“We’ll talk later.”
“What’s wrong with now?”
“I love you, too, Buzz.” I got off the phone as Savannah sat back down.
“I didn’t know you loved anybody,” she said.
“You’d be surprised.”
“What’re you, some kind of fuckin’ narc or something?” the bartender said accusingly, having overheard my phone conversation with Buzz.
“Me? I’m just a simple country doctor.”
Savannah sipped her drink and made a rancid face as the taste settled on her tongue.
“Yuck.”
“You want wine? Go to the west side.” He snatched Savannah’s glass and dumped it out into the sink.
“Not to resort to clichés, amigo,” I said, “but that’s no way to treat a lady.”
“This is my bar. I’ll treat her any way I want.”
“C’mon, Logan, let’s go,” Savannah said, sliding off her stool.
“We’re not going anywhere until Lord of the Rings here apologizes to you for his crass behavior.”
“You want an apology?” He reached under the bar and produced an aluminum baseball bat. “I got your apology right here.”
I held my ground and stared him down.
“Please don’t do this, Logan,” Savannah said, tugging on my arm. “Let’s just go.”
“Listen to your bitch, Logan,” the barkeep said.
“My bitch?” Something inside me snapped. “Now I’m afraid you’re going to have to apologize twice.”
“Bullshit.”
He jabbed the bat at my face. I twisted it out of his grip and rammed the knobbed handle into his belly. He collapsed to his knees behind the bar, gasping for breath.
“Apologize to the lady.”
“Sorry,” he groaned.
“Again. This time with feeling.”
“I’m really sorry for calling you a bitch.”
I tossed the bat on the floor and followed Savannah out to her car.
“About damn time somebody put that turd in his place,” one of the regulars said.
“Hell, I don’t even know why I even drink here,” said another.
The others all murmured in agreement.
We drove up Mount Washington toward Richard Smith’s house. Not much of a mount. More like a hill. Savannah acted like she was irked that I had resorted to violence defending her honor. And, while she wouldn’t admit it, maybe a little flattered.
“I never realized Buddhists go around pounding people.”
“Only when they deserve it.”
She shook her head like she was disappointed in my behavior and downshifted.
“Well, anyway, I guess I should thank you.”
“Just don’t expect me to hold your umbrella or throw my coat down over any mud puddles. A man does have his limits, you know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Sea View Lane was twisty and narrow, an eclectic hodgepodge of old and new homes, most with canyon views. Smith’s house was a flat-roofed affair with stucco walls and metal-frame windows, cantilevered precariously over the lip of the canyon on wooden stilts that looked as if they might collapse with the mildest temblor. A black Lexus sedan with Nevada plates was parked out front, behind a VW Beetle with California tags and a bumper sticker that read, “Don’t Forget to Floss.” The white Honda coupe was nowhere to be seen. I tried not to look too obvious as we drove past.
There are thousands of Richard Smiths in America. And, as Czarnek had so astutely pointed out, the country is filled with white Hondas. So, yes, it was very possible that the Richard Smith who’d reported his credit card stolen, and whose Honda was purportedly observed by a crazy ex-cop leaving the scene of one murder, had nothing to do with another. But, I mean, c’mon. What are the odds?
Buddhists believe that events rarely happen by chance, that karma truly does govern the universe. As a budding Buddhist, I suppose I was about to find out. I directed Savannah to park down the street, around the corner and out of sight, which she did. I told her to stay put and got out of the car. She ignored my instructions and got out, too.
“You’re not in charge of me, Logan.”
“I’m not ordering you, Savannah. I’m asking. For your own good. Stay here.”
“If this man was involved in Arlo’s murder, I have a right to confront him.”
“You have a right to get hurt, too. I don’t want that to happen.” And then I said, impulsively, “I care too much about you.”
The expression on her face was something between disbelief and rapture. At least I think it was. Hell, I never could read the woman anyway.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“You said you cared about me. Isn’t that what you just said?”
“Yes, OK. I said I cared about you, Savannah. Can I go now?”
She smiled. “I care about you, too, Logan.”
“If he has anything relevant to say, I’ll come and get you.”
“Just call me. We do live in the Digital Age, you know. Most of us, anyway. Some of us still live in the Pleistocene Era.”
“Was that an insult?”
“Scientific observation.”
I grinned and started walking.
Richard Smith’s doorbell chimed like Big Ben. No one responded. I pushed the button again and pounded my fist on the door because nothing says “You have a visitor” like pounding and impatiently ringing at the same time. I tried the doorknob. Locked. No one appeared to be home.
There was an attached two-car garage. I stood on tiptoes and peeked in through a narrow transom window at the top of the door. No vehicles inside. No newspapers piled up on the short driveway. Two large terracotta clay pots planted with pink geraniums flanked the front door. I checked the soil in the pots. Damp. I looked in the mailbox out front. Empty. The postal carrier would’ve already come and gone, this late in the day. Somebody had to have picked up the mail.
I called directory assistance. The operator said she could find no listing for a Richard Smith on Sea View Lane. I took out a business card from my wallet, jotted “I need to speak with you,” and slipped the card under the front door.
My work was done.
I was on my way back to Savannah’s Jaguar when a two-door white Honda Accord with black-tinted windows and a spoiler on the back cruised past me. Smith’s garage door opened electronically. The Honda pulled into the driveway and rolled into the garage. A squat, middle-aged man in a brown UPS uniform got out of the car and retrieved two paper bags bulging with groceries from the trunk.
“Mr. Smith?”
He turned toward me, startled.
“Can I help you?”
“My name’s Logan. I’m looking into a murder that occurred up in the Valley a few weeks ago. A witness said he saw your car leaving the scene. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“A murder? There must be a mistake.”
“That’s possible, though the witness was pretty adamant he’d seen your car. This is your car, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s my car. But I just can’t understand who would ever possibly say something like that. I mean—” he laughed nervously— “I’m no murderer.”
“The witness is a former police officer.”
“Really?” Smith was beginning to breathe hard. His upper lip glistened with sweat. “You a cop, too?”
I knew he’d be more willing to talk if he assumed that I was.
“What do you think?”
“Well, I really don’t know what more I can tell you. I don’t know anything about any of this, OK? So, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to go in now. I’m not feeling too good. Must’ve been something I had for lunch.”
“Do you ever loan your car to anyone, Mr. Smith?”
“Loan my car? Umm, lemme think.”
He set his grocery bags down on a woodworking bench inside the garage and licked his lips, running the back of his left hand across his mouth. Hand tools hung from a pegboard behind the bench, with various power tools stored on shelves below.