“He wasn’t a talker. Whenever I asked him about himself I got a different story.”
“You called him the writer guy,” I said.
“He told me he was working on a book. I asked what it was about. He goes to the car, brings this goddamn thing the size of an encyclopedia. Hands it to me. Like I’m gonna read it on the spot. I flipped through it. ‘Nifty, let’s get back to work.’ ”
“Sergeant, do you happen to remember if he had a typewriter with him?”
“Boy,” Bock said. “I couldn’t tell you one way or the other. The car, it was an itty-bitty blue Toyota, packed full of crap, bags and boxes. I don’t know how he slept in there. Typewriter...? Maybe. For all I know, he had a refrigerator.”
“Where did he go when he left?” Regina asked.
“Well, I was getting to that. Not too long after me and him parted ways, I was taking the puppy for a walk. I go past Dave Pelman’s place and see the same car sitting in the driveway.”
“Prado’s Toyota.”
Bock nodded. “You don’t get too many vehicles like that around here. Most everyone has a truck or SUV. I went over to have a closer look. It’s empty, no bags, nothing. Pelman comes out, hollering that I’m trespassing. I asked him, ‘Whose car is this?’ He goes, ‘It’s mine.’ ”
“What did you make of that?” I asked.
“At the time, not much. I figured the guy was hard up for cash. He musta sold the car to Pelman before skipping town.”
“How could Prado have left without his car?” Regina asked. “What about his stuff?”
“Yeah, no. Didn’t sit right. I kept thinking about it. Few days later I go by again. The car’s gone. I knock and ask Pelman about it. He plays dumb. ‘What car?’ ‘You know what car, the blue Toyota.’ ” Bock mimed scratching his head. “ ‘Ohhh, yeah. I stripped it for parts.’ ”
“You said Pelman does whatever Emil wants,” I said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Prado ever mention having conflict with Emil? Or anyone else in Swann’s Flat?”
“No, sir,” Bock said.
“Did he seem to know any of the other residents?”
“He never said so.”
“What happened after you asked Pelman about the Toyota?” I asked.
“Nothing really.”
“No one bothered you about it.”
“No, sir.”
“And Prado?” Regina asked.
“I didn’t see him again.”
“Sorry if this seems unrelated, Sergeant,” I said. “What do you remember about when Kurt Swann died?”
“Just that it happened.”
“Were there rumors?” Regina asked.
“Rumors?”
“That it wasn’t an accident, for example.”
“No, ma’am. I mind my own business.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“We should get moving,” Regina said.
I nodded. “Thanks, Sergeant. We’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, sir. Can I ask what it is you plan to do?”
“Have to see how it goes. Right now we’re just gathering information.”
“Mm.” Bock chewed his cheek.
Regina said, “Something you want to tell us?”
“I don’t want to stick my nose in where it don’t belong.”
“That’s okay.”
“Well... I told you I used to drop by the bar. Those days, DJ was living with his mom.”
“Jenelle,” I said.
“Yes, sir. I got to know him some.”
I readied myself for an anecdote revealing signs of early psychopathy — torturing animals, setting fires.
But Bock sounded wistful as he said, “He’s a good kid. It’s not his fault his dad is the way he is. I ain’t gonna say to you he’s a saint. But he means well. Whatever shit the rest of them’s mixed up in... I wanted you to know that.”
“Thank you,” Regina said.
He nodded.
“Anything else?” I asked.
He paused. “Just be careful, okay? With the rest of them.”
Chapter 36
Our primary interest was talking to Shasta Swann, but our cover story put us in town to look at property. We had to do what normal people did, in the normal order, starting with checking in.
The bell jangled as we entered the Counts Hotel.
Jenelle barreled through the saloon doors. “You’re back.”
“I’m back. And I brought the boss.”
Regina introduced herself. “Clay had the best time. He can’t stop raving about it.”
She had donned a new persona: soothing, earnest, intimate; her voice satiny and the skin around her eyes crinkled with pleasure.
A childhood spent in musical theater, indeed.
Jenelle appeared flattered, and slightly flustered, by the assault of warmth. “I have the same room, if you’d like.”
“Wonderful,” Regina said.
I counted out six hundred dollars.
“Will you be wanting dinner?” Jenelle asked.
“Not sure yet,” I said.
“Kitchen closes at seven.” She handed me a key. “You know the way.”
We only stayed long enough to drop our bags and strap up. I went down the hall to the bathroom, changing into my vest, P365, and magnetic front shirt. When I returned to the room, Regina was dressed the same, with the addition of a pale-pink leather purse. It had chrome buckles, a slender strap, a cute embossed logo.
The ideal accessory for a fun weekend getaway.
Plus an invisible side pocket, near her shooting hand, concealing her Ruger Max .380.
She put in a fresh magazine and racked the slide. “Ready, honey pie?”
“Never readier, babycakes.”
The next normal thing to do on a property tour was to tour property.
Driving north on Beachcomber toward the Bergstrom mansion, I pointed out the mansions belonging to Maggie Penrose and the Clancys.
“You mean Shasta,” Regina said.
“Technically.”
“And literally. She’s profiting here, too.”
“Which she may or may not know.”
“You really want to defend this girl.”
“You really want to indict her.”
“She’s not my Instagram friend.”
Beau Bergstrom’s Range Rover was parked in the driveway. We’d assumed that making contact with any of the residents — other than Bock — would alert all of them to our presence. But he answered the door with a look of genuine surprise.
“Clay.”
Maybe Jenelle hadn’t had a chance to call him. Or she’d never intended to.
He recovered quickly, putting out a hand. “Great to see you, brother.”
“You too,” I said. “My wife, Regina.”
“It’s a pleasure, Beau,” she said.
Yet another new voice. Soft, breathy, coy.
Eyelashes batting at warp speed.
And the Oscar goes to...
“The pleasure,” Beau said, “is all mine.”
He stood back with a bow. “After you.”
The interior layout was predictable. Central living room with spiral staircase, kitchen and dining room off the garage, corridor leading to first-floor rooms. When it came to furnishings, the Bergstroms’ taste was masculine and impersonal, heavy on black leather and mirrors. Lucite pool table, one-armed bandit. It looked like what it was: a late-nineties bachelor pad, writ large.
“Drink?” Beau said.
“I’d love some water,” I said.
“Could I use your restroom?” Regina asked.
“But of course,” Beau said. “Down the hall to the right.”
She left, and he and I stepped into the kitchen.
“Apologies for dropping out of the sky like this,” I said. “The schedule’s been insane.”
“No worries,” Beau said, filling a glass for me. “How was Hong Kong?”