Chapter Twenty-four

Elizabeth was putting the finishing touches on the Cimabue Madonna restoration. She leaned back from the small painting to get a fuller view and smiled at her work.

“Not bad,” she said aloud.

“Very good, I’d say.”

She spun around, surprised. She’d been so intent on the work that she had not even heard her son return.

“Did they teach you to sneak up on people at the spy shop of yours?”

“Sorry. I thought you heard me come in.”

Then he told her of Hicks’s arrest, but not the embarrassing part about Hicks holding him at gunpoint. No use setting her off.

He shrugged. “So there goes my primary suspect.”

“Be happy,” she said, standing now and gathering her brushes for cleaning. “At least he’s off the streets. But why was he arrested?”

“I’ve got to check with my Captain. Maybe it’s because the bureau got positive information he’s the one who’s been spying at Fort Ord. Or maybe his Nazi sympathizing finally caught up with him.”

She felt suddenly deflated. “Does this mean you’ll be leaving soon?”

He shrugged. “Not if he’s not the spy. And I sure didn’t see any sign of espionage today. He led me on a merry chase down the coast to some rich woman who I figure he’s trying to bring into the flock.”

The thought of how much she would miss and worry about Philip when he had to leave nagged at her. She tried to put it out of her mind.

Stretching, she said, “It’s good to be finished. Miss Madonna here was beginning to get on my nerves with those almond eyes.”

Philip nodded and then looked reflective. “You know, I noticed something today while tracking Hicks. There was this road near the Big Sur where I took up watch. It was closed because of a washed-out bridge.”

“Doesn’t sound very momentous.” She daubed the thinner off the brush.

“I remembered you and Dad talking about a restaurant in that area. A French restaurant.”

This caught her attention. “Yes?”

She watched as Philip pulled out a notebook, flipping through its pages until he found what he was looking for. “Bistro Chez Henri,” he read. “Sounds like snail heaven.” He smiled.

“Go on.”

“Well, it’s closed, I assume. The road was shut down on February nineteenth. So there’s no way to get to it.”

She felt a flutter of excitement. If that was the restaurant where Babs Martindale was supposed to have dined on the twenty-third, then there was a problem.

“I wish I’d gotten the name of that restaurant from Chase,” she said.

“Why not enlist Uncle Teddy’s aid?” Philip said. “He’s cozy with Martindale, from what you’ve said. Have him tell her he’s looking for a special place to take his wife.”

“But Chase said the one they went to had later closed because of rationing.”

“Well, maybe she doesn’t know that. Maybe Chase didn’t mention it to her.”

“They trained you well at spy school,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek.

Then she thought: What if it is the same restaurant? Why would Carlton Chase be making up an alibi for Babs Martindale? Did he suspect her of killing Tadeo and want to protect her?

After ruminating on it for half an hour, she finally gave Teddy a call at his real estate agency and explained what she needed.

“Why don’t you have Max do it? Why me?”

“Come on, Teddy. She trusts you. A real estate broker is the next best thing to a priest.”

“Yes. And Babs is going to stop trusting me if I’m always nosing around in her private affairs.”

“The name of a favorite restaurant? She’ll take it as a compliment. You hold her taste in high esteem.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Teddy was right. She had not told him the place closed down before the date of Martindale’s alibi.

“I just need to talk with the owners. That’s all. Verify the alibi if possible.”

“Why not ask Chase, then? He’s the one who said they had dinner. Or are you afraid of losing your commission?”

She did not immediately reply to this.

“Now you can see how I feel,” Teddy said.

“Right. I can see how you feel. But I already tried that route and he continued to be vague. I don’t want to be too obvious and get people’s suspicions up. Does that make sense?”

“So big brother to the rescue again, that it?”

“‘Big’ only in the sense of size, Teddy. And you could be doing a patriotic service, who knows?” She did not elaborate or wait for him to wonder about that. “Get back to me after you talk to Babs, okay? Bistro Chez Henri near the Big Sur coast. But don’t prompt her.”

“I know how to sell, Lizzy.”

She busied herself with cleaning up the studio, trying unsuccessfully not to look at her wrist watch every few minutes. A half hour into this self-inflicted purgatory the phone rang and she hurried to answer it.

“That’s the name,” Teddy said. “And no more favors, okay?”

He hung up before Elizabeth had a chance to thank him.

Well, she thought. Babs Martindale has just gone to the top of our list of suspects.

In order to follow up on Norton’s suggestion about the real murder scene at the base of the cliffs, Max had to drive half a mile beyond the Bluff to find a path leading down to the beach.

I must be damned desperate if I expect to find anything below the Bluff, he thought. Fool’s errand.

In fact he was getting desperate. Despite the ever-increasing body count, he knew that this case was approaching the point of going cold. Leads leading nowhere, busy work of checking crime scenes like he did with the parking lot where Jimmy was brutally run down. Nothing there but a rusty spot on the tarmac that could have been blood. A pissed off old Japanese guy with an attack goat and damned sad tale of lost love.

He was feeling peckish and undone—not a good combination for a homicide cop.

Suck it up Byrns. One foot in front of the other. Good things come to those who hope. You’re making headway—or at least Elizabeth is. The Bluff in Yokohama, the possibility of the mysterious Basho being a Westerner.

He parked alongside the road and scrambled down to the beach. It was low tide, and he made his way north along the hard-packed sand to where both Tadeo and now Carswell had died.

Soon, the beach gave way to rocky shoreline and he picked his way carefully among the rocks, slippery with seaweed, turning up the collar on his oilskin jacket against the chill breeze off the water. Briny smell of the seaweed in his nostrils.

A cloud covered the sun for a moment. He had no idea what he was looking for, but he had learned long ago that crime scenes can offer up evidence to those who are patient.

The cloud passed quickly and once again bright sun poured down on the rocks, causing a momentary glinting reflection a few feet in front of him. Alerted, he kept his eyes on that space as he picked his way across the rocks. Leaning over, he could see a metal object lodged in a small crevice of a sandstone boulder. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to dig the object out with thumb and forefinger. Then, careful to keep the cloth under it, he placed the shiny piece of metal in the palm of his hand.

It was a brass button with the design of an anchor on it. It did not show wear or weathering, and Max let out a satisfied sigh, hoping this might be a piece of evidence from Carswell’s murder. It was the type of button worn on fancy blazers or coats. Could Carswell have grabbed his attacker just as he was being shoved over the edge of the cliff and managed to tear a button off Basho’s jacket? That would be far too lucky.

Sometimes, however, you needed a bit of luck.

He nudged the button over, looking at its back for any manufacturing marks, hoping to find a traceable number.

Not that lucky.

Still, it was a distinctive button, not something everyone would wear. And there was a chance to get a print, even if the button had been submerged for a time. Crime labs could get prints off brass casings with a bit of special treatment beyond the usual dusting. It could be worth a shot, but how to get Sherry on board now that he, Max, was persona non grata with the sheriff?

He wrapped the button and put it in his jacket pocket.

Not a bad day’s work for a busted up old cop.