Lori, p.15
Lori, page 15
Obviously the circumstances had changed. Enough to trigger arson as a cover-up for murder.
Easy does it, Metz told himself. But he kept digging and picking away at the idea just as he was digging and picking away at a lobster claw.
Evidence of arson had already been established; the next problem was how to tie Rupert to the job. If lab work could match any of the cloth fibers to some article of clothing in Rupert's wardrobe, that might be a step toward proving he was on the scene. More likely, if there was any match, it would be with something worn by Ed or Frances Holmes. So it was a good thing Metz had started picking away on his own. Enough to learn that Ben Rupert hadn't been in his office after noon on the day the fire took place.
Of course this didn't prove he'd gone to pay a surprise visit to the Holmes residence, armed with a weapon- blunt instrument, that's what it must have been, since no bullet wounds or unusual incisions had been discovered in what remained of their remains. Metz was willing to bet the weapon had been tossed somewhere safe from chance discovery.
But digging brought results. Bits of lobster meat, bits of evidence.
One of the items Rupert had spared from his shredder was a receipt dated the day after the fire. He'd bought four new tires. No trade-in allowance listed, which meant he'd kept the old ones. Dumped them to prevent anyone from matching up the tread marks where he'd parked the day before.
That had probably been in an alley, several blocks away. It would be easy enough to use the route without being noticed, particularly in the rain. And easy enough to get into the Holmes house through the back door with a duplicate key.
So far that key hadn't turned up, which meant Rupert must have kissed it good-bye when he disposed of the other items. But he did have a dupe, Metz figured, because that had been his modus operandi for entering Lori Holmes's apartment.
No more evidence, no more lobster meat. Metz put down his fork and sat back. Modus operandi? Dirty Harry never talked like that. But Orion Metz and Clint Eastwood were two different people, and Ben Rupert hadn't been just another punk off the street. He was a man who operated according to plan, and it was only the change in circumstances that had escalated embezzlement into homicide, which arson was meant to conceal.
Back to square one again. Metz sat over coffee, mulled over questions. How had Rupert's circumstances changed? Was it the threat of IRS investigation, fear that discovery of his losses might lead Holmes to bring charges?
Simple answers. Too simple to explain the activities of a man as complex as the late Ben Rupert. Obviously he must have anticipated the possibility of outside audits over the years and juggled accounts accordingly. Even after Ed and Frances Holmes were dead he'd made no move to run, which meant he thought there was a good chance his peculations wouldn't be revealed. That's what I said, Harry, peculations. Look it up and make my day.
Metz had a second cup of coffee with his lemon meringue pie. And second thoughts.
There had to be another reason for getting rid of the Holmes family. Including the daughter, whom Rupert tried to kill. Inviting Lori to his office, writing that phony note, indicated he meant to try again. But this time he was prepared to run. Then to London, then a switch to Aer Lingus for the Dublin flight. That London stopover was a risk, the kind Ben Rupert would take pains to avoid, if he had a chance. Apparently it was the only booking available on such short notice. But why was haste so suddenly necessary-another change of circumstances?
Metz left the question unanswered long enough to decline the waitress's suggestion of an after-dinner drink; somehow he doubted that they'd serve Alka-Seltzer.
But as he and the waitress began to perform the classic pas de deux with her check and his plastic there was time for further reflection. Enough time to admit to himself he'd been dodging the issue.
Circumstances alter cases and they sure as hell altered this one. This case of homicide was supposed to be his primary concern; digging into Rupert's motives and movements were wasted efforts unless they could guide him toward a solution. And so far all they'd done was lead him to a dead end. A dead end and a dead man. The big question wasn't why Rupert had panicked, but why he died. And who killed him.
The parking lot attendant brought Metz his car and he felt a wave of weariness when he settled down behind the wheel. Over the sound of the motor he could hear his stomach rumbling rebellion. Between the big lobster and the big question he was going to be in for another sleepless night.
