They breaststroked slowly to the Indicator, whose side was cold and sharp under Shephard’s fingers as he reached out to steady himself. “The real lovers go to the Outside Indicator,” she said. “We may go there some night.” Both resting on the rock, they kissed again, but long and slow this time, a kiss only for the enjoyment of kissing. Then she slipped down and away and disappeared under the water until she surfaced a few yards closer toward shore, stroking evenly for the cove.
Exhausted, he followed.
Back in the cave they dried — she had brought two towels — and faced each other as they dressed. From her bag she brought a small Thermos and two cups, which she filled with coffee that was still steaming. She packed the flashlight last and they walked unsteadily back down the beach, and up the concrete steps to the sidewalk.
“Back to the real world,” he said. But it seemed intensified, hyper-real. He heard the faint patter of a moth in the lamplight above them, watched a spray of headlights from an oncoming car, turned back to Jane Algernon, whose face was beautiful and calm. “Let’s go to the hotel. Have a drink, We missed the sunset but we can see the moon.”
“No, Tom. But thank you. Be my friend. I need time. Please.”
Shephard considered her words, her face, the beauty of her body. And it seemed that for what she had offered, she was asking little in return.
She came close to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing his mouth close for a kiss. She rested her head on his chest for a long moment and when she turned her face to him he saw that she was crying.
Then she was moving down the sidewalk, the sound of wooden sandals on concrete, the moth above her head tracing halos of light in the beam of the street lamp.
Sixteen
Shephard got Marla Collins’s number from the operator, took his telephone to the center of the floor, and sat down. He was chilled and sandy, but the salt felt rough and good on his skin. Cal took an interest in the salt, licking his elbow until Shephard spilled him over for a belly scratch. Cal quivered a hind leg as if he were doing it himself. Marla Collins sounded less businesslike than she did at South Coast Investigators, her voice slurred and nearly obliterated by loud music.
“Marla, this is Randy Cox. I met you at work...”
“Randy Cox, you’re as phony as a flocked Christmas tree,” she said without humor.
“I’m not much on flocked trees myself. I suppose Bruce blew my cover. I’m Tom Shephard, Laguna cops.”
“Well, I’m still just plain old Marla, so what do you want?”
“You don’t sound too happy.”
“It’s Friday night and I’m having a party. Except I didn’t invite anybody. The wine is gone and the record skips. Other than that I’m happier than hell. Tommy, dear, excuse me while I pour a vodka.” The line banged at the other end and Shephard heard the last of a Pretenders song before she picked up the receiver again. “Don’t mean to pout. Now, what do you want from Marla Collins?”
“I want to know who Bruce Harmon works for. Any and all clients over the last two months.” The record ended and Shephard heard ice clinking in a glass.
“Bruce wasn’t too happy when you left that day.”
“I wouldn’t be happy if I was covering up a murder.”
“Oh my. Don’t you coppers lean toward melodrama.”
“A man named Tim Algernon was burned to death Monday morning in Laguna. No melodrama. The guy who did it checked into a hotel an hour later. But he had a visitor before I got there. The visitor was your Mr. Harmon, but he didn’t bother to use his real name. And since he says he’s engaged by an attorney, that’s all he’ll tell me. Anybody with air in his lungs could tell there’s more.” The ice clinked again and Shephard heard Marla Collins gulp.
“I don’t know how much air I’ve got left, but I do have a job. That’s not all bad.”
“I can pay you a little.”
“You missed the point by half a mile. The point is that people have a right to do legal work, right? I mean, what if Bruce is on the up and up?”
“Then that’s where it will end. I was hoping you could tell me that I’m wasting my time. Maybe he’s got a legitimate concern. Tell me he does. Make me happy.”
There was a long pause at the other end. Shephard heard the crackle of a match being struck close to the receiver.
“You know, Shephard, and bear in mind that this is a bottle of Zinfandel and a stiff vodka talking, I must say that I’m a little disappointed in your call. I thought that maybe this Randy Cox thought plain little Marla had her charms.”
“Maybe he did.”
Another long pause. “Sorry. I say things I shouldn’t when I’m pissed. Do them, too.”
“And regret them?”
“Sometimes I take the chance. I’d take it tonight. Busy?”
“Somebody just took the same chance and she looked a little bad when she walked away. That might make a difference to us both.”
“If you mention it, it does. Look, Shephard. Call me back sometime. I’ll think about it. I’m not in the business of biting the hand that feeds me. Tell the truth, I’m not sure if I like you or not.”
“Neither am I. But I am sure that Bruce Harmon has been a few places he didn’t belong. He seems to show up close on the heels of dead people. You can tell me who pays him to do it.”
Shephard could hear her draw on a cigarette. When her voice came back, it was thin and smoke-filled.
“He’s such an ass,” she said flatly. “Nothing surprises me any more.” He thought she was about to talk, but she offered only a quick cheerio and hung up.
At eleven o’clock he watched the rerun of his father’s Sunday sermon on Wade’s TV channel, KNEW. The service was unorthodox by denominational standards, a Church of New Life trademark. First, a gospel rock group called The Word took the stage and launched into a country-and-western ballad based on the life of Christ. The church cameramen moved in and out for close-ups, fades, montage shots of the band, and intercut them with frequent moves to the audience. Shephard studied the faces. They were young and healthy, attentive to the music. The camera found a young mother and her infant, whom she was rocking gently to the beat of the song.
Three songs later the band left the stage and his father strode on, dressed as always in a light suit and white shirt, open at the collar. His hair shone silver in the bright lights, his face was flushed, rosy, alive. He took his place behind a modest pulpit and raised his hands for the applause to stop. When it did, he smiled into the camera and studied the faces before him.
“When I look out to your faces I see the power of the Lord at work,” he intoned. “Praise Him!”
“Praise the Lord,” his audience shouted back.
He smiled again, then leaned forward and looked at someone in the first row. “Very few of us here this morning really know each other,” he began. “I see husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, good friends. But of the thousand people in this temple now, all worshipping Him, how many do you really know?” He searched the audience as if trying to answer the question for himself. “I would think that no one here today truly knows more than two or three of the people sitting in this House of God.” Then quietly: “I know I don’t.”