Cicero's Dead (8 page)

“Good story,” I said mildly. “Only one problem;
they were separated and Mrs. Lamont was already living in San Francisco on
August 16th.”

Tarkanian wilted. It was as if I’d wrapped a noose
around his neck and he was dangling over the trapdoor. Just to ease his
decision, I extracted my Colt Commander, and idly pulled back the slide. Terror
replaced fear and sweat leaked out of every pore. His whole body was shaking.

“I never saw the body. I just got the information
from a man who said his name was Borders, Thomas Borders. I filled out the
certificate and he gave me some cash.”

“How much?”

“$5,000.”

“You work cheap. What did Mr. Borders look like?”

“Not too tall, thin face, dark hair combed back, a
little rough around the edges.”

‘Fishburne.’
I glared at the good doctor. “Are you in the habit of filling out death
certificates without even seeing the body?”

He shook his head. “Would you please put that gun
away?”

I put the safety on and placed it back in my belt.
“You’re an idiot. For 5 grand, you could be indicted for conspiracy, mail
fraud, making a false statement, and money laundering. In short, you’re looking
at many long years at Club Fed which, while certainly not as unpleasant as
Men’s Central, is probably not the place you’d choose to spend your golden
years. Now, suppose you start by telling me how much you were really paid.”

His eyes shifted around the room and eventually
settled on his shaking hands. “$15,000 and another $5,000 for arranging the
service at Forest Grove.”

By now his forehead was caked with sweat and he
was very pale. His lips looked a little blue. I began to get worried. Although
I was taking a certain perverse pleasure in scaring this prick, I didn’t want
him to die on me.

“You don’t look so good. You don’t happen to have
a heart condition or high blood pressure, do you?”

“I have tachycardia and am prone to panic
attacks,” he said with a trace of self-pity.

“Relax then, goddamn it. You dying on me would
complicate everything.” I crossed to the water cooler, filled a paper cup and
handed it to him.
 
“You shouldn’t
drink so much coffee. It‘s bad for your heart.”

He accepted the water and drank it gratefully.
Bit-by-bit, the color returned to his face.

I leaned in on him. “Did you negotiate only with
Borders?”

“There was his friend, too. A tall red-headed
fellow with a tongue ring. He’s the one who brought the money by.”

“$20,000 for filling out a form and calling a
funeral home. Not a bad payday, if you hadn’t been caught.”

“They still owe me $5,000.”

“They goddamned better well pay up. Lot of nerve,
ripping off a right guy like you.” He looked like he wanted to shrivel up and
crawl away. I laced my fingers behind my head and leaned back in my chair.
“Here’s what I want you to do. I need to have a talk with Borders and his
red-headed buddy.”

“But I can’t get involved with--“

“--What do you really know about Lamont’s death?”

“As far as I know, he died of a heart attack at
his house on the afternoon of August 16th.”

“Cut it out, Doc. We’re both way smarter than
that. If that was really the cause of death, they’d have no reason to kick you
20K to write up a bogus death certificate. This smells like Murder One. Of
course, they might let you plead guilty to failing to report a capital crime,
along with your conspiracy and mail fraud charges.”

“They didn’t tell me how he died,” he said
quietly, “and I didn’t ask. I just looked the other way.”

“Yeah.”

I considered telling him to let Fishburne/Borders
and Koncak know that their cover was blown, and that an investigation was
underway. I decided against it, as I didn’t want him killed. He was just a
small-time fraudster, and the sad truth is that a large number of medical
professionals in Los Angeles and Orange County are just like him. Small wonder
the cost of health insurance keeps going up. Of course, the insurance companies
are even bigger crooks, so you really can’t win.

I sighed. “When are you gonna meet them to get the
rest of the money?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Where?”

“McDonald’s on 3rd, on the edge of Koreatown, at
5:00 p.m.”

“All right. I’ll have one of my guys there. Just
one other thing; how did you arrange to have Cicero Lamont interred at Forest
Grove?”

“Mr. Borders told me that the family wanted the
memorial service to take place there.
 
It’s a very nice cemetery.”

“Why not Forest Lawn? That’s where the folks with
money usually like to be buried.”

