Down in the Zero b-7 Page 16

  "Listen to me, girl. You want orders, you got them. Here's one: I'm not calling you 'bitch' in front of people I'm trying to work, understand? What you're gonna do, you're gonna act like yourself— a smart, pushy rich girl. You're gonna use your head. I'm gonna be polite to you. You watch what I do, take your cues. Got it?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Don't be cute, Fancy."

  "I won't."

  The house was made up to look like a Cape Cod fisherman's cottage, but it was big enough to hold a convention. Set in the middle of what looked like an orchard, it was all weathered shingles and atmosphere, one wall nearly covered with ivy.

  "These are the parents of Scott Lancaster," I told her. "You recognize the name?"

  "No. But that house is real money."

  "Okay. Remember what I told you."

  "I'll be good," she whispered, wiggling a little bit in her seat, teasing, her skirt too far up on her thighs. I felt like slapping her, but I wanted her calm.

  A woman in her forties answered the door, dressed in a dark blue pants suit, rich chestnut hair tied in a matching blue ribbon.

  "Yes?" Her voice was tentative, not challenging.

  "My name is Burke, ma'am. And this is— "

  "Francesca Bishop," Fancy finished for me. "My father was Marlon Bishop…of Bishop Enterprises…?"

  "Oh, yes. What can I— ?"

  "I'm a private investigator, Mrs. Lancaster," I told her gently, trying to make my voice as rich as the house. "I've been retained by the Bishops and some other families— they're very concerned about the…recent incidents involving some young people in the area."

  "You mean the…?"

  "Yes ma'am. Would it be possible to speak to you for a few minutes?"

  "I guess so. If you…oh, come in. I'll get my husband."

  She led us over to a navy blue velvet love seat with an elaborate carved back. It looked a couple of hundred years old. Fancy settled herself decorously, smoothing her skirt over her knees. I opened the attaché case, took out a notebook and pen. "I'll be right back," the woman said, leaving us alone.

  I heard a murmur of voices from somewhere to our right. Then a man's voice, a vibrant baritone that any salesman would have killed for. "I've talked enough, goddamn it, MaryAnne! You can tell those people…ah, never mind."

  He strode into the room like a ship captain ready to put down a mutiny. "Look, whoever you are, I've— "

  He took us both in with one glance, stopped short like he'd hit a wall.

  I saw the opening, pumped oil into the breach. "We're sorry to intrude, sir. Especially at this time. If you could just spare a few minutes…"

  "Oh for Christ's sake, all right," he snapped, standing in front of us, hands locked behind his back. "Sit down," he said to his wife. "Would you like some coffee?" to us.

  "No thank you," I said.

  "If it's not too much trouble," Fancy replied.

  "MaryAnne," is all he said.

  She jumped to her feet. "Would you like decaf or regular?"

  "Oh, regular. Black if you don't mind."

  "Not at all," she said, moving away.

  "What can I tell you?" the man asked, taking the seat his wife had vacated.

  "Did Scott give you any indication…before it happened?" I asked. "Was he depressed? In any kind of trouble?"

  "The boy was always in trouble," his father said. "One damn thing after the other. He had two drunk driving convictions before he was eighteen. Suspended from high school. Kicked out of college. An alcoholic, that's what he was. Those parties they had…you know what Jello–shots are?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "That was his favorite. But he'd drink anything, from cooking sherry to fucking Sterno. Some kind of chemical imbalance in his brain, that's what the doctors said."

  His wife walked back into the room, carrying a silver tray with a white china cup and saucer. She bent from the waist like a trained maid, serving Fancy, who said "Thank you" as if they had a long relationship.

  "Do you mean the doctors at Crystal Cove?" I asked him.

  "That's right. About time we got some straight answers, too."

  His wife looked up from the tufted chair she was sitting on. "But Dr. Barrymore said— "

  Lancaster shot her a look and she moused right out, looking down.

  "Barrymore is a goddamned quack," he said to me. "Talked like a fucking queer."

  "How long was Scott at Crystal Cove?"

  "First time was thirty days. For the evaluation. Then he went back. Three months, the last time. Three months in, he didn't even make it three months out."

  "Is it possible that…"

  "What? That it could have been an accident? Like it was my fault because I keep some sporting arms in the house?" His eyes were hard, challenging, focusing only on me as if Fancy wasn't in the room. No question that his wife wasn't.

  "No, I didn't mean that. I was just wondering…kids get ideas, you know? See something on television, like that. The papers just said it was a pistol…was it a revolver or semi–auto?"

  "A revolver. Colt Python, .357 mag. What difference would that make?"

  "Could he have been playing a game? Russian roulette?"

  "How the hell would I know?"

