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She hadn't reckoned with the surprise bonus of Mr. Esmeralda; but although she
had reported back to her local CIA chief of operations everything she could
find out about Gerard's dealing with him, she hadn't yet been able to decide
exactly what it was that Mr. Esmeralda was up to. Gerard was obviously
frightened of him; and did whatever he told him to. But whenever she tried to
question Gerard about him, Gerard said nothing at all, or very little of any
interest, and quickly changed the subject.
Last night, she had known that Gerard was frantically worried. Instead of
meeting her at the Bonaventure or her apartment, he had insisted on taking her
to L'Ermitage, where he had booked a room for two and ordered up the most
lavish meal on the menu. Then, he had talked for hours about his childhood,
and about his days in Cuba, and how life had tricked him and trapped him into
being a stooge. "How can you have any scruples when society expects you to be
rich instead of poor, and yet makes it
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impossible for you to be rich by honest and honorable means?"
He had made love to her four or five times, urgently and violently. She liked
him because, over a period of several months, she had made an effort to like
him. This was her third "secretary-mistress" operation, and she had learned
that she had to do everything she could to see the best in her "marks," no
matter how brutal and coarse they were. There were some nights when she had
lain in the dark with a man's semen leaking out of her, as tackily as drying
blood, and heard him snoring on the pillow next to her, and known that in two
weeks' time she would be standing in court testifying against him. And still
she liked him.
She didn't know whether she was actually capable of love.
She knew that Gerard had invested all of his affections in their relationship:
that his marriage had fallen to pieces, and he was looking to her to provide
him with his future. But she didn't feel sorry for him, or guilty. One way or
another, one day or another, with or without her, he would be caught for
smuggling or milk extortion or drug-running or arms dealing or pimping. He was
one of those men who had been born without a future, no matter how hard they
tried. Next month, Franccsca would be smiling seductively at a new employer,
and Gerard Crowley would be forgotten altogether.
She finished brushing her hair, then walked across to the closet where her
dress was hanging up.
"Poor Gerard," she thought. "My God, poor, lonely Gerard."
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285
After the killings, the staff of Rancho Encino Hospital had moved Admiral
Thorson to the next wing, to a lemon-yellow room with a reproduction of "Some
Steps in the Hospital Garden'' by Van Gogh on the wall above his bed. Admiral
Thorson was still shocked by what had happened, and by the realization that
his wife was dead, but he was conscious and coherent. During the day he spoke
three or four times to hospital staff, and to Harry Calsbeek, the Chief of
Detectives from Encino police headquarters.
There was little he could say: his wife had screamed, he had woken up to see a
dark, flailing shape through the plastic of his oxygen tent. Then he had heard
a salvo of gunfire, and blood had splattered in front of his eyes like an
action painting. "I can tell you this, though," the admiral had said hoarsely,
"I shall never forget my Mary screaming until I leave this earth. I shall
never forget it, ever.''
Sergeant Skrolnik and Detective Pullet arrived at Rancho Encino during the
evening, tired, vexed, and arguing with each other. Detective Pullet had been
attempting some more bursts of lateral thinking, and had come up with the idea
that the killer might be a failed Japanese restaurateur with a grudge against
American naval officers. Maybe they had patronized his original restaurant in
Tokyo, but hadn't taken the trouble to patronize his new restaurant in Los
Angeles? Skrolnik had had enough of lateral thinking, and had told Pullet to
keep his mouth shut and his mind on the facts.
Calsbeek was waiting for Skrolnik outside Admiral Thorson's room.
Calsbeek was heavily built, red-haired, with a face that looked scraped, like
a raw rutabaga. His tweed suit hung around him in fold after fold, each pocket
crammed with pieces of paper, rolled-up magazines, clips of .38 bullets,
chewing gum, Life Savers, Swiss Army knives, loose
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buttons, and string. But while his appearance may have been gentle, sloppy,
and shuffling, his mind and his tongue were as abrasive as sandpaper.
"You should have been here three hours ago," he told Skrolnik. "I've talked to
the man all I can, there's nothing more to be done."
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"You took notes?" asked Skrolnik.
"Of course I took fucking notes."
"By the way, this is Detective Pullet," said Skrolnik. "Detective Pullet is
our number one deductive thinker."
"I see," said Calsbeek. "Well, maybe he can deduce why three loony Japs and a
white man decided to burst into Rancho Encino Hospital and slaughter everybody
in sight, because sure as hell / can't."
Pullet said, "You have to go back to the fundamental reasons why anybody kills
anybody else. Believe it or not, there are only eight reasons why people kill
other people: robbery, rape, jealousy, self-defense, violent disagreement,
pity, revenge, and to keep them quiet. Well . . . nobody wanted to rob Admiral
Thorson, because he didn't have any money on him. Nor did they want to rape
him. I doubt if jealousy was the motive, because he didn't have a particularly [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
