Private Eye 2 - Blue Movie Read online

  Johnny Betts, an operative of sorts working for his brother, had been inherited along with the agency. Johnny appeared as soon as Fontana vanished. He joined Cleary.

  "Stay on D'Rosa," Cleary told his young operative.

  "But they're hauling him to jail."

  "He'll be out in no time. Follow him."

  Johnny shrugged and looked longingly at the handful of women who remained in the theater.

  "Move it," Cleary said.

  "Just takin' a last look, boss. You know, one of these days—"

  "Spare me the daydreams. Stay on D'Rosa."

  THREE

  The next morning, the shrill cry of the telephone brought Cleary out of a troubled sleep. The night before he had made it only as far as the couch in his apartment—four rooms decorated in a style he called "plumber's delight," a name derived from the exposed but painted pipes visible throughout the cramped, muggy apartment. His aching legs and throbbing head hadn't allowed him to reach the bedroom, not a great inconvenience since the sagging couch was as comfortable as the lumpy bed. Cleary grimaced at the taste in his mouth—evidence of too many cigarettes the night before. If anything, the pain was even worse after the bad night's sleep. His muscles screamed with the slightest movement, and he had to grab onto the couch itself to stop the dizziness.

  The shrieking phone didn't help matters. The clothing he had worn the night before had been tossed here and there, and the phone was lost somewhere in the chaos. He stumbled around the small living room, tossing things here and there, compounding the clutter in his search for the phone.

  "Dammit," he shouted, still half-asleep, still hurting, still unable to find the elusive telephone.

  He finally located it behind the couch on which he had slept. "Who the hell is it?" he mumbled.

  "Cleary?"

  "Yeah, who wants to know?"

  "Jack. It's Tom McNeil. You sound like hell."

  "Congressman? Jesus, it's early—"

  "Early? It's almost ten, Jack. I heard about last night. It must have happened right after I left."

  Cleary had the sore body to remind him of last night, but in a way he had forgotten the fatal details—at least it hadn't yet come to his numbed mind that morning.

  "Oh, yeah. It was a close call."

  "But you're all right?" the congressman asked.

  "A few scrapes, Tom. Nothing serious. Maybe a concussion."

  "Did you go to a doctor, Jack?"

  "Just kidding about the concussion. I'm okay."

  "I hated to hear about Tomac. He was a family man—a good man."

  Cleary remembered the union man's words to the reporters. "He wasn't so generous about you, Tom."

  "I read his comments in the paper. You know what they say. 'You can't please all the people all the time.'"

  "I thought that said something about 'fool the people,' Tom."

  The congressman chuckled. "I took a little political license with the quote, but that's not really why I called. As I told you last night, I need to see you."

  Cleary's mind was slowly beginning to function. "Uh, sure. Give me an hour. Are you home?"

  "I had a small change of plans. I'll be in my downtown office. Can you meet me there around eleven?"

  "You got it."

  Cleary hung up the phone and sat back down on the couch to gather his thoughts. Half the morning was gone already. Besides seeing McNeil, he also planned to accept Nick D'Rosa's invitation to Rita Marlo's house. Before heading for the shower, he dialed the number of his office. As he waited for someone to answer, he carried the phone and its long cord into the kitchen, where he rummaged beneath the sink for his jar of instant coffee.

  A high-pitched nasal whine, muffled by a huge wad of gum, announced that he had reached the Cleary Agency. Cleary often wondered if Dottie Dworski, his secretary, had been born with bubble gum in her mouth.

  When she heard his voice, her own became animated. "Are you okay, boss? Johnny told me—"

  "I'm fine. Where's Johnny?" Cleary found the jar. It was empty.

  "He's right here. We were just getting ready to call you—"

  "Put Johnny on." He bent down, searching for another jar, maybe an old jar with enough residue for just one cup at least.

  "Morning, boss man." If Dworski's voice was distinctive because of the nasal whine muted by gum, Betts's vocal identity was just as unique, at least in southern California where the cottonseed drawl, thick and slow, sounded like an affectation.

  "What about D'Rosa?" There was no coffee, not so much as a ground. He gave up the search.

