Fugitive Nights (14 page)

Nelson gulped, and his baby blues rolled, and he said, “Chief, if I could get a lateral transfer to another department, say, Palm Springs P.D., would you be willin to recommend me favorably?”

The chief said, “I would tell them you're the finest police officer since Eliot Ness! Since Wyatt Earp, even! Do you think it's possible they might take you?”

“I think I'll have a good chance real soon, sir,” Nelson said. “Meantime, could I take about a week off from my compensatory overtime? Startin right now?”

“Are you sure a week of your comp time is enough?” the chief asked, hopefully. “They really want you at Palm Springs? Honest?”

By eleven o'clock that morning, Nelson Hareem was visiting various motels and hotels in and around Palm Springs, beginning with the letter A.

Clive Devon was apparently waiting for his wife to leave for Los Angeles before going out. Breda watched the electric gates roll open at 10:10 that morning as Rhonda Devon's silver Mercedes swung out and drove away between the walls of oleander, plaster and brick that lined both sides of the winding palm-studded street.

Five minutes later, Clive Devon pulled out in the Range Rover and drove to a grocery market five minutes from his house, the kind of market where shallots and saffron are available year round, not to mention truffles so expensive you could bribe a judge with three of them.

Breda waited outside the market for a few minutes then moseyed inside, got a shopping cart and strolled through the aisles. She picked up a few brand-name sundries she could have bought for half the price at her local Sav-On Drug Store. Then she stood in one of the two checkout lines where she could watch Clive Devon from behind.

His groceries were checked by a pretty young Latina with long black hair. Breda watched very closely, but nothing more than a few smiles and pleasantries were passed. Still, she
did
fit the description given by Lynn Cutter. Breda decided to send him in as soon as possible to have a look at this grocery checker.

Clive Devon, with the help of a box boy, loaded his grocery purchases into the Range Rover and headed back home. Breda parked in the usual place until he was inside, then she got out and took a walk down the curbless residential street, pausing behind a palm tree across from the Devon property. She watched as the maid helped her employer unload the groceries.

Rhonda Devon had said that the live-in maid's name was Blanca. Like all Mexican maids she had no family name until Breda asked for one. It was Blanca Soltero. She was middle-aged and spoke only passable English, according to Rhonda Devon. She had been in their employ for eight years. On Monday, her one day off, she was always driven by Clive Devon to her daughter's home in the barrio of Indio. Rhonda Devon said that Blanca Soltero was extremely loyal to Clive Devon, for whom she cleaned and cooked, and that Blanca might very well keep any female dalliance a secret. Clive Devon paid her in cash, and Rhonda Devon wondered if he might offer bonuses to keep her mouth shut.

When the sturdy woman lifted the last grocery bag from the Range Rover, she brushed back a wisp of gray hair and happened to glance out through the driveway gates, spotting Breda, who quickly pretended to be removing a pebble from her shoe. Then Blanca Soltero closed the door of the Range Rover and went back inside the house.

Breda returned to her Z, settled back and started thinking about Lynn Cutter. He was
not
going to be the police connection she needed in her business, not even a connection
to
a connection. She could get most civil information she needed from a computer data-base company, and she'd made friends at title companies and banks, so when she wanted a real estate title search or a credit check she could usually manage to get it without the subject being notified that it was being done.

But criminal background checks were a problem. Convictions are public record, but like any cop—and Breda still thought and worked like a cop-—she wanted a real rap sheet with all arrests listed, not just convictions. Rap sheets were available only to people actively working in law enforcement, but she'd already learned a trick or two as a P.I. When a subject was convicted of a crime and the probation department was doing a report to help the judge with a sentencing decision, the report and a rap sheet became public record for about ten days. That was one way to get it. But there were too many occasions when Breda wanted a rap sheet on someone who wasn't facing any sort of prosecution. At those times she felt impotent. She felt like a
civilian.
That's when she needed a discreet police contact.