Why was he stalling, why couldn't he come up with a real
lead? By this time Angela Lansbury would have already assembled a cast of suspects and begun her last-act explanation of exactly what had happened and identified the culprit. Too bad he couldn't get himself up in drag to find the answers as easily as she did. Every week a new murder and a new solution, all in one short hour-fifty-two minutes, maybe, if you allowed time for the commercials.
Turning out into the street, Metz glanced at the phosphorescent numerals on the dash. Nine-thirty. Slesovitch would be coming on duty again in half an hour. Maybe if they talked things over it might help clear his thinking. Between them, maybe there was a chance of coming up with something that they'd overlooked. It was worth a try.
Besides, he had some Alka-Seltzer at the office.
TWENTY-FOUR
Not everyone dined late that evening. Lori made her call to Dr. Leverett shortly after five o'clock, just as he'd suggested, and by seven they sat studying the menu at Richey's. Neither of them ordered lobster.
As the waiter departed she reached for her glass, gripping the stem tightly. Too tightly. Leverett was smiling, but he'd noticed. "Problems?"
"Just thinking." Lori sipped her drink. "Isn't there an unwritten law that psychotherapists don't socialize with patients?"
"Used to be, but times change. Yesterday's vice is today's virtue." He paused. "Besides, this isn't a social occasion. As I said on the phone, we've got things to discuss. And we both have to eat."
"Nobody cooks at home?"
Leverett shook his head. "Doctors make poor husbands, particularly in my field. The number of therapists' wives who end up in therapy themselves-"
Lori interrupted quickly. "Sorry, I don't mean to pry into your private affairs."
"Of course you do, or you wouldn't have asked. Under the circumstances it's natural curiosity." He settled back in his chair. "Forget about me for now. What's been happening to you? Any more of those dreams?"
"Not exactly. I suppose I'd have to call it a dream, but it wasn't like the others. No images, just a voice."
"Whose?"
"A woman's. I don't know who she was but it seems as though I did at the time. It's difficult to remember because what she said didn't make sense. Everything she talked about was coming from Alice in Wonderland."
"It was coming from you." Dr. Leverett spoke softly. "One of you."
"Multiple personality?"
"Not in the sense you're using the term. Actual disassociative reaction isn't common, but when it occurs it's sometimes compartmentalized by amnesia. Dr. Jekyll doesn't share the memories of Mr. Hyde. And the two of them may not necessarily be on speaking terms."
"So we're back to your theory. I was talking to myself."
"That doesn't satisfy you."
"Frankly, no. Why would my unconscious bother disguising its voice just to say things I can't understand?"
"A conflict situation. Conflict between the desire to know and the fear of finding out. The desire is too strong to be ignored, but the fear is too great to risk. So there's a compromise. You tell yourself something, but both the messenger and the message are disguised."
"Sounds like a dumb idea to me."
"It is a dumb idea." Leverett smiled. "But also an articulate one. Because you used familiar concepts to convey what you meant."
"The only meaning is that I'm like Alice, in a topsy-turvy world where nothing makes sense. Which isn't exactly a late-news flash."
"Perhaps there's more. If you could recall-"
"Please. I'm not here for a therapy session. You said you had something to tell me."
"Sorry I got carried away. I do have things to tell you." Leverett picked up his menu. "Shall we order first?"
Lori nodded at him and he nodded to the waiter. Three minutes later Leverett brought out the notepad from his inner jacket pocket, propping it against the rim of the plate before him.
"I'm going to have to rely on this," he said. "I managed to get everything down as it came in, but there wasn't time to memorize details. Not knowing what to expect, it seemed best not to record the calls, just in case anything turned up that you'd prefer to remain private between us."
"And did it?"
"Judge for yourself." Leverett glanced down as he spoke. "I don't think there's anything secret about Bryant College. It's located north of Riverside, and I've got a phone number for you in case you need it. Or you can do what I did, and dial Information."
"I should have thought of that myself." Lori sighed. "Instead I wasted all that time hunting for Priscilla Fairmount's name and address."