  "His lawyer sprung him an hour after he got to the station. He went straight home."

  "Unless he's sitting in my office at this moment, you're in deep trouble, Betts."

  "Whadaya mean?"

  "You know good and well what I mean. You were supposed to stay on him."

  "Jeez, Cleary, even I gotta sleep sometime. I was just on my way back out to Miss Marlo's house when you called."

  Cleary rolled his eyes in frustration. "You'd better hope he's still there. What time did you pull off the surveillance?"

  "I stayed until two A.M., then I started noddin' off, but—like I said—I'm on my way back out there."

  "I gotta make a stop first, but I'll be paying D'Rosa a visit later today. When I get there, you can drop the surveillance. Put Dottie back on."

  When she answered, Cleary said, "I won't be in until late this afternoon. Any other messages?"

  "Yeah, Congressman McNeil's been trying to get in touch with you."

  "I know. I've talked with him."

  "I didn't give him your home number," Dottie said quickly.

  "It's okay. He had it. We're friends."

  Dottie Dworski hadn't been with Jack Cleary very long, but she knew how closely he guarded his privacy.

  Several constituents waited in Congressman Tom McNeil's outer office, but the secretary immediately ushered Cleary into a small conference room. She offered him coffee, which he quickly and thankfully accepted. Minutes later, Tom McNeil, dressed in a three-piece pinstripe, joined Cleary. He shook his head at the dark bruise on the side of Cleary's face.

  "You look as bad as you sounded, Jack. It's a wonder you really didn't have a concussion."

  Cleary touched a gentle hand to the bruise. "I don't have time for a concussion. Besides, it could have been worse. Ask Aaron Tomac."

  McNeil settled down at the conference table. "It was a tragic accident."

  Cleary shook his head. "The more I think about, the less I believe it was an accident."

  "What?"

  "I can't prove a thing, but I think it was murder, pure and simple. Either somebody was after Nick D'Rosa or Aaron Tomac. You start counting their enemies and the UCLA football squad would run out of fingers and toes."

  The congressman appeared pensive, lost to some distant thought. "Yeah, that's true."

  Cleary even wondered if McNeil had heard him. "Something's eating you, pal. What's up?"

  McNeil loosened the knot of his tie. He fidgeted a little in his chair. "I need your professional services, Jack. I want you to find someone for me."

  "Anybody in particular?"

  "My daughter."

  Cleary's eyes widened. He moved back from the politician. "Your daughter? I didn't know you had a daughter."

  McNeil's face had reddened. "She's not the kind of daughter an aspiring senatorial candidate advertises. I don't mean that to sound—well, what can I say? Let's just leave it at that. She's missing."

  "For how long?"

  "Just a couple of days."

  Cleary found himself wondering about the low-down on her conception and birth, but he restricted his questions to the information he needed. "Give me some details, Tom. Her age, her name, where she lives?" Cleary pulled a small black notebook from the pocket of his sport coat.

  "Her name's Eva Miles. She's twenty-three." He slid a small packet of papers across the table to Cleary. "Here's some info on her. Address, photos, th
at kinda thing. As you'll note, she's an actress—or at least she's been in a few films."

  "Which gives her something in common with every other young female in southern California." Cleary took the package. The first thing he pulled from it was a black-and-white shot of Tom McNeil and a young woman sitting beside a pool. The second thing was a thick wad of dough. There were other documents and photos, but he held up the money.

  "What's this?"

  "If you find her," McNeil said, "all I want you to do is give her the money. That's it."

  Cleary eyed the money, then the congressman.

  "It's so she'll get out of town... forget this nonsense about a movie career."

  "Will she?"

  "We've talked. I think so—once she sees that much money. It's five thousand dollars."

  "So, you two did get together on occasion?"

  "I'm not that much of a bastard, Jack."

  "She's beautiful." It was true. The photo showed a young woman with blond sun-streaked hair, attired in a bathing suit that revealed a Jane Russell figure. He thought he could see some facial resemblance to the congressman.

  "You really don't look that much older than she does, Tom."

