The keys came out of his pocket, and he jangled them. “Did it bother her, falling asleep?”
“I downplayed it, made it sound routine. I was worried about getting into too much too quickly, but overall the session seemed to help her. She left in good spirits. Other than the dream, her main concern’s Puck. She’s well aware of his addiction, defends him as a sick guy. And thinking about him helps her forget about her own troubles. You had any thoughts on the note?”
“Not really.”
“Anything new on the copycat?”
“Not a thing, but I’m gonna check out the Bogettes very seriously.” He got in the Porsche, started it, and lowered the window.
“I went by the Sheas’ surf shop today,” I said. “Bought a pair of shorts. Gwen arrived with their son. He’s got severe cerebral palsy, needs constant care. Tom Shea drives a newish BMW 735, Gwen’s got a customized van for transporting the boy, and both Best and Doris Reingold said the Sheas have a house on the beach at La Costa. Even years ago that was serious money. Not to mention all the medical expenses. The shop didn’t look like any big cash cow, but even assuming it is, how’d they get the capital to start up a business by tending bar and waiting tables? Now that we’re thinking about Barnard getting paid off, it makes me wonder if they did, too.”
“Gwen was obviously an enterprising lady, subcontracting catering. Maybe she had other things going.”
“It’s still quite a leap from moonlighting to living on the sand. Coming into a little venture capital twenty-one years ago would have helped. Be interesting to know what transpired between the time the Sheas left for Aspen and returned. And why they left in the first place. If it was just because Sherrell Best was bugging them, that would imply some kind of guilt.”
“Well,” he said, “I gave the widow Barnard plenty of information. Malibu’s still a small town, there should be some whispering. Break a few eggs, and who knows?”
“Flushing out the prey?”
He turned his hand into a pistol and pointed it at the windshield. “Boom.”
“I may have a shot at big game,” I said. “Lucy and I decided I should accept Buck Lowell’s invitation to chat.”
His hand lowered. “Where you going to meet with him?”
“Sanctum.”
“Don’t go snooping around the dirt looking for burial plots.”
“I promise. Dad.”
“Listen, I know you. . . . Meanwhile, you want to talk to Doris Reingold again, or should I try?”
“I can do it; we’re already pals. If she’s got nothing to hide, another big tip might be enough to pry something loose.”
“Hoo-hah, Daddy Warbucks.”
“I expect to be reimbursed by the department.”
“Oh, sure, absolutely. Officer Santa Claus’ll deliver it to you personally. And no new taxes.”
CHAPTER
24
The next morning, feeling like a hunter, I called Sanctum. The same woman who’d answered the first time picked up. Before I finished introducing myself, she said, “Hold on.”
Several minutes later: “He’ll see you here, tomorrow at one. We’re hard to find, these are the directions.”
I copied them and she hung up.
I got Terry Trafficant’s book from the bedroom and searched for mention of his editor, but there was none. At his publisher, a confused receptionist said, “There isn’t anyone here by that name.”
“He’s an author.”
“Fiction or nonfiction?”
Good question. “Nonfiction.”
“Hold on.”
A moment later, a man said, “Editorial.”
“I’m trying to locate Terrence Trafficant’s editor.”
“Who?”
“Terrence Trafficant. From Hunger to Rage.”
“Is that on our current list?”
“No, it was published twenty-one years ago.”
Click.
A woman said, “Remainders.”
I repeated my request.
“No,” she said, “that isn’t on our roster. When was it published?”
“Twenty-one years ago.”
“Then I’m sure it’s long gone to the pulp mill. Try a used bookstore.”
“I don’t want the book. I’m looking for the editor.”
Click. Back to the same man at Editorial, very unhappy to hear from me. “I’m sure I have no idea who that was, sir. People come and go all the time.”
“Would there be any way to find out?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”