I drove east along Cabana, the wide boulevard that parallels the beach. When the moon is full, the darkness has the quality of a film scene shot day for night. The landscape is so highly illuminated that the trees actually cast shadows. Tonight the moon was in its final quarter, rising low in the sky. From the road I couldn't see the ocean, but I could hear the reverberating rumble of the tide rolling in. There was just enough wind to set the palm trees in motion, shaggy heads nodding together in some secret communication. A car passed me, going in the opposite direction, but there were no pedestrians in sight. I'm not often out at such an hour, and it was curiously exhilarating.
By day, Santa Teresa seems like any small southern California town. Churches and businesses hug the ground against the threat of earthquakes. The rooflines are low, and the architectural influence is largely Spanish. There's something solid and reassuring about all the white adobe and the red tile roofs. Lawns are manicured, and the shrubs are crisply trimmed. By night the same features seem stark and dramatic, lull of black-and-white contrasts that lend intensity to the hardscape. The sky at night isn't really black at all. It's a soft charcoal gray, nearly chalky with light pollution, the trees like ink stains on a darkened carpet. Even the wind has a different feel to it, as light as a feather quilt against the skin.
The real name for CC's is the Caliente Cafe, a low-rent establishment housed in an abandoned service station near the railroad tracks. The original gasoline pumps and the storage tanks below had been removed years before, and the contaminated soil had been paved over with asphalt. Now, on hot days the blacktop tends to soften and a toxic syrup seeps out, a tarry liquid quickly converted into wisps of smoke, suggesting that the tarmac is on the verge of bursting into flames. Winters, the pavement cracks from dry cold, and a sulfurous smell wafts across the parking lot. CC's is not the kind of place to encourage bare feet.
I parked out in front beneath a sizzling red neon sign. Outside, the air smelled like corn tortillas fried in lard; inside, like salsa and recirculated cigarette smoke. I could hear the high-pitched whine of a blender working overtime, whipping ice and tequila into the margarita mix. The Caliente Cafe bills itself as an "authentic" Mexican cantina, which means the "day-core" consists of Mexican sombreros tacked above the doors. Bad lighting eliminates the need for anything else. Every item on the menu has been Americanized, and all the names are cute: Ensanada Ensalada, Pasta Pequeno, Linguini Bambini. The music, all canned, is usually played way too loud, like a band of mariachis hired to hover at your table while you try to eat.
Cheney Phillips was sitting at the bar, his face tilted in my direction. My request for an audience had clearly piqued his interest. Cheney was probably in his early thirties: a white guy with a disheveled mop of dark curly hair, dark eyes, good chin, prickly two-day growth of beard. His was the sort of face you might see in a men's fashion magazine or the society section of the local papers, escorting some debutante decked out like a bride. He was slim, of medium height, wearing a tobacco-brown silk sport coat over a white dress shirt, his pants a pleated cream-colored gabardine. His air of confidence suggested money of intimidating origins. Everything about him said trust fund, private schools, and casual West Coast privilege. This is pure projection on my part, and I have no idea if it's accurate. I've never really asked him how he ended up a cop. For all I know, he's third-generation law enforcement with all the women in his family doing jail administration.
I eased up onto the bar stool next to his. "Hello, Cheney. How are you? Thanks for waiting. I appreciate it."
He shrugged. "I'm usually here until closing time anyway. Can I buy you a drink?"
"Of course. I'm so wired on coffee I may never get to sleep."
"What's your pleasure?"
"Chardonnay, if you please."
"Absolutely," he said. He smiled, revealing first-rate orthodontic work. No one could have teeth that straight without years of expensive correction. Cheney's manner was habitually seductive and never more so than in a setting such as this.
The bartender had been watching our interchange with an exaggerated late night patience. In a bar like CC's, this was the hour when the sexually desperate made their last minute appeals for company. By then enough liquor had been consumed that potential partners, who earlier had been rejected as unworthy, were now being reconsidered. The bartender apparently assumed we were negotiating a one-night relationship. Cheney ordered wine for me and another vodka tonic for himself.
