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                                            CHAPTER TWENTY

                                                    Confessions

10:30 a.m.

Dutch Youngblood's Laurel Canyon home was built on the side of a hill, supported by stilts, and crushed under long and secret vegetation. Visiting was like spending a few hours with Bilbo Baggins in his Hobbit hole. Very warm and comfortable. Joe found him finishing the windows in the frame of his new addition to the house. There were no walls yet, and the old wall between the living room and what used to be the spot where Dutch had parked his boat had been replaced by a series of wide overlapping plastic strips taped to the two-by-fours to keep out the weather.

Dutch noticed Joe coming through the short gate and holstered his hammer like a gunslinger in a leather work belt hung around his waist. He hadn't popped a single bead of sweat, but he looked worn out. The theater can do that to a guy, Joe thought amused.

"Come to help?" Dutch pleaded, clasping his hands under his chin.

"Love to," Joe said. "But I haven't banged a thumb in years."

Dutch's smile opened his face. "Something to drink?"

"No, thanks. I'm headed out to Paley. You still want me to check out Thomas and Sonneborn?"

"The two guys Jackie's with?" Joe nodded. "No. I called John this morning. He said he'd handle it from there. He was pissed that I told you anything."

"All this stuff wasn't any big deal then?"

Dutch shrugged. "I got nothing to do with it, Joe. I mean, there's not much I can do from here anyway. I have to trust John to take care of it."

"You have money invested. You could lose it."

Dutch placed his hands on Joe's shoulder. "Look, guy," he said, "since I left Steiger four years ago, I bought this over-priced hillside hut, I've started my own theater, and I'm doing just fine. I've done seven shows. I'm making as much with Sad Café as I did when I left Steiger. This new show may not do well, but I'll make up for it later."

That made about as much sense to Joe as the idea of a money tree. If Dutch made the same now as then, and he couldn't afford a house and a theater when he worked for Steiger, how could he afford it now?

"And now your adding a room–"

"A studio," Dutch corrected.

"–all in just two, three years."

Dutch turned his palms up, looked skyward. "Praise the Lord."

"And your partners."

His cocky grin faded. He swallowed, glanced away, took a deep breath. He knew what was coming.

"Why didn't you tell me about Teddi?" Joe asked. Dutch scratched his chin, thinking. "You razz me about Leah, and all this time you have a partner yourself?"

"I didn't want her to know about my theater in Paley."

"What else?"

"I didn't, you know, want you making cracks."

"Like you made about me."

His head lowered. "Yeah."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Joe sing-songed. "And so what's the real reason?"

"What real reason?"

"You tell me."

Dutch looked off into the hills, a layer of exhaust hovering over them. "Steiger."

"What about him?"

"We hate him."

"We?"

"You and me–we hate the son-of-a-whore. Maybe you hate him more than me, I don't know, I doubt it. Me? There're no words to describe." He shook his head and continued. "When I left four years ago I tried to re-finance my house to get the theater started. Otto told the loan officer who called that I was leaving my job–I hadn't mentioned that on the application, of course. I told the bank it was for home-improvement. Well, the bastards turned me down. After I left, I couldn't get anyone to loan me the money. I managed to save some money, but it took two years before Teddi came along and made it happen."

He wasn't getting to the point; Dutch had insisted it wasn't coincidence that Joe was looking for Jackie, who happened to be with Reggie, who happened to work for Otto. Karma he called it.

"You found out Jackie was with Reggie and that Reggie worked for Otto, so you put Teddi on to me so you could get to Otto through Reggie Thomas. If I was looking for him, I might get something on Otto. And you could burn him."

"Same time," Dutch said, "I thought I could get you to check into what the Paleys are going to do about the leases."

"So why not tell me you wanted to get Otto?"

"Didn't think you'd go for it, guy. I should've told you. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"I do," Joe said. "You forgot about friendship."

