Over the Edge (6 page)

I tossed a handful of pellets into the water. The fish thrashed and bumped against one another to get at the food. Their scales threw off sparks of scarlet, gold, platinum, and tangerine, the roiling bodies fiery amid the tranquil hues of the garden. Kneeling, I fed the more assertive carp by hand, enjoying the tickle of their barbels against my palm

When they were sated, I put the food away and sat cross-legged on a cushion of moss, tuning my eyes to small sounds: the gurgle of the waterfall; the tiny kissing sounds made by the fish as they nipped at the algae coat on the smooth wet rocks that rimmed their pool, a warm breeze gently agitating the branches of a flowering wisteria. Evening approached and shrouded the garden in shadow. The jasmine began to emit its perfume. I watched colours give way to contours and worked at shrouding my mind.

I'd grown meditatively calm when the phone on my belt whistled and beeped.

'Dr. Delaware,' I answered.

'Pretty formal Alex,' said a youthful voice speckled with static. 'Lou?'

'None other.'

'How are you? The formality's 'cause I was expecting someone else.'

'I'm peachy. I trust you're not too disappointed.' I laughed. The static grew louder.

'The connection's weak, Lou. Where are you railing from, ship or shore?'

'Ship. Got a boatload of prospective investors heading for the Turks and Caicos, a hold full of bluefin and wahoo, and enough rum to render the inhibitions flaccid.'

Lou Cestare held a long-term lease on a warm spot in my heart. Years ago, when I was earning more money than I knew what to do with, he'd shown me what to do with it, guiding me through a series of real estate and securities investments that would allow me to live comfortably without ever having to work again - if my life-style remained reasonable. He was young and aggressive, a clean-cut, fast-talking, blue-eyed, northern Italian. At the age of twenty-seven he'd been written up by the Wall Street Journal as a superstar stock picker. By thirty he was top dog in a large investment firm and heading higher. Then, abruptly, he made a change in his life-style, quitting the corporate world, selling a Brentwood spread, packing up a young wife and baby, and moving to northern Oregon to

work for himself and a select group of clients. Most were megarich; a few, like myself, he kept on for sentimental reasons. He alternated, now, between a home office in the Willamette Valley and a hundred-foot yacht christened The Incentive. Both were outfitted with a fortune in computer gizmos that enabled him to talk to an international army of floor traders by modem.

'Your portfolio came up on-screen the other day, Alex. I've got everything tagged, just like a dentist. Time for a midyear checkup.'

'What's up?'

'You've got two hundred eighty K in tax-frees at an average yield of eight-point-seventy-three percent, producing a yearly income of twenty-four thou four hundred forty that Uncle Sam can't touch. Ninety K of that matures over the next few months. It's generally the older stuff with a slightly lower yield - seven-point-nine percent average. The question is, Do you want more munis or should I get you high-yield corporates or T bills? They'd be taxable, but if you're not earning much, the higher rates would put more bucks in your pocket. According to my records, you pulled in forty-two grand last year doing odds and ends. What about this year?'

'I'm working a little more. About six thousand a month.'

'Gross or net?'

'Gross.'

'Any big deducations?'

'Not really.'

'Last year's rentals and interest income were thirty-one K. Any reason for that to change?'

'None that I can foresee.'

'So you're pulling a little over a hundred thou, still in a healthy fifty percent bracket. Unless you need to be liquid or feel like gambling, the munis are the way to go.'

'What kind of gambling are you talking about?'

'Brand-new over-the-counter issues, mostly unlisted. I've got a laser imaging firm based in Switzerland that looks
   
promising,
   
a
   
Pennsylvania
   
scrap
   
conversion

syndicate, and something right up your alley: a Carolina outfit specialising in booby hatches.' 'Booby hatches?'

'You bet. This group - Psycorp - contracts for mental health services in medium-sized communities. Mostly down South and midwest, but it's expanding. Very aggressive marketing, and the demographics look good. Lots of crazies out there, Alex. Bet you never thought of yourself as a high-growth industry.'

'I think I'll stick with bonds. What kinds of rates are you getting?'

