Gravedigger (14 page)

“Flames like that?” Cecil said. “No way I could have missed it.”

The hospital room was sunny. The wall he faced had cheerful paper on it. He had a separated shoulder, some broken ribs, and assorted cuts, scrapes, and bruises. He was groggy from drugs, so he couldn’t make out the pattern of the wallpaper. Cecil’s face was a blur too, but a welcome blur. The drugs had dried Dave’s mouth and made it taste bad. His face was stiff, but he tried for a smile.

“It’s all that Camp Fire Girl training,” he said.

“Mine,” Cecil said, “or yours? You hid pretty good too. No bears going to get you in that mess of brush.”

“It was jump or be barbecued,” Dave said.

“I didn’t know,” Cecil said. “Climbed down as far as I could. Muddy, sliding on my ass. No use to it. I couldn’t get close. It was too hot. All I could do was stand there and cry and throw up.”

“You found a phone. You got help,” Dave said.

“Fire department, ambulance,” Cecil said. “It was them found you. Then it was laugh and cry. I was on the ground, rolling around, howling. They had to give me a shot to get me sane. But I’m still half crazy. Shut my eyes to try to sleep, there it is down there in the dark and the wet and the trees, burning up, and you’re in there.”

“I’m not.” Dave reached for his hand. Pain stabbed his shoulder, sharp even through the thick numbness of the drugs. Cecil’s hand closed over his on the bed. Dave said, “As for the car, I was trying to figure a way to get rid of it without chagrin. So that’s one problem solved.”

Amanda said, “Shall I order the brown Jaguar?”

He turned in the direction of her voice. He hadn’t known she was here. He hadn’t known much, for how long he wasn’t sure, maybe two days, maybe three. She was a trim little silhouette against a bright window. The tall silhouette beside her was Miles Edwards. Edwards didn’t say anything. Amanda said, “Dave, how did it happen? You’re a good driver.”

“Somebody else was better,” Dave said. “And meaner. Ran me off the road.”

“Oh, shit,” Cecil said. “Highway patrol says it was an accident. Bad curve, one of the worst in that canyon. Specially when it’s wet. Talked to me about fresh skid marks, two sets. Somebody trying to pass, they said. And did I know what you were doing there? I didn’t say, because I wanted to talk to you first.” His voice began to fade. “It was him, wasn’t it? Westover? The Rolls?”

Dave shook his head against the pillows and remembered another thing that was wrong with him—concussion. His head hurt, and the movement made him feel sick at his stomach. “The Rolls was up ahead.” His own voice sounded faint and far away. “It was a junk car.”

“Don’t go to sleep,” Cecil said. “Who was driving?”

“Couldn’t see,” Dave said, and went to sleep.

“Sometimes you don’t act quite bright,” Salazar said. He sat in the neat hospital armchair and watched Dave eat bland food from a steel tray. His nose was red and peeling around the nostrils but his color was good and his eyes were clear. “We try to teach the public to give the man with the gun the money and keep your life. It’s only twenty-five thousand dollars, Dave. Is Banner Life Insurance going broke if it has to pay for once? Would that be worth dying for? What is Banner Life Insurance—mother, home, and apple pie?”

“It wasn’t me he was trying to kill,” Dave said.

“You were the one who was there,” Salazar said.

“Unhappily,” Dave said. “But it doesn’t make sense. I’m the man who can get him that money he’s so crazy to lay his hands on. Anyway, he’d gone into hiding days before I showed up.” He finished the tasteless vanilla pudding and swung the table away that held the tray. “No, he’s scared of somebody else. Scared to death.”

“Who’s helping him?” Salazar said. “The son?”

“No.” Dave explained about Lyle. “There’s a skinny blond girl in the picture. Maybe. I can’t figure it. A kid in a gas station up the canyon says she drove in, in Westover’s Rolls. Sickly-looking, dirty old clothes. But it doesn’t add up. Must have been the wrong Rolls.”

“Why didn’t Westover pick up some hippie to while away the lonely hours?” Salazar said.

“If he did, it wouldn’t be a girl,” Dave said. “His ex-wife told me that. Obliquely. It didn’t register until later. Anyway, no frail little girl could handle that ton of scrap metal the way it was handled. It would take a big, strong man.” Suddenly he felt like smiling and he smiled. “Can I have a cigarette, please?”

“What’s funny?” Salazar rose and held out his pack. The cigarettes were short and brown. He lit Dave’s and his own. He eyed Dave worriedly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I think I know the answer.” He told Salazar all about Gaillard’s sudden disappearance.

