Who Murdered Garson Talmadge (9 page)

“She was headed west,” I said, “into the setting sun. That’s why you had to squint.”

I didn’t say anything in front of Clarice, but the FBI Field Office for the greater Los Angeles area was on Wilshire not too far west from where Susan had turned the corner. What that meant, I had no idea. Odds were it meant absolutely nothing. There were many other stores and offices in that same direction.

I switched the subject again. “Garson’s ex-wife, is she French? The kids appear to have some Middle Eastern in them. What can you tell me about the mother?”

“Tally didn’t say a lot. I mean, like I said before, he told me he had a French ex-wife, not an Arab wife. That he paid her off and got his divorce.”

“Was he married before her?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Were Susan and Charles her children? The French wife’s,” Brad said to clarify his question.

“I’ve been to France,” I said, “a few times. There are a lot of Middle Easterners in France. She could be a French citizen of Middle Eastern descent.”

“That would cover the ethnicity,” Brad said, “but she could have been given the French name, Chantal, despite her Iraqi origin.”

“Susan didn’t recall her mother’s name,” I said for Clarice’s benefit, “but she did say Garson had told her that her mother was Iraqi.” I paused to engage her eyes. “How come Garson had a typewriter? I mean, hardly anybody has one these days, particularly if they also have a computer.”

“He watched some movie where they mined a guy’s computer to find even the stuff he had deleted. After that Tally went out and bought a used typewriter.”

“When did he use it?” Brad asked.

“For personal correspondence, at least that’s what he always said. I can’t be certain. He kept that stuff to himself.”

Before we left, Brad brought up the media conjecture about Clarice having been at my place the night Garson had been killed. “We may have to think about changing detectives.” He looked at me, “You understand, Matt?”

I nodded. I did. But Clarice would have none of it.

“No way,” she said. “No change. That’s final. Matt knows how to investigate homicides. He knew Tally, and he knows me. It’d be a mess bringing a new one up to date, and I would never trust anyone else like I do Matt.”

“For now,” Brad said, “fine. But we may need to visit this again.”

* * *

When we were back in Brad’s car, he said, “It’s time for you to rack up some frequent flyer miles.”

“First,” I said, “I’ll go see Susan. I’ve got Clarice’s dog, Asta. Susan likes Asta, so I’ll drop the mutt off with her. Maybe I can learn something more before I leave for France. Garson and the kids were with that ex-wife until they came to America. Susan ought to be able to clear up the confusion between her having said that her mother was an Iraqi, and also saying that her father’s ex was a woman named Chantal. However, none of this establishes these two women are not one and the same, an Iraqi woman with a French name.”

“I don’t think so,” Brad said. “Garson and his kids were in France long enough that if his ex and the kid’s Iraqi mother was the same woman, Susan would have said her mother’s name was Chantal, not some Iraqi name she couldn’t recall.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “But let’s hear what Susan has to say about that and then try for corroboration in France.”

Chapter 11

I called Susan Talmadge who eagerly agreed to take custody of Asta for a few days. My flight left at ten on Tuesday morning, so at seven Monday night I dropped Asta off at Susan’s upstairs condo near Cherry Beach.

“It’s nice to see you again, Matt Kile,” Susan said as soon as she opened the door. She took the lucky dog into her arms. I was envious, but I turned and went back down to the car to get the dog’s dish and sleeping pillow, a nearly full bag of dry food and a box of doggie treats. The whole thing made me feel domestic.

When I came back up the stairs, Asta had her nose against the screen, her excited feet tap dancing on the tile insert just inside the door, her tail keeping time with a dance tune only Asta heard. After I stepped inside, the pooch dashed down the hall to check out her new digs. Susan was in the kitchen, from where I heard a high-speed light motor. A moment later the dog passed through the living room heading toward the kitchen likely to search out the floor spot where she expected her dog dish would soon be located.

I sat down on the long couch just as Susan came in carrying a pitcher of blended Margaritas. That explained the whirling sound I had heard. In her other hand she held two glasses. She put all that on the coffee table next to a clear glass plate crowded with crackers and slices of cheese, precut to fit the crackers.

“I haven’t had a chance yet to pick up any Irish, I hope these margaritas will substitute?”

“I love margaritas, thank you.”

“You look tired, have you eaten anything?” she asked.

“I scrambled two eggs this morning, nuked some bacon and washed it down with some Irish.”

“Would you like something more? I could light the BBQ and make us a burger?”

After some more back and forth about food and my inappropriate choice of Irish as a morning juice, I convinced her margaritas and cheese and crackers would be enough. I hadn’t been expecting even that.

