Whisper Death Read online

  “We don’t need all this security that much,” Mercer said as he and McGuire walked through Mercer’s cast-iron gate on their way to the Vargas house. He turned and ensured the gate was locked behind them. “It’s just that you feel vulnerable living out here with the desert around you and all. This character with the gun a couple of weeks ago, he was the first real reason to call security since I moved here.”

  They were in front of the Vargas house. Located between its two neighbours, the home faced down the gradual slope of Via Linda to Vista Chino. The hill rising behind it was steep and bare. A laneway led from the security gate to a four-car garage flanking the front courtyard.

  Mercer pressed the intercom button. “It’s me, your friendly neighbour,” he announced in response to a low, dusky voice, and the gate slid open.

  Chapter Six

  McGuire and Mercer were met at the door by one of the ubiquitous Mexican maids without whom, it seemed, Palm Springs could not exist. Money provided the means and the property; Mexican domestics provided the opportunity for leisure.

  The layout of the Vargas house was more open than Mercer’s but with the same expansive use of marble, silk and other displays of wealth. McGuire knew little about art, but he instinctively grasped that the sculptures, paintings, tribal masks and other items displayed in the Vargas residence were more original and valuable than Mercer’s.

  The maid led them through the foyer and gallery to a high-ceilinged room dominated by an immense white brick fireplace, which seemed incongruous in a house surrounded by harsh, hot desert. She exited through two antique wooden doors set in the opposite wall, leaving Mercer and McGuire standing among modern chrome and leather furniture carefully arranged to create a casual effect. Sunlight filtered through tinted glass extending the length of one wall. Beyond the wall and filling the space between the house and the barren hills behind it, a free-form swimming pool lay undisturbed like blue glass in the desert sun.

  “That’s her,” Mercer said, pointing to a portrait in oils hung on the white stucco wall above the fireplace.

  McGuire turned to look and held his breath at the sight.

  The painting depicted a woman in a dark, tangled garden. One hand was raised to deflect thick auburn hair from her face; the other held a long-stemmed flower. Her emerald-green gown was of a satiny material that seemed to shimmer even on the canvas. Her leg was thrust forward, bent at the knee so that the fabric draped against her thigh, and she looked out from the portrait with an expression that was part patrician aloofness, part animal lust.

  “Damn,” McGuire said under his breath.

  “Here she comes,” Mercer muttered, “in the flesh.”

  Footsteps clicked down the corridor behind the weathered oak doors. A light suddenly shone, diffused and flattering, above the entrance. As the doors swung open, McGuire felt he was about to witness a carefully rehearsed theatrical performance.

  “Gentlemen,” the woman said. A statement, not a greeting. Her voice carried a nuance of accent, an intimation of Mediterranean culture.

  She swept past the two men, McGuire drinking in her beauty like a man sampling a strange and exotic wine, Mercer smiling and nodding in adoration.

  The artist had flattered her, but only somewhat. McGuire noted facial lines unrevealed by the portrait. But it was the same slim figure striding by in a white diaphanous dressing gown, her feet clad in matching white slingback high-heeled shoes.

  Pausing at an elaborate wooden cabinet, she opened a door and touched the control of an expensive stereo system. Classical music flooded the room from hidden speakers. She tilted her head to judge the volume level, adjusted it a notch or two lower, and returned to the two men whose eyes had never left her.

  “Donald,” she said, her hand extended to Mercer. Her voice conveyed the depth and texture of brown velvet. “Do forgive me. I know it’s rude, but I cannot stand this room without music.” She withdrew her hand and offered it to McGuire. “Donald knows me well enough to understand. Hello. I’m Glynnis Vargas.”

  “Lieutenant Joseph McGuire, Boston Police Department.” McGuire took the hand in his. The skin felt satiny, like the dress fabric in the portrait.

  “He’s here about that mess from last week,” Mercer offered. He looked around, chose a chair and sat down. “Did the police talk to you about it this morning?”