  "Well…how many cartridges were in the cylinder?"

  "One. Okay, I see what you mean. But it only takes one, right?" His wife muffled a sob, ran from the room.

  "Sorry about that," he said to me. "She's a weak sister. Always has been. The boy took after her. Weak. That's what the boozing was really all about. Addicts are weak people. I don't smoke, don't drink. And I stay in shape. The business world, it's a tough racket, not for sissies. My wife thinks if I didn't keep guns in the house, he wouldn't have done it. That's bullshit!" he snarled vehemently. "Somebody wants to get hold of a gun, they can do it, am I right?"

  "Dead right," I said.

  His head snapped up. "Is that supposed to be some fucking kind of a joke?"

  "No sir. It's my way of speaking. I apologize if I offended you."

  "Yeah. Okay, anything else you want to know? I'm busy here, waiting on an important fax from Japan."

  "He didn't leave a note, anything like that?"

  "Absolutely not. And I'll tell you something else— his blood–alcohol level was sky–high when they did the autopsy. The boy was drunk, understand?"

  "Yes sir. Sorry to have intruded. I won't trouble you further," I said, getting to my feet.

  I offered my hand at the door. His grip was what I expected, a bone–crusher.

  "I'm pleased to have met you," Fancy said demurely, holding out her own hand. He took it, expanding his chest, still staring at me.

  "Did I do all right?" Fancy asked, buckling her seat belt.

  "You did fine. I didn't think he was going to open up at first."

  "I did better than you know, honey."

  "What's that mean?"

  "He wouldn't have said a word if I wasn't there."

  "How could you know that?"

  "I didn't recognize his name, but I knew his face."

  "So?"

  "So he was a client, Burke. Last time I saw Mr. Macho Big Businessman, he was on his knees, licking my boots."

  Yeah, I thought, and if I don't believe you, you can always show me the videotape.

  I took Fancy to lunch at a restaurant she told me about. It was just off the main drag, very high–tech, tiny portions on black glass plates, artfully arranged for appearance. Didn't taste bad, but it was more like samples than food.

  Fancy had a good appetite, chowing down as if it was steak and potatoes instead of a thick disk of blackened tuna and a motley assortment of baby vegetables.

  "You played it pretty good," I said, lighting a cigarette from the slim black candle sitting in a bud vase on the table. "No question that he recognized you?"

  "He was the one wearing the mask. A black discipline hood with a zipper for the mouth. I made him put it on. It was a long session— he'd know me anywhere."
r />   "So the rough–stud business tycoon bit— that was for my benefit?"

  "Only partly," she said, reaching across and plucking my cigarette from the little round ashtray, taking a deep drag. "They never let you forget who's paying. It's not like it's a relationship. I'm a professional— he'd expect me to keep his secrets. Discretion is part of the game.

  I fell into her big gray eyes, held on tight. They reflected back guilelessly— as if she'd never heard of blackmail. When she exhaled, the smoke shot out of the one nostril. Something there…I couldn't grab hold of it.

  "They map out the scenes in front, then?"

  "Most of the time. There's always a lot of crap about respecting limits, safety words…all that stuff. It's really hot now— all over the place. The hard–core magazines spell it out more, but even the upscale ones let you advertise. Some of them, you can't use words like 'dominant' or 'submissive,' but they always find a way. 'Role playing,' that's the favorite."

  "No surprises?"

  "Not really. Except, maybe, for virgins. The first time, they're not sure what they want, and it can get silly."

  "What happens if you mark them up?"

  "Mark them up?"

  "Whip marks, like that. Wouldn't their wives want to know what— "

  "I know what I'm doing," she said defensively. "There's no reason for that to ever happen in a private scene, unless they want it to. In the videos, that's different…the audience wants to see the marks. That's why girls with light skin make the best submissives.

  "You been…doing it a long time?"

  "Since the beginning," she said, eyes glazing at some memory.

  "If you only go one way, how come you…?"

  "I wanted to try it. See if it works. I…I'll tell you about it, someday."

  "You don't have to— "

  "I know. I never met a man like you before."

  I finished my cigarette. "You want some dessert?" I asked her.

  She nodded happily. I signaled the waiter. He rolled a four–tiered cart over. Fancy took three different pastries, gobbled them up, rolling her eyes, licking her lips. "I love sweets," she hummed. "They're perfect— specially 'cause I can't have them too often."

  I took out my notebook, showed her the list. "I got an idea," I told her. "Let's not hit the next one blind, all right? How about if you call, try and make an appointment?"

  "What should I say?"

  "Just introduce yourself, express your sympathy for their loss. Tell them a few families got together to hire me— to look into the suicides. Make it a kind of community concern thing."

  "I can do that."