“But it wasn’t a panel truck that hit you.”

“Right. And when I tried searching the back roads of that canyon for Westover’s Rolls by daylight, I didn’t see any panel truck. But I couldn’t cover the whole canyon. Not alone. It’s too big. And a lot of it is so overgrown, you can’t see anything from the road. It would take a house-to-house search.”

“I can’t field that,” Salazar said. “What reason would I give?”

“Two men missing, linked to each other by a twenty-thousand-dollar loan and an old friendship. Say, thank you for finding Howie O’Rourke. That was neat and quick.”

“He’s the kind who never stays out of prison long. Very bright guy. Don’t ask me how he can be so stupid.”

Dave said, “And a third man, linked to the first—bumped off the road and nearly killed.”

“Half wilderness up there,” Salazar said, “more than half. A lot of roads not even on the map. It’ll be different when the board of supervisors stops squabbling about who pocketed the most payoffs from the land developers and they get their ass in gear and wangle the coastal commission into issuing waivers and permits and the rest of that shit. Civilization up there in no time. Streetlights, sewers. Wish I owned a piece of it, about ten acres. I’d turn in my badge so fast.”

“They’re distinctive cars,” Dave said, “both of them. Easy to spot. But not by just one man alone.”

“Look,” Salazar said, “why wasn’t it like the CHP said—slippery road, bad turn? An accident. You didn’t know the car, didn’t see the driver.”

“It was no accident,” Dave said. “It was on purpose. I know. I was there. Don’t tell me it was an accident.”

“All right, all right.” Salazar cringed in the chair, hands up, hamming fear. “It was on purpose.” He sobered. “Let me tell you about the latest wrinkle, okay? Kids with nothing to do, dropping chunks of cement on cars off freeway bridges? Driving around at night shooting down strangers on the streets? Pouring gasoline over sleeping skid-row bums and setting them on fire? For laughs, Dave, for the hell of it. We see it all the time, now. Used to be, they’d settle for showing their bare ass out the window of a car, or throwing eggs. No more. They see what happened to you on TV all the time—a guy bumps another guy off the road, and the car rolls down the slope and bursts into flame. It’s a movie, right? They don’t know the difference.”

“Charming,” Dave said. “But I don’t believe in coincidences. Why wasn’t it Gaillard?”

“He’d seen you, remember?” Salazar said. “He knew you were the nice insurance man, maybe with a check in your pocket that would get him back those life savings of his that Howie blew on the horses.”

“It was too dark for him to see my face,” Dave said. “And he didn’t know my car. He was protecting Westover, covering his rear.”

“Only you don’t know from what,” Salazar said.

“Find him and ask him,” Dave said. “What do I have to do—get killed before you move?”

“The department might buy that.” Salazar sighed, slapped his knees, got to his feet. His topcoat lay over the foot of the bed. He picked it up. “But I wouldn’t count on it.” He gave a regretful smile. “Get well, all right?” He flapped into the coat and pulled open the door to the hallway. “Keep out of trouble,” he said, and left.

Cheeks rosy from the cold, Max Romano waddled in. He held an attaché case flat out in front of him. Fat beringed finger to his lips, acting conspiratorial and scared, he laid the case on Dave’s bed and snapped the catches and opened the lid. The lining of the case was aluminum foil. Out of the case rose steam and wonderful smells. “Lasagna,” Max whispered. “I made it myself, the way you always liked it back in the old days.” He meant when the restaurant was in West L.A., with stained-glass windows and big, steel-doored pizza ovens in view of the tables, and the menu was simpler, like the rest of life.

“Sweet sausage?” Dave said.

“I didn’t forget.” From his bulky overcoat Max produced forks, napkins, a bottle of wine, even wineglasses. Plates came from under the lasagna. Max chuckled, setting the swivel table.

Amanda peered in, wide-eyed. She had on a Hans Brinker cap and jacket and kneepants, and a bulky muffler so long it nearly dragged on the floor. “Ready?” she whispered, took a last glance up and down the hallway, and slipped into the room. “Doesn’t it smell lovely?”

Max had time for only a token forkful of lasagna—it made him hum, roll his eyes, and show his dimples—then was on his way back to the restaurant. But Amanda stayed to help Dave polish off the food. It was rich, and he hoped it wouldn’t make him sick, but it tasted too good for him to worry about that. The wine made him pleasantly drunk. The room was softly lamplit. Cecil had left a big, battery-powered, so-called portable radio that sat on the floor in a corner and played quietly. Piano music. Schubert? When the last morsel of food was gone and the wine bottle was empty, Amanda laid bottle and plates, forks and napkins and glasses in the attaché case, and snapped the case shut.

