Читать книгу Predator - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 12

No matter how many times Marge made the ride, she always felt that spark of excitement when that blue expanse peeked from the horizon and then came into full view. In the sun, the Pacific was all sparkles and diamonds, frothing at the break line, the front yard of miles of luxury real estate. Lately she and Will had been talking about the next step. It made her anxious to think about it, but life was about change.

Her mood was light, and Oliver seemed at peace. He didn’t grouse, he didn’t carp, and he didn’t bellyache. He ate his tuna sandwich and potato chips while looking out the window, licking his fingers like a fourth grader at lunch. He said, “Tell me again why we’re working in L.A.?”

“Because our lungs have become adept at filtering smog.” A quick glance at her surroundings. “And despite the plunge in home prices, I do believe that neither you nor I make enough to afford one of these puppies.”

“How does your boyfriend do it?”

“His bungalow is a one bedroom and it’s inland. No view of the ocean, but he does have a huge sycamore in his tiny backyard, and the place is within walking distance to the hiking trails.” She inhaled and let it out. “You know we’re thinking about taking it to the next level.”

“Which is?”

“Getting a ring.”

Oliver’s eyes widened. “Nice.” A pause. “I hope not too soon.”

Marge’s smile was genuine. “Not immediately, no.”

“That’s good.” Oliver bit his lip. “I mean … it’s good to take your time.”

“We’ve been working together for years, Oliver. Say it out loud. You’d miss me.”

“I would miss you.” He meant it. “I hope you’re not contemplating a move to Santa Barbara?”

“Not at the moment.”

“He’s moving to L.A.?”

Marge said, “That would be a no as well. Right now we’re okay with the arrangement.”

“Good deal from where I’m sitting.” He was visibly relieved.

“Aw … you care.”

He squirmed and changed the subject. “What kind of ring?”

“He’s resizing his late mother’s old diamond—three-carat emerald cut.”

“That’s the real deal.”

“Yes it is.”

“Good for you, Marge. I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you, Scott. I’m happy, too. I’ve got a good guy. I know that the ring’s only a symbol, but it’s still nice. Not only will it look pretty on my finger, but jewelry is always a good investment in times of economic uncertainty.”

Sabrina Talbot lived behind gates in a multi-million-dollar estate house on multiple acres with multimillionaires and a few billionaires as neighbors. The structure wasn’t visible from the road. It was masked behind a forest of trees and iron fencing. The metal pickets had been forged into seven-foot-high helmeted men sporting pikes. Directly behind the fencing were rosebushes, sprouting thorns on each branch. Every ten feet or so were brick pilasters topped with decorative lights and security cameras. The guard house bisected the driveway to the house. Marge stopped in front of the gate and rolled down the driver’s window. The sentry pulled back a door revealing a very big man: around six feet three with at least 275 pounds of fat and muscle. His bluish black skin tone spoke of Africa, so Marge wasn’t surprised when he spoke with an accent.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m Sergeant Marge Dunn and this is my partner, Detective Scott Oliver. We’re from LAPD, and we’re here to see Sabrina Talbot. Her secretary set up an appointment today at eleven.”

“One moment.” The door slid shut. It took several minutes. The guard stayed ensconced in his protective chamber, but the gates parted majestically. Directly in front was a golf cart with a sign on the back that read: follow me.

They rode an asphalt trail that cut through acres of greenery—silvery olive trees, California oak, bare sycamores, and varieties of menthol-exhaling eucalyptus, all of the trees underplanted with thick foliage and bushes. Eventually the specimen trees gave way to acres of avocado groves: evergreens with dark green polished leaves and gnarled trunks. A pale blue sky held filmy clouds. The air was mild and perfumed.

It was taking a very long time to reach the house, but that could have been the fault of the golf cart, which was ascending at a particularly slow rate. Finally there was a clearing of newly sod lawn and surgical landscaping, hedges trimmed to a precise ninety-degree edge, and symmetrical flower beds of deep jewel hues of pansies and primroses.

Every queen has her castle, and Sabrina’s three-story stone Tudor estate came complete with mullioned windows and a turret. The cart stopped, and two uniformed valets came rushing over to open the car doors.

Marge and Oliver stepped out of the car. She said, “Do I need a ticket?”

The valet stared at her. Another giant of a man answered in the valet’s stead. “No, you don’t need a ticket. I’ll escort you inside.” He held out a hand. “Leo Delacroix.”

“Like the artist?” Marge asked.

“Same spelling. No relation.” His touch for a big man was surprisingly light. “This way. You’re right on time. Ms. Talbot is a stickler for punctuality.”

“Then we have a lot in common.” Marge looked around as they walked to a two-story iron front door. “Although we probably have a lot more not in common.”

