Miles still felt uneasy, and though he got himself a beer and sat on the couch for a couple of hours, trying to sort through the information he'd gathered, he could not really concentrate, and he gave it up early, going to bed well before his usual time of eleven o'clock.
But he couldn't sleep.
After tossing and turning for what seemed like an eternity, he got up, turned on the small television on his dresser, watched part of an exercise infomercial, then turned it off and walked over to the window, staring out through the crack in the curtains at the cloud-shrouded winter moon.
He thought about Claire, wondered if she was sleeping right now.
Wondered who she was sleeping with.
He glanced back at the empty bed. It had been a long time since he'd had sex. And he missed it. He tried to recall what Claire looked like naked, tried to bring to mind the specifics of her form, but time had blurred her body into the generic. Hell, he could not even recall any details about Mary. He remembered places and positions, but the sensual knowledge ordinarily borne of intimacy was not there.
Perversely, he could see clearly in his mind the nude form of Cherise, a one-night stand from three years ago.
Sighing, he walked back over to the bed. He masturbated joylessly, perfunctorily, and finally fell asleep thinking of tidal waves and witches and dreams that predicted the end of the world.
Miles felt tired the next morning when he went to work, and it was noticeable enough that Hal commented on it when they met in the elevator.
"Looks like you just came back from a long night at the prison orgy."
Miles smiled wryly. '"l'hanks."
"1"o quote the great Dionne Warwick, that's what friends are for."
"You have food in your beard," Miles told him.
The burly detective quickly ran his fingers through his thick facial hair. "Gone?" , .
Miles grinned. "I lied."
"Jackass."
The doors opened on their floor, and Hal stepped out of the elevator first. He waved to Naomi at the front desk. "Honeybunch! How are you this beautiful morning?"
The receptionist was on the phone, and she frowned at him as she put her caller on hold. She put down the handset and looked from Hal to Miles. "I know it's foolish to ask, but did either of you read the memo yesterday?" "What memo?" they said in unison.
Hal looked at Miles, chuckled. "Great minds think alike." Naomi smiled tolerantly. 'fflae memo that was placed in your boxes, the memo stating that the phones will be out of service this morning. They're rewiring for the computers and putting in new fiber-optic lines. They should be finished around eleven or twelve, but until then everything has to go through me. My line and the pay phone are the only two in service."
"Guess I didn't read that one," Miles admitted.
Hal shook his head. "Great. I have about a gazillion calls to make."
"Better break out those quarters," the receptionist said sweetly "I can't tie up my line." 'Thanks." Hal lumbered off toward his cubicle.
Naomi picked up the handset. "Oh," she said to Miles, almost as an afterthought. "You have a client. She's been waiting about ten minutes. Said Phillip Emmons recommended you."
Miles nodded in thanks as she pressed a button on the phone and began talking once again. He strode down the wide central aisle toward his workstation. Phillip Emmons.
Old Phil could always be counted on to throw some work his way. It had been awhile since he'd seen his friend, and he promised himself that he'd give Phil a call later in the week and the two of them would get together.
The woman waiting in the client's chair of his cubicle sat perfectly still, staring out the windows of the office at the Hollywood hills. A pretty brunette; wearing a tight blouse with no bra and a short trendy skirt, she saw him coming and stood at his approach, extending a hand.
Raymond Chandler time.
"My name's Marina Lewis." He shook her hand. "Miles Huerdeen." The first thing he noticed was a wedding ring, and his hopes, faint as they were, faded. He smiled, motioned for her to sit. "What can
I do for you, Ms. Lewis?"
"Call me Marina."
"Marina." '
She waited for him to Settle in behind his desk, then took a deep breath. "Phillip Emmons recommended you. I mentioned to him that I was looking for someone that I needed some help..."
"What's the problem?" Miles said gently.
She cleared her throat. "My father is being stalked, but the police refuse to do anything about it."
Miles nodded calmly, professionally, but inside he was
revved up. Finally a real case. In pulp fiction terms: a gorgeous dame and a targeted old man. What more could he ask for? "Who's after your father?" Miles asked.
"We don't know. That's what we want you to find out." "How do you know he's being stalked?"
"We weren't, at first. I mean, there were little clues. He'd come home and the back door would be unlocked, though he was sure that he had locked it. Stuff like that. Things that could have been imagination or coincidence. But last week, right before we came out here to visit him, he got a phone call from a woman who said he was marked for death. She described the inside of his house perfectly, like she'd been there, and said she was going to kill him in his sleep.
And then, a few days later, she called again and started saying weird stuff about things that no one would know but people in our family.
Then, two days ago, he was nearly run over by. a black car with blacked-out windows that swerved to hit him as he was crossing the street. He only escaped by leaping onto the sidewalk and jumping into the doorway of a jewelry store."
"You told this to the police? She nodded. What did they say?"
She opened her small handbag, drew out a card, and passed it across the desk to him. "I talked to this guy, Detective Madder, and he said there was nothing they could do until something more concrete occurred.
He wrote down the information about the phone call, took a description of the car, and then basically told us that it was going in a file and wasn't going to be acted on. Then he gave me this card and told me to keep him informed. My father didn't even want to go to the police, I convinced him to, and after that he became adamant about handling this by himself. So I'm here on my own. He doesn't know anything about this."
"We can't provide protection," Miles said. "We're an investigative firm, not a security company--"
"I know," she interrupted. "I just want you to find out who's doing this and why. After that we'll either go to the police with what we have or... or figure out something else."
Find out who's doing this and why.
As juvenile and stupid as it was, he felt energized. He was in his own movie now, and this made up for all those boring bureaucratic cases he was ordinarily forced to handle. He took out a pen and notebook.
"Your father lives where?"
"Santa Monica. 211 Eighth Street."
"And you and your husband?"
"Arizona. We're only out here for a few weeks. My husband's a writer, and he's meeting with some movie people about optioning his book."
"So how much longer will you be staying in California?" "Probably another week or so." She paused. "Unless something else happens. I'm a teacher and I'm supposed to be back at work on January second, but if my dad's in danger... "We'll try to clean this up quickly." Miles smiled at her and she smiled back. "Your husband's a writer, huh? I assume that's how you met Phil Emmons."
Her face brightened. "Yes! Phillip's been a godsend. Gordon met him at a horror convention in Phoenix last year, and he's the one who helped him find a movie agent. We're only out here today because of Phillip."
Miles smiled. "Yeah. He's quite a guy."
Marina cleared her throat embarrassedly. "He mentioned something about 'reasonable rates." I don't know how much you charge, but we can't afford too much. If you could give me an... estimate, let me know what we're looking at..."