I licked my index finger and held it up. "Check the wind," I said.
Chapter 23
"Try the American Dental Association," I said to Joyce. I was standing in a pay phone on Ventura Boulevard. Across the street, furtive-looking men stole in and out of an adult bookstore.
"I don't have to," she said. "That's what he is, a dentist. He's listed in the ADA data base. How'd you know?"
"Just a guess. Have you talked to the DEA?"
"Yeah, that's what's odd. He graduated in 1972 but he only registered with the DEA seven years ago."
"That's about right," I said. "Where'd he practice?"
"I don't know. He graduated from a college in New York."
"Good work. Just to make sure, can you check with New York to see if he was certified there? He probably practiced in or near a town called Utica."
There was a pause. "It's after five o'clock there," she said. "They'll probably be closed."
"Tomorrow morning is fine."
I figured Brooks worked until five-thirty or six, so I had a few hours. I dialed my own number and entered a two-digit code when I heard my recorded voice say hello.
"Number of messages," the machine announced, "four." I hated its smug tone of voice, and also the fact that the damn thing couldn't count.
"One," it said.
"Simeon? Roxanne." Music was very loud in the background. She must have been calling from McGinty's of Malibu, the bar where she worked. "I've been cold the last couple of nights. I drove by last night, but no Alice, and I didn't feel like getting threatened with another piece of firewood. Give me a call if you feel like sharing your warm feet." There was a pause. "Everybody here is very drunk," she said.
"One," the machine said again.
"I am Mrs. Yount," Mrs. Yount said. "That house is a mess, mister. I was just there. There's no excuse for it. Now, normally I'd just tell you to move out. But if you find Fluffy I'll forget all about it. I know she's alive. I could feel it in the inside of my bosom if she wasn't. I want to hear from you, young man." She hung up decisively.
"One," the machine said implacably.
"This is Al Hammond, goddamm it." I pushed the six button on the pay phone and the machine skipped to the next message. "One," The machine said.
"May you roast in hell," I said.
The next caller had hung up. I started to do the same.
"One," said the machine.
"You said four," I told it.
"Wo," Dexter Smif said. "Mus' be you busy. Man can't return his calls mus' be on the go mostly all the time. Just lettin' you know they a man of talent available. I ain't gonna give you my number again. If you done lost it I don't want to work with you anyways."
Dexter hung up. This time I waited. "Last message," the machine said. "Thank you for-" I was already heading for the car.
Brooks wasn't in the directory. The list of the Church board of directors, to which he belonged, didn't bother with addresses. So at five-fifteen, having dropped Eleanor's suitcase at the Times, I was parked in my invisible gray Camaro across the street from the exit to an underground parking structure in Century City. I'd circled the structure twice, dismayed at finding two exits. For a moment I'd actually thought of calling Dexter. But then what would we have done? Talked to each other on our two-way wrist radios?
I finally calmed down. One of the exits led south and the other led north. South was Culver City, Palms, Mar Vista- perfectly nice places for secretaries and support staff to live.
North was Westwood, Bel Air, Beverly Hills, and several other perfectly nicer places. I had Brooks pegged as a Westwood man. Quiet and substantial.
At five-forty on the dot he came out. He'd made it easy for me by putting down the top on his cream-colored Mercedes. The streetlights flickered and then hummed above us as I followed him down the Avenue of the Stars to Santa Monica Boulevard.
At the stoplight, he checked himself out in the rearview mirror. He smoothed his hair, examined his teeth briefly, and then rubbed his chin. He seemed pretty happy with what he saw. Of course, he'd had a lot of time to get used to it.
He turned left onto Santa Monica and then right onto a cute, crooked little street that edges along the golf course of a country club. I've never known which club it is. I stayed about thirty yards behind him, just close enough to squeak through a yellow light if one got frisky with me.
Together we crossed Wilshire. He drove fast and economically, downshifting when he wanted to slow. I don't think he hit his brakes once except for the stoplights. He hit them again in the middle of the very expensive part of Beverly Glen that stretches for about half a mile south of Sunset. Then he turned right, into the yard of a big traditional colonial house with white shutters.
There was a paved parking area to the right of the house with a detached carport at the end of it. By the time he had the car in the carport, I had passed the house, parked the Camaro under a tow-away sign, and was crossing the yard. Jingling something in his pocket, he strode across the paving stones to the front door. He had no inkling of my presence behind him until he put the key in the lock and turned it and I pulled out the nasty little gun and touched it lightly to the back of his neck.
He froze in a well-bred fashion. Then he slowly turned his head to look at me. When he saw my face, his muscles relaxed slightly.
"Mr. Swinburne," he said. "How tiresome."
"It'll get more interesting," I said. "And you know my real name. You're the one who had me hired in the first place."
"And why would I do that?"
"Because you weren't sure you could trust the people you gave Sally to. And you were right. You couldn't."
"Sally who?" he said without conviction. It sounded as though it was purely for form's sake.
I gave the back of his neck a little jab with the gun. "Open the door," I said. "We'll talk inside."
"You won't use that," he said.
"After what I've seen today, I wouldn't think about it twice."
"Today?"
"I talked to Wilburforce. And I paid a visit to Jessica. She's certainly on the road to recovery, isn't she? What is it besides Valium addiction?"
"Oral insulin," he said after a beat. "It keeps her blood sugar abnormally low. She's not in any danger."
"She's a junkie," I said. "You've turned a child into an addict. Two other people are dead. Maybe three. I wouldn't any more worry about shooting you than I would about stepping on a slug."
He pursed his mouth. "Then I guess we'd better go in," he said. He turned the key and the door swung open.
"Just a minute," I said. With my free hand I patted his jacket pockets. "Put your hands in your pockets," I said, "and keep them there. I'll get the key."
He did as he was told, and we stepped into a big entrance hall furnished in what looked like genuine Early American. A pine dry-sink filled with an autumnal arrangement of bare branches, grasses, and pine cones stood at its far end.
"Have you got a study?"
"Of course." He sounded affronted.
"Which way?"
"To the left."
"Let's go."
I lowered the gun to his middle back and followed him into an enormous cathedral-beamed living room. Lamps burned here and there. As we entered, a pleasant-looking gray-haired lady in a blue silk dress stood up from the couch, laying down an embroidery hoop as she rose.
"Why, Merry," she said with obvious delight. "You're early."
"I got to missing you," he said. "Dear, this is Mr. Grist. Simeon Grist. Mr. Grist, my wife, Adelaide."
"I'm so pleased to meet you," she said, crossing the room with her hand extended. "You've brought Merry home early."
I dropped the gun into my pocket and shook her very slender hand. "It was his idea," I said. "We could have done this anywhere."
"Well, aren't you sweet. Merry's usually business, business, business. I just know you had a hand in this, and I'm grateful. I don't get enough time with this husband of mine."