Delacroix’s face remained stony. He pressed a button, and the full chorus of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” resonated through speakers. The doors split and a third guard took over. He was young, white, and muscular with a thick neck and a military buzz cut for hair. He introduced himself as Thor Weillsohn, leading them down a marble hallway into a reception room, modest in size but not in ornamentation. The furniture was all-white curlicue legs and backs, upholstered in jacquard blue silk. Persian rugs lay over a parquet walnut floor, and tapestries hung from white paneled walls. Angels and cherubs hovered above in a sky filled with puffy clouds.

“Ms. Talbot will be with you in a minute,” Thor told them. He left, closing two white paneled doors behind him. Both of them remained standing, neither wanting to park a butt on something that was breakable and/or priceless. Oliver let out a low whistle.

Marge said, “I guess Hobart gave her a decent settlement.”

“How old is this woman?”

“In her fifties. She was in her twenties when she married him.”

“She did well.”

Another minute passed, and then the doors opened. This time it was a uniformed maid carrying a tea and coffee service, three cups and saucers, and a plate of cookies. “Please have a seat on the divan.”

Marge and Oliver looked at each other and sat down simultaneously on what they thought was the divan. It wasn’t padded much and was ramrod stiff on the back.

The housekeeper said, “May I pour for you?”

“Thank you,” Marge said. “That would be lovely.”

“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee. Just milk.”

“Same for me,” Oliver said. “Thank you.”

She set the service down on a table and poured in silence. Then she passed around the cookie tray. They each took one out of politeness and placed it on the saucer. The maid put the cookie plate and napkins on a coffee table, and then she left.

“This is all good stuff,” Oliver said. “Do you think if I turned on enough charm, Ms. Talbot might give me a roll in the hay?”

“No.”

“Don’t be too vague, Dunn. Tell me what you really think.”

“I like this lemon bar. If I didn’t think I was being watched, I’d sneak a few up in a paper napkin and hide them in my purse.”

Oliver laughed. Five more minutes passed and then a rush of wind burst through the doors. The detectives stood up.

The woman was a presence: over six feet with broad shoulders, slim hips, and a mane of blond hair. She had blue eyes, high cheekbones, and pale skin. There was spiderwebbing at the corners of the eyes and mouth, but none of that shiny stretched skin common to plastic surgery. She was dressed in a dirty shirt and gardening pants, a floppy hat on her head. She tossed the chapeau on the French furniture.

“Gawd, I’m a mess.” She checked her hands then offered them to Marge and Oliver. “Sabrina Talbot. Sorry about the dirty fingernails. Even with gloves, I lunched my French manicure. Nails and gardening don’t mix.” She brushed off her pants, bits of dirt falling on the Persian rug, and then sat down on a chair. “Sit, sit. And don’t worry if you spill. I reupholster the furniture every two years. It’s about that time. I’m thinking of going deco. I was in my ‘ice’ phase when I did this room. Now it reminds me of an igloo. Sit, sit.”

The detectives sat, introduced themselves with each of them giving her a card.

“I know that you’re here about Hobart.” A single tear down the cheek. “Who would want to harm an eccentric old man?”

“So you know he was murdered,” Marge said.

“Gracie phoned me last night. It was a brief conversation, and she was also short on the details. I’m hoping you can fill me in on what happened.”

“Gracie is Graciela Johannesbourgh?” Marge asked.

“Yes.”

“So you’re still in contact with Mr. Penny’s daughter.”

“Gracie and I have become friends—mostly out of our concern for Hobart’s mental health. Over the years, he’d become increasingly odd. Now I’m not immune to eccentricity. My entire maternal half lives in a series of tiny English villages, each one more quirky than the next. But with Hobart, it had crossed the line from different to problematic.”

Marge had taken out her notebook. “How’s that?”

“We met when I was young. I was immediately taken with him. He was a very vital man. He reminded me of my father, so I understood men like Hobart very well.”

“What do you mean ‘men like Hobart’?”

“You know, these hypermacho males always trying to prove to themselves that they’re Ernest Hemingway’s successor—running with the bulls at Pamplona, mountain climbing in Nepal, navigating an uncharted river in the Amazon. Men like that are well understood in my circles.”

“What are your circles?” Oliver asked.

“You mean you didn’t Google me?” She stared at him with mock offense.

“I looked you up,” Marge said. “All it mentioned was that you were the former wife of Hobart Penny.”