  "My indiscretion was a case of youthful bad judgment. It happened a long time ago, but in those days that sort of thing was even more of an outrage than it is today. Can you help me, Jack?"

  "I'm on a case right now—"

  McNeil's voice became desperate. "Money's no problem."

  "Goddammit, Tom. I'm not trying to shake you down! Lemme finish."

  "Sorry, Jack. I'm just worried about her."

  "I'm on another case right now, but I'll do what I can."

  "I knew I could count on you."

  The package of information on Eva Miles rested on the seat of the black Eldorado as Cleary cruised along Carolwood Drive. The money was stashed in the trunk. The top was down on the convertible, and the warm wind refreshed him. Palms lined the street. Through their canopy, he admired the azure blue skies. It was the kind of late October day that southern California natives loved. The Santa Anas—the hot desert winds that often turned the autumn into a fiery hell—had waned early in the month. Despite the chamber of commerce propaganda, days like this were rare in L.A. itself. Cleary wished he felt good enough to enjoy it.

  He had phoned Dottie from McNeil's office and told her to make a few calls and find out what she could about a young actress named Eva Miles. Dottie suffered the same occupational delusion as McNeil's daughter. She, too, wanted to be an actress, and she was always missing work for an audition. Cleary tolerated it because he knew how consuming ambition could be. As little chance as Dottie had, she wouldn't be happy until she realized that for herself. As someone once said to Cleary, remorse is a lot easier to live with than regret.

  Other than an occasional land yacht, the street through luxurious Bel Air was deserted. The absence of people made the drive even more relaxing. As he neared the entrance to Rita Marlo's place, he grimaced. Betts's '49 Merc, which was parked much too conspicuously, looked miserably out of place in the uptown neighborhood. Now that he was here, the kid would vanish—he hoped. He turned the Eldorado into a long, circular driveway and pulled in behind a Lincoln Mark II and a sporty pink T-Bird with an oversized Continental kit.

  The house itself was sprawling, its walls mostly made of glass that glared in the midday sunshine. A maid answered the door.

  "I'd like to see Mr. D'Rosa. He's expecting me."

  "Your name?" the maid asked, her voice heavy with a Spanish accent.

  He told her, and she vanished back into the house, leaving Cleary to wait outside. He looked over the grounds of Rita Marlo's house. The lawn and shrubs appeared to have been expertly tended, not that Cleary knew a lot about such things. The grass was green and thick. There weren't any obvious weeds growing around the base of the shrubs. The gardens were dotted with jacaranda trees. Bougainvillea, the rich color of oxygenated blood, spilled over the rock terraces. Birds of paradise stuck up their ornate, flowered heads.

  The maid reappeared. "If you follow me..."

  She led Cleary around the side of the house and through the lush, verdant grounds. As they climbed steps toward the pool, the first person he saw was Avon Marlo. She stood on the diving board, ready to jump into the immense oval pool that filled a corner of what Cleary thought would have been called the backyard. They probably had some fancy name for it in Bel Air.

  At that distance, with a bathing cap concealing the mane of red hair, Avon's resemblance to her mother was eerie. It was as if he was seeing Rita Marlo twenty years before. D'Rosa lay on a lounge, basking in the midday sun. Rita Marlo was beside him, her hand resting on his dark, flat belly.

  D'Rosa eased the hand away and stood up to greet Cleary. "I'm glad you took me up on the invite. You know Rita?"

  The actress was surprised to see Cleary at her home. She lifted her sunglasses.

  "I feel I already know Miss Marlo. From seeing your movies. I'm a fan."

  "I didn't get to thank you properly last night," Rita said.

  "Forget it."

  "Ain't I got it made," D'Rosa was saying. "Look at this place. It's like it's outta some fairy tale. I just got through talkin' to a cousin in Cleveland. Would ya believe, it's sleeting back there? They haven't seen the sun in days."

  Rita was looking at the darkened flesh on Cleary's forehead. "I hope you weren't hurt too bad."

  "Just a little sore. I'm sure Nick here's a little sore, too."

  "Me? Hell, no. I got up early and did a few laps in the pool. That took care of the stiffness. You hungry, pal?"

