Vixen (16 page)

Vorhees still hadn't put in an appearance when the judge, a stern-faced woman in her fifties, came out of chambers and the bailiff called the proceedings to order.

Runyon had expected the trial to last a minimum of one full day, but it was over in less than half an hour—aborted by a nolle prosequi from an Assistant DA. The reason given was that the complainant was recently deceased and her next of kin—her husband—didn't wish to pursue prosecution; therefore the DA's office had decided to accede to his wishes and was recommending that the charges against the defendant be dropped. The Becketts' high-priced lawyer didn't have to say a word in his client's defense. The judge delivered a brief lecture to Kenneth warning against the dire consequences of any repeat offense, and banged her gavel.

Case dismissed.

Cory embraced her brother, whispered something to him that caused his head to bob up and down. He looked a little stunned, as if he couldn't quite wrap his mind around the verdict. Runyon thought he might be able to edge in for a word with Beckett, but she didn't let that happen. She hustled the kid out of the courtroom without a glance in Runyon's direction, the bulky Wasserman helping her run interference. The reporters followed them out, yammering for interviews, but their luck wasn't any better.

Runyon was the last to leave. On his way out of the building he was thinking that the fallout from the talk with Andrew Vorhees had been just what he and Bill hoped for. They'd not only managed to destroy or drive a deep wedge into Vorhees' relationship with Cory Beckett, but to convince him to let her brother off the hook. There was always the chance that he'd be angry and vindictive enough to pay her back in part by hurting her brother, but given what they knew about him and his methods, and what they'd told him about the frame-up, the odds were good that he'd do just what he had done—declined to pursue prosecution.

Besides, they'd had some insurance: even if Vorhees had pressed the theft charge, Sam Wasserman would likely have gotten Beckett off. The DA's case was shaky with the plaintiff dead and no one else to testify directly on her behalf, and losing it would have been a black mark on an already less-than stellar record in this election year. The DA would have been only too willing to let the whole thing drop.

So far so good. Question now was, how would the Vorhees/Cory Beckett/Chaleen mess play out? Volatile, secretive, parlous bunch, capable of just about any action or reaction, which made anticipating what any of them would do next difficult, if not impossible. Runyon's one hope was that whatever happened, poor Kenneth Beckett wouldn't get caught in the middle again.

 

19

“I want to establish a memorial for Cybil,” Kerry said. “So she won't be forgotten.”

She announced this as we were finishing dinner that night, without having said anything along those lines previously. She'd been quiet up until then, the thoughtful kind of quiet. Cybil's death had left her subdued but not withdrawn; she seemed to be coping with it well enough, her grief neither entirely locked up inside nor morbid in her outward expressions of it. She hadn't thrown herself compulsively into her work at Bates and Carpenter or in her office here in the condo, or avoided normal contact with Emily and me, or suffered onsets of depression in which she suddenly burst into tears. And her appetite had been reasonably good. But it was obvious that Cybil remained uppermost in her thoughts and that she'd had this memorial idea, whatever it was, for some time and was only now ready to share it.

Emily and I exchanged glances; her expressive eyes told me she had no more idea than I did what Kerry meant. Wasn't that corner of her office she'd devoted to Cybil's possessions a kind of memorial?

I said, “We're not about to forget her, babe, you know that.”

“Not ever,” Emily said. “We'll always remember her and love her.”

“I know that,” Kerry said. “We won't forget her, but what about the rest of the world? If we don't do something to preserve her memory, it'll be as if she never existed.”

I pushed my plate away and reached over to touch her hand. “That's not true. There are those two novels of hers—”

“Both out of print now.”

“—and plenty of readers and collectors like me who remember her stories for the pulps.”

“Yes, exactly. But not enough of them. How many pulp collectors have actually read Cybil's stories? Not many, I'll bet. Most collectors are only interested in owning the magazines for their investment value, or their artwork, or because they contain stories by famous writers—you told me that yourself. And what few pulps come up for sale on eBay and elsewhere these days are expensive, prohibitively so for all but individuals with deep pockets. That's true, too, isn't it?”

