Lou looked at me from the side of her eye, not turning her head. I held my breath. But she didn’t push it any further.
Carrigan’s office took up three high-rise floors in an Art Deco jewel box of a skyscraper that was located in the apocalypse of downtown. On the forty-minute ride, I had time to fill Lou in on what I’d learned so far about Carrigan.
His favorite movies starred Humphrey Bogart. He’d grown up in Wisconsin. He’d been the college quarterback. Married to Tana Carrigan, Philanthropist and Wife. Not a bad-looking woman at all, more handsome than beautiful, with a square chin, and despite her evident Botox, she still looked mostly human. She was also seven years older than her husband, which I suspected might have something to do with the fervent upkeep.
Before Tana, there’d been another wife, the college sweetheart, pictured with him in an old notice about Carrigan’s football prowess. A nice-looking girl—small silver cross around her neck; nails painted purity-ring pink; shiny, center-parted hair. Also blonde. They’d been married three or four years—maybe she’d refused to give it up without a diamond; she looked the type. Virginity can make a woman sound interesting to a certain kind of man, but it’s an interest you can never earn back once you’ve spent it. A quiet divorce, no children. Then came Tana, the I Mean It This Time Marriage.
And after Tana, zilch. Not so much as a photograph within an arm’s length of another woman. Surprising, for a man that handsome.
Two blondes in a row. I wondered if that meant we should look for a brunette—men never seemed to crave what they already had—or if it was a better bet to stick with the tried-and-true. Something to think about, when the time came.
Finally, I brought up the most interesting thing I’d found. “He’s only a Carrigan by marriage. He took the wife’s last name.”
Lou was quiet for a moment, blinkering onto the 10. She didn’t seem surprised. Maybe she’d already known. “And?”
“I don’t want you to be disappointed, that’s all. If he doesn’t have access to all that Carrigan cash.”
“He’s still one of them,” she said finally. Lou took a turn too tight, and the car rocked a little as she overcorrected. “If he married in, he’s still one of ’em.”
I had my doubts, but I held my tongue. Instead, I showed Lou the family photo and her eyebrows leapt up into her hairline.
“Yowza,” Lou said, grinning at me. “He’s almost handsome enough for me to consider coming out of retirement.”
“Almost.”
If Lou had run marks for the Lady herself, it hadn’t happened since I’d come on board. She must have done several when she started out, when it was a hinky two-person operation, no Jackal as the muscle and photog, no me to help research and find new girls. And I did know that there had been a time in her past when she’d done things for cash she didn’t like to dwell on now. But all that was a very long time ago, in a city with a short memory.
It had been years since I’d had much to do with downtown, but I still knew the area enough to correct Lou a few times as she drove, guiding her to the right spot. Lou parked in the empty lot across from Carrigan’s law office and turned to face me. Her eyes were shining, even more than her normal excitement for cases.
“You know, I’d always hoped I’d find a partner. I mean, the Lady’s great, but it’s not like she’s part of the day-to-day. She’s not really in it, the way we are. It’s everything I’d hoped for all those years ago—that day we first met, you couldn’t stop crying, do you remember? But you still had all that cocky attitude underneath, waiting for me. I knew it immediately, I thought to myself, There’s a girl who goes the distance.”
I started to say something, but Lou held up her hand.
“And now we’re taking down one of the Carrigans, together—Jo, it’s like a dream. That name’s everywhere, and it’s going to be us who topples him.” She sounded gleeful. “It’s like we’re really the ones running this city.” Lou smiled at me and shook her head, cheeks glowing in happiness.
Carrigan still made me uneasy—No one can make my Mitch do anything he doesn’t want to do—and I had too much over my head to be excited about a new case. But I couldn’t burst that bubble. Instead, I said: “I guess we are.”
We studied the joint. His firm was located on the ninth floor. It wasn’t like we could see anything from the outside, and Lou was a little bit nearsighted anyway, so she mostly alternated between squinting at Carrigan’s office, waiting for him to come out, and flipping through photos of him I’d saved on my phone.
