Sinister Sudoku (12 page)

Dunno if this will get us anywhere,
Liza thought.
But I’ve got to do something.

Liza was awake when Buck Foreman called the next morning. At least her eyes were open, although she was lying in bed with the pillow over her head.

Last night had not been easy. The Kelly Dreamland Movie Show had been a more graphic remake of
Liza Discovers Dalen
. This version had apparently been edited for the teen multiplex market. Chris Dalen came bursting out of the mattress the way Alien had exploded from that hapless guy’s chest.

Liza had scrambled across a bed that seemed to stretch to the horizon, pursued by Chris, his pale hands stretched out to touch her. His eyes were still lifeless and staring, but his lips were now set in that familiar crooked grin.

He whispered after her in that hokey German accent, “Zere iss no ezcape . . .”

After three replays on the inside of her eyelids, Liza had sat up in bed, deciding she could do without sleep for a few hours. Then she’d finally fallen into a dreamless, exhausted slumber.

Luckily, Buck had called from the airport car rental instead of a block away from Hackleberry Avenue. His trip to Maiden’s Bay gave Liza a chance to shower and wash some of the stupor away. A cup of coffee and some slightly stale cereal (that was the only breakfast food in the house) completed the wake-up process.

She had let Rusty out to do his business, fed him, finished a second cup of coffee, and checked her e-mail by the time Buck arrived. He didn’t have his usual sunglasses on in the gray weather, but he still looked every inch the hard-ass cop he once had been. As she opened the door for him, she noticed that Buck carried the kind of junior suitcase that salesmen use to tote around samples.

“How ya doin’, Liza?” Buck asked, stepping into the house.

“Well, I’m awake.”

A grin appeared on Buck’s great stone face. “I don’t know that anyone connected with Markson Associates was an early riser—except maybe Ysabel.”

Ysabel Fuentes was the firm’s receptionist. With her knowledge of the foolishness and foibles of Hollywood’s A-list, she probably wielded more power than most studio line producers. She also regularly got into wars with Michelle, quit, and then came back to work after Liza conducted extensive shuttle diplomacy.

Buck’s grin grew even more evil. “Ysabel stormed off around midafternoon yesterday. Michelle has gone through three temps so far.”

With Michelle, there was always the possibility that Buck was speaking literally. Liza shot a worried glance at the bag he carried. “You’re not bringing body parts up here to dispose, are you?”

Buck patted the case. “No, this is for the field trip we’ll be taking to your friend’s house. Is she the round-faced lady I saw peeking out from next door as I came up the driveway?”

Liza nodded. “The hatchet-faced biddy on the other side got into a fight with my mom about thirty years ago and hasn’t spoken to a Kelly ever since.”

“Well, since your Mrs. Halvorsen is home, let’s go and pay her a visit.”

The door to Mrs. H.’s house flew open even as they approached. Liza came in and gave her neighbor a hug, checking to see if the older woman was chilly. “How’s the duct tape holding up on that slit?” she asked.

“Oh, fine. Michael put on another layer yesterday evening.” Mrs. H. glanced over at Buck. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” Buck said, “I’m just here to read the meters.”

He opened his case to reveal a whole collection of high-tech gizmos, each carefully nestled in foam packing. Selecting one about the size of a pack of cigarettes, he turned it on, illuminating a small light on the top of the gizmo. It immediately began blinking. With a finger to his lips, Buck began walking around the living room. A beeping noise began to come from the little box in his hand. It grew faster as he approached the mass of displaced furniture pushed against one wall.

Buck dropped to one knee and produced a penlight, which he shone under an armchair. After a moment of fishing under the furniture, he came up with something about the size and shape of a telephone pager—except this thing had an aerial on top.

He brought it over the bare floor, dropped it, and then crushed the gizmo under his heel.

“What was that?” Liza asked. “Some kind of a bug?”

Buck nodded, still waving around his box—his bug finder, Liza now realized. She noticed that the light on the gizmo was off, now.

“I didn’t think he’d have more than one in here. That was a radio transmitter,” Buck announced, “a Rod Carlowe special. He loves his technotoys. About forty or fifty feet from here, there’s probably a receiver plugged into a long-term recording device. I don’t think Rod would bother doing a full-time live surveillance—begging your pardon, ma’am,” he said to Mrs. H.