I admitted that it was.

She said, “But there is enough interest in pulp fiction among modern readers to make collections and anthologies of obscure pulp stories profitable for small-press publishers. There are several that specialize in that type of book—you've bought a few of those reprints yourself.”

I knew what she was getting at now. “You want to try to sell a collection of Cybil's Max Ruffe stories. That's what you meant by memorial.”

“Yes. I've been rereading some of them and they're really very good—and I'm not saying that because she was my mother. Cybil was a fine stylist, a clever plotter.”

And had a real knack, I thought, for writing the kind of tough-guy fiction her male counterparts were turning out then and now. The only woman of her generation I could think of who did it as well was Leigh Brackett. It had always been puzzling to me why Cybil's work had slipped into relative obscurity, while male writers from the forties and fifties of lesser talent had gained various measures of popularity.

Kerry was saying, “But I don't mean just a single collection of her stories. There are twenty-seven in all, most of them novelettes, and one in
Midnight Detective
that's a short novel. There'd have to be at least three volumes to include them all. That's doable, isn't it?”

“I don't see why not.”

“And reprints of
Dead Eye
and
Black Eye
, too. The complete Max Ruffe, by Cybil Wade writing as Samuel Leatherman.” She was more animated now, a little crackle of excitement in her voice. “Also doable?”

“Probably. But the original publisher of the two novels is out of business now and I doubt a major house would be interested. It'd have to be a small press, probably a print-on-demand outfit.”

“One that does e-books, too,” Emily said.

“Right. There are several out there.”

“And Mom could write the introductions.”

Kerry said, “That's just what I was thinking. And not only commentary on the stories, but on Cybil's life—a series of personal memoirs. I could do it, I think—do justice to her and her work.”

“I'll bet it'd be easier than writing advertising copy,” Emily said.

Kerry shifted her gaze to me, her eyes as bright as I'd seen them in a long time. “What do you think? Can we convince one of those small publishers to reprint all of Cybil's fiction?”

“We can sure give it a try.”

“Good! You know which ones are most likely to be receptive. I'll write the pitch letters if you'll give me their names.”

“Better yet,” I said, “we'll pick them out together.”

So after we finished supper, Kerry and I went into her office and used her computer to pull up the websites of publishers specializing in mystery and detective pulp fiction reprints in both print-on-demand and e-book editions, paying particular attention to their production values and cover art. There were two I'd recommended that Kerry liked as well, and two more we picked out together. At least one of the four ought to be interested; if not, there were a few others we could try.

“I wish we'd done this when Cybil was alive,” she said. “I mentioned the idea to her once, but she wasn't interested. She never had a high regard for her fiction.” Kerry added wryly, “Unlike Ivan, who thought his work was about half a rung below the level of genius. Or pretended to.”

“Hers was better.”

“By a wide margin. I'm really glad you think this is a good idea.”

“A very good idea,” I said, and meant it.

She said she wanted to get started right away on drafting a proposal, so I left her to it and went back into the living room. And there was Emily, curled up on the couch reading one of Cybil's Max Ruffe stories in a 1947 issue of
Midnight Detective
on which Samuel Leatherman had been cover-featured. Modern kid, fourteen years old and raised on computers, engrossed in the mouldering pages of a type of popular culture that had flourished more than half a century before she was born.

I sat down quietly so as not to disturb her, thinking that where women were concerned, I was a pretty lucky guy. All the women in my life, dating back to my childhood, had been special. My mother, and Nana, her mother. Kerry. Emily. Cybil. Tamara. All but one of the half dozen or so I'd been involved with before I met Kerry, even though those relationships, for one reason or another, hadn't lasted. Smart, caring, loving, every one.

Thank God for women like them. And that there were only a few, a very few, of the ones like Cory Beckett.

