He studied his Timex. “Too late to call the manager. I’ll drive by the Venice address, see if they really did have a place there; then I’ll get the file over to the lab just in case some old latents from known bad guys show up. Tomorrow, it’s on the horn to every other prop house in the county, see if Mr. Wark talked anyone else out of gear.”
“You like the film thing now,” I said.
“Work with what you’ve got,” he said. “I’m an old stink-hound: when something smells bad, I go nosing.”
“The casting ad could have been another scam-get wannabes to pay for auditioning.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Hollywood’s one big scam, anyway-image fiber alles. Even when it’s supposedly legit. One of my first cases, back when I was doing Robbery, was-”
He named a well-known actor. “Got his start as a student, doing artsy stuff using gear he stole from the university’s theater arts department. When I caught up with him he was a real fresh-mouth, no remorse. Finally, he agreed to return everything and the U decided not to take it any further. A few years later, I’m watching TV and this asshole’s up for an Oscar, some social-issues film about prison reform, making a holier-than-thou speech. And what about-” He named a major director. “I know for a fact he got his foot in the door by selling coke to studio execs. Yeah, this Wark found the right business for a psychopath. The only question is how relevant his
mischief is to my cases.”
I got home just after six. Robin’s truck was in the carport. The house smelled wonderful-the salty bouquet of chicken soup.
She was at the stove, stirring a pot. Her hair was loose, tumbling down her back; black sweats accentuated the auburn. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows and her face looked scrubbed. Steam from the soup had brought up some sweat. Down by her feet, Spike squatted, panting, ready to pounce for a scrap. The table was set for two.
When I kissed her, Spike grumbled. “Be a good sharer,” I said.
He grumbled some more and waddled over to his water bowl.
“Winning through intimidation,” I said.
Robin laughed. “Thought we’d eat in. Haven’t seen enough of you lately.”
“Sounds great to me. Want me to prepare something?”
“Not unless there’s something else you want.”
I looked into the pot. Golden broth formed a bubbling home for carrots, celery, onions, slivers of white meat, wide noodles.
“Nothing,” I said, moving behind her, cupping her waist, lowering my hands to her hips. I felt her go loose.
“This,” I said, “is one of those great fantasies-he chances upon her as she cooks and, lusty stallion that he is…”
She laughed, let out two soft breaths, leaned back against me. My hands rose to her breasts, loose and soft, unfettered by the thin fleece of the sweats. Her nipples hardened against my palms. My fingers slipped under the waistband of her pants. She inhaled sharply.
“You shrinks,” she said, placing her hand over mine. Guiding it down. “Spending too much time on fantasy, not enough on reality.”
17.
I WOKE UP the next morning thinking about Mr. and Mrs. Argent’s claim that Claire had chosen psychology because she wanted to nurture people. Yet she’d opted for neuro-psychology as a specialty, concentrating on diagnostics, avoiding treatment.
On research diagnostics, charts and graphs, the hieroglyphics of science. She’d rarely ventured out of her lab. On the face of it, she’d nurtured nothing but data at County.
Until six months ago and the shift to Starkweather. Maybe Robin was right, and the move represented getting in touch with her altruism.
But why now? Why there’?
Something didn’t fit. My head felt like a box full of random index cards. I circled the office, trying to collate. Robin and Spike were out, and the silence chewed at
me. There had been a time, long ago, when I was content living alone. The knots and liberties of love had changed me. What had Claire experienced oflove?
The phone ring was glass shattering on stone.
“Small stuff first,” said Milo. “Joseph Stargill’s not quite as rich as he claimed, because some of his properties are mortgaged, but he still comes out over four mil in the black. His law practice brings in around a hundred and eighty K a year. If he’s a greedy psychopath or he hated Claire’s guts, I suppose three hundred K might motivate him, but I can’t find evidence of either, and a probate lawyer tells me