“But you’ve been there for her if she needed you, all this time?”
“Yes,” Zabriskie said.
I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. It didn’t clear the sweat but it smeared it around for a moment.
“Did you remarry?” I said.
“Yes,” Zabriskie said. He smiled. “Three more wives,” he said.
“You don’t have any idea why someone would wish to hurt her?”
“Jill?”
“Yes.”
“No. Jill is a lovely girl, and very successful.”
I nodded. I rolled my lower lip over my upper one. It wasn’t much but it was all I could think of to do.
“Still married?” I said.
“Not at the moment,” Zabriskie said.
I did my trick with the lower lip again. Spenser, master interrogator, never at a loss.
“Okay,” I said. “Well, thanks a lot, Mr. Zabriskie.”
I stood up.
“You’re welcome,” Zabriskie said. He stood up. I walked to the door and opened it. I smiled at him. He smiled at me. Serenely. I went out. He closed the door.
Chapter 28
I STOOD in Forest Lawn Cemetery and looked down I at the marker. Candace Sloan, it said. B. 1950 D. 1981. The headstones stretched out around me in all directions, measuring the green sweep of the hillside. Behind me the rental car was parked on the drive. My suitcase was in it with the big red letters spelling ADIDAS On the side. In an hour and a half I’d be flying to Boston. In six or seven hours I’d be with Susan.
There were flowers at many of the grave sites. And there were a few other people looking at gravestones the way I was. The only sound was the swish of the water sprinklers as they arched repetitiously over the green grass; and, more distantly, the sound of traffic on the Ventura Freeway; and, over all, the hard silence-made more resounding by the hints of punctuation.
I could feel the high hot California sun on the back of my neck as I stood with my hands in my hip pockets staring down at Candy’s grave. I hadn’t been there for the funeral. The last time I’d seen her was in a degenerating oil field, faceup in a hard rain with the blood washing pinkish off her face.
I pursed my lips a little.
Above us the sky was bright blue. There were a few white clouds and they were moving very lazily west toward the Pacific. Some sort of bird chittered somewhere. On the freeway a truck shifted gears on a grade. Still I stared down at the grass in front of the headstone. She wasn’t there. Whatever there was of her there didn’t matter. She probably wasn’t anywhere. I looked up and back, toward the Valley and beyond the Valley, toward the mountains. There wasn’t any smog today, and the snowcaps on some of the highest peaks were clear to see, white above the clay color of the mountains.
None of the stuff that anyone had ever written seemed useful. I had nothing much to offer either. The bird chittered again. Above me the clouds drifted west, and the sun imperceptibly followed. The sky stayed blue, the earth below stayed green. I looked again briefly at the gravestone and blew out my breath once, and turned and walked back toward my rental car.
“Some bodyguard,” I said, and even though I spoke softly, my voice sounded very loud in the still burial ground and the words seemed to hang there as I drove away.
Chapter 29
REALITY again. Outside Quirk’s office, looking down into an alley off Stanhope Street, the temperature was maybe fifteen. The grime-streaked snow was packed like concrete in the rutted areas where the plows couldn’t get because there were always cars. Inside Quirk’s office was Marty Riggs, the big executive- from Zenith Meridien. He had hung up his long scarf. He was holding forth intensely to an audience composed of Quirk; me; Sandy Salzman; Milo Nogarian, the executive producer; Herb Brodkey, a lawyer for Zenith; and Morris Callahan, a lawyer for the network.
“Who the hell was guarding her?” Riggs said. He was every inch the captain of a damaged ship, angry and indomitable in the face of near disaster.
“Spenser assured us the guy was very good,” Salzman said.
I looked at Quirk. His face was expressionless. He was carefully looking at a paper clip, manipulating it in his fingers, apparently trying to straighten it out with only one hand.
“Well, where is he? He’s so good, why isn’t he here?”
Quirk glanced at me and smiled faintly. Riggs saw him.
“Something amusing you, Lieutenant?”
“Whether Hawk’s good enough hasn’t got anything to do with whether Hawk’s here, if you see what I mean. It’s, you might say, ah…” He revolved his hand at me to fill in.
“Non sequitur,” I said.
“Don’t get cute with me, Lieutenant. This is your case and so far you haven’t shown me anything.”
“Actually, Mr. Riggs, it’s not my case. You asked for this meeting, and being a courteous person and a dedicated public servant, I agreed. But my case is who killed your stunt woman. What happened to your star is missing persons-unless she turns up dead.”
“Bureaucracy,” Riggs said. “Herb, I told you we should have arranged a meeting with the commissioner.”
Brodkey looked like Fernando Lamas. He had a rich tan and his nails gleamed. He had probably last been in criminal court when they indicted Fatty Arbucklc. He made a placating gesture at Riggs.
“I understand you’ve interviewed the bodyguard,” Brodkey said.
“Sergeant Belson did,” Quirk said. “He knows Hawk. It’s easier that way.”
“Is this man getting special treatment?” Riggs snapped.
“Not like you are,” Quirk said softly.
“This is a difficult case, Lieutenant. Just tell us what you know.” It was Callahan, the network lawyer. He had white hair and a big nose and the look of a man eager to get the 7:30 shuttle back to New York. Even if it was on time there was still the ride to Greenwich.
“Hawk took Miss Joyce back to the hotel as usual,” Quirk said. “It was about six-fifteen. He sat with her while she had a couple of drinks in the bar, and then he started to turn her over to hotel security. But she insisted that he take her up to her room himself. When he did she went in and left the door ajar. He started to close it when she screamed. Hawk went into the room, and when he did she closed the door and stood in front of it and laughed and said she wanted to see what he’d do if she screamed.”
Quirk looked at me. “It is, I understand, a ploy she’s used in the past.”
No one said anything.
“Miss Joyce then insisted that Hawk make love to her. He declined, courteously he says.” Again Quirk looked at me. I didn’t say anything. “She was starting to disrobe,” Quirk said.
“In front of the goddamned buck nigger?” Riggs said.
“His name’s Hawk,” I said.
“Well, what are we, touchy?”
“Call him Hawk,” I said.
“I’ll call him what I goddamned please,” Riggs said. “I’ve got more to take up with you later.”
“Call him Hawk,” I said, “or I will bounce your ass down two flights of stairs and out onto Berkeley Street.”
“You heard that, Lieutenant? You heard him threaten me.”
“Call him Hawk,” Quirk said. He kept his gaze on Riggs for a moment and no one spoke. Then Quirk continued. “Hawk was apparently sincere in his disinterest. While she was disrobing he moved her forcibly but, ah, graciously, as I understand it, from the door and left. He told hotel security on his way out that they had her for the night, and he went home.”
Quirk looked around the room. Riggs was still angry and struggling to find circumstances in which he could be commanding. The lawyers sat like lawyers, being careful. Salzman was leaning back in his chair, his legs out before him, his arms folded across his chest.
“Sometime that night, she left the hotel. Probably went out the back door, down the steps to University Road, to dodge the Cambridge prowl car out front, cut through JFK Park, walked up to Harvard Square. She got a cab near the Harvard Coop. He took her to Boston, to the Four Seasons Hotel. Said he dropped her off there about I0:00 P.M. She registered, under her own name, gave them an American Express card and went upstairs. She had no luggage. In the morning she had breakfast sent up about quarter to seven, and that’s the last anyone has seen of her.”