“None taken,” Mrs. Halvorsen said faintly. She was having a hard time dealing with the fact that anyone would want to spy on her.

“Rod probably swings by his listening post and checks the recording each day,” Buck went on. “He heard about that bookstore being used as a drop and called before Liza even got over there.” Liza briefly explained that development from yesterday’s visit to Portland.

“And this is why I have that big cut in the plastic over there?” Mrs. H. asked.

“Well, it was an easy enough way for Rod to get in here,” Buck said. “He probably tossed—ah, did a brief search,” he amended with a glance at the older woman.

“Liza suspected that much.” Mrs. H. looked a little embarrassed. “Looking around, I couldn’t be sure.”

“Well, it would probably be enough to make people worry about that—rather than realizing he’d been bugging the place.”

“You think there are more?” Liza asked.

Buck held up his little box. “Well, I’ve got a radio frequency detector here. Let’s go and see.” They found another of the little boxes established beside Mrs. H.’s phone, and a final one in the upstairs hallway. Michael emerged from his room as Buck destroyed that one.

“Is that what I think it was?” Michael asked incredulously.

“If you thought it was a listening device.” Buck ranged the top of the house, but his detector remained lightless and quiet.

Michael was down on his hands and knees, examining the wreckage. “Kind of bigger than I expected,” he said. “And is that a cell phone battery?”

“Yeah, the ones the size of a straight pin run by microscopic nuclear reactors pretty much only belong in spy movies,” Buck said somewhat sarcastically. “I thought you were one of those writers who did your research.”

“I never had to use one of these—in a story,” Michael quickly added. He continued to poke at the debris. “Is this expensive?”

“You could probably get one in your friendly neighborhood spy store for about two bills or a little more,” Buck said. “It’s definitely not top-of-the-line, but it’s enough for this job.” He grinned a not particularly nice grin. “Rod probably buys them by the gross.”

He led the way downstairs, saying, “Now that we know the place is clean, I have some information.” He paused. “But I think you’d better ask your friend Kevin to join us. That way the whole team will be here.”

Liza suddenly found herself remembering Ted Everard’s comment about the girl detective and her chums. However, judging from the look in Buck’s eye, she suspected this professional detective had plans of getting some information, too.

Kevin arrived, and they adjourned to the kitchen, where Mrs. H. was busily brewing tea. “Michelle and I both spent some time digging up information after we spoke to you yesterday,” Buck began.

“Do you know who this Carlowe guy is working for, or is he here on his own?” Michael asked.

That got another grin from Buck. “Actually, he’s working for an old friend of Liza’s—Alvin Hunzinger.”

“He’s not exactly a friend,” Liza protested.

“Nonsense.” Buck smiled maliciously. “Think how he rushed to your side to free you from the clutches of the police down in Santa Barbara.”

Liza blushed. Alvin Hunzinger looked like a cartoon character—in fact, he was a dead ringer for Elmer Fudd in the old “Looney Tunes.” “He rushed there because he’s scared to death of Michelle,” she said tartly. “Which I guess anyone who makes his living as the lawyer to the stars should be.”

“Which star is he working for?” Mrs. H. asked excitedly.

“A former child star—of the boardroom,” Buck replied. “Conn Lezat.”

Liza blinked. “Okay, Conn and Chris Dalen were both in my class. But I don’t see any reason why Lezat would be involved with Chris.”

“In the course of his career, Hunzinger has dealt in several cases of recovering stolen art,” Buck explained. “It looks as if Lezat has him trying to turn up the stolen Mondrian to cut a deal.”

“Well, it would improve Lezat’s image as America’s Most-Hated White-Collar Criminal.” Liza could see the public relations advantages in that.

“And maybe he’d be able to get some years knocked off his prison term,” Kevin finished.

“You had Carlowe on the list of people who were stranded at the inn when Dalen, uh—” She glanced at Mrs. Halvorsen.

“When my brother was murdered,” Mrs. H. said unflinchingly.

Liza intertwined her fingers and then rested her chin on top of them. “Great,” she groused. “That means we’ve got somebody representing Fat Frankie Basso, somebody representing Conn Lezat, and Ritz Tarleton’s very own daddy at the Killamook Inn at the time of the crime.”

