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Authors: Ross Thomas, Sarah Paretsky
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he flew out here?”
“That same night. I met him at LAX and we went to St. John’s in Santa Monica.”
“The hospital.”
Vines nodded. “They’d pumped her stomach by then and she was out of intensive care and in the private room with a private nurse. But something had snapped or popped or fused because she didn’t know me and she didn’t know Paul. So after a few minutes we left and Paul went apeshit again.”
“Still carrying on about you and me?”
“Still. But by then I was numb and the more he ranted, the more numb I got. It was almost pleasant—something like codeine. Finally, I got tired of listening and told him to fuck off.”
Adair rose, walked to the window and looked out. “This the longest day of the year?”
“Tuesday was.”
Adair turned. “What’d Paul say exactly, during his ranting and raving—as near as you can recollect?”
“He said he was going to ask them for a six-month leave of absence and if they wouldn’t give it to him, fuck ’em, he’d quit. He said he’d use the leave to get to the bottom of the cesspool that you and I’d dragged Dannie down into. He also went on and on about the bribe and old Justice Fuller—but especially the bribe. How much was it really, and did somebody really take it, and who’d I really think put up the money? He used ‘really’ a lot.”
“So what’d you say?”
“I told him I really didn’t know, wished him well, drove back down to La Jolla and waited upon events.”
Adair again turned to the window. “I think we’re going to have one spectacular sunset.” Still staring at the ocean, he said, “How long did it take exactly?”
“To kill him? Thirty-two days.”
Adair turned from the window with a frown that was more thoughtful than puzzled. “Then he must’ve been getting somewhere.”
“That occurred to me.”
“He didn’t do anything half-smart like sending you a report or a letter about what he was up to?”
“He called once.”
“When?”
“Two days before he was killed. He said he was going to meet some guy in Tijuana who claimed to know something. I suggested he meet him instead at the San Diego zoo near the koalas with about five hundred witnesses around. Paul said he couldn’t do that because the guy said La Migra was looking for him at all border checks. I suggested a nice long phone call. He said a phone call was never as good as a face-to-face. I asked if the guy had a name. He said it was Mr. Smith, laughed, hung up and that’s the last thing he ever said to me.”
“So he went down to Tijuana and somebody shot him twice and fixed it up as a suicide,” Adair said. “If they’d shot him once, it might’ve worked, but twice meant they wanted to make it a statement—a declaration.”
“That also occurred to me.”
“Then there’s poor Blessing Nelson and that price on my head.”
“Another statement,” Vines said. “And certainly a declaration.”
“Plus the girl photographer in the back of the pink van. Floradora Flowers of Santa Barbara. When’re we going to check them out?”
“First thing tomorrow.”
Adair looked down at the carpet again. “Was there an autopsy on Paul?”
“A perfunctory one in T.J. I claimed his body. After I called his lawyer in Washington, I had it cremated. It was in his will.”
“Who got the ashes?”
Vines nodded at the window. “The ocean. That was also in his will, although he probably meant the Atlantic. But since he didn’t specify, he wound up in the Pacific. He didn’t leave much—about ten thousand in a checking account, a two-year-old BMW and a hundred-thousand whole life policy some friend had sold him. He left it all to one of those Washington think tanks that’s still trying to decide whether it’s neo-conservative or neo-liberal.”
“Not that it matters much anymore,” Adair said, turning yet again to look at the ocean. “Funny about Paul, though. He never got interested in money—at least, not the way you and I did.
“That same night. I met him at LAX and we went to St. John’s in Santa Monica.”
“The hospital.”
Vines nodded. “They’d pumped her stomach by then and she was out of intensive care and in the private room with a private nurse. But something had snapped or popped or fused because she didn’t know me and she didn’t know Paul. So after a few minutes we left and Paul went apeshit again.”
“Still carrying on about you and me?”
“Still. But by then I was numb and the more he ranted, the more numb I got. It was almost pleasant—something like codeine. Finally, I got tired of listening and told him to fuck off.”
Adair rose, walked to the window and looked out. “This the longest day of the year?”
“Tuesday was.”
Adair turned. “What’d Paul say exactly, during his ranting and raving—as near as you can recollect?”
“He said he was going to ask them for a six-month leave of absence and if they wouldn’t give it to him, fuck ’em, he’d quit. He said he’d use the leave to get to the bottom of the cesspool that you and I’d dragged Dannie down into. He also went on and on about the bribe and old Justice Fuller—but especially the bribe. How much was it really, and did somebody really take it, and who’d I really think put up the money? He used ‘really’ a lot.”
“So what’d you say?”
“I told him I really didn’t know, wished him well, drove back down to La Jolla and waited upon events.”
Adair again turned to the window. “I think we’re going to have one spectacular sunset.” Still staring at the ocean, he said, “How long did it take exactly?”
“To kill him? Thirty-two days.”
Adair turned from the window with a frown that was more thoughtful than puzzled. “Then he must’ve been getting somewhere.”
“That occurred to me.”
“He didn’t do anything half-smart like sending you a report or a letter about what he was up to?”
“He called once.”
“When?”
“Two days before he was killed. He said he was going to meet some guy in Tijuana who claimed to know something. I suggested he meet him instead at the San Diego zoo near the koalas with about five hundred witnesses around. Paul said he couldn’t do that because the guy said La Migra was looking for him at all border checks. I suggested a nice long phone call. He said a phone call was never as good as a face-to-face. I asked if the guy had a name. He said it was Mr. Smith, laughed, hung up and that’s the last thing he ever said to me.”
“So he went down to Tijuana and somebody shot him twice and fixed it up as a suicide,” Adair said. “If they’d shot him once, it might’ve worked, but twice meant they wanted to make it a statement—a declaration.”
“That also occurred to me.”
“Then there’s poor Blessing Nelson and that price on my head.”
“Another statement,” Vines said. “And certainly a declaration.”
“Plus the girl photographer in the back of the pink van. Floradora Flowers of Santa Barbara. When’re we going to check them out?”
“First thing tomorrow.”
Adair looked down at the carpet again. “Was there an autopsy on Paul?”
“A perfunctory one in T.J. I claimed his body. After I called his lawyer in Washington, I had it cremated. It was in his will.”
“Who got the ashes?”
Vines nodded at the window. “The ocean. That was also in his will, although he probably meant the Atlantic. But since he didn’t specify, he wound up in the Pacific. He didn’t leave much—about ten thousand in a checking account, a two-year-old BMW and a hundred-thousand whole life policy some friend had sold him. He left it all to one of those Washington think tanks that’s still trying to decide whether it’s neo-conservative or neo-liberal.”
“Not that it matters much anymore,” Adair said, turning yet again to look at the ocean. “Funny about Paul, though. He never got interested in money—at least, not the way you and I did.
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