Grist 01 - The Four Last Things (26 page)

“Doris,” Hermia commanded, holding out the bags. Doris tottered over to get them. “Get out of here,” Hermia said. “Put them in the other room. Stay there.” Mrs. Fram trudged through the door, looking like the Night of the Living Dead if the Living Dead had come back for junk food.

“You’re going to ruin things,” Jessica said accusingly to Hermia.

“You bet your cute little hairbow, I am,” Hermia said. “Now, you, what’s your name?”

I stood up. She was almost as tall as I was. “Hermia,” I said, “there’s a lot going on that you don’t know about.”

She blinked. “Like what?”

“Changes. In Century City.”

It didn’t exactly stun her; she didn’t stagger backward or clutch at her throat, but she was listening. “Which direction?” she said after a moment.

“The wrong one, dear,” I said. “If you’re not careful.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Then how’d I get in here?”

“I had to get food. Who else is going to go out?”

“What were your instructions?”

“They wanted tacos,” she said, trying for a tone of calm reason. “They can’t live on pizza, and Taco Bell doesn’t deliver.”

“They wanted tacos,” I said pityingly. “Do you know what she told me? What she would have told anyone who walked in while you were doing
what
? Going out for tacos?”

Nobody said anything. Then Jessica said, “I
like
tacos.”

Hermia shot her a glance and she subsided. “How long since you were basemented?” I asked.

Hermia licked her lips. “Never,” she said.

“What an experience you have in store,” I said. “If you call the wrong person.”

“Which one?” Hermia said.

I licked my index finger and held it up. “Check the wind,” I said.

Chapter 23

“T
ry the American Dental Association,”  I said to Joyce. I was standing in a pay phone on Ventura Boulevard. Across the street, furtive-looking men stole in and out of an adult bookstore.

“I don’t have to,” she said. “That’s what he is, a dentist. He’s listed in the ADA data base. How’d you know?”

“Just a guess. Have you talked to the DEA?”

“Yeah, that’s what’s odd. He graduated in 1972 but he only registered with the DEA seven years ago.”

“That’s about right,” I said. “Where’d he practice?”

“I don’t know. He graduated from a college in New York.”

“Good work. Just to make sure, can you check with New York to see if he was certified there? He probably practiced in or near a town called Utica.”

There was a pause. “It’s after five o’clock there,” she said. “They’ll probably be closed.”

“Tomorrow morning is fine.”

I figured Brooks worked until five-thirty or six, so I had a few hours. I dialed my own number and entered a two-digit code when I heard my recorded voice say hello.

“Number of messages,” the machine announced, “four.” I hated its smug tone of voice, and also the fact that the damn thing couldn’t count.

“One,” it said.

“Simeon? Roxanne.” Music was very loud in the background. She must have been calling from McGinty’s of Malibu, the bar where she worked. “I’ve been cold the last couple of nights. I drove by last night, but no Alice, and I didn’t feel like getting threatened with another piece of firewood. Give me a call if you feel like sharing your warm feet.” There was a pause. “Everybody here is very drunk,” she said.

“One,” the machine said again.

“I am Mrs. Yount,” Mrs. Yount said. “That house is a mess, mister. I was just there. There’s no excuse for it. Now, normally I’d just tell you to move out. But if you find Fluffy I’ll forget all about it. I know she’s alive. I could feel it in the inside of my bosom if she wasn’t. I want to hear from you, young man.” She hung up decisively.

“One,” the machine said implacably.

“This is Al Hammond, goddamm it.” I pushed the six button on the pay phone and the machine skipped to the next message. “One,” The machine said.

“May you roast in hell,” I said.

The next caller had hung up. I started to do the same.

“One,” said the machine.

“You said four,” I told it.

“Wo,” Dexter Smif said. ”Mus’ be you busy. Man can’t return his calls mus’ be on the go mostly all the time. Just lettin’ you know they a man of talent available. I ain’t gonna give you my number again. If you done lost it I don’t want to work with you anyways.”

Dexter hung up. This time I waited. “Last message,” the machine said. “Thank you for—” I was already heading for the car.

Brooks wasn’t in the directory. The list of the Church board of directors, to which he belonged, didn’t bother with addresses. So at five-fifteen, having dropped Eleanor’s suitcase at the
Times
, I was parked in my invisible gray Camaro across the street from the exit to an underground parking structure in Century City. I’d circled the structure twice, dismayed at finding two exits. For a moment I’d actually thought of calling Dexter. But then what would we have done? Talked to each other on our two-way wrist radios?

I finally calmed down. One of the exits led south and the other led north. South was Culver City, Palms, Mar Vista— perfectly nice places for secretaries and support staff to live.

