Текст книги "Snowball in Hell"

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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Chapter One

«Hell of a thing,» Jonesy said for the third time.

And Matt agreed. It was a hell of a thing. He turned his gaze from the gaggle of reporters smoking and talking beside the grouping of snarling cement saber-tooth tigers, and returned his attention to the sticky, bedraggled corpse currently watching the birdie for the police photographer.

Whoever had dumped the dead man had counted on the body sinking in the black ooze of the Brea Pits, and in the heat of the summer when the tar heated up and softened … maybe. But it was December, a little more than a week before Christmas, and it had been raining steadily for two days. No chance in hell. Face down in the rainwater, the body had rested on the treacherous, hidden crust of tar. The museum paleontologists excavating the site for fossils had made the grisly early morning discovery.

«Looks kinda familiar,» Jonesy remarked gloomily, as the plastered hair and drowned eyes were briefly illuminated in the white flash of the camera.

Matt bit back a laugh. «Yeah? Must be the fact that he's dead.»

Jonesy looked reproachful, although after thirty-three years on the homicide squad, he'd seen more than his share of stiffs. They both had, though Matt had seen more violent death and destruction during his seven months in the Pacific than he had in his eleven years on the force.

«No identification on him at all?»

«Nope. Even the label was cut out of his jacket. No sign of his hat or shoes.»

Matt considered this. Soaking in water and tar hadn't done John Doe's clothes much good, and they'd have to wait 'til everything dried before they could hope to get much from an examination. How much they would get then was doubtful, but that suit didn't look particularly old or worn, and the tailoring was the kind that showed its worth even in the worst conditions-which these were.

Laughter drifted from the circle of statues where the reporters and a couple of photographers waited impatiently. Matt knew most of them: Williams from «The Peach,» Mackey from the Times, Cohen from the Mirror, and Tara Renee of the Examiner. The only one he didn't recognize was the slim man lighting Tara's cigarette. Thin brown fingers cupped the lighter against the damp breeze; lean, tanned cheeks creased in a smile as Tara flirted with him. Tara flirted with everyone, but she was a good little crime hound.

«Who's that?» Matt asked, and Jonesy looked up from the meticulous diagrams he was making of the crime scene, and followed Matt's stare.

«Doyle. Tribune-Herald. Heard he was with the Eighth Army in North Africa 'til he picked up a case of lead poisoning.» Jonesy grinned his lopsided smile. «Got hit by machine gun fire in Tunisia.»

«Yeah, well, there's a lot of that going around.» But Matt's interest was unwillingly caught. «So he's English?»

«Nah. Hometown boy, Loot.»

«Doc's here, Lieutenant,» one of the uniformed officers said as the police ambulance bumped its way over the grassy verge.

Matt nodded and then nodded again toward the reporters. «Tell 'em I want to see Miss Renee and…» he thought it over «Doyle.»

When he glanced back, Jonesy was giving him an old-fashioned look.

«What's that for?» He'd known Jonesy a long time; Jonesy had been Matt's old man's partner. Back then he'd been big and rawboned with a shock of red hair and a face full of freckles. The hair was grey now, and the freckles had faded into a permanently ruddy complexion, but he was still one of the best detectives on the force-sometimes Matt was afraid Jonesy was too good a detective.

«She's a firecracker, that dame. Can't understand why any woman would want the police beat.»

«I guess she got tired of garden parties and ladies fashion.» He watched the uni approach the reporters. Heard the protests of the men from the Daily News, the Times, and the Mirror. Watched Doyle's surprise at the summons. Doyle looked past the officer and caught Matt's gaze. Matt held it for a moment, then looked away, jotting down a few more crime scene details in his notebook. From the tire tracks, it looked like whoever dumped Mr. Doe into the goo had driven as close as he safely could to the water's edge. Maybe that meant something, maybe not.

Out of the corner of his eye Matt saw Tara and Doyle crossing the soggy grass toward him. Tara's heels sank into

the mud, and Doyle cupped a chivalrous hand beneath her elbow, which amused Matt in a sour way. Tara either had designs on Doyle or thought she could get something out of him-anyone else would have been handed his arm back half-chewed.