"Which, as you know, the phone company doesn't have. That's why I contacted Bryant." He glanced down again. "I spoke to a Miss Petrasham, a very nice lady."
"What did she know about Priscilla Fairmount?"
"Absolutely nothing. The name wasn't on any graduate list, not for '68 or after."
"But her picture was in the book!"
"So I said, and hung on until she could look in their file copy to verify it. Then she switched me to her boss, a Mr. Harvey, in the Alumni Office. He confirmed that someone named Priscilla Fairmount enrolled in the fall of '64 and remained as a student until after the midterm break early in '68." Leverett looked up. "Apparently she had passing grades because the yearbook went to press with her picture included, in anticipation she'd be graduating. Mr. Harvey isn't sure what the procedure was back then, but usually yearbook photos are taken months before publication."
"Did he tell you why she left school?"
"He said I could call back next month and find out. It seems that individual scholastic records have been shipped to a data-processing outfit in San Francisco. Everything's going into the computer."
"So that's all you learned."
"Not quite." Leverett glanced at his notes again. "There was a home address-Fairmount Medical Clinic, 490 South Allister Avenue, Los Angeles. And the names of her parents. Mother-Genevieve Otis Fairmount, deceased. Father-Royal S. Fairmount, M.D."
"Dr. Roy!"
"What?"
"I told you about my dream. This woman Clara kept talking to someone she called 'Dr. Roy.' Couldn't 'Roy' be the diminutive of 'Royal'?"
"That's possible."
"Do you realize what it means? I was Priscilla in the dream. His daughter, in his clinic-"
She broke off quickly as their salads arrived. And when the waiter left, it was Leverett who spoke.
"If there was just some way of proving that-"
"But there must be! Now we have a name and an address to go on."
"Neither of them took me very far." Dr. Leverett reached for his salad fork. "I did what I could in my free time this morning. There's no current listing of any Royal S. Fairmount in the medical directory so I called the county clerk's office. Their records show him deceased as of April 5, 1968. Cause of death, coronary embolism. The certificate was signed by Nigel Chase, M.D."
"His name was in my dream too, remember? Isn't that proof enough?"
"Proof you dreamed of hearing someone called by that name, yes. But it tells us nothing."
"There must have been something in the newspaper-a death notice, maybe a story."
"That's what I figured. I phoned the Times and the Herald and asked them to check back. Neither one carried a story, just short obituaries on the sixth of April '68." Leverett consulted his pad. "No mention of funeral services, just a private interment pending on the eighth at Hopeland Cemetery."
"What about Priscilla?"
"Not a word."
"Doesn't that seem strange to you?"
"Disappointing, yes. But not unusual. If you check obituary notices in the paper today you'll find quite a few don't name late or surviving relatives. Matter of choice, I guess."
"Whose choice?"
"That's something we'll try to find out."
"Maybe there's still someone at the clinic who might know."
"There's no listing. According to Information there hasn't been a phone at that address for years." Dr. Leverett toyed with his salad and took a token bite before continuing. "Next step was to look through the current medical registry. No entry, so I rang their office. Their records show the Fairmount Medical Clinic closed down in December 1968."
"Perhaps somebody else took over and changed the name. You've got that address-"
"So does City Hall. To their knowledge Dr. Fairmount's estate never went through probate and the taxes have never been paid. Proceedings were finally instituted in '79, at which time the property was described as vacant."
Leverett flipped a page. "The court handed down a judgment-in '83 but there was nobody to collect from. Federal, state, and local tax authorities got into a three-way fight over jurisdiction that dragged on until last year. By then the property really must have been in bad shape, because the building was condemned." He glanced up. "From what they said I gather 490 South Allister Avenue is soon to be the location of a new mini-mall."
The waiter was back again, this time with entrees. "Careful, hot plates." He set them down, fixing Lori with an accusing stare. "You don't like your salad?"
