William Lashner - Marked Man

“I’m not answering questions, remember?”

“But it is all somehow related, the robbery and the painting and your client and the two dead men, right?”

“No comment.”

“Okay, that’s great. Wait a moment, I have to make a call.” She took out a cell phone, pressed a button on her speed dial, waited for someone on the other end. “Jim? Rhonda. It’s just like I told you… Right, it’s all connected. So along with the Rembrandt and the hood on the lam who wants to get home, there are two dead guys already and probably more on the way… Yes, wonderful, isn’t it? I don’t think weneed to wait and see if I can get the interview anymore, let’s get it done… Great. Let me know… Ciao.”

“Who was that?” I said. “Your editor?”

“No, my agent.”

“Your agent?”

“We’re packaging this whole thing as a true-crime book: art, death, sex.”

“Sex?”

“There’s always sex,” she said as her hand distractedly fell on my knee, as if she were going to put sex in her book right then and there. “A couple publishers have already bid, but the offers have been limited because they all thought the scope was too small and they were waiting to see if I could get access to Charlie. With another body they won’t care about that anymore. I should have an advance by tomorrow afternoon.”

“There’s a man dead in that house. He had a wife and kids.”

“Yeah. That’s a shame, isn’t it?”

“How’d you get so hard on the art beat?”

“Artists are a bitch. Okay, no more business, I promise. How are you?”

“A bit rattled, actually.”

“Oh, Victor, I’m sorry,” she said. She lifted her hand from my leg, put her palm on my cheek. “I forget that you have a weak stomach.”

“It’s just that I was feeling really envious of him for the whole day until I found him dead. It was like he had the life I always wanted, the house, the job, the family life.”

“And now it’s available.”

I laughed. “Oh, so I should give the wife a call?”

“After a suitable mourning period.”

“And what is that?”

“Depends. Was she good-looking?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Then don’t wait too long.”

“You are hard, aren’t you?”

“It’s a hard world, Victor. You have to take what you want.”

“Do you think I’m tough enough to do that?”

“Victor, are you okay?”

“I’m just asking. What do you think?”

“No comment,” she said.

“I guess that’s my answer.”

When I pulled up in front of her hotel, she sat quiet in the car for a long moment. The Loews was in the old PSFS Building, a classic of modern design. The building was sleek and spare, with clean lines and big windows. I couldn’t help but think that making love in the Loews would be like making love in a Swedish movie. And Rhonda actually did look a little like Liv Ullmann.

“Do you want to come up?” she said finally.

“I don’t know. Maybe not tonight. I can still see him sitting there. He was in a chair. He still had a drink in his hand.”

“A drink in his hand? Oh, that is terrific. I have to call back and tell my agent that. It’s the details that make a story. When the book comes out, Victor, I’m going to make you a star, I promise.”

“I don’t feel like a star.”

“Not yet, you don’t. And an interview with your client would really seal the deal. Will you ask him?”

“Yes, I’ll ask him.”

“Thank you,” she said. She leaned over and gave me a kiss. It started out like a little peck, but it evolved. Her lips on mine were hard, angular. She leaned her upper body toward me so that her breast pressed into my chest, and when she opened her mouth, our teeth clacked. Her tongue was strong and rough. You could almost hear the sproing of arousal in my pants.

“Come on up,” she said, her voice suddenly husky. “We could order room service. Champagne and strawberries, what do you say? To celebrate my pending book deal.”

“I don’t think I should.”

“Oh, Victor, don’t think so much.”

“I can’t help it. It’s been my lifelong curse. So I’m sorry, really, but I have to decline. Besides, I have to pack. I’m heading out of town.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “But I’m finding out tonight.”

It turned out to beLos Angeles, which was absolutely not a surprise. If you’re chasing Sammy Glick, you don’t head off to Moline.

Driving north on the 405, or at least pointing north, I had the strange feeling that I’d found my place in the world. I had sprung for a convertible, bright red and cheap – characteristics I find incredibly sexy in both convertibles and women’s lipstick – and I had the top down. The wind wasn’t quite blowing through my hair, since the 405 was more parking lot than thoroughfare, and, to tell the truth, with the sun uncomfortably hot on my shoulders and the nauseating scent of hot pavement and exhaust, I wasn’t feeling all that swell, but still, something felt so right about the place. And look, down there, well beyond the highway, on one of the streets heading off to the left, wasn’t that a palm tree?

I wondered if the other motorists saw a young man on the make, come west to stake out his future, or just a pathetically pale tourist in a cheap suit, kiosk sunglasses, and a rent-a-car convertible trying to act L.A. and failing miserably. Well, really now, who the hell cared what anyone else thought? I was here, I was in a convertible, I had a beautiful woman by my side, I was ready for my close-up. And yes, to top off the picture, I was heading for a meeting with a mogul. Life in the fast lane, baby.

Now, if only traffic would start moving.

AFTER I HAD dropped Rhonda Harris off at her hotel and bitten my lip in frustration as I saw her sashay into the lobby, I placed a call to Skink. We met in his dust-up of an office and tried to figure out where the hell was that bastard Teddy Pravitz. All it took to find him, finally, was a little triangulation.

“What do we got to go on, mate?” said Skink, lying on the leather couch with his shoes off. Skink did his best work with his shoes off.

“Not much,” I said. “He probably changed his name. At one point he was in California. He wanted to make a movie.”

“Who doesn’t?” said Skink. “I got this idea myself. It’s about a private dick in Fresno what brings down a motorcycle gang to help a damsel in distress. Turns out the damsel ain’t so much in distress and ain’t so much a damsel. All I needs to do is write the screenplay. What’s it take to write a screenplay anyway?”

“Just a few free hours, I’m sure,” I said. “You spent some time in Fresno, didn’t you, Phil?”

“So he’s out west, is that it?” said Skink, quickly changing the subject.

“That’s my best bet right now.”

“It’s a big country.”

“I might have something else.” I took a piece of paper out of my jacket pocket and handed it to Skink.

“What’s that?”

“A list of phone calls made or received by a dead man.”

“Come again?”

“These are all the incoming, outgoing, and missed phone calls for the last week from Stanford Quick’s cell phone.”

“Cops give you that?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, I get it. Frisked a corpse.” Skink grinned in admiration.

“My guess is, one of the numbers is connected somehow to the guy we’re looking for. We should concentrate on the West Coast for starters.”

“I’ll see if I can rustle up a name for each number with the right area code,” said Skink, sitting up in interest. “I’ll also run a name what I’ve picked up about that Lavender Hill fellow, see if anything matches.”