Fugitive Nights (33 page)

“Moment, please,” she said.

Then Clive Devon's voice came on the intercom and said, “Hello, can I help you?”

“Police Department, Mister Devon,” Lynn said. “We have to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“Can you tell me what it's about?”

“We're investigating an assault on an officer. It involves the man you picked up three days ago in Painted Canyon.”

There was silence for a few seconds, then Clive Devon said, “Come in, please.”

An electronic beep opened the swinging double gates, and Breda led Lynn up the driveway.

Clive Devon stood in the doorway, apparently relieved to see a woman. He barely glanced at Lynn's badge before he stepped back to allow them to enter. Lynn saw that it was one of those Spanish colonial houses he'd always liked, with shuttered windows deeply inset, Mexican tile roof, and stucco walls a foot thick. But it didn't have the massive masculine furniture usually found in this style of house. The place was full of lighted paintings on rose-colored wall covering. The drapes were meant to imply natural desert pastel, but it was all too feminine, an obvious attempt to please Rhonda Devon, Lynn decided.

Clive Devon was as tall as Jack Graves, but not nearly as thin. His hair was sparse and white, and he had regular sunburned features and a prominent chin. He wore a knit shirt, chinos, and bedroom slippers. He shook hands with both of them but Lynn didn't volunteer their names.

“How did you know I'd picked up a man in Painted Canyon?” he asked, as they sat down in the same living room where Breda had first met Rhonda Devon.

“Your license number was taken down by a policeman patrolling the canyon that day.”

“But why would he do that?” His eyes were pale blue and nervous. He instinctively dropped them whenever he started to speak, and then, as though by force of will, he'd raise them and look uncomfortably into the eyes of Lynn or Breda, and speak so softly they had to listen attentively.

“Did you see the news story about the sheriff's deputy who was assaulted down at the airport the day before you went to Painted Canyon?” Breda asked.

“I might've,” he said. “I think I may've heard a news report.”

“We believe the man you picked up was the man who assaulted the deputy,” Lynn said.

“I can't believe it!” Clive Devon said, sitting back on the sofa. His genuine amazement actually caused him to relax slightly.

“What were
you
doing down there?” Lynn asked.

Clive Devon didn't answer that. He said, “But how? How could the policeman have seen me pick up the man and not question us right then, if that was the man he was after?”

“He, uh, wasn't sure,” Lynn said, “and then he got an emergency call at that moment. A fatal traffic accident. He had to leave.”

“I see,” Clive Devon said, drumming his fingers on the arm of the sofa.

Breda repeated the question. “How
did
you happen to be down there?”

“I went with a friend,” Clive Devon said. “Hiking.”

“We may need to question the friend,” Lynn said.

Clive Devon dropped his eyes again and didn't raise them when he said, “I wouldn't want to frighten her. Esther's a very shy young woman. She's the daughter of our housekeeper. I'm sure I can tell you whatever you need to know.”

When he looked up, Breda said, “How did you happen to be with the man?”

“It was very strange,” Clive Devon said. “He just appeared out of nowhere and said his car had broken down farther up in the canyon. And that he needed a ride.”

“To a phone?”

“Yes,” Clive Devon said. “To a phone.”

“And did you take him to a phone?” Lynn asked.

“No, that was more peculiar. I dropped Esther back where her car was parked, and the man changed his mind. He asked where I was heading, and when I said Palm Springs he said that's where
he
lived and would I please take him with me.”

“What about his car?” Lynn asked.

“I asked about that too,” Clive Devon said, “but he told me he preferred to wait till his brother got off work, that they could go back down and haul it out themselves to save a tow charge.”

“
Did
you take him home?” Lynn asked.

“No, when I asked him his address he said just to drop him downtown, that his brother worked nearby in a restaurant. So I did.”

“Where?” Breda asked.

“Near Indian and Palm Canyon Drive.”

“By the Alan Ladd hardware store?”

“Yes.”

“And that was it?”

“Yes. I didn't see him again.”

Lynn said, “The policeman who took down your license number said there was a dog with you.”

“Yes,” Clive Devon said.

“At first he thought the dog might've belonged to the man you picked up.”

“No,” Clive Devon said.

“What did the man look like?” Lynn asked.

“He was a Mexican. Young. Well, young to
me.
In his forties, I should say. A burly man about your height.”

“Bald?”

“He wore a baseball cap, as I recall,” Clive Devon said, “and he carried a red canvas bag.”

“Did he say what was in it?”

“Yes. Lunch and clothing. But he never opened the bag. He said he'd camped out in his car and couldn't get it started when he was ready to leave.”

“Was he Mexican or Mexican-American?” Breda asked.

“I'd say he was from Mexico. But he spoke beautiful English with a pleasant accent. More grammatical than most Americans.”

“Do you have anything else to add that might help us?” Breda asked.

“No, except that I can't believe he's a criminal.”

Lynn said, “I'll bet even the dog liked him.”

“Yes, and Malcolm's a good judge of character,” Clive Devon said softly.

Recalling all the barking when she'd tried to prowl the property for a sneak-and-peek, Breda asked, “Where's Malcolm now?”

“With Esther at her house,” Clive Devon said.

“Does she ever bring him here?” Breda remembered the swim party when it sounded like Malcolm was doing belly flops in the pool.

“Oh, no,” Clive Devon said. “My wife's extremely allergic to animals of all kinds.”

Breda turned to Lynn and said, “Anything else?”

Lynn said, “Not unless you can think of something, Mister Devon.”