He shrugged. “I guess that’s what the family
wanted.”

“That’s the second time you said, ‘the family.’
What family?”

His fine upper lip curled into just the hint of a
sneer. Then it clicked. If the bereaved loved ones contact the vampires at the
cemetery, they take them to the cleaners. If somebody with an inside connection
makes the arrangements, however, someone like Tarkanian, the family gets a
discounted rate and the good doctor gets a kickback. The cemetery makes a
little less money but they do a volume business. This scumbag was cleaning up.

“Just another way to game the system, ‘eh? Who
transported the corpse?”

“Borders and his friend. They drove it over in a
flower van.”

I stared at him incredulously. “A flower van?”

“You know, like florists use?” he smirked, his
bravado returning.

“Careful.” His smirk evaporated.
 
“What’s the name of the company?”

“Flowers for Every Occasion.”

“I suppose you met them there with the death
certificate?” He nodded. “And the family was there too?”

He leaned back in his chair.
 
Perhaps it was because he was once again
in the position of being the expert, but he was more composed. “I didn’t see
the family.”

“And that was that.”

“Yes,” he said with a trace of bitterness, “until
you came along.”

Something had been bothering me about Tarkanian’s
face. Suddenly I realized that the right side of it was concave, just under his
ear as if a piece of the cheekbone had been removed.

“Here’s how this is gonna go; you keep your mouth
shut about me. To you, I’m a ghost. You don’t, I’ll see you get banged up ‘til
they schlep you out in a box. We clear?”

“Yes.”

I stood up, adjusted my gun and turned toward the
door. “Oh yeah, one other thing. I’d be careful about slinging all that cash
around. You don’t want Federal tax evasion charges on top of everything else.”

I walked down the hallway and back through the
waiting room. The fires filled the TV and the ladies watched raptly. I didn’t
bother to say good-bye. A thin layer of soot had dusted across my forest green
paint job. I got in and as I headed west on Los Feliz, toward the Hollywood
Hills, I called Jade.

“Hey.” She sounded forlorn.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’d really like to step outside and interact with
the goats.”

“Any reason in particular?”

“I love animals.”

“And has there been any street traffic?”

“No, and I’m going to get a dog, a rescue, when
this is all over.”

“Good idea and you should hang out on the back
porch with the goats. They’ll love you.”

“Glad someone does.”

Bobby called in on the other line. “Sorry, but
I’ve gotta take this.”

She hung up.

“What’s up?”

“We’re in front of The Abbey, on Robertson. Seen
three or four guys wearing stylish jogging outfits, but none of ‘em were
Arnold.”

“How’s Brad?”

“He’s good at walking up to people and starting
conversations. Word is the place to go for action is the Full Throttle, on
Santa Monica. The doors open at 4:00. We’ll be there.”

“Be careful.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

I hung up and called Audrey. “Anything?”

“No. I’ll hit the clubs tonight, Boss.”

“Okay.”

People were driving erratically as I made my way
to Western Avenue. I took it north to Franklin where I hung a left and then
right onto Beachwood, heading up into the Hills. The narrow streets wind
through the canyons and the street signs are hard to spot. Finally, I found it,
a very secluded section of Beachwood Drive, near the top, not far from the
Hollywood sign. Arnold’s house, a large, dark brown Tudor, with gables built
into the roofline, stood well off the road to the right. I parked behind a gold
Mercedes and scoured the area. An ornate, stone staircase angled up the
hillside to the front door, and, of course, there was no driveway. That would
be in back along with the servants’ entrance. I sat there for several minutes
mulling things over, then drove to the end of the street that doubles back
sharply. When I came to Arnold’s rear entrance I got out of the car and parked.

Starting up the hillside, I followed a footpath
that cut through shrubbery and lodged grass. It was easy to imagine the wind
whipping the fire up these tinder dry hillsides.
 
Halfway up, the path spit me back onto
what appeared to be a rarely used service road. Tufts of dun-colored grass pushed
up through cracks in the asphalt. An almost vertical rock wall, overhung with
manzanita and live oak, loomed to my left. Above, the smoke-rimmed sun, barely
visible through the foliage, and to my right, the brushy hillside falling off
sharply. There was complete silence, other than the wind and the rustling of
shrubbery.