Sometimes, the things you don’t find are the most interesting. Like the fact that Carrigan’s office had hung no billboards, posted no signs, made no announcements about his campaign. That didn’t square to me. A man who would take his wealthy wife’s last name for clout didn’t seem like a man who was ashamed of self-promotion. It might mean something. It might not.
But one of Lou’s rules was to assume nothing. Making assumptions was a fast track to making a mistake.
For example, assuming that I knew exactly how far I could push Ellen. Assuming that she was too chickenshit to ever call my bluff. That had been a mistake. An expensive mistake.
After twenty minutes, Lou stretched and yawned. I was about to suggest we move on, drive to Carrigan’s house, when she said: “You never did tell me how it went with Jackal the other night.”
I choked on the cooling coffee, splashed some up my nose. Jackal’s photographs were my first thought. “The other night?”
“You know. When you left me at the tiki bar.”
My stomach twitched. On the radio, an old jazzy standard made new by a woman with the voice of a thunderstorm. I looked at Lou from the corner of my eye—she hadn’t moved her head at all, and even parked, her hands were stuck on two and ten like they were glued, but she had a mischievous little smile on her face.
“What exactly did you want to know?”
“Did he . . . learn his lesson? To bring backup next time?”
She’d never asked for details before. I fluffed my hands through my hair—an old nervous habit, from the days before I’d drowned my tells in gimlets. I knew she noticed. “You want to know what Jackal’s packing?”
“Hey, you don’t want to tell me, don’t tell me.”
“He learned his lesson.”
“Good,” Lou said. If she was disappointed I didn’t go into more detail, she didn’t show it.
“What about you?” I surveyed her briefly—white T-shirt, blue jeans, sneakers. Nothing that would make me think she’d been anywhere other than her own apartment last night. “Seeing anyone new?”
Lou pursed her lips, let out a little hum. “Nothing special.”
I smiled into my coffee, then reached over and put my hand over the key chain from Lou’s keys, still hooked into the engine and ticking back and forth. “Let’s go.”
“Go?”
But I was already out of the car, checking the traffic, trotting toward Carrigan’s office. After a moment, I heard Lou get out of the car, walking slowly, reluctantly even, behind me.
I wondered if she was thinking of the last time we’d been in an office building downtown together. How badly that encounter had ended. I was.
I gave Carrigan’s name at the security desk, which directed us to the ninth floor. Once the elevator doors closed behind us, Lou turned to me.
“What are you doing?” Lou’s eyes were smudgy and a little bit nervous and a lot thrilled.
“Trust me,” I said, smiling.
The doors dinged open on a big glass desk where a woman was glaring into the screen of her computer, asymmetrical haircut shuffled behind one ear.
“Can I help you?”
A woman behind the desk; too bad. Women were much better at remembering the little details about other women—the way they dressed, how they wore their hair. To a man, I’d be some random brunette as
king questions. A quick glance behind the desk showed a pair of pink pumps tucked behind her chair wheels. And on her lap, a copy of the Paris Review she’d shuffled guiltily off her desk as we approached.
I made a split-second decision. “We’re here for an interview with Mr. Carrigan,” I said. “The Times sent me.”
That interested her. She squinted at me and then at Lou, who managed a smile despite looking a little green around the gills. I was right. Offices did still make her nervous. “The Times sent two reporters for an interview?”
“My photographer,” I said. On cue, Lou waved her phone in the air. I kept talking quickly, to distract the receptionist from the fact that Lou’s most advanced equipment was a phone several years old. I nodded at the journal in her lap. “You a writer?”
She gave me a slow grin, a little shoulder shrug. “When I’m not here.” She looked back at the computer and frowned. At the corner of the desk, a tiny pile of Carrigan campaign brochures were nearly hidden underneath a paperweight. Interesting. “I don’t see anything on Mr. Carrigan’s schedule about an interview. You sure you’ve got the right date, hon?”