  "So do it, girl."

  "Is that an order?" she smiled.

  "You want me to say 'or else'?"

  "No," she said, grinning. "I'd be too hot to find out what the 'or else' was."

  "Now, Fancy."

  "Yes boss," she said, getting up and walking off, switching her hips hard enough to blow out the candles on the other tables.

  She was back in a few minutes. "I tried the Robinelles first. Got the mother. She said to come on over, right now."

  "Good girl."

  I paid the check. The waiter looked down his nose at cash, but perked right up when he saw what piece of it was his.

  "Give me directions," I said as we rolled out of the restaurant parking lot.

  "I don't give you directions," she told me, a heavy pout on her newly made–up lips.

  I reached over, slapped her round thigh hard. "Tell me how to get there," I said.

  She took me through town, out toward the water. "It's about another two, three miles down this road," she finally said.

  I didn't reply, watching the scenery, trying to orient myself. Out here, you use landmarks, not street signs.

  "I'm going to have a bruise," she said softly, touching a lacquered fingernail to the front of her thigh. "Look."

  I flicked my eyes down and over. She was right.

  The house was right on the waterfront, an architectural wet dream, skylights placed at odd angles on a steeply sloped roof of red Mediterranean tile, a tower of three stories cut right into the middle of a ranch–style design.

  When the woman let us in, I could see the tower was a cathedral ceiling, like a hotel atrium without the fake waterfall.

  The Robinelle woman was a blowsy blonde maybe fifteen pounds over the limit, a good deal of that spilling out the front of a sharply slashed V–neck blouse. She was wearing some kind of industrial–strength push–up bra, compressing her breasts into cartoon cleavage. Her blouse was red, the stretch pants a shiny black. A wide patent leather belt cinched in her waist, and the black spike heels exaggerated the jiggle as she walked toward the back of the house, telling us to follow.

  She seated herself in a grotesquely curved white plastic chair that forced her back to arch, waving us toward a matching pair of green canvas director's chairs, spaced a few feet apart.

  "I thought you'd be coming alone," she said to me by way of greeting. "Was it you that called me?" she asked Fancy.

  "Yes."

  "I don't feel comfortable talking in front of…neighbors. You are a neighbor, aren't you?"

  "Yes. We live in the Crescent."

  "That's nice. Well, perhaps Mr…"

  "Burke," I told her.

  "Perhaps, Mr. Burke, you can come back sometime."

  "Go wait outside," I told Fancy.

  "Look," she said, sitting up straight. "We hired you and— "

  "And you're not calling the shots. Go wait in the car."

  Fancy jumped to her feet, a flush under her dark tan.

  "You don't have to do that," the woman said. "Perhaps you could just excuse us for a little bit? There's really a very nice library, just off the living room…"

  Fancy looked at me. I nodded an okay. She flounced off, keeping the wiggle under control this time.

  "I hope smoke doesn't bother you," the woman said, helping herself to a cigarette from a box sitting next to an ashtray on a black plastic cube standing next to her chair. "Lorenzo— that's my personal trainer— he'd kill me if he caught me."

  "Not at all," I told her, taking out my own.

  "Now…" she said, taking a deep enough drag to give her blouse a workout. "What can I tell you?"

  "Well, I'm not really sure. With this kind of investigation, you can't be sure there is anything. Was Lana depressed in any way before it happened?"

  "Depressed? Mr. Burke, she was born depressed. Lana was always a strange girl. You know the type— dressed all in black, stayed in her room a lot."

  "The…suicide wasn't such a shock, then?"

  "Shock? Not to me. She'd tried it before."

  "She tried to kill herself before?"

  "That's what I just said. She wrote this long, incomprehensible poem first. A piece of drivel. Then she ran herself a warm bath, climbed in and cut her wrists. If my husband hadn't called the paramedics, she would have been dead then."

  "How long ago was that?"

  "Almost four years ago. She was still in high school."

  "What happened after that?"

  "She went into therapy, what else? Cost enough money, I can tell you. But it was a waste of time. This therapist, she wanted me and my husband to come in and talk about it. And we did that. But I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life in therapy because I had a sick girl for a daughter."

  "Did she ever try it again?"

  "She was always trying something. She and a friend of hers, another weirdo, they were always writing this sick poetry about death. She tried pills once, too."

  "And…?"

  "And they pumped her stomach out at the hospital. And she went back into therapy. What a joke."

  "You don't seem much of a fan of therapy."

  "Why should I be? Everybody I know has been. They want to quit smoking, their husband has an affair, they're losing their looks…whatever it is, some shrink will do a number on you. You want a therapy fan, you need to talk to my husband— he loves the stuff.
"

  "Your husband has been in therapy for a while?"