«Doesn't look like he drowned,» Jonesy was saying.

«He didn't drown,» Matt replied absently.

The police ambulance rolled to a stop and parked in the weeds and mud. Across the field and through the trees Matt could see oil derricks slowly bowing and scraping against the leaden sky.

«What a smell!» Matt heard Tara exclaim, and the other reporter, Doyle, said, «Bitumen.» He had a quiet voice, and Matt only caught his reply because he was listening for it.

«Hello, Lieutenant,» Tara said, and Matt turned to face her. «To what do we owe this honor?»

Tara was a very pretty girl with glossy black curls, sparkling dark eyes, rosy cheeks, and a little pointed chin that she wagged too much. But somehow Matt didn't like to shut her up. Maybe because she reminded him a little of Rachel.

«Miss Renee,» he said gravely. He glanced at her companion. «You're Doyle from the Tribune-Herald?»

«That's right.» Beneath the khaki trench coat, Doyle was medium height and very thin. His hair, what Matt could see of it beneath his wide-brimmed hat, was very fair-sun bleached. He had the overlay of tan that comes from years spent under a blazing sun, but beneath it he was sallow. His eyes were light, maybe blue, maybe gray-unexpectedly bright in his lean face. He studied Matt curiously.

«We've got a little problem,» Matt said to Tara. «I thought you might be able to help.» She gave him a pert, inquiring look, and Matt stepped aside so they could get a look at John Doe. «Either of you recognize him?»

He was watching Doyle. Not because he expected Doyle to recognize the dead guy; he didn't figure Doyle had been back in town long enough to be of much use there, he was just giving him a break after Tunisia.

Doyle glanced down at the corpse with the weary indifference of a man who's seen too much death-and froze.

There wasn't any mistake. Doyle's blue-gray eyes widened. He went perfectly still, apparently forgetting to breathe.

Next to him, Tara gasped, and Matt automatically turned his attention, thinking a drowned man was too much for her first thing after breakfast. «Phil Arlen,» she murmured. She raised her dark eyes. «That's Philip Arlen.»

Jonesy gave a low whistle.

Matt asked, «Benedict Arlen's kid?»

«I'm sure of it.»

Matt could feel the echo of her words rippling through the ranks of the crime scene men. Benedict Arlen was old money, oil money.

Matt looked back at Doyle, but Doyle had recovered himself. He met Matt's gaze and agreed evenly, «It's Arlen.»

«You knew him?»

«I went to school with Bob. His brother. Robert Arlen.»

«The old school tie,» Matt said dryly. «Was that high school or college?»

«Loyola High School. Loyola University.»

Catholic, Matt thought. Jesuit trained. Not that it mattered to him. He hadn't given a damn before the war, and he sure as hell thought the world should have learned something about hate by now.

The coroner joined their little tableau. Doc Mason was a beanpole of a man in a black raincoat. As usual, he was smoking a pipe, the pleasant homely scent carried on the rainswept breeze, helping to mask other, less pleasant, odors. «Okay for me to get to work, Lieutenant?»

«He's all yours,» Matt said. «The crime scene was contaminated from the minute the professors pulled him out of the drink.»

Doyle was watching him with those light, alert eyes.

«What a scoop!» Tara said. «And here I thought it was a slow week for news.»

«When was the last time you saw Phil Arlen?» Matt asked Doyle.

Doyle shrugged. «It's been a while.»

«Nathan's only been home a couple of weeks,» Tara said. «He was a war correspondent in North Africa. He was wounded at Medenine.» She made it sound like Doyle had done something especially clever. Yep, she was interested in Doyle all right.

At the same time Matt could feel Doyle's discomfort, his desire to shut Tara up. He could have told him to save his strength.

«Had enough for one war?» he asked, not unsympathetically.

«So they tell me,» Doyle said.

«Lt. Spain was on Guadalcanal,» Tara put in ruthlessly. «He took two bullets in the leg.»

