Paradox

by Jeanne C. Stein

  “I feel sorry for her,” I say. “You know Donald is going to browbeat her into looking for that ‘policy.’”

  “Which is why I took the receipt. If I’d left it, he might have found it and put two and two together the same way we did. I want first crack at that box.”

  I look more closely at the receipt. “The address is on Hollywood Boulevard. Should we check it out now?”

  “We’re here. Might as well.” He glances at his watch. “It’s after twelve on a Saturday afternoon. The windows will be closed but access to the PO boxes shouldn’t be a problem. What’s the address?”

  He calls up the GPS and I speak the address. A map appears on the dashboard and a mechanical voice starts directions.

  It takes us thirty minutes to make it to the post office from Sarah’s apartment. There’s metered parking in front but we still have to go around the block a half dozen times before a spot opens up. David parks and we climb out.

  The post office is located in a beautiful old building that looks like it’s from the late 1800s. There aren’t many of these left. Most get bulldozed in the name of progress. We pass under the porticoed entrance into a rotunda with hallways that reach out like the spokes on a wheel. It takes a few minutes to locate a directory and to get our bearings before we start in search of the post office boxes.

  There are literally a thousand of them. 796 is a box against a far wall. The biggest boxes are located here. This one is about a foot long and eight inches wide. David is about to open it when I stop him.

  “Are you sure we should be doing this? Maybe we should give the key to Duke and let him see.”

  “We don’t know how to get in touch with Duke,” he reminds me. “If we did, it would take him hours to get here. Better to check it out and see what we’re dealing with.”

  He slips the key into the lock. I’m holding my breath. The key turns, the lock disengages, and the door swings open.

  The box is stuffed with sealed legal-sized manila envelopes. At first glance, they all seem to be addressed to Duke in care of this PO box. There are so many of them that a notice from the post office informing the box holder, Harry Sullivan, will have to bring the notice to a window to claim the rest in person.

  I pull one of the envelopes free and tear it open. I tilt it so David can see.

  Stacks of hundred dollar bills banded in currency straps of $10,000. I count ten in the envelope. I look up at David. “There’s $100,000 in this envelope.”

  David whistles. “How many envelopes are there?”

  I do a quick count. “Twenty,” and shove the envelope back into the box. “What do we do now?”

  He relocks the box and pockets the key. “Nothing,” he says, “until we hear from Duke.”

  “This is more than the money Duke gave Howard,” I say. “This may be money from the Ponzi scheme, which means Sullivan was involved. Donald must be, too. It’s why he’s hanging around Sarah. She’s in danger, David. We’ve put her there. If he suspects we found something in Sullivan’s things, there’s no telling what he’ll do to her.”

  I press my palms against my eyes. “We’ve got to get Sarah to a safe place until we can figure this out.”

  Suddenly the benign post office seems menacing and hostile. I know we’re alone, but the uneasiness that we’re being watched grows. There’s one thing both post office boxes and safety deposit boxes have in common—they always have two keys.

  I convince David to go back to Sarah’s and pick her up. Take her to someplace safe. We hit a traffic snag on Hollywood Boulevard and it takes almost an hour to get back to the apartment. He stays in the car and I run up the stairs.

  The smell hits me before I get to the door. Vampire stirs and growls. It takes effort but I suppress the feeding instinct and stop outside her door. It’s open. Just a crack, but enough for me to see the place was ransacked. Sarah is sprawled on the couch. Her throat is cut, blood saturating the cushions and rug.

  I step back and look around. I can’t see anyone looking out of a window or coming in from the parking lot, so I retrace my steps. If I stick around, I’ll be caught up in another murder investigation.

  David takes one look at my face and says, “What’s wrong? Where’s Sarah?”

  “Drive.”

  He pulls out of the parking lot. “Where to?”

  “Home. The farther away we are from here, the better.”

  He heads for the freeway. “What happened back there?”

  “Sarah’s dead. Think, David. When you were looking through Howard’s papers, did you touch anything?”

  David is silent for a moment. “I don’t think so. I let her handle emptying the drawers. The only thing I touched was the receipt, and I’ve got that.” He shakes his head. “Jesus, Anna. You were right. We should have never left her alone. If we suspected Howard hid the money, how hard would it be for someone else to come to the same conclusion?”

  “Do you think they followed us, or just the same trail of breadcrumbs?”

  “We’ve got to talk to Duke. Shit. He’s supposed to call us today.”

  We lapse into silence—intensified by the noiseless car. It’s like traveling in a space capsule. I’m afraid to voice that Duke may be next, except they already had him…whoever “they” are. Why was he allowed to live? Was he being set up as the fall guy? Why was I called and warned off? Whoever made that call surely knew I’d come—

  “David!”

  My voice is shrill, and David jumps in his seat. “For god’s sake, Anna. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Go back. Get off the freeway and go back to the post office.”

  One thing I love about David is that he trusts my instincts. He pulls off at the next exit and in ten minutes, we’re headed back into LA.

  “Now what?”

