this?”
“So, I think, is Fritz Tarleton, the big man in the tourism business. He was at the Killamook Inn, probably to negotiate for the Mondrian.”
“Kevin?” Buck asked. “You think you could get us a list of the other people staying at your place?”
“Give me a minute.” Kevin pulled out his cell phone. After a brief conversation with John the assistant manager, he began reciting the list. When he got to “R. Carlowe,” Buck interrupted.
“Did you actually meet this guy? Built like a tank, face like a lizard?”
“I didn’t have the pleasure.” Kevin passed the description on, and then nodded. “John says that’s an apt description.”
“You know him?” Michelle rapped out.
“Yeah.” Buck didn’t sound as if the word made him happy. “He’s what people call a Hollywood detective.”
Michael laughed. “You’re kidding!”
“What’s so funny?” Kevin wanted to know.
“I thought that was a made-up thing. They used to have stories about Hollywood detectives in the old pulp magazines of the thirties—the off-color, spicy ones. They still had Hollywood detectives in the sixties, now in cheesy paperbacks. Gat in one hand, blonde in the other, beautiful starlets in negligees falling madly in bed with them.”
“The reality isn’t so interesting,” Foreman said dryly. “Back in the thirties, the Hollywood studios had their own fixers to deal with embarrassing situations. More recently they’ve outsourced, using private investigators to look into wrongdoing or to get the goods on associates or to help make embarrassments go away—also known as witness tampering.”
“You don’t—” Kevin began.
“No, I don’t,” Buck finished for him. “But Rod Carlowe would. We used to be colleagues, once upon a time in L.A.”
“He was a cop?” Michael said.
“A dirty one,” Buck’s voice was flat. “But he’s done well in his niche, even become something of a celebrity. Knowing Rod, he’s probably angling for a reality show. If he’s involved . . .”
Buck’s voice died away for a second. Then he abruptly asked, “Anything out of the ordinary happen around your neighborhood?”
“I had a vandal,” Mrs. H. announced. “Part of my house is under construction and wrapped in plastic, and somebody made a cut in it.”
“Did they?” Buck sounded extremely suspicious. “Liza,” he said, “you can expect me tomorrow. I’ll rent a car wherever I land and call you with an ETA.”
“We don’t seem to be getting very far,” Michelle finally broke in. “But then I expect the Great Wall of China just started with a few rocks. I’ll expect better results the next time we speak, Liza.”
Liza didn’t even get a chance to respond. The connection was cut.
A second later, Michael and Kevin were back in bickering mode, Kevin talking about Michael imposing himself, Michael casting himself as the protector of Casa Halvorsen. Liza found herself rubbing her temples.
“If you’re going to move in, Michael, maybe you’d better get your duffel and move along with Mrs. H.,” she finally said. “And Kevin, I don’t remember your recitation of guests, but is Mr. Tarleton still at the inn?”
That got Kevin moving to his SUV, bringing Michael and Mrs. H. along. Liza cheerfully waved good-bye, moving to block the door so that Rusty couldn’t get out.
She plopped herself in front of the computer, intending to get some work done. But she found she couldn’t concentrate and only managed to work out one puzzle after messing up a couple of puzzles with rookie errors.
Finally she got up and went to the attaché case she’d taken to her class, retrieving the puzzle Chris Dalen had given her. Liza input it to her Solv-a-Doku program and then looked at the result on the screen.
When she’d solved the murder of her friend Derrick Robbins, Liza had wound up with a rather strange legacy— Derrick’s very specialized library on sudoku and cryptography. That case had shown Liza how a
“So, I think, is Fritz Tarleton, the big man in the tourism business. He was at the Killamook Inn, probably to negotiate for the Mondrian.”
“Kevin?” Buck asked. “You think you could get us a list of the other people staying at your place?”
“Give me a minute.” Kevin pulled out his cell phone. After a brief conversation with John the assistant manager, he began reciting the list. When he got to “R. Carlowe,” Buck interrupted.
“Did you actually meet this guy? Built like a tank, face like a lizard?”
“I didn’t have the pleasure.” Kevin passed the description on, and then nodded. “John says that’s an apt description.”
“You know him?” Michelle rapped out.
“Yeah.” Buck didn’t sound as if the word made him happy. “He’s what people call a Hollywood detective.”
Michael laughed. “You’re kidding!”
“What’s so funny?” Kevin wanted to know.
“I thought that was a made-up thing. They used to have stories about Hollywood detectives in the old pulp magazines of the thirties—the off-color, spicy ones. They still had Hollywood detectives in the sixties, now in cheesy paperbacks. Gat in one hand, blonde in the other, beautiful starlets in negligees falling madly in bed with them.”
“The reality isn’t so interesting,” Foreman said dryly. “Back in the thirties, the Hollywood studios had their own fixers to deal with embarrassing situations. More recently they’ve outsourced, using private investigators to look into wrongdoing or to get the goods on associates or to help make embarrassments go away—also known as witness tampering.”
“You don’t—” Kevin began.
“No, I don’t,” Buck finished for him. “But Rod Carlowe would. We used to be colleagues, once upon a time in L.A.”
“He was a cop?” Michael said.
“A dirty one,” Buck’s voice was flat. “But he’s done well in his niche, even become something of a celebrity. Knowing Rod, he’s probably angling for a reality show. If he’s involved . . .”
Buck’s voice died away for a second. Then he abruptly asked, “Anything out of the ordinary happen around your neighborhood?”
“I had a vandal,” Mrs. H. announced. “Part of my house is under construction and wrapped in plastic, and somebody made a cut in it.”
“Did they?” Buck sounded extremely suspicious. “Liza,” he said, “you can expect me tomorrow. I’ll rent a car wherever I land and call you with an ETA.”
“We don’t seem to be getting very far,” Michelle finally broke in. “But then I expect the Great Wall of China just started with a few rocks. I’ll expect better results the next time we speak, Liza.”
Liza didn’t even get a chance to respond. The connection was cut.
A second later, Michael and Kevin were back in bickering mode, Kevin talking about Michael imposing himself, Michael casting himself as the protector of Casa Halvorsen. Liza found herself rubbing her temples.
“If you’re going to move in, Michael, maybe you’d better get your duffel and move along with Mrs. H.,” she finally said. “And Kevin, I don’t remember your recitation of guests, but is Mr. Tarleton still at the inn?”
That got Kevin moving to his SUV, bringing Michael and Mrs. H. along. Liza cheerfully waved good-bye, moving to block the door so that Rusty couldn’t get out.
She plopped herself in front of the computer, intending to get some work done. But she found she couldn’t concentrate and only managed to work out one puzzle after messing up a couple of puzzles with rookie errors.
Finally she got up and went to the attaché case she’d taken to her class, retrieving the puzzle Chris Dalen had given her. Liza input it to her Solv-a-Doku program and then looked at the result on the screen.
When she’d solved the murder of her friend Derrick Robbins, Liza had wound up with a rather strange legacy— Derrick’s very specialized library on sudoku and cryptography. That case had shown Liza how a
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