Matt said, «Now I can predict rain.» He held out his hand as a fat drop hit his nose, and Doyle laughed. He had an easy, rather husky laugh. Matt found himself smiling back, but he wasn't forgetting Doyle's shocked reaction to the body of Phil Arlen. Of course that could have been the jolt of a John Doe turning out to be someone he knew-but if he instantly recognized Phil Arlen waterlogged and streaked in mud and tar, he must have seen him fairly recently. And as far as Matt knew, the closest Arlen had come to the front lines was watching newsreels in the front row of Grauman's.

«Have you found any shells?» Doyle asked, watching the coroner. Tara did a double take.

«You've got sharp eyes,» Matt commented. And now Doyle had attracted Jonesy's attention too.

«He was shot?» Tara asked.

«He was shot all right,» Doc Mason said, getting to his feet. «Twenty-two caliber maybe, fairly close range. Must have hit the sternum and ricocheted around inside. There's no exit wound.» He chewed on his pipe stem. «Something funny here.»

Aware of two very quiet and very attentive reporters, Matt said, «Fill me in later.»

Doc nodded. «We better get him inside.»

The rain began to patter down as a couple of men lifted Arlen's body onto a stretcher and carried him across the grass to the waiting ambulance. The morning smelled of rain and asphalt and pipe tobacco.

A couple of yards away the other reporters had moved from grumbling to outright sedition.

«Okay, thanks for your help,» Matt said, nodding dismissal to Tara and Nathan Doyle.

«You're not making a statement?» Doyle asked.

«Lt. Spain never allows himself to be rushed,» Tara informed him, and Matt shook his head a little at her.

His eyes met Doyle's again, and a smile tugged at Doyle's mouth.

«Welcome to the neighborhood, Mr. Doyle,» Matt said.

«Thanks.»

Despite the smile, there was a shadowy look to Doyle's eyes; the kind of fatigue that didn't have anything to do with lack of sleep or months in a hospital. There was no question which beat Doyle would have preferred to be covering.

«Come on,» Tara said, and she linked her arm in Doyle's. «The royal audience is at an end.»

Sardonically, Matt watched her shepherding Doyle, the two of them hoofing straight for the main gate, skirting their clustered colleagues who threw friendly and not so friendly jeers and insults after them. Lights flashing, the coroner's ambulance rumbled past them, splashing through the pools of muddy water, as it turned the opposite way, heading for the rear entrance of the park.

«That Doyle's an interesting fella,» Jonesy remarked.

Matt said nothing, turning back to face the silvery black pool.

For a moment he and Jonesy stood there. Matt was thinking about the unpleasant task before him: informing

Benedict Arlen that his youngest child was dead. Kind of ironic when everyone knew Arlen had paid a small fortune to keep the kid out of the draft. And now he was dead-murdered. He might have had a better chance dodging bullets overseas.

As he watched, a giant bubble of methane gas formed on the watery surface of the pit, expanded, and dissipated in a silent gooey pop.

«Disrespectful, tossing the Arlen kid in that muck,» Jonesy said reflectively.

«Homicide's disrespectful,» Matt replied.

* * * *

Benedict Arlen lived in a white stucco Spanish colonial revival-style mansion in Mandeville Canyon. The house was surrounded by twenty acres of palm trees and hedges and flowering Mediterranean plants. Two bison, clearly pets, ambled contently past the large tiled fountains.

A butler who must have been dragged out of retirement– or possibly eternity-when the regular guy enlisted met them at the carved wooden doors and did his unsteady best to run interference.

Matt left Jonesy to deal with the major domo, and he proceeded along the tiled hallway lined with paintings of the old west by Charlie Russell, until he came to a room and heard voices behind a half-open door.

«You're wrong, Nathan,» a man was saying in a querulous voice. «I tell you, Philip is perfectly all right.»

Matt couldn't hear the answer, just the quiet murmur of words, but he had the disquieted feeling he knew that voice.

He pushed open the door onto a room with a Gothic ceiling and leaded windows with iron grilles. There were vibrant Indian rugs on the floor and lots of heavy, dark Spanish furniture. Oil paintings by Frederic Remington decorated the white walls, and bronze sculptures of bronco busters and buffalo hunters topped tables.