She had not put on her yellow bikini, but looked just as delicious in an orange halter top with a plunging rounded neckline, perfectly complemented by the rich tan of her smooth skin. Below the top was a pair of beige linen shorts, gathered in the front by a drawstring bow. Gold sandals gripped her feet that had nails painted to match her orange top.

“Is this the treatment your father trained you to give his customers?”

“No, Matt, this is a woman showing interest in a man. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Not for a minute. I’m flattered.”

“Good. You said you’d have a few questions when you dropped off Asta.”

“Susan, can I ask you something right off? Actually, I have to. It’s part of my investigation.”

“Let’s have it.”

“You told me that your mother was Iraqi, but that you didn’t recall her name.”

“That’s right.”

Asta, having finished checking out the house, came over to Susan and licked the orange polish on her toes. Susan smiled and wiggled her foot, but didn’t shoo Asta away.

I fought off being jealous of Asta, and asked, “You and your brother lived in France for several years with your dad and his French wife, Chantal?”

“Yes. I liked Chantal. She was fun, but Papa divorced her and we came to America. I haven’t seen or heard from Chantal since. She took the divorce hard.”

“Then Chantal is not your mother?”

“Oh, no. But we thought of her like she was our mother until Papa told us we were going to America, and we were never again to speak of Chantal. Our real mother was Iraqi. We never knew anything about her until I was about ten. Papa told us he had been close to our mother during his business trips to Iraq. That he loved her, even though at the time he was married to Chantal.”

“What happened to your birth mother? Do you know?”

“She died giving us birth. You know, medical care for childbirth is not so good there. Papa said he told Chantal about all of that and she accepted us as her children, even though we were not.”

“What else do you remember about your mother or your dad’s trips to Baghdad?”

“I only vaguely remember Papa’s trips to Iraq. Actually, I’m not sure whether I remember them or just that I’ve always known he made them, so I think I remember. He would just leave. Be gone. Maybe Chantal knew to where, but all we knew was Papa was gone on business. As for our mother, you now know all I know.”

Susan refilled our margarita glasses. “Charlie told me you stopped by the other day.”

I decided to keep my answer short. If she wanted to talk about my visit with her brother, I wanted her to do most of the talking so I might hear more of what she had been told by Charles.

“Yes, I did.”

“He said you were rough on him.”

I sat my glass on the table. “Your brother is not the welcoming kind.”

Susan laughed. “You got that right. He can be gruff at times.”

“Does gruff include pulling a gun?” I took a cheese cracker.

“He told me you took it away from him. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“You fought?”

“A little pushing, more like a scrum.”

“Did he tell you what you wanted to know?”

“He told me he called you after his father called him. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“A few minutes later, you called your father to ask if what Charles had just told you was true.”

“I’d tell you I called Papa for a different reason, but you’d know that for anything else I would have waited until morning. So, yes, that’s why I called Papa that late.”

“And?”

“Papa had turned his phone off. I left a message for him to call me. Obviously, he never did.”

“Charles told me your father brought him up to be muscle for his business. And he said that Garson raised you to be—” I didn’t finish the sentence.

“I admit it,” she said without much hesitation. “Papa used me to influence men in France from whom he, shall we say, needed favors.”

“You must have resented that.”

“Not resented. I was confused why he wanted me to do those things. But I came to understand.”

“I don’t understand your understanding, not feeling resentful.”

“He trained me to be a seductress, for lack of a better word. Although, it was not all that often that it went beyond flirting, enticing, teasing. A few dates and some weekend trips, that was part of it, too.”

“Why do you think he did that?”

“It was an expected part of his business. I filled out early, and the men liked me. I didn’t mind being a seductress. Perhaps I would have become one anyway. You understand a seductress is different than a hooker, don’t you Matt?”

“I think I do.”

“One day I want to marry. The skills Papa brought ladies in to teach me will allow me to heighten my husband’s joys. So, in the end, all I did was have sex with a dozen or so men, that looking back, I wish I hadn’t. But which woman can look back and not say the same thing?”

“I’m sorry; I still think it’s lousy for a father to do that to a teenage daughter, for that matter, for any man to.”

“It wasn’t all that hard. Once I figured out what men wanted, it got easier.”

“And what is it that men want?” I asked.

“Beyond the obvious, they want you to be their mother, or their daughter, maybe their addiction. Which do you want me to be?”

