“We’ll see,” she said, taking my hand. She pulled me up, and we joined the other couples. A slow dance began. She fit against me like a tailored suit. Her backless dress allowed me to explore milky-white territory. I was falling hard, and I was praying that she would be my cushion.
We toured the expanse several times before noticing the music had changed to a livelier tempo. So that was the reason people were jumping around. Sophia and I joined in, kicking up our heels. We flew through a couple more numbers before deciding to take a breather.
Wending our way to our table, the Chandlers were still going strong. I ordered a couple of drinks, deciding to switch the subject to the reason I was actually here. Taking out my cell, I popped up a picture of Ruth.
“Do you recognize her?”
Sophia stared, punching through the slide show.
“No. Am I supposed to?”
“I thought maybe you would. She used to come here a lot.”
“And you know this …?”
“Oh, you mean, why am I asking? Because … because she was an old flame.”
“Is she why you came here?”
“Yes,” I admitted, sticking close to the truth. There was no reason to lie to Sophia about this. Plus, the closer you stick to the truth, the less you have to remember the next time you make up more stories. “I had a thing for her, but she had a thing for someone else, and—”
“She used to come here. I get it.”
The titian-haired beauty sipped her wine, slipping the phone in my jacket pocket.
“Nope. Never saw her. Sorry.”
“Hey, don’t be sorry. Just be you,” I said, taking her by the chin and drawing her near for a quick kiss. She giggled. On her, it was charming. She yanked me to my feet so we could have another go with the ballroom crowd. I was getting better, though. I only stepped on her toes twice every song.
The music slipped into a bluesy rendition of a classic. I pressed her close, breathing in the heady perfume that was so different from Ruth’s. Her ribs were prominent under the taut skin. My fingers probed their bony structure. While in need of a few hamburgers, there was enough mass to make my blood boil and my stick shift to go into drive.
“Let’s go,” she whispered. Escorting me across the hardwood floors, my heart was paddling upstream as fast as it could. Waiting for the elevator seemed interminable. Once inside, Sophia made up for the none-too-swift ascent by starting the foreplay in the tight quarters. My head was swimming as she wrapped one leg around my waist. Her tongue darted into my receptive mouth, her hips starting rhythmic micro-humps.
When the doors opened, I rushed out, carrying her down the hall in my arms. We passed an elderly couple who smiled knowingly. I reciprocated, fishing out the card key. When the green light flashed, I hurried through. Hustling straight to the bed, I tossed my little captive lady on top.
Before I could unbutton my shirt, she pulled me on top of her. We reversed positions in no time at all. From there, we went into the stratosphere, circling Jupiter at least one hundred times. God, she was delicious! Seemingly built for sex, she knew every nuance a man craved. She liberally dispensed those secrets upon my body, and I was lost in some primal directive. This was the reason we were put on Earth, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to argue.
“Oh, my God, Sophia. That was … amazing,” I murmured as I rolled off of her. I’d wanted to come up with a bigger descriptive word, but my brain was having some kind of meltdown. It was understandable.
Remembering that women don’t like oafs who stray off by themselves after sexual encounters, I scooted back, my arm going under her head. If she wanted cuddling, I would be the blanket she leaned on.
I kissed her forehead, my head snapping back against the pillow.
“So what’s your last name,” I queried.
“You really want to know, Mr. Savage?” she teased, her finger running through the hair on my chest.
“Mr. Savage? So you’ve been checking up on me?” I joked, giving her another quick peck.
“Just a little. I asked the desk clerk.”
“Well, maybe I’ll just ask about you, oh, Lady of Mystery.” I chuckled.
“It wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t say anything.”
I leaned over to see if she was kidding. By the light streaming through the window, I could see that she wasn’t.
“You’re serious?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Savage. The Abyssinian is protective of their guests.”
“But I’m a guest,” I retorted.
Turning onto her shoulder, she tapped the end of my nose with one nail.
“You are a stranger.”
“I don’t understand.”
She got up, strolling to the light switch. Turning on the overhead lights, she decreased the brightness until it was just enough. The sharp shadows accentuated every curve of her startlingly perfect form.
“You’re not meant to, darling.” Picking up the phone, she ordered champagne. I retrieved my shorts from where they’d been flung and stepped into them. I made a note to switch to boxers. Tidy whities were designed to make men look stupid.
She lounged on the couch. I walked behind, massaging her shoulders and kissing the back of her neck.
“I’m not sure I follow. Why all the mystery? All I wanted to know is your last name and—” The light bulb went on inside. I made another note to stop being a stupid dick. “Sophia isn’t your real name, is it?”
A knock on the door interrupted her response. She grabbed my shirt and answered the door, signing for the order. I had no idea whose name she signed, nor did I care. I just hoped Marge’s checks had cleared.
Rolling in the cart, she picked up the bottle of champagne and used the opener provided. Pouring out two glasses, she made a toast.
“To Mr. Curt Savage and me.”
“The girl with no name,” I quipped as I touched my glass to hers.
She had a throaty laugh. It turned me on.
“That’s pretty much it. I come here to unwind. I don’t want … complications.”
“Or love?” I asked, taking another swallow.
