K is for Killer (17 page)

An hour and five minutes into the nap to end all naps, the telephone rang. The sound cut through me like a chain saw. I jumped as if goosed. I snatched up the receiver and identified myself, trying to sound as though I were wide awake.

“Miss Millhone? This is Joe Ayers. What can I do for you?”

I couldn't think who the hell he was. “Mr. Ayers, I appreciate the call,” I said enthusiastically. “Hang on one second.” I put my hand across the mouthpiece. Joe Ayers. Joseph Ayers. Ah. The pornographic film producer. I shifted the phone to the other ear so I could make notes as we chatted. “I understand you were the producer of an art movie in which Lorna Kepler appeared.”

“That's correct.”

“Can you tell me about her involvement in the project?”

“I'm not sure what you're asking.”

“I guess I'm not, either. Someone sent a video to her mother, and she asked me what I could find out. I noticed your name listed as the producer—”

Ayers cut in brusquely. “Miss Millhone, you're going to have to fill me in here. We have nothing to discuss. Lorna Kepler was murdered six months ago.”

“It was actually ten months. I'm aware of that. Her parents are hoping to develop additional information.” I was sounding pompous even to my own ears, but his irritation was irritating.

“Well, you're not going to develop anything from me,” he said. “I wish I could help, but my contact with Lorna was extremely limited. Sorry I can't help you.”

I checked my notes in haste, trying to talk fast enough to snag his interest. “What about the other two actors who were in the film with her—Nancy Dobbs and Russell Turpin?”

I could hear him shift with annoyance. “What about them?”

“I'd like to talk to them.”

Silence. “I can probably tell you how to get to him,” he said finally.

“You have a current address and telephone number?”

“I should have it somewhere.” I heard him snapping through the pages of what I guessed was his address book. I tucked the phone in the crook of my neck and uncapped my pen.

“Here we go,” he said.

He rattled out the information, which I made a note of. The Haight Street address corresponded with the one I'd picked up from directory assistance. I said, “This is terrific. I appreciate this. What about Miss Dobbs?”

“Can't help you there.”

“Look, can you tell me what your schedule is for the next couple of days?”

“What does my schedule have to do with it?”

“I was hoping we could meet.”

Through the phone, I could hear his brain cells whirring as he processed the request. “I really don't see the
point. I hardly knew Lorna. I might have been in her company four days at best.”

“Can you remember when you last saw her?”

“No. I know I never saw her after the shoot, and that'd be a year ago December. That was the one and only time we ever did business together. Matter of fact, that film was never even put in release, so I had no reason to contact her afterward.”

“Why wasn't the film released?”

“I don't think that's any of your concern.”

“What is it, some kind of secret?”

“It's not secret. It's just none of your business.”

“That's too bad. I was hoping you could give us some help.”

“Miss Millhone, I don't even really know who you are. You call me up, leave a message on my machine with an area code I don't even recognize. You could be anyone. Why the hell should I help you?”

“Right. You're right. You don't know me from Adam, and there's no way I can compel you to give me information. I'm down in Santa Teresa, an hour away by plane. I don't want anything in particular from you, Mr. Ayers. I'm just doing what I can to try to figure out what happened to Lorna, and I'd appreciate some background. I can't force you to cooperate.”

“It's not a question of cooperation. I have nothing to contribute. Truly.”

“I probably wouldn't even take an hour of your time.”

I could hear him breathing while he took this in. I half expected him to hang up. Instead his tone became wary. “You're not trying to break into the business, are you?”

“The business?” I thought he was referring to the private eye trade.

“Because if you're some kind of bullshit actress, you're wasting your time. I don't care how big your tits are.”

“I assure you I'm not. This is strictly legitimate. You can verify my credentials with the Santa Teresa police.”

“You couldn't have caught me at a worse time. I just flew back from six weeks in Europe. My wife's having some kind of goddamn shindig I'm supposed to attend tonight. She's shelling out a fortune, and I don't know half the people she's invited. I'm dead on my feet as it is.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“That's even worse. I've got business to take care of.”