*   *   *

Tuesday was not one of my scheduled days at the office. But after I finished a couple of errands I didn't feel much like rattling around at home, so I gave in to impulse and drove down to South Park. I didn't expect any new developments on the Vorhees/Cory Beckett matter since yesterday's trial dismissal of the theft charge against Kenneth Beckett, but Tamara had one waiting for me when I walked in.

“I was just about to call you,” she said. “You'd think Andrew Vorhees would be pissed at us, right? Well, he's not. He called for another appointment not fifteen minutes ago—the big man himself this time, not one of his flunkies. Seems he wants to engage our services, as he put it.”

“Oh? To do what?”

“Hedged on that, said he'd discuss it in person. Could be something to do with his wife's death, but I'll bet he's after as much dirt as we can dig up on Cory. Chaleen, too.”

“Payback ammunition.”

“Yep.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I didn't commit us, just said we'd listen to what he has to say. But if it's Cory and Chaleen he's after, why not take him on? His money's good and the dirt is already about nine-tenths dug up.”

“Did he ask for me, Jake, or both of us?”

“You. But I told him he'd probably get Jake instead and he said okay.”

“Why Jake instead?”

“Well, he wants to have the meeting tonight—eight o'clock, on his yacht. Said he'll be tied up with other matters all day and something to take care of after he leaves his office. Probably true—he didn't stay on the line long and he sounded hassled. I figured you'd rather spend the evening with Kerry and Emily. And Jake's up for it—I just got off the phone with him.”

“Fine by me. He'll get as much if not more out of Vorhees as I would.”

“We'll know a lot more about what's happening with Cory and Chaleen when he reports in,” Tamara said. Her smile was wolfish. “And with any luck, a legitimate reason to stay involved in this mess and a fat cat's fat check for all our troubles.”

*   *   *

At two-thirty I was still at my desk, fiddling with a report on a routine skip-trace. I had written scores like it before, but today, for some reason, I was having trouble getting the gist of it down in coherent English. Committing words to paper, or now to a computer screen, is not one of my long suits; I have to drag them together into intelligible sentences at the best of times. It was a good thing Kerry intended to write all the introductory material for Cybil's collected works; I'd have been worthless as a collaborator. I was staring off into space, trying to think of a way to frame what should have been a simple statement of fact, when the outer door to the anteroom opened.

Except that it didn't just open; it thumped and rattled as if it had been pushed in hard. Sharp clicking steps followed. I couldn't see who had come in because my office door was partly closed. Alex Chavez was in the anteroom, working on his laptop at one of the desks, and I heard the mutter of his voice and then a kind of cat-hiss response. Even before Alex came and poked his head in and said I had a visitor, I knew who it was.

She was standing alone in the middle of the anteroom, straight as a tree with her arms down at her sides and her mouth so tightly compressed it seemed lipless. Dressed in an expensive scarlet outfit today—suit, shoes, scarf, purse—that made her midnight hair seem even blacker, the red color scheme broken only by a white cashmere turtleneck and a gold cameo brooch. This was the other Cory Beckett, the real Cory Beckett. Nothing soft or seductive about her. Hard. Glacial. All the fire burned deep inside—a molten core wrapped in a block of ice.

Chavez stood looking at her from a distance with his mouth open a little, as if he'd never seen anyone quite like her before. Tamara was there, too, standing in the doorway to her office; she glanced at me as I stepped out, but only for a second. Cory Beckett had her full attention. She didn't have to have met the woman before to know who she was.

Cory's magnetic gaze was fixed on me, unblinking, as I approached her. Sub-zero cubes of luminous gray-green glittering with venom. Touch her skin, I thought, and you'd burn your fingers. Like touching dry ice.

I said, “Well, Ms. Beckett, this is a surprise,” even though it wasn't. After nearly forty years in law enforcement, hardly anything surprises me anymore.

“Is it?” Her voice had a brittle quality, as if it, too, were partially frozen. “I don't think so, after what you and what's-his-name that works for you did.”