T. Parker - Laguna Heat

Shephard looked at the notepad and slid it back into his coat pocket. She was still staring at him, her eyes a cobalt blue, he thought. Demon of the mines.

“And just what is it you would like to know?” she asked quietly. It sounded like a hiss.

“I’d like a recent photo of your father. I need a sample of his handwriting. I need the names of his friends, regular business clients, gambling buddies, drinking partners. I’d like to see his business books. I need one hour with you in his house, with you talking about him however you want. What I need might be between the lines, so anything goes. You tell me what you want to tell me. Whoever killed him planned to kill him. It wasn’t for money. Somewhere in that house, somewhere in that mind of yours is a reason.”

“Is that all?”

Her voice has thawed, he thought. “Yes.”

“Fine. Then get off my property and out of my sight. Good-bye. And, detective, it’s got nothing to do with your patch. That’s the most interesting thing about you.” She turned and brought another fish from the bucket, tossing it by the tail to the sea lion. “What was your name?”

“Shephard.”

“I might want to remember it the next time I talk to the chief. He’s a neighbor, you know.”

“Oh, right. Here’s my card.” He worked a business card into a diamond of chain link. “I’m sorry, Miss Algernon. My mother was killed when I was young, so I can understand what you’re feeling. You don’t really get over it, you just learn to turn it off. You can keep him okay, inside yourself.” And not to be disturbed, he thought. Like Colleen. “Do you know Ed Steinhelper?”

“Get out. ” She stared at him as he turned away from the fence and headed back to the car.

Shephard found Marty Odette’s black 280Z parked outside the Sportsplace on Coast Highway. The plates said MARTYZ and the car shone like obsidian under the nine o’clock sun. The tourist traffic had already begun to thicken; the smell of brine and suntan oil was wafting in from the beach. Shephard remembered the Sportsplace as a boy: a dark, loud bar where men went to watch sports on a large screen and where betting was rumored to take place. He had learned some years later that Marty Odette had done a short stretch for bookmaking, but he kept his profile low in Laguna. The cops didn’t bother Marty because they liked his bar. Marty Odette had been good friends with Wade Shephard, before Wade had found God. Shephard hadn’t heard his father mention Marty in years. Stepping into the bar, Shephard couldn’t shake the image of Jane Algernon from his mind.

The morning drinkers in the Sportsplace were like morning drinkers anyplace: quiet, friendly, determined. An eight-foot-long airplane propeller still hung behind the bar. Beer seemed to dominate the counter. Shephard ordered coffee. The woman next to him looked about seventy and she smiled at Shephard. He nodded and took a stool.

“Don’t I know you?” the man behind the counter asked.

“Tom Shephard.”

“Tommy Shephard, goddamned.” He reached over and pumped Shephard’s hand.

“How are you, Marty?”

“Look around you,” Odette said, spreading his arms like a pastor raising his congregation. “I’m great. Business is up. And you? How’s Wade? I saw him on the TV Sunday night, a real good sermon. It made me feel like a sinner so I turned it off, but what a delivery he’s got. Building some big hospital down in Mexico, isn’t he?”

“The Yucatan, near Cozumel.”

“After all he’s been through, what a guy. What a miracle worker he’s turned into.” Odette was a stocky, gray-haired man with a wide face and a smile that was quick and didn’t quite line up right. He poured Shephard a coffee and then poured one for himself.

“Got any help this morning, Marty?”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you see how it tends bar?”

Odette’s manner quieted a notch as he untied his apron. “Sure, Tommy.” He disappeared to a back room and returned with a young man following him. “Come on back.”

The office was a large room with no windows, one desk, two chairs, and three telephones. They sat and Odette poured two short Scotches, a medium-priced brand.

“You heard about Tim,” Shephard began. “I’d like to know if he was bringing you much business.”

Odette sipped his drink. The phone rang and he said to call back. “Beer drinker,” he said. “And a helluva good guy. He’d come in Friday nights for beers, Mondays during football. A heavy beer drinker, Tim.” The phone rang again and Marty said to call back. Then he punched the com line and told someone at the other end to answer the goddamned phone. He hung up and smiled. “Keeping the distributors off my back is a full-time job.”

“I’m not talking beer business, I’m talking book,” Shephard said.

Marty shook his head with finality. “No more, Tommy. I’m out of that for good. That’s why we’re drinking this” — he held up his glass — “instead of Glenlivet.”

Shephard could hear the phone ringing outside in the bar area. “When did you see him last?”

“Friday night.”

“Anything unusual?”

“Yeah. He had a friggin’ Bible on the counter with him. I asked him if he was getting born again and he told me to shut my mouth. Funny place to see a Bible in a bar, but this place is like home to a lot of the guys.” Odette checked his watch too casually.

“I’m in a hurry, too, Marty. I want to find out who killed Tim Algernon. The people making those calls want to know your odds on the thoroughbreds at Hollywood Park tonight. And don’t try to tell me they want to know what kind of gin you’re pouring because that insults my intelligence and tends to piss me off. I just need three answers and I’ll be out of here and you’ll be back in business. One, did Algernon win big last week?”

“Two thousand on a horse called Blue Moon. Fifth race at the park last Thursday.”

“How did you pay off? What kinds of bills?”

“Hundreds, fifties, twenties. I don’t know how much of which. It wasn’t old, wasn’t new, just bills.” Marty slugged down his Scotch and poured another. Shephard’s was still untouched.

“Who handles your rough stuff?”

Odette stood up and leaned over the desk toward Shephard. “No, Tom. That I don’t touch, and never have. The guys who play here are buddies, that’s it. No roughing up, no nothing. Shit, everybody in Laguna’s got two things, money and a suntan. I don’t have no trouble with that. Nickel an’ dime.” He sat down and leaned back. “But speaking of muscle, I just thought of something that might help you. Tim asked me for Little Theodore’s number when he was in. I gave it to him. You know Little Theodore?”

“Sure.”

“Maybe he can help you, Tommy.” Shephard stood up and drained the Scotch. Odette remained sitting, and a worried look crossed his face. “Not gonna close me up, are ya?”

“I’m homicide, Marty. Haven’t killed anybody, have you?”

Odette grinned. “Anytime. Stop in anytime, Shephard. I owe you one. I just got my jet license. We’ll go up for a ride sometime, okay?”

“One more thing. What did Tim drink if it wasn’t beer?”

“Jack Daniels, always.”

“Anybody here know Tim hit it big on Thursday?”

“Everybody did. He saw to that. But like I said, all the guys here are buddies. Anybody shady, I throw ’em out. Swear.”

“Jane Algernon sends her regards.”

Marty shook his head sadly. “A knockout,” he said, as if another one had gotten away. “And a class bitch, too. Feel sorry for her though, under the circumstances. Send her mine back, Shephard. By the way, what happened to your head?”

He stopped at a pay phone and called South Coast Investigators. This time his call rang straight through to the offices. The woman who answered the phone was polite, young, and British, and she set up an appointment for Randy Cox to see Michael Stett about some estate work. Shephard fabricated a story about a rich dead Uncle Larry and a vindictive sister who wanted it all. She was sure Mr.