Sooner or Later (39 page)

Piatowsky thought he looked like a man who hadn’t slept in two nights; rumpled, with a blue-stubbled jaw, his hair standing on end from the dozens of times he’d run his hands frantically through it.

“What’s the score?”

“Zero to us.”

“Go over the whole story with me again,” he said as they crossed through the busy airport traffic to the car park.

“There’s not a lot to tell. She was last seen at the cafe Friday night, around twelve forty-five. Alone. The cafe was not robbed, it was locked and all was in order. Her house had not been broken into, nothing was disturbed there.”

There was a catch in Dan’s voice as he remembered her bedroom, and the pink robe that clashed with her red hair.

He maneuvered the Explorer into the stream of traffic.
“Her car was in the four-story parking lot, just where she’d left it. Also locked. Somewhere between the cafe and the car park, she just disappeared into thin air.” He glanced grimly at Piatowsky. “I’ll bet the bastard knew where she worked, what her hours were, where she parked. He lay in wait for her, I know it.”

“There had to be a motive. How about rejection? Unrequited love? Are there any ex-boyfriends around? Anybody she gave the brush-off to who didn’t take it kindly?”

“She never told me about anyone being crazy in love with her. She said she hadn’t time for love—and that included me.”

Despite the circumstances, Piatowsky grinned. “Okay, how about obsession?”

Dan threaded through the traffic on Century, honking impatiently at a driver who cut in front of him. “I guess it’s possible, but she works all the time. Who’s been around her enough to become obsessed with her?”

“Let’s try revenge.” Piatowsky lit up a Marlboro Light and Dan glared at him. He stubbed it out. “Sorry, I didn’t realize this was a no-smoking zone.”

“You mean maybe someone had a grudge against her?”

“Yeah, like someone who worked at the cafe.”

“She and the chef fought all the time, but that was out in the open. The others liked her, enjoyed working there.” Piatowsky had the unlit cigarette clamped between his lips, and Dan added wearily, “If you don’t give that up, you’ll be dead at forty.”

“I’m forty-two already. So, who would gain by Ellie’s death?”

The word “death” sent a jolt down Dan’s spine. “She owned nothing of great value, except the string of pearls
she always wore, and I’ll bet no one even knew they were real. That just leaves the house and the antiques.”

“And
twenty prime acres in one of the richest little communities in California. Worth quite a few million, I’ll bet.”

Dan remembered how Ellie had not been able to bring herself to part with the house. “It’s as though Gran and Maria are still here,” she’d said, “waiting for me to help them. We have to find their killer first.” Now, he wished with all his heart that she had put it on the market right away, let go of her memories, good and bad, and gone on with her own life. Because he knew in his heart that Piatowsky was right and that Journey’s End had something to do with Ellie’s disappearance.

He said, “This is the third day. What are her chances?”

Piatowsky knew the statistics. He was being kind when he said, “Fifty-fifty. But there’s always hope.”

They went directly to the Santa Monica police department and met with Detective Farrell. Piatowsky told him of his involvement, via the signature murder in Manhattan. He sensed Farrell was not thrilled to see him, and he figured, rightly, he didn’t want him interfering and bringing in the FBI.

“So far, this is a local incident,” Farrell said, sitting behind his desk, twisting the ballpoint through his fingers. “Meanwhile, officers are out on the streets showing Ellie’s photograph, asking if anyone has seen her. Her face is on every television newscast. Helicopters are out searching the canyons, and the Montecito division is searching the house and grounds, one more time. There’s not much more we can do, right now.” He shrugged, still twirling the ballpoint.

“He’s like a fuckin’ baton twirler,” Piatowsky said,
disgruntled, to Dan later in the hotel bar. “The only thing he’s not discussing is motive.”

“That’s because he believes he’s dealing with a random killer, a psychopath.”

“And you don’t believe that.”

Dan shook his head. “There’s a plan to all this, Pete, I know it.”

“And a good cop always trusts his instincts.”

Dan sipped his beer morosely. “Ellie told me she had no other relatives. No cousins twice removed, no aunts and uncles in far-off countries. So who would stand to benefit by her death?”

“The Parrish lawyers would know.”

“You remember Majors? Majors, Fleming and Untermann, attorneys of Santa Barbara.”

