Robert Liston - The Tower of Evil

No, I’m not! She wanted to scream it at him. It takes more than a name and skin color. She gritted her teeth, struggling for civility. It wasn’t the waiter’s fault. She sighed. Her unknown father was Hispanic, thus her dark skin, but her mother was Anglo. So what did that make Lupe Hernandez? The blonde mother-greatly idealized for a long time, but barely remembered now-abandoned the dark-skinned baby, leaving her to uncaring Anglo relatives, then a succession of foster homes, all Anglo. By the time Children’s Services realized her mother was never going to be rehabilitated, it was too late for adoption-or to know where she belonged.

“I look it, but I don’t speak it.” And she didn’t think it or act it. To be taken constantly for something she was not and didn’t want to be was the curse of her life.

“Do you want to order?”

The waiter was clearly Hispanic but with fair skin. Some people have all the luck. “I’m waiting for a friend, just coffee meanwhile.”

“And I’ll have iced tea.”

She turned to see Walter Byerly. Tall, white-haired and gangly, he reminded her of Jimmy Stewart, only he was even more laid back. He wore tennis whites.

“Hope I’m not late. We had to play a tie breaker.”

“Did you win?”

“Finally, 15–13, on a drop volley.”

“You were evenly matched.”

He sat opposite her. “Evenly bad, you mean.”

“Don’t pull that phony self-deprecation on me. I happen to know you’re a shark among the senior players. I’ll bet the guy you beat was 20 years younger.”

“Ten anyway.” He looked at her, blue eyes bright, a slight smile on his lips. “I hear you’ve made detective. How’s it going?”

She grimaced. “Don’t ask. How’s DeeDee?”

“Doreen’s inimitable.”

“Remind me to look up that word.”

“I’m to say hi from her.” He accepted his iced tea, then sugared and stirred. “You certainly must qualify as the most beautiful detective in Santa Barbara.”

“You’re not serious!”

“Smooth ebony hair, luminous brown eyes, exotic complexion the color of dark honey, tall, slender, wears clothes like a model. It works for me.”

She looked down at her coffee, shook her head. She wanted to hear those words so badly. Then why did she deny them when she did? “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay, let’s try again. How’s the detective business?”

She sighed, shook her head. “Nobody takes me seriously. I get all the scut assignments. At the moment I’m relegated to juvenile, for which I feel particularly unqualified.” She made a face. “For some reason I don’t relate to kids very well.”

“You were an outsider yourself. Who’re you working with?”

“I’m assigned to Sgt. Brogan.” She made a gesture of futility, couldn’t help it.

“Good ol’ Buster Brogan, hasn’t solved a case since they took away his rubber hose.”

“To Sgt. Brogan, women in law enforcement are about as useful as Supreme Court justices.”

He laughed. “Very apt, I like it. Are you being harassed?”

“Oh, everyone knows better than to paw me or make open comments, but it’s always there, behind almost every comment. I’m the department bimbo.”

“You’ll be fine, Lupe. I have that from a reliable source.”

“Who’s that?”

“Doreen.”

“My number one fan.”

“Number one after me.” He grinned. “Just keep up the fight-he said wisely.”

“Advice I’m about to take.” She fished her notepad out of her purse. “That was a strange list of things you asked me about this morning. I haven’t come up with much so far. The only blond, blue-eyed, recently missing three-year-old boy came with a five-year-old sister.”

“Could be, I suppose.”

“Thought to be a father abduction.” She saw his grimace. “It would be helpful if you had a name other than Jamie.”

“All I can tell you is that a woman claiming to be his mother left him-oh hell, I might as well say it-abandoned him with someone we know.”

“Abandoned?”

“That’s what it looks like.” He sighed. “We’ll find out where he belongs.”

“I’m sure you will.” She glanced at her notepad. “Next, you wanted to know if there’s a report of a kidnapping or abduction near the library, Tuesday a week ago. The answer is no, not a word on file.”

“You’re full of helpful information.”

“I did better with the homeless lady at the Salvation Army. A name helps a lot.”

“Nadine, the public health nurse, came up with Addie Kinkaid.”

“Addie for Adelaide, if you can believe that. She’s the erstwhile, maybe I should say estranged daughter-in-law, at least former daughter-in-law of Karl Kinkaid.” She thought Walter would be impressed, but he just looked blank. “You never heard of him?”

“Should I?”

“I guess not. He's something of a mystery man, big bucks, big mover and shaker, thought to be a little shady, maybe more than a little. Actually, nobody knows much about him.”

“Where’s he live?”

“I’m surprised you don’t know. He owns an estate in Montecito, built like a castle, complete with towers, balustrades, maybe even a moat.”

“Doreen specializes in moat people. I’ll ask her. What’s his daughter-in-law doing at The Sally?”

“Can’t help you there.”

“I’ll talk to her, if I ever see her again.” He swallowed from his iced tea.

“When you phoned I thought you wanted to know about the suicide.”

“Harry Gould? He’s the son of a friend of Doreen’s.”

Lupe laughed. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me? DeeDee knows everyone.”

“Almost. So what happened?”

“Harry Gould was found this morning by his secretary, sprawled over his desk, shot through the right temple, a Saturday night special in his hand. Has to be a suicide.”

“Suicides can be faked.”

“They can also be for real. I hear there was a note on the computer printout.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that I know of, it’s not my case.”

“And why not?”

“I’m in juvenile, remember?”

“What a waste of a smart young woman. When did this murder occur?”

“Suicide, Walt. Apparently last evening, the exact time is uncertain.”

“And it happened right downtown in La Arcada? That’s one of my favorite spots in Santa Barbara, flowers, fountains and sculpture, straight out of Europe. That’s no place for a murder, too crowded for one thing.”

“That’s why it’s believed a suicide. It happened in Gould’s office on the third floor. Nobody in his right mind would choose the arcade as a murder site, too hard to get out of without somebody eyeballing you.”

“Maybe. What do you know about this guy?”

“Name and occupation is about it.” She hesitated, smiled. “You’re intrigued. I can hear your gears turning.”

“Merely idling.”

Deedee didn’t know the San Roque area very well and slowed her Beamer often to read street signs and house numbers. San Rogue was built on upper State Street, mostly in the ’50s and ’60s, a suburb then, now practically downtown.

Yes, this was the house. She parked and headed up the walk. The front door opened before she was halfway to it, and she heard, “Oh-h, DeeDee, I just knew you’d come.”

“I only just learned, Lorna, I’m so sorry.” Lorna Gould was somewhat heavy, and DeeDee felt a little smothered by her embrace. But she made no effort to escape. “Dear, dear Lorna, what an awful thing to happen, I simply can’t believe it.”

She heard the woman’s sobs and felt her spastic breathing against her own chest. But she let her be. Tears were the best thing for her. In time she led Lorna to a sofa in her living room and sat her down, pulling tissues out of the box for her. Bottles sat on a table in the corner. She poured brandy into a snifter and brought it to her friend. Lorna Gould was only in her early 50s, yet at the moment she looked old enough for Medicare.