“I’m going to rattle on my way out,” she said.

“Don’t hurry off,” he said.

She looked at her watch. “I’ve got a date—sorry.”

“Give me a cigarette,” he said. “Sit down, and listen to me. It’s important.”

She frowned, but she got him a cigarette from a pocket of her Rodeo Drive boutique Dutchboy jacket. She lit the cigarette for him, handed it to him. “You always have cigarettes,” she said. “Are you trying to quit?”

“Not here, I don’t have them. Maybe Cecil is trying to get me to quit. I ask him to bring me cigarettes. He brings me everything else I ask for. Not cigarettes. Please. Sit down. I’m not going to like this, you’re not going to like it, but I’ll make it quick.”

“Won’t like what?” She sat on the edge of the chair. “You know I hate being late.”

“Who’s the date with?” Dave said. “Miles, right?”

“Yes, of course.” She was impatient. “Dave, what is this?”

“It’s unpleasant news about Miles,” Dave said, and told her. She tried to interrupt, but he talked through her interruptions. He finished, “If you’d like to see the pictures, they’re in the top drawer of my desk. Help yourself. In fact, I think it would be nice if you were the one to hand them back to him.”

“Oh, stop.” She stood up. “There are no pictures, and you know it. You made them up, like you made up the rest of it. What in the world is the matter with you? Did you think I don’t know Miles? Did you think I’d believe just any wild lies you told me about him? Why?” She gasped a little, shocked laugh. “Good God! You’re jealous, aren’t you? That’s what it is. Jealousy. You want me all to yourself, don’t you? Or is it him you want?”

“You don’t want to be saying these things,” Dave said. “I’m sorry I upset you. It was clumsy, but I couldn’t figure out a kinder way to handle it.”

She was rigid, trembling with anger. “I’ve heard about malicious old aunties,” she said, “but I never thought you could be like that. Not you, Dave, not you.” And she burst into tears and ran from the room. She forgot the attaché case of dirty dishes. He sat waiting a few minutes for her to come back and get it. She didn’t come back.

S
HE WAS RIGHT. THERE
were no pictures. Not anymore. Edwards had come back and taken the envelope away. Dave shut the desk drawer. He felt bad about it, but not beaten. She had good sense. When she got over her hurt, she would begin to use her brains. And they were better brains than Edwards possessed. He smiled. To smile was easier here, at home again in Horseshoe Canyon, clothed, walking around. The doctor had asked him not to leave the hospital, but he had left anyway, limping, arm in a sling, rib cage tightly bandaged, bruises colorful and tender, cuts and scrapes not yet healed. Pills of several kinds stood in little amber plastic containers on a bathroom shelf. What he needed two hands for, Cecil could help with—Cecil napping right now up in the loft. Dave sat down, picked up the phone, and punched Lovejoy’s number at Banner Insurance.

“You came highly recommended,” Lovejoy said, “but we didn’t have in mind for you to get into it so sincerely as to get yourself killed.” Dave could picture him, a sleek, wellfed black, with an easy chuckle and sad, solemn eyes. I was by to see you, but you weren’t conscious.”

“Thank you for the flowers,” Dave said.

“We’ll cover your medical bills, the hospital.”

“I appreciate that,” Dave said. “Do something else for me, will you?”

“Any way I can help,” Lovejoy said.

“Write Westover a letter, please. Make it read as if Banner is all cocked to pay. Say your claims investigator just needs the answers to a few simple, routine questions, so he can authorize payment of the claim. We’ll have set up a meeting so he can sign the forms. Include my phone number and address, and spell my name right.”

“He tried to kill you,” Lovejoy objected.

“He won’t, when he knows what I want,” Dave said. “I should have thought of the letter as soon as I found out he was picking up his mail. I wasted time.”

“You really think he’ll come out to meet you? After what happened?”

“He doesn’t drive all the way down out of that canyon to his mailbox every night to collect valentines. He wants that money. Don’t ask me why. It’s only a fraction of what he needs. But he wants it. Desperately.”

“We could pay it,” Lovejoy said doubtfully. “We always could have. Fifty-fifty chance the girl is dead, I suppose. I just hate not knowing, is all.”

Dave told him about his talk with Lucky at Perez.

“Is a month in the ground enough for a body to rot that badly?” Lovejoy said. “In the desert?”