Lobdell walked from the phone booth, broad shoulders forward, head down in thought. Nick saw disappointment in Lucky’s hard gray eyes as he shook his head and went to the car. Nick couldn’t figure if Lucky was more pissed off or worried.
Jonas Dessinger kept them waiting for half an hour. Nice enough lobby but the receptionist had to give them badges and buzz open the door before they could come in and get on an elevator.
Third floor, office with views of Newport Boulevard and the tracts of Costa Mesa. Good-sized room, sparsely furnished. Framed Journal press club and CNPA awards on the walls. Funny leather and chrome furniture.
Dessinger was early thirties, dark-haired, gray-eyed. Thick mustache. Under six, slender. Tapered suit, a European look, not like those Botany 500s on TV. He had that funny hairstyle, covering the ear tops and a shock hanging down his forehead but short in back. No sideburns. Like he wanted it both ways, thought Nick. Half square, half hep. Like he’d wear half a flag pin.
Nick cast him as Red. Maybe. Pictured him balancing a full-grown woman over his shoulders while he pulled open a padlock, threw it into an orange grove, then slid open a two-hundred-pound door on rollers. Iffy. Maybe whoever it was put her down and picked her back up. Not easy, either.
Dessinger said that Janelle had been his guest at two dinner parties at Lorenzo’s.
Jonas was a bachelor, by the way.
He and Janelle had been friends and lovers.
He had last seen her on the Saturday afternoon before she died, when she’d broken off their relationship after “an almost unbelievable session of lovemaking.”
Jonas looked out a window, smiling privately. Then back to the detectives.
“How old are you?” asked Nick.
“Thirty-four.”
“She was nineteen,” said Nick.
“And that made us consenting adults.”
“Pathetic is what it makes you,” said Lobdell. “Bet you didn’t mention those dates in your fish-wrap newspaper social page, did you?”
“And the point of that would be…”
Nick felt the change then. The altered frequencies of the room as Lobdell’s anger filled it. He could tell that Dessinger had no idea.
Lobdell stood and went to a window. Looked out. Just as well, thought Nick. Let him cool off.
“Where were you last Tuesday? Between noon and midnight, say.”
“Which is the approximate time of death?” asked Dessinger.
“Maybe,” said Nick.
Dessinger leaned forward and flipped back the pages of a desk calendar. “Here in this building, noon to five, minus an hour-and-a-half lunch at the Ancient Mariner. Home to Newport by five-twenty. I live at the Bay Club.”
Of course he does, thought Nick.
“Nap, news, tennis, dinner. Drinks, drinks, drinks. Good nights around one A.M. There were four of us. I hate to drag them into this but-”
“Into what?” asked Nick.
“Janelle.”
“What, Saturday she’s unbelievable but now she’s something stuck to your shoe?” asked Lobdell.
“What does that mean?”
“He’s referring to a certain callousness that comes off you, Jonas,” said Nick. “He thinks you’re an asshole. So do I.”
Dessinger looked at Lobdell, then Nick. Nick saw no worry at all in him.
“Moving right along, here are three numbers to call to corroborate my story.”
He took his time writing. Finally slid a sheet of typing paper across the desk to Nick. Capped his pen and returned it to the breast pocket of his tailored suit in one confident motion.
“Anything else, gentlemen? I’ve got an early dinner date tonight.”
“Poor girl,” said Lobdell.
“Good, then. It’s been a pleasure.”
Dessinger rose and stood behind his desk. Offered a winning smile to Nick as he picked up the paper.
Lobdell shot a hand out with surprising speed, got hold of Dessinger’s left ear, and forced his head to the desk. Dessinger yelped and bent at the middle to keep his ear on, spread his arms out, and chattered his feet like he was dancing a show tune. Lobdell walked him to the edge of the desk, then forced him down. Dessinger’s legs collapsed and his chest hit the carpet with a huff. Lobdell knelt, ear still in one hand.
“What shall I do with him, Nicky?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Take your time.”
“Here.”
Nick drew his ballpoint from his jacket pocket and wrote “ 19” on Dessinger’s forehead. Blew on the numerals.
“It’s a short editorial,” said Nick.
“Use Old Dutch cleanser and some steel wool,” said Lobdell. “Get that ink right off before your date tonight.”
When they got in the elevator Nick looked at Lobdell’s heavy face. Had to laugh. Lobdell did, too. Lit a cigarette.
“That was dumb,” said Nick.
“Yeah.”
“Harloff’s going to kill us. I just got…pissed off.”
“Me, too,” said Lobdell. “Look, Dessinger won’t say anything. It’d ding his pride. Watch out for him, though.”
“How can you find out your lover was murdered and show absolutely no feeling?” asked Nick. “There’s people who didn’t ever meet her who feel worse than that guy.”
“The shrinks got some name for it. Some kind of ‘path.’”
“I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Homicide gets you the winners,” said Lobdell. “Wolfman. Newspaperman. You never know who’s next.”
They stepped out of the building and into the crisp evening. Red leaves swaying on a box elder. Sky an unlimited blue. A new black Mustang flashed down the boulevard.
“Makes me hope his alibi is bullshit,” said Nick. “Makes me want to bust him all the way to the chamber.”
“It’s never the guys you want it to be,” said Lobdell. “Usually some drunk little prick, loses his temper. Or thinks a gun makes him tough. Or some guy who’s spent half his life in the slammer, doesn’t care if he goes back or not. Dessinger couldn’t hate anybody enough to do what we saw. Wouldn’t mess up his clothes.”
Nick only just now worried that he’d done something to damage his brother. Andy had come up with good information-the FBI and the narc payroll-and he’d given them both to Nick. Pronto. In return Nick had helped mutilate Andy’s boss. Maybe Dessinger hadn’t been paying enough attention to connect Becker to Becker. Maybe Dessinger didn’t have anything to do with the reporters. Better give Andy a heads-up either way.
NICK GOT Terry Neemal out of protective custody and into an interview room. Tossed the smokes on the table. The jailers had shaved his hair and beard for lice but left a gigantic mustache. The former Wolfman looked like a toy-breed dog trimmed for hot weather. They’d shaved down the wolfish arm hair, too. The skin was still almost black, like it was burned or paved. Terry rubbed it, frowning.
“They hacked me up.”
“It’ll all grow back.”
Nick made small talk for a minute. Asked about the food and the exercise room and the other inmates. Neemal told him he’d met Nick’s brother, the jail chaplain.
“Nice guy,” said Neemal.
“Let me see your hands again, Terry.”
Neemal held them out. Turned both over. Then turned one over, then the other, but flipped the first one back. Smiled at Nick like it was a magic trick.
“How’d you get the cuts and scrapes?”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
“They were deep enough to bleed. To hurt and get infected and make scabs. But you don’t know how you got them?”
“That’s the truth. But I will say…”