“Then I’ve done my job well,” Sabrina said. “My parents believed that you should be in the news for birth, marriage, and death. I suppose divorce now is acceptable, but that’s it. Let me give you a little family history. My great-great-grandfather was Jacob Remington—as in Remington aircraft. My mother was a Remington. My father was an Eldinger on his mother’s side. If you look up the families, you’ll see that I come from old, old money. We’re the old-fashioned snooty WASPs. My parents were thrilled when I married Hobart … that someone wasn’t going to fleece me. Not that they needed to worry.” She pointed to her head. “I know where every dollar goes. Meticulous is my guideline. Hobart liked that about me. That I wasn’t just arm candy. Even with my pedigree and my looks and my brains, it took Hobart five years to propose. It probably had to do with his divorce from his first wife and my age. We met when I was nineteen.”

“Was Hobart’s divorce a messy one?” Marge asked.

“Not terribly messy, but there was no love lost. I was not the cause of the breakup. Hobart always had other women. And he was always odd, the stereotypical mad inventor. Not the most socially adroit. I think number one wife had had enough of him.”

Oliver flipped over a notebook page. “How did you two meet?”

“At a boring old fund-raiser for some disadvantaged something. We locked eyes, and that was it for me, although his roving eye was apparent even when we were dating. I thought that being wed to me would cure him, silly goose that I was.”

“Can you clarify what you mean by a little odd?” Marge asked.

“Although Hobart exuded animal sexuality, he really didn’t give a shit about people—except for beautiful women, who he more or less objectified.” She draped a leg over the armrest. “He’d always had a fascination with wild animals—a TR kind of thing, you know.”

“TR?” Oliver asked.

“Teddy Roosevelt. The man who shot lions and rowed down the Amazon when he wasn’t being president. Now I loved a good safari just like the next person. But I like safaris the way that I do safaris—first-class accommodations and armed guards in the open jeep. Maybe a hike or two as long as someone else is carrying the backpack. Hobart wanted to camp out in the wilds of Africa. I mean camp for goodness sakes. As in pitch a tent and eat out of tins and make our own fire and gather up the water from a stream two miles away. Now I ask you. Do I look like the sleeping bag type?”

“Not to my eye,” Oliver said.

Sabrina sighed. “Something cracked in Hobart as time passed. He went from being rich and odd to being a very odd, rich man. What really scared me were the delusions.”

“What kind of delusions?”

“This is going to sound ridiculous, but he started to believe that he was a wild animal trapped in a human body much the way that people think that they’re vampires or witches or werewolves. In his case, he was certain that he was really some kind of a big cat. Sometimes it was a lion, sometimes it was a tiger. It wasn’t as if he lost his grip on reality. He could tell you every single stock on the NYSE. He was completely oriented. And he knew that he wasn’t really a big cat. He just felt that inside his human body was the soul of a tiger. He began to grow a wild beard. He also grew out his nails. He scratched the hell out of me every time we made love. Then he started to bite. Nibbles at first, but it progressed until several times, he broke skin. That was when I said to him, ‘Hobart, you need help.’”

“And?” Marge asked.

“He went into treatment. The psychiatrist told me that underneath the delusions was a severely depressed and schizoid man. So they medicated him and gave him mood elevators. He didn’t like the drugs. He claimed they interfered with his sexual function. That part wasn’t a delusion. But instead of going back for a different medication, he just dropped out. Once he was off the medication, he reverted back to his former ways. He got weirder and weirder. I’d finally had enough when he started marking the furniture.”

“Yikes,” Oliver said.

“I begged him to get help, but he flatly refused. He might have gotten help eventually if he hadn’t gotten involved with all those … clubs.”

Marge’s ears went on high alert. “What clubs?”

“Private clubs that did God only knows what as well as the crazy animal rights organizations that fed his delusions. He gave them money in exchange for their tolerance.”

Marge said, “Can you be more specific about the private clubs. It might give us a lead in his murder.”

“Sadomasochistic. This was years ago. I’m sure the ones he used have all folded and newer ones have popped up.” Sabrina sighed. “Hobart used to travel all over the country to ferret out the ones he liked. He found women who would dress up in cat suits and masks and have sex with him.”

“He told you this?” Oliver asked.

The woman’s face went red. “He confessed, but only after I found pictures of him humping young girls wearing tiger masks. I also found pictures of him with … animals. It was nauseating.”

Marge and Oliver nodded sympathetically.

“He said it wasn’t personal, that a tiger had to do what a tiger had to do.” She waved her hand in the air. “I mean, do I look like an idiot? I tried to reason with him … I held on as long as I could … but I knew it was over.”

Silence. Oliver said, “Ms. Talbot, if you could remember any of the names of the clubs—even if they’ve folded—it might help.”

