“This is what you meant the other day, isn’t it?” Frost asked. “You were concerned about rumors. You thought they were leading up to some kind of specific accusation.”
Herb nodded. “The rumors soften people up to believe the worst about me. They’ll say I killed Silvia and hid her body.”
“But you’re innocent,” Frost said.
“Of murder? Yes, of course. But I already told you that I was a different man back then. After so much time, innocence becomes a slippery thing. Mark my words, Frost. They’re coming for me.”
Frost’s fingers tightened around the coffee mug. He took a sip, but it had turned cold in the morning air. “It can’t be a coincidence that this is happening right now.”
“Oh no. This had to have been planned for some time, but for them to pull the trigger now? In the midst of your investigation? That’s not an accident. It’s a shot across the bow. Someone is painting a target on me, Frost. Which also suggests they’re painting a target on you.”
“They want me to stop going after Lombard,” Frost said.
“Yes, I suspect that’s the message.”
“I walk away, and the lawyer goes away, too. The rumors about you stop.”
“Precisely.”
Frost studied the ordinary little Victorian house on the other side of the street. In his eyes, fifty years washed away. He could imagine it painted in wild colors, windows open in the summer, scratchy vinyl records playing Jefferson Airplane. He could see the young people on the hot streets, long haired, topless. And in the midst of it was Herb, when his hair wasn’t gray and his knees were good and there were no lines of wisdom and age on his skin.
“Do you want me to stop?” Frost asked. “Say the word, and I will. Headquarters thinks Diego Casal killed Denny. No one wants me to dig further. Lombard can stay a myth for all I care.”
Herb reached across the small table and took hold of Frost’s wrist. His grip was fiercely strong, and his gravelly voice was like a needle getting to the end of an old LP. “Absolutely, unequivocally, no.”
“You’re my best friend, Herb,” Frost told him. “I will not let these people destroy you.”
“Oh, I’m an old man. There’s very little they can do to me now. If I know one thing about you, Frost, it’s that you have a moral code. Remember what your old boss, Ms. Salceda, used to say? You’re a Boy Scout. You won’t compromise yourself. I certainly won’t have you do it for me.”
“If I talk to Detlowe’s wife,” Frost said, “they’ll know I haven’t given up. At that point, there’s no going back.”
“Then talk to her. Find the truth. We both know Lombard is real. You need to expose him.”
They sat in silence as the day brightened, and more people arrived at the café, and traffic began to fill the streets. Frost finished his cold coffee. He knew further argument was wasted with Herb, and in the end, his friend was right. Frost couldn’t stop. That wasn’t who he was.
He began to get up from the table, but as he did, Herb motioned him back.
“One more thing,” Herb murmured so that only the two of them could hear. “If Lombard is everything we suspect, then he’s a resourceful and violent enemy. You need to be extremely careful. He’s your Moriarty, Frost. Taking him down will be the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done.”
27
Marjorie Detlowe lived in a small row house south of the fog-swept trails of Lincoln Park. The rocky overlook at the Pacific coast was only two blocks away, and the damp chill of the ocean was always in the air. It was an old neighborhood, but the house looked new, with fresh blue paint, bright-white Tudor crossbeams, and a single steep gable. A red MINI Cooper was parked in the driveway.
The forty-something woman who answered the door had fluffy hair that was more silver than blond. She wore a white crocheted sweater and pleated slacks that were loose enough to hide a couple of extra pounds on her frame. At her feet, a gray terrier barked excitedly until she bent down and scooped him into her arms.
“Ms. Detlowe?” Frost said. “I’m Inspector Frost Easton. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about Alan.”
Her smile was friendly, but her head cocked in surprise. “I’m sorry, isn’t Trent Gorham still with the police? I thought he was in charge of Alan’s investigation.”
“He is, but Alan’s name came up in the context of a different case. I’m following up.”
“Oh, all right. You better come in.”
She waved him through the doorway and put down the dog, which scampered ahead of them to the living room. Frost took a seat on the sofa, and the dog jumped up and sniffed around him, as if immediately suspicious that Frost was a cat person. Marjorie sat on the adjacent love seat and patted the cushion beside her, and the dog quickly relocated to her lap.
“Let me say first how sorry I am for your loss,” Frost said.
“Thank you. Three years probably seems like a long time, but it may as well have been yesterday. You learn to live with it, but you never get over it. And please, call me Marjorie. I’m a police widow. We’re all part of the same team. You said your name was Frost?”
“That’s right.”
“What an unusual name. I like it. Well, what can I tell you, Frost?”
He hesitated because he wasn’t sure if the cordial rapport between them would evaporate with his first question. “This is actually a little awkward.”
“Oh, please don’t worry about that. Charge ahead. What do you want to know?”
“I believe you’re familiar with a private detective named Richard Coyle,” Frost said.
Marjorie turned her eyes down to her lap. She stroked her fingers idly through her dog’s curly fur. “Ah. Now I see.”
“Mr. Coyle told me that you hired him to follow your husband not long before he was murdered.”
“Yes, I did. I feel stupid about it now. I hope Alan never found out. I would feel awful to think that he knew I didn’t trust him, given what happened.”
“If you don’t mind my asking — why didn’t you trust him?”
Marjorie shook her head and looked embarrassed. “Oh, it was as much me as him. It was a time of my life where I wasn’t feeling good about myself. I’d gone through cancer treatment and had major surgery done. It took an emotional toll, not just a physical toll. I had trouble seeing myself as an attractive woman after that. I became obsessed with the idea that Alan was going to look elsewhere, that he would never be satisfied with me again. Part of it was his job, of course. He dealt with all these women whose lives revolved around sex. It had never bothered me before, but at that particular juncture, I questioned everything.”
“I’m sorry,” Frost said.
“That was the worst year of my life. First the cancer, then Alan’s murder. Afterward, I felt guilty about having him followed, because Mr. Coyle never found any evidence that he was unfaithful. You’d think that would have made me feel better, but it only made me feel worse about what I’d done. I was caught up in this awful cycle of jealousy and self-hatred. Of course, it didn’t help that Alan was such a handsome man. Have you seen pictures of him?”
Frost shook his head. “I haven’t.”
Marjorie reached into a pocket for her phone. “All I have left of him are a few digital photos.”
She handed him the phone, and Frost saw a picture of Alan Detlowe with his wife at what was obviously a Christmas party. He could see mistletoe above them, and Alan wore a big smile as his wife kissed his cheek. Alan was tall and broad shouldered, with trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and a discreet mustache. His chin was chiseled and square. Marjorie was right. He was a good-looking man.