“Nothing in the morning?”
“They went to the gatehouse about 2 a.m., slept, then caught the early trolley back to town.” He blocked out the vision of Minerva Sinclaire appearing like a ghost in front of his car.
“Hmm. About what they told me.” Brody rubbed his hand over his eyes. A cigarette propped on the side of his plate had a smoldering tail of ash.
Minerva Sinclaire’s face on the front of the newspaper stared at Oscar. The waitress slid a plate full of grease-slicked eggs and burned bacon in front of him, triangles of toast thickly smeared with orange-tinted margarine. His stomach growled but he didn’t dig in. He waited for her to fill his cup with coffee and sidle away. “Do you think she did it? The woman in the papers?” He couldn’t bring himself to say her name, like it would give away that he’d left her in his house under strict orders to stay put.
Brody grimaced. “Come on, kid. You saw the scene. There was a struggle. From her description, that girl is maybe a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. Hard to think she took out a man Lester’s size.”
Oscar felt the tension in his shoulders loosen a little and bit into the toast. A guy like Brody did his homework. It wouldn’t take much to connect Max with him. If he didn’t know now, he would soon. “Max Clark.” He washed the bite down with a gulp of the bitter coffee.
Brody’s cigarette spilled a clump of ash on the table. “The girl’s talent agent. What about him?”
Oscar wiped his mouth with a napkin then leveled with Brody. “He’s my cousin.”
“That’s a coincidence,” said the man who didn’t believe in coincidences.
Oscar didn’t explain. “He was at the party, left early.”
Brody regarded him levelly. Was he suspicious of Max? Or suspicious of Oscar? He was too smart not to be both. “Any reason to think he was involved with her? Romantically? Maybe jealous?”
“No,” Oscar lied. There were plenty of reasons to think that, but he wasn’t going to talk about Max’s personal life. Oscar told Brody what Max said about Feng Li, and how his real name was Felix Young and he worked for Hearst. Then about the anonymous letter sent to Mrs. Lester and Hearst and Louella going at each other on the telephone.
Brody listened, his brows rising like two fat caterpillars. “Hmph. Ties in with the state of the office and the bedroom. Any idea what this thing is that’s worth that kind of money?”
Oscar shook his head.
“I’ll check around, see if I can find out more about this FelixYoung character.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s a good start, kid.”
Oscar felt a flicker of pride, then remembered it was Max who had done all the legwork. He picked up his fork and started shoveling cold bacon and eggs into his mouth. Max had given him the information, sure, but he was the one bringing it to Brody.
Brody waited until Oscar’s plate was clean, then leaned forward. “There’s something else, kid, and it ain’t good news.” He lowered his voice. “The DA, he’s got some kind of skin in this game.”
Oscar shook his head. His English was good, but he didn’t follow.
Brody cleared it up. “I’m off the case. Came from high up. And get this, Adams—the officer that was at the estate—he’s on as special investigator.”
A buzz of unease crept up his neck. Brody and Adams not working together was good news to Oscar. But Adams...
“Maybe I should have told you when you walked in,” Brody went on, “but I wanted to hear what you got. And you got plenty to keep me interested.”
“But... if you’re off the case... ?” That meant he was off, too, didn’t it?
Brody pulled at his mustache. “Yeah, I am. But unfortunately, I’ve got this thing for the truth. I’ve seen too much dirt in this job, and a lot of it comes from William Randolph Hearst and his money. One way or another, I’m going to see Hearst go down before I retire to a beach in San Diego.” Brody frowned. “But the other thing is, kid, maybe I shouldn’t have gotten you into this.”
Oscar took another sip of coffee, despite how bad it was. “What do you mean?”
Brody took another long puff from his smoke and kept his eyeson Oscar. “Adams is as crooked as a barrel of fishhooks and he’s in tight with Hearst.”
Oscar gave Brody a long look. The detective wasn’t giving up, but he thought Oscar should. “You telling me to run away?” Would Brody want the money back?
“It’s not running,” Brody said. “It’s stepping back. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“But you aren’t... stepping back.”
Brody shrugged. “I don’t have much to lose, kid.”
Justice was worth fighting for. Everybody knew that. But was it worth risking his family? That’s what Brody was saying. It made sense, but it felt wrong—backing down, deserting Brody. He’d taken the job—and Brody’s money—to find the truth, not run away like some kind of scared rabbit. Besides, Minerva Sinclaire was innocent of murder. If people like Adams and Hearst sent her to prison, it would be on his conscience, and what would Padre say to that? He watched Brody watching him. And made a decision he figured he’d regret. “I’m not going anywhere.”
