Bullet Beach (9 page)

After letting Casey out and then back in, Cross showered, shaved and slipped on jeans and an old madras shirt which he left untucked.

‘What do rich people have that most people don't?' he asked Einstein, who seemed bored at the attention. ‘They have help. People who do their cooking and cleaning and gardening and who knows what?'

He punched in the numbers.

‘You've reached the law offices of James Fenimore Kowalski. Please leave a brief message at the tone.'

‘Kowalski. This is Cross. I want to know where Raymond Taupin lives and he isn't listed anywhere. Give me a call at . . .'

‘Taupin lives in some fucking McMansion up north,' the lawyer said, speaking over the out-going message.

‘That narrows it,' Cross said.

‘Hold your horses. Wait.'

There was a long silence followed by an address.

‘But you'll never get in,' Kowalski said.

‘I know. I thought I'd wait outside and talk to the help.'

‘Interesting.'

‘I don't have anything else.'

‘If you get anything, let me know. I'll do what I can to take that old blood-sucking bat down.'

‘You should see a shrink about your hatred of the upper classes,' Cross said, teasing.

‘I love the rich,' Kowalski said. ‘Rather, I'd like to be rich. And some rich people are lovely and cool and admirable and pleasantly humble, but Taupin is a sneaky, condescending, conniving creep. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. He has no class. He has no redeeming value.'

‘OK, I understand. He's not a give-his-money-through-a-foundation kind of guy.'

‘He funds nonprofits. These are the nonprofits that make sure politicians who pamper the rich get re-elected.'

‘I see.'

‘In other words, I'll help you.'

‘Let me get a start on this first. So you are one of those famous left-wingers I've heard so much about?' Cross asked.

‘Oh no. I'm not a radical. I'm more of a left-breaster than a left winger. Moving a little left seems like a correct direction after the last decade. You?'

‘I just want to stay out of prison,' Cross said.

‘I guess that makes you the wishbone.'

It was a drive into uber-Republican country and into a ritzy if somewhat gaudy development. Taupin lived in what Kowalski called a McMansion – a large, imposing, fairly recently built home on a proportionately too small lot. Homes of a similar size were perched on hill-lets on all the curving streets of the neighborhood.

The closeness of the neighbors made it difficult to stake out the place, to see who came and went. It wasn't likely he could get away with scanning the day's mail to see what kind of services the Taupins paid for. But he was fortunate to see that there was a tiny sign in the corner of the front yard that said ‘GreenLawnKare.' It was a start.

He Googled the firm on his new iPhone and found its offices were in nearby Carmel, pronounced like the candy, not like the California town.

GreenLawnKare was in a well-kempt, well-landscaped, one-story building with a two-story corrugated steel building in back. From the lobby, Cross could see a glassed-in conference room and some offices leading back. The workers and equipment had to be in the back. The brochures said that the company provided complete landscape design. They also offered maintenance programs for lawns and gardens.

‘How can I help you?' said an attractive woman in a flowered blouse over which she wore a green jacket with the company's name embroidered on the front.

‘I'm not sure how to go about this,' Cross said, ‘My car was hit. It was parked on the street and someone, I don't know who, put a huge dent in the door.'

‘And you are here because . . .' She said this in a playful way, accented with a smile.

‘Because I didn't see who did it and I think your crew was across the street at the Taupin's doing some work. I am hoping that maybe they got a glimpse of who might have banged it up.'

Her mind began to work. Cross supposed there were some options to weigh. Did they even want to get involved in something like this?

‘Just a question or two. Probably nobody saw it, but I really don't like the hit and run thing. I'd have at least left a note.'

‘Wait here.'

When she came back she brought a man in a green coat she introduced as Alex. ‘Dwight is down in Broad Ripple this morning with his team. I don't really think that it'd be proper to have you talk to him while he's on the job. I'd be happy to forward your phone number to him and he can call you if he wants to.'