Hon. I smiled. The power of favors, Lou had taught me once, was to ask for them, not to give them. Making someone feel generous was more appealing than anything you could offer. I leaned closer to the secretary, like we had a secret. Lou leaned in, too. She was staring at me, not the secretary now. She had a small smile on her face, and I tried to ignore her, my cheeks burning under her gaze.
“I’ll be honest with you. I was hoping to find him here when he wasn’t busy. Thought I might be able to catch him off the cuff.” Her expression shuttered a little and I added, hastily, “Nothing bad, I promise. He won’t speak to the press directly, and I’m impressed with his campaign.”
“Mr. Carrigan’s campaign is very exciting, but unfortunately it is not something we can comment on professionally, as I’m sure you understand,” she recited. But the way she’d said campaign, such distaste—it was more than the company line she was selling. Very interesting.
“I see,” I said, watching her. “You don’t like his chances?”
“I don’t like sellouts,” she said tartly, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Don’t print that.”
“I won’t,” I promised. I leaned away from the desk, giving her space now. “Can I leave a card with you to pass along?” I could see her weighing the possibilities, her job versus helping out a writer for the Times. A favor that would be remembered.
“I can take a card,” she said slowly. She looked torn, as though she was deciding between telling me something and kicking me out. I decided to take a gamble and not push it. I dropped the card—the same I’d left at the St. Leo, just my name and number—and headed for the elevator.
“Hey, wait a minute,” she called as the door dinged. “He’s not available right now, but I think he might be heading to Sole del Mare next week. For happy hour, maybe. It’s sort of a regular Monday thing, for him and a few other guys around here. If your editor can wait that long.”
I loved this girl; she was an open book. She pronounced Sole like the bottom of a foot and Mare like a female horse. The way she said guys gave me a certain flavor, too—at least the girl we hired wouldn’t have to compete with dozens of snappy young interns at happy hour.
I almost wondered if I should shuffle her a card with an invite to meet up, see if she might be willing to flip on her boss; she was in such a perfect position to do so. But that could get complicated. Maybe she’d feel some loyalty to her boss, even if he was a sellout. Even if he wasn’t present.
I knew something about that.
“Thank you,” I said, with real gratitude, snagging a campaign brochure from underneath the paperweight before pulling Lou back to the elevator by the elbow. “You don’t even know how helpful you’ve been.”
Chapter 9
Lou and I grinned at each other, stupidly, arms intertwined, all the way back to her car. She kept leaning into me and giggling, giddy with possibility.
I couldn’t stop myself from twirling in front of the security guard, flirting outrageously on my way out, giving him a little salute while I bit my bottom lip. For a moment, it didn’t matter that I still thought Carrigan had too many red flags, that I got short of breath every time I thought of that nineteen grand I owed. There was magic in our work when the pieces started to drop into place.
As Lou drove, we talked out the things we’d learned: the lack of flyers in Carrigan’s office, the lackluster support from the staff. A favorite restaurant and a date that he frequented it would make it so much easier for the first meeting between mark and girl to appear coincidental. The old boys’ club mentality, even as he ran on a platform of progressive change backed by old money.
I read to her from the campaign brochure and showed her the pictures, the little details I picked up. The suit Carrigan wore in the first picture was navy blue, which I assumed Tana had picked to match his eyes. Even from the tiny brochure photo, I could tell the suit was custom-made. A well-curated swath of diverse city dwellers all looked eager to shake his hand. That suit probably cost their entire month’s rent. It would’ve cost a few of mine. Most of the space was dedicated to those pictures—it seemed Carrigan was a man of few, if any, words. There was only the slogan: Make Money Work for You! Tana looked more approachable in print than she did on TV, sugar blonde and beaming. She could fill out a twinset, all right. They looked like any handsome, unhappy married couple.
