“He was a weeny—and I’d say that if he was white. He hated being black, as a matter of fact. Denied it. He thought if he just kept writing and kissing ass, he’d be rich and famous. Anyway, that’s where Terry is. I don’t know if the cabin’s still standing, but I can find the spot—right near the pond.”
“Not far from Karen Best,” said Bleichert.
App didn’t answer.
“Any other bodies we should know about?”
“Not to my knowledge. You’d have to ask Lowell. He’s the creative one. Did you know that he published his first book while in college? Everyone told him he was a genius. Fatal error.”
“What was?”
“Believing his own reviews. Now can we get the ball rolling on transferring me to a decent place?”
“So you’ve been collecting Mr. Trafficant’s royalties all these years.”
“After the first few years it was chicken feed. Nothing’s come in for the last five.”
“How much chicken feed?”
“I’d have to check. Probably not more than a hundred and fifty thousand, all told.”
“And Mr. Trafficant’s advance payment for his book?”
“Seven thousand dollars. He blew it all in a crap game the same day he cashed the check. That’s why he was so uptight when Lowell threatened to kick him out. Here he was a best-seller, eighty-five g’s dropped in his bank account, and he had no idea how to handle it. Now can you get me to a decent place?”
“We’ll work on it, Mr. App.”
“Meantime, can I have my own food brought in? The crap here is loaded with fat and grease. I have my own chef, he could—”
Bleichert reread the confession and his notes of App’s recitation.
The door from the hallway opened, and a stocky black jail deputy came into the observation room.
“DA Bleichert?” he said, scanning my consultant’s badge.
I pointed at the glass.
“They in the middle of something?”
“Just finishing up.”
He looked through the one-way. Bleichert was still reading. App and MacIlhenny sat in silence.
“Hmm,” said the deputy. Then he knocked.
“Yeah?” said Bleichert, annoyed.
The deputy went in. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I’ve got an urgent message.”
Bleichert was annoyed. “From who? I’m busy.”
“A Detective Sturgis.”
“What does he want?”
“He said to tell you in private, sir.”
“Okay, hold on.” To MacIlhenny and App: “One sec.”
He came out of the room, closed the door, and tapped his foot. “Okay, what’s so damned urgent?”
The deputy looked at me.
Bleichert walked to a far corner well away from me. The deputy followed and whispered something in his ear.
As he listened, Bleichert’s sour face lightened. “I’ll be damned!”
“Everything okay with Lucy?” I said.
Bleichert ignored me. To the deputy: “You’re sure?”
“That’s what the man said.”
“How long ago?”
“Hour or so.”
“And this is definitely confirmed?”
“That’s what he said, sir.”
“Well, I’ll be damned—unreal . . . goddammit . . . okay, thanks.”
The deputy left and Bleichert stood thinking. Then he returned to the interrogation room.
“So,” said App, “can we start the paperwork?”
“Sure,” said Bleichert. “We’ve got lots of paperwork.” Big smile.
App said, “I eat a high-carbohydrate, low-fat diet.”
“Good for you.” Hard voice.
MacIlhenny said, “Stan?”
Bleichert opened his jacket and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “Bit of a new development, gentlemen. I’ve just been informed that Mr. Lowell passed away this afternoon: massive stroke. So all deals are null and void and we’ll be filing that confession as evidence against Mr. App.”
App went white as his sweater.
MacIlhenny shoved his bulk out of the chair, charged forward, waving his hands as if warding off hornets. “Now, see here—”
Bleichert whistled and collected his papers.
“This is unconscionab—”
“Not at all, Land. We negotiated in good faith. You yourself said so. No accounting for acts of God. Guess God didn’t approve of the deal.”
MacIlhenny tottered with rage. “Now you just—”
“No you just, Land. All bets are off and this stays on the record.”
Waving the confession.
“Always put it in writing,” said Bleichert, grinning. “I learned that watching The People’s Court.”
CHAPTER
48
No funeral.
Cremation took place at the mortician’s college across the street from the county morgue. The ashes sat on a shelf until Ken came forward and picked up the urn. He asked Lucy if she wanted to accompany him when he tossed it off the Malibu pier. She said she’d pass.