Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

Her smile said success had been no surprise.

The Tankard’s lot was so full of cars that it appeared open for business: Ramp’s Mercedes, Noel’s Toyota, the brown Chevy Monte Carlo, Milo’s Fiat, and a dark blue Buick sedan that I’d also seen before.

Milo’s hired surveillance was nowhere in sight. Either not on the job or damned good.

As I got out of the Seville, I saw someone exit the rear of the building and run across the lot.

Bethel Drucker in a white blouse and dark shorts and flat sandals. Blond hair loose and flying, chest bouncing. A moment later she was behind the wheel of the brown Chevy, revving noisily, backing out of her space in a squealing fishtail, then speeding down the driveway toward the boulevard. Without stopping, she hooked a sharp right and roared away. I tried to catch a glimpse of her face behind glass but caught only a boomerang flash of hot white sunlight.

Just as the sound of her engine faded, the Tankard’s front door opened and Noel stepped out, looking confused and scared.

“Your mom went that way,” I said, and he swung his eyes toward me convulsively.

I walked over to him. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “The cops came by to talk to Don. I was in the kitchen, doing some reading. Mom went out and served them coffee, and then when she got back she looked really upset. I asked her what the matter was but she didn’t answer and then I saw her leave.”

“Any idea what the cops said to Don?”

“No. Like I said, I was in the kitchen. I wanted to ask her what the matter was but she just left without saying anything.” He looked down the boulevard. “It’s not like her…”

He lowered his head, forlorn. Dark and handsome and forlorn… James Deanish. My scalp prickled.

I said, “No idea where she might have gone?”

“It could be anywhere. She likes to drive- being cooped up in here all day. But she usually tells me where she’s going and when she’s coming back.”

“She’s probably under stress,” I said. “What with the restaurant being closed. The uncertainty.”

“She’s scared, ” he said. “The Tankard’s been her life. I told her even if worse comes to worse and Don doesn’t reopen, she can easily get a job at another place, but she said it would never be the same, because…” Shading his eyes with one hand, he scanned the boulevard some more.

“Because what, Noel?”

“Huh?” He gave a startled look.

“Your mom said it would never be the same because…”

“Whatever,” he said angrily.

“Noel-”

“It’s not important. I’ve gotta go.”

Reaching into his jeans, he pulled out a ring of keys, ran to the Celica, and drove off.

I was still preoccupied as I walked up to the Tankard’s front door. The NO BRUNCH sign had been replaced with one that said CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Inside, the lights had been turned up to cheapening brightness, exposing every raw spot in the wood paneling, every snarl and stain on the carpet.

Milo sat on a stool by the bar, holding a coffee cup. Don Ramp was in one of the booths along the right wall, a bottle of Wild Turkey, a glass, and a cup that matched Milo’s within arm’s reach. Two other coffees sat near the outer edge of the table. Ramp had on the same white shirt he’d worn at the dam. He looked as if he’d just returned from a guided tour to hell, traveling stand-by.

Chief Chickering and Officer Skopek stood over him. Chickering was smoking a cigar. Skopek looked as if he would have liked one, too.

When the chief saw me, he turned and frowned. Skopek did likewise. Milo sipped coffee. Ramp didn’t do anything.

It looked like a chapter meeting of the Big Man’s Club gone sour.

I said, “Hi, Chief.”

“Doctor.” Chickering moved his wrist and a pellet of ash dropped into a tray near Ramp’s bottle. The bourbon was two-thirds gone.

I went to the bar and sat down next to Milo. He raised his eyebrows and gave a small smile.

Chickering turned back to Ramp. “Okay, Don, guess that’ll do it.”

If Ramp responded I didn’t see it.

Chickering picked up one of the coffee cups near the edge and took a long swallow. Licking his lips, he came over to the bar. Skopek followed but remained several feet behind.

Chickering said, “Doing some routine questioning for my good friends over in Los Angeles, Doctor. About what happened to the late Mr. McCloskey. Anything you want to add to the current pool of ignorance?”

“Nothing, Chief.”

“Okay,” he said, then took another swig of coffee. When he finished, the cup was empty. He held it out without looking back, and Skopek took it and placed it on Ramp’s table. “Far as I’m concerned, Doctor, it’s just deserts. But I’m following up as a courtesy to L.A. So now I’ve asked you and that’s it.”

I nodded.

He said, “How’s everything else going? With little Melissa?”

“Fine, Chief.”

“Good.” Pause. Smoke rings. “Any idea who’s going to be running the household?”

“I couldn’t say, Chief.”

“Well,” he said, “we were just over there and a lawyer was talking to the girl- lady lawyer. West side firm. Don’t know how much experience she’s got with this side of town.”

I shrugged.

“Glenn Anger’s a good man,” he said. “Grew up here. Known him for years.”

I said nothing.

“Well,” he said again. “Got to be going- never a dull moment.” To Ramp: “Take care of yourself, Don. Call if you need anything. Lots of people rooting for you- lots of people want to sniff T-bone and New York prime and F.M. on the grill again.”

He winked at Ramp. Ramp didn’t move.

After Chickering and Skopek had left, I said, “F.M.?”

“Filet mignon,” said Milo. “We had a nice little chat about beef just before you got here. The Chief’s a connoisseur. Buys those packaged steaks from Omaha.”

I looked over at Ramp, who still hadn’t budged. “He join in the discussion?” I said, very softly.

Milo placed his coffee cup on the bar. The broken St. Pauli Girl mirror had been removed. Bare plaster in its place.

“No,” he said. “He hasn’t done much of anything except suck bourbon.”

“What about Nyquist?”

“Not a word- not that anyone’s looking.”

“Why’d LAPD send Chickering around?”

“So they can avoid ruffling San Labrador feathers and still say they did the job.”

“Chickering have anything new to say about McCloskey?”

He shook his head.

“How did Ramp react to hearing about it?”

“Stared at Chickering, then took a big gulp of Turkey.”

“No surprise at McCloskey being dead?”

“Maybe a glimmer- it’s hard to tell. He’s not registering much of anything. Not exactly your stalwart coper.”

“Unless it’s an act.”

Milo shrugged, picked up the coffee cup, looked at it, put it down. “Don,” he called across the room, “anything I can do for you?”

Nothing from the booth, then a long, slow shake of Ramp’s head.

“So,” said Milo, switching back to a soft tone, “have a chance to go to West Hollywood?”

“Yup- let’s talk outside.”

The two of us went out to the parking lot.

I said, “Is your surveillance guy anywhere around?”

“Trade secret,” he said, smiling. Then: “At this moment, no, but it wouldn’t make a difference, believe me.”

I told him what I’d learned about Kathy Moriarty and Eileen Wagner.

“Okay,” he said, “your Gabney theory’s looking better. They probably scammed in Boston, got found out, and came west to scam some more.”

“It goes beyond that,” I said. “Eileen Wagner was the one who referred me to Gina. A few years later, she’s dead in Boston, the Gabneys leave Boston, and shortly after, they’re treating Gina.”