“Where should we lose it — a shopping mall?”
“Why not?”
They found a parking space on the fourth level of the Santa Monica Place mall at Third and Broadway, which was only a short walk to the edge of the continent. They rode escalators up and down until they found a floor that featured a string of ethnic-food stands where Wu bought two cups of espresso and carried them over to a table Durant had claimed.
After Wu sat down, he took out the handkerchief-wrapped notebook that had “1991” stamped in gold on its black leather cover. The handkerchief had soaked up virtually all the blood and Wu used a paper napkin to wipe away what little was left. He then wadded his handkerchief up into the paper napkin, enclosed both in yet another napkin, rose and dropped everything into a nearby trash bin.
Wu sat back down, opened the notebook and began turning pages. Durant sipped his espresso and decided it was too weak. Wu reached for his cup, sipped it, went back to the notebook and murmured, “Good coffee.”
Durant rose. “I’ll go call Booth.”
Wu nodded, completely absorbed by the notebook.
Durant finally found a bank of pay telephones only to discover he no longer remembered what it cost to make a call. Was it a quarter or thirty-five cents? He dropped in three quarters and tapped out the Malibu number with its 456 exchange. When Stallings answered on the third ring, Durant identified himself and said, “We have to lose the Lincoln.”
“What d’you want me to do?”
“Call the rental agency — which one is it?”
“Budget.”
“Tell them it was stolen last night and you just discovered it missing.”
“Where’d you lose it — just out of curiosity?”
“On the fourth level of the Santa Monica Place mall with its windows up and doors locked.”
“Then they’ll find it this afternoon,” Stallings said. “Want me to rent you another car?”
“Get something grander — since Artie might have to put in an appearance as the mysterious Mr. X.”
“I’m Mr. X,” Stallings said. “He’s Mr. Z. What about a Mercedes — a big one?”
“Perfect,” Durant said.
When Durant returned to the table, he found Wu sitting with his clasped hands resting on the leather-bound notebook. “Booth’s getting us another car,” Durant said. “A Mercedes.”
Wu nodded and said, “His name was Carlos Santillan. He would’ve been thirty-one in May. He owed seventy-six thousand on his house, around twenty-six hundred on that old Cadillac, and both monthly payments amounted to around nine hundred and something. He was single but the person to be notified in case of accident or death is Rosa Alicia Chavez, whose address is just four doors up from his house on the other side of the street. She must be the woman who came running to see what’d happened. Miss Chavez is twenty-six.”
“How do you know?”
“He wrote her birthday right after her address and phone number.”
“He write everything down?” Durant asked.
“His car and house were insured by Allstate. He banked at Security Pacific. He was a 1978 graduate of SaMoHi.”
Durant frowned, then nodded. “Santa Monica High School.”
“He was five-eleven,” Wu continued, “weight one-sixty-one, had brown hair, brown eyes, and was scheduled to have his teeth cleaned in two weeks.”
“He did write it all down,” Durant said.
“Everything. A week ago yesterday he had an appointment to pick up Mr. And Mrs. Goodison at Cousin Colleen’s Bed and Breakfast Inn in Topanga Canyon. There’s nothing in his notebook about where he was to take them. I don’t think he knew.”
“Maybe he talked to somebody about them?” Durant said. “God knows they’re weird enough.”
“By somebody, you mean Rosa Alicia Chavez.”
Durant nodded.
“If we tried to talk to her, she’d yell for the cops,” Wu said. “At least I hope she would.”
“Did his notebook list any organizations he belonged to — a union, business association, maybe a fraternal order?”
“You mean one that might provide his survivors or heirs with a small death benefit?”
“Say, two thousand dollars,” Durant said.
“I think the ILOA might,” Wu said. “That’s the Independent Limousine Operators Association, which just this moment sprang into existence.”
“Who d’you think — Otherguy?”
“Otherguy could handle it nicely,” Wu said. “But Booth would do even better. He’s older and more, well, grandfatherly, although I don’t think he’d appreciate the description.”
“Sure he would,” Durant said. “Booth likes being the oldest. He’s got fifteen or twenty years on us and Otherguy and a lot more than that on Georgia. And although he enjoys being the in-house patriarch, the real reason he likes hanging out with us is because he thinks we’re all fellow anachronisms.”
“The hell he does,” Wu said. “You ever think of yourself as an anachronism?”
“No, but some days I do feel kind of quaint.”
“Yes, well, some days so do I.”
Twenty-three
The first thing Georgia Blue had done that morning, even before she drank any coffee, was call the Department of Motor Vehicles and use a cold formal tone and some Secret Service jargon to demand and receive the name and address that belonged to the LUXRY 3 license plate.
She handed the information to Durant, who had just poured his first cup of coffee in the late William Rice’s elaborate kitchen that was almost large enough for a small hotel. Durant looked at the slip of paper, grunted his thanks and headed for the deck, where he could drink the coffee alone without having to talk to anyone.
Blue found a Thermos in a kitchen cupboard, poured two cups of coffee into it, picked up a mug and carried both mug and Thermos into her bedroom. She drank one cup of coffee, showered, ran a comb through her hair, which had grown nearly half an inch since the Philippines, and again put on the Anne Klein dress and the Joan & David shoes. She then sat on the bed next to the telephone, poured her second cup of coffee, picked up the phone and tapped out a number she had written down the night before.
After the call was answered by a cheery “Jack Broach and Company,” Georgia Blue said, “My name’s Margo Dawson and I’m a vice-president with the Mitsu Bank in Beverly Hills. The reason I’m calling is to find out if we might land some of Jack Broach’s business.”
“You’d have to talk to our comptroller, Mr. Corrigan.”
“Is he in?”
“He usually gets in around nine-thirty.”
“Maybe you could give me a hint. Is Mr. Corrigan happy with your present bank?”
“I guess so. Sure.”
“Bank of America, right?”
“Security Pacific.”
“The one on Wilshire just off Doheny?”
“The one just off La Cienega.”
“Thanks very much. I’ll try Mr. Corrigan later.”
She used GTE information to get the Security Pacific branch phone number. Her call was answered by a recorded actor’s voice that started giving her instructions about which numbers to tap if she wanted to know her checking account balance. Georgia Blue broke the connection and called GTE information again. After lowering her cold Secret Service tone to freezing, she told the operator she wanted to speak to a human voice, not a recorded one, at the Security Pacific branch. The operator gave her a different number.
When it was answered by a live female voice, Georgia Blue said, “I’d like to speak to one of your new business officers about opening a commercial account in the mid six figures.”
She was quickly transferred to a Mr. Davidson, who wanted to know how he could be of assistance.
“This is Georgia Blue. I’m vice-president of Wudu, Limited, an American-owned, London-based consulting firm. We’re in the process of opening our L.A. Branch and we’re looking for a bank. One of your customers mentioned yours.”