15

The cop was gray-haired but youthful, one of those dapper small men whose company Speke had always enjoyed. The man sported a bright red silk tie and black Italian loafers. He could have been an assistant movie producer, except he had one brown tooth.

Speke read the business card, and ran his finger over the words, feeling suddenly dyslexic: Franklin Holub. Detective, Police, City of San Francisco.

He took a deep breath he hoped Holub would not notice. Okay, he thought. It’s missing the word “Homicide.” So don’t panic. Did you think you’d never hear from anyone about this? An investigation was inevitable. Stay calm. Don’t smile too much.

Things were happening quickly. It had been less than twenty-four hours since Asquith—since the accident. Even romance can be quick. He had met Maria at a gallery. It hadn’t been entirely accidental. He had responded to a telephone solicitation to see a series of watercolors dedicated to Hamilton Speke by Maria Merriam, the artist who was all the rage. So he had naturally, out of vanity and curiosity, wandered by Sutter Street after a drink at the Redwood Room and a week later they were married. It had been fast. Fast, and very lucky. Maybe this would be lucky, too.

Of course, he told himself. Everything’s going to be fine. But the man had steady, dark eyes. He sat down as though he owned the chair, and slipped a yellow lined tablet from an imitation leather folder.

“You’re quite a way out of your normal territory,” said Speke. He had nearly said “jurisdiction,” but that word smacked of judges and gavels—of prison.

“It’s a nice morning for a drive.” It was worse, in a way, this attempt at pleasantry. The man did resemble a gentle excecutioner, the kind that used a needle.

“I think we usually call the San Mateo county sheriff if we have a burglar.”

Of course, Speke reminded himself, there had never been a burglar here at Live Oak. There had never been any trouble at all.

“I saw you on the Academy Awards,” said Holub.

“Thank you.”

“Too bad you didn’t make it.”

That’s true, thought Speke. Too bad. He said nothing, but gave one of his—he hoped—manly smiles, the kind that always worked.

“I’m here to ask you some questions about Timothy Asquith.”

Hope, that fragile creature, fell dead. Speke coughed.

Holub kept talking. He would be quick, and not take any more of Speke’s time than he had to, he said while he got his pen in hand. “You don’t mind too much, I hope.”

Speke stared, twitched, and opened his mouth. “I love talking about Timothy Asquith.”

“You know him.” It was not a question.

The English language slithered away, and could not be commanded by any effort. “Sure. A brilliant guy.”

“Have you seen him recently?”

A tremor passed through Speke’s body. “It’s been years. Many years. Why? What’s the matter? There’s nothing wrong with him, I hope. I hate to even ask. I mean, I’m sitting here talking to a—you’re a detective.”

“That’s right.”

Holub was trim, with muscular arms beneath his French-fit shirt. Speke decided to be bold. “I’m working on a book right now. My biography. Not an autobiography—an official life.” Speke was impressed with his own smoothness. “It’s a pretty major undertaking.”

Holub made a note with his pen. What was he writing down? “Not an autobiography?” Speke was going to have a heart attack, or a duodenal hemorrhage, or simply explode in about three seconds. He struggled to keep still.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Speke continued, “I want to help. But I’m under a tight schedule.”

“We think Asquith has been living in San Francisco for the last few months.” Holub toyed with the pen, a black ballpoint, and gazed at Speke in a way that made him feel very cold.

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know that. I thought he lived in the East somewhere. Well, actually, I more or less assumed he was either dead or hospitalized.”

“Dead?”

Keep talking, Speke commanded himself. “He was into drugs. Heavily. I don’t ever expect to see him again.” It was true, and, even better, it sounded true.

Something switched off in Holub, some current of skepticism. Maybe it was Speke’s handsome, famous grin. Maybe it was the apparent truthfulness in his voice.

“Asquith got himself into some legal trouble. Your name turned up.”

This was not as informative as it sounded. He echoed, “Legal trouble?” Speke savored the phrase and found it wanting. “I haven’t seen him for fifteen years.”

“He has a history of mental illness, although he struck a lot of the people we talk to as reasonably sane.”

People? He knew actual people? The old Asquith had loathed conversation. He had cherished music, and the heroic wherever he had found it, but actual people had disturbed him.

Besides, Holub was telling him nothing. “Why are you here?” Blunt, but Speke wanted to get this over with, one way or another, as soon as possible.

“We’re in the process of finding this man. People on the East Coast have some questions for him.”

Questions. Another useless word. “You don’t look for someone just because you have questions.”

“That would depend on the nature of the questions involved.”

This cop was as smart as he looked. Speke could be coy, too. “What’s he done?”

“He’s been in and out of psychiatric hospitals. Discharged once, escaped once, caught and readmitted.”

Even a euphemism packs power. “Caught and readmitted.” It sounded desperate, anguished. “He was dangerous?”

“They aren’t sure.”

“We used to know each other. I do get my share of crank letters—all kinds of people have songs they want to sell me, or … other ideas.” He stopped himself before he added, plays, tunes, titles, whole works of art that could make a lot of money.

“Of course.” The pen made a note. “But Asquith vanished from custody—excuse me, from the hospital—two years ago. He was considered criminally insane, but a low priority. No one looks for insane people any more. There are too many of them. But recently he began becoming a subtle kind of nuisance.”