Biting his lip, Dutch gave Joe a pitiful look that could win a Tony. Joe wouldn't fall for it.

"So where did the money come from?"

"What do you mean?"

"The money. Your part in Sad Café and The Paley Playhouse–the studio?"

Dutch folded his arms and shook his head, glanced down the hill to Laurel Canyon. His eyes shifted back to Joe.

"Did I mention my investors?" he kidded.

"Yes." Dutch was stalling. "You saying you have other investors?"

"Well, yeah."

Joe wasn't going to ask who. He didn't really care. Until Dutch smiled. And only one person could draw that wry smile.

"Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?" Joe asked.

"Probably."

"Steiger?" Dutch raised his eyebrows and nodded sheepishly. "How could you–?" Joe didn’t finish. That stab of disclosure was like a spear in the gut. How could Dutch hate a man so much and still go into business with him? The face of Leah Levin rolled across his mind. Wasn't he doing the same damn thing? No. It wasn't the same. Or was it?

A devilish smirk rose on Dutch's lips. He chuckled and shook his head. "One difference, though," Dutch said. "Steiger wasn't a–how should I say?– a willing investor."

Joe thought about that one for all of five seconds. Dutch glanced away and said: "Otto believes everyone thinks he’s so smart that he can’t be fooled. He got that scam artist mentality, you know? He believes he’s too smart to be fooled by anyone." He paused a bit too dramatically, then said: "I sort of played with the branch office books and pulled out fifty-one thousand before I left and he never figured it out."

"What–you took–?"

"I took fifty-one grand. Took me almost three years. Had clients write checks to me–you know, so the wife or business partner wouldn’t know the client was hiring an investigator–and I’d make a deposit in what I called my Retirement Account–and never post it. Client pays cash? In went into the retirement account. Bought equipment for the office–equipment I didn’t need–then took it back for the cash and submitted a copy of the receipt. I wanted fifty-K. And when I got there, I was gone." He grinned victoriously, expecting Joe to slap him on the back and congratulate him.

Joe was stunned. Dutch winked and strolled to a faucet tucked between two sawdust covered bushes. He drank from the end of a curled hose, wiped his mouth and offered it to Joe. Joe shook his head. Dutch dropped the hose, turned off the water and ambled back to Joe.

Losing fifty-one grand couldn't have happened to a nastier guy. But Joe's anger swelled the more he thought about how his best friend solved problems. It was a moment of strange, personal loss.

"You're no better than he is," Joe said finally. "You're just like him."

Dutch sputtered his lips and said, "Me? Hey, guy, I'm nothing like Steiger. How can you say that?"

"How can you tell me you ripped off your employer and not bat an eye? Huh? How do you do that? And how do you feel now that I know about it? Like we're in some clubhouse, some treehouse, telling sticky little secrets, that we jack-off to Mozart or something? You ever think maybe I don't want to know about it?"

Hardening his voice, Dutch said: "You pumped me, man. You wanted to know where I got the money."

"And you think that means you make me an accessory-after? Who the hell do you think you are? You own a couple two-bit theaters nobody knows about and you turn into...somebody I don't want to know."

Dutch looked down, dabbed a rock with his boot-toe. "All I ask–as a friend–is that you not be a part of bringing the consequences down on me. I know it's a short-sighted hope, but sometime soon I hope to pay him back."

"Pay him back? Pay him back? What’re you going to do? Drop fifty grand in his bank account? Doing your own room addition work to save up?" Angrily, Joe applauded. Dutch's face lost its handsomeness. A fallen angel expression surfaced. He was sweating now. Joe knew he was taking a deep breath to keep down his own anger. Dutch arched his eyebrows, implying a resolve in the gesture.

Joe poked him in the chest. "Do I look like God to you?" Dutch shook his head. "No, I don't. You see a collar? Do I look like Father Sierra? No. God and priests–and cops–take confessions. Get it right."