Breda had promised herself never to ask one of her old pals at LAPD to run somebody's criminal record. Technically, it was a crime for her to solicit it, and the cop could get in trouble. What she'd been looking for was a local police officer, somebody she
hadn't
worked with for twenty years, somebody who was willing to take small risks for money. Somebody she needn't worry about, someone like Lynn Cutter, but more sane and sober.

While Breda was thinking of who she might develop as a proper law enforcement contact, a rusty old Plymouth turned into the Las Palmas area from Palm Canyon Drive.

Meanwhile, Lynn Cutter was wondering why, with all his years of experience at sitting in saloons, he hadn't been able to spot any of the typical bartender scams. The noonday crowd was big and noisy, lots of business people were coming in The Unicorn for lunch or a drink in lieu of lunch. It was one of those “California cuisine” minimalist restaurants where you'd be served by young people who'd say, “We got real
rad
black squid risotto today!” There were plenty of gawking tourists looking for Palm Springs celebrities who weren't there.

The bartenders weren't pouring from any suspicious bottles, not that Lynn was able to spot. The oldest bartender trick was the one where they'd bring their
own
bottle of hooch and pour from that one until it was empty, keeping all of the proceeds from that bottle for themselves.

Neither bartender had brought in a suspicious thermos that could be full of booze, a variation of the same gag. Both were working furiously to serve customers, as well as the waitresses at the service bar, and neither was making any funny moves such as dime-stacking, one for every drink they didn't ring up in the register. A stack of dimes or paper clips was a bartender's abacus, so they'd know how much they could safely pocket at the end of the shift.
One for the boss. One for me. Two for the boss …

Lynn didn't see any of that, but what he did see was the unveiled hatred that all the employees had for the restaurant proprietor, a smarmy guy in a double-breasted Ralph Lauren, named Mr. Riegel, who came from Las Vegas and wasn't the kind of guy that cried at bar mitzvahs.

Lynn heard Mr. Riegel's voice booming from the kitchen, screaming at a Mexican dishwasher. He'd seen Mr. Riegel walk behind the bar to count and examine the bottles, and check the register when a round of drinks was rung up by the older bartender, a guy with a bad henna job and nicotine-stained teeth, who flashed a malevolent grin whenever the boss turned his back.

I wouldn't want
that
bartender as an enemy, Lynn thought, then he said to the younger bartender, “Gimme another, will ya? This time not from the well. I can't drink too much prepubescent Scotch.”

“What's that?” the bartender asked.

“Under twelve years old,” Lynn answered, and the bartender shrugged and poured one that cost an extra six bits, but had pubic hair.

There was only one bit of irregular behavior going on that Lynn had spotted. The bartender with the henna rinse made trips to an alcove that was between the service bar and the kitchen. During the forty-five minutes that Lynn had sat there the guy had made three trips. But there was absolutely no way he could be carrying a container of his own liquor from the alcove to the bar, booze that he could pour instead of the house liquor. The guy would simply go to the alcove, disappear from sight for a minute, then he'd head back to the bar and wash glasses.

At last Lynn got up, pretending to be uncertain where the men's room was. He walked into the alcove “by mistake,” discovering that it was a place for waitresses to take a quick break. There were folding chairs, a tiny table, an ashtray and nothing more. Lynn decided that the bartender was making those trips so he could do a few lines of blow, which he probably kept stashed in his sock.

When he got back to the barstool, Breda was sitting there ordering a Perrier, allowing Mr. Riegel to see that she was on duty.

Lynn said loudly, “Hi! What're you doing here today? Business slow?”

Breda said, “Yeah, we only moved a few units. Two Hondas and a Mazda. How about you?”

When both bartenders were at the service bar, Breda said to Lynn,
sotto voce
, “Baby longhair showed up at Devon's house in the old Plymouth.”

“Yeah? What happened?”

“She's been there over an hour. They're swimming. I prowled along the wall and I could hear them splashing and barking in the pool.”

“They bark?”

She smirked and said, “She brought her dog. And I'm positive the maid is in on the whole affair. I could hear her yelling stuff in Spanish to the girl.”

“Now what?”

“We still haven't answered Mrs. Devon's big question. Why's he doing business with a sperm bank?”

