Double

We went on for a little while, exchanging the small, mundane facts that close relationships thrive on. There had been a power failure and Don’s freezer had defrosted. Did I think he should refreeze the squid he’d had in there? (No.) The mailman had got drunk again and dumped all the mail at the bottom of the steps instead of putting it in the boxes. Should he complain? (Yes.) A celebrity had got mad at him on the talk show and used the F word before they could bleep him. Don had a tape of it for me to hear. (Good.) When we hung up, I felt the warm glow that talking to him always gave me.

Until I remembered that the name of his cousin in Tacoma was Patricia, not Laura.

The day went on in the same frustrating fashion. I kept getting a busy signal at June Paxton’s number — along with her address, I now had it memorized — and decided to drive down to Chula Vista to see her. When I arrived at her neat frame house on a street not far from Elaine’s, she had gone out. I called Beddoes a couple of times, both at home and at the hotel, but with no luck. Ibarcena continued to elude me. I checked with Henry Nyland’s housekeeper; he was still in his meeting, as far as she knew. I tried to drop in on Rich Woodall, but he wasn’t home, and the animals were locked up tight.

About four o’clock, I remembered I’d forgotten to eat and stopped at a burrito stand. I ordered one with chorizo and hot sauce, took it to my car, and the damned thing fell apart in my lap.

When I went home to change my grease-and-sauce-splattered jeans, Charlene’s kids were tearing the playroom apart, Charlene was lying down and totally ignoring them, my mother was slamming pots and pans around the kitchen and casting her dark looks at all who entered, and my father was singing up a bawdy storm in the garage. I didn’t even ask where John and Joey were — I didn’t want to know.

I changed, took three aspirin, and headed back to the Casa del Rey, hoping to buy Wolf a drink and see if he’d found out anything from Jim Lauterbach. But Wolf wasn’t at the hotel, and the convivial conventioneers who were warming up for the banquet only depressed me. I had a solitary drink on the terrace outside the Cantina Sin Nombre, brooding about Don, then called Ibarcena’s home number and received a busy signal. With a sense of relief at having something concrete to do, I set out for Ocean Beach.

Ibarcena lived in a large redwood-shingled apartment complex not far from the beach. To get to his unit, I had to go through a central courtyard where there was a swimming pool and a putting green, then along a side walkway screened from the adjoining building by tall junipers. There was no one at the pool, in spite of the late-afternoon heat.

I pushed Ibarcena’s bell and heard his voice call, “I will answer that.” He opened the door, wearing a light bathrobe open almost to the waist. His eyes widened when he saw me, and he started to shut the door.

I stepped forward, wedging my foot between the door and the frame. “Hello, Mr. Ibarcena,” I said. “You remember me — Sharon McCone, Elaine Picard’s friend?”

“Yes, what is it you want?”

“I need to talk to you about Elaine—”

Behind him the phone rang. He made an annoyed sound and stepped back. I moved inside the apartment. Ibarcena gave me an irritated look and went to the phone. When he said “Yes?” his voice crackled with impatience.

I looked around the room. It was small, with charcoal-gray walls that made it seem even smaller. The furnishings were spare, modern pieces, and the colors were all red and gold and gray — very trendy high-tech. When I looked back at Ibarcena, he was placing the receiver none too gently in its cradle.

“Who was that?” The voice came from a door in the far wall. I glanced over and saw a young man who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. He was dressed in a skimpy, tight bathing suit, and held a tray containing two iced drinks and a bowl of peanuts.

Ibarcena made the annoyed sound again. “Lloyd, of course.”

“Is he still threatening to come over?”

“Yes. He is all upset—” Ibarcena paused, glancing at me.

“Lloyd Beddoes?” I said. “What’s he upset about?”

The boy seemed to notice me for the first time. He set the tray on a chrome-and-glass coffee table and retreated toward the door.

“Don’t leave, Roger,” Ibarcena said. “This will not take long.”

The boy remained by the door, poised for flight. I was beginning to see what was going on here; Ibarcena was gay — a fact that didn’t really surprise me, given his appearance and mannerisms — and obviously had a penchant for young men. I’d interrupted a romantic interlude.

“Why is Beddoes upset?” I asked again.

Ibarcena sat down on the red couch, drawing his robe closer around him. “He has been under a very great strain since Elaine Picard’s unfortunate death.”

“Haven’t we all.” I sat down uninvited on the chair across from him. Behind me, Roger moved restively.

“Just what is it you want, Ms. McCone?” Ibarcena asked.