  “Yes, they were here,” Glynnis Vargas answered. She released McGuire’s hand almost reluctantly. “That poor man. Here we thought he was insane and now it seems he had reason to be paranoid.” She sat elegantly in a chair upholstered in buttery white leather. “He was from your corner of the world, wasn’t he Mr. McGuire? And do sit down. May I offer you a drink?”

  McGuire declined. Mercer opened his mouth to accept, realized the suggestion had been made only to McGuire, and sat back in silence.

  “His name was Bunker Crawford,” McGuire said when he had settled himself in a chair opposite Mercer. “Did you know him?”

  “Know him? Of course not.” She seemed offended by the idea. “He appeared here one evening, disturbing us all terribly. He actually threw a pistol through my window.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I mean, the man had his problems, but I feel he should have taken them somewhere else instead of to our doorsteps.” Her eyes opened again, large blue crystals that she flashed at Mercer. “Isn’t that right, Donald? You and I, we came here explicitly to avoid that kind of nonsense, didn’t we?”

  Mercer responded like a teacher’s pet invited to address the class. “Definitely, Glynnis,” he gushed. “That’s exactly why we came here. You know,” he said to McGuire, “a lot of people, they resent what we have. They’re envious of the way we live. And that’s understandable, I guess. But it’s no reason to try and destroy it. . . .”

  “That’s right, Donald.” Glynnis Vargas turned to McGuire. “Donald worked very hard to achieve what he owns. I was a little more fortunate. My husband’s success permitted me to live in this manner, but I feel I was able to contribute as well, with my support for him. And my love.”

  “Where is your husband?” McGuire asked.

  She lifted her chin and blinked several times. McGuire realized she was older than he had first determined. Forty, perhaps. Maybe a few years beyond.

  “My husband died suddenly just over a year ago,” she said. “You may remember a plane crash in Sao Paulo a year ago last February. No? Well, that’s only because there were no Americans aboard, Mr. McGuire. But my husband was. He was returning from a business trip and I was awaiting his arrival in Rio.” Her voice grew almost defiant as she spoke. “He was a wonderful man who gave as much to Brazilian culture as anyone, who cared deeply for his people, and who I am proud to say loved me until the day he died.” She stared out the window, then turned away quickly. “After his death, I could no longer remain in Rio. So I returned here with,” and her slender arm swept in a circle to indicate the room, the house, the pieces of art, “the treasures he and I enjoyed so much.”

  “You’re American,” McGuire said.

  “I’m a small-town California girl,” she said, her calm manner restored. “And I never gave up my American citizenship, thank goodness.”

  “How did you meet your husband?”

  Her face glowed. She leaned back in the chair, crossed her legs and tilted her head at McGuire. “It was a fairy tale,” she said. “I was at one of the studios in Hollywood for a screen test. Getti—his name was Getulio, but everyone called him Getti—Getti was on a tour of the studio and saw my screen test. He insisted on meeting me and we had dinner. He was charming, absolutely charming.” She smiled coyly. “I failed the screen test. But two weeks later, when Getti asked me to accompany him to Rio as his wife, I couldn’t resist. And I never regretted it.”

  “Hollywood’s loss was Rio’s gain,” Mercer chimed.

  Glynnis Vargas turned to reward him with a smile, one hand toying with her hair,
before looking back at McGuire.

  “Her husband was one of Rio’s biggest jewellery dealers,” Mercer added.

  She was studying McGuire with her sapphire eyes, her hand still curling a lock of hair.

  “I don’t think there’s much more to be learned then,” McGuire said, standing. “What I need is a reason for Crawford to be here. Why this place? Why come all the way from Boston to here?”

  “It’s the end of the road,” Mercer offered. He pointed to the dusty hill at the rear of the house. “These mountains, the San Jacintos, they’re the boundary between the good life here and the jungles of L.A. This is as far west as you can go before you’re in the zoo, all those animals smoking crack and doing all that other stuff back in La-La Land. It all starts on the other side of those mountains.” He waved the image away. “Besides, the guy was a nutcase. Who knows why nutcases do what they do?”

