J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

22

By the time I reached the beachside neighborhood on the periphery of Perdido where all the motels are situated, the ocean was tinted by an eerie gray-green haze. As I watched, an odd refraction of fading sunlight created the fleeting mirage of an island hovering above the sea, mossy and unreachable. There was something otherworldly in its gloom. I’ve seen something like it in the endless passageway created when two mirrors reflect one another, shadowy rooms curving back out of sight. The moment passed, and the image turned to smoke. The air was hot and still, unusually humid for the California coast. The area residents would have to search their garages tonight, looking for last summer’s electric floor fans, wide blades sueded with dust. Sleep would be a restless confection of sweat and tangled sheets without hope of refreshment.

I parked on a side street just off the main thoroughfare. All the motel lights had come on, creating an artificial daylight: neon greens and blues blinking out competing invitations to passing travelers. There were countless people milling along the sidewalks, all in shorts and tank tops, looking for relief from the heat. The Frostee Freeze would probably set a sales record. Cars cruised in an endless search for parking spaces. There wasn’t actually any sand in the streets, but there was the feeling of blown sand, something scrubby and windswept, a scent in the air of salt corrosion and fishing nets. The few funky bars were crowded with college students, bass-heavy music pulsing through the open doorways.

One thing I needed to keep in mind: Brian Jaffe grew up in this town. His picture had been splashed across the local papers, and he probably wasn’t free to spend a lot of time on the streets—too much risk of being recognized. I added free cable TV to my mental list of motel attributes. I didn’t think Brian’s father would dare leave him in a dive. The bleaker the accommodations, the more likely the kid was to seek amusement elsewhere.

I started with motels on the main drag and worked my way out into the surrounding neighborhood. I don’t know how motel builders get their training, but they all seem to take the same motel-naming class. Every seaside community seems to sport the same assortment. I went in and out of the Tides, the Sun ‘N’ Surf, the Breakwater, the Reef, the Lagoon, the Schooner, the Beachside, the Blue Sands, the White Sands, the Sandpiper, and the Casa Del Mar. I flashed the photostat of my PI license. I flashed the grainy black-and-white newspaper photograph of Brian Jaffe. I couldn’t believe he’d be registered under his own name, so I tried variations: Brian Jefferson, Jeff O’Brian, Brian Huff, Dean Huff, and Wendell’s favorite, Stanley Lord. I knew the date Brian had been erroneously released from jail, and I reasoned that he’d checked into a motel the same day. He was a single, and his bill was probably paid in advance. My guess was he kept to himself and hadn’t done a lot of coming and going. I was hoping someone could identify him from the picture and my description. Motel managers and desk clerks shook their heads in ignorance. I left a business card with each, extracting weighty promises that they’d get in touch if someone resembling Brian Jaffe checked into their establishments. Oh, sure. Absolutely. I wasn’t all the way out the door when they dropped the cards in their respective trash baskets.

At the Lighthouse—Direct Dial Phones*Color Cable TV*Weekly & Monthly Rates*Heated Pool*Complimentary Morning Coffee—on the twelfth try, I got a nod instead of a negative. The Lighthouse was a three-story oblong of boxy cinder block with a pool in the center. The exterior was painted sky blue and had a thirty-foot stylized image of a lighthouse affixed to the front. The desk clerk was in his seventies, energetic and alert. He was as bald as a doorknob, but he seemed to have all his own teeth. He tapped the clipping with an index finger crooked with arthritis.

“Oh, yes, he’s here. Michael Brendan. Room one ten. I wondered why he looked familiar. An older gentleman signed the register and paid a week in advance. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure of the relationship.”

“Father and son.”

“That was their claim,” the clerk said, still dubious. He scanned the details of the escape and the subsequent killing of the female motorist whose car was stolen. “I remember reading about this. Looks like that young fellow got himself in a peck of trouble and he’s not out yet. You want me to call the police?”

“Make that the county sheriff’s department and give me ten minutes with him first. Ask them to use restraint. I don’t want this turned into some kind of bloodbath. The kid is eighteen. It’s not going to look good if he’s gunned down in his pajamas.”

I left the lobby and moved through a passageway to the courtyard. It was fully dark by then, and the lighted swimming pool glowed aquamarine. Reflections from the water shimmered against the building, blots of light in a constantly shifting pattern of white. Brian’s room was on the first floor, with sliding glass doors that opened onto a small patio, which in turn opened onto the pool. Patios were separated from each other by low-growing shrubbery. Each was numbered, so finding his wasn’t difficult. I caught sight of him through mesh drapes only partially drawn. The sliding doors were closed, and I had to guess the air-conditioning was cranked up to high.