Dutch folded his arms, kicked the rock, looked around disinterestedly. Like a little brother getting scolded for something he thought was picayune. Joe's brotherly reaction was swift. He turned a quarter turn to the right, cocked his arm and planted a solid straight punch to his friend's stomach.

Dutch doubled over, unable to breathe, his mouth agape in pain and his eyes crushed with agony and surprise. As he sunk to one knee, Joe stuck his face in Dutch's. "Don't ever tell me shit like that again!"

Leah parked across the entrance of the driveway in her white Ford Mustang 5-liter convertible. The top was down. She waved to Joe.

"Why...why'd you...do that?" Dutch gasped.

Leah was gesturing to Joe in wild sign language. The interpretation was that she wanted to know if she should come over there and meet Joe's friend. He wished he hadn't told her to meet him there.

Dutch raised his eyes to Joe. "I had to tell you. It was...eating me up."

Snidely, Joe said, "Anything for a friend. We'll talk later. Right now you need to get up and prepare yourself."

Joe helped him up. "For what?" He followed Joe's eyes and spotted the Mustang and the pink and white outfit on the pretty woman walking up his short driveway.

"Dutch," Joe said, "you remember my partner, Leah Levin. Leah, Dutch Youngblood."

They both said "hi" and shook hands. Their eyes locked. Joe stood between them for a moment, waiting for one of them to say something. And then, in the silence, he stepped back. In case he was in Cupid's line of fire. They deserved each other. But a strange feeling rose in him. He didn’t like the way Leah was looking at Dutch. She liked what she saw and she wasn’t trying to hide it. What really bothered him–and admitting it was distressing–was that she’d never looked at Joe that way.

* * *

Streaking along Highway 14, Leah's monotone voice imitated a cop over Joe's hand-held Motorola radio.

"Mustang to Beamer, come in Beamer."

Joe didn't want to play this game again. "What do you want now?"

"Read you loud and clear, Beamer–hey, aren't you supposed to say 'Come in, Mustang' or something?" She added: "Over."

"What do you want?" Joe said as if to someone learning English.

"Let's stop in Apple Valley. Over."

"We've been on the road for just over an hour. Let's get there, Leah. What do you say?"

"I have to pee, is what I say, over."

Joe knew this wasn't one of those things he could win, so he agreed to stop. He wanted to call Teddi again on a pay phone. Car phone was too damn expensive when it went to roam.

While Leah used the ladies room in a Shell station off the highway, Joe called Weldon's number from the pay phone. It was answered on the second ring. He recognized the energetic voice of Jackie's older sister Jayne.

"Jayne, this is Joe."

"Where the hell have you been?" she said.

"What?"

"Mom tried calling your office, paging you–"

"Okay, okay, put her on."

He left his pager behind because it wouldn't work all the way out in Paley. Why the service hadn't put her call through, he didn't know.

"She's gone. He called."

"Who called?"

"One of the scumbrains Jackie's with."

"Reggie?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Where's your mom?"

"She hung up on him and left. She was pissed off. He said Jackie left on the shuttle and he didn't know where she was. He sounded like he really didn't know. Said he'd find her. I think he thinks she's still out there somewhere–at least that's the impression he gave me by saying he would find her."

"Did he say where he was?"

"Uh-uh."

"Anything else?"

"Uh-uh."

Joe remembered what he called about. "Jayne, I need your help."

"Really?" she replied overly excited. He couldn't tell if she was being facetious or not.

"Not about Jackie. It's about a boy I'm looking for. Robby Catlin." He stopped. Jayne didn't respond. "He's a friend of one of your friends," Joe bluffed.

"Who?"

"T.J."

"T.J. Kenny?" Bingo.

"How well do you know him?"

"How did you know I knew him?"

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing important," she said. "I told him I wasn't the kind of woman he thought I was, that he was boring, and maybe he should try my little sister, who's only a year older than him."

"Did he?"

"Yeah, he did. She didn't like him either."

