Ellipsis (22 page)

“My thinking, exactly.”

“Vengeance, too, I imagine.”

“Vengeance isn't unknown in show business, from what I read in
People
magazine,” Ruthie observed dryly.

“Chandelier isn't really in show business, is she?”

“Shit, Marsh. You got any doubt about it, come take a look at the lobby.”

I decided she had a point. “Anything else?”

“Not that won't keep.”

“Okay, Ruthie. Hang in there. We covered around the clock?”

“Snug as a condom on a kumquat.”

“I'll be in and out. Call the cell phone if you need me.”

“When I need you, I use a candle, Sugar Bear.”

I hung up the phone before things got any more risqué. Ruthie had a way of implying that if she had her way, we'd be screwing three times a day. I couldn't quite convince myself it was entirely a joke.

Ten seconds later, the phone rang. “Hey,” Jill Coppelia said.

“Hi.”

“Where've you been?”

“Sleuthing. You?”

“Working. We brought Wally Briscoe in.”

“And?”

“He opened up just like you said.”

“And?”

“He didn't know everything but he knew something. Especially about one of the killings.”

“How'd you get him to talk?”

“We gave him immunity, just like you wanted. He won't face prosecution unless he lied to us. And we'll give him protection and relocation assistance, till things die down, at least.”

“Thanks.”

“It was more for the city than for you.”

“I know, but thanks anyway.”

Jill paused. “He asked if you were the one who gave him up.”

“And you said?”

“I said I couldn't comment.”

“I'm sure that reassured him.”

“Don't be that way, Marsh. We've got some hard evidence now. And places to look for more of it.”

“Good,” I said, without meaning it.

“So I do want to thank you.”

“No problem.”

“Yes, it was. I know you didn't want to give Wally up. I know it's not your style.”

“Style's not all it's cracked up to be.”

“Or maybe style is all there is.”

“God, I hope not,” I said.

“Well, I know you did it for me, or for us, and I want you to know I appreciate it.”

My hands began to sweat and my brow felt feverish and it didn't have anything to do with Wally Briscoe. I tried to keep things official. “I'm glad you've got something for the grand jury.”

“By tomorrow we'll have more. Two-thirds of the investigators in the office are assigned to my case.”

“This might make you famous, you know.”

She thought about it. “So famous I'll have to resign, I imagine.”

“Why?”

“If I bring down as many dirty cops as I think I will, no one in the department will work with me again. In fact, they'll probably try to sabotage every case I bring.”

“It won't be that bad, surely.”

“It has been in other places.”

“What would you do if you resigned? Defense work?”

“I don't know, but I hope not. Nowadays all I think of when I think criminal defense are those pathetic lawyers crawling all over TV talking about O.J. and Monica and JonBenet.”

“If not defense work, then what?”

She paused for so long I thought she'd hung up. “That might depend on you,” she said softly.

Which put me in the grip of quasi-influenza. “In what way?”

“Whether you wanted to be with me. Whether you wanted to stay in the city or go somewhere else. Whether you wanted to keep being a detective or throw caution to the wind and try something new.”

“Wow,” I managed.

She laughed. “To put it mildly.”

“So where would we go if we went?”

“Someplace warmer. And friendlier. And less crowded.”

“What would we do when we got there?”

“Something fun.”

“For a living, I mean.”

“Something fun,” she repeated.

“When would this odyssey take place?”

“After the grand jury returns a true bill, at the earliest.”

“And the latest?”

She hesitated. “Never, I suppose.”

“Never doesn't sound good.”

“No, it doesn't.”

I took a breath and held it, then exhaled in a low whistle that mimicked the teakettle I had become. “This has been quite a phone call.”

“We've had several of late, as I recall.”

“But none quite so portentous.”

She laughed. “You're scared to death, aren't you?”

“Not quite,” I said, but it must have been a lie because I was sweating like a hog in the stockyards.

When Jill spoke again, her voice might have been a child's. “Can you come over tonight, Marsh? So we can talk some more about this?”

“Probably. What time?”

“Nineish?”

“Fineish.”

“It's cold today. I'll make chili.”

“Great,” I said, even though I'd just had some.

“And corn bread.”

“Perfect.”

She sighed with contentment, as though she had reached some sort of verdant plateau. “Are you making any progress on the Wells case?” she asked after her rapture began to evaporate.

“No.”

“None?”

“None. Have you ever run into an organization called ARFA, by the way?”

“The retired FBI guys.”

“That's the one. How do you know about them?”

“They've assisted us in some prosecutions over the years. Mostly drug stuff with multinational implications—they've got a hell of a Rolodex, let me tell you.”

“So they're legit?”

“As far as I know. Why? Oh. Chandelier's driver was a former agent.”

“Right.”

“Well, they're good. If I were you, I'd let them help in any way they can.”

“Just like I helped you.” When I heard the rasp in my voice, I knew I was in trouble.

“Hey, now, buster. Wait just a damned
minute
. I'm not a tyrant. No one got coerced in this thing. You didn't do anything you didn't do of your own free—”

“You're right,” I interrupted. “I'm sorry. I'm still a little worried about Wally.”

“Well, don't be. Wally will be fine. And so will we. The only thing you have to do is let us.”

“And the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

“Jesus,” she said.

Jill hung up and the phone rang again. “Mr.
Tanner
. I've finally tracked you down.”

“I didn't know you were hunting me.”

“No. Of course you didn't. I left a message with poor Lark McLaren, but she's so distraught she can't be expected to—”

“Who is this?” I demanded, irritated at the implicit belittlement of Lark McLaren.

“My name is Gert Blackwood,” she said in a chirpy voice. “I handle all of Chandelier's publicity.”

