Thursday's Child (22 page)

It was a long moment before Beau spoke again, and when he did, his voice was so soft that it was hard to hear what he said. “In case something goes wrong, of course.”

Robert crushed the empty beer can. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Beau was staring at the silent TV screen. “Well, I can't just hang around here, wondering what's going on. That would be worse.”

After thinking about it, Robert nodded.

He stood. “I need to pick up some cash, too,” he said. “Things are moving too damned fast and I don't want to get caught short.”

Beau looked at him. “Where are we going to get money?”

Robert grinned. “Hey, I've got bread stashed in banks all over this damned town. A man has to be ready for anything.”

Beau just nodded.

17

1

He told Spock to answer the phone.

But the dog only looked at him, seemingly heartbroken because he couldn't do what his master asked him to do. Gar told him that was okay and got up to take the call himself. “Sinclair,” he said.

“Is this the detective in the newspaper? The one looking for the missing kid?”

“Yes,” he said.

The woman didn't say anything.

“Can you tell me something about Beau Epstein?” Gar asked quietly.

“He … he …” There was a sharp intake of breath. “No,” she said then. “I better not. I think he might even kill me.” She hung up.

Gar listened to the dial tone for several moments, then replaced the receiver. He walked into the bedroom.

Mickey, wearing a T-shirt and some shorts, was exercising in the middle of the room. Gar sat on the bed and watched her count sit-ups. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her face as she smiled fleetingly at him.

“Some woman just called. She knows something about Beau, but she's too scared to tell me.”

“Scared?” Mickey said breathlessly. “Of what?”

“Someone who might kill her if she speaks up,” Gar said glumly.

“Maybe she'll call back.” Mickey stopped moving and looked at him.

“Maybe. Sweat is very sexy, do you know?”

She laughed. “Is that a proposition?”

He thought about jumping into bed with Mickey and putting all this other crap aside, at least for a few minutes. One fast roll in the hay; what could it hurt? But then, unfortunately, he thought of Beau Epstein and the mounting pile of bodies. He sighed. “Later?” he said hopefully.

Mickey nodded. “I have to run anyway. There's a rumor that Tom Cruise might show up at this benefit tonight.”

Gar stood, held out a hand, and pulled Mickey to her feet. He leaned close and tasted the sweat on her face. “Maybe we need a vacation,” he said.

“Sure. Have your girl call my girl and we'll coordinate schedules.”

He grinned, but it wasn't all that funny.

Gar deliberately avoided going anywhere near Wally Dixon's office on his late-evening visit to headquarters. Instead, he headed directly for the records department. Luck was with him for a change, because Della Horn was on duty. Della was a tall, attractive woman, a long-time acquaintance with whom he had managed to stay friendly despite the fact that her hopes for a much closer relationship had been destroyed when he moved in with Mickey.

She greeted him with her usual smile and a slightly wary attitude. The wariness was justified, because every time he came around these days, it was for her help. Both of them knew damned well that some of the information she slipped him was not, strictly speaking, supposed to be his.

On some days, Gar felt a little guilty about the way he used her. But not this time. Tonight, he had no qualms about exploiting her or anybody else, because he was desperate. Time, he felt, was running out for Beau.

“I'd like to see a couple of files,” he said. “One a fence named Camden Hunt and another a hooker named Marnie Dowd. Both recently deceased.”

“This have something to do with a missing kid?” Della asked. Childless, divorced, she took a deep interest in the children he looked for. Maybe that was why she helped him, for the kids, and not because she secretly had the hots for him. Gar felt a little disappointed when that thought came to him. “Yes,” he said. “And this is a special case. The boy is in real trouble. It could be the fatal kind of trouble, unless I can find him damned fast.”

“And if you see the files on Hunt and Dowd, it will help?”

“Couldn't hurt,” he said with shrug.

He hadn't taken more than two sips of coffee when she returned with the files. “That was fast.”

“Well, Lieutenant Dixon had them out and I hadn't put them away yet.”