North was Westwood, Bel Air, Beverly Hills, and several other perfectly nicer places. I had Brooks pegged as a Westwood man. Quiet and substantial.

At five-forty on the dot he came out. He’d made it easy for me by putting down the top on his cream-colored Mercedes. The streetlights flickered and then hummed above us as I followed him down the Avenue of the Stars to Santa Monica Boulevard.

At the stoplight, he checked himself out in the rearview mirror. He smoothed his hair, examined his teeth briefly, and then rubbed his chin. He seemed pretty happy with what he saw. Of course, he’d had a lot of time to get used to it.

He turned left onto Santa Monica and then right onto a cute, crooked little street that edges along the golf course of a country club. I’ve never known which club it is. I stayed about thirty yards behind him, just close enough to squeak through a yellow light if one got frisky with me.

Together we crossed Wilshire. He drove fast and economically, downshifting when he wanted to slow. I don’t think he hit his brakes once except for the stoplights. He hit them again in the middle of the very expensive part of Beverly Glen that stretches for about half a mile south of Sunset. Then he turned right, into the yard of a big traditional colonial house with white shutters.

There was a paved parking area to the right of the house with a detached carport at the end of it. By the time he had the car in the carport, I had passed the house, parked the Camaro under a tow-away sign, and was crossing the yard. Jingling something in his pocket, he strode across the paving stones to the front door. He had no inkling of my presence behind him until he put the key in the lock and turned it and I pulled out the nasty little gun and touched it lightly to the back of his neck.

He froze in a well-bred fashion. Then he slowly turned his head to look at me. When he saw my face, his muscles relaxed slightly.

“Mr. Swinburne,” he said. “How tiresome.”

“It’ll get more interesting,” I said. “And you know my real name. You’re the one who had me hired in the first place.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you weren’t sure you could trust the people you gave Sally to. And you were right. You couldn’t.”

“Sally who?” he said without conviction. It sounded as though it was purely for form’s sake.

I gave the back of his neck a little jab with the gun. “Open the door,” I said. “We’ll talk inside.”

“You won’t use that,” he said.

“After what I’ve seen today, I wouldn’t think about it twice.”

“Today?”

“I talked to Wilburforce. And I paid a visit to Jessica. She’s certainly on the road to recovery, isn’t she? What is it besides Valium addiction?”

“Oral insulin,” he said after a beat. “It keeps her blood sugar abnormally low. She’s not in any danger.”

“She’s a junkie,” I said. “You’ve turned a child into an addict. Two other people are dead. Maybe three. I wouldn’t any more worry about shooting you than I would about stepping on a slug.”

He pursed his mouth. “Then I guess we’d better go in,” he said. He turned the key and the door swung open.

“Just a minute,” I said. With my free hand I patted his jacket pockets. “Put your hands in your pockets,” I said, “and keep them there. I’ll get the key.”

He did as he was told, and we stepped into a big entrance hall furnished in what looked like genuine Early American. A pine dry-sink filled with an autumnal arrangement of bare branches, grasses, and pine cones stood at its far end.

“Have you got a study?”

“Of course.” He sounded affronted.

“Which way?”

“To the left.”

“Let’s go.”

I lowered the gun to his middle back and followed him into an enormous cathedral-beamed living room. Lamps burned here and there. As we entered, a pleasant-looking gray-haired lady in a blue silk dress stood up from the couch, laying down an embroidery hoop as she rose.

“Why, Merry,” she said with obvious delight. “You’re early.”

“I got to missing you,” he said. “Dear, this is Mr. Grist. Simeon Grist. Mr. Grist, my wife, Adelaide.”

“I’m so pleased to meet you,” she said, crossing the room with her hand extended. “You’ve brought Merry home early.”

I dropped the gun into my pocket and shook her very slender hand. “It was his idea,” I said. “We could have done this anywhere.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet. Merry’s usually business, business, business. I just know you had a hand in this, and I’m grateful. I don’t get enough time with this husband of mine.”

“No rest for the wicked,” I said. Adelaide Brooks laughed.

“For the
weary
, you mean.” She looked from one of us to the other. “May I get you men a little something to drink?”

“No thank you, Addy,” Brooks said. “Mr. Grist won’t be staying very long.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Should I go into the other room, or will you be using the study?”

“The study will be fine,” I said. Brooks nodded curtly.

“It’s such a lovely room,” Adelaide Brooks said. “So masculine. Merry calls it his Think Room.” Brooks colored slightly. “All right, then. You men run along and figure out a way to make lots and lots of money. Call me if you change your mind about a drink, Mr. Grist.”

I said I would, and Brooks and I marched in silence down a short hallway and into a room that could have belonged only to a lawyer. The furniture brooded there in heavy conspiracy: a massive wooden desk, red leather chairs, mahogany end tables, and books of exactly the same size and color ponderously lining three of the dark walnut walls. Brooks started to sit behind the desk, but I shook my head and gestured him toward one of the armchairs. He sat sullenly and I closed the door.

