“I’m hearing. Stay in one place, be a fucking boy scout. No jamming, no scamming. Okay? Can I go?”
“One more thing, Robert. Your lady.”
“Yeah?” said Gabray, in a hard voice that turned him into something more than a sniveling loser. “What about her?”
“She’s gone. Flew the coop. Don’t even think about going after her. And especially don’t think about hurting her for talking to me. Because I woulda found you anyway. You’ve got no gripe with her.”
Gabray’s eyes widened. “Gone? What the — whaddya mean?”
“Gone. She wanted out, Robert.”
“Aw, shit—”
“She was packing her bags when I spoke to her. Pretty shaken up by your approach to domestic life.”
Gabray said nothing.
Milo said, “She had enough of being pounded on, Robert.”
Gabray dropped the cigarette and stomped it out hard.
“She lies,” he said. “Fucking bitch”
“She made your bail.”
“She owed me. She still owes me.”
“Let it go, Robert. Think of those letters.”
“Yeah,” said Gabray, tapping his foot. “Whatever. I’m cool with it. I got a good attitude about life.”
24
When we were out of the maze and back on San Pedro, Milo turned on his penlight and studied the Identikit face.
“Think he’s reliable?” I said.
“Not very. But in the unlikely event a real suspect ever shows up, this might help.”
I stopped for a red light and glanced at the composite. “Not very distinctive.”
“Nope.”
I leaned over and gave a closer look. “It could be Huenengarth, minus the mustache.”
“That so?”
“Huenengarth’s younger than the guy Gabray described — mid-thirties — and his face is a bit fuller. But he’s thickly built and his hair’s styled like that. His mustache could have been grown since March, and even if not, it’s very faint — might have been hard to spot from a distance. And you said he might be an ex-con.”
“Hmm.”
The light turned green, and I headed back toward the freeway.
He chuckled.
“What?”
“Just thinking. If I ever actually make sense out of the Herbert thing, my troubles will just be beginning. Sneaking her file out. Moving in on Central’s territory, offering Gabray protection I had no permission to authorize. Far as the department’s concerned, I’m a goddam clerk.”
“Solving a homicide wouldn’t impress the department?”
“Not nearly as much as rank conformity — but hell, I suppose I can work something out if it comes to that. Give a gift to Gomez and Wicker — let them take the glory and hope for half a gold star. Gabray may get sold out in the process... Hell, he’s no innocent — screw him. If his info turns out to be real, he’ll do okay.”
He closed the kit and placed it on the floor.
“Listen to me,” he said, “talking like a goddam politician.”
I drove up the ramp. All lanes were empty and the freeway looked like a giant drag strip.
He said, “Putting some bad guys out of commission should be enough satisfaction, right? What you guys call intrinsic motivation.”
“Sure,” I said. “Be good for goodness’ sake and Santa will remember you.”
We arrived back at my house just after three. He drove away in the Porsche and I slipped into bed, trying to be silent. Robin awoke anyway and reached for my hand. We locked fingers and fell asleep.
She was up and gone before my eyes cleared. A toasted English muffin and juice were at my place on the kitchen table. I finished them off while planning my day.
Afternoon at the Joneses’.
Morning on the phone.
But the phone rang before I could get to it.
“Alex,” said Lou Cestare, “all those interesting questions. Branching out into investment banking?”
“Not yet. How was the hike?”
“Long. I kept thinking my little guy would tire but he wanted to play Edmund Hillary. Why do you want to know about Chuck Jones?”
“He’s chairman of the board of the hospital where I used to work. He also manages the hospital’s portfolio. I’m still on staff there, feel some affection for the place. Things aren’t going well there financially, and there’s been talk of Jones running the place down so he can dissolve it and sell the land.”
“Doesn’t sound like his style.”
“You know him?”
“Met him a couple of times at parties. Quick hello-goodbye — he wouldn’t remember. But I do know his style.”
“Which is?”
“Building up, not tearing down. He’s one of the best money managers around, Alex. Pays no attention to what other people are doing and goes after solid companies at cut-rate prices. True bargains — the stock-buys everyone dreams about. But he finds them better than anyone else.”
“How?”
“He knows how to really figure out how a company’s doing. Which means going way beyond quarterly reports. Once he ferrets out an undervalued stock about to pop, he buys in, waits, sells, repeats the process. His timing’s impeccable.”
“Does he ferret using inside information?”
Pause. “This hour of the morning and you’re already talking dirty?”
“So he does.”
“Alex, the whole inside trading thing has been blown way out of proportion. As far as I’m concerned, no one’s even come up with a good definition.”
“Come on, Lou.”
“Do you have one?”
“Sure,” I said. “Using data unavailable to the average person in order to make buy-and-sell decisions.”
“Okay, then, what about an investor who wines and dines a key employee in order to find out if the company’s doing its job properly? Someone who takes the time to really get into the nuts and bolts of company operations? Is that corrupt or just being thorough?”
“If bribery’s involved, it’s corrupt.”
“What, the wining and dining? Why’s that different from a reporter buttering up a source? Or a cop encouraging a witness with a doughnut and a cup of coffee? I don’t know of any law that makes dinner between business people illegal. Theoretically, anyone could do it, if they were willing to put out the effort. But no one ever bothers, Alex. That’s the thing. Even professional researchers usually rely on graphs and charts and the numbers the company gives them. Lots of them never even bother to visit the company they’re analyzing.”
“I guess it depends on what the investor learns from the wining and dining.”
“Exactly. If the employee tells him someone’s going to make a serious takeover bid on such and such a date, that’s illegal. But if that same employee tells him the company’s in a financial position that makes it ripe for takeover, that’s valid data. It’s a thin line — see what I mean? Chuck Jones does his homework, that’s all. He’s a bulldog.”
“What’s his background?”
“I don’t think he even went to college. We’re talking rags to riches. I think he shod horses or something when he was a kid. Doesn’t that appeal to your sensibilities? The guy came out of Black Monday a hero because he dumped his stocks months before the crash and shifted to T-bills and metals. Even though his stocks were shooting up. If anyone had known, they would have thought he was going senile. But when the market crashed, he was able to bottom-fish, bought in again and made another fortune.”
“Why didn’t anyone know?”
“He’s got a thing for privacy — his kind of strategy depends upon it. He buys and sells constantly, avoids big block trades, stays away from computerized trading. It wasn’t until months later that I found out, myself.”