cold. The sunny air outside was at least ten degrees warmer. On the doorstep he frowned. Up the street the sun glinted on the pale hair of a man getting into a parked car. Samuels? The car drove off. Dave turned back to Madden. “He has no relatives?”
“Killed in the Holocaust,” Madden said. “Nobody left. Believe me, I’ve searched.”
Dave smiled. “I’ll just bet you have.”
It was built over with expensive town houses now, but he could remember when this place was marshland. A misty morning came to mind, the silhouette of a blue heron among the reeds, poised on one stilt leg above a glassy pond. You didn’t see red-winged blackbirds in L.A. anymore. Once they’d been thick down here swinging on the tall reeds, the air alive with their sharp calls. Dragonflies used to hover and dart, sun glistening on their wings, their glittering blue and green and red needle bodies. In autumn, fleeing the cold north, great noisy flocks of migrating ducks had swirled down out of this sky to feed. And now?
Tarmacked streets curved, empty in the morning light, and very quiet. He found the address he wanted and parked the Jaguar. When he walked up the concrete strip between ground ivy to find the black door in the brown shiplap wall, he could hear the thud of surf on the beach, blocks away. He stood in a breezeway and listened for sounds of life from the handsome houses, built so close together. No morning radio talk shows, no loopy cartoon music. He laughed at himself. Children in an enclave like this? He guessed not. Upwardly mobile young couples, both working, no kids. Nobody home.
He knew she wasn’t home. He had checked by phone at her office. She was at work. She’d picked up her extension and let him hear her voice before he’d hung up. All the same, he thumbed her bell push. Chimes answered. That was all. He put on his reading glasses, bent, and peered closely at the lock. From his wallet he took a sliver of metal and probed the lock with it. The lock turned, but the door didn’t yield. He stood for a moment with his shoulder against the door, blinking thoughtfully. Then he went looking for a back door.
There was a back door, its lock simpler than that on the front one, but the door didn’t yield either. He sighed, slid the sliver of metal back into his wallet, dropped the wallet into his pocket, folded the glasses with a click, pushed them into their case, tucked the case away. He returned to the silent, empty street, and pulled open the door of the Jaguar. But before he got inside, he paused to give the house a long, steady look. The curtains at the windows were all closed. And motionless. Someone was in there, but either that someone didn’t give a damn who’d come ringing, or was too scared to risk peeping out and being seen. That would figure, if it was Rachel Klein. On the other hand, it could be a deaf cleaning woman. He wouldn’t phone Leppard about it. Not just yet.
He dropped onto the seat, closed the door, started the engine. And in the side mirror he glimpsed again the man with pale hair getting into a pale car far off up the street. Samuels. This time he was sure of it. Leppard was watching over Dave again, not believing Dave would lead him to Rachel Klein, no. Just trying to protect an old has-been from his own folly. No fool like an old fool. Damn. How he hated that. He released the hand brake, and the Jaguar roared off. It wasn’t young, either, but it could still go.
9
D AVE USED THE TELEPHONE back of the dark-paneled little bar at Max Romano’s. He told Jeff Leppard, “When I went to see Jordan Vickers, he lied to me. He said he didn’t know Cricket Shales was back in town. He knew. He’d asked Lou Squire to warn him. And Lou warned him.”
“Then why didn’t Vickers warn Rachel?”
“I think he did, and that’s why her personal things aren’t in her desk at Say What? Records. He rang her there and told her to go somewhere Cricket wouldn’t find her.”
“And then let her
“Killed in the Holocaust,” Madden said. “Nobody left. Believe me, I’ve searched.”
Dave smiled. “I’ll just bet you have.”
It was built over with expensive town houses now, but he could remember when this place was marshland. A misty morning came to mind, the silhouette of a blue heron among the reeds, poised on one stilt leg above a glassy pond. You didn’t see red-winged blackbirds in L.A. anymore. Once they’d been thick down here swinging on the tall reeds, the air alive with their sharp calls. Dragonflies used to hover and dart, sun glistening on their wings, their glittering blue and green and red needle bodies. In autumn, fleeing the cold north, great noisy flocks of migrating ducks had swirled down out of this sky to feed. And now?
Tarmacked streets curved, empty in the morning light, and very quiet. He found the address he wanted and parked the Jaguar. When he walked up the concrete strip between ground ivy to find the black door in the brown shiplap wall, he could hear the thud of surf on the beach, blocks away. He stood in a breezeway and listened for sounds of life from the handsome houses, built so close together. No morning radio talk shows, no loopy cartoon music. He laughed at himself. Children in an enclave like this? He guessed not. Upwardly mobile young couples, both working, no kids. Nobody home.
He knew she wasn’t home. He had checked by phone at her office. She was at work. She’d picked up her extension and let him hear her voice before he’d hung up. All the same, he thumbed her bell push. Chimes answered. That was all. He put on his reading glasses, bent, and peered closely at the lock. From his wallet he took a sliver of metal and probed the lock with it. The lock turned, but the door didn’t yield. He stood for a moment with his shoulder against the door, blinking thoughtfully. Then he went looking for a back door.
There was a back door, its lock simpler than that on the front one, but the door didn’t yield either. He sighed, slid the sliver of metal back into his wallet, dropped the wallet into his pocket, folded the glasses with a click, pushed them into their case, tucked the case away. He returned to the silent, empty street, and pulled open the door of the Jaguar. But before he got inside, he paused to give the house a long, steady look. The curtains at the windows were all closed. And motionless. Someone was in there, but either that someone didn’t give a damn who’d come ringing, or was too scared to risk peeping out and being seen. That would figure, if it was Rachel Klein. On the other hand, it could be a deaf cleaning woman. He wouldn’t phone Leppard about it. Not just yet.
He dropped onto the seat, closed the door, started the engine. And in the side mirror he glimpsed again the man with pale hair getting into a pale car far off up the street. Samuels. This time he was sure of it. Leppard was watching over Dave again, not believing Dave would lead him to Rachel Klein, no. Just trying to protect an old has-been from his own folly. No fool like an old fool. Damn. How he hated that. He released the hand brake, and the Jaguar roared off. It wasn’t young, either, but it could still go.
9
D AVE USED THE TELEPHONE back of the dark-paneled little bar at Max Romano’s. He told Jeff Leppard, “When I went to see Jordan Vickers, he lied to me. He said he didn’t know Cricket Shales was back in town. He knew. He’d asked Lou Squire to warn him. And Lou warned him.”
“Then why didn’t Vickers warn Rachel?”
“I think he did, and that’s why her personal things aren’t in her desk at Say What? Records. He rang her there and told her to go somewhere Cricket wouldn’t find her.”
“And then let her
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