“What’s love got to do with it, darling? Besides, I might have already found that. You might be a fling. How would that be? To know you helped me unwind?”
I neared. Taking one of her hands, I kissed her fingers. Her nails were red. Precisely manicured, they looked like they could shred a side of beef.
“Well, it would explain the condoms you just happen to carry around. But to answer your question, it would be fine. I’ll take anything I can get.”
She seemed to approve of the reply. I moved even closer as my fingers slipped around the back of her long neck. I put my glass down. Taking hers, I set it next to mine. I gathered her up, carrying her back into bed. My hands went inside my shirt, which she was still wearing.
“I tell you what, Miss No Name. I have one for you. One that I’ll always remember.”
“And what would that be, Curt?” she whispered.
“Angel. I’d like to call you Angel if that’s all right. That’s what you are to me.”
The hypnotic green eyes half closed. Lazily appraising me, there was a trace of affection or perhaps it was my imagination helped along by the poor light. My phone rang. I wasn’t expecting any calls, and the world could wait. I needed a second helping of my fallen angel.
CHAPTER 37
In the morning, I reached to the other side of the king-sized bed, but my angel was gone. I ran my fingers through my hair; it was moving day. Before I got a chance to shower, I got a call from the front desk, telling me that the room was available for one more night. Although more time spent with Sophia was a lure, there was also an idea gestating in my brain. I accepted on the spot.
I washed, choosing to put on my good sports shirt. It was the only one I had brought along and I was hoping to run into you know who. A quick scan of the dining room didn’t reveal any coppery tresses, but it did
uncover the Chandlers, who waved me over.
The breakfast chatter was delightful. This couple had been everywhere and knew just how to be spiffy meal companions. I bid them adieu, leaving their dinner invitation dangling. I didn’t know my plans because I didn’t know Angel’s.
I stopped by the front desk. Dee was back. Only this time, I found out her name was Sandra.
“Sandra, is a woman named Sophia around? Tall, red-headed, thin, looks like a model or an actress.”
“The one that ordered champagne last night?”
No smile on her lips, Sandra really cut to the chase.
“Yes, that would be the girl.”
“No, Sophia checked out this morning.”
Dinner with the Chandlers was on. I went to my room, requesting my car be out front in fifteen minutes. While I was speaking, I remembered the call I’d received last night. I’d turned my phone off so Angel and I wouldn’t be interrupted again.
Snatching my cell off the nightstand, it’d been Mike that placed the call. In fact, she’d called about fifteen times after that, leaving callbacks every ten minutes until she gave up. It’s not good to disappoint Mike.
“Mike? Sorry. I got kind of busy last night.”
“As if that’s an excuse. I needed you, man!”
Alarm was in her voice, pinching it into louder than necessary tones. I reacted to the urgency.
“What’s going on? Talk to me.”
“I knew that scumbag Lamprey wasn’t to be trusted. Remember that party I told you about? Well, Candy was propositioned. And offered X amount of dollars to be someone’s twentieth wife.”
“No? But, isn’t that pretty normal conversation? I mean, model chasers are usually sleazy as hell.”
“Yes, but a friend of Candy’s has disappeared.”
She had my interest. I couldn’t brush that one off.
“Details.”
“She just didn’t come home. Her name’s Adele. Stunning girl. She and Candy became tight because the other girls that were brought over from the States are a little looser in the sexual arena. You might say they’re hookers.”
“Are you exaggerating?”
“No. Candy and Adele are the only two that could legitimately be hired as models. Anyway, they exchanged numbers—and sob stories—and they were going to look out for one another. So Candy calls her room yesterday morning … oh, that’s the other thing I need to tell you. This modeling agency wouldn’t let the girls room together. How’s that for funny shit?”
“That is weird. Usually, they want to save money.”
“But this splits them up, don’t it? So she calls, and no Adele. Goes to the front desk, and Adele Glover never checked back in last night. So Candy calls her phone. No answer. It slides into voicemail. This went on for a couple of hours. Candy calls Hirschy, who is the head sleazeball taking care of these models, and Hirschy tells her that Adele has gone home. However, he doesn’t know that Candy knows Adele’s parents’ number, so she calls home and—”
“No Adele.”
“Exactly. Then, last night, I decided to stay with Candy. I was getting bad vibes about the way she was treated. Don’t you know, these two guys came into the room.”
“They broke in?”
“Oh, no, they did not. They had their own key card and strolled in. They spotted me sleeping on the couch and mumbled something about being in the wrong room, but how did they get the card?”
“I see your point.”
“Anyway, I took her to another hotel and we’re incommunicado, but not for long. Mr. Hirschy has her passport, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Told her he needed it for something, so I’m going to get in touch with some people who know some people and pay him a visit tomorrow.”
“I had no idea.”
“I haven’t gotten to the best part.”
“Which is?”
“Wallace.”
“What about Wallace?” I asked.
“When Candy was at the party, I resumed the search of his computer and guess what I found?”
“What?”
“Pages and pages of links and info on the Bonner case.”
“Danielle Bonner? The little girl that was found dead in her parents’ home?”
“The same. And remember that it was dead as in being asphyxiated while being sexually molested. I told you the guy was a perv.”
