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.
«Claire Arlen's brother,» Doyle answered. «Her twin brother, I think. He runs a bookstore on South Grand Avenue. Rare and antiquarian books.»
«I think Carl felt bitter about the way Phil treated Claire,» Bob said.
«And how was that?» Matt asked.
Bob shrugged uncomfortably. Veronica said, «Phil was not ideal husband material.» She smiled at Bob, and there was no doubt she thought her own husband was a prize worth hanging onto.
«And how did Claire feel about Phil?»
There was a pause, and Veronica answered. «I guess you'd have to ask her, Lieutenant.»
«I guess I will,» said Matt.
Tara Renee stood frowning beneath the striped awning of the Las Palmas Club. She brightened when she spotted Matt and Jonesy. «What'd you do with Nathan?» she asked, trotting to keep up with Matt as he strode toward the mahogany doors with their stained glass windows of green palm trees and azure oceans.