door?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Interesting.”
“Quite and now I must excuse myself. I’ve got to
get back to work and as you may have noticed, evil waits for no man.”
“Indeed. Thanks for the info and lemonade.”
“You’re very welcome.”
On my way down the front steps, I was distracted
by a set of curious inlaid tiles built into the staircase, apparently inscribed
at the request of the same man who had built the underground shelter. They were
scenes from the ancient world: Assyrians in battle garb, pharaohs lying in
state, and beautiful Mycenaean wall paintings of colorful fish in the blue
Mediterranean, the Levantine sun reflecting on the water.
Nearing the street, I noticed a runner heading
east; whether by premonition or natural caution, I stepped back shielding
myself. The shock of recognition was profound. It was James Halladay wearing
blue shorts and a blue velour sweatshirt, intent on his workout. He passed the
house without a glance, looking occasionally at what appeared to be a stopwatch
in his right hand. I waited for a reasonable period to give him some distance,
and walked back to my car.
Driving toward downtown, I kept one eye on my rear
view mirror. I considered heading
over to Forest Grove to see if William Jameson would corroborate Dr.
Tarkanian’s story, but decided against it. Fishburne/Borders and the ersatz
Officer Koncak were right in the middle of Cicero’s death. That was enough for
now. I wanted to get on Merlin and do a search on Halladay, as my instinct was
screaming that he might be connected to Cicero’s death. I tempered myself with
the thought that him jogging in Arnold’s old neighborhood might be purely
circumstantial; it could mean nothing, but it could also mean he lived nearby
and had known Arnold for some time.
I called Bobby to check in but he didn’t pick up,
so I called Audrey.
“Hi, Boss.”
“I need you to go down to the L.A. County
Recorder’s Office in Norwalk, to check on a grant deed for 3655 Beachwood
Drive.”
“Sure, but why?”
“Arnold Clipper owns it, but I need verification.”
“I’ll call you soon as I’ve got the info.”
“Thanks.”
I called Jade. She didn’t pick up ‘til the fourth
ring and when she did she sounded distraught. “Nick, is that you? Nick!”
“Yeah. What’s wrong?”
“Every time a car drives by, I think it’s them.”
“Relax. There’s virtually no traffic there.”
“I know. That’s why I keep thinking they’re
sneaking up on me. I can’t believe I was taken in by those creeps. They had the
gall to sit in my living room, and lie to me about my father’s death.”
“Do you have the electricity on?”
“The fence? Yes, of course.”
“They’d have a helluva time getting in.”
“What if they shoot up the house? Nobody in this
neighborhood would even notice.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Please hurry.”
“Watch TV and try to calm down. Do you want me to
bring you any take-out?”
“No. Just get here.”
When I got back to the office, I parked two blocks
north on 1st Street, east of Alameda. The neighborhood is gentrifying and condos are going up by the hundred.
Construction guys wearing masks to protect them from the bad air worked
steadily in the gray light. I threaded my way through the back streets and let
myself in the side door. It was stuffy, so I turned on the air and skimmed my
email -- nothing significant. I logged onto Merlin. James Halladay’s current
residence was on Linforth Drive, which intersects Beachwood half-a-mile below
Arnold’s house.
I was now certain that Fishburne and Koncak were
involved in Cicero’s death. The problem was Halladay. If he was, too, I was
obviously compromised since I was now working for him. The motivation was the
Lamont family fortune. Fishburne and Koncak could be employees, working for
Halladay or Arnold or both. Halladay might be unaware of Arnold’s more bizarre
tendencies. His involvement, however, was made less
“Not that I know of.”
“Interesting.”
“Quite and now I must excuse myself. I’ve got to
get back to work and as you may have noticed, evil waits for no man.”
“Indeed. Thanks for the info and lemonade.”
“You’re very welcome.”
On my way down the front steps, I was distracted
by a set of curious inlaid tiles built into the staircase, apparently inscribed
at the request of the same man who had built the underground shelter. They were
scenes from the ancient world: Assyrians in battle garb, pharaohs lying in
state, and beautiful Mycenaean wall paintings of colorful fish in the blue
Mediterranean, the Levantine sun reflecting on the water.
Nearing the street, I noticed a runner heading
east; whether by premonition or natural caution, I stepped back shielding
myself. The shock of recognition was profound. It was James Halladay wearing
blue shorts and a blue velour sweatshirt, intent on his workout. He passed the
house without a glance, looking occasionally at what appeared to be a stopwatch
in his right hand. I waited for a reasonable period to give him some distance,
and walked back to my car.
Driving toward downtown, I kept one eye on my rear
view mirror. I considered heading
over to Forest Grove to see if William Jameson would corroborate Dr.
Tarkanian’s story, but decided against it. Fishburne/Borders and the ersatz
Officer Koncak were right in the middle of Cicero’s death. That was enough for
now. I wanted to get on Merlin and do a search on Halladay, as my instinct was
screaming that he might be connected to Cicero’s death. I tempered myself with
the thought that him jogging in Arnold’s old neighborhood might be purely
circumstantial; it could mean nothing, but it could also mean he lived nearby
and had known Arnold for some time.
I called Bobby to check in but he didn’t pick up,
so I called Audrey.
“Hi, Boss.”
“I need you to go down to the L.A. County
Recorder’s Office in Norwalk, to check on a grant deed for 3655 Beachwood
Drive.”
“Sure, but why?”
“Arnold Clipper owns it, but I need verification.”
“I’ll call you soon as I’ve got the info.”
“Thanks.”
I called Jade. She didn’t pick up ‘til the fourth
ring and when she did she sounded distraught. “Nick, is that you? Nick!”
“Yeah. What’s wrong?”
“Every time a car drives by, I think it’s them.”
“Relax. There’s virtually no traffic there.”
“I know. That’s why I keep thinking they’re
sneaking up on me. I can’t believe I was taken in by those creeps. They had the
gall to sit in my living room, and lie to me about my father’s death.”
“Do you have the electricity on?”
“The fence? Yes, of course.”
“They’d have a helluva time getting in.”
“What if they shoot up the house? Nobody in this
neighborhood would even notice.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Please hurry.”
“Watch TV and try to calm down. Do you want me to
bring you any take-out?”
“No. Just get here.”
When I got back to the office, I parked two blocks
north on 1st Street, east of Alameda. The neighborhood is gentrifying and condos are going up by the hundred.
Construction guys wearing masks to protect them from the bad air worked
steadily in the gray light. I threaded my way through the back streets and let
myself in the side door. It was stuffy, so I turned on the air and skimmed my
email -- nothing significant. I logged onto Merlin. James Halladay’s current
residence was on Linforth Drive, which intersects Beachwood half-a-mile below
Arnold’s house.
I was now certain that Fishburne and Koncak were
involved in Cicero’s death. The problem was Halladay. If he was, too, I was
obviously compromised since I was now working for him. The motivation was the
Lamont family fortune. Fishburne and Koncak could be employees, working for
Halladay or Arnold or both. Halladay might be unaware of Arnold’s more bizarre
tendencies. His involvement, however, was made less
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