‘That's very reasonable,' Cross said, ‘but I have to get to Albuquerque. And I need to get this resolved. I promise you, Alex, that I will be brief. I'll ask if he knows anything about the dent. If he says ‘no,' then I'll move on. If he says ‘yes,' I'll just ask him what he knows. And that's it. No muss. No fuss.'

This was Cross at his friendliest and simplest – a very easygoing guy just asking a friend for a favor. It earned him an address in Broad Ripple, a former little town on its own and now swallowed up by the sprawling city of Indianapolis.

The area was toward the north end of the canal that begins in downtown Indianapolis and ends at a former Monon Railroad stop. Now, both the graveled path along the still water of the canal and the stretch where train tracks once were are paths for runners, bicyclists, and dog walkers. Homes along the canal were often unusual and ranged from high-styled and expensive to remodeled river shacks. One of Cross's favorites, a big, beautiful deco home once occupied by the actress Frances Farmer, was near the home where Dwight and his two co-workers trimmed hedges and cared for the lush green lawns many Americans are addicted to.

‘Dwight!' Cross called out, getting out of his car and moving toward the workers. All three looked up. But only one, presumably Dwight, stepped forward.

‘Alex called and said you were on your way. But I don't think I can be of any help. I didn't see anybody banging into a car.'

‘I was afraid of that. I kind of think that it may have been one of Mr Taupin's people. Knowing Raymond, I mean, I don't want to speak ill of anyone, but knowing Raymond Taupin, it's not likely he'd leave a note.'

Dwight laughed. ‘You got that right.'

‘Isn't a good boss, I take it?' Cross said.

‘Oh, don't see him much. But he tried to put the squeeze on me once.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, wanted me to just work for him private. Come out on my day off and work for him. He'd pay me less than he'd pay GreenLawnKare but more than the company'd pay me. I told him that would get me fired. And it wasn't right. Man, I saw the look on his face. It was like instant, spittin' hate. Then a smile came all over him and he said I could just work for him permanent. He had a place up on Lake Wawasee, and between those two places, it'd keep me busy.'

‘I take it you told him no,' Cross said.

Dwight nodded, but his eyes squinted a bit, from caution, not the sun. Cross told himself to go for it. Now was the time. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a copy of the photograph from the autopsy.

‘You ever see this girl around the house?'

Dwight looked at him, suspicions confirmed. ‘No car got bumped.'

‘No. I'm trying to find the person who killed her.'

Dwight shook his head. ‘I don't know anything. I'm serious. If I did, I'd help you out. I promise you that. Why didn't you just start out being honest?'

‘That's a strategy that doesn't usually work for me,' Cross said.

‘Give it a chance,' Dwight said.

Lake Wawasee. The name wasn't entirely foreign, but he knew nothing about it. It was Google-time again. Broad Ripple was only minutes from home.

Neither Casey nor Einstein managed to get up to welcome Cross home. It was warm everywhere even inside his tile-walled house. He plucked a beer from the refrigerator and settled in with his computer. He typed Lake Wawasee into the Google box and was surprised that he got the spelling right.

Biggest lake in Indiana, if you didn't count that portion of Lake Michigan that dipped into the state's northern border. But aside from the great lakes, this was one big lake for him never to have heard of it. It was known for its clear water and the number of plush cottages that surrounded it. Who knew? He thought he probably should have. Summer homes for the rich? It was near Syracuse, Indiana, not on any major interstates. Maybe a three-hour drive from Indianapolis. Weekend escape for the busy executive. A place to send the wife and kids when school is out and daddy doesn't want to be bothered. A connection between Raymond Taupin and his son-in-law's death may not exist. Curious though, Cross thought.

Kowalski called and before the lawyer could relate why, Cross launched into his Lake Wawasee discovery.