“Tonight then? I can probably be there in a couple of hours.”

He was silent, but his annoyance was palpable. “Oh, shit. All right. What the hell,” he said. “If you actually fly up, you can give me a call. If I feel up to it, I'll see you. If not, too bad. That's the best I can do, and I'll probably regret it.”

“That's great. That's fine. Can I reach you at this same number?”

He sighed, probably counting to ten. I'd irritated him so desperately, we were almost friends. “Here's the number at the house. I might as well give you the address while I'm at it. You sound like you can be very obnoxious if you don't get what you want.”

“I'm terrible,” I said.

He gave me his home address.

“I'm going to bed,” he said. I heard the phone banged down.

I put a call through to my travel agent, Lupe, and asked for reservations on the next flight out. As it happened, everything was booked until nine o'clock. She put me on standby status and told me to get on out to the airport. I went
back to my place and flung a few items in a duffel bag. At the last minute, I remembered I hadn't told Ida Ruth where I'd be. I called her at home.

Here's what she said when she heard I was flying to San Francisco: “Well, I hope you're wearing something better than jeans and a turtleneck.”

“Ida Ruth, I'm insulted. This is business,” I said.

“Uhn-hun. Look down and describe what you have on. On second thought, don't bother. I'm sure you look stunning. You want to give me a number where you can be reached?”

“I don't know where I'll be staying. I'll call when I get there and let you know.”

“Leave it on the office machine. I'll be in bed by the time you get to San Francisco,” she said. “You be careful.”

“Yes, ma'am. I promise.”

“Take some vitamins.”

“I will. See you when I get back,” I said.

I tidied my apartment in case the plane went down, taking out the trash as a parting gesture to the gods. As we all know, the day I neglect this important ritual, the plane will auger in and everyone will think what a slob I was. Besides, I like order on the premises. Coming home from a trip, I like to be greeted with serenity, not sloppiness.

W
hen I got to the airport, I left the VW in long-term parking and hiked back to the terminal. Like most public buildings in Santa Teresa, the airport is vaguely Spanish in appearance: one and a half stories of white stucco with a red tile roof, arches, and a curving stairway up the side. Inside the terminal, there are only five departure gates, with a tiny newsstand on the first floor and a modest coffee shop on the second. At the United counter, I picked up my ticket and gave my name to the agent in case a seat opened up on an earlier plane. No such luck. I found a seat nearby, propped my head on my fist, and snoozed like a vagrant until my flight was called. In the time I waited, I could have driven to San Francisco.

The plane was a little putt-putt with fifteen seats, ten of which were occupied. I turned my attention to the glossy airline magazine tucked in the seat pouch in front of me. This was my complimentary copy—it said so right on the front—the term
complimentary
meaning way too boring to spend real money on. While the engines were being revved up with all the high whine of racing mopeds, the
flight attendant recited last rites. We couldn't hear a word she was saying, but the way her mouth was moving we got the general idea.

We took off with the aircraft bucking and shuddering, the flight smoothing out abruptly as we reached altitude. The attendant made her way down the aisle with a tray, dispensing clear plastic cups full of orange juice or Coca-Cola and childproof packets of—choose one—pretzels or peanuts. The airlines, extremely cunning at trimming costs these days, have now reduced the serving size of these peanuts to (approximately) one tablespoon per person. I broke each of mine in half, eating one piece at a time to prolong the experience.

As we droned up the coast through the night-blackened sky, communities below us appeared as a series of patchy, disconnected lights. At that altitude the towns looked like isolated colonies on an alien planet with dark stretches between what by day would be mountains. I was disoriented by the landscape. I tried to pick out Santa Maria, Paso Robles, and King City, but I had no clear sense of size or distances. I could see the 101, but the highway looked eerie and unfamiliar at that remove.

