The plush carpet in Walton’s office was the same color as in the reception area, only foam-padded and twice as deep. Carver’s cane sank into it as if it were cake.
Vincent Walton was standing behind his desk and smiling. He was a tall man with a long, handsome face and coarse dark hair with wings of gray combed straight back above his ears. He had a bristly, neatly trimmed mustache like a toothbrush that was also going gray. His eyes were genial but with a sparkle of the sort that suggested it was camouflage for what might be going on inside his head. His chalk-striped, double-breasted gray suit, pinched at the waist, looked like something from one of the catalogs in Gretch’s closet.
He said, “You a photographer?”
“Detective.” Carver decided to let Walton assume he was with the police.
“Private, I’ll bet,” Walton said, his gaze flicking to take in the cane.
Oh, well. “I’m trying to locate Carl Gretch.”
“He’s inherited some money, right?”
Carver was beginning to dislike Walton a lot. “He owes some people.”
“Well, can’t say I ever heard of him.”
“How about Enrico Thomas?”
Walton laughed. “Him I know. Enrico’s one of my models.” He sat down in the brown leather swivel chair behind his desk. On the wall behind him were framed photographs of more of his clients. Carver looked but didn’t see Gretch. “It’s not unusual for a model to use a pseudonym, especially if it makes him seem more ethnic. Enrico hasn’t been sent on a job for quite a while. It’s been so long, in fact, that I no longer know how to reach him.” He sat forward and rotated a large black knob that flipped cards in a huge Rolodex. “Last address I have on him is on McCrea Avenue. When I tried to call him about six months ago to go on a shoot, his phone had been disconnected. A letter I sent him came back to me, and I was told by the post office he’d moved and left no forwarding address.”
“Was he in much demand as a model?”
“For a while, until he became difficult. Ethnic male models as well as female are in demand these days, and Enrico has great personality and attitude.”
“Is that necessary in still photos?”
“Very much so. He carries himself with a kind of natural poise and arrogance that transfers well to film.”
“How did he become difficult?” Carver asked.
“Temper. He’d get in arguments with the photographers, sometimes the other models, and upset the mood on sets. A couple of times he threatened people. Once with a knife. You don’t last long in this business that way.” Walton winked at Carver. “I bet that’s why you’re looking for him, right? He lost his temper and punched somebody, maybe cut them. Got his ass sued and lost.”
“Something like that. Was he especially friendly with any of the other models?”
“Nope. Enrico sort of kept to himself. And this is a job. Most of my models barely know each other. They get called, they go on a shoot, they work hard while they’re there, then they go home and wait for another call. You should see how a lot of them dress at home. You’d never guess they were models. Most of them can’t afford the clothes they wear in front of the camera. Quite a few of them hold down other jobs.”
“Did Enrico have another job?”
“Not that I know of. Until he ran into problems, he got enough work to make a living. Like I said, he’s ethnic, and he’s good at what he does when he isn’t making trouble. The camera loves him.”
“Was he a favorite of any particular photographer?”
“Hold on a minute.” Walton stood up and walked to a black file cabinet and pulled open a drawer. He drew out a folder, opened it, and stood studying it for a few minutes. “Drew Kirk requested him several times. His studio’s over on Sixth Street.” He replaced the folder and slid the drawer shut on its smooth, noiseless tracks. He took a few steps toward his desk and stood still, making no move to sit back down.
Carver read the signal and stood up. He leaned on his cane and got one of his business cards from his pocket, handed it to Walton. “If Enrico gets in touch with you, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me.”
“Why should I do that?” There was no hostility in Walton’s voice. It was a simple, logical question, the “What’s in it for me?” asked by millions of businessmen every day. A guy like Walton wouldn’t dream of not asking it.
“Money,” Carver said.
Walton nodded. “Okay, I’ll call.”
Carver thanked him and started to wade through the carpet toward the door.
He stopped when he noticed the arrangement of photographs on the wall that had been behind him. They were all eight-by-ten head shots of male and female models. The second one from the left was of Maggie Rourke. She was wearing a low-cut something with puffed sleeves and smiling as if she’d just been pleasantly surprised by the photographer.
“Who’s that woman?” Carver asked, moving closer and pointing with his cane at Maggie, almost touching it to the photograph.
“Margaret Rourke,” Walton said without hesitation. “Maggie. She hasn’t worked for me for quite a while. In fact, she no longer models. I sent her out on a couple of shoots for a swim-wear catalog about ten months ago, then she quit the business and went into something else. I leave her photo up there because she looks so good.”
“That’s why she drew my eye,” Carver said. “She should be in movies.”
“Shouldn’t they all,” Walton said. “That’s what most of them think, anyway. As if looks is all it takes.”
Carver continued on toward the door.
Walking beside him, Walton said, “It’s a shame Enrico can’t get it together. He has the potential to be a top earner in this business.”
“Potential is for last-place ball clubs.”
“Yeah, I get your point,” Walton said.
Carver doubted it.
He said goodbye to Verna on the way out and she favored him with one of her sly, carnivorous smiles.
20
Drew Kirk’s studio was on a residential block of Sixth Street and looked like a house. It was, in fact, a large house, white stucco with a red tile roof and enameled red iron balconies and shutters. It was old like the rest of the houses on the block, but unlike many of them it was well maintained and the lawn was green and had been recently mowed. Kirk probably lived upstairs, where lace curtains showed at the windows.
The only indication that the ground floor was a studio was a small black and white sign that read DREW KIRK, INC at the bottom of one of the beveled windows that flanked the front door. A smaller sign said ENTER, so Carver did.
He found himself in a large, cool foyer that held the faint chemical scent of developer. A wide blue-carpeted staircase curved to the second floor, but there was a blue velvet rope strung across it. An arrow on a sheet of thin white cardboard pointed to the left, where a door was lettered DREW KIRK, INC in the same bold black print as the sign in the window. To the right were two closed doors, richly grained wood with white porcelain knobs.
Carver pushed open the DREW KIRK door and found himself in a reception room with a polished hardwood floor, black file cabinets, a long red sofa and matching chair, and a large desk that held an Apple computer. The computer’s screen was blank. There was no one behind the desk. The window looked out on the street; Carver could see the Olds squatting in the shade of a palm tree. The rust was barely evident from this distance.
Behind the desk was another door, and above it a green light and a red one, side by side like mismatched eyes. The green one was glowing, so Carver assumed it was okay to enter what must be the studio proper.
No one paid any attention to him when he opened the door and stepped into a surprisingly spacious studio littered with sets and equipment. The entire first floor of the house beyond the reception area had been made into one vast room broken only by supporting pillars and a walled-off corner that was probably the darkroom. At the far end of the room, a blond woman in a one-piece red swimming suit was standing in front of a pull-down backdrop of a beach with blue ocean and breeze-bent palm trees. A thin, intense-looking man wearing dark slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows was standing beside a tripod-mounted camera, saying something to the model and signaling her with short, choppy hand motions to move this way and that. A younger man with shoulder-length brown hair was standing off to the side, near one of several brilliant lights also mounted on tripods. He had on a gray tee shirt and wide red suspenders that weren’t necessary to hold up his tight, faded Levi’s. There were two large white umbrellas situated on each side of the set, carefully angled to reflect softened light onto the subject, who was holding a wine bottle.