“Not my mother or daughter or sister or aunt for that matter. I never knew either of my grandmothers that well, so I’m not taking applications to fill that position either. I guess that leaves addiction. But not yet, I’ve got a case I’m working first. Trouble is, you’re part of that case. I just don’t know which part. Not yet anyway.”

Susan chewed her second cheese cracker. I had no idea swallowing, at least swallowing a cracker, could be sensuous. But when she did, it was. Then she asked, “What I did, for Papa, you know, does that change your impression of me?”

I took another drink before replying. “One thing being a cop taught me, Susan. People from all walks are often quite different than what one might expect. I’ve met preachers I wouldn’t trust to carry the offering to the altar. I’ve also met some hardworking hookers with a lot of class, even a burglar who operates under his own moral code. It’s where a person is, who they really are, where they’re going with their life that matters, not what events in the past that they couldn’t control required of them. Now that’s as philosophical as I’m going to get.”

“I like you, Matt Kile. I like what you said. I don’t want you to go yet, and I don’t want to talk about my Papa’s business or my brother’s bad manners. Tell me about your family.”

Asta came to my side, appearing satisfied with what she had learned during her inspection of the premises and her sniffing and licking of Susan’s feet. The dog touched my hand with her wet nose and then snuggled up against my shoes. All reasonably intelligent animals sense fear. Dogs sense more. Asta had figured out that I was leaving. Maybe Asta was also feeling lucky, while I was gone, she would get to sleep with Susan, at least curl up with her. And probably get to lie on the fluffy bathroom rug while Susan showered.

Damn lucky dog, I thought before answering Susan’s question. “I’m divorced, nearly eight years now. My ex and our children live in Downey. That’s about twenty-five miles inland from here.”

“How long were you married?”

“Fourteen years. I’m forty-six. My ex is forty-three. We have two daughters.”

Susan continued to ask questions about my family.

I went on to tell her that my daughters were smart and pretty, and, of course, that I was completely objective in that assessment. “Rose, my oldest, is twenty-one, dropped out of college and took a job with Farmers and Merchants Bank. She is engaged with a June marriage in the planning. Amy is one year younger, has skipped a year in high school and is attending Harvard, studying accounting. She’s also busy picking between a super brain who is into computer design and a bad-boy biker. You likely know which one I prefer. She’s also green with envy over her sister getting married.”

“How would you describe things now between you and your ex?”

“After thousands of years of language, there is no word that describes it succinctly. But good comes close. We share our children, but that’s about it. I wish her well. She feels the same, I think. There’ll be no reconciliation. We’ve grown apart.”

Susan stood. “I don’t want to keep you too long because you fly out in the morning. Can I see you when you get back?”

“Susan, I owe Brad Fisher, Clarice’s attorney, not to mention Clarice herself. I know you don’t think much of your stepmother … that you—”

“Oh, she’s not such a bad sort, not really,” Susan said. “We’re probably more alike than either of us cares to admit. Still, she killed Papa, so I can never wish her well.”

“If that proves out, I understand. Perhaps we should leave it at that. Goodnight.”

“Matt. Let me try to say it better. I want to see you when you get back, not to talk about what you learned. Leave the case in your car before you come upstairs. Okay?”

“I may have more questions I’ll need to ask you after I get back.”

“I’ll be here. Besides, you’ll need to come get Asta.”

I was half way out the door when I remembered. “Oh,” I said while turning back to face her, “another question, sorry.” She smiled. “I need names in France, Europe, in the Middle East. Men your dad worked with or for. Men you saw when helping your father.”

“You have to understand I was a teenager and in my twenties during that time. Many times Papa just gave me a first name for the men. As I got older I realized the names were not their real names. I wish I could help more.”

“You don’t remember anyone? Maybe the companies they worked for or their positions in the government.”

“Only one. I never had his name, but I saw his picture in the paper a few weeks after Papa had me go away with him for the weekend. I do recall the picture caption identified him as a government official. I want to say an undersecretary in the defense department, that’s a translation, of course, also a guess. I doubt this is of any help, but it’s all I have.”

“Would you recognize a picture of him?”

“Maybe. Yeah. I think so.”

Susan kissed me on the cheek. “Will you come see me when you get back? Stay longer?”

“I’d have to be a statue not to want to. You make me think of a fireplace burning on a foggy morning and drinking fresh-squeezed orange juice while snuggling under a down comforter. But all that will have to wait until this thing is over. Then, should you still want to … well, we’ll see.”

She leaned in and kissed me on the other cheek, and whispered, “More later.”

I left the only suspect from whom I had ever received a kiss on the cheek, let alone a promise of “more later.”