Bill Pronzini - Zigzag

“Sir? What was it you wanted to see Mr. Erskine about?”

“Private business matter.”

“I see. Well, if you’d like to leave a message or a number where he can reach you...”

“No, thanks, I’ll try him at his home. You’re Melanie Vinson, is that right?”

“How did you—” The corner of her mouth twitched again. “Did Mr. Erskine tell you my name?”

“Is there a reason he shouldn’t have?”

“No.” Twitch. “No, of course not.”

“Must be an interesting job, working with a stockbroker.”

“Yes, it is. Very. And very demanding.” Twitch. “Well. If you’re sure you don’t want to leave a message for Mr. Erskine, I have quite a bit of work to do before I leave for the day.”

“I won’t keep you from it, then.”

I turned for the door, but before I reached it she said, “Um, in case you don’t connect with Mr. Erskine at his home, whom should I say stopped in to see him?”

I gave her my name. It was not the first time she’d heard it in this office; the smile twitched all the way off and sharp little teeth nibbled at her lower lip before she dropped her gaze to the computer keyboard and began typing. Not good at hiding her emotions, the nervous Ms. Vinson.

Why would a man with Peter Erskine’s bizarre problem confide to his secretary/assistant that he’d hired a private investigator? One more question that needed answering, and honed even more the sense of manipulation and deceit I felt.

The tall wrought-iron gates were closed across the foot of the Erskines’ entrance drive. Locked, too; I got out of the car and tried them. There was an intercom device on one of the pillars. I pushed the pearl button below the speaker, waited, got no response, and tried twice more with the same lack of results. Nobody home. Or nobody home who wanted to be disturbed by a caller no matter who he happened to be.

Before driving away I hauled out the iPhone and called the agency and asked Tamara to do a deeper background check on Peter Erskine. Emphasis on his business practices and personal finances.

“How come?” she asked.

“He lied to me, that’s how come, and I haven’t been able to find him to ask why.” I told her what I’d learned from Ellen Bowers. “No reason for the lie that I can see unless he’s got some sort of hidden agenda.”

“Such as?”

“I’m not sure yet. That’s why I need more data on him, his marriage, his personal life, his business activities. Anything you can dig up that’ll give me a better handle on the man.”

“Right.”

“And while you’re at it, run a check on his assistant, Melanie Vinson.”

“Ah hah,” she said. “So you do think she might be more to him than just office help.”

“Could be. She was a lot less professional today than a woman in her position ought to be. She’s got something on her mind that doesn’t involve stocks and bonds.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“One more search you can run for me when you have the time. Floyd and Harvey Leno, L-e-n-o, owners of Leno Brothers Painting in Campbell.”

“Who’re they?”

“Devil cultists... maybe. One of them helped clear out the Voks’ apartment the day after he died. I had a little talk with Floyd Leno this afternoon. Nonproductive, but provocative.”

“So you want the full package on them, too?”

“Right. Whatever seems relevant.”

“Okay. You coming back to the city now?”

“On my way. Not the office, though — home.”

“I’ll get back to you ASAP.”

“It can all wait until tomorrow. Why don’t you give yourself a break, go home early for a change?”

“I am home,” she said, “right here at my desk. That place on Potrero Hill I pay too much rent for is just where I go to sleep.”

Rush-hour traffic heading into the city and on the way up to Diamond Heights added twenty-some minutes to my travel time from Atherton. It was nearly six when I walked into the condo. I’d been there all of five minutes, just enough time to say hello to Emily — Kerry was still at Bates and Carpenter — and open a beer from the fridge when Tamara called.

She’d already run all the backgrounders I’d asked for and compiled fairly substantial dossiers on Peter Erskine, Melanie Vinson, and the Leno brothers. It never takes her long to gather even the most obscure data available on any individual within radar range.

“First off,” she said, “the Erskines’ marriage isn’t so solid after all. Turns out she filed for divorce two and a half years ago, but they reconciled before it ever got to court.”

“What prompted the divorce action?”

“Not specified, but I picked up some hints he was having himself a fling and she found out about it.”

“You get the woman’s name?”

“No. Hush-hush on that. But it probably wasn’t Melanie Vinson. She didn’t start working for Erskine until sixteen months ago.”

“So he strayed at least once.”

“At least.”

“And his wife won’t stand for it happening again. Likely the reconciliation was based on his promise to walk the line and a threat to go through with the divorce if she caught him a second time.”

“Right. If she caught him. Doesn’t mean he’s been Mr.Faithful since, just extracareful.”

I said musingly, “Marian Erskine’s no dummy, and with all her money she figures to have sound legal representation. Two failed marriages and the third a trophy husband spells prenup to me.”

“Did to me, too. There was one, I found out that much, but of course I couldn’t get the details.”

“Usual kind of arrangement, probably. Settlement for X amount of dollars in the event of divorce, with no claim on anything she owned prior to the marriage. I assume that includes the Atherton property?”

“Does. She inherited that along with her pop’s millions.”

“What about Erskine’s personal finances?”

“Well, he’s a lousy stockbroker,” Tamara said. “Lost bundles in the market on dubious investments, his own money as well as his clients’. One of the clients threatened him with a lawsuit for fraud. Most of the others quit him quick. He’s only got a couple left, just barely hanging on.”

“And I take it his wife won’t bail him out.”

“Did at first, then apparently got tired of the money drain and shut it off. Letting him sink or swim on his own, and he’s going down fast.”

“I figured as much,” I said. “Didn’t look as though much if anything was going on in that office of his. The Vinson woman seemed surprised to have somebody walk in unexpectedly.”

“Keeps it open and her on salary for appearance sake. Either that, or because he’s banging her.”

“Uh-huh. Anything more on him I should know?”

“Nothing relevant. Unless the fact that he doesn’t drink means something. Won’t touch any kind of alcohol, makes a big deal out of it, evidently. My body’s my temple kind of thing.”

“Either that,” I said, “or it’s a matter of self-discipline. He’s the type who doesn’t like to lose control.”

“Must not like being under his wife’s thumb, then. Seems she calls all the shots in the marriage.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Okay. Melanie Vinson. Erskine didn’t hire her because of her stock market savvy or secretarial skills. She didn’t have either. Before she went to work for him, she was a saleswoman in a Palo Alto boutique. And before that, a student at San Jose State.”

“Any idea whether she met Erskine by applying for the job, or he offered it to her after they met some other way?”

“Nope. Want to bet it was after they met? Party, club, someplace like that.”

“No bet.”