  “I’ve been so stupid,” I say. “I should have figured it out when I was called to come to Duke’s office. It’s us. They’re following us, and we led them right to the money.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  By the time we make it back into LA, it’s dusk and the Saturday date night ritual is in full swing. Hollywood Boulevard is bumper to bumper. My skin crawls with impatience. The only advantage we have is the key, and I’m counting that whoever is after us does not.

  The devil on my shoulder whispers, there are always two keys, remember?

  If we were followed because the second keyholder faced the same problem we did thinking it was a safety deposit box, we graciously solved that puzzle for them.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “We led the killers right to the money.” It’s not a question. “We’re being followed,” says David.

  “From the minute we showed up at Duke’s office.” I pass a hand over my face. “Duke is, too, I’m afraid.”

  “What now?”

  “Get the money.” If we’re not too late. “It may be our only bargaining chip. We haven’t heard from Duke all day, and that worries me.”

  “You think they got him?”

  I turn my face toward the window. I’m willing to bet on it. He’d be safer if he was arrested.

  We pull into a parking space and David goes to the rear of the car. He grabs a gym bag in the trunk that he empties. “We’ll need something to carry the money in.”

  If it’s still there.

  The post office looks even spookier at night. The lighting is subdued, a nod to environmental consciousness I suppose, but its long shadows are not reassuring.

  We’re alone in the cavern that houses the PO boxes and walking on tip toes.

  When David’s phone trills, we jump.

  It takes us a minute to compose ourselves. David grins. I try to calm my pounding heart.

  He accepts the call. I can hear Frey’s voice on the other. “It’s your husband.”

  “Frey? Is everything all right?”

  “You tell me.”

  I have only heard this tone once or twice. He’s pissed. “Of course. Why would you think something is wrong?�
�

  He blows an exasperated breath into the phone. “Your phone goes right to voicemail. You haven’t called me in two days. I was getting worried.”

  I dig my phone out of my jacket pocket. I forgot to charge it. Has it really been two days since I called?

  “I am so sorry,” I say. “I forgot to charge my phone. David and I are working Duke’s case and it’s gotten—complicated?”

  “Is that another word for dangerous?”

  He changes from aggravated to concerned.

  “No. No. I’m really sorry. How is your mother-in-law?”

  “Ex mother-in-law,” he corrects, as if that’s further proof I’m not telling him everything. “No change. I’m thinking of leaving John-John here and coming back to San Diego.”

  “When?” It doesn’t come out the way I intend, not delightfully excited but awkwardly cautious.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No.” I slap my palm against my forehead. When I glance up at David, he’s grinning at me. Damn it. “No. I want you to come home. When can you get here?”

  “I’ll make reservations for Tuesday or Wednesday. You sure you want me to come home?”

  “Yes. I’m sure. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.” His voice is soft again. “Charge that damned phone, will you? Call me tomorrow.”

  “I will. Give John-John a kiss.”

  I end the call and hand the phone back to David.

  He’s still grinning.

  “Shut up.”

  At least the call served a purpose. It broke the tension we both felt since entering the post office. We no longer needed to sneak around. We were alone.

  We can see to the farthest row of boxes where Howard’s is located. David drops the bag to the floor and digs out the key.

  The door swings open.

  I sigh in relief.

  The envelopes are still inside.

  We stuff the gym bag with so many envelopes, we can’t zip it closed. David takes the notice for the remainder and slips it into his jacket. “I’ll have an ID made. I doubt the post office workers recognize one patron from another.”

  He shuts and relocks the door.

  It hits me that if all the envelopes contain one hundred thousand, then we have at least two million dollars.

  I move the .38 snubbie clip from the small of my back to the side. David does the same with his Glock.

  We pause. David’s car is parked right in front.

  Sarah’s “friend” Donald is leaning against the Tesla. He’s looking away from the post office, casually smoking, as if waiting for a friend. When the cigarette burns down, he slowly and deliberately snubs it out on the hood of the car, then flicks the butt away.

  David’s breath catches. “Son-of-a-bitch.”

  He presses the bag into my hands. “Stay here. I’ll try to get rid of him.”

  “Don’t be stupid, David. If he’s followed us, he knows I’m with you. He may not be alone.”

  David pulls the notice from the post office box out of a pocket and hands it to me along with the key. “See if there’s another way out of here. Call Connolly and tell him I’m in trouble. I’ll stall as long as I can.”

  “No phone, remember?”

  “Shit.” He makes a 9-1-1 call. “I’m at the post office on Hollywood Boulevard. There’s a carjacking going on right now. A Tesla. I think the guy has a gun.”

  He ends the call. “Go on. Get out of here, and take my phone. The Tesla has anti-theft security. He can't drive it away.”

  He pushes me back into the rotunda, but I have no intention of leaving. I watch from the shadows as he approaches Donald. Donald has a gun pointed at David’s chest. He keeps looking back toward the entrance, asking where I am. I look around to hide the bag. As vampire, I could take care of Donald in short order, but I can’t take a chance where David gets hurt.

  There’s an arched doorway marked “Restrooms.” The doors are locked but take only some concentrated effort to get through. They bang open, but there’s no time to consider whether anyone heard. There’s another door inside marked “Custodian.” I force that one, too, and shove the bag under a pile of mops and rags.

  I race back to the entrance.

