driving. She's alive. Sequoia Insurance paid up without any questions. We're all right. Then came this thing about Larry. They say bad luck runs in threes. I'm hoping it's over."
"Not for him," Dave said. "It's only started. The police and the district attorney don't share your blind faith. They want him locked up forever."
"And you?" Owens studied him. "What do you want?"
"To find out what really happened. No insurance company likes a murder. Not with so much wrong with it. For instance, did Johns need fifteen hundred dollars?"
Owens was stubbing out his cigarette in a brown pottery ashtray on a stack of magazines. His head jerked up. "The news reports didn't mention robbery."
"And he hadn't asked you for money?"
"Not then or ever," Owens said. "Which makes him a pretty strange kind of hustler, doesn't it?" He gave a short laugh, then frowned. "What would he want with fifteen hundred dollars?"
"I don't know and he didn't get it." Dave bent to put out his cigarette. "But Wendell had drawn it from his bank on his way to work and the empty envelope was on his desk at home and I've been lied to about what the money was for." Reminded of Ace Kegan, he read his watch, gave Owens his hand to shake. "I've got to go. I'm sorry if this has been tiring."
Owens kept hold of the hand for a moment. "You can help him, can't you? Madge says you're tops in your field. You find answers when the police don't."
"Only if the answers are there." Dave went to the door with the upreach of open wall above it. Hand on the knob, he turned. "Is he stable? Emotionally? Does he have hangups?"
"You mean, would he have gone out of his head and killed Wendell for making a pass at him? No. He's easy and uncomplicated. There was a catch phrase a while back that sums up his attitude pretty accurately: If it feels good, do it.' "
"That couldn't include killing people?" Dave said.
"No way," Owens said.
CHAPTER 6
The car was a ten-year-old mini —Swedish, French, Italian? The color of dried blood. It stood by the guardrail, a broad steel band bolted to squat posts that divided road shoulder from beach. At the rear of the car a leaf-shaped flap of slatted steel was raised, showing a dirty little motor. Vern Taylor stood staring at it, sea wind flapping his flimsy red jacket. Dave pulled his car onto the gravel and got out. Taylor frowned at him, then smiled.
"Oh, hi. Thanks for stopping. I'm not sure just what's wrong. It suddenly quit." Gulls wheeled screaming overhead. He looked at them as if it were their fault. "Hell, I only bought it a couple weeks ago." His half smile was shamefaced. "No, it didn't cost much. But you'd think it ought to stagger along for a month."
"Just long enough for the dealer to move to another lot and change names." Dave leaned to look at the works. "You've tried everything?"
"I worked in garages for a while but I don't know everything." Taylor had given up. He gave the empty sky a look, the empty hills, the empty sea. "Way out here. Listen, can you give me a lift? Into Surf?"
"No problem." Dave slammed down the tinny engine cover, led the way to the Electra glistening silver in the sun, opened the passenger door, walked around and slid behind the wheel. Taylor got in gingerly, as if afraid he'd soil the new upholstery. He shut the door with soft caution and sat rigid like a child in church. Dave pulled the car back into the coast-road traffic.
"Nice car," Taylor said. "There's a lot of money in insurance, isn't there? I read that somewhere. Richest corporations in the country."
"My father's the corporation," Dave said. "I'm only an employee. It's a company car."
"Medallion," Taylor said. "That's that tall glass-and-steel tower on Wilshire. Beautiful. You know what my father did?"
"Sold appliances at Sears," Dave said.
"Right. I read someplace that if your father was a success, you'd be a success too."
"He worked hard for it," Dave said.
"I guess you'll get it all when he dies." Taylor found a
"Not for him," Dave said. "It's only started. The police and the district attorney don't share your blind faith. They want him locked up forever."
"And you?" Owens studied him. "What do you want?"
"To find out what really happened. No insurance company likes a murder. Not with so much wrong with it. For instance, did Johns need fifteen hundred dollars?"
Owens was stubbing out his cigarette in a brown pottery ashtray on a stack of magazines. His head jerked up. "The news reports didn't mention robbery."
"And he hadn't asked you for money?"
"Not then or ever," Owens said. "Which makes him a pretty strange kind of hustler, doesn't it?" He gave a short laugh, then frowned. "What would he want with fifteen hundred dollars?"
"I don't know and he didn't get it." Dave bent to put out his cigarette. "But Wendell had drawn it from his bank on his way to work and the empty envelope was on his desk at home and I've been lied to about what the money was for." Reminded of Ace Kegan, he read his watch, gave Owens his hand to shake. "I've got to go. I'm sorry if this has been tiring."
Owens kept hold of the hand for a moment. "You can help him, can't you? Madge says you're tops in your field. You find answers when the police don't."
"Only if the answers are there." Dave went to the door with the upreach of open wall above it. Hand on the knob, he turned. "Is he stable? Emotionally? Does he have hangups?"
"You mean, would he have gone out of his head and killed Wendell for making a pass at him? No. He's easy and uncomplicated. There was a catch phrase a while back that sums up his attitude pretty accurately: If it feels good, do it.' "
"That couldn't include killing people?" Dave said.
"No way," Owens said.
CHAPTER 6
The car was a ten-year-old mini —Swedish, French, Italian? The color of dried blood. It stood by the guardrail, a broad steel band bolted to squat posts that divided road shoulder from beach. At the rear of the car a leaf-shaped flap of slatted steel was raised, showing a dirty little motor. Vern Taylor stood staring at it, sea wind flapping his flimsy red jacket. Dave pulled his car onto the gravel and got out. Taylor frowned at him, then smiled.
"Oh, hi. Thanks for stopping. I'm not sure just what's wrong. It suddenly quit." Gulls wheeled screaming overhead. He looked at them as if it were their fault. "Hell, I only bought it a couple weeks ago." His half smile was shamefaced. "No, it didn't cost much. But you'd think it ought to stagger along for a month."
"Just long enough for the dealer to move to another lot and change names." Dave leaned to look at the works. "You've tried everything?"
"I worked in garages for a while but I don't know everything." Taylor had given up. He gave the empty sky a look, the empty hills, the empty sea. "Way out here. Listen, can you give me a lift? Into Surf?"
"No problem." Dave slammed down the tinny engine cover, led the way to the Electra glistening silver in the sun, opened the passenger door, walked around and slid behind the wheel. Taylor got in gingerly, as if afraid he'd soil the new upholstery. He shut the door with soft caution and sat rigid like a child in church. Dave pulled the car back into the coast-road traffic.
"Nice car," Taylor said. "There's a lot of money in insurance, isn't there? I read that somewhere. Richest corporations in the country."
"My father's the corporation," Dave said. "I'm only an employee. It's a company car."
"Medallion," Taylor said. "That's that tall glass-and-steel tower on Wilshire. Beautiful. You know what my father did?"
"Sold appliances at Sears," Dave said.
"Right. I read someplace that if your father was a success, you'd be a success too."
"He worked hard for it," Dave said.
"I guess you'll get it all when he dies." Taylor found a
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