“How much cash are we actually talking about here?”
Mincer gave him a meaningful look. “A total of seventy-two thousand, five hundred clams.”
Archer whistled because how could a man not when hearing that sum. “And how do you know that exactly?”
“I know the Realtor who did the sale. He sold me my house. And the contractor who did all the work is my brother-in-law. They told me.”
“It’s nice to be talking to a guy so in the know. And she had that all in cash. Did she say where it came from?”
“No, and I had no legitimate right to ask. But I was damn curious.”
“Is there any way you can tell me what her balance is at your bank?”
Archer had seen from the woman’s check register that her checking account had about fifteen hundred dollars in it.
“She has savings and checking accounts. Without getting specific, I can tell you that it was nothing close to what she put into that house.”
“So maybe she keeps it under her mattress?”
Mincer took a puff of his cigar. “Hell, I figured maybe she was an heiress or something, or had a rich guy on the side, but she didn’t seem the type. I mean, she was no looker, for Chrissake. For a guy to pony up that kind of dough, you’d have to look like that Swede, Anita Ekberg. I mean, sweet Jesus. You seen the rack on that gal?”
“Not today I haven’t. Did Lamb ever mention moving out here because she had a friend who already lived here?”
Mincer tapped ash into the sand, while Archer studied the ocean as it began to creep closer to them, like a predator in the high grass.
“I remember during our first meeting I asked her how come she was moving to Malibu. I mean, sure, a lot of people are buying out this way, but they’re either famous or rich or both. Anyway, she said someone had recommended the place to her and then she’d found out that someone she knew from way back had a place out here. She wanted to rekindle the relationship.”
“Did she mention a name?”
Mincer dropped the cigar onto the beach, using his shoe to cover it with sand. “No.”
“Man, woman?”
“Don’t know. I mean, I could have asked, but I didn’t really care. She was just opening an account. And I wouldn’t be selling her a mortgage, so there goes that commission. And it wasn’t like I was going to date her or anything.”
“And you are married,” said Archer, eyeing his wedding band.
Mincer grinned and gave Archer a wink. “When did that ever stop a guy in heat? And my missus is actually old enough to be my wife. So, a body up there, you said. Know who it is?”
“Not yet,” Archer lied. “It’s a guy.”
“And you said Lamb is missing?”
Archer nodded. “Whether by her choice or not, I don’t know.”
“Damn. So anyway, where’s the rest of my money?”
Archer reluctantly placed the bills in the man’s palm along with his card. “Anything else occurs to you, ring that number and you can leave a message.”
“Okay, but just so you know, mac, it’ll cost you more.”
Archer tipped his hat before turning away. “Boy, I didn’t see that coming.”
Chapter 32
Archer next drove to LA International, which was west of Inglewood and expanding at a rapid clip. What had once been a bean field was now one of the busiest airports in the country, operating twenty-four hours a day with planes regularly rising aloft from a flat basin and into the embrace of the prevailing trade winds.
As he was parking he watched a four-prop Continental plane land on the runway and come to a stop a bit farther down the tarmac. He wondered if the Greens flew their plane out of here or maybe out of Lockheed Air Terminal. Or maybe they had their own strip behind their mansion in Beverly Hills. The rich apparently did everything differently.
After questioning a couple of people he found the man he wanted to talk to, who oversaw parking at the airport.
He was of medium height and wearing a gutter-dented gray Stetson fedora covering curly silver hair. His vein-flecked nose and overly ruddy cheeks spoke of the man’s fondness for the bottle. He stood at the doorway of a little building that was hardly big enough for him to stand inside. He looked Archer over as he asked his question.
“The Bonhams, you say?”
“Yeah, they live in Malibu. They flew to France about a month ago and left their car here.”
“So what do you want to know then?”
“Is it still here?”
“What’s it to you?”
Archer produced his PI license and a fin. The man ignored the license and focused on the $5 bill, which Archer knew was good for at least two quarts of his favorite.
“I’m a curious guy.”
“You say they’ve been gone a month?”
“That’s right,” replied Archer.
“Well, they didn’t drive here then.”
“Why not?”
“Because the airport don’t let folks leave their cars here that long. They don’t have the space and they don’t want the trouble if something happens to somebody’s car. You got thieves in this town, you know.”
“Yeah, I heard that. But I was told they drove here.”
“They might very well have, only I’m saying they didn’t leave their car here that long.” He suddenly grinned, showing all of his teeth, both real and false. “But there are lots of places around here you can leave your car for that long. Feel free to check them out and ask your questions.”
“Come on, was that really worth five bucks?” asked Archer, frowning.
The man made a show of folding the bill and putting it in his pocket. “It was to me.”
“Where can I find out if the Bonhams actually went to France?”
“Information desk in the terminal, they can help you.”
“Thanks. And if I come back with more questions, does the five still hold?”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we?”
Archer grinned and looked around at the shower stall digs the man called home. “I can see why you got the big title and snazzy office.”
“One’s born every minute, sonny.”
“Yeah, they are. Pardon me while I go suck my thumb.”
Archer found out that the Bonhams had indeed flown from LA to Idlewild Airport in New York with stops in between. And from there they had flown on an Air France Super Constellation to Paris, via Canada and Ireland. The transatlantic portion of the trip had taken a total of eighteen hours. They had arrived in Paris on December 2.
And then Archer got the whizbang follow-up that almost made him bite his tongue.
“And then returned here on December thirtieth,” said the pert, efficient woman behind the counter.
“Returned?” said Archer. “Peter and Bernadette Bonham came back on the thirtieth?”
The woman looked at her records. “No. According to this, Peter Bonham came back alone on a Pan American Airways flight from Paris to New York, and then he took a United flight here.” She looked farther down the page. “Oh, that’s a coincidence.”
“What is?” asked Archer, who was still trying to process what she’d already told him.
“You’re here asking questions and Mrs. Bonham is flying in today. Her plane from New York lands in about an hour.”
Archer asked for and received the flight number. He tipped his hat and slipped the woman a Lincoln, which she’d deserved far more than the parking lot man had. After that, he headed to the airport bar to have a drink and wait for the Stratocruiser airliner to touch down in the land of glitter and dung.