Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги без регистрации txt) 📗

The front door was almost entirely glass, so I could see straight through the circular, marble entry area into the huge, two-story living room, its floor-to-ceiling windows affording a commanding view of the entire valley.

But the view was lost on Cyril Parkus, who was sitting on the floor, staring blankly into the whiskey bottle between his legs. He was still dressed in his business suit, leaning against a wrought-iron and glass coffee table.

I knocked on the door. He looked over and didn’t seem too surprised to see me.

He motioned me inside. I opened the door and went in. The house smelled like a rose garden, but there wasn’t a single flower in sight.

“Come to check up on me?” Parkus asked.

“You didn’t sound too good.”

“Afraid I was gonna stick a gun in my mouth?”

I shrugged. There was alot of antique furniture and maritime oil paintings, but the room was dominated by an old, rotting, wooden sign above the fireplace. The faded, peeling paint read: Big Rock Lake Resort. It couldn’t have been worth much, and didn’t fit in with the rest of the decor, so I figured its value was sentimental.

“I could never do it, even though it’s the Parkus family tradition.” He shook his head and took a big swig from his bottle. “First my mom, then my sister, now my wife. All killed themselves. I must be a real horrible person to live with.”

“You’re not the reason she jumped.”

Parkus cocked his head. “Really? And how the fuck would you know that? You’ve never even talked to her.”

“I saw her face when she met Arlo Pelz,” I said. “I bet if he’d never shown up, she’d still be alive.”

“We’ll never know, will we?”

“We could try.”

“Un-fucking-believable.” He glared at me, set his bottle down on the floor, and struggled to his feet. “Is that what you came here for, Harvey, to shake me down for a few more bucks?”

Parkus reached into his pocket, pulled out his money-clip, and threw the cash at me.

“Go ahead,” he yelled, “take it!”

“I want to earn it, Mr. Parkus. I want to bring Arlo Pelz to justice.”

“Jesus Christ,” he snorted in disbelief. “I hired you do to something anybody with a driver’s license and a two-digit IQ could pull off, and now you think you’re fucking Batman.”

“Arlo Pelz might as well have pushed your wife off that overpass,” I said. “And you’re going to let him just walk away. Well, maybe you can, but I can’t.”

It was true. At that moment, I felt like I was channeling Joe Mannix, Frank Cannon, Barnaby Jones, Thomas Magnum, and all the great private eyes who came before me. Even Parkus seemed to sense that.

“Who the fuck are you?” Parkus yelled, his voice echoing off the walls of his big, wide living room. “You’re not a police officer, you’re not even a security guard. You’re barely even a man. You’re just a clown with an iron-on badge.”

He looked so disgusted at the sight of me, I thought he might vomit right there. But I felt stronger and more sure of myself than I ever had in my life.

Parkus marched over to the front door and held it open.

“Get out of my house, Harvey. Go back down to your little shack and pick your nose for a few more hours. And if you ever butt into my life again, if you so much as wave to me as I drive by, I’ll have you fired. Do we understand each other?”

I understood, all right.

The only reason he wasn’t going to have me fired the next day was because he was still afraid of what I knew, or might know, or could figure out. He couldn’t take the risk that I might go to the police with my story.

I walked out.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said as I left.

He slammed the door behind me.

I was glad I came up. I’d learned a lot and, without even realizing it, made some decisions.

In a way, Arlo Pelz and I now had something in common. We both had something on Cyril Parkus. Arlo had Lauren’s secret, whatever it was, and I knew that she was being blackmailed, and that her husband knew the guy who was doing it.

It didn’t seem like I had all that much, but it was enough to make Cyril Parkus very nervous. Enough to try buying me off and, when that failed, using intimidation to get his way.

Neither worked. If anything, he’d encouraged me.

I was going to find Arlo Pelz and whatever it was that Lauren killed herself to escape.

The only trouble was, I had no idea how I was going to do it.

Chapter Twelve

Carol was waiting for me at the Caribbean, sitting on a chaise lounge facing the entrance. She was in her business clothes, and she had the morning paper on the chaise lounge next to her.

“Shouldn’t you be on your way to work?” I asked.

“I thought you’d want to talk.”

“About what?”

She held up the Valley section of the Los Angeles Times. On the front page was a picture of Lauren, which I guessed was taken at a party, a picture of the wrecked cars on the freeway, and an article about the suicide.

I took the paper and quickly scanned the article. It was mostly about the traffic accident she caused, and the people in the hospital, who were in satisfactory condition with all kinds of broken bones. There was a little bit about Lauren and how shocked the community was by her suicide. The article said she was an active fundraiser for local charities and was survived by her husband in Camarillo and a mother in Seattle.

I handed the paper back to Carol. “I told you she needed help.”

Carol nodded. “I’m sorry, Harvey.”

“It’s not your fault.” I was saying that a lot lately.

“It’s not yours, either.”

I nodded, but really only to be polite. I wasn’t sure she was right. I told her that I saw the suicide, and that I’d talked to Cyril Parkus, and that even though he threatened me, I was going to continue my investigation.

Carol smiled, which I thought was kind of odd.

“I knew you would,” she said, like she was glad, or proud of me, when just the other night she was scowling with disapproval over the idea that I hadn’t walked away from it. I’ll never understand women.

“I think I can help you,” she said. “Do you still have that car rental agreement?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I’d like to take it to work with me; maybe I can use Arlo’s VISA number to run a credit check on him and get you an address.”

That was a great idea.

Who’d have thought having a friend at a mortgage company would come in handy on an investigation?

I was learning that there were other ways for a private eye to get information without having a love-hate relationship with a cop.

“You’re my Peggy and my Susan Silverman,” I said.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“Peggy was the secretary for private eye Joe Mannix. She did all the important research for him while he ran around beating people up. Susan Silverman is a shrink who sleeps with Spenser, another private eye. She gives him philosophical insight into how noble and good he is and they are, and how it’s okay he’s killed a dozen people because he’s so noble and good, and then she fucks his brains out.”

“Is this your way of saying you expect me to go to bed with you now?”

That hadn’t occurred to me, but since she’d mentioned it, I didn’t want to entirely dismiss the idea.

“No, but if that’s what you want . . .” I let my voice trail off suggestively.

“Get me the rental agreement, Harvey.”

She said it in a way that not only made it clear my suggestion was rejected, but that she was disappointed with me again. Somehow, that made me feel a lot more at ease with her.

I got up. “Can I use your computer while you’re at work?”

She tossed me the keys to her place. “Make yourself at home.”

I started for my apartment, then turned back to look at her and caught her looking at me. The expression on her face wasn’t the lingering traces of disappointment I’d expected. I saw warmth and concern and even some sadness.