  “He wasn’t crazy,” McGuire said solemnly to Mercer. “The man was very, very frightened. But he was not crazy.”

  Mercer shrugged.

  Glynnis Vargas looked at McGuire with heightened interest. “Of what?” she asked, rising from her chair. “What was the man so frightened of?”

  “I don’t know,” McGuire replied. “But he had good reason, didn’t he? After all, he’s dead.”

  At the doorway, Mercer turned quickly and seized Glynnis Vargas’s hand. “Don’t forget, we have a date this evening,” he said. “Drinks at my place first?”

  Glynnis Vargas brought her other hand to her forehead. “Oh, I don’t think so Donald,” she said. “Tell you what, just ring me a few minutes before eight and we’ll drive down in your car.” She turned to McGuire. “Do you enjoy art?” she asked.

  “I enjoy music more,” McGuire replied.

  She brushed her hair back, a gesture she repeated often. “Then you’ll certainly enjoy the evening. We’re having an exhibition of local artists’ works at the Desert Museum. We’ve also been able to book an exquisite string quartet from Hungary. If you care to attend, I could leave a guest pass at the door for you. Do you know where the museum is?”

  “Glynnis is on the board of directors,” Mercer interjected. “At the museum. They even named a gallery area after her.”

  “After Getti,” she corrected him. Then, to McGuire: “It’s easy to locate. Right downtown, off Palm Canyon Drive. The museum is worth seeing on its own, and tonight would be a special opportunity. That is, if you’re not returning to Boston.”

  “Not for a few days,” McGuire said. “Certainly not as long as my partner is still here.”

  “He got caught in the crossfire last night,” Mercer offered.

  Glynnis Vargas nodded. “Perhaps something like this evening will help soften some horrible memories, Mr. McGuire,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” McGuire agreed.

  “I’ll leave a ticket in your name,” she said. “In case you decide to join us. If not, it’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

  McGuire nodded and she closed the door quickly behind them. He and Mercer walked toward the road, the heavy gates sliding silently apart as they approached.

  “Who lives in the house across the way?” McGuire asked. The home, similar in design to Glynnis Vargas’s, was to their left, facing Mercer’s.

  “An old couple from San Diego,” Mercer said. “They’re hardly ever here. That’s why the place looks like a dump. Just the maid lives there and she’s nearly as old as they are.” Mercer turned and thrust his hands in his pockets. “Well, lots of luck,” Mercer called over his shoulder. McGuire watched him walk to his gate, insert a key in a lock set into a stone pillar, wait for his gates to open and enter his courtyard.

  Something caught McGuire’s eye. A figure, dressed in faded denim clothing, scrambled up the hill behind Glynnis Vargas’s house. As McGuire watched, the man disappeared over the crest while small pebbles disturbed by his exit tumbled down a gully near the rear security wall.

  At the hospital, McGuire encountered two new officers guarding Ralph’s door. He showed his ID, but as he began to enter, one stepped in front and barred his entry.

  “Sorry, no can do,” the officer said. He was overweight with a thick black moustache.

  “Bonnar?” McGuire asked, and the cop nodded.

  “I should have escorted you out of town on a rail for what you said this morning.” Bonnar rested one elbow on his filing cabinet; the other hand was on his hip. “Guys like you go around accusing law enforcement officers of murder back in Boston?”

  “You knew where Crawford would be,” McGuire said.

  “And it was your idea to take him out of custody,” Bonnar shot back. “What’s wrong, you couldn’t wait until you got him home? What did you need to know so badly?”

  “I wanted to know what those two Feds said to him,” McGuire responded. “And who they were. You didn’t have any answers, Bonnar. Or at least you weren’t handing any out. Got some now? Now that Crawford’s dead and a fellow cop is hooked up to a goddamn machine? Who the hell were those guys that talked to Crawford? How do we know they didn’t kill Crawford and blow the guts out of Ralph Innes?”