He checked back over his shoulder, doing a quick visual survey of the other patrons. "You ought to keep an eye on all the off-duty police officers. Last call, we go out in the parking lot and pass around a Breathalyzer, like we're copping a joint, make sure we're still sober enough to drive ourselves home."
"I heard you left homicide."
"Right. I've been doing vice for six months."
"Well, that suits," I said. "Do you like it?" He'd probably been moved to vice because he still looked young enough to have some.
"Sure, it's great. It's a one-man department. I'm the current expert on gambling, prostitution, drugs, and organized crime, such as it is in Santa Teresa. What about you? What are you up to? You probably didn't come down here to chat about my career in law enforcement." He looked up as the bartender approached, halting further conversation until our drinks had been served.
When he looked back, I said, "Janice Kepler wants to hire me to look into her daughter's death."
"Good luck," he said.
"You handled the original investigation, yes?"
"Dolan and me, with a couple more guys thrown in. This is the long and short of it," he said, ticking the items off his fingers. "There was no way to determine cause of death. We still aren't absolutely certain what day it was, let alone what time frame. There was no significant trace evidence, no witnesses, no motive, no suspects…"
"And no case," I supplied.
"You got it. Either this was not a homicide to begin with or the killer led a charmed life."
"I'll say."
"You going to do it?"
"Don't know yet. Thought I'd better talk to you first."
"Have you seen a picture of her? She was beautiful. Screwed up, but gorgeous. Talk about a dark side. My God."
"Like what?"
"She had this part-time job at the water treatment plant. She's a clerk-typist. You know, she does a little phone work, a little filing, maybe four hours a day. She tells everybody she's working her way through city college, which is true in its way. She takes a class now and then, but it's only half the story. What she's really up to is a bit of high-class hooking. She's making fifteen hundred bucks a pop. We're talkin' substantial sums of money at the time of her death."
"Who'd she work for?"
"Nobody. She was independent. She started doing out-call. Exotic dance and massage. Guys phone this service listed in the classifieds, and she goes out and does some kind of bump-and-grind strip while they abuse themselves. The game is you can't make a deal for more than that up front-Undercover used to call and pull that 'til everybody wised up-but once she's on the premises, she can negotiate whatever services the client wants. It's strictly their transaction."
"For which she gets paid what?"
Cheney shrugged. "Depends on what she does. Straight sex is probably a hundred and fifty bucks, which she ends up splitting with the management. Pretty quick, she figures out she has more on the ball, so she bags the cheap gigs and moves up to the big time."
"Here in town?"
"For the most part. I understand they used to see quite a bit of her in the bar at the Edgewater Hotel. She also cruised through Bubbles in Montebello, which you probably heard was closed down last July. She had a penchant for the places where the high rollers hung out."
"Did her mother know this?"
"Sure she did. Absolutely. Lorna was even picked up once on a misdemeanor for soliciting an undercover vice officer at Bubbles. We didn't want to rub her mother's nose in the fact, but she was certainly informed."
"Maybe it's just beginning to sink in," I said. "Someone sent her a copy of a pornographic film in which Lorna loomed large. Apparently that's what prompted her to come see me. She thinks Lorna was either blackmailed into it or working undercover."
"Oh, yeah, right," he said.
"I'm just telling you her assumption."
Cheney snorted. "She's in denial big time. Have you actually seen this tape?"
"I just saw it tonight. It was pretty raunchy."
"Yeah, well, I'm not sure how much difference it makes. The kind of stuff she was into, it really doesn't surprise me. How's it supposed to tie in? That's the part I don't get."
"Janice thinks Lorna was about to blow the whistle on someone."
"Oh, man, that lady's seen too many bad TV movies. Blow the whistle on who, and for what? Those people are legitimate… in some sense of the word. They're probably scumbags, but that's not against the law in this state. Look at all the politicians."
"That's what I told her. Anyway, I'm trying to figure out if there's enough to warrant my taking on the job. If you guys couldn't come up with anything, how can I?"
"Maybe you'll get lucky. I'm one of life's eternal optimists. Case is still open, but we ain't had jackshit for months. You want to look at the files, it can probably be arranged."
"That'd be great. What I'd really like to see are the crime scene photographs."
