I thought about Becky Basille, trapped in a locked room with a madman. "Everything Jean and Coburg did was part of the ritual. Like forging Becky's therapy notes and scripting them to make it seem Becky was having an affair with Hewitt. In addition to diverting us, once more, to Gritz, it added insult to injury by humiliating Becky. As if that could undo the humiliation Becky'd caused Jean."
He stubbed out his cigar. "Speaking of Gritz, I think I found him. Once I realized Coburg and Jeffers were probably using him as a distraction, I figured the poor sucker's life expectancy wasn't too great and started to call around at morgues. Long Beach has someone who fits his description perfectly. Multiple stab wounds and ligature around the neck- a guitar string."
"The next Elvis. I'd check Coburg's guitar case."
"Del Hardy already did. Coburg's got a bunch of guitars. And a phase shifter and other recording stuff. In one of the cases was a set of brand-new strings. Missing the low E. The other interesting things that came up were a man's shirt too small to be Coburg's, torn up and used for a rag, still stinking of booze. And an old Corrective School attendance roster with nineteen seventy-three ripped out."
"Small shirt," I said. "Gritz was a little man."
He nodded. "And a client of the law center. Coburg had gotten him off a theft thing, too, couple of months ago."
"Any indication he ever knew Hewitt?"
"No."
"Poor guy," I said. "They probably lured him with notions of being a recording star- let him play with the guitars and the gizmos, make a demo. That's why he talked about getting rich. Then they killed him and used him as a red herring. No family connections, the perfect victim. Where was the body found?"
"Near the harbor. Naked, no ID, quite a bit worse for wear. He'd been in one of their coolers with a John Doe toe tag. They figure he's been dead anywhere from four days to a week."
"Right around the time you called Jeffers and asked her to speak to me. You said she thought she recognized my name. When I got there she pretended it was because of the Casa de los NiÑos case. But she knew it from Coburg's hit list- it must have shocked them, their next victim in their face, like that. Your making the connection between the "bad love' tape and what happened to Becky. Someone else might have backed off, but clearing the list just meant too much to Coburg- he couldn't let go of it. So he and Jean decided to stay on track and use Gritz as extra insurance. Jeffers sends me to Coburg, Coburg just happens to remember Gritz was Hewitt's friend and directs me to Little Calcutta. Then, just in case we still weren't biting, Jeffers produces the therapy notes with all those references to "G.' Maybe I should have wondered- Jeffers made such a big deal about Becky being a lousy note taker, then magically these appear. Mrs. Basille said Becky was a real stickler for the rules, but I figured she was just out of touch."
"There was no way to know," he said. "These people are from another planet."
"That lunch with Jeffers," I said, feeling suddenly chilled. "She sat across from me- touching my hand, letting loose the tears. Bringing Dick along was another rituaclass="underline" Becky vanquished, Jean was showing off her spoils. After we were finished eating, she insisted on walking me to my car. Stood on the sidewalk, misbuttoned her sweater, and had to redo it. Probably a signal to Coburg, waiting somewhere across the street. She stayed with me all the way to the Seville- tagging the car for Coburg. He followed me up to Benedict and learned where I was hiding out."
He shook his head. "We hadn'ta caught them, they'd probably run for office."
"At lunch, I told Jeffers that I was going to Santa Barbara the next day to talk to Katarina. That got them worried I'd learn something- maybe even bring back the school roster. So they were forced to break sequence- Coburg beat me up there and killed Katarina before me. And tossed the house. Any idea why Coburg called himself Silk and Merino?"
"I asked the asshole. He didn't answer, just smiled that creepy smile. I started to walk out and then he said, "Look it up.' So I did. In the dictionary. "Coburg' is an old English word for imitation silk or wool… Enough of this, my head's splitting… How are you and Robin doing?"
"We've been able to go back to the house."
"Anything left?"
"Mostly ashes."
He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Alex."
I said, "We'll survive- we're surviving. And living in the shop's not bad- the smallness is actually kind of comforting."
"Insurance company jerking you around?"
"As predicted."
"Let me know if I can do anything."
"I will."
"And when you're ready for a contractor, I've got a possible for you- ex-cop, does nice work relatively cheap."
"Thanks," I said. "Thanks for everything- and sorry about the rental house. I'm sure your banker didn't expect bullet holes in his walls. Tell him to send me the bill."
"Don't worry about it. It's the most exciting thing's ever happened to him."
I smiled. He looked away.
"Shootout at the Beverly Hills corral," he said. "I should have been there."
"How could you have known?"
"Knowing's my job."
"You offered to drive us home, I turned you down."
"I shouldn't have listened to you."
"Come on, Milo. You did everything you could. To paraphrase a friend of mine: "Don't flog yourself.' "
He frowned, tilted his glass, poured ice down his gullet, and crunched. "How's Rov- Spike?"
"A few surface cuts. The vet said bulldogs have high pain thresholds. A throwback to when they were used for baiting."
"Right through the glass." He shook his head. "Little maniac must have taken a running start and gone ballistic. Talk about devotion."
"You see it from time to time," I said. Then I ordered him another Coke.
34
I drove back to Venice. The shop was empty and Robin had left a note on her workbench:
11:45 a.m. Had to run to the lumberyard. Back at 2. Pls. call Mrs. Braithwaite. Says she's Spike's owner.
Pacific Palisades exchange. I phoned it before the disappointment could sink in.
A middle-aged female voice said, "Hello?"
"Mrs. Braithwaite? Dr. Delaware returning your call."
"Oh, doctor! Thank you for calling, and thank you for caring for our little Barry! Is he all right?"
"Perfect. He's a great dog," I said.
"Yes, he is. We were so worried, starting to give up hope."
"Well, he's in the pink."
"That's wonderful!"
"I guess you'd like to come by to get him. He should be back by two."
Hesitation. "Oh, certainly. Two it is."
• • •
I busied myself with the phone. Calling Shirley Rosenblatt and having a half-hour talk with her. Calling Bert Harrison, then the insurance company, where I dealt with some truly vile individuals.
I thought about the Wallace girls for a while, then remembered another little girl, the one who'd lost her boxer- Karen Alnord. I had no record of her number. All my papers were gone. Where had she lived- Reseda. On Cohasset.
I got the number from information. A woman answered and I asked for Karen.
"She's at school." Brilliant, Delaware. "Who's this?"
I gave her my name. "She called me about her boxer. I was just wondering if you found him."
"Yes, we have," she said edgily.
"Great. Thanks."
"For what?"
"Good news."
• • •
Mrs. Braithwaite showed up at one forty-five. She was short, thin, and sixtyish, with an upswept, tightly waved, tapioca-colored hairdo, sun wrinkles, and narrow brown eyes behind pearloid-framed glasses. Her maroon I. Magnin suit would have fetched top dollar at a vintage boutique, and her pearls were real. She carried a bag that matched the suit and wore a bejeweled American flag lapel pin.
She looked around the shop, confused.
"Robin's place of business," I said. "We're in between houses- planning some construction."