“I’ll call him. They’re not going to give away the family secrets to a rancher, but they’ll talk to a cop.”

He went to make the call and Dan glanced at his watch. Time was ticking away fast. He, too, knew what the statistics were in abduction cases.

Piatowsky was back ten minutes later. He sat down and finished his beer in a long gulp. “Ellie was right, there are no more Parrishes to inherit Miss Lottie’s estate.”

“Come on.” Dan was already striding across the room.

“Where are we going?” Piatowsky hurried after him.

“To Makepeace and Thackray, accountants to Lottie Parrish. To see who exactly she was supporting, before they made her cut them off without a dime.”

T
HE OPULENT OFFICES OF
M
AKEPEACE AND
T
HACKRAY
were in a Century City skyscraper. The leather chairs were the color of good wine, the carpet a muted gray, and the desks weighty and expensive. Piatowsky thought that just watching the sleek young receptionist walk across the room was a pleasure that must cost.

“If these guys were my accountants, I’d want to know how they could afford to live better than I can,” he muttered to Dan, under his breath.

The smart receptionist was obviously not used to having a detective on the premises, and nor was Mr. Harrison Thackray. He was in his fifties, tall, suntanned, unsmiling, with a mane of well-coiffed silver hair.

He shook their hands, and invited them to sit. His desk was big enough for two, and meant to show who was in charge. Dan let Piatowsky lead.

“Detective Piatowsky, NYPD.” He flashed his ID. “I’m involved in the investigation into the disappearance of Ellie Parrish Duveen.”

“Terrible, terrible.” Thackray shook his head. “After
what happened to Miss Lottie, God knows this is just too much.”

“Mr. Thackray, do you know of anyone who stood to gain by Ellie’s death?”

He looked surprised. “I do not.”

“Ellie said that her grandmother supported various charities and she’d been forced to give them up recently. Do you have a list of those charities, sir?”

“I do.”

“We’d like to take a look at that, if you don’t mind.” Thackray hesitated and Piatowsky gave him his benign, little-boy smile. “Just checking, that’s all, y’understand?”

Thackray understood that he had no choice. He pressed the intercom and told, his secretary to bring the Parrish file, then he glanced at his Carrier watch. “I have a meeting in five minutes, gentlemen. Perhaps you’d care to use the boardroom, while you look through the file.”

The richly paneled boardroom with its red-leather swivel chairs, hunting prints, and antique walnut conference table, was as cozy as a gentlemen’s club. “I could move in here, easy.” Piatowsky swiveled his chair, like a little kid. He handed the list to Dan. “Go ahead, partner. You know more about this than I do. I’m only the key that got you in here.”

The list was a long one. They were mostly women’s names, and Dan guessed they were old friends Miss Lottie had helped. There was also the children’s ward at the local hospital, the animal shelter, and various other local charities, plus a substantial sum divided annually between deserving causes that she picked herself. Tucked away near the bottom of the third page, was a name that triggered a memory.

He glanced up. “You heard of the Hudson Sanitarium, in Rollins?”

“The maximum security facility for psychos? Yeah, I
was there once, to interview a nut about a murder. Heavy-duty guys in there, you don’t mess with them. What was Lottie Parrish doing involved with a place like that?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” Dan shuffled through the papers until he found the right one. “She’d been paying the bills for someone in there for years. More than twenty, according to this.”

He found the page, read on. He looked at Piatowsky. “Remember, when we saw the dead hooker, I said check out what nut they’d let out of prison recently? Well, he didn’t get out of prison. He got out of the Hudson Sanitarium, because his fees weren’t paid. And his name is Patrick Buckland Duveen.”

Their eyes met, remembering the name
DUVEEEEEEE
… on Miss Lottie’s computer screen. “Bingo!” Piatowsky said.

T
HE FLICKERING NEON SIGN JUST OFF
H
IGHWAY
101 caught Buck’s eye,
The Avalon Motel
, in scarlet and green letters with the
o
missing in
Motel.
Swinging the BMW down the off-ramp, he doubled back until he found it.

It was a low, shabby wooden building with a shingled roof. A twenty-five-watt bulb glimmered over each door, casting more shadows than light, and there was only one other car parked out in front. It was exactly what he needed.

