Body Copy - Michael Craven [5]
Tremaine was off to the races. The first one, myrig, was easy: grimy. He wrote it down. Then he knocked out tolbet and whallo: bottle and hallow. teaga? What was that? teaga. Hmm. Got it: agate.
He took the circled letters out of the solved words: The m and the y out of grimy. Both a’s and the e out of agate.
Both t’s and the e out of bottle. And the h, an l, and the w out of hallow.
The new unscrambled word looked like this: myaaette-hlw. What it takes to wear the latest designer clothes . . . A what? A . . . A . . . Tremaine looked at the stopwatch, already over a minute. Shit. A . . .
Got it: A wealthy mate. Those clever bastards. Tremaine hit the stopwatch. One minute, forty seven. Not a terrible time, but not even in his top fifty.
14
B O D Y C O P Y
All right, Tremaine had had his one minute and forty-seven seconds of fun, now it was time to get to work. To go on the real clock. He picked up his cordless and dialed.
“Lopez. Tremaine,” he said.
“I figured you’d be calling after I sent Nina Aldeen your way.”
“You ruined my vacation.”
“What vacation?“
“I was off to Australia today for two months.”
“You don’t tell your friends when you’re leaving the continent for two months?”
“Oh, I tell my friends.”
Lopez said, “Hey, you better start kissing my ass. I’m assuming you want me to send you the police report on Roger Gale.”
“I’ll buy you a steak.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll buy me a steak and several drinks.”
“Fine.”
“Several expensive drinks.”
“Fine.”
“I mean like Belvedere and Maker’s, minimum.”
“Fine.”
Then Lopez said, “Did Nina mention that I didn’t work on that case?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Bullshit.”
Tremaine said, “I appreciate you sending the work my way, John. Really. And not just because Nina’s the kind of girl you’d sell your soul for.”
“My pleasure. We go back a long way.”
15
Michael Craven
“Indeed.”
“Remember those days?” Lopez said. “Growing up? We pretty much just surfed, chased girls and got high.”
“We got in a few fights as I recall. Out there in the water defending our turf.”
“Had to, those guys down in Huntington were mean.
That is, till you became the local hero. You had a nickname, what was it? Something about you being a crazy bastard.”
“You’re funny, Lopez. Say, what do you do these days without me to protect you?”
“I thought I protected you. For a P.I., you don’t have a great memory.”
“Selective. But I do remember the good old days. I think about them often,” Tremaine said.
“Your life hasn’t changed much, has it, buddy?”
“Not as many girls.”
“But the grass?”
“You’re a cop. I can’t tell you that. Now you’re the one not remembering anything.”
“I’ll get you some stuff on Roger Gale in a couple days.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Oh,” Lopez said, “Happy Birthday.”
“Should I be expecting a present?”
“The police report, the investigation files, the autopsy report. Those are your presents.”
“But I’m buying you a steak and drinks for that stuff.”
“Yeah,” Lopez said, “I know.”
16
C H A P T E R 4
Tremaine went for another cup of coffee and thought, no, can’t do it, done for the day. Starting to see spots. Oh, what the hell, it’s my birthday . . .
He got online and started to look around for information on Roger Gale. His life, his career, his history. The first thing he did was find a picture of the man. A picture of the man as he had looked just before he was killed. Tremaine stared at the image on the screen. Short white hair, blue or maybe even gray eyes, and a tan, a California ad man. He looked alive, alert. Younger than his fifty-nine years.
Information on the guy’s career was a snap to find. He was all over the Net, his achievements in the world of advertising being nothing short of huge.
Michael Craven
Roger Gale began as an ad writer, a copywriter, and started a small direct-mail ad agency with an account executive named Ted Parker. Both men had been in the business only a few years, but they hung a shingle anyway in San Clemente, California, and started chasing business. Knowing they wanted a