walk right into Cricket’s face in the dark on her way home to her apartment at midnight?”
“You figure it out,” Dave said. “You’re the detective. I’m just a senile old man messing around in your case. Will you tell Samuels to stop wasting his time?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Leppard said.
“The last time he tried to guard me,” Dave reminded him, “he was shot and didn’t get over it for months. I don’t want that to happen again. He could be killed this time.”
“Then go home and leave this case alone,” Leppard said.
“Talk to Vickers,” Dave said. “Find out why he lied.”
He hung up and, five minutes later, walked out of the steamy, flame-sizzling, pan-clattering kitchen of Max Romano’s into the sunny parking lot. A slim little Vietnamese wrapped in a long white apron followed him. Dave opened the trunk of the Jaguar and the boy bent and set a bottle in an ice bucket inside, along with Styrofoam boxes sealed shut with tape to keep in the heat. He straightened, gave Dave a little smile, a little bow, and headed back for the kitchen. He looked about twenty years old. He called himself Pow, and every time he said it, he made a fist, stuck it straight out, and giggled. Alex told Dave he was the best apprentice chef he’d ever had. He was certainly the prettiest. A flower. Smiling to himself, Dave watched him until he disappeared into the kitchen, then closed down the trunk, got into the car, and headed for Topanga.
Fifty minutes later, he found Jack Helmers’s crooked, climbing dirt road. Piled in the overgrown brush next to the mailbox were twine-bound stacks of newspapers, cardboard cartons full of rumpled magazines, catalogues, fliers, big green plastic trash sacks bulging with God knew what. God knew why. After years of indifference, what had prompted Helmers suddenly to clean house? Dave parked the Jaguar in the driveway behind Helmers’s grimy gray 1979 Dodge Colt. He took boxes and bottle from the trunk and carried them up the steps to the deck where cats snoozed in the sun.
The inner door was open. He rapped the aluminum screen door. The dogs came running, barking, tails waving happily. Over their racket, Dave called, “Jack? It’s Dave—Dave Brandstetter.” The dogs jumped at the screen. “I’ve brought us some lunch.” But Helmers didn’t answer. “Jack? You in there?” No response, no sign of the man. Dave opened the screen and with the dogs jumping around his legs made his way through the room, which was still dusty and cobwebby, but not quite so cumbered with trash as last time. He peered into Helmers’s workroom. Among the tilted heaps of manuscripts, clippings, file folders, the computer monitor glowed with green words, but the writer wasn’t at his desk.
The food had kept hot in the car trunk—the boxes warmed his hands and chest. The noonday heat didn’t need their help. He wanted to put them down. He found a kitchen swing door, called “Jack?” again, and pushed into the room. One of the dogs was still with him. It ran around a cluttered table, and whined and nosed at something on a vinyl-tiled floor that hadn’t seen a mop or even a broom in years. Dave stepped around the table. A chair had tipped on its side. Helmers had been sitting in the chair. He lay on the floor. On his side. Snoring. In a wrinkled cotton flannel plaid shirt and grubby jeans, cheeks bristly with three days’ beard, he looked like a skid-row wino. But the only drink in sight was half a mug of coffee on the table.
Dave set boxes and bottle on a counter and knelt beside him. The dog licked his face, anxious, whimpering. “That’s all right,” Dave told him. “Don’t worry.” He pushed the dog off, and lifted Helmers’s thick wrist. The pulse beat there strong and steady. He patted Helmers’s face. “Jack? Wake up, Jack.” And when Helmers’s eyelids fluttered, and he mumbled, “What? What? What’s wrong?” Dave realized he’d been holding
“You figure it out,” Dave said. “You’re the detective. I’m just a senile old man messing around in your case. Will you tell Samuels to stop wasting his time?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Leppard said.
“The last time he tried to guard me,” Dave reminded him, “he was shot and didn’t get over it for months. I don’t want that to happen again. He could be killed this time.”
“Then go home and leave this case alone,” Leppard said.
“Talk to Vickers,” Dave said. “Find out why he lied.”
He hung up and, five minutes later, walked out of the steamy, flame-sizzling, pan-clattering kitchen of Max Romano’s into the sunny parking lot. A slim little Vietnamese wrapped in a long white apron followed him. Dave opened the trunk of the Jaguar and the boy bent and set a bottle in an ice bucket inside, along with Styrofoam boxes sealed shut with tape to keep in the heat. He straightened, gave Dave a little smile, a little bow, and headed back for the kitchen. He looked about twenty years old. He called himself Pow, and every time he said it, he made a fist, stuck it straight out, and giggled. Alex told Dave he was the best apprentice chef he’d ever had. He was certainly the prettiest. A flower. Smiling to himself, Dave watched him until he disappeared into the kitchen, then closed down the trunk, got into the car, and headed for Topanga.
Fifty minutes later, he found Jack Helmers’s crooked, climbing dirt road. Piled in the overgrown brush next to the mailbox were twine-bound stacks of newspapers, cardboard cartons full of rumpled magazines, catalogues, fliers, big green plastic trash sacks bulging with God knew what. God knew why. After years of indifference, what had prompted Helmers suddenly to clean house? Dave parked the Jaguar in the driveway behind Helmers’s grimy gray 1979 Dodge Colt. He took boxes and bottle from the trunk and carried them up the steps to the deck where cats snoozed in the sun.
The inner door was open. He rapped the aluminum screen door. The dogs came running, barking, tails waving happily. Over their racket, Dave called, “Jack? It’s Dave—Dave Brandstetter.” The dogs jumped at the screen. “I’ve brought us some lunch.” But Helmers didn’t answer. “Jack? You in there?” No response, no sign of the man. Dave opened the screen and with the dogs jumping around his legs made his way through the room, which was still dusty and cobwebby, but not quite so cumbered with trash as last time. He peered into Helmers’s workroom. Among the tilted heaps of manuscripts, clippings, file folders, the computer monitor glowed with green words, but the writer wasn’t at his desk.
The food had kept hot in the car trunk—the boxes warmed his hands and chest. The noonday heat didn’t need their help. He wanted to put them down. He found a kitchen swing door, called “Jack?” again, and pushed into the room. One of the dogs was still with him. It ran around a cluttered table, and whined and nosed at something on a vinyl-tiled floor that hadn’t seen a mop or even a broom in years. Dave stepped around the table. A chair had tipped on its side. Helmers had been sitting in the chair. He lay on the floor. On his side. Snoring. In a wrinkled cotton flannel plaid shirt and grubby jeans, cheeks bristly with three days’ beard, he looked like a skid-row wino. But the only drink in sight was half a mug of coffee on the table.
Dave set boxes and bottle on a counter and knelt beside him. The dog licked his face, anxious, whimpering. “That’s all right,” Dave told him. “Don’t worry.” He pushed the dog off, and lifted Helmers’s thick wrist. The pulse beat there strong and steady. He patted Helmers’s face. “Jack? Wake up, Jack.” And when Helmers’s eyelids fluttered, and he mumbled, “What? What? What’s wrong?” Dave realized he’d been holding
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