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BACK AT MY shop, I looked after everything, caught up with Mrs. Otis, checked messages and orders and told her that I didn't plan to show up for a few days. Again. My business was going down the drain and Mrs. Otis's look confirmed it.
At two p.m., I walked to the gym, a modern affair on PCH near Hermosa Beach. It overlooked a shopping center and had a partial view of the Pacific. While I did the treadmill and watched mothers and crying kids carrying tons of food and shopping bags to their cars, I tried to clear my brain. After half an hour on the treadmill, the sweat started to flow. I fenced off some weak pick-up lines by some of the other members and started with my basics. A small boulder climbing wall provided me with some static exercises, moving slowly from left to right, from right to left, just using the red foot- and finger-rests. After that, I took the easier and much quicker green route, my fingers and feet aching madly from the tension on my limbs. Half an hour later, the ballet room. As it was early afternoon, I had the room almost to myself. I did a wide range of beginner exercises, circling through the Positions and the Devants and Derrieres, and then turned to more complicated combinations. Remembering the sequences and improving the controlled movement of my legs, arms and head, the ballet moves helped me to develop and maintain better command of my body. Useful for a cat burglar, anytime.
After two hours of grueling workout, returning to slow speed, I cooled off on the treadmill. The TV in the workout room, tuned to CNN, ran a news clip on 'The Mex Max,' mainly focusing on the San Diego connection. Meanwhile, just as Lobos had predicted, the affair had started to grow in Mexico City. Several politicians of Mexico's cultural leadership had shown concern about the 'colonialisation crime' bleeding out the national heritage. One politician, clearly in need of some good headlines, even talked about 'looting.' Not too bad, considering no had one ever paid any attention to 'The Max' before we turned up.
Dinner with Mundy, Manhattan Beach, Greek. He came in, sat down, and his look told me I had to spill the whole story before anything else was discussed. And so I did.
He sat through it, not asking a thing, letting me tell it my way. This was unusual, because his reporter mind usually shot ahead with questions during the interview. After I had finished my Mexican tale and my latest theories, he said nothing for several minutes. I had the impression that he wanted to tell me something but couldn't find the right words. He rubbed his face.
"So, my working theory is that whoever has the Maximilian Jewels in his or her possession is responsible for at least one of the murders," I explained.
"And who are today's suspects?" Mundy asked.
"Two main suspects and some minor ones," I said, cleaning my mouth with my napkin and counting on my fingers. "Number one—Andrew Altward. Either seeing his deal endangered or he took some opportunity that got out of hand."
"I see him for Phoebe. But not for her father Wally. But go ahead."
"Number two—the late Mr. Toledo. The man who stole the Maximilian Set from the museum in the first place. I witnessed firsthand how unscrupulous he was."
Mundy wagged his head again. "You could argue that he has the same motive to steal back the jewels as Altward. Either deal derailing or another better buyer at hand."
"But should it turn out to be him, it will be hard to prove or to find the jewels. He is dead and he took every secret he had with him," I pointed out.
"Who else?"
"Suspect number three—Thomas Cornelius. Despite the fact that he offered me the pipes of peace, his main objective is the retrieval of 'The Max.' He tried to steal the stones from Altward. Wally Eastman got in the way and was killed. Phoebe Eastman had lent herself one item from the set. Cornelius, in the form of Billy Bounce, went after her and killed her, too."
"But then who got 'The Max?' Cornelius wouldn't order you around to find the jewels if he already had them in his possession."
"I know, no theory is perfect. I'm just telling you what I think, and I didn't think it through completely."
"Got a number four?"
"We haven't looked at Altward's ex-wife. But in theory, at this point, you could mix money and love. She probably has ties into the art scene and maybe also has a buyer lined up. And then maybe a twist of jealousy, Phoebe and her ex-hubby. And despite her reassurance that she didn't know how to operate the safe, we don't know what she really knows."
"Any more?"
"Number five—'The Japanese,' Mr. Nakamoto. Ambitious collector. Maybe too ambitious. Does not like that his deal is cancelled so he takes matters into his own hands. Maybe with knowledge and a little help from Phoebe and her dad?"
"And how do your cat-head-cracking friend Billy Bounce and his oily companion fit into this? Is Billy Number 6?"
"He is not the brains. More like the enforcer for either Thomas, the ex-wife or the Japanese."
"What about any other minor suspects?"
"Yeah, got that, too. That scientist at UCLA for example, Benito Salanca. He had early insight into 'The Max,' maybe became interested when he realized how valuable it was. Befriended Toledo in Mexico City, while he was doing his research down there. But I don't know how the murders and the stolen Max fit into this," I grimaced. "Very weak, don't say it."