‘You are one goddamned fantastic private investigator,' Kowalski said with dramatic effect. ‘And . . . a great American. I've been gathering some financial information on Taupin. I always wanted to do this, but I never had a reason before. He's one wealthy human being or whatever species he is. He has a holding company that owns holding companies that own a jillion small businesses and pieces of a jillion other businesses.'

‘What's a jillion, Kowalski?'

‘A hundred gazillion. Everybody knows that. Anyway, Taupin is involved in publishing, gravel, insurance, construction companies, laundromats, strip malls, garbage, you name it. And he's bought all sorts of local and regional franchises: from fast food to oil change drive-thrus.'

‘Damn,' Cross said.

‘There are names I can't decipher. Corporations with names that mean nothing to me. He collects businesses like some people collect stamps. As I understand it, he buys some to drain them of them of their resources, when the parts are more valuable than the whole. He buys others so that one business will feed another. I've never seen a game like this.'

‘All legal.'

‘Yeah. No numbers racquet or anything like it. All legal. He may be unethical, but it appears he keeps it all legal.'

‘Anything come up on the son-in-law, Marshall?' Cross asked.

‘He's not on the board of any of the businesses as far as I can tell, but it appears his wife and daughter are.'

‘You think the deaths are connected to Taupin, then?' Cross asked.

‘One huge hunch, not a grain of evidence. We know who the girl was?'

‘Not yet. I think I can get Collins to tell me what he knows when he knows it. On the other hand I'm one jerk of the leash from prison.'

‘You're a realist Cross. I like that in a guy. Otherwise, you OK?'

‘I am. Can you stop here and check on the cat over the weekend, maybe Saturday? I'm going up home and I'm taking Casey with me. And Maya and I may go have some fun at the lake.'

‘Let me know what you find out,' Kowalski said.

‘Thanks,' Cross said as Kowalski disconnected.

NINE

Despite a recent refresher course in Mexico, Shanahan's way of the spook was still rusty. He finally got away from his tail so Channarong could do what he was asked to do – follow the follower. Back in his room at the hotel, the impact of what had just happened hit him hard. Maureen had set upon a task that would have been far too dangerous even if she were experienced in such things. He could feel the fear in the pit of his stomach. It came from both the thoughts of what could happen and the very clear fact that he was powerless to do anything about it.

Bangkok was a city of eight million people and if you include the neighboring provinces, it covers three thousand square miles. At minimum it goes out twenty miles in all directions. Needles and haystacks? It seemed more like a grain of salt in the Sahara desert. So when the phone rang, Shanahan was more than hopeful. He allowed a rare optimism to enter his mind.

‘Channarong,' the voice said. ‘I'm downstairs. May I come up?'

This is why optimism didn't agree with him. His stomach sank again.

‘Please,' Shanahan said. He was at least pleased to have someone there who might be able to help.

Shanahan immediately called down and ordered up four beers. They followed surprisingly fast on the heels of Channarong's arrival. Channarong declined, but when pressed in the mildest possible way, he accepted the chilled bottle. He reported what he'd found out.

‘The kid used his cell phone. Made two calls. Spoke briefly. He came back here and was replaced by a middle-aged man.'

‘Thai?'

‘Thai.'

‘Did you follow the boy?'

‘I did. He went to an apartment building. He had a key. I have an address. I'll give it to you.'

‘Do you know this place?' Shanahan asked him, handing him the paper he'd received from the man on the bench.

‘I don't know anyone named Moran and I don't know the bar,' Channarong said, sitting down, rereading the note. He took a sip from the beer. ‘Most clubs have some sort of relationship with the police and they are often connected to even more questionable businesses and questionable people, balancing somewhere in between.'

‘All are prostitution rings?'

‘You need to know that while there are a lot of dark and predatory dealings in the sex business here, the Thai people do not have the same horror that most Americans do about sex. Some girls are brought down from up North, some sold by their families who know what it is about, some are fooled into the business, and many do it because it is a way of earning money, more money than they can make anywhere else. So, if you go in with the notion that the people you are talking to are the scum of the earth . . .'