Tie Die

by Max Tomlinson

  “No,” she said. “And neither do you.”

  “Then fucking apologize!”

  She took a deep breath and bit down on her anger. “I apologize.”

  The metallic voice laughed. “That’s better.”

  “But nothing happens until I have confirmation Melanie’s alive.”

  “And you will. When you bring the cash. This is just a heads-up to start collecting it. Give you a day or two lead time. See what a wonderful person I am?”

  “I never doubted it.”

  “Shut up!” the voice huffed. “Thirty thousand. Used bills. Nothing larger than a twenty.”

  Thirty K. Upping the bet. “Why are you asking me? Last time I checked, I wasn’t Melanie’s parent.”

  “Well, I think we both know your client isn’t exactly available these days. So you’ll just have to do instead.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to pay you? That I can pay you?”

  “You want what’s best for Steve—don’t you?”

  His mocking tone raised her blood pressure. But making her responsible for the payoff wasn’t as crazy as it sounded. She was, after all, the one who had been driving things from Steve’s end. She couldn’t very well walk away now.

  “And what makes you think I won’t go to the police?” Colleen said.

  “You don’t want to be responsible for Melanie’s body being separated from her head.”

  She let that image sink in.

  “Thirty K.” He hung up.

  Her ears buzzed. She was warm with exhaustion but knew she wouldn’t be going back to sleep now. She got up, threw on her kimono, went out to the kitchen, drank a glass of water.

  She sat on her leather sofa, in the dark, smoked a cigarette, and made plans.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  An hour or so past midday, rays of sunlight flashed off the choppy Pacific as Colleen drove into Manhattan Beach. She pulled the Torino over at a gas station not far from Rex Williamson’s house. She left the engine running while she hopped out, inserted a dime, called his house.

  “Hello?”

  She hung up. He was home. All she needed to know. She drove to his street, parked a ways down, shut off the engine, leaned back in her bucket seat, cracked out her back.

  Less than six hours to drive to LA from SF. Not bad. It almost beat flying, when you took into account getting to and from the airport, waiting in line, checking into flights, hailing cabs. The drive had also cleared the crud in her carburetor, and the Torino was running like a rocket. A smoking rocket, but still.

  And she might be down here for a while, would need her car.

  And possibly her gun. Which she could not bring onto a plane.

  She got the pistol out now, from the gym sock hanging under the dash. The black Bersa .22 Moran had given her on her last case didn’t weigh much and didn’t take up a lot of space. She slipped it into the side pocket of a dressy long black suit jacket hanging over the back of her seat. She straightened the flap over the pocket.

  She wouldn’t risk a visit to Rex’s house. She might get shot, or he might call the police. She’d wait until he left and follow. Catch him off guard. She dug out her opera glasses, the fancy ones that came in an embroidered case.

  About forty minutes later, the long nose of a two-door car bounced out of Rex’s driveway. A lone driver sat at the wheel of a dark Chrysler Cordoba. Colleen peered through the opera glasses. Rex’s lean, tanned profile came into view.

  The car headed off down the street.

  Key still in the ignition, she fired the Torino back up and headed out after Rex. She grabbed her sunglasses from the console and slipped them on for anonymity.

  She trailed the Cordoba along Hermosa Avenue, the afternoon sun warming the inside of the car enough for her to roll the window down and take advantage of the balmy sea breeze. A break from the San Francisco and London damp. At Dockweller Beach, Rex’s car turned inland, heading toward the airport.

  She followed the Cordoba to a cheesy strip mall, where Rex pulled in, the car bouncing as it nosed into a spot. Colleen parked on the street, shut off the engine, leaned forward, watched Rex Williamson get out of his car. He wore shell-pink bell-bottoms, white loafers, and a snug floral shirt. For his age he was pushing it with the disco look. But he walked with a spritely gait directly into Amy’s Oriental Massage.

  The dog.

  Well, she had wanted to catch Rex off guard.

  This would be the place.

  She smoked a cigarette, giving Rex enough time to disrobe and get comfortable but not enough time to get too far along with his massage. She climbed out of her car, stepped out her cigarette, slipped her jacket on over a paisley polyester blouse with ample lapels. The outfit was topped off with a pair of gray high-waist side-button flares, made of polyester as well, comfortable for the long drive from SF but dressy enough if she had to go somewhere where jeans and sneaks wouldn’t cut it. She hadn’t planned on massage parlors. No matter. She marched across the parking lot and into Amy’s Oriental Massage.

  The air inside wafted lavender. Indirect lights were pointed at the ceiling and plants, providing the suggestion of privacy. Hidden speakers played the sounds of waves lapping on a beach along with the call of tropical birds. It was almost enough to drown out the beep of a truck reversing out in the parking lot.

