it didn't, apparently exhausted after having suggested Harry made the missing videotape.

"Could I please have the name and number of the manager, then? That way I can keep calling him myself and not bother you."

"Oh, I'll give you his name, but I'm not allowed to give out his number." He went back to the counter and found a pencil and the store's business card. "We're open really early in the morning, so if you call here then, you'll probably get him."

I did another double take when he handed me the card, and I saw he'd written "Woo" after the store's telephone number. Then I decided the manager must be Chinese or Korean. I thanked him and asked if he knew of a hotel nearby, which I realized later was probably a dumb question since he undoubtedly lived in town and wouldn't need one, and of course, he didn't.

Outside again, I managed to hail a taxi, and the driver took me to a fancy hotel not far away. I didn't want to stay overnight—and certainly I wouldn't normally have chosen such a glamorous place—but I couldn't see any way to avoid it and felt just annoyed enough to put a big charge on Brad's expense account.

They made an imprint of my credit card, and then I went into their sundries shop and bought a new toothbrush and the smallest size of toothpaste I'd ever seen to supplement the shampoo and other toiletries inside the room. I phoned Brad, and we discussed my determination to follow that lead to its end, wherever that might take me.

"Let me get this straight." He repeated my information. "You think Hammond and Epstein went to this restaurant together, and then Hammond left in the middle of lunch."

"The waiter said he left twice, taking something the size of a book the first time and returning without it. Then he went out a second time and returned with something in a bag."

"So you think he went across the street to this video store and made a videotape?"

"A copy of one, yes. I think he made a copy of a tape that Epstein gave him, and that's the tape we saw in his briefcase. After all, the tape we saw had no markings on it, not a pre-recorded tape like a movie. Then it disappeared, and Amanda wants you to find it."

"Hold on," Brad said. "That's no longer true. Amanda says it's turned up."

I felt as if I were a water balloon that just dropped ten stories and smashed on a sidewalk. My intuition batting zero, I wondered if the glitzy hotel would refund my money. After all, I hadn't slept in the bed yet, although I did have one of their pillows behind my back at the moment. "Are you sure? I thought
you
thought that's why somebody ransacked Novotny's house."

"I couldn't reach him for questioning, but you went out to dinner with him last night. Did you ask him?"

"Yes, but he said he thinks they're unconnected. He told me he heard rumors of a drug dealer in his neighborhood and thought the break-in might have been done by someone looking for crack in the wrong house."

"And he expects us to buy that?"

"Even if we did, it doesn't answer the other question. Why did Harry stay in L.A. last weekend?"

"That one we do know, to see Epstein."

"He could have seen him in San Francisco. Why stay over when he knows he has to make a speech at the Merchants' meeting Saturday night?"

"We'll find out when we talk to Epstein Monday morning." He paused. "Why don't you come on home?"

The idea tempted me. After all, I had just reawakened my sexuality, and it clamored for attention. Yet, I also felt a little stubborn. I couldn't admit defeat yet.

"I want to pursue this," I said. "I'll just talk to the manager and find out if Harry copied a videotape. If not, I'll come home. If he did—"

"So what made Epstein's tape so special that he needed to make a copy during lunch? And what became of the one Hammond made? If he did."

"I don't know, but I intend to try to find out."

"Okay, you can stay if you like, but I think it's a waste of time." He paused. "By the way, I read your report about James Powell again. Then I went back and listened to the tape you made of your conversation. The guy's voice makes me think he's hiding something. That and the fact McDonald has a beef with him need more checking. I just wish I could find a connection to Hammond in there."

I had to admit that sounded like a promising lead, but I accepted Brad's willingness to let me stay. "I've got the manager's name. I'll try first thing in the morning. One way or another, I'll be home tomorrow." Before hanging up, he made me promise to call him as soon as I got back.

I detected a smile in his voice when he said, "By the way, I've got a new secretary coming Monday morning. I made sure this one lives on the peninsula."

"I hope she's not like the one who thought everything could be filed under
Miscellaneous
."

"The agency said she's mid-fifties and a widow."

"Great. Try to keep her long enough for me to get reacquainted with my friends."

Then I called Carl, but nobody answered in bungalow four at the Residence Inn. I left a message with the front desk, another on his voicemail at home, and still another at his office.

Thinking he might be out to dinner reminded me I should do something about my own, so I went to the coffee shop downstairs. When I returned, I hoped to see a flashing light on my phone, but I didn't. Nor did I worry. I felt confident I'd hear from Carl soon. I turned on the television set and watched an ancient movie. (Well, it was that or the British Prime Minister addressing Parliament.) But at every commercial break, my mind went back to Carl.

The movie ended, and still Carl hadn't called. Then I did begin to worry. Going home would be pointless, even if there were a flight at that time of night. Probably, I reasoned, Carl had gone to a movie after dinner. He'd call me in the morning.

Yet, the worry refused to go away. My intuition flashed warnings at me, but it hadn't been right so far that day, so I didn't expect it to get clairvoyant all of a sudden. Nevertheless, once again I didn't sleep very well.