“Sounds like a pretty full house,” Michael said to Kevin.

Liza looked from one to the other of the men in her life.
Well,
she thought,
if they really start acting like idiots, Buck can slap them down—one at a time or both at once.

“So,” she said aloud, “I guess we have to apply the MOM test: motive, opportunity, and means. So, motive—they all have some reason for wanting the Mondrian.”

“Three million dollars hanging on your wall, even if it’s a wall in your vault—that could make somebody lose his head,” Michael said.

“Or maybe as a very expensive get-out-of-jail card,” Kevin put in.

“Opportunity,” Liza pressed on. “Again, we’ve got a tie. Vinnie Tanino, Rod Carlowe, and Fritz Tarleton—”

“With entourage,” Kevin added sourly.

“Were all at the Killamook Inn on the night Chris Dalen was murdered,” Liza finished. “When you come to means, though, I think the needle starts to point to Vinnie Tanino. He’s not a great criminal mind, I’ll grant you, but he is a mobster. I don’t think he’d hesitate to rough someone up to get information.”

“And you think,” Mrs. H. paused to take a deep breath. “You think he went too far?”

“He also tried to hide his identity with that dodgy credit card,” Kevin said slowly.

“All valid points,” Buck conceded. “But I wouldn’t rule out any of the other guys. Remember, I knew Rod Carlowe when we were on the force together.”

“The police,” Michael said, seeing the puzzled expression on Mrs. Halvorsen’s face.

“Rod wasn’t above beating a confession out of a suspect if investigating looked like a lot of work. Sometimes he put innocent people away.”

Buck shook his head. “After he got bounced out, he didn’t develop a greater reverence for human life. A couple of years ago, a studio bigwig was fighting this court case. Carlowe tried to blackmail a witness for the other side into changing his testimony. Instead, the guy committed suicide. Saint Rod not only held up his client for a bonus, he went out and spent it on an all-night party.”

“Sounds like a charming fellow,” Liza said.

“And from what Michelle tells me, Fritz Tarleton wouldn’t be fitted for a halo anytime soon,” Buck went on. “When his daughter Ritz started out on the Hollywood scene, she hooked up with a lowlife lounge lizard. Papa no like. He had his head of security, Jim McShane, lay a beating on the unsuitable boyfriend to discourage him.”

“You know,” Liza said, “I’m beginning to see where Ritz gets her whole ‘little people’s rules don’t apply to me’ attitude.”

Kevin looked frankly unhappy. “McShane—that’s one of the people staying with Tarleton at the inn.”

“Could this man have killed my brother?” Mrs. H. demanded bluntly.

“I don’t know,” Buck told her. “He’s a former cop from New York City—that’s where Tarleton has his headquarters. We’re trying to get some kind of line on McShane’s past.”

“Any other tidbits?” Michael asked.

“Here’s one,” Buck said. “When he started getting into the big money, Tarleton got a reputation as an avid art collector—and not a good reputation.”

“See?” Michael said. “He’s one of those guys who’d sit in his vault and gloat over a painting only he can see.”

Liza had a more practical question. “What gave him that reputation?”

“Some federal charges over paying bargain-basement prices for Mesopotamian antiquities that turned out to be looted from Iraqi museums,” Buck replied.

He sat back in the chair where he’d settled himself, looking over his audience. “Michelle turned up a possible source of information, not on what happened to Chris Dalen, but about what he did with the Mondrian.”

He turned to Mrs. Halvorsen. “When your brother got arrested, did you know the lawyer who represented him?”

“I didn’t get to find out anything about the case,” Mrs. H. confessed. “My husband would have burst a blood vessel if I’d tried. And since—” She shrugged. “Well, Chris and I never talked about it.”

“Well, your brother went to trial with a Portland criminal attorney named Lewis Partland. There wasn’t much Partland could do—he faced an open-and-shut case. In the years since the case, Partland retired . . . to a town called Otis.”

“That’s about forty miles from here, give or take,” Liza said. “Just go down the 101—”

Buck nodded. “And that’s what we’re going to do.”

“I—I can’t,” Kevin stammered. “I only took a quick break to come over here—”