Benedict Arlen sat on a long velvet-covered sofa next to a giant fireplace in natural stone. A Captain-of-Industry portrait of him hung over the fireplace-he didn't do it justice. He was a frail-looking man in a plum-colored smoking jacket. He had a beaky nose and thin white hair.

Standing in front of the fireplace was Nathan Doyle.

He glanced up as Matt entered the room, and his expression was unreadable. He said coolly, «Lt. Spain, isn't it?»

«It was three hours ago. I'd be hurt if you'd forgotten already.»

Doyle said, «I haven't forgotten.»

«What are you doing here?» Matt figured he knew what Doyle was doing there. He'd known a few news hawks like that, willing to do anything, pushing past the women and children, trampling over flowerbeds and graves to be first with a story, but he hadn't thought Doyle was the type.

Studying him now-slim and self-contained as he warmed himself in front of Benedict Arlen's cavern-sized fireplace-he still didn't seem like the type.

And Matt thought again about Doyle's recoil when he recognized Phil Arlen's body.

Maybe he'd been shocked because he didn't expect to see Arlen's body there because … that wasn't where he'd left it.

When you're a cop you learn to think like that.

Jonesy slipped quietly into the room behind Matt. He took out his pad and pencil. Doyle opened his mouth to respond to Matt's question, but Benedict Arlen beat him to the punch.

«What is the meaning of this?» he demanded, like somebody in a play. He sat bolt upright, staring from Matt to Nathan as though he suspected they might be in this– whatever it was-together. Which was certainly an odd idea.

Matt identified himself with a show of his badge, and Arlen goggled as though he couldn't believe it.

Doyle said, «I thought Mr. Arlen should hear about Phil from someone besides the police. That it would be less of a shock.»

«I tell you Philip is perfectly all right,» the old man protested, but now he sounded frightened. «We've paid the ransom. There's no reason for them to harm him.»

It was obvious from Doyle's expression that this information was news to him. He stared at Arlen, and Matt said, «Sir, are you telling me that your son was kidnapped?»

The old man hesitated, chewing his lip. «We received a call Sunday evening informing us that Philip had been … taken. We were given twenty-four hours to deliver one hundred thousand dollars.»

The old man faltered as Jonesy whistled. «We were promised that Philip would be released twenty-four hours after that.» At Matt's expression he said defiantly, «We didn't

inform the police. We were expressly ordered not to inform the police or Philip's life would be forfeit.»

Doyle rubbed his forehead and said nothing. He didn't look at Benedict or Matt.

Matt said, «I'm very sorry to inform you Mr. Benedict, but Phil was found shot to death this morning at Brea Tar Pits.»

The old man shook his head stubbornly.

Everyone's initial reaction was denial; Matt had been through this too many times to count. There was nothing for it but the straight truth. He drove on. «His body was recovered by some of the museum staff members working at the dig. Mr. Doyle made the initial identification, but we'll need confirmation.»

The door to the room opened and a tall, elegant woman strode into the room. She wore trousers-the kind that only certain rich, fashionable ladies wore-and her dark hair was coiled intricately on her head. «Dad, they're saying on the radio that Phil is dead.» She stopped short, taking in Doyle's presence. «Nathan…» she said. She looked at Matt. «So it's true.»

«Yes,» Nathan said. «I'm sorry, Ronnie.»

«Lt. Spain, Homicide Division,» Matt said. «And you are-?»

«Veronica Thompson-Arlen,» she said. «I'm married to Robert Arlen, Phil's brother.» She glanced at the old man sitting bent forward, head in hands, and she slipped past Matt and sat down beside him on the sofa, putting an arm around his shoulder. «Oh, Dad. I don't know what to say.»

She looked up at Nathan. «Couldn't there be any mistake?»

Nathan shook his head. «It's Phil.»

Matt said, «What do you know about this kidnapping?»

