Because, I told myself, you’re an investigator. Not somebody who just works at it nine to five, but a person who lives it every hour, every day. You can’t escape it; it’s in your blood.
Besides, I added, there’s something illegal going on at the Casa del Rey, something involving the little boy Wolf met, and you want to get to the bottom of it. And you keep seeing Elaine’s pensive face, with the little lines of tension and shadows under her eyes — strain that was probably caused by her awareness of the illegal goings-on.
And, finally, I kept on thinking that if only we’d had the talk Sugarman had said Elaine had wanted — a real talk rather than superficial chat about houses and boyfriends — she might not have died the other day...
I looked at my watch and realized I’d just have time to get downtown for my eleven-thirty appointment.
Alan Thorburn’s office was plush and modern, with a fine view of the bridge and Coronado Island. Thorburn himself surprised me. He was young-looking, bespectacled, and saved from being homely only by a boyish, almost bumbling charm. I wondered how he could afford such offices; surely anyone of his appearance could not attract the high-paying clients necessary to foot the bills. But when I shook his hand, I saw the wrinkles that the boyish manner had at first made me overlook and I caught the gleam of keen intelligence in his eyes. Alan Thorburn was neither young nor incompetent; his mannerisms had probably fooled a good many people — and fooled them to his advantage.
We sat down and I explained my relationship to Elaine and my suspicions about her death. Thorburn listened quietly, only reacting when I mentioned the carbon of her letter to him and the clipping she’d supposedly enclosed. “I guess,” I said, “that the sheriffs department will be calling on you soon, wanting to see that clipping. But I’d like to get a look at it too.”
He thought a moment, then reached over and pressed a button on his intercom. When a woman’s voice answered, he said, “Linda, has anyone from the sheriff’s department asked to see me regarding Elaine Picard this morning?”
“No one.”
He glanced at me. “That shows how strong their interest in her death is.”
“I’m sorry?” the voice on the intercom said.
“Never mind. Will you bring me her file, please?”
In a moment the secretary entered and placed a large manila folder on Thorburn’s desk. He looked through the papers in it, then extended a newspaper clipping to me. “Maybe it will make sense to you. Frankly, it’s had me puzzled, and I’d be glad of an explanation.”
The clipping was from the San Diego Union, dated on a Thursday about six weeks before, and headlined MYSTERY DISAPPEARANCE OF LA JOLLA FINANCIER. I read on.
Oilman and financier Roland Deveer, 56, was reported missing from his La Jolla home yesterday by his wife, Celia.
Deveer, whose financial empire includes interests in Alaskan and South American oil drilling ventures, was last seen leaving his home at 4 p.m. on Tuesday, presumably to attend a meeting at his company’s downtown San Diego headquarters. His 1984 Cadillac Seville was later found abandoned in a loading zone at Lindbergh Field. Checks with the airlines have indicated Deveer did not take any commercial flight from the airport.
Mrs. Deveer states that she knows of no reason why her husband would disappear voluntarily...
I turned the clipping over, just to make sure there wasn’t something on the other side that was more relevant to Elaine’s letter, but found only part of an ad for men’s suits. I reread the clipping, but could make no sense of it. What did a missing oilman have to do with the illegal activities at Casa del Rey? Or with Elaine?
When I looked up, Thorburn was watching me expectantly. “This doesn’t mean a thing to me either,” I said. “Did Elaine know this Roland Deveer?”
“I’m not sure, although I doubt they traveled in the same circles — Deveer is married to a socially prominent woman and active in high-toned civic causes. But then I didn’t know much about Elaine’s personal life.”
“Apparently no one did.” I remembered Rich Woodall and his claim that Elaine was mother to a gorilla named Fred. “Do you know anything about her tax situation?”
“A little.”
“Had Elaine made any large donations to the San Diego Zoo in the last year or so?”
“The zoo?”
“Their Adopt-an-Animal Program. The adoptee may have been a gorilla.”
Thorburn smiled faintly. “I doubt it. She and I met semiannually with her tax practitioner, Hugh Katz. I’m certain that kind of deduction would have come in for some humorous comment.”
“I guess so. May I have a copy of this clipping?”
Thorburn nodded and took it out to the reception area, then returned in a minute with a Xerox copy. “Do you intend to pursue this unofficial investigation?” he asked.
I put the clipping in my purse and stood up. “What makes you think it’s unofficial?”
“Something Anne-Marie said when I called her.”
I smiled. “She knows me too well. But in answer to your question — yes, I do.”
“Well, I suppose you know the dangers of that. If you need any legal advice, call me. And let me know what you find out.”
I thanked him and assured him I’d be in touch — only to report my findings, I hoped. But on the other hand, it was nice to know who to call if I got arrested again.
I stopped at a phone booth down the street and called Roland Deveer’s wife in La Jolla. She agreed to see me as soon as I could get there. If anything, the woman, who spoke in a low, cultured voice, seemed overly eager to talk with a total stranger who had merely identified herself as a private investigator interested in Mr. Deveer’s disappearance. Perhaps I would find out something useful from her.
The Deveer home was English Tudor, set well back on a pristine lawn. A uniformed maid answered my knock and led me through a large hallway and across a sun porch to a terrace paved with old-fashioned flagstones. A tall, thin woman rose from one of the wicker porch chairs and came forward to greet me.
“I’m Celia Deveer,” she said, extending her hand. “You must be Ms. McCone.”
“Yes. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
“I’m glad to meet with anyone who may have information concerning my husband’s disappearance. May I offer you some coffee?”
“That sounds good.”
She nodded at the maid, and the woman went back in the house. As we sat down on the wicker chairs, I studied Celia Deveer. She was almost painfully thin, with coiffed dark hair and a long, angular face that was too sharp-featured to be really attractive. Though her beige pants suit was expensively tailored, the overall impression she gave was not of money but of good breeding. As a girl, she would have attended private schools, had riding lessons at the hunt club, gone to summer drama camp, and acquitted herself nicely in piano recitals. And because she was so unattractive, she would have been the debutante whom the organizers of the Cotillion had worried about, the one they’d despaired of ever finding a suitable match for. Looking at her, I wondered what Roland Deveer was like.
The terrace where we sat was at the top of a hill that sloped gently to a formal garden. A Mexican man, wearing a straw hat against the heat of the sun, was at work down there, edging the lawn around the flower beds. I said, “You have a lovely home. It’s refreshingly old-fashioned, compared to so many places in this area.”