They also wondered briefly why anyone would want to kill Jack the doorman, but such talk led nowhere and, after a brief silence, Partain asked Winfield, “Who else besides Nick Patrokis knows you and I are in Los Angeles?”
“No one,” the General said. “And what a curious question. It implies that either you or Jessica was the target, and that the shooter was incompetent.”
“Does it?” Partain said.
Something flitted across the General’s face, either regret or inspiration. Whichever it was made him look uncomfortable as he said, “I misspoke.”
“When?” Partain said.
Instead of answering, the General turned to Millicent Altford and said, “Could you make a reservation for lunch tomorrow for me and two guests at some place that film people frequent?”
“Sure — if I can ask why?”
“I want to invite someone to lunch and I need to offer an inducement.”
“This someone a star-fucker?”
“I can only presume so.”
“Then I’ll call Le Dome,” she said, rose, went to the phone, made the call and returned to the couch. “One o’clock tomorrow. Le Dome’s on Sunset. You’ll have what they call a preferred table.”
“Thank you,” the General said, rose, went to the phone, dialed information, got the number of the Peninsula Hotel, called it and said, “Mr. Emory Kite’s room, please.”
After the call went through, Winfield said, “Mr. Kite? Vernon Winfield. Sorry to call you so late but I wonder if you could possibly join me at one tomorrow for a business lunch at Le Dome on Sunset Boulevard?”
The General listened, then said, “Yes, I understand film people do eat there.”
After more listening, he said, “I need your professional advice about a fatal shooting a friend of mine witnessed earlier this evening.”
Winfield listened just long enough for Kite to ask a brief question, then said, “You met him at the airport today.” Another pause. “That’s right. Mr. Partain. He’ll be joining us for lunch.” One final pause and, after that, the General said, “Good. Tomorrow at one, then.”
After Winfield returned to the couch, looking content, if not quite smug, Altford asked Partain, “Who the hell’s Mr. Kite?”
“A real short guy from Washington who’s the only person except you and Patrokis who knows I’m out here with the General.”
“What else is Kite?” she asked.
“He rents space from us at VOMIT,” the General said. “By trade, he’s a skip-tracer turned detective.”
Partain rested his elbows on his knees, leaned toward the General and said, “You forgot to mention why I’d want to consult with Kite about a dead doorman.”
“I didn’t forget,” Winfield said. “You’re Millicent Altford’s security consultant and fairly new to the trade. You need to know who the doorman really was — his background, job history, friends and criminal record, if any. But what you especially want to know is if there’s anything about Jack that might further embarrass Ms. Altford, who’s already been politically embarrassed by a dead body being dumped on her driveway — the body of a young man romantically involved with her daughter in Mexico.”
“I don’t think romance had a whole lot to do with it,” Altford said.
“Who’s going to pay Kite if he says yes?” Partain asked.
“I will,” the General said.
“Is Kite licensed in California?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“What if he turns me down?”
“We should feel relieved,” the General said.
“And if he accepts?”
“Then,” Winfield said, “we begin our reassessment of Emory Kite.”
A long silence began that was ended by a question from Altford to the General. “You don’t like him much, do you, your Mr. Kite?”
“Is it that obvious?”
She nodded. “Maybe you should wear a disguise tomorrow.”
“A disguise?”
“You know,” she said. “A smile.”
Chapter 22
It was almost midnight when Partain stopped the rented Taurus in front of the Eden and noticed Tom, the day doorman, talking to a uniformed policeman. Tom excused himself and hurried around the front of the car as Partain opened the door and got out.
Instead of saying hello or good evening, Tom said, “They say you guys were right here when it happened — you and Jessica.”
“That’s right.”
“Jack was one helluva guy,” Tom said, paused for two seconds, then asked, “Rented a Taurus, huh? How d’you like it?”
“Nice car,” Partain said, handing over the keys. “You knew Jack pretty well?”
“It’s like I told the cops. We weren’t exactly buddies but we got along fine. He was into acting. I’m into surfing. I work days. He worked nights. That left him free for his auditions and acting jobs, except he didn’t get a lot of either. When the cops asked how come I knew how many acting jobs he got, I asked them how many actors with steady work did night doorman as a hobby?”
“You two ever trade off?” Partain said.
“Yeah. Once in a while — mostly when Jack got himself invited to a screening where he could bump noses and smell assholes with anyone who might do him some good. Or if the surf was way up, we might trade. Jack was real nice about that.”
“Jack interested in politics?”
“Why?”
“Well, he and Ms. Altford seemed to hit it off. And if they had this mutual interest, I thought Jack might’ve traded with you on, say, election night so he could stay home and watch the returns.”
Although the question sounded lame to Partain, it didn’t seem to bother Tom. “You mean in November?”
Partain nodded.
“What day?”
“The third.”
“I mean what day of the week?”
“It’s usually on a Tuesday.”
“Nah. I’d’ve remembered that if we had. Traded. I don’t vote much and Jack said he was voting for Perot. When I ask him why, he says it’d be a vote against typecasting.” Tom frowned, now obviously puzzled, then smiled. “I get it. You wanta know if Jack and me had regular trade-off days. And if today was one of ’em and we called it off, then it should’ve been me who got zapped instead of Jack.” He frowned again, more puzzled than ever. “But who the fuck’d wanta shoot me?”
“Or Jack?” Partain said.
“Yeah. Him either?”
Even after Tom vouched for Partain, the uniformed Los Angeles cop still demanded ID, checked the Wyoming driver’s license against a list of names, then nodded and let Partain use his key card to enter the Eden.
He let himself into 1540 and found Jessica Carver waiting in the apartment’s foyer. “You find them?” she asked.
He nodded. “I followed them from Morton’s to the hospital. Your mother didn’t know who was following her, tried to lose me and almost did.”
“How’d she take it?”
“She was more concerned about you than Jack.”
“That’s nice,” she said, studied him for a moment or two, then asked, “Like a drink?”
Again, Partain nodded. “Very much.”
From behind the living room bar, Jessica Carver set a generous measure of iced Scotch in front of Partain and asked, “Where’s the General?”
“Still at the hospital.”
She glanced at her watch, saw it was almost midnight and said, “That means he’ll spend the night. It happens four or five times a year either here or in Washington. It’s got to be one of the most enduring bicoastal liaisons on record.”
“I assume it went on while they were both married to somebody else.”