“He never told me.” Sabrina examined her nails. “He moved out about a year after I found the pictures. The divorce was amicable. He gave me a very large settlement. His children were not happy about it. I couldn’t blame them. Hobart was not in his right mind. Being noble, being rich myself, and not wanting to get involved in lawsuits, I put two-thirds of the money into trusts for Hobart’s grandchildren. The other third was my combat pay. My generosity with the grandchildren did not go unappreciated. Gracie and I became friends. Darius called to thank me. The one thing the three of us did do was to convince Hobart—in one of his more lucid moments—to put his estate planning in the care of Darius’s law firm.”

“And he agreed?” Marge asked.

“Yes. Darius was smart about it. He funded whatever Hobart asked him to fund. Every so often, the two of them would go over his assets and how Hobart wanted to structure his will and what charities to give money to. So far as I know, there was never any impropriety on Darius’s part.”

She crossed her arms over her dirty shirt. “After we divorced, he slowly sank into the life of a recluse. He took that tiny wretched apartment. Eventually he just became a shut-in. Never went anywhere except to that sanctuary that he supported.”

“Global Earth Sanctuary?”

“Beats me.” A pause. “Talking about this has given me a big headache.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Talbot, but the conversation has been helpful,” Marge said. “I am curious about those sadomasochistic clubs. You asked who might have killed an eccentric old man, and now I have an idea. What if your ex-husband had been giving money to someone in the sex trade and suddenly stopped? These people are not only sleazy, they’re also dangerous. Maybe someone got angry.”

Sabrina said, “He hasn’t been going to those kinds of clubs for decades.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not positive but …” She shrugged.

“What about hiring out?” Oliver said. “Lots of escort services make house calls.”

“Maybe … if she could get past Tiki.”

Marge turned and faced Sabrina. “So you knew about the tiger?”

“Oh my word, she nearly bit my head off when I came to visit him that one time. I never went back.”

Oliver said, “Ms. Talbot, if you knew he kept a tiger, why didn’t you report it to authorities?”

She rubbed her temples. “Look, Detective, I should have. But at the time, I didn’t want to crush the only living thing that the man cared about. And I knew that Hobart would just mail away for another animal. Since Tiki seemed to be bonded to Hobart, I thought the known was better than the unknown.”

Sabrina checked her watch.

“I really do need to end this. I can’t say that this has been fun, but it’s been … therapeutic in a sense. I haven’t really thought about Hobart in years. I do hope you’ll catch the person who did this to him.”

Marge stood up. “Ms. Talbot, did you keep anything personal that belonged to your husband after he moved out?”

“Personal? Like diaries?”

“Diaries, letters, old photographs or old papers.”

“There might be a box or two of his possessions in the storage wing.”

“Do you think we might have a look at them?”

“Sure, but I don’t know exactly where they are or if I even have them anymore.”

“We don’t mind hunting around if it’s okay with you.” Oliver sneaked another cookie.

Sabrina said, “Would you like a box of cookies? I have a freezer full of them. Eleanor bakes them all the time.” Before he could answer, she pressed a button and the maid came back. “Could you give these nice people a box of your delicious cookies?”

“Yes, Madame. Of course, Madame.”

“Thank you.”

The maid left, and a moment later, Thor reappeared: a staff that ran like a well-oiled machine. “How can I help you?”

“Thor, could you take them to the storage wing for me? They want to see if I have anything left from my ex-husband.”

“They can stay here, Ms. Talbot. I can look around to see if you’ve retained anything from Mr. Penny.”

She looked at Oliver, who said, “We always find it helpful to hunt around ourselves.”

Marge said, “We understand if you don’t want two strangers looking around your belongings. He can come with us if that would make you feel better.”

“Yes, that would be a grand idea. I suppose it would be rather reckless of me to have you snoop around without supervision. Thor, go with the detectives. If they have any questions, feel free to answer them. But don’t get in their way.”

“Certainly, Ms. Talbot.”

“Take care.” She waved. “And don’t forget the cookies, Detective Oliver.”

“Thank you.”

“You can always come back for more.” She smiled. “Bye.”

When she left, Thor said, “This way.”

“Thank you,” Marge told him.

Thor walked six paces ahead down the marble hallway. Oliver whispered to Marge, “Was it my self-deluded ego or was she actually flirting with me?”

Marge shrugged. “The proper word is toying.”

“Sure wouldn’t mind being her plaything.” A big grin.

“Don’t be fooled by the charm. She could eat you for a prelude to a midnight snack.”

“Yum, yum.”

Marge laughed. “You know, Oliver, you’re lucky that I’ve got your back.” A beat. “I not only have your back, I’ve got it protected by a loaded gun. And let me tell you, brother, there’s nothing sexier in this world than a woman with a dead aim.”