Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“He’s got guys coming in and out all the time,” said the redhead. “He says he’s training them, but one time I saw him and this guy holding hands and kissing.”

“Rank!” said the blonde, elbowing her friend. “You never told me.”

“Yeah, it was a long time ago. When we were still with Big Dave.”

“Big Dave,” said the blonde, giggling.

“How long ago was that?” I said.

Bafflement. Both of them looked as if they were struggling with a difficult word problem.

Finally the redhead said, “A long time ago- maybe five weeks. Buffy Todd and this other guy were walking in back of the house. Right over there, I was walking Bernie.” She pointed to the cement pad. “And they touched their hands. Then the other guy got in his car- white five-sixty SEC with these brushed-steel custom wheels- and Todd leaned in and gave him a little kiss.”

“Rank,” said the blonde.

“Kind of sweet, actually,” said the redhead, looking as if she meant it. But the empathy didn’t fit, and she squirmed and burst into nervous laughter.

I said, “Remember what this other guy looked like?”

She shrugged. “He was old.”

“How old?”

“Older than you.” Even.

“Forties?”

“Older.”

“Maybe he was Todd’s dad, ” said the blonde, smirking. “You can kiss your dad, right, Mar?”

“Maybe,” said the redhead. “Little Todd and his dad, kissing.”

They looked at each other. Shook their heads, giggled some more.

“No way,” said the redhead. “This was true love.” She gave a reflective look. “Actually, the old guy was kind of buff. For an old guy. Kind of like Tom Selleck.”

I said, “He had a mustache?”

The redhead strained. “I think so. Maybe. I just remember he reminded me of Tom Selleck. An old Tom Selleck. Buff tan. Big chest.”

“How come,” said the blonde, “so many of them are buff? What a waste. ”

“It’s ’cause they’re rich, Trace,” said the redhead. “They can afford to buy special supplements, get lipoed-out, whatever.”

“Suck and tuck,” said the blonde, touching her own flat midriff. “If I ever need that, put me to sleep.” She stuck her hand in the box of Fiddle Faddle and groped around.

“Geez, don’t touch everything!” said the redhead, tugging on the box.

The blonde held fast and said, “Almonds.” Smile. “ Here we go.” She pulled out a nut and placed it between her teeth. Looked at me, flicked it with her tongue, and bit down slowly.

I said, “That the last time you saw this old guy around- five weeks?”

“Yup,” said the redhead, looking wistful. “It’s been a long time since we hit dry sand.”

“So,” said the blonde, “can you do anything for us?”

“Like I said, I’m not in the real estate business, but I do know some people- let me check around. Why don’t you write down your names and numbers.”

“Sure!” said the redhead, beaming. Then she grew grave.

“What is it?”

“No pen.”

“No prob,” I said, resisting the impulse to wink. I went back to the Seville, found a ballpoint and an old mechanic’s receipt in the glove compartment, and handed it to her. “Write on the back.”

Using the Fiddle Faddle box as a desk, she wrote laboriously as the blonde looked on. The dog planted a wet nose on the back of my hand and wheezed in gratitude when I rubbed him again.

“Here.” The redhead thrust the paper at me.

Maria and Traci. Looping script. Hearts over the I’s. An address on Flores Mesa Drive. A 456 exchange.

I smiled and said, “Great, I’ll do what I can. In the meantime, good luck.”

“We’ve already got it,” said the blonde.

“Got what?” said the redhead.

“Luck. We always get what we want, right, Mar?”

Giggles and a cloud of dust as the Golf shot forward.

I watched them speed to the northern end of Broad Beach Road and disappear. It took a second to register that they were around Melissa’s age.

I made a three-point turn and headed back for the highway.

Older man and young stud.

Older man with a mustache and a tan.

Lots of tan, mustachioed gay men in L.A. Lots of white Mercedes.

But if Don Ramp drove a white 560 SEC with brushed-steel wheels, I was willing to go out on a limb and assume.

I joined the southbound traffic on PCH and drove home assuming even without proof. Casting Ramp as Nyquist’s lover and recasting the tension that I’d witnessed between Nyquist and Gina.

Another macho charade on his part?

Anger on hers ?

Did she know ?

Did that have something to do with her hints about making a life-style change?

Separate bedrooms.

Separate bank accounts.

Separate lives.

Or had she known about Ramp when she’d married him?

Why, after living a bachelor life for so long, had he married her ?

Gina’s banker and lawyer seemed certain it hadn’t been for money, citing the prenuptial agreement as proof.

But prenuptials- and wills- could be contested. And life-insurance policies could be taken out without bankers and lawyers being informed.

Or perhaps inheritance had nothing to do with it. Maybe Ramp simply needed a cover for the good, conservative folks of San Labrador.

Hearth and home and a child who hated his guts.

What could be more all-American?

I got home just after five. Milo was out. He’d recorded a new greeting on his machine. No more misanthropy. Businesslike: Please leave your message. I asked him to please call when he had a chance.

I phoned San Labrador and got Madeleine.

Mademoiselle Melissa was not feeling well. She was sleeping.

Non, Monsieur was not there, either.

A catch in her voice. Click.

I paid bills, straightened the house, fed the fish some more and noticed that they looked tired- especially the females. Did thirty minutes on the ski machine and showered.

Next time I looked at my watch, it was seven-thirty.

Friday night.

Date night.

Without thinking it through, I called San Antonio. A man answered with a wary “Hello?” When I asked for Linda, he said, “Who’s this?”

“A friend from Los Angeles.”

“Oh. She’s over at Behar- at the hospital.”

“Her dad?”

“Yeah. This is Conroy, her uncle- his brother. I’m over from Houston, came down today.”

“Alex Delaware, Mr. Overstreet. I’m a friend from L.A. Hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what I’d like to hope, too, but I’m sorry to say that’s not the case. My brother passed out this morning. They revived him but it wasn’t easy- some kinda problem with circulation and the kidneys. They’ve got him over in intensive care. The whole family’s over there. I just came back to get some things and caught your call.”

“I won’t keep you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Please tell Linda I called. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

“I’ll be sure to do that, sir. Thank you for offering.”

Click.

Wrong reason to do it, but I did it anyway.

“Hello.”

“Alex! How are you?”

“Got a date tonight?”

She laughed. “A date ? No, just sitting here by the phone.”

“Care to change your luck?”

More laughter. Why did it sound so good?

“Hmm, I don’t know,” she said. “My mother always told me not to go out with any boy who didn’t ask by Wednesday night.”

“Good old Mom.”

“Then again, she was full of shit about lots of other things. What time?”