We reached San Francisco in a little under an hour and a half. Coming in, I could see the streetlights undulate across the hills, tracing the terrain like a contour map. We touched down at a commuter terminal so remote that a progression of ground agents had to be stationed along the tarmac to point us to civilization. We went into the building, up the back stairs like immigration deportees, and finally emerged into a familiar corridor. I stopped off at a newsstand and bought myself a decent city map, then found the rental car counter, where I filled out all the paperwork. By 11:05 I was on the 101, heading north toward the city.

The night was clear and cold, the lights of Oakland and Alameda visible to my right across the bay. Traffic moved swiftly, and the city began to take shape around me like a neon confection. Half a mile past Market Street, at Golden Gate Avenue, the 101 dwindled down to a surface road. I drove the short half block to Van Ness and turned left, eventually taking another left onto Lombard. Coffee shops and motels of every size and description lined both sides of the four-lane thoroughfare. Not wanting to devote unnecessary energy to the project, I checked into the Del Rey Motel at the first “Vacant” sign. I would only be there one night. All I needed was a room clean enough that I wouldn't be forced to wear shoes at all times. I asked for accommodations away from the traffic noise and was directed to 343 at the back.

The Del Rey was one of those motels where the management assumes you're going to steal everything in sight. All the coat hangers were designed so the hooks couldn't be removed from the hanging rod. There was a notice on the television warning that removal of the cord and any movement of the set would automatically sound an alarm beyond guest control. The clock radio was bolted to the bed table. This was an establishment fully prepared to outfox thieves and scam artists. I put an ear to the wall, wondering who might be lurking in the room next to mine. I could hear snores rattle against the quiet. That was going to be restful later when I tried to sleep myself. I sat down on the edge of the bed and called the office, leaving my telephone number for Ida Ruth. While I was at it, I dialed my own answering machine, using the remote code to check for messages. None. My winsome long-distance message had netted me no response, which meant I'd have to go a-calling at some point.

It was nearly midnight by now, and I could feel energy seeping out through my pores. Since I'd given up my day life to conduct my business by night, I'd noticed it was getting harder to predict the plunges into exhaustion. I longed to fling myself backward on the bed and fall asleep in my clothes. I roused myself before the notion became too seductive. In the bathroom, a printed notice warned of lingering drought conditions and begged motel guests to use as little water as possible. I took a quick (guilt-ridden) shower, then dried myself on a towel as rough as a sidewalk. I set my duffel on the bed and pulled out clean underwear and panty hose. Then I hauled out the wonder garment, my black all-purpose dress. Not that long ago, this article had been a-fester with ditch water, smelling of mildew and assorted swamp creatures. I'd sent it to the cleaners several times in the intervening months, and by now it was as good as new . . . unless you sniffed really, really closely. The fabric represented the apex of recent scientific achievement: lightweight, wrinkle-defying, quick-drying, and indestructible. Several of my acquaintances rued this latter quality, begging me to dump the dress and add another to my wardrobe. I couldn't see the point. With its long sleeves and tucked front, the all-purpose dress was perfect (well, adequate) for all occasions. I'd worn it to weddings, funerals, cocktail parties, and court appearances. I gave it a shake and undid the zipper, managing to step into the dress and my black flats simultaneously. No one would mistake me for a fashion plate, but at least I could pass myself off as a grown-up.

According to the map and the address I'd been given, Joseph Ayers was living in Pacific Heights. I laid the map on the car seat and left on the interior light so I could see where I was going. I took a left on Divisadero and headed
toward Sacramento Street. Once in the vicinity, I cruised the area. Even at this hour, the Ayers residence wasn't hard to spot. The house was ablaze with lights, and a steady stream of guests, both arriving and departing, were taking advantage of the “valet” parking out in front. I turned my car over to one of the young men in black dress pants and white tuxedo shirts. There was a Mercedes ahead of me and a Jaguar pulling up behind.

The front gate was open, and late arrivals were being steered around the side of the house toward the garden in back. Entrance to the party was being monitored by a man in a tuxedo, who viewed my outfit with visible concern. “Good evening. May I see your invitation?”