Snowball in Hell - lanyon Josh (читать книги без TXT) 📗
It made sense that Veronica would be there to comfort her sister-in-law. Nathan said, «Hi, Ronnie. Is Claire home?»
«She's resting. Why?» She glanced over her shoulder into the silent interior of the apartment. The drapes were drawn, blinds closed. «Nathan, she's not well enough to speak to anyone. Phil's death has devastated her.»
«I'll be careful with her.»
«But why can't it wait?»
Good question. «You'll have to take my word that it can't.»
Veronica studied him. «I don't know you that well.» Then she shrugged. «Bob says you're a straight shooter. I'll ask Claire if she feels up to talking to you.» She hesitated as though there were something more she needed to say then
seemed to change her mind. She turned and walked into the other room.
Nathan looked around himself. The word was that old man Arlen had cut the purse strings to young Philip in an effort to bring him into line. The way Nathan heard it, the old man wanted Philip to enter the family business-take his birthright corner office at Arlen Petroleum-and to spend a few more nights at home. It was no secret that Phil had declined. But it didn't look like he and the missus were suffering unduly. The apartment was very nice-they were all very nice apartments at the Los Altos-although it didn't come with the finger bowls and champagne glasses doled out to occupants of The Bryson. Still, it didn't look like baby brother was exactly strapped for cash. Claire's bloodline was impeccable, but the Winters had been at financial low tide for decades, ever since the big crash in '29, so the funding wasn't coming from her side of the family.
Veronica appeared in the doorway and beckoned Nathan in.
The living room was dark; it smelled of pine trees and Elizabeth Arden. There was a five-foot evergreen standing unadorned in one corner, and various scattered ornaments winking and glinting in the dim light. He could just make out the woman sitting on the sofa near the French doors. Claire Arlen's hair appeared to be the exact shade of the pale carnation her brother wore in his lapel. She was pale and small and curvy in all the right places. She was wearing some kind of frothy negligee set, and she looked as fragile as the Christmas tree angel sitting on the table beside her elbow.
Nathan glanced around and Veronica had disappeared.
Claire said in a dull voice, «Carl called to tell me you'd probably turn up. I didn't kill Phil.»
Nathan took off his hat and sat down on the ottoman. «You were pretty upset with him on Saturday night.»
«Not with Phil. With her. That woman.»
«Pearl Jarvis?»
Claire nodded. «The torcher. 'I'm Getting Sentimental Over You'.» She laughed a bitter little laugh, and covered her eyes with her hand. «I used to like that song!»
«Was Phil having an affair with her?»
«I don't know.» She wiped her eyes. «I didn't think so, but then…» she shook her head. «There was something between them.»
«It seemed like you thought so on Saturday night.» She took her hand down and glared at him. He made sure his voice stayed low and soothing. «Did you ever try to talk to Pearl?»
«Her?» She sounded indignant. «That tramp?»
He smiled apologetically. «I know wives sometimes do-try to talk to other women.»
Something in his smile seemed to disarm her instinctive affront. «Are you married?» she asked.
«No.»
«Got a sweetheart?»
He shook his head. «I've been overseas.»
Claire shook his head like he couldn't possibly understand. «I did try to talk to her once. She just laughed at me. Told me Phil was free, white and twenty-one. When Phil found out I'd
been to see her, he slapped me. Carl told him if he ever laid a hand on me again-« She broke off.
«He'd kill him?» Nathan finished.
She didn't reply.
«I guess I'd feel the same,» Nathan said. «If someone treated my sister that way.»
«Do you have a sister?»
«No.»
«Then what do you know about it?» She turned a mutinous profile and stared unseeingly at the row of photos on the credenza. «Anyway, it was only the one time. Carl didn't kill Phil. He was killed by the kidnappers.»
«Why do you think they did that? After the ransom was paid?»
«How should I know? Maybe … Phil saw one of them. Maybe he saw or heard something and they couldn't afford to let him go. Maybe … there was a problem with the money. Maybe they didn't receive the ransom payment.»
«Do you think there was a ransom payment?»
That brought her face forward in a hurry. «What are you suggesting?»
«Yes, what are you suggesting?»
That was Veronica, standing in the doorway behind him. He hadn't heard her, and he wondered how long she had been standing there.
He said simply, «Nothing the police won't think of on their own.»
«Listen,» Veronica said. «Regardless of what Bob thought of Phil and the way Phil conducted his affairs-sorry, Claire,
honey-he wouldn't do anything to jeopardize his safety. That's not brotherly love; it's the kind of man Bob is-and you ought to know it. Bob delivered that money exactly per the kidnapper's instructions.»
«I believe you,» Nathan said.
«I don't care if you believe me or not. You've outstayed your welcome, Mr. Doyle.»
Nathan glanced at Claire, but she seemed to have tuned out again. She was staring at the grouping of photos, her hand resting lightly on her midriff as though she felt ill-and he couldn't blame her for that. He rose and followed Veronica into the outer hallway with the Italian carvings. He put his hat on, and she said abruptly, «You're getting the wrong idea about Phil. Mostly he was just young. If Benedict had let him enlist like he wanted to, he'd have been all right. The irony is Benedict wanted to keep him safe at home.»
«Just boyish high spirits, is that the story?» Nathan inquired.
She met his gaze levelly, «We all have our stories, Mr. Doyle. Don't we?»
* * * *
Nathan had lunch-a drink and a smoke-at the High Hat, which was where most of the reporters from the larger papers hung out. It was a nice little place with decent food and strong drinks. There was a piano bar in the evenings, and out back was a red-carpeted patio with several tables beneath green umbrellas. Because of the rain everyone was inside and the bar was noisy and blue with smoke. Most of the noise
centered on the Arlen story, and Nathan took a fair amount of razzing about being picked up by the police.
He grinned, easily deflected the questions, and listened closely. Everyone seemed to be running with the same angle: a kidnapping gone wrong. He hoped that meant that the police were investigating it the same way. He wasn't convinced though. Lt. Spain seemed the thorough kind.
For a moment he let himself dwell on the thought of Lt. Spain. Alert, aggressive-probably an ex-marine. They were all tough bastards. But Spain had that boy-next-door quality too. And that infrequent and devastating smile-and eyes just the color of a Scottish loch at sunset: sort of green-gold, like summer bracken or polished cairngorm.
And the fact that Nathan was thinking like this about a cop indicated just how bad things had gotten. Maybe he really was losing his mind.
It was after two o'clock by the time Nathan caught the Yellow Car for Wilshire Boulevard and the Las Palmas Club. By then he was feeling the cumulative effect of too many drinks and too many sleepless nights. He was still a long way from being fit-there were days when he wondered if he would ever feel truly fit again. And the worst part was he didn't really care either way.
Like all such places, the Las Palmas Club seemed smaller in the daylight. Rain sheeted off its striped awning and gargled down the gutters of Wilshire.
He expected to have trouble getting into the club, but in fact, he had very little. An ugly, bald-headed bruiser let him inside, and after a brief wait in the foyer, he was shown into a