"I'll try to clear it with Lieutenant Dolan, but I don't think he'll object. You heard he's in the hospital? He had a heart attack."
I was so startled, I put a hand to my own heart, nearly knocking my glass over in the process. I caught it before it tipped, though a little wave of wine slopped out. "Dolan had a heart attack? That's awful! When was this?"
"Yesterday, right after squad meeting, he started having chest pains. Like boom, he's in trouble. Guy looks like shit, and he's short of breath. Next thing I know he's out like a light. Everybody scrambling around, doing CPR. Paramedics pulled him back from the brink, but it was really touch-and-go."
"Is he going to be okay?"
"We hope so. He's doing fine, last I heard. He's over at St. Terry's in the cardiac care unit, raising hell, of course."
"Sounds like him. I'll try to get over there first chance I have."
"He'd like that. You should do it. I talked to him this morning, and the guy's going nuts. Claims he doesn't like to sleep because he's scared he won't wake up."
"He admitted that? I never knew Lieutenant Dolan to talk about anything personal," I said.
"He's changed. He's a new man. It's amazing," he said. "You ought to see for yourself. He'd be thrilled at the company, probably talk your ear off."
I shifted the subject back to Lorna Kepler. "What about you? Do you have a theory about Lorna's death?"
Cheney shrugged. "I think somebody killed her, if that's what you're after. Rough trade, jealous boyfriend. Maybe some other hooker thought Lorna was treading on her turf. Lorna Kepler loved risk. She's the kind who liked to teeter right out on the edge."
"She have enemies?"
"Not as far as we know. Oddly enough, people seemed to like her a lot. I say 'oddly' because she was different, really unlike other folk. It was almost admiration on their part because she was so out there, you know? She disregarded the rules and played the game her way."
"I take it your investigation covered a lot of ground."
"That's right, though it never came to much. Frustrating. Anyway, it's all there if you want to take a look. I can have Emerald pull the files once we get Dolan's okay."
"I'd appreciate that. Lorna's mother gave me some stuff, but she didn't have everything. Just let me know and I'll pop over to the station and take a look."
"Sure thing. We can talk afterward."
"Thanks, Cheney. You're a doll."
"I know that," he said. "Just make sure you keep us informed. And play it straight. If you come up with something, we don't want it thrown out of court because you've tainted the evidence."
"You underestimate me," I said. "Now that I'm working out of Lonnie Kingman's office, I'm an angel among women. I'm a paragon."
"I believe you," he said. His smile was lingering, and his eyes held just a hint of speculation. I thought I'd probably said enough. I backed away and then turned, giving him a wave as I departed.
Once outside, I drank in the quiet of the chill night air, picking up the faint scent of cigarette smoke trailing back at me from somewhere up ahead. I lifted my head and caught a glimpse of a man easing out of sight around a bend in the road, his footsteps growing faint. There are men who walk at night, shoulders hunched, heads bent in some solitary pursuit. I tend to think of them as harmless, but one never knows. I watched until I was certain he was gone. In the distance, low-lying heavy cloud cover had been pushed up the far side of the mountain and now spilled over the top.
All the parking spots were filled. Vehicles gleamed in the harsh overhead illumination like a high-end used-car lot. My vintage VW looked distinctly out of place, a homely pale blue hump among the sleek, low-slung sports models. I unlocked the car door and slid onto the driver's seat, then paused for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, while I contemplated my next move. The single glass of white wine had done little to temper my wired state. I knew if I drove home, I'd just end up lying on my back, staring at the skylight above my bed. I fired up the ignition and then drove along the beach as far as State Street. I hung a right, heading north.
I crossed the railroad tracks, jolting the radio to life. I didn't even realize I'd left the damn thing on. It seldom worked these days, but every now and then I could coax something out of it. Sometimes I'd bang on the dash with my fist, jarring forth news or a commercial. Other times, for no apparent reason, I'd pick up a baffling fragment of the weather. The problem was probably a loose wire or faulty fuse, which is just a guess on my part. I don't even know if radios have fuses these days. At the moment, the reception was as clear as could be.