“Well,” Clive Devon said, dropping his eyes diffidently, “I'd just like to offer an opinion. I wonder if there could be some mistake. He just couldn't be violent. He talked a lot about the desert. He had a
very
gentle way about him.”

I
t was more than frustrating, this place. He was driving up the steep narrow road to the highest residential area in Palm Springs, but when he got halfway up the grade, he saw a kiosk with a guard inside. He stopped at the kiosk and the uniformed security officer came out immediately with a clipboard in his hand, accompanied by a guard dog.

“I am sorry,” the fugitive said. “I am not allowed to pass?”

“This is a private road from here on up,” the security officer said. “Is a resident expecting you?”

“No,” he said to the security officer. “I am a tourist. No problem. Sorry. Thank you.”

When he was driving back down from Southridge, he was dejected. He couldn't fathom how these people lived. Private streets with guards and dogs? Perhaps that's how they had to live in a country like this. He'd read a story that very day about a serial murderer in Rochester, New York, who'd been sentenced to 250 years in prison for the murder of eleven women. What made it even more horrible was that the man was on parole at the time of the murders from
another
pair of murders fifteen years earlier. He'd strangled two children. The fugitive kept asking himself: What kind of country
paroles
a man who has strangled two children?

While he waited at the foot of Southridge for an opening in the traffic on Highway 111, he saw in his mirror a gardener's truck coming down behind him. He got out of his car, rather certain that the gardener would be a Mexican, and he was.

The fugitive waved at the gardener and when the man pulled over, the fugitive said, in the macho slang of his country, “
¿Qué pasa, 'mano
?” What's happening, bro?

In Spanish, the fugitive also said, “I just arrived from Tecate, and I was trying to visit an old family friend who lives up there on that hill, but the guard won't let me through. My friend went away and forgot to leave my name.”

The gardener also spoke the earthy slang of his country. He said, “Oh, no,
'mano
, they won't let you in unless your friend says to let you pass. Fuck no. No chance.”

“The problem is, he's gone for the entire day. Do you happen to work for him? John Lugo?”

“No,” the gardener said. “My job is up the left side near the top. Do you know that Bob Hope lives up there?”

“Yes, I've heard that,” the fugitive said. “There can't be more than one
pocho
up there. Are you sure you don't know him? Or perhaps one of his servants?” Then the fugitive smiled and said, “I imagine that a rich
pocho
gets his grass cut by
real
Mexicans, true,
'mano
?”

The gardener laughed at that, and said, “Very fucking true.” Then he said, “I think the man who has that big pink house with the tile roof might be your friend. I've seen an old man come and go with his driver. Yes, he's probably the one. There's a very big party going to happen there. Many people in vans have been coming all day.” Then the gardener took a close look at the fugitive, and said, “Man, you have very rich family friends.”

The fugitive laughed and said, “But I'm poor. Tell me, are the party arrangers still there now?”

“For certain,” the gardener said. “I tell you, it's a big fucking party. You'll see them come down soon and then you'll see others go up.”

“Well, I'll just have to wait until my family friend comes home,” the fugitive said, waving goodbye. “Thanks.”

Patience, they had a lot of that in his country. He could wait a long time, but he didn't have to. In twenty minutes a red van drove down the steep road. There was writing on the side that said
HENRY'S GOURMET CATERING.

The fugitive followed the van to an address on East Palm Canyon Drive, near Smoke Tree Village. From there, the fugitive could look up and see not only Bob Hope's giant house, but the home of John Lugo as well. It was sprawling but undistinguished new construction, one of the tens of thousands of California homes that realtors lump together under the generic heading: Mediterranean. It had to be John Lugo's home, it was the only one painted orchid-pink.

The caterer was working late on Friday because of that big party up on Southridge. There were three young Mexicans running out the front door with folding chairs and cases of wine, and the fugitive saw a tall blond gringo with hair like a woman who seemed to be in charge of the Mexicans.

The young Mexican who had driven the van was talking to the gringo when the fugitive entered. He said, “Not enough wine. Henry say I tell you.”

The tall blond gringo was wearing a purple T-shirt with the caterer's gold logo on the front. He said, “Goddamnit, why doesn't Henry make up his mind about how much wine I'm supposed to order? I can't make another trip to the store now!”

The young Mexican driver just showed him an embarrassed smile.

The tall blond tossed his writing pad on the counter and said, “Okay, I'll make another run, but I wish he'd make up his mind!”

The fugitive approached him, saying, “Good day, sir. I am thinking perhaps you could use some help? I have had seven years of experience at a catering company, both in Tijuana and San Diego. I need a job very much.”

But the tall blond was beside himself with the stresses of the moment. He said, “Look, come back Monday. I'll let you put in an application then, but I got a big party tomorrow and I don't have time right now.”

Before he could dash out to the van, the fugitive said, “Sir, I would be glad to help you at the party. I would work for minimum salary just for the experience with your company. And to show to you that I am a good worker.”

“Sorry, buddy,” the blond gringo said. “We can't hire somebody we haven't trained. Not for a party like the one we got tomorrow. Come back Monday.” Then he was off and running to the catering van.

The fugitive started out to his car, but as soon as the blond gringo had driven off, he went back in and approached the young Mexican who'd driven the van down from Southridge.

The fugitive said, in Spanish, “You're working at a big party tomorrow, your boss told me.”

“Very big,” the kid said. “Three hundred people, at least.” Then he grinned proudly and said, “Famous golfers and perhaps even movie stars!”