"Leave it, please. I prefer to have it with the main course."
Accusation turned to resignation; the waiter's shrug was slight but eloquent. Go figure. People eat crazy back East. Somehow he managed a smile. "Anything to drink?"
"Coffee," Lori said. "Later."
Sure, later. Crazy people. Maybe Kansas City, some place like that. You can always tell when they don't look at the wine list.
Lori glanced down at the plate before her, then at the departing waiter. Her entree, his exit. "Something wrong?"
She looked up as Leverett spoke, then shook her head. "Nothing except my manners. I haven't thanked you for all you've done."
"Save it until there's a reason. So far we're at a dead end. Priscilla, her parents, the clinic-"
"Don't forget Nigel Chase."
"I haven't. But time ran out on me. I'm going to follow through on him tomorrow." He smiled. "Right now suppose we just settle for enjoying dinner?"
And they did.
At least Lori did. And once they started talking about other things he seemed more relaxed. Not that what either of them said was of any importance; at least it didn't seem to be at the time.
Later, after dinner and parting in the parking lot outside, Lori had second thoughts. Driving home she had a chance to review their conversation and was surprised at how much of it consisted of questions and answers. She'd been the interrogator, asking him about his background, comparing his interests and attitudes with her own. They shared many tastes in common-books, music, art. Trivial likes and dislikes, but somehow she could almost anticipate his replies, just as she seemed to anticipate his gestures, the modulations of his voice. Or had she merely asked the right questions? Without consciously being aware of it, she set up one of those getting-to-know-you situations, and she had felt comfortable with his response. So much so that if Tony were a younger man-
But he isn't younger. And he's not "Tony." He's Dr. Leverett, your therapist. That's your relationship, and if you have any sense you'll remember to keep it the way it is.
The voice of reason, Lori told herself. She needed Leverett in his professional capacity now. Once her present problems were solved she'd gladly have him as a friend; anything else would be out of the question. Strange that she'd thought about other possibilities, even for a moment.
But not as strange as the realization that during the entire evening she hadn't thought about Russ at all.
TWENTY-FIVE
Metz was right about the Alka-Seltzer. He spotted the cardboard container resting atop the water cooler and opened it quickly. During the drive back to the office the lobster in his stomach seemed to have grown fresh claws.
Filling a paper cup with water, he added two tablets- one for each claw.
Stupid notion, of course. Dead lobsters don't grow claws, and Nick Charles never got himself a bellyache. Neither did Charlie Chan, and God knows what kind of oriental glop he must have eaten. Bird's-nest soup, made from sparrow saliva. Egg foo not-so-yung.
Metz tilted his cup and swallowed bubbles. As he stared over the rim he saw Slesovitch saunter through the doorway. From the grin on his face it was obvious he hadn't eaten anything that disagreed with him; he looked more like a cat that just swallowed a canary.
"Could be I'm wrong," Metz murmured. "Maybe it's swallows instead of sparrows."
"Come again?"
"Nothing. Just thinking out loud." He tossed his cup. "What's the word?"
"I got news for you."
Metz moved to his desk. "Good or bad?"
"You make the call." Slesovitch sat down in the chair beside the cooler and reached into his pocket for a cigarette.
"I'm listening," Metz said. "And thank you for not smoking."
Slesovitch's grin disappeared and so did the cigarette. "Okay. But you're violating my civil rights, man."
"Get a lawyer."
"I got one." The younger man nodded. "Fella named Ross Barry."
"Don't know him."
"He used to run a law practice downtown, in the early sixties. Then he took in a junior partner, name of Ben Rupert."
"Who told you that?"
"Nobody. I been digging." Slesovitch's grin returned. "Guess you didn't check back far enough."
"Never mind, what did you get?"
"Not as much as you want. The partnership lasted a little over three years. Then something happened-just what, I don't know-and they split up. Rupert kept the firm going under his name and Barry gave him a hard time. That part is on the record, because Rupert took out an injunction and got a court order against harassment."