'I've got a line on some ten and a half percent stuff at par from an estate sale, but you'll have to go out long-term -thirty years minimum. Your net increase in income will be approximately' - I heard keys clicking in the background -'two thousand three hundred and forty dollars. Don't spend it all in one place.'

'Double A?'

'These are rated triple B - which is still investment quality - but I expect an upgrade to A in a few months. I don't take ratings that seriously anymore; the services have got lazy. Look at the WPPSS debacle - from triple A to the toilet, and they never saw it until it was too late. Best thing is to bird-dog each issue yourself. Which I do - assiduously. The one I've got in mind for you is very kosher. Conservative beach community with a heavy tax base. Long-overdue public utility financing, no controversy. You want in?'

'Sure. How much can you get?'

'Two hundred and fifty thou. I'm committed for a hundred to someone else. You can have the other one fifty.'

'Get me a hundred even. Ninety from the maturing bonds, and I'll wire you ten thousand tomorrow. Oregon or the West Indies?'

'Oregon. Sherry's handling transactions while I'm gone.'

'How long are you planning to be away?'

'A week, maybe longer. Depends on the fishing and how

long it takes for the rich folk to get on each other's nerves. By the way, we got your thank-you note for the coho. Good stuff, huh?'

'That was terrific salmon, Lou. We invited friends over and barbecued it like you suggested.'

'Good. You should see the bluefin we've been hauling in. Three-hundred-pounders with meat like purple butter. Got a plate of it sashimied right here in front of me. I'll save you some fillets.'

'That would be great, Lou.'

'Whoa!' he called out. 'Pardon me, Alex, some kind of action starboard. Jesus God, look at that monster/' He took a sip of something and came back on the line, swallowing. 'Haul it in, Jimbo! Pardon me, again. Everything okay by you?'

'Just great.'

'Terrific. Then I'd best be signing off and heading down to charm the customers.'

'Bye, Lou. Think of me over crab cocktails.'

'Conch,' he corrected. 'Marinated in lime juice. Eat it; then play Miles Davis with the shell.'

A beep came on the line.

'That your end or mine?' he asked.

'Mine. Call waiting.'

'I'll let you go, Alex. Roger, over and out.'

I depressed the button and connected to the waiting call.

'Alex? This is Milo, and I gotta make it quick.'

'Milo! Good to hear from you. What's up?'

'I've been talking to someone who says he knows you. Fellow by the name of James Wilson Cadmus.'

'Jamey! Where is he?'

'So you do know him?'

'Sure I do. What's-'

'He said something about calling you this morning.'

'Yes, he did.'

'What time was that?'

'Around three-fifteen.'

'What did he have to say?'

He hesitated. Milo is my best friend. I hadn't heard from him for longer than usual and had started to wonder about it. Under different circumstances, I would have welcomed his call. But his tone of voice was far from friendly, and I became acutely aware of what he did for a living.

'It was a crisis call,' I hedged. 'He wanted help.'

'With what?'

'Milo, what the hell is this about?'

'Can't explain, pal. Catch you later.'

'Wait a second - is the kid okay?'

It was his turn to hesitate. I could visualise him running his hands over his big, scarred face.

'Alex' - he sighed - 'I really gotta go.'

Click.

It was no way to treat a friend, and I was stiff with anger. Then I remembered the case he'd been working on, and anxiety washed over me like toxic surf. I called his extension at the West L.A. station and, after getting the runaround from the police bureaucracy, learned nothing more than that he was at a crime scene. Another call to Canyon Oaks elicited barely muted hostility from Mainwaring's secretary. I was starting to feel like a pariah.

The thought that Jamey might be mixed up with Milo's current case was sickening. But at the same time it gave me some direction'. The case had received lots of press coverage, and if Milo wouldn't tell me what was going on, perhaps the media would.

I reached for the radio and spun the dial, tuning in each of the two all-news AM stations in turn. Not a word. Further spinning produced nothing but audio garbage. The TV news was all blow-dried hair and moist white teeth - happy talk and phoney ad libs interspersed with hefty servings of murder and mayhem on blue plate special.

Plenty of horrors but not what I was looking for.

I spied the morning Times rolled up on the desk and seized it. Nothing. I knew two people on the paper, the chess editor and Ned Biondi at the Metro Desk. I found the reporter's number on my Rolodex and dialled it.