If there was anything to be found, it was a safe bet that Wally would already have found it. But Gar decided to look anyway, for two reasons. First, there was no guarantee that Wally would be willing to share what he knew with a private snooper, especially since the name of Saul Epstein was now hovering over the police case. When the big money came into it, the cops could get pretty close-mouthed, even with a best friend.

Second, since his main motivation was different from Wally's—the cops were mainly interested in finding a mob hitman and he wanted the boy—it was possible that a fact that meant nothing to Wally might be just the one he needed to bring the picture into focus.

So he sat down and started to read through the files.

It was so insignificant that he almost missed it. And maybe it didn't mean a damned thing. But Gar decided to believe that it did.

“Find something?” Della asked.

“Maybe. At one point in his illustrious career, Hunt was caught buying hot jewelry from a second-rate thief named Danny Boyd.”

“So?”

“So, Marnie Dowd lived with that same second-rate thief.”

“And what does that mean?”

“I don't know,” Gar said truthfully. “But it's a link between the two of them. It might be what got them both killed.” He handed the files back to Della. “Maybe I should drop in on my old buddy Wally.”

“He'll be thrilled,” Della said.

Gar smiled and thanked her. She accepted his gratitude stoically.

Wally's office was lit only by a small lamp on the desk. He was leaning back in the chair, his eyes closed. Gar came in quietly and dropped into the visitor's chair. “No, thanks,” Wally said without opening his eyes. “I don't want to buy any.”

“Any what?”

“Whatever it is you're selling.”

“Maybe I'm here to give you something.”

“Right.” Wally opened his eyes and straightened in the chair. “You'll forgive me if I'm skeptical.”

“You're a cop,” Gar said with a shrug. “That's a job requirement.”

Wally nodded. “You haven't found the Epstein kid yet, I guess.”

“No. Have you come up with anything?”

“Nada.”

They sat in silence briefly.

“What can you tell me about a guy named Danny Boyd? Jewel thief, at one point in his life anyway.”

“Off the top of my head, I can't tell you a damned thing, because I never heard of him. Although the name sounds vaguely familiar,” he admitted after a moment.

“He used to live with Marnie Dowd.”

“Oh, yeah.” Wally rubbed his eyes. “I haven't been home for fifteen hours,” he said.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I don't really know. There's nothing so extraordinary going on. Maybe it's just easier to stay here.”

Gar decided not to pursue that at the moment. “Can you find out about Boyd for me?”

“Why don't you just get Della to pull it for you? Doesn't she do all your research for you?”

Gar grimaced. “Well, she's already done her quota for one night. Besides, she wants my body and I'm afraid to get too indebted to her.”

“Uh-huh.” Wally reached for his phone.

While waiting for the information to come back, they talked about baseball and the weather—carefully avoiding the topics of Beau Epstein or why Wally didn't want to go home.

When the phone buzzed, Wally picked it up and listened for several minutes, then grunted thanks to whomever was on the other end, and hung up. “Boyd just got out of San Quentin on parole,” he said. He scribbled a name on a slip of paper. “This is his PO.”

Gar took the paper.

“What's the connection between Boyd and your missing kid?” Wally asked.

“I'm not sure. Probably there isn't one, but …” He shrugged.

“Keep in touch,” Wally said.

Gar left the office. He turned around and looked back through the glass. Wally was leaning back again, his eyes closed. There was trouble going on in his friend's life and Gar wanted to help.

But it was late, he was tired, and his leg was throbbing. There wasn't anything he could do for Wally right now—or with the name of Danny Boyd's parole officer—so he went home.

To find that his woman was still out chasing around after Tom Cruise.

2

Robert drove the car around to the back of the deserted warehouse and parked. He glanced at his watch and then at Beau, who had been uncharacteristically quiet all evening. “You better stay here,” he said. “Even the way you look now, there's no sense taking chances, right?”

“Okay,” Beau said.

Robert squeezed his shoulder. “Hey, don't worry. I'm not going to whack this guy.”