“It’s intriguing, but not enough. Hell, I was reading up on that case, too.”
“Still? You’ve been downloading everything for the past four years?”
“Maybe he’s writing a book?”
“Yeah, and maybe my ass lays golden eggs. You‘re such a fucking idiot sometimes.”
“I am indeed. Keep me posted. And if you need anything, I can fly out there. My passport is up to date.”
“Thanks, Savage. You are a friend.”
“None truer. Goodbye.”
CHAPTER 38
I headed to Wizzy. Wizzy was the intentional community that seemed to have sprung up around The Abyssinian, and no, I didn’t know it existed either.
It was a pretty community once you found it. Lots of restaurants and touristy things to do, I’d already done an online search for Blanchard’s number. There were Blanchards galore, but nothing for one residing in Wizzy, California.
As I made my way down the center of town—at least, I think it was the center—I started thinking about a certain redhead that had crawled under my skin. Why had she left? Could be that work called her home. Or it could be that I’d gotten too clingy? For someone that survived by having one-night stands, I can imagine that quality can be irritating.
The time spent with her was so memorable. Like a movie going from black and white to technicolor. And could you really judge things by how long they lasted? Like drugs, for instance. You can use that nickel bag only once, but it gets you higher than a kite in seconds. Okay, maybe that was a bad example. That’s why I don’t usually dabble in analogies.
I picked a place at random, and started the journey of finding Blanchard. Somebody had to know him. Especially in a place this size. The first shopkeeper I asked didn’t. I went on to the next, and so on down the line of stores and eateries. By sheer chance, there was a mailman making his rounds. I ran up to him.
“Say, I’m looking for a guy named Blanchard. He’s yea high, and about 190 and is excitable.”
“You mean Crazy Blanchard?”
How couldn’t I have guessed that nickname?
“Yes,” I answered with the authority of someone who’d met him.
“He lives on Wilmore. That’s about a half a mile from here. Take Belle Drive, then hang a right. You’ll be on Canyon Road. Hang another right until you get to Wilmore. He’s at 74, white house with no dog. We postal workers make a note of such things.”
“I imagine you do. Thanks and nice shorts. You can carry them off without looking ridiculous,” I lied.
“Appreciate it.”
I took off in search of Crazy. It would have helped if I had asked for Blanchard’s real first name, but my bad. I found the small, one-story structure easily thanks to the great directions given to me by … Guess I should have asked for his name also. Double bad.
A Rambler in the driveway; did they still make those things? Whether it was running or not was anyone’s guess. I rang, hearing the reciprocal bell go off inside the home. From there, I waited. I knew the drill. It wasn’t long until Crazy’s face appeared behind the screen door remained latched.
Blanchard peered at me the same way a scientist would inspect a suspected Big Foot turd.
“Say, I know you! You’re the guy I spoke to the other day! I have your picture! I’ll take it to the cops if you don’t leave me alone! God, you people think you can do anything, don’t you?”
“Please, hold on, Mr. Blanchard. I have no idea who ‘you people’ are. This is the first time I’ve been to The Abyssinian.”
“One time is enough to let me know you’re part of that cabal!”
Could a nickname be any more perfect?
“I’m not part of anything. I’m a private detective. I was sent here to find this girl.” I reached for my phone, displaying the stored photos of Ruth. “If you’ve been keeping tabs on the comings and goings, I figure you might have seen her. Her parents are worried. Maybe she got caught up in this cabal you’re talking about.”
The last part was pure improvisation. Mike was rubbing off in all the right ways, but the best part was that the bullshit worked. Blanchard opened the door a crack, taking my phone from me. He shuffled through the pics.
“She does look familiar. A girl like that you don’t forget.”
Maybe he wasn’t so crazy.
“Why don’t you come in?” he offered, holding the door open for me to partake of his hospitality. I scooted on in before he changed his mind. “Please have a seat,” he offered.
Taking one was going to be a problem. A bit of a hoarder; there were stacks of magazines, papers, and other assorted materials covering most of the livable space.
“This is evidence that I’ve collected,” he explained as he pointed to the assemblage. “Haven’t gotten a proper filing system, but the good stuff is tucked away. I’m saying that in case what you said isn’t true. They’ve already sent someone to break in. Did a fine job burning practically everything I’d collected, but I outsmarted those assholes. I had copies.”
With that, he started laughing a bit maniacally for my taste, but then I hadn’t had my digs tossed like a chopped salad. I passed my ID to him. Didn’t think anyone in the cabal would do that.
“Curt Savage. Sounds like an alias to me.”
“Stage name. Tried to make it in show biz before I became a detective.”
He nodded his head, giving me back my driver’s license. Popping up, he brushed aside papers to get to his keyboard.
“You were looking for that girl. What’s her name?”
“Ruth Kramer,” I responded. No sense bringing the Warwicks into this. Plus, if he did a search, he’d find out she was dead. I got up, looking over his shoulder. He was fast-forwarding through a picture database.
“Do you have those in any particular order?”
“Just by date. Well, I do have some by name, but Ruth Kramer doesn’t yield any results.”
Savage Summer Page 15