She barely glanced his way. «Not a lot. Bob, my husband, was supposed to deliver the ransom money on Monday night to the Griffith Park Observatory. He did. Everything went according to clockwork on our end.» She shook her head. «I can't understand why they would have killed him.»

«They?» Nathan asked. He caught Matt's eye and looked momentarily discomfited.

«I-I just assume there would be more than one of them. A gang, perhaps. It was a woman's voice on the telephone both times. But a woman wouldn't have been able to kidnap Phil without help of some kind, surely?»

«Both times?» Matt repeated, with an eye to Doyle.

«A woman called Sunday evening to tell us Phil had been kidnapped and that we had twenty-four hours to gather the ransom money. Then Monday evening she called and told us where to deliver the money. She promised that Phil would be released unharmed Tuesday, this evening-if everything went according to plan.»

«And the money was left at the Griffith Park Observatory? Inside or out?»

«Outside. The planetarium is only open in the day now to prevent enemy planes from using its lights to target the city. The money was to be put in a satchel and placed on the east observation terrace in a planter beside a little staircase leading to an arched doorway. Bob was supposed to leave the money and walk away-which he did.» She turned back to the old man. «He did everything they wanted, Dad. You know that.»

The old man said nothing.

«We'll need to talk to your husband, Mrs. Arlen.»

«Thompson-Arlen. Yes, of course. He's at home today. He wanted to be available … in case.»

Matt nodded thoughtfully, studying Benedict Arlen. The old man seemed to have retreated into his own dazed thoughts. He glanced at Doyle. He was watching the old man and the woman without emotion. The fireplace threw shadows across his thin face. Made his eyes glint oddly.

«Again, very sorry for your loss,» Matt said formally. «We'll keep you informed as the investigation develops.»

Neither the man nor the woman responded. Matt looked at Doyle again, and found him watching him. He said shortly, «Did you want to tag along to Robert Arlen's?»

«Sure.» Doyle's surprise was evident.

«Come on, then. You can introduce us.» Matt thought it might be a good idea to keep an eye on Mr. Doyle of the Tribune-Herald.

* * * *

«Why would they have killed him?» Doyle sounded like he was thinking aloud. Matt glanced his way, and Doyle glanced back. He seemed genuinely puzzled. «If the ransom was paid, why did they kill Phil?»

«I don't know. It's not good business,» Matt admitted. He was very conscious of Doyle sitting a few inches from him. Very conscious of his restless energy, of the faint, heathery aftershave he wore, of the fact that Doyle was as physically aware of him as he was of Doyle. He could tell from the way

Doyle avoided even the most casual physical contact, and from those flickery sideways looks he was giving him.

«They should have called us at the start,» Jonesy said. «They made a big mistake not calling us in.»

«It doesn't make sense,» Doyle said. «They have to realize that no one else will pay a ransom if there's no chance of getting the kidnap victim back alive.»

«They may not be professionals,» Matt said. «This may have been a one time only.»

Doyle thought this over. «True,» he said.

«Hell of a time for this,» Jonesy said. «Christmas.» He shook his head.

Matt spoke to Doyle. «What were you doing at the Arlen house?»

Doyle turned those cool, lake-water eyes his way. «I told you. I thought the old man should have fair warning before your lot turned up.»

«Us lot?» Matt said. Every so often Doyle had-not an accent, exactly, but an English turn of phrase. It sort of irritated Matt-and it sort of amused him. The more he saw of Nathan Doyle, the more interested he was. Mostly it was professional interest. Mostly. «Now why don't I believe that?»

Doyle stared. «I don't know. It's the truth.»

Now Matt was convinced it wasn't.

Maybe Doyle read that in his expression. He said, «All right, honestly, I'm not sure. I did think the news would come better from someone who wasn't a cop. But … maybe it was also curiosity. Reporter's instinct.»

Jonesy met Matt's eyes in the rearview mirror. Matt asked, «Did you know about the kidnapping?»

«No.» Doyle was definite, and Matt thought he believed him-on that point.

«What was Philip Arlen like?»

«I didn't know him well.»

«Yeah, you said. You're pals with the brother. Robert Arlen.»