  "I can't stay that long."

  "The hell you can't. Me and the kid there"—he pointed to Avon, who was doing laps in the pool herself—"we're making a real Italian meal. I won't take no for an answer. You're gonna join us. Oh, that reminds me. I gotta tend to the sauce. You two guys get to know each other. I'll be right back."

  Cleary looked over to Rita Marlo and smiled as she watched D'Rosa walk over to the pool. Avon was laughing at him as he reached down and snagged her leg. "Come on, kid. You and me gotta go finish the lunch."

  Avon pulled herself from the pool, her smile affixed to Cleary. She ripped away the bathing cap, allowing her long hair to cascade over her glistening shoulders.

  "She looks just like you, Miss Marlo."

  "Mr. Cleary, I never saw the day I looked as good as she does."

  Avon, wrapped in a towel, and D'Rosa started for the house.

  "Avon!" her mother shouted. "You forgot something."

  The young woman stopped and returned to her mother. She pecked Rita Marlo on the cheek.

  "Your hair is in terrible shape," Rita said to her daughter as she fingered the red tresses. "We need to get you a do this week. I'll call and make the appointment."

  "Oh, Mother. It's fine."

  Rita nodded toward Cleary. "Have you met Mr. Cleary?"

  "I have now." She offered him a wet hand. He took it. The young woman allowed the gesture to linger and smiled at Cleary. "A pleasure to meet you formally."

  "Yeah," Cleary said, almost lost in the sensual depths of her sky blue eyes. She hurried to join D'Rosa, who threw his arms around her. Together, they headed toward the house.

  "She's been away so much at private schools," Rita explained as the couple vanished into the mansion, "It's good to have her back. I missed her childhood. Somehow, she grew up on me when I was too busy to—oh, well, what's done is done."

  Rita and Cleary were alone by the pool. His smile vanished. "Rita, why didn't you bother to tell me your boyfriend was a hoodlum?"

  FOUR

  Rita Marlo glanced toward the house and then dropped her head. "I apologize, Jack. You have a right to be angry with me. Sometimes, well—I thought it might affect what you did for me."

  Cleary settled down in a chair beside the star. "Rita, I have a rule. When a client cons me, I walk away."

  He pulled an envelope from his jacket and tossed it dow
n on the lounge on which she sat. "Here's your money, less one day's pay, of course. If you hire somebody else, I'd advise you to level with them."

  She stared at the white packet. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  "Come off it, Rita. I've seen you do that in the movies. You're wasting your talent."

  "You don't understand. What I have with Nicky is the most important thing in the world to me. I can't ever let it end. If I lose him, I don't know what I would do. Please help me."

  She looked up at the detective. As if on cue, a tear rolled from each eye. "I love Nicky. I think he loves me."

  Cleary squirmed in the chair. A honey bee buzzed his face, and he flicked it away. "If you really believed that, Rita, you wouldn't have hired me."

  "I just have to know, Jack."

  "I don't like jobs like this, Rita. There aren't any winners. I only took it because of you. What's it gonna help to know if he's cheating on you? Hell, Rita, half the men in the world cheat. They stay with their wives—or their lovers—but they cheat. You could just about have any guy you desired, but you go and fall head over heels for a guy who's not rich with morals, anyway. What if I find out he's cheating and tell you? Then, you'll be doubly miserable. Leave it alone, Rita."

  Rita picked up the envelope of money and offered it back to Cleary. "I can't work. I can't eat. I can't even sleep at night. You don't know what it's like to be a woman—to love a man desperately and yet not to know if he's yours. I have to know the truth. Please, Jack."

  It was a side of Rita Marlo he had never seen before, not even on the screen. She sounded so vulnerable—and so sincere.

  "Please," she repeated.

  He accepted the envelope. "Twenty-four-hour surveillance is going to cost a lot. You're sure you want to go that far? You really want me to bug your house—and the beach house?"

  "I do. The place at the beach, my home, everywhere you can—even our bedroom." Her face reflected her pain. "You see, I'm on the set all day. Nick's here a lot. Something could be going on—well, you know better than I do."