Near the top of the incline, I came to a padlocked
sheet of stainless steel, built vertically into the rock wall. It reminded me
of a ship’s hatch, and I had the sense that there must be an underground
storage area, or a bunker built into the hillside. I continued up the road
sighting the house clearly now, the gables protruding against the blackened
sky.

I spied a man standing at the top of the road,
spying on me. He was supporting himself with a walking stick and although his
posture seemed casual enough, I had the feeling he was more agile than he
wanted me to believe.

“Hi,” I shouted, giving him a cheerful wave and a
smile.

He looked about 60, spare of build, and wore an
earth-colored mesh jersey with European walking shorts and hiking boots. His
crinkly white hair was brushed forward.
 
“Hello there.”

“Sorry for the intrusion.”

“Not a problem, although I must say I wasn’t
expecting visitors.”

“Nick Crane. Investigator.”

“That’s exciting, except I can’t imagine why I’d
be under investigation.”

I let out a friendly chuckle. “No, no, not you,
sir, unless you’re Arnold Clipper?”

He studied me, rubbing the white stubble on his
angular jaw, his green eyes hard as flint.

“Never heard of him.”

“Not surprising as he’s a bit of an enigma.”

He nodded and I had the sense of a man with
history. “As you’ve come this far and since I can’t offer you Mr. Clipper,
perhaps you’d like to come in for a glass of lemonade? I’m not sure I’ll be
much help, but I can tell you what I do know.”

He gave a tentative cough as if testing the air,
found it unsatisfactory, and turned and started back up the hill. I followed in
his wake. His stride was slow but steady and in five minutes we were sitting in
his living room, which was filled with fossils, the skeletons of small animals,
and black lacquered edifices resembling forts or colonnades. He brought me a
glass of lemonade, no ice, and sat across from me on an orange leather
footstool.

“Mount,” he said. “Reggie Mount.”

“Wait a minute; I’ve heard your name somewhere.
Weren’t you--?”

“--I was,” he said, smacking his lips with a dry
popping sound. “I was an adventurer back when such a thing were still possible.
I’ve studied the human mind, and I’ve written on a number of topics.”

“That’s what it is. Didn’t you write a book about
why people can’t stay married?”

“I did.” He ducked his head, his first sign of
modesty. “
The Marriage Trap
. That was
almost thirty years ago. It was a best seller and incurred the wrath of
feminists everywhere.”

“My wife read it. She said it was funny.”

“I take it your wife’s not a feminist?”

“I wouldn’t say that. She has her tendencies. She
does like men, however, doesn’t blame us for her problems.”

“Such wisdom, if I may quote Shakespeare, is
honored more in the breach than the observance.”

“This is great lemonade.”

“Nothing to it. Fresh lemons, clean water, and
just enough brown sugar to give it that touch of sweetness. I’ve long wanted to
write a cookbook, but have never quite gotten around to it. It would be full of
simple, tasty recipes that can be produced on a camp stove. I don’t suppose you
get out in the mountains that much, always skulking around in the city.”

“Your backyard is about as close to the mountains
as I usually get. I did take my daughter on a hike in the hills a few months
ago. Got a tick.”

“Infernal creatures. How did you remove it?”

“With tweezers. Grip and lift. When we met you
said you’ve been working. A new book, I suppose?”

“Somehow, in recent years I’ve moved onto the
eternal questions. Why is man evil and is there any way to stem the tide?”

“What do you think?”

“My working thesis, which is very radical, is that
evil is a diversion and could perhaps be replaced by alternative diversions.
Diversions are what keep us going -- sports, music, sex, empire building,
books, movies, and, of course, cruelty. Anything to release us from our own
inner emptiness.”

“That’s rather deep.”

“Not really. It’s really rather simple. What we
fear more than anything is boredom. You hear kids say it all the time. ‘I’ve
got nothing to do.’ It makes them miserable. Women tend to fill the void
through social interaction. Men fill it through competition, striving and
pastimes and when that fails, we bash one another’s brains in, usually in the
name of god and country.”