«We aren't pals,» Doyle said. «We travel in different circles, but I knew Bob pretty well when we were at school. Phil was younger than us. I think there were about eight years between him and Bob. To tell the truth, he was a pain in the ass. The old man spoilt him rotten. I don't know how he turned out, but when he was a kid he was a tattletale and a sissy.» He met Matt's gaze. «I didn't like him much.»

«You're kidding.»

Doyle smiled-a quirky smile that creased his lean cheek and tilted his eyes. A very attractive smile. Matt ignored it.

«When was the last time you saw him?» Matt had asked this at the tar pit. He waited to hear what Doyle would say now that he'd time to think about it.

Doyle said vaguely, «I've seen him a couple of times at the Las Palmas Club. I can't tell you for sure.»

«Okay.» Doyle was too smart to tell an outright lie, but Matt was beginning to get the picture.

«How did the Brothers Arlen get along?»

Doyle's hesitation was noticeable. «Okay, I think. Phil was always the old man's favorite. I guess Bob had plenty of time to get used to the idea.»

They didn't talk much after that, listening to the police radio, and the hiss of tires on wet streets.

Jonesy pulled onto Wilshire Boulevard, and they could see the neon sign of the Bryson Apartment Hotel from blocks away burning bright in the gloomy late morning. The slick and crowded streets were decked in gaudy garland banners, palm trees twined with Christmas lights, and department store windows decorated with elaborate displays of Santa's villages and winter wonderlands.

Jonesy pulled up in front of the Bryson Apartment Hotel, and they got out, pulling hats down and collars up against the gray rain, and ducking between the classical columns with their irritable-looking stone lions balanced aloft.

The Arlens lived in a penthouse on the ninth floor, below the ballroom and the glass-enclosed loggias with their distant view of Catalina Island.

Bob Arlen opened the door, took an awkward step back, steadying himself with a walking stick. He was a tall, well-built man with light brown hair. The left half of his face was badly scarred, twisting into unidentifiable emotion; the right half of his face merely looked surprised.

«Nathan,» he said. «I wasn't expecting you.»

«Mr. Arlen.» Matt showed his badge. «Lt. Spain, LAPD Homicide Division. May we come in?»

He gripped his walking stick with both hands, leaning heavily on it. «It's about Phil, isn't it?»

«Yes,» Nathan said. «I'm sorry, Bob.»

«I read it in this morning's extra.» Bob Arlen led them through to a living room with glass doors looking out onto a

small balcony. Rain bounced down on large potted plants and metal railings. «I couldn't believe it. I still can't.»

«We're very sorry for your loss, Mr. Arlen,» Matt said formally. «You didn't go into your office today?»

«I was waiting to hear-I thought there might be news.»

And there had been, though maybe not the news Arlen had been waiting for. He looked tired and shocked, but not overcome with grief. Not as far as Matt could tell.

Arlen waved them over to chairs, and made his way to a rosewood bar cart laden with crystal bottles and stemware. «Can I offer you gentlemen a drink?»

«No thanks,» Matt said.

«Nathan?»

«Yes, thanks, Bob.»

Arlen poured two stiff whiskeys from a bottle of Lord Calvert with a steady hand, although it was clearly not his first drink. «Ice? Soda?» he asked Nathan.

«Neat.» Nathan took the glass with a murmur of thanks. Matt realized he was far too aware of every move Nathan Doyle made. He wanted to think it was his copper's instinct warning him, but he had the uneasy feeling it was something very different.

Bob Arlen made his way over to a low sofa, managing to juggle both his walking stick and glass with an unbeautiful efficiency that indicated a lot of practice.

«What can you tell us about your brother's kidnapping?»

Arlen sipped his whiskey before his measured answer. «The pater got the call Sunday evening. A woman said that Phil was being held for one hundred thousand dollars, and that if

we didn't come up with the money by five o'clock on Monday evening, he would be killed. She said she would call back on Monday with directions on how the ransom would be delivered.»

«Any idea who this woman might have been? Was the voice familiar?»