“You work for Madison House?”

“Chandelier employs me directly. We've worked together ever since I put her fifth book on seventeen bestseller lists.”

“I didn't know there
were
seventeen bestseller lists.”

“Well, there are. And more besides that. My favorite's the one in Modesto. You wouldn't believe how long Chandelier stays on that one.”

“What can I do for you, Ms. Blackwood?”

Her voice became artificially grave, in the manner of a politician on the Fourth of July. “This is a delicate time, Mr. Tanner.”

“Especially for Chandelier.”

“Indeed. My point is, the wrong kind of publicity could be fatal to her career. Unfounded rumor would be particularly dangerous, especially since we don't know the identity of the actual perpetrator of the crime. We don't, do we?” she added, throwing me a rope of redemption.

“Not as far as I know,” I admitted.

“That was my understanding. Which makes it all the more crucial that comment on the case be coordinated by this office.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It means any comment to the news or entertainment media, or to law enforcement authorities, should come from me and no one else.”

“I should keep my trap shut, in other words.”

“If you put it that way, yes. In the best interests of Ms. Wells, of course.”

“I don't make a habit of talking to the media, entertainment or otherwise.”

“Good. Very good.”

“But whether or not I talk to the cops will be entirely up to me.”

Her voice turned from a wren's to a crow's. “But don't you see how that could—”

“Chandelier isn't the only one who has a career to protect, Ms. Blackwood.”

“I see.”

“I'm glad.”

“I'm sure Chandelier will be disappointed when she hears of your attitude, Mr. Tanner.”

“My attitude is the very least of her problems, Gert.”

The phone made a loud noise when I dropped it into its nest.

Chapter 23

Two minutes later, someone pounded on the office door. When I opened it, two familiar faces were glaring at me from beneath the moon of white light in the hallway.

I didn't know their names, but they had paid me a visit a year or so ago, after I'd gotten home from the hospital where Charley Sleet's bullet had put me. They had been there to warn me to keep my mouth shut about whatever I thought I knew about the Triad. Since I hadn't followed orders, I expected more of the same.

“We meet again,” I said as they occupied the outer office the way alligators occupy a swamp.

“Tanner,” they said simultaneously, as though my name were some sort of password. One of them had a scar across the bridge of his nose as though someone had honed a knife on it. The other had a chipped tooth, as if he'd opened too many bottles of beer with it. The one with the tooth had been at the power house the night I was shot, begging Charley Sleet to spare his life. Since I'd shot Charley before he got around to adding the tooth to his list, I figured the guy owed me a favor, but I was pretty sure he didn't see it that way himself.

I invited them in. I sat behind the desk; the scar took the client chair and the tooth perched like a moving man on the arm of my decrepit couch. I had a smile on my face; they looked sober and businesslike. I thought I knew why they were there, but they proved me wrong.

“I'm Detective Prester,” the scarred one said. “This is Detective Storrs.”

“Pleased to have names to put with the faces,” I said, mostly because cops always expect due deference. “I take it you're here to chat about the Triad some more.”

They looked at each other with a passing imitation of perplexity. “We're not on the Chinatown detail, Mr. Tanner,” Prester said. “We're here at the request of the Berkeley PD to talk about what happened to a woman named Chandelier Wells. We understand you were on the scene at the time of the incident.”

Their demeanor couldn't have been more professional; their approach couldn't have been more cordial; their mission couldn't have been more appropriate. Which meant either they'd had some electroshock since I'd seen them last or they were setting me up for a fall I couldn't foresee at the moment.

“I didn't see the explosion, if that's what you're asking,” I said carefully.

“No? Where were you when it happened?”

“Inside Steinway Books. Where Ms. Wells had just given a reading from her new novel.
Shalloon
, it's called. Maybe you've read it.”

I might as well have been whistling the Mass in B Minor. “And you were there in what capacity?” the scarred one pressed on.

“Professional.”

“And what profession would that be?”

“Personal security.”

“Bodyguard, in other words.”

I shrugged. “I've been called worse.”

“No shit,” the tooth mumbled.

“Maybe you can tell us how that job came about,” the scarred one was saying, still amiable and still therefore incongruous.

I considered my response. Private detectives don't have privileges to assert on behalf of their clients. At best we can sneak under the tent of an attorney's work product from time to time, but that probably didn't apply in this case, even though Chandelier's attorney had been the one to bring me on board. Eventually they could compel me to talk or go to jail, but that didn't mean I had to blab everything I knew to the first cop who came calling. Of course in the age of Ken Starr and Bob Barr, asserting your civil rights is tantamount to treason, so I began to wonder if I had a spare toothbrush to take with me in case the cordiality was a pose and they decided to haul me off to the slammer.

I took the middle ground, partly to get rid of them as soon as I could and partly to assert my independence from Gert Blackwood, the publicity woman who had insisted that I make like a hand puppet and speak about Chandelier only through her.

When I had finished my recital, the two detectives looked at each other and then at me. “That's it?” Storrs asked.

“That's it.”

“You don't know who or why?”

“No idea. But I'm working on it.”

The scarred one shook his head. “It's a police matter now, Mr. Tanner. The Berkeley department would like you to step aside.”

“I only step aside for kids and old ladies.”

“That's not very smart, if you don't mind my saying so,” Prester said affably. Far too affably.

“I don't mind, Detective. I've been called stupid lots of times. Almost always by people stupider than I am.”

Storrs stood up and made himself a menace. But Prester backed and filled, so Storrs did, too, much to the regret of my poor little couch, which cried out in anguish when Storrs dislocated its arm. “Okay, Tanner. Let's keep this civil. What was the relationship between you and the driver? Filson?”