He checked in the driver’s mirror. His right eye was practically closed and there was blood on his sweatshirt. He tugged it over his head, revealing a black T-shirt underneath, then wiped the dried blood from his face, smoothed his hair and put on his dark glasses. The switchblade was in his palm, just in case of trouble, as he walked into the minuscule office.

“Evenin’.” The old man behind the counter dragged his gaze away from
Jeopardy!
on TV and gave him a cursory glance. “Rates are twenty-nine dollars, checkout
time’s eleven, and there’s coffee-making facilities in the room.”

“Fine.” Buck handed over the cash.

He put the money in a drawer and plucked a key from the wallboard behind him. “You wanna receipt?”

“No.”

“It’s room twenty-three, on your left.”

Buck parked in the slot outside room twenty-three. He unlocked the flimsy door that he could easily have opened with a good kick, and switched on the overhead light. The thin brown carpet was stained, the orange chenille bedspread had seen decades of wear, and the room smelled of age and motel air freshener. It was a long way from the Biltmore.

Flinging his keys onto the bed, he stripped off his clothes, then went and stood under the shower.

The hot water felt sharp as needles on his wounded eye, but he barely noticed. He was thinking of Ellie, locked in the crate. Anger sent his pulses racing again, he should have killed the Utile bitch right then and there. But he couldn’t, he needled to torture her, he needed revenge. He whimpered, suddenly distraught.
Besides, he loved her.

After a while, he stepped from the shower, dried himself on the skimpy towel, got dressed again and went out in search of a liquor store. Half an hour later, he was lying on the bed, drinking Jim Beam from the bottle. The fifteen-inch black-and-white TV set flickered opposite, but he wasn’t watching. He checked the time, Ellie had been locked in the crate almost five hours. He took another swig of the bourbon. He hoped she was enjoying it.

There was no light where she was, no sound, no air, no space to move. Time had lost all meaning. The hot,
salty tears had long since dried on Ellie’s cheeks, she couldn’t even cry anymore. She was reduced to a small, terrified creature, locked in a box, abandoned and left to die. Claustrophobia was crushing her chest, her throat was tight with panic, her hair drenched with sweat.

She shifted a fraction of an inch and the rope cut cruelly into her ankles. She was in a fetal position, knees under her chin, head bowed, with her arms twisted behind her back. The pain in her shoulders was excruciating, but at least it kept her from railing into unconsciousness. She needed to stay awake, stay alert.
If she wanted to live….

Her calf muscles were locked in a cramp, and she moaned. She’d thought she couldn’t stand any more pain, but by now it had become part of her. It was just something else she had to bear.
If she wanted to live.

Apathy settled over her like a heavy gray cloud; she wasn’t even sure if she did want to live anymore. Each breath took so much effort, so much pain.

Dan’s strong image floated in front of her eyes. He was so close she could see the faint stubble on his jaw, see the darker flecks in his blue eyes, the firm set of his mouth. The mouth that had kissed her so tenderly … was it only a short while ago? Longing for him made her weak; she could smell the sharp masculine scent of him after they had made love, feel the dampness of the sweat on his back under her skimming hands; she could almost taste him, she wanted him so badly. The warmth of him, the safety of his arms, the security of knowing he cared. She told herself again, that surely by now he must be looking for her. He was clever, an ex-cop, he would know what to do.

But how would he ever find her in this godforsaken place? No one would ever find her.
She might as well be dead.

Cold air filtered sparingly from tiny holes in the side of the crate, and she twisted her face to them, searching for oxygen.

She had almost died once before. She remembered it perfectly now. Her lather’s smile, and the way her mother’s gaze had linked with his when the car went into that final spin. Now she understood that her father knew he was going to die, but bravely, he’d kept on singing. She could hear him, it was as if he were here, in the room, with her….
“Onward Christian so-o-o-oldiers, marching as to war …

Her voice wobbled as she joined in, in a low, husky treble …
“With the cross of Jesus going on before…

A
T THE
H
UDSON
, H
AL
M
ORROW WAS NOT SURPRISED TO
get a call about Buck Duveen; he’d been half expecting it ever since he’d watched him walk out the door, a free man. Nevertheless, what he heard shocked him.