«No.»

«How long had your brother been missing at that point?»

Bob shook his head. «I wouldn't know. I'm not sure Claire would even know. Phil … came and went as he pleased. I think he spent more time at the Las Palmas Club than he did at home.»

Matt looked at Nathan who said, «Claire is Phil's wife.»

«They've been married just over a year,» Bob said. «Claire's a sweet girl. Not really Phil's type. My father pushed for the marriage. I have no idea why.»

Matt talked and let Jonesy take the notes; he'd found people talked more easily when they didn't realize they were going on the record.

«And this unknown woman called back on Monday evening and told you where to deliver the money?»

«Griffith Park Observatory. It's closed at nights now, and I was supposed to leave the money in a bag in a planter on the east terrace at midnight.»

«Were you on time?»

«I was early. I left the money at eleven-thirty in one of the cement planters along the wall. When I came back an hour later, it was gone.»

«You didn't see who took the bag?»

He shook his head. «I wanted to wait around and see if I could spot the kidnapper, but my father was adamant that we not do anything to endanger getting Phil back safely.» He shrugged. «I drove away, walked around the park, looked at the merry-go-round, then went back to make sure the pickup had been made.»

Jonesy said, «Lot of things could go wrong with that plan. The fact is the kidnappers might never have received the money.»

«It was their plan,» Bob said. «We didn't get a vote. We had to do it their way.»

Matt said, «And according to the kidnappers if things went according to plan, your brother was to be released this evening?»

Bob nodded. «Instead, they killed him, the dirty bastards.» He drained his glass, looked to see if Nathan needed a refill. Nathan did not. He was staring out the glass doors at the sparkling chains of rain.

«Did you keep a record of the numbers of the ransom money?» Matt asked.

«I wanted to. My father was against the idea.»

Matt repeated patiently, «Did you keep a record?»

«Er … yes.»

«Might we see that record?»

Bob left the room. A key turned in the front door lock, the door opened, and Veronica Thompson-Arlen entered. She wore a fur coat that was several years old; her cheeks were pink from the cold. Oddly enough it seemed to Matt that when

she saw them grouped around her living room, she relaxed a little.

Nodding hello, she moved over to the bar cart and poured herself a drink. She offered Nathan another. He declined, seeming to only then recall that he had a drink. He swallowed a mouthful, glanced at Matt, glanced away.

Bob returned with a list of the serial numbers.

Matt thanked him.

«What's that?» Veronica asked, and when Bob explained, she flushed. «Oh, Bob. You shouldn't have! What if the kidnappers somehow got wind of it?»

Jonesy said, «Unless they were morons the kidnappers would assume that precaution was taken, Mrs. Arlen. Don't think for a minute keeping track of those numbers had anything to do with your brother's death.»

«I hope not. Dad would be … devastated.»

Matt said, «Did your brother have any enemies, Mr. Arlen?»

Bob and Veronica exchanged a funny look.

«Not that I'm aware of,» Bob said.

«Oh, Bob,» Veronica said wearily. «What's the point of lying?» She looked at Matt. «My brother-in-law was a charming boy, but of course he had his enemies. We all have our enemies, don't we?»

It seemed like a stagy thing to say; Matt tried to remember what, if anything, he knew about Veronica Thompson-Arlen. He thought that she had not come from money, but she acted to the manor born, so maybe he was mixing her up with the other one, Phil Arlen's wife-now widow.

«Well,» he said, «I have a few, but they're mostly guys I've put behind bars. What kind of enemies did your brother-in-law have?»

«Carl Winter for one,» Bob said.

«Oh, Bob!» Veronica protested, just as though she hadn't been saying a minute earlier they needed to come clean.

«Who's Carl Winter?» Once again Matt looked to Nathan Doyle for the answer. And once again Doyle knew the answer. For someone who claimed he hadn't kept in regular touch, he seemed to know a lot about the Arlens. And they seemed to still be on a first-name basis with him. Maybe it was the Papal connection. The Catholic community was a tight-knit one, although Doyle didn't look like much of a church-goer to Matt.