“Whatever you say,” Beau mumbled.

“Look at me.”

After a moment, Beau glanced up at him. “Yeah?”

“I'm telling you the truth, Tonto. This isn't like it was with Hunt. Or the hooker. The guy I'm seeing here is too smart to pull a knife on me and too well-connected for me to off him without a very good reason. We're meeting here by mutual agreement. Mostly because he owes me and wants to clear up the debt. You understand all that?”

“Sure, Robbie,” Beau said more cheerfully.

Robert nodded. “Good. You lock the door after me and sit tight. This shouldn't take long.”

He got out of the car, waited to hear the lock click into place, and then headed for the side door of the warehouse. Rocco—that was actually his name—was supposed to be waiting right inside.

And he was.

Shiny gray suit, greasy hair and all. “Hey, Bob, it's been a long time.”

“I've been busy.” He didn't like Rocco, who seemed to try his damnedest to come off like a character from a road-show production of
The Godfather
. Or maybe
Guys and Dolls
. But even an idiot like him could have his uses. Rocco remembered the time Robert had whacked the guy who had been hired to whack
him
. It was all tied up in mob politics, which Robert always did his best to avoid.

Now, finally, was the time to collect on the debt.

“So? I understand you can tell me where Danny Boyd is.”

Rocco was smoking a fat black cigar. “Well, not right now.”

Robert frowned. “What the fuck am I doing here then?”

Rocco waved off the words. “Hey, chill out, buddy. All I meant was I don't know where Boyd is right this minute. But I know where he'll be tomorrow night about now.”

“Where?”

“Right here. There's a high-stakes poker game going on. Boyd is trying to raise a bankroll.”

Robert nodded. “Okay.”

“Anything you do to Boyd is okay with me—and with Mr. Carson. Just don't get anybody else at the game mixed up in it.”

“I won't. Thanks, Rocco.”

“This clears it between us?”

“It's clear.”

Rocco nodded. “Okay. Then this next thing is a freebie.”

Robert, who already had the door open, paused. “What next thing?”

“Watch your ass. There are some people who aren't real happy with you. I hear talk that maybe they're out to have you taken care of.”

Robert stared at him for several seconds. Then he nodded. “Thanks, Rocco.”

All the way back to the car, he felt a faint prickling at the back of his neck, as if somebody were watching each and every step he took. When he got to the car, he tapped impatiently on the window and as soon as the lock clicked open, Robert slid in behind the wheel.

“How'd it go?” Beau asked.

“Fine,” he replied shortly. “Boyd will be here tomorrow night. I can kill him then.”

Beau looked at him, but didn't say anything.

Robert was too tense to stay inside, so they went back to the beach, to the same spot as the other night. The empty champagne bottles were gone, and this time they were drinking root beer. Robert wanted to keep his mind fully operating.

He was still thinking about what Rocco had told him. Who the hell would put a contract out on
him?
It didn't make sense; it had to be a mistake, that was all, and as soon as this business with Boyd was over, he'd clear it up. He could handle it.

Now he had to concentrate on Boyd.

Beau was sitting cross-legged next to him, working intently on a sand sculpture. Robert gazed at him, still not used to the way he looked now. Beau patted the damp sand thoughtfully. “We could go to Santa María,” he said.

Robert leaned back against a boulder. “What would we do there?”

“Live in my house. It
is
my house now, you know. I used to make belts and wallets to sell at market. I could do that again.”

“And what about me?”

Beau shrugged, concentrating on the sculpture. “You could do whatever you wanted.”

Robert shook his head. “I don't think so,” he said. “I think I'd rather stay in this country.”

“Okay,” Beau said. “We'll stay here.” He pulled back from his handiwork. “How's that?”

“Looks terrific to me. Maybe you should be an architect or something.”

“Maybe. I don't know.” The thought of the future seemed to depress him.

And it made Robert suddenly very tired. “Let's go home, Tonto,” he said.