Speke opened his hands to say: tell me more.

“He began frightening people. He appeared in the living room of the owner of the Mason Theater, seemingly lucid as hell, but promising that he was going to prove that he was the author of … one of your early plays, the one they made the movie of with … the one about the man who killed his wife and tried to—”

“Kingdom of Daylight.”

“He phoned television stations, newspapers. The same story. He wrote the songs, the plays—and he would prove it in a few days. We put the stories together, and bent a rule or two and looked into his apartment when we finally found out where he was living. He was living a comfortable life. Supported by some means we haven’t figured out yet. And his place, a pretty nice one-bedroom in Pacific Heights, was a shrine to you. Your picture, reviews, articles, all over the walls.”

Speke said nothing, his face, he was virtually certain, a perfect mask. He silently chided himself for being so out of touch that he had heard nothing of Asquith’s recent activities.

Holub ended the silence. “The man has vanished. No one has seen him. We think his intent is criminal.”

Speke did not blink. He waited.

“I was hoping, to be honest with you, that he’d called you up, or paid you a visit, and threatened you. A big name like yours would be more than enough for us to have a strong case. You can’t go around threatening people. Some people think we should send him to Napa State, or Atascadero. Personally, I think a few months of exposure would do him good.”

“Exposure?”

“Prison.”

Talk, Speke commanded himself. And you better sound good. “But the poor guy is obviously a mental pancake. He doesn’t belong in prison. Asquith was a man who had compassion for people.” Speke’s voice began to rise. “You can’t treat a man of his sensitivity like a thug.”

“Theater owners, reporters, ordinary citizens—even famous ones. They deserve to be protected, too.”

“I can’t see this as a threat.”

“You deserve to be protected, Mr. Speke.”

“He’s not a criminal. Asquith had a fine mind.” Speke’s lapse into past tense silenced him for a moment.

Holub did not seem to notice. “You remember him well.”

Speke’s voice was hoarse when he said, “He was a good friend.”

“Maybe you can help us understand him.”

Speke considered this statement. “He had many talents. He was an actor, did a little stage magic, wrote some songs.”

How much do I owe him, he asked himself. How much of my life belongs to Timothy Asquith?

“Do you realize,” he said, unable to stop himself from speaking, “how few remarkable people there are—how few people are really alive?”

Perhaps Holub felt just a bit awkward for a moment. There was a pause, and then he said, “If he should call you, or drop by for a visit—”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“I didn’t want to mention this, because I didn’t want to make you nervous.”

“I’m not a nervous sort of person.”

“We have reason to believe he has more than a casual interest in you. He’s not another fan and not just an old acquaintance. We think it’s pretty obvious that he has some sort of fixation on you, if you really want to know. He’s not just another crank.”

The cop’s turn of phrase was coarse, Speke thought. Holub was quick but, at the same time, ordinary. “We were friends—” He silenced himself. “We knew each other well,” he added at last.

“I’m still not telling you everything. I hesitate to mention this.”

Speke wanted to pick the little man up and hurl him through the window. Instead he crossed his legs and tried to look polite but very slightly bored.

“The questions we have for him.”

“Tell me!” Speke wanted to scream.

“He’s wanted for murder.”

Speke knew that he was expected to respond, but he could only croak, “What?”

“Cut some people up in the East. Pretty badly. Real badly. Women. Always women. So what we have is a criminally insane homicide with a fixation on Hamilton Speke.”

Speke stared.

Asquith, he thought. It couldn’t be true. You were never really dangerous. Not to anyone else. Only to yourself. He said, quietly, “You have to feel sorry for him.”

It couldn’t possibly be true, he told himself again.

Could it?

“Maybe a little compassion is in order. I wouldn’t know.” Holub slipped his pen into the folder, but continued to watch Speke as though trying to understand him. “I’d get some security. Someone around the clock. Famous people are sitting ducks. A man like that is unpredictable. He might show up here and be a whole lot of trouble. We aren’t sure. But I have a feeling, personally, that he’ll show up here eventually, and that he might be dangerous.”

“I’m not worried.”

“I got a fax last night from Elmira, New York. He wasn’t your average mental patient. Maybe I’ll leave you a copy.”

“I feel sorry for him,” said Speke, his voice dry, shaken.

He took the manila envelope, but did not look inside. “I’ve never worried about that kind of thing in my life. And Asquith is the last person I’m going to worry about now.”

“It’s just a personal opinion, not professional. But I think this man wants to destroy you.” There was an edge to Holub’s voice now, an urgency that had been missing. People often adopted an artificial ease when they met Speke for the first time, wanting to make a good impression on such a well-known man.

“That’s a little strong, isn’t it. ‘Destroy’?”

“A lot of people want to talk with this man.” Holub’s eyes were hard. He was trying to communicate without stepping out of his cop manner, his detective diction. “He isn’t wanted for traffic tickets.” He flicked a hand at the envelope. “Go ahead. Take a look at that fax.”

Speke smiled, and felt the beginnings of genuine warmth toward the cop. After all, he was trying to be helpful. “Of course I will. And I really appreciate your visit.”

“Be very cautious, Mr. Speke. This is a very sick man.”