"Laforza," said Kennedy. "Limited production out of Escondido. It's not an SUV, it's a PSV."
Pretentious Shithead's Vehicle? thought Kurtz. Aloud, he said, "PSV?"
"Personal Security Vehicle." Kennedy pounded the driver's side door with his knuckles. "Kevlar door inserts. Thirty-two millimeter Spectra Shield bulletproof glass on the windshield, side windows, and sunroof. Hands-free communication and a transponder inside. Supercharged GM Vortec six-oh liter V-8 under the hood that produces four hundred twenty-five horsepower."
"Cool," said Kurtz, trying to make his voice sound like a fourteen-year-old's.
"My personal vehicle is a Porsche 911 Turbo," said Kennedy, "but I drive the Laforza sometimes when I'm around clients. Our agency gets a small kickback
from the people in Escondido if we help place an order."
"How much would one of these set me back?" asked Kurtz. He kicked the front left tire. It hurt his foot. He'd just expended his entire cache of car-buying expertise.
"This is a PSVL4," said Kennedy. "Top of the line. If I get you a discount, oh one hundred and thirty-nine thousand dollars."
Kurtz nodded judiciously. "I'll think about it. I'd have to talk to the missus first."
"So you're married, Mr. Kurtz?" Kennedy was walking back toward the townhouse and Kurtz followed as far as the sidewalk.
"Not really," said Kurtz.
Kennedy blinked and folded his arms. He may look like the current James Bond , thought Kurtz, but he doesn't seem quite as fast on his intellectual feet as the superspy .
As if responding in delayed reaction, Kennedy laughed twice. He had the kind of loud, easy, unselfconscious laugh that people loved. Kurtz could have happily used a shovel on the man's head at that moment.
"So what brings you to Peg's neighborhood, Mr. Kurtz?" The security man's tone wasn't aggressive, just pleasantly curious.
"I bet you can tell me," said Kurtz. This guy drives a Porsche 911 Turbo. He's a member of that club that Tom Wolfe called "Masters of the Universe ."
Kennedy nodded, thought a minute, and said, "You still think like a private investigator. You've been working through some things about the shooting and wonder if there's a clue in Peg's house."
Kurtz widened his eyes slightly as if in awe of Kennedy's ratiocination.
"But you weren't thinking about breaking in, were you, Mr. Kurtz?" Kennedy's white smile took the edge off the question. It was a smile , Kurtz thought, that could honestly be called "infectious ." Kurtz hated things that infected other things.
Kurtz smiled back, with no fear of his chagrined smirk being thought of as infectious. "Naw. I had enough prison time in Attica. I was just in the neighborhood and was as you say thinking about the shooting."
I always used to stand outside victims' homes and try to pick up on psychic vibes when I was a licensed P.I ., thought Kurtz but didn't articulate this coda. It might be gilding the lily a bit, even for someone as self-satisfiedly obtuse as Brian Kennedy.
"Want to come in?" said Kennedy, tossing a ring of keys in the air. "I was just picking up some insurance stuff and legal papers that the hospital wanted. I don't think Peg would have minded if you just step in a minute while I'm here."
Kurtz picked up on the past-tense in that last sentence. Had O'Toole died? The last he'd heard, she was on life support.
"Sure," he said and followed Kennedy into the building.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
"Just clues to her personality," said Kurtz.
"Such as?" said Arlene. She flicked ashes into her ashtray.
Kurtz walked to the window. It had grown colder and darker and begun to rain again. Even though it was an hour from official sunset, the streetlights had come on along Chippewa and the headlights and taillights of passing cars reflected on the wet asphalt.
"Such as the place was neat and clean and tilled with art," said Kurtz. "Not a lot of original artshe couldn't have afforded that on her probation officer salarybut tasteful stuff, and more small original oil paintings and sculptures than most people would collect. And books. Lots of books. Mostly paperbacks but all of them looked like they'd been read, not just leather-bound crap to look good on the shelves, but real books. Fiction, nonfiction, classics."
"No real clues then," said Arlene.
Kurtz shook his head, turned back to the room, and sipped some Starbucks coffee he'd picked up. He'd brought a cup for Arlene, and she was drinking hers between puffs on her Marlboro. "She had a laptop on her desk," said Kurtz. "And two low filing cabinets. But obviously I couldn't look through them with Kennedy there."
"Weird that he let you come in with him," said Arlene. "He must be the most
guileless security expert in the world"
"Or too crafty for his own good," said Kurtz. "He made tea for us."
"How nicely domestic," said Arlene. "Made himself right at home in Ms. O'Toole's townhouse, huh?"
Kurtz shrugged. "He told me that he'd been staying there with her when he was in Buffalo every few weeks. I saw some of his suits and blazers in a closet."