“Simple,” Lynn said. “He's made a deal with some white Anglo-Saxon surrogate, and when his WASP baby's born he's gonna kiss off Rhonda Devon and live happily ever after with his little Mexican hardbelly. She's gonna be an instant mommy. Then, Daddy, Mommy, Daddy's pink WASP baby and Mommy's big brown dog are all gonna live happily ever after.”

“That doesn't sound right.”

“Okay, let's do it this way. His little pepper pot with the long black hair is gonna
be
the carrier of his baby, but … naw, that doesn't work. He wouldn't need a storage locker. My first scenario's the right one. He wants her and a WASP baby. He's just gotta find the right WASP carrier.”

She handed him a piece of notebook paper. “Can you make a call and have somebody at the P.D. run her license number real quick?”

“They sometimes do audit tracks on clerks that run license numbers. Everyone has an operator code so they can find out who ran it.”

“Come on, you must have somebody that owes you a favor. We need the information right now and I don't want her or Clive Devon to find out we're running her license number.”

He hesitated, but got up to go to the public phone. Before leaving he whispered, “I'm positive neither bartender's so much as pocketed a wrong tip. Your client may be giving these bartenders a bum rap.”

“He says he's sure he's being jobbed,” Breda said.

“Well, your client's not exactly a blithe spirit loved by all. He gets off on browbeating all these young kids named Heather and Chad. Look at his eyes. They're shiftier'n Iran.”

“Run the number,” Breda said. “I'll take Mr. Riegel outside and have a chat.”

Breda found her client directing traffic in the foyer. She caught his eye and motioned toward the door. When he met her outside Breda said to him, “I've had a man at the bar for an hour. There's nothing going on.”

A hurried conversation turned into an ultimatum from Mr. Riegel. He wanted somebody watching the bartenders that evening. He was having a private party in the banquet room, and was expecting a very large group from the convention center plus the regular in-season crowd.

“I'll try to be here for a few hours, Mister Riegel,” Breda assured him.

“I want you or one of your people here from seven till eleven,” he said, “or you're fired.”

It was only after thinking of Lizzy's tuition, books and board that Breda showed him her pimp-killer smile and said, “Sure, Mister Riegel. I'll have somebody here all evening.”

She caught up with Lynn before he'd returned from making the call, took him to the foyer and said, “You're right, he's slime. Can you come back here this evening for a couple hours?”

“Tell him to shove it.”

“I
need
this sleazy job!” she said. “I'm trying to get some nice clean insurance frauds to work on, but right now I need this client.”

“It gets expensive sitting at a bar,” he said.

“I'll pay for the drinks.”

“Do they go against my fee?”

“No,” she sighed. “You'll actually get paid to slosh down the booze.”

“I think I can handle that.” Then he looked at the notepaper and said, “The car's registered to Blanca Soltero. Lives in Indio.”

“That's Clive Devon's maid,” Breda said. “The girl must be her daughter. Shit!”

“He might have something going with the maid's daughter.”

“No, that doesn't work,” Breda said. “Not with the sperm bank business.”

“Look, he lied to his wife about meeting the girl, didn't he? There's something happening between them.”

“No wonder nobody wants these crappy domestic cases,” Breda said. “Meet me at my office in thirty minutes. I'm gonna see if the Plymouth's still at the Devon house.”

Twenty minutes later, Breda was on foot again, peeking over the wall at Clive Devon's pool. She had to retreat to her car when the dog started barking. The girl and her car were gone, but she'd have to return for her dog, Breda surmised.

When she got back to her office she was surprised to see someone in the waiting room with Lynn Cutter, who was slumped in a chair, looking gloomier than usual.

Lynn opened one eye and said to her, “Help's arrived, and he's very helpful. Actually, he's the kind a cop that'd do a Heimlich maneuver on your pet, even if the pet was a parakeet. He always means well, this young man.”

“Hi, Miss Burrows!” Nelson Hareem said, sticking out his hand and grinning like Bugs Bunny. “I think we're getting a little closer to the drug smuggler!”