'Doc! How the hell are you?'

'Just fine, Ned. How about yourself?'

'Super. Ann Marie just started grad school at Cornell. Education.'

'That's terrific, Ned. Next time you talk to her give her my best.'

'Will do. We couldn't have done it without you.'

'She's a great kid.'

'No debate from me on that. So, what kind of scoop do you have for me today? The last one wasn't half bad.'

'No scoops,' I said. 'Only questions.'

'Ask away.'

'Ned, have you heard about anything breaking on the Lavender Slasher case?'

'Not a damn thing.' His voice edged a notch up the register. 'Something drift your way?'

'Nothing.'

'Just random curiosity, huh?'

'Something like that.'

'Doc,' he implored, 'that case has been bone dry for a month. If you know something, don't hold back. Prick teasing went out with the Pill.'

'I really don't know anything, Ned.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Sorry to bother you. Forget I called.'

'Sure,' he said edgily. 'My mind's a goddamn blank.'

'Bye, Ned.'

'Sayonara, Doc'

Neither of us believed for a moment that the issue had died with the conversation.

Robin came home in a great mood, showered, put on jewellery, and changed into a slinky little black dress. I dressed in a tan linen suit, blue pinpoint oxford shirt with a white spread collar, navy and claret tie, and calfskin loafers. Very stylish, but I felt like a zombie. Arm in arm we walked out onto the terrace and down to the Seville.

She settled in the passenger seat, took my hand, and squeezed it. Reaching up, she opened the sunroof and let warm California air flow over her face. She was in fine spirits, fairly glowing with anticipation. I leaned over and

kissed her cheek. She smiled and lifted her lips to mine.

The kiss was warm and prolonged. I mustered all the passion at my disposal but was unable to clear Milo's call from consciousness. Dark, disturbing thoughts kept peeking around the empty corners of my mind. I struggled to contain them and, feeling like a louse for failing, vowed not to ruin the evening.

I started the engine and slipped Laurendo Almeida on the tape deck. Soft Brazilian music filled the car, and I started the engine and tried to summon forth imagery of carnivals and string bikinis.

We dined at a dark, saffron-saturated place in Westwood Village, where the waitresses wore belly dancer costumes and looked as Indian as Meryl Streep. Despite the cheap theatrics, the food was excellent. Robin made her way -daintily but inexorably - through lentil soup, tandoori chicken, cucumbers in yogurt dressing, and a dessert of sweetened milk balls coated with candied silver foil. Hoping she wouldn't notice the masochism, I punished my palate with extra-hot curry.

I let her do most of the talking and contented myself with nods and smiles. It was a continuation of the deception born with the kiss in the car - I was miles away - but I pushed aside my guilt by rationalising that knavery conceived in love was sometimes kinder than honesty. If she saw through it, she said nothing, perhaps engaging in a loving artifice of her own.

After dinner we cruised Wilshire to the beach and looped down to Pacific Coast Highway. The sky was inky and starless; the ocean, a rolling meadow of black satin. We drove in silence toward Malibu, and the breakers provided a rhythm section for Almeida as he coaxed a samba, out of his guitar.

We stopped at Merino's, just past the pier. The interior of the club was hazy with smoke. From a corner stage a four-piece group - drums, bass, alto sax, and guitar - was embroidering Coltrane. We ordered a brandy apiece and listened.

When the set ended, Robin took my hand and asked me

what was on my mind. I told her about Milo's call, and she listened gravely.

'The kid's in trouble,' I said. 'If it has anything to do with the Slasher, huge trouble. The hell of it is I don't know if he's a survivor or a suspect. Milo wouldn't give me the time of day.'

'That doesn't sound like Milo,' she said.

'Milo hasn't seemed like Milo for a while,' I reflected. 'Remember how he didn't show up for the New Year's thing and never called to explain. Over the last few weeks I've phoned him at work and at home, must have left a dozen messages, but he hasn't returned one of my calls. At first I thought he was on some kind of undercover thing, but then his face was all over the tube when they found the last Slasher victim. It's obvious he's distancing himself from us - from me.'

'Could be he's going through a rough time,' she said. 'Working on that case has got to be incredibly stressful for someone in his position.'