For a long time I just stood there looking at him. “Well,” I finally said. “Domestic bliss. The little lady. Embroidery. And Merry, no less.” His blush deepened. “So,” I said, “here we are in the Think Room, Merry. What do you think about it all?”

“She doesn’t know anything,” he said.

“No, I don’t imagine she does. She probably thinks you’re a real lawyer.”

“I am a real lawyer. May I take my hands out of my pockets now?”

“It’s
your
Think Room. Do what you like. No, you’re not a real lawyer. You’re a fungus with a wardrobe. You’re running a gigantic blackmail racket, sucking blood out of people who need help. Poor, frightened, lost little people who don’t know where to turn, so they come to you. And you squeeze them dry, don’t you? You move them up the levels of Listening, pulping more money out of them every week. You tape everything they say and you file it for future use. You pervert little girls to turn them into ventriloquist’s dummies because it’s good show business. And you kill people.”

“I guide the Church in its investments,” he said stubbornly, slouching deeper into his chair. “I provide legal advice. I serve on the board of directors. I serve on many boards of directors.”

“Come on,” I said. “You run the money and Merryman runs the Speakers. You help out with the Speakers sometimes too, don’t you?”

“No,” he said tightly.

“Caleb Ellspeth wouldn’t agree with you.”

Brooks sat up suddenly at the sound of Ellspeth’s name. His eyes wandered nervously over the rows of law books.

“Looking for a precedent?” I said. “There isn’t one. This is about as shitty as it gets.”

“I haven’t killed anybody.”

“No. You wouldn’t have the guts. That’s a fine point anyway. You’ve profited from their deaths. I imagine you’d qualify as an accessory.”

He gripped the arms of his chair tightly and made an enormous effort to stand up. “I have nothing to say,” he said.

I leaned over, put my fingertips on his chest, and pushed gently. He fell back into the seat. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s call Adelaide in and we can continue our discussion.”

His mouth opened and closed several times. He looked like a fish snapping at something. “You can’t,” he said at last.

“What did you think? Did you think you could swim through the scum all day and then come home and shower it off? Did you think nothing would ever come in through the front door with you? You’ve been tracking it across the rug for years, Merry. You’re covered in it. That’s why your face shines.”

He rubbed his chin. “It’s Merryman,” he said.

“That’s what everybody tells me. It’s always Merryman. The really awful thing is that you might actually have gotten away with it if the two of you hadn’t gotten even more greedy. Merry and Merryman, the Gold Dust Twins. Except that both of you wanted to run the whole show, didn’t you? Like a couple of big blue horseflies dive-bombing each other over a pile of shit. And Sally Oldfield got caught in the middle.”

Brooks slowly closed his eyes. He kept them closed while I counted to fourteen. Then he opened them again and looked at me.

“What’s your deal?” he said.

“Who says I have a deal? Maybe I’m just God’s flyswatter. I liked Sally Oldfield. I never talked to her, but I liked her. She should be in the living room right now, chatting with Adelaide. Adelaide would have liked her too.”

“Keep Adelaide out of it.”

“No way in the world.” I shrugged sympathetically. “Poor Adelaide,” I said.

“If you didn’t want a deal you wouldn’t be here,” he said. “If you know all you seem to know, why not take it to the police? Why talk to me?”

“I wanted to get a chance to see you up close. People like you don’t come along all that often.”

He turned his attention back to the books. He rubbed his chin in an abstracted fashion. “Who’s your client?” he finally asked.

It had taken him long enough. “Haven’t got one,” I said. “I thought maybe you were.”

He looked a little more self-assured. He rubbed his hands over his thighs and then straightened the crease in his pants. “What’s your fee?” he said.

I cocked my head and looked at him appraisingly. He returned the gaze.

“One million dollars,” I said.

He didn’t blink. “For what?”

“For keeping you out of it. For going away. What do you think it’s for?”

“For going away,” he repeated. “For closing down completely.”

“In cash,” I said.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Small bills.”

“Tomorrow,” he said again. “Nothing bigger than a twenty.”

“Fine,” I said. I put out my hand, and after a moment, he shook it.

“I’ll need some insurance,” he said.

“For example.”

“I imagine you have a license.” The Brooks I’d first met was back. He got up and began to pace. “I need to know what you’ve got and how you got it. Then I’ll need a signed statement that makes it clear that you’ve violated a number of laws in obtaining your information and keeping it from the police. We may have to add a few things to it to give it weight, but you’ll sign it anyway, for a million dollars. You’ll have me, I’ll have you. I go to jail, you go to jail.”