"Fluffy, at least," Mundy crossed his arms. "Let me guess, you plan to break into each and every apartment and look for 'The Max', just as you did with Altward and Phoebe."
I avoided Mundy's look, caught at the very thought, poking my salad. "Am I that predictable?"
"She is a one trick pony. She either fails or she succeeds," Mundy sighed.
Afterwards, we took a night stroll on the deserted beach, the sodium lights from the walkway gave enough light to see where the surf ended and solid sand began.
Mundy fought with himself and finally got to the subject that had preoccupied him earlier. "Let's sit down for a minute, please." We sat in the sand, throwing stones into the water.
Finally, he gathered enough courage. "Don't you think this has gone too far?"
"What do you mean? The Mexico incident?" I asked.
"See, you are already making it sound like a faraway experience out of a TV series. 'The Mexico incident.' You almost got killed down there, two mere days ago. You fought a guy armed with a lead club, escaped through a tenth floor window and managed to kill your attacker by throwing him out the window."
"I didn't kill him, it was an accident."
"Whatever. The point is that any other person I know would be completely devastated by that chain of events. Shell shocked, bed bound, drugged and psycho. But what is my fearless friend doing—she refuses police guard, sits alone on the beach in the middle of the night and plots a series of break-ins with her best buddy."
"I have you for protection."
"Wisecracking, as usual, the Calendar girl." He rubbed his face again, put his glasses back on. "Cal, you are my best friend." It came out very honestly and without pathos. "I am in love with you, we figured out that much by now. You are not in love with me. I understand that, I accept that." He paused for a second. "That came out wrong. I do not accept that you are not in love with me. There is always hope."
"Back on track, please."
"What I want to say is that I care for you and I don't want to see you hurt. I want you to be around in my future." He took a deep breath and we were silent for a couple minutes.
It isn't very often that a man tells you he is in love with you, so I leaned against Mundy and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. "I don't know what to say, Mundy, really."
"As long as you don't say 'sorry' or 'we can always be good friends,' it is alright with me. Having made my main point, here is the next one: I think it is time for you to stop your burglar thing." Mundy turned to me. "You have had your fun for some years now, you were lucky not to be caught, you had your near misses the last few times but you should stop right here. It can't be about the money, your shop is supporting you, isn't it? And if you turned your energy more into the business, you could earn even more money with honest capitalistic work."
"Mundy, it is not about the money. Well, not all of it, to be honest. The money I keep from my capers is giving me a very high degree of independence that is hard to reproduce otherwise. I am able to produce gems and jewelry of high quality and beauty because I have the means, partly from the thefts," I said.
"There, you said it, you are a thief. Nothing else. There is nothing romantic about what you are doing, pure stealing. I think there is something wired the wrong way in your brain. The inability to see the wrongdoing of your 'hobby.'"
"It is not a hobby! It is like a game, a dangerous game where no one gets hurt," I defended myself.
"Except that some very highly priced jewels change hands and the former owner may be poorer by 100K or the insurance company is. You may think that you are a modern Robin Hood because you are pouring most of it into foundations for sick children or foster homes. But you are not Robin Hood, you remain a thief."
"Well... I blame it on my parents. I grew up and watched them breaking into laboratories and furry animal farms to free the beasts."
"That is clearly something else," said Mundy.
"But it hurts the insurance companies and the other folks in the very same way," I argued.
"Cal, there is a difference between fighting for animal rights and freeing a poor oppressed piece of jewelry from the cruel darkness of a high security vault. And you know it. I think you should get treatment and get out of that job. Before you get caught. Or killed."
"But it was you who benefited from my 'hobby' when you were in dire need," I said. But I already regretted bringing up the subject.
"And I wish now that I had never asked you to do it," Mundy said bitterly. "I wish I had taken the blame and gone my way."
Mundy had been in trouble a few years back, shortly after our re-acquaintance in Redondo. He had been working on an investigative story about a cover-up involving a chemical plant leak. When Mundy broke the story and his paper had to defend itself from various lobbyists and authorities, it turned out that crucial documents Mundy collected had gone missing from his newsroom desk. Mundy was shocked when I handed him the missing documents two days later and told him where I had found them. But he was finally able to prove his investigation and he came to local fame.
Mundy turned his head away for a minute. I hugged him from the side and comforted him. "Sorry, Mun-bun. That was a very cheap shot."
He took another minute to recover and hugged me back. It felt good to be loved, but at the same time, I felt alone as never before in my life.