I pressed a button, neatly switching from AM to FM. I turned the dial by degrees, sliding past station after station until I caught the strains of a tenor sax. I had no idea who it was, only that the mournful mix of horns was perfect for this hour of the night. The cut came to an end, and a man's voice eased into the space. "That was 'Gato' Barbieri on sax, a tune called 'Picture in the Rain' from the movie sound track Last Tango in Paris. Music was composed by 'Gato' Barbieri, recorded back in 1972. And this is Hector Moreno, here on K-SPELL, bringing you the magic of jazz on this very early Monday morning."
His voice was handsome, resonant, and well modulated, with an easygoing confidence. This was a man who made his living staying up all night, talking about artists and labels, playing CDs for insomniacs. I pictured a guy in his mid-thirties, dark, substantial, possibly with a mustache, his long hair pulled back and secured with a rubber band. He must have enjoyed all the perks of local celebrity status, acting as an MC for various charity events. Radio personalities don't need even the routine good looks of the average TV anchorperson, but he'd still have name recognition value, probably his share of groupies as well. He was taking call-in requests. I felt my thoughts jump a track. Janice Kepler had mentioned Lorna's hanging out with some DJ in her late night roamings.
I began to scan the deserted streets, looking for a pay phone. I passed a service station that was shut down for the night. At the near edge of the parking lot, I spotted what must have been one of the last real telephone booths, a regular stand-up model with a bifold door. I pulled in and left the car engine running while I flipped through my notes, looking for the phone number I'd been given for Frankie's Coffee Shop. I dropped a quarter in the slot and dialed.
When a woman at Frankie's Coffee Shop finally answered the phone, I asked for Janice Kepler. The receiver was clunked down on the counter, and I could hear her name being bellowed. In the background there was a low-level buzz of activity, probably late night pie-and-coffee types, tanking up on stimulants. Janice must have appeared because I heard her make a remark to someone in passing, the two of them exchanging brief comments before she picked up. She identified herself somewhat warily, I thought. Maybe she was worried she was getting bad news.
"Hello, Janice? Kinsey Millhone. I hope this is all right. I need some information, and it seemed simpler to call than drive all the way up there."
"Well, my goodness. What are you doing up at this hour? You looked exhausted when I left you in the parking lot. I thought you'd be sound asleep by now."
"That was my intention, but I never got that far. I was too stoked on coffee, so I thought I might as well get some work done.
I had a chat with one of the homicide detectives who worked on Lorna's case. I'm still out and about and thought I might as well cover more ground while I'm at it. Didn't you mention that Lorna used to hang out with a DJ on one of the local FM stations?"
"That's right."
"Is there any way you can find out who it was?"
"I can try. Hang on." Without covering the receiver, she consulted with one of the other waitresses. "Perry, what's the name of that all-night jazz show, what station?"
"K-SPELL, I think."
I knew that much. Thinking to save time, I said, "Janice?"
"What about the disc jockey? You know his name?"
In the background, somewhat muffled, Perry said, "Which one? There's a couple." Dishes were clattering, and the speaker system was pumping out a version of "Up, Up, and Away" with stringed instruments.
"The one Lorna hung out with. 'Member I told you about him?"
I cut in on Janice. "Hey, Janice?"
"Perry, hold on. What, hon?"
"Could it be Hector Moreno?"
She let out a little bark of recognition. "That's right. That's him. I'm almost sure he's the one. Why don't you call him up and ask if he knew her?"
"I'll do that," I said.
"You be sure and let me know. And if you're still out running around town after that, come on up and have a cup of coffee on the house."
I could feel my stomach lurch at the thought of more coffee. The cups I'd consumed were already making my brain vibrate like an out-of-balance washing machine. As soon as she hung up, I depressed the lever and released it, letting the dial tone whine on while I hauled up the phone book on its chain and flipped through. All the radio stations were listed at the front end of the K's. As it turned out, K-SPL was only six or eight blocks away. Behind me, from the car, I could hear the opening bars of the next jazz selection. I found another quarter in the bottom of my handbag and dialed the studio.
The phone rang twice. "K-SPELL. This is Hector Moreno." The tone was businesslike, but it was certainly the man I'd been listening to.
"Hello," I said. "My name is Kinsey Millhone. I'd like to talk to you about Lorna Kepler."