No Questions Asked by Ross Thomas

Author:Ross Thomas [Thomas, Ross]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-5970-2
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2012-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

12

IT WAS WARM THE next morning, warm for me anyhow, about 60 degrees and cloudy. I had a mediocre breakfast in a coffee shop that I found across the street. When I came back to the motel I called Max Spivey. He wanted to know where I was staying and where I planned to start.

“I thought I’d talk to Maude Goodwater first,” I said.

Spivey was silent for a moment. “I suppose that would be all right.”

“Why wouldn’t it?”

“She’s still pretty upset because of Jack Marsh.”

“I have to start somewhere.”

“She’s had to talk to a lot of people in the last few days. We’ve talked to her. The cops have talked to her. I don’t think she really wants to talk to anybody else.”

“I’ll try to be both polite and brief.”

There was another silence that lasted a few seconds before Spivey said, “Okay. I’ll give you her address and phone number.” He read off the phone number and I wrote it down. The address was on Malibu Road. “You know where that is?” he said.

“No, but I’ll find it.”

After Spivey hung up, I looked at my watch. It was 9:15. I wondered if Maude Goodwater would be up yet and decided to find out. She answered the phone on its third ring. She had a low, quiet voice over the telephone. I told her who I was and why I wanted to see her.

“Were you there?” she said.

“Where?”

“In Washington when Jack was killed?”

“Yes. I was there.”

There was a silence. I seemed to be running into them that morning. Then she said, “Will you tell me about it?”

“If you’d like me to,” I said.

“Yes, I think I would. Where are you staying?”

“At a motel on La Brea.”

“Why don’t we make it eleven o’clock?”

I told her that eleven would be fine, listened to her directions, and then hung up. After that I sat in the lime green plastic chair and read the Los Angeles Times for a while. There was an interesting article about some coyotes that had found their way into Beverly Hills and were causing all sorts of fuss.

When the knock sounded at the door I looked at my watch. It was 9:30. I opened the door and it was Guerriero, wearing a blue shirt, white duck slacks, and loafers. He was also carrying a white paper bag.

“I brought some coffee in case you hadn’t had any,” he said.

“I can use some more,” I said. “Come in.”

He came in and took two coffee containers out of the paper sack. “How do you take yours?” he said.

“Just sugar.”

He ripped open a small packet of sugar, dumped its contents into one of the coffees, stirred it, and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said. “How far is it to Malibu?”

“This time of day, about thirty or thirty-five minutes. Maybe less.”

“We can make it by eleven?”

He nodded. “No problem. We can even take the scenic route. It’s slower, but if you don’t have to be there until eleven, we’ve got plenty of time.”

“What’s the scenic route?”

“Sunset Boulevard all the way to the beach.

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