"When was this?"

"Back in May or June."

"After that," Joe spelled out. "You talked to him again."

"When?"

"Thursday morning."

"Thursday, Thursday," she thought aloud.

"Jayne," Joe interrupted gently, "soon after I left your house on Thursday, you told someone about your mother hiring me, about Jackie's running away. Right?"

"I did?" She sounded genuinely amazed. Joe wondered if he was off base with this one. "Maybe I did."

"T.J. was at your house before I got there. I saw his car leave."

"Yeah, he was, now that I think of it. It was Thursday."

"And?"

"He wanted to talk to Jackie." There was a breathless pause. "Oh, God. I did. I told him Jackie had a boyfriend and she went away with him and I didn't know where she was."

"What did he say?"

"Let me think. What did he say, what did he say? He said...he said he missed her. He didn't say anything else, because I told him...oh, God."

"What?"

"I told him...I told him mom had to hire a private eye to find her."

"Did you–"

"I didn't tell him your name," she blurted.

"You must've said something."

"Why?" she answered, now with a little respect for his inside dope. "How do you know all this?"

Joe rewarded her. "I don't usually go into names and details, but you've been helpful. Well, Robby–T.J.'s friend–tried getting a job with my agency. Talked me into riding along with me Thursday afternoon."

"And you think he was riding your professional coattails, so to speak, to help T.J. find Jackie."

Smart girl. "Exactly."

"So something I said led them to you."

"Exactly."

A beat. Then Jayne said: "I know what it is." She hesitated. "He wouldn't leave, so I used the fact that you were expected there any minute to get rid of him. You say you saw him down the road?"

"Yes."

"He followed you. He's always wanted to be a detective–a real one, you know–police detective."

Joe ignored the remark about not being a real detective–he knew what she meant. Besides, she'd validated his decision to bring Leah with him and to look for Robby in Paley.

"If you hear from T.J. or Robby, would you call me?" He gave her his car phone number. "I'll leave the number for the motel where I'm staying when I get to Paley. Tell your mother."

"Tell whose mother what?" Leah said, poking her head into the phone booth. Joe motioned for her to be quiet.

"Okay," Jayne agreed.

"Thanks."

"Oh, and Mr. Cox?"

"Yeah?"

"Daisy misses you." She giggled.

Joe chuckled back. They said goodbye and hung up.

Leah had a disgusted look on her face. He was getting used to it. Still, he asked her what was the problem.

"The pro-blem," she over-enunciated, "is that I go pee, you go and investigate behind my back. You left me out of the detective stuff again."

"I was going to tell you about it," Joe assured her. He turned his hand into a pistol, pointed it at her and said: "Pardner." And he noticed something for the first time: her eyes were green and bright. He liked her eyes. Even as they threw daggers.

* * *

Two hours later, Supertramp sang Take The Long Way Home on his car radio. The signal was getting weaker. He turned if off. In his rear view mirror was the white Mustang, its top down. Leah's hair streamed out behind her head like some goddess standing in front of a wind machine. And she was smiling. And he didn’t like how it made him feel. He didn’t want to find her attractive. He didn’t want to feel anything and he certainly didn’t like believing she looked like a goddess.

He looked up to see the sign she was smiling at. It was a solitary billboard with a pastoral painting of a town and a lake and blow-ups of family faces staring back at the desert.

PALEY CITY

Home of The Plunge

A family resort. Swimming, boating, hiking.

Over the radio, Leah said: "Mustang to Beamer. Bye-bye, Beamer! See you there! Over...and gone!"

Joe felt the rumble of the Mustang's engine as she passed him, charging up Interstate 15 at 100 miles an hour. And the old thoughts streamed back.

Maybe she'll lose control of the car. Cross the line. Slam head-on into a Peterbilt. Turn that Mustang into horsemeat.

No, he didn't really want that to happen. He'd get stuck with the funeral bill.