But my favorite photo featured a graying man with a hand on both Carrigan’s and Tana’s shoulders. Tana held her piglet of a son against her thigh. The caption read: Hollis Carrigan and family. Three generations of Angelenos: The past, present, and future of Los Angeles. Nowhere did it mention that Hollis Carrigan was the father of Tana and not Mitch. That fact alone painted a vivid picture of the man we were tailing.
I wondered what Carrigan’s first wife would think of the photo.
“A drink?” Lou asked, cruising back into Beverly Hills. “And then maybe we go by his house. See if he’s headed anywhere else tonight.”
I laughed uneasily. “I can’t. I’m meeting Jackal,” I lied.
“More lessons he needs to learn?”
“Something like that. I want to make sure we’re all set for Ellen and Klein on Thursday.” I knew she wouldn’t argue with that.
But Lou was too keyed up to be cautious. She bounced in her seat, the yellow light of the afternoon sun setting her hair on fire. “C’mon, Jackal can wait for one drink.”
Yes, he could. But I couldn’t. “Sorry,” I said. “Rain check.”
“Oh.” Lou’s smile faltered briefly, but then it brightened again. “Well, what about tomorrow night? Head to Olvera Street, scope out the fund-raiser location?” I knew what she was thinking: if I could wrap up Klein within the week, maybe we could have a girl in place in time for Carrigan’s campaign event in a few weeks. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible.
I said yes, of course.
As she shot south, back to Tarantula Gardens, Lou turned to me and said: “You’re not afraid of Ellen, are you?”
“What?”
“I keep thinking about it. Her feelings for the mark. Our biggest rule, you know.”
I laughed uneasily, fiddling with the radio to have something to do with my hands. Scared of Ellen—I was, but she barely made my top five.
“Please,” I said, laughing it off. I was so good I nearly convinced myself. “Like that puffball has the stuff to scare me.”
“By the end of the week,” Lou reminded me. There was a little steel in her voice.
“Money in the bank, baby,” I said, making her smile. “I’ll bring a camera myself.”
Lou dropped me off at my place—she’d offered to take me directly to Jackal’s, but I’d begged off, saying I’d need my car for a speedy postcoital getaway. She’d smiled at that and
shook her head, and I waited ten whole minutes after her car rounded the corner from my complex before heading to Ellen’s, hoping I wasn’t already too late.
* * *
It wasn’t feasible for me to stake out the Alto Nido Apartments, Ellen’s complex, every night without Lou getting suspicious, but I had a hunch I couldn’t shake. If gambling had been my vice and not Jackal’s, I’d have laid money that she’d try to find a way to see Klein without me. Ellen might have won our skirmish in the office, but that victory had come with a price. Now I had a better measure of what she was capable of, and I didn’t plan to lose the war.
Her apartment faced an alley, which sounded good in theory. But alleys were terrible for surveillance. There’s no good way to camp out in an alley and not be remembered, unless you’re a bum, and there were still some lines I wasn’t willing to cross for the job.
I did drive through the alley as I circled the block, clocking that Ellen’s light wasn’t on. It was still the afternoon, so it didn’t necessarily mean anything, but her car not parked in the garage sure did.
I kicked myself, wondering if I was too late. Maybe she and Klein were already holed up at some hotel—maybe even the St. Leo. My brain kicked up a number of scenarios, none good: Ellen picking a fight. Klein deciding the current lay wasn’t worth the trouble. Ellen, in tears, reaching for his hands, trying to hold him. Too many scenarios ended with him giving her the brush-off, generously slipping a C-note into her hand to smooth things over. And then all of our effort, all those slaps, really would have been wasted. I pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose, squeezing hard, trying to think. I could turn tail and drive there. Barge into their hotel room—with what key?—and tell Ellen to hop off now, we had shit to discuss. If that’s even where they’d gone.
No, I’d wait to confront her here. I’d be able to tell by looking at her if she’d been with him. All that unruly blonde hair held a pillow imprint for hours.
The Lady Upstairs Page 7
