“It’s a three fifty-seven magnum, right?”
“So what?”
“Colt?”
“Smith & Wesson.”
“How about that,” I said. “Made right out in Springfield, probably, practically next to Boston. Like bringing your gun home.”
“I got a license.”
“You bring it with you to kill your daughter?” I said.
“I didn’t kill nobody,” Zabriskie said.
“You killed Babe Loftus,” I said. “By mistake.”
The room crackled with silence. Nobody breathed. The rain had stopped long ago, and the sky had cleared, and below us in the basin the lights of Los Angeles gleamed like the promise of a thousand eyes. Jill’s fingernails dug into my hand.
“You thought it was Jill,” I said. “It had been so long.”
The old man stood up.
“I’m going out of here now,” he said.
Bobby Horse moved silently in front of the exit door. Zabriskie stopped and turned and looked slowly around the room.
“You read about the harassment, and the bodyguard, and all. You figured people would assume her death was linked to whoever had been bothering her. You could shoot her and go back to L.A. and sit tight and in a while you’d inherit her money.”
There was no expression on Zabriskie’s face. He seemed solely interested in whether there was another exit.
“I’ll bet,” I said, “when the cops match up the bullet they took out of Babe with the test bullet they fire from your gun, it’ll match.”
The old man decided that there wasn’t another exit. He looked down at Jill.
“You’re an unloving and unnatural daughter,” he said. “If you had given me some money…”
He put his left hand almost tiredly under his loose shirt and came out with the .357. Behind the bar Chollo didn’t seem to move, except suddenly there was a gun in his hand, and it fired, and Zabriskie slammed backwards over the coffee table and bounced against the wall and slid slowly to the floor. By the time he hit the floor Chollo’s gun was out of sight again. Jill, in her tight coil, turned her face against the chair and moaned.
“Quick,” I said to Chollo. He smiled modestly.
Del Rio said, “Can you get her out of here and back to Boston?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Do you need money?”
“No. How about this, can you clean this up?” I said.
“I own the hotel,” del Rio said. He smiled slightly. “Among other things.”
I bent and edged my arms under her and picked Jill up from her chair. She put her arms around my neck and placed her face against my shoulder.
“Bobby Horse will drive you,” del Rio said. “She’s going to need a lot of attention. I want you to give it to her. On the other coast. You need money, call me.
”I won’t need money,“ I said.
The Indian opened the door and I went through carrying Jill.
Behind me del Rio said, ”Adios.“
I paused and half turned and looked back at him and the still motionless Chollo.
”Si,“ I said.
Chapter 38
I TOOK Jill up to Maine, to a cabin on a lake that I’d built with Paul Giacomin nine years before. The cabin belonged to Susan, but she let me use it. We got there on a Thursday, driving straight from the airport, and on Saturday morning while I was making breakfast Jill still hadn’t spoken.
The snow was a foot deep in the woods, and the other cabins were empty. Nothing moved but squirrels and the winter birds that hopped along the snow crust and seemed impervious to cold. I kept a fire going in the big central fireplace, and read some books, and did push-ups and sit-ups. I would have run along the plowed highway, but I didn’t want to leave Jill.
Jill was silent. She sat where I put her, she slept a lot, she ate some of what I gave her. She smoked and had coffee and in the evening would drink some. But she didn’t drink a lot, and she spoke not at all. Much of the time she simply sat and looked at things I didn’t see and seemed very far away inside.
I ate some turkey hash with corn bread, and two cups of coffee. Jill had some coffee and three cigarettes. It didn’t seem too healthy to me, but I figured this might not be the time for rigorous retraining.
”I came up here, about nine years ago,“ I said, ”with a kid named Paul Giacomin.“
It was not clear, when I talked to her, if Jill heard me, though when I offered her coffee she held out her cup.
”Kid was a mess,“ I said. ”Center of a custody dispute in a messy divorce. It wasn’t that each parent wanted him. It was that neither parent wanted the other to have him.“
I put a dab of cranberry catsup on my second helping of hash.
”We built this place, he and I. I taught him to carpenter, and to work out, read poetry. Susan got him some psychotherapy. Kid’s a professional dancer now, he’s in Aix-en-Provence, in France, performing and giving master’s classes at some dance festival.“
Jill had no reaction. I ate my hash. While I was cleaning up the breakfast dishes, the phone rang. It was Sandy Salzman.
”Studio’s up my ass,“ Salzman said. ”Network is talking cancellation. Where the fuck is she?“
”She’s with me,“ I said.
”I know that, when the hell does she reappear?“
”Later,“ I said.
”I’ve got to talk with her,“ Sandy said. ”Put her on the phone.“
”No.“
”Dammit, I’ve got to talk with her. I’m coming up.“
”I won’t let you see her,“ I said.
”For crissake, Spenser, you work for me.“
”You can’t see her,“ I said.
”Somebody from the studio, Riggs, somebody from business affairs?“
”Nobody,“ I said.
”Dammit, you can’t stop me.“
”Yes, I can.“
”I’ll bring some people.“
”Better bring a lot,“ I said.
”Spenser, I’ve got authorization, from Michael Maschio himself, to terminate your services as of this moment.“
”No,“ I said. ”You don’t see her. Her agent doesn’t see her. Michael Maschio doesn’t see her. Captain Kangaroo doesn’t see her. Just me, I see her. And Susan Silverman. Nobody else until she’s ready.“
”Spenser, goddammit, you got no right… “
I hung up. In fifteen minutes I had a similar conversation with Jill’s agent, who must have been calling before sunrise, West Coast time. At 9:45 I talked on the phone with Martin Quirk.
”We got the gun killed Loftus,“ he said without preamble when I answered the phone. ”Registered to a guy named William Zabriskie. LAPD found him in the trunk of a stolen car parked in the lot of Bullocks Department Store on Wilshire Boulevard. Gun was on him. Been shot once through the heart.“
”How’d they come to check with you?“ I said.
”Anonymous tip,“ Quirk said.
”Got a motive?“
”No,“ Quirk said. ”Why I’m calling you. Ever hear of this guy?“
”He’s Jill Joyce’s father,“ I said.
”The hell he is,“ Quirk said.
I was silent. ”And?“ Quirk said.
”And I don’t know what else, yet. I need a little time.“
”I don’t have any to give you,“ Quirk said. ”I got lawyers from Zenith Meridien and the TV network and the governor’s office and the Jill Joyce fan club camped outside my office. The D.A. wants my badge.“
”Marty,“ I said, ”he molested her as a child. She saw him killed.“
The silence on the line was broken only by the faint crackle of the system.
”You got her up there with you?“
”Yeah.“
”What kind of shape she in?“
”The worst,“ I said.
”Susan seen her?“
”Not yet.“
More crackle on the line. Behind me Jill watching the fire move among the logs.
”You can’t keep her up there forever,“ Quirk said.
”I know.“
”What are you going to do?“
”I don’t know,“ I said. ”I don’t have a long-range plan. Right now I’m figuring out lunch.“