Body Copy - Michael Craven [71]
But Tremaine knew not to ignore what he’d discovered.
Not to ignore where the combination of his subconscious mind and his conscious mind had taken him. From Wendy Leahy to the karate studio to the murder of a beautiful young wannabe-actress named Kelly Burch. Keep going, Tremaine, keep looking. And he knew he would. Next, call this guy Dean Latham. See if he could swing by and say hello. Maybe Latham would shed a little light on things.
You never know. Tremaine stamped out his smoke in his ashtray. Yeah, you never know.
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C H A P T E R 3 2
The next day, a Saturday, Tremaine got up, and instead of going for a surf, he went for a jog. Hit some old trails in the canyons of Malibu. It was a hot morning, which Tremaine liked. He ran for about an hour—it was hot, really hot—and was glad to be back at the base of the trails, at the Cutlass, parked and waiting to take him back to the trailer.
He drove home, cooled off a bit, then grabbed the phone and dialed up Dean Latham, looking at his notes for the number.
A man answered, “Hello.”
Tremaine got a little stroke of luck. Latham was home.
Tremaine said, “Dean?”
“Yeeees,” Dean Latham said, a little irritated. Probably had caller ID and didn’t recognize the number.
“My name is Donald Tremaine, I’m a private detective.”
Michael Craven
A beat of silence. Then Latham said, “Can I help you?”
“Maybe. I was wondering if I could talk to you for ten minutes or so, in person.”
“What’s this about, Mr. Tremaine?” Dean’s voice now losing the irritation and gaining some worry. Latham reacting normally now. Like, I didn’t do anything . . .
Tremaine said, “I’m investigating a murder. Two murders actually. And your name came up.”
“What murders are you investigating?” Latham said.
“I’d like to tell you in person. Can I? It won’t take long, Dean. Just a couple questions.”
There was a pause, and then Latham said, “Yeah, sure.
But not today, I’m busy. How ’bout tomorrow? Sunday.”
“Tomorrow’s fine,” Tremaine said.
“Why don’t you come by around four. Do you know where I live?”
“Yeah,” Tremaine said. “Hollywood Hills. 2512 Lookout Mountain.”
“How’d you know that?” Latham said. “I’m not listed.”
“You’ve got a criminal record.”
“Barely,” Latham said.
“Barely counts, too,” Tremaine said, and he hung up the phone.
Seeing Nina that afternoon was refreshing and, at this particular time, unexpected. Tremaine was sitting on top of his trailer, the completed Jumble (one minute, thirty-nine seconds) at his feet next to Lyle, when Nina pulled up.
She got out of the black Volvo, looked up at Tremaine, and said, simply, “Hi.”
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B O D Y C O P Y
“Hello.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trapped in the mind right now, mulling over the new and, as always with this case, mystifying developments.”
Tremaine started to talk about the case. Nina politely interrupted him and said, “That’s not why I came over.”
“Oh,” Tremaine said. “How can I help you, otherwise?”
“I want you to take me surfing.”
“Really. Right now?”
“Right now. I told you I was going to try it and, well, here I am.”
Tremaine thought, duty calls . . .
He stood up on the trailer and looked out into the ocean, checking out the conditions. A ways away, but he knew the big blue body of water well.
“Looks like about two to four. Shouldn’t be too rough for a rookie.”
Nina gave Tremaine a look—a look that said, quit while you’re ahead, buddy. While you’re barely, imperceptibly ahead.
Tremaine put Lyle inside, then grabbed two longboards out of the adjoining storage space he had next to his trailer.
This would be nice—Nina, the waves, the water. A little break from the heavy thinking. Tremaine planned to skin it, no wetsuit, but as he was loading the boards, it occurred to him that Nina might need a wetsuit, might not have one.
He paused for a moment and looked at his storage shed, thinking about