  The Tesla is gone.

  So is David.

  I’m in a quandary.

  How far can they get in the Tesla before the anti-theft device shuts everything down? What will Donald do when that happens?

  I had to hide the money, but now I don’t know which way they went.

  The Tesla suddenly pulls up.

  Followed by a cop car.

  David gets out, produces identification, and tells the patrolman that after the car shut itself down, the would-be thief ran off down Hollywood Boulevard. He gives a description that is nowhere near Donald’s appearance, and I just smile.

  David has Donald in the trunk.

  The patrolman, taking a second look at David’s identification, breaks into a grin. He recognizes his name, asks for an autograph, shake his hands and they part like old friends.

  Chapter Nineteen

  David strides back into the post office.

  When he sees me, bag in hand, he smiles. “I figured you wouldn’t leave.”

  “Donald?”

  “In the trunk. The money?”

  I gesture toward the restroom. “Be right back.”

  I retrace my steps, dig the bag out from under the pile of rags.

  “Let’s get out of here,” David says.

  In the car, David takes Donald’s gun from a jacket pocket and slips it into the glove compartment.

  I throw the bag into the back seat and jerk a thumb toward the trunk. “What did you do to him?”

  “Not much. He drove us into an alley. We got out. He thought pointing a gun at me would make me spill what I took from Sarah. I told him we took nothing. He didn’t believe me. I head-butted him, and he dropped like a stone. The rest was easy. Handcuffs in the glove compartment. Athletic tape from my gym bag. He’s still out.”

  “Now what?” I ask. “Do you think he’s the one who killed Sarah?”

  “We’ll have to find out. Where do we take him?”

  “My house is out of the question, especially since Frey is returning. Your condo?”

  He shakes his head. “Too public.”

  We’re on the freeway headed south. “There is one place out of the way. Hasn’t been lived in for a couple of years. There’s a groundskeeper, but I can give him a week off. It’s certainly private enough.”

  David glances over. “That place you inherited in La Jolla?”

  I nod.

  “You sure? You seem to have a lot of bad memories connected to there. Not that you’ve shared them.”

  I don’t intend to. He doesn’t remember, but he has bad memories there, too. “I’ve been thinking more and more about selling the place,” I say. “We can see what kind of shape it’s in. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

  There’s a muffled thump from the rear of the car.

  “Sounds like Donald is awake.”

  David frowns.

  “Do you need directions? The house is on Mt. Soledad.”

  David touches the map app on the dash. “Just tell Tessie the address.”

  Tessie? I shake my head and speak an address I haven’t thought of in years. I hold out my hand. “Let me have your cell. I’ll call the groundskeeper. Tell him to take a vacation on me.”

  Skip Donovan is a flower child of the sixties—a little scatter-brained, but he knows gardening. He loved living on the grounds and, more often than not, slept outside under the stars in a sleeping bag instead of in the garage apartment I supplied him.

  He answers on the first ring. It takes convincing for him to agree—evidently he’s in the middle of planting spring bulbs. I sweeten the deal by offering a round trip on my jet to Victoria Island and the chance to see The Butchart Gardens. It’s more than he can resist.

  I call my pilot next and tell him to
file a flight plan, and to wait for Skip to arrive. I also ask him to make arrangements for a hotel and give Skip traveling money.

  I hang up. I feel David’s eyes on me. “What?”

  “Must be nice. Private jet. Unlimited funds.”

  I’m not sure how to respond. I paid a heavy price for those perks, a price I’m still paying in a way. Besides, I felt myself bristle, David has a nerve. “Like you aren’t living the high life,” I snort. “What’d you make as a professional football player?”

  “I’m not being critical,” he adds hastily. “I know how lucky I am. I wish you’d tell me the real story behind your inheritance.”

  He says it like he knows I’ve lied about the house, the jet, and the estate my family occupies in France. I have, but I doubt I’ll ever be in a position to tell him why.

  A long moment passes. The rest of the ride is spent in silence. The closer we get to the house, the tighter the knot in my stomach. I wish I could tell David how I hate going back to where I found him bound and gagged, nearly dead from blood loss. I wish I could explain how the vampire who pretended to be my mentor kidnapped him and fed me his blood. How it resulted in my taking a dying David to Beso where the same doctor who got mixed up with Janet showed me how to make him well.

  A shudder passes. It still haunts me.

  David remembers none of that, and I can’t imagine telling him about it either.

  Mt. Soledad is one of several exclusive places in upscale La Jolla, an enclave of the rich and famous. The place is at the end of a driveway that meanders about a half mile from the gated entrance to the front of a stone mansion. Skip had left the gate open. Once we drove through, I punched in the code to close it behind us. I doubt anyone will stumble upon the entrance and enter uninvited, but better not to take chances. Besides, there is a security service that patrols the neighborhood. They are aware no one lives on the premises except the groundskeeper. An open gate would invite suspicion.

  David looks along the tree-lined avenue. He’s wondering why I wouldn’t want to live here. He’d understand if he knew what was done to him—done to both of us. All he sees are beautiful grounds and the silhouette of a multi-gabled mansion nestled among palm trees swaying in a gentle night breeze.