When she calmed down again, I asked: "Did he have any company today?"
It was Mr. Ruiz who answered this time. "No sir. He didn' have no visitors since you the other day."
That made the supper date doubly suspicious. He must have eaten somewhere fairly near, though, to have left at 5:30 and gotten back at 7:28. But there are a lot of restaurants between, say, Santa Barbara and Ventura.
After a few more questions, we left. As we drove back to Santa Barbara, I found my attention going to two people: Veronica Ashley and Donald Pasco, two unlikely suspects. Presumably Veronica was more or less Ashkenazi's age, and I couldn't imagine a woman of, say 55 or 60 years climbing that encina. As far as that was concerned, I couldn't picture Pasco doing it either, and anyway he'd been in jail by then. Following that line of reasoning, the gunman must have been a hired professional, and it occurred to me the supper date might have been to get the gunman onto the property.
But that really didn't make sense, and anyway it felt wrong. Also it seemed to require the cooperation of the servants, who then would hardly have told me about the supper date.
I decided I'd better sleep on it.
11
I woke up the next morning knowing what I had to do. Not why, but what.
Meanwhile there was the matter of breakfast. The night before, when I'd arrived back at the Larchmont Station, I'd stopped at a Nielsen's, bought a half gallon of butter brickle, went home and binged out. So to partly make up for it, I had fat-free cottage cheese for breakfast, with Rye Krisp, carrot sticks, and black coffee. My low-fat, high-protein penance. Then, having halfway atoned for the binge, I went to the office and accessed the state's data on Veronica Ashley.
It started with her current address and phone number, then got into more personal stuff. She'd been born Veronica Sue Pipolli, on 10 November 1950, in Culver City. An Angelena all the way. Married Eldon Robert Ashley on 21 March 1972, received her BS in biology magna cum laude from UCLA on 2 June '73, and her MS in molecular biology two years later. After five years as a lab technician in the med school there, she'd moved to the genetics research lab in the biology department, as a senior research assistant. It was a level she'd stay at for twenty years, the cost of not having a doctorate. In April of 2000, she'd been jumped to research associate. Like everything else, the research staff and supply of new Ph.D.s had been decimated by the Great Flu and EVM, and they needed to fill vacancies, Ph.D. or not.
Her father had died in an auto accident in October '75, her mother in the Great Flu in December '99.
She had memberships in Phi Kappa Phi, which given her scholastic record was no surprise. And the Church of God in Science, which Ashkenazi had already told me.
And Veronica Ashley had a criminal record! Not much of a record—a misdemeanor: disturbing the peace. Specifically, blocking the entrance of a church and interfering with worship during a demonstration outside a Church of the New Gnosis in West L.A., in June 2006. The New Gnus were supposedly into psychic practices. In August '09 she'd been detained, then released without charge, after allegedly throwing rotten eggs at windows and doors of the Hollywood Hilton, and at security officers, during a demonstration against an International Conference of Parapsychologists.
So Veronica was not only a COGS. She was an activist member. Whatever malice she may have felt for her brother-in-law earlier, his new astrology must have pushed her buttons pretty hard.
I figured to go talk to her, and to Eldon if he seemed mentally functional. But just now she'd be at work, so it was time to follow up on the only real lead I had, thin though it seemed. Data Center got me the record of the previous day's phone traffic to and from Ashkenazi's residence. There almost wasn't any: Two calls received through his answering service, and one on the direct line. That one was made from a Dairy Delite in Ventura, at 5:14 p.m. The timing fitted perfectly, though Dairy Delites weren't the kind of place at which I pictured Ashkenazi eating.
I keyed directory assistance, and a page came onto my screen. There was only one Dairy Delite in Ventura, the cursor flashing beside it. The number didn't match the one on the list of phones, but that was no surprise. The call to Ashkenazi would have been from their pay phone.
I memorized the address without trying, a matter of simply intending to remember. It's a knack I have that's a lot handier than writing everything down. Next, accessing the Data Center again, I got color copies of the photos from Veronica's and Ashkenazi's driver's licenses. Finally I called the Ventura Dairy Delite number, which got me an order girl, as I'd expected. I asked her who worked the cash register weekdays at suppertime. The manager did, she told me. He came in at noon and usually stayed till 9 or 10.
Carlos had looked in while I was on the line to Ventura, so I went to see what he wanted. He'd had a call from an Inspector Zebriski in Sacramento, Sergeant Luciano's big boss. The DNA print from the semen was Pasco's. The district attorney said they had an ironclad case. The inspector was very happy with Prudential, which of course could mean future business for us, and reflected back on me. I could have that. I didn't plan to be a junior investigator all my life.
12
After lunch I drove to Ventura and found the Dairy Delite. I'd never been in one before. It turned out to be more than just an ice-cream place. They had burgers, chicken, a salad bar . . . the whole list. It was a little past two. The guy at the cash register wore a tag that said Frank, and beneath it, Manager. I showed him my ID and contract cards, and asked to talk to him privately. He led me into his office. The plaque on the door said Mr. Piper.
I showed him the pictures of Ashkenazi and Veronica Ashley, and asked if he'd ever seen either of them before. Not so far as he knew, he said. "What'd they do? Rob a bank?"
"One of them died," I told him. "The other one didn't." Then, for no reason I can think of, I added, "The poisoner and the poisonee."
"Huh! If you know that, why snoop around any further?"
"You go to court with as much evidence as you can muster."
I had a fishburger then and left. It felt as if I'd just wasted a couple of hours on a false lead, but in my profession you get used to that. The names of the game are patience and thoroughness. Two of the names.
* * *
My next stop would be Veronica Ashley's place, but I didn't want to get there too early. A little before she got home from work would be about right. Maybe 5:15. So it being a nice sunny day, I drove to a nearby beach, took off my shoes, and had a nice, hour-long hike along the surf line, enjoying the feel and smell of the sea breeze and getting my feet wet now and then. After letting Fidela know, back at the office. When I got back to the car, I rolled down my windows, let the seat back, and took a short nap. My car computer woke me up at 3:30, and I headed for Westwood, and Veronica Ashley's address. It was an older house, probably from before World War Two, because the glass doors had a lot of little diamond-shaped panes instead of being single panes of safety glass. It was two-story, pseudo-Moorish pink stucco, and had a small balcony upstairs with a little wrought-iron railing. Tall Washingtonia palms stood along the curb, and the walk to the front door had a big date palm on each side. There were glossy-leaved shrubs in front, with big pink blossoms, a kind you see a lot of in L.A. but I never heard a name for.
It occurred to me I was resisting going to the door, so I took myself by the scruff and started walking. Then there was nothing for it but to ring the doorbell. A big, strong-looking black lady answered, wearing a light green uniform like a nurse's. I introduced myself, showing my ID, and told her I'd come to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Ashley. I figured Veronica wouldn't be there yet, and I was right. The nurse? housekeeper? also told me that Mr. Ashley didn't see anyone.