  Bonnar tightened his mouth, stared back at McGuire for a moment, then sat heavily in his chair.

  “Look, McGuire,” he began “some badass things go on around here that don’t have anything to do with . . .” Bonnar looked away, searching for a phrase. “With everyday life. Out there in the desert, you hear about airstrips and bombing ranges and all kinds of things run by the military, things you never see on maps, things the government never even admits exist. So you learn not to ask. It just gets the wrong people upset.”

  “What does that have to do with these guys?”

  Bonnar looked at McGuire, assessing him. “Listen, what I’m going to tell you is all hearsay, all right? None of this is written down anywhere, all of it is second-hand and conjecture, stuff you hear in bull sessions, squad car gossip. So if you ever say you heard it from me, I’ll deny it from here to Washington and back, got it?”

  McGuire nodded. He sat in a chair across from Bonnar, watching the other man intently.

  “These two men, they were from a special branch of Secret Service. The way I understand it, they’re empowered to investigate any breach of national security involving non-military personnel. The military polices its own people in these matters, just like you and me handling civilian problems. Where civilians and the military meet and the crime is big enough to make the top secret category, these guys step in.”

  “I thought we had the FBI for that.”

  Bonnar shook his head. “In some things, they’re out of the picture. You start an FBI investigation and pretty soon you’ve got records, you’ve got criminal prosecution in civilian courts, you’ve got due process, you’ve got freedom of information laws to contend with.” He shrugged his shoulders. “These guys I’m talkin’ about, they don’t want any publicity. We’re talkin’ about things where even disclosure of the crime could be a security matter.”

  “So what do they do? If they can’t lay charges, what happens when they collar somebody?”

  “I don’t know.” Bonnar leaned across the desk towards McGuire. His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “And I’ll tell you somethin’ else I don’t know, because you’re going to ask it. I don’t know why they wanted to talk to Bunker Crawford or what they said to him downstairs. In fact, I’ve got an old buddy stationed over in Twentynine Palms, a guy I worked with in military intelligence twenty-odd years ago. These two Feds, they said they were based at Twentynine Palms. So I went out to see him the day after the Feds were here, asked him if he knew about anythin’ that might involve a Secret Service Special Branch out of his area.”

  Bonnar paused for effect.

  “He not only didn’t know what they were investigatin’. He had never heard of those two dudes. I described ’em right down to the colour of their socks a
nd it rang no bells in his brain.”

  The two men sat in silence for a moment, McGuire absorbing all he had heard, Bonnar lost in his own thoughts.

  McGuire was the first to speak. “Do you think they killed Crawford before he could talk to us?”

  “I don’t know,” Bonnar answered. “But I’ll tell you two things for sure, McGuire. One, if they did, I didn’t tip them off. I don’t even know how to get hold of them. These guys don’t carry business cards and they’re sure as hell not in the telephone book.

  “And two, they’re damn capable of it. I met them. You haven’t. And I’m tellin’ you they’re capable of anythin’.”

  Chapter Seven

  McGuire spent the afternoon on the balcony of his motel room watching children as they splashed and laughed in the pool while their parents lounged nearby in the sunshine, sipping drinks and gossiping. There was only one topic, of course: the brutal killing of Bunker Crawford, which had taken place barely a hundred feet away and less than twenty-four hours earlier.

  There were fewer families than the previous day. Many had fled the hotel and memories of the shootings. A special Palm Springs police field investigating team occupied a lower-level room where strings of temporary lines had been installed to feed extension telephones and computers.

  McGuire believed Bonnar had played no direct role in the ambush, but he remained angry at the Palm Springs detective captain for permitting the private interrogation of Crawford by two federal officers.

  Bonnar said they were capable of anything. McGuire suspected that he himself might have qualified for that description on occasion. Maybe every homicide cop had. But what does it mean when a government agency can investigate people without either the intent or the means to prosecute them?

  He walked from the balcony into his room. Maybe it means you’ve got vigilantes, McGuire realized. Official government vigilantes.