  A middle-aged white woman with horn-rimmed glasses on a chain around her neck sat at a receptionist’s desk, a magazine open in front of her. She wore a white lab coat over a bright floral top with a serious V-neck that revealed ample cleavage bordering on fat.

  “Where is he?” Colleen snapped.

  “Where is who?” the woman said in a Midwestern twang.

  “Rex,” she said. “The guy who just came in here.”

  She squinted. “Who?”

  Of course Rex wouldn’t use his real name.

  “My husband, goddamn it!” Colleen said. “I just saw him come in.”

  “We do not divulge information about our clients,” the woman said in a haughty tone.

  “I see.” Colleen pulled and flashed the security officer’s badge she’d purchased at one of the police supply stores around the Hall of Justice in SF. It was housed in a leather case that was suitably beat-up and authentic-looking. “I’m assuming you’d rather have your license pulled?”

  The woman’s bright red lips fell open in shock. “There’s no need to cause a fuss.”

  “So what room is he in?”

  “Just a moment,” she huffed, jumping up. She was round, despite her black stockings and high heels, and efforts to look alluring. “I’ll go get him. Don’t move. Wait here.”

  There was a hallway off to the left, where more low light filtered. Colleen blocked the woman’s way. “I’ll get him myself.”

  The woman sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Then just tell me what room he’s in.”

  “Avalon,” she sighed. “Last door on the left.”

  “Do not interrupt me. Or I’ll shut this little slice of heaven down.”

  “Please be discreet.”

  Colleen stepped quietly down a narrow hallway, passing another room in session, the sounds of Latin music muffling a conversation between a man and a woman about the Dodgers.

  At Avalon, the last room, the rapid squeaking of wood was muted by Bob Dylan’s “Lay Lady Lay.”

  Colleen barged in.

  Rex Williamson was arched on his back, naked on a massage table, being serviced by hand by a tall dark bony woman wearing a roomy pink bikini and a scowl. She looked up at Colleen, annoyed. Rex, for his part, was good and terrified. His erection quickly faded.

  “You miserable louse!” Colleen said to Rex.

  Rex eyed her, confused. Hadn’t recognized her yet. Colleen flashed her badge at the woman. “Has he paid you?”

  “Nice try. I’m not falling for that. We work for tips. And what we were doing was between two consensual adults.”

  “Yes, I’m
sure you consensual adults are both meant for each other. But I asked you a question. Have you been tipped yet?”

  “Uh, no.”

  Colleen went to the chair, picked up the pink pants hanging over the back, fished out a slim wallet, found two twenties. She threw the pants and wallet down on the chair, went over, handed the woman the money.

  “Here’s your tip. You’re done here.”

  “Fine with me,” she said, taking the money, straightening it. “Sorry, Luther,” she said to Rex. “Better luck next time.” She left the room.

  Colleen went over, shut the door quietly, keeping Rex in her sight. He was busy pulling a towel over his dwindling manhood.

  “Sorry about the unhappy ending, Rex,” Colleen said. “But you and I need to talk.”

  “You!” Rex’s mouth fell in recognition. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Last time we met,” she said, “I told you to call me, that we could work together. But you snubbed me, Rex. That hurts my feelings. So here I am. Hurt.”

  “This is about Melanie.”

  “I see the blood’s finally returning to your head. Yes, of course it’s about Melanie. Your granddaughter. I take it you know that Steve’s still in jail.”

  Rex’s face fell, as did his sagging body. He suddenly looked old and sad. “I would never, ever do anything to hurt my family.”

  Colleen stood, her arms over her chest. She studied him for a moment. “Do I think you kidnapped your own granddaughter after you killed your daughter?” She shook her head. “No. But you have an idea who did. And rather than act on it, you go out for a quick one off the wrist at Amy’s Oriental Massage.”

  “I’ve been under a lot of stress.” Rex sat on the edge of the massage table, his feet dangling. He looked at the floor. “There wasn’t a damn thing I could do. You don’t understand.”

  “Truly pathetic.”

  “Can I get dressed?”

  “Not until you tell me where I find Ev Cole.”

  Rex looked up, doubly shocked.

  There was a link.

  Colleen continued: “I know Ev had a connection to Delco in the past and the music industry in LA now. I know he does dirty work for people. He’s the one who helped set up the original ‘kidnap,’ isn’t he?”

  Rex took a deep, defeated breath. Then he nodded, reluctantly.

  Colleen continued: “Let me guess: when the fake kidnap backfired, after Steve rejected your second offer to lend him twenty K for ransom in exchange for his catalog, you got cold feet and figured the ruse wasn’t going to fly. But Ev kept the pressure up, took things into his own hands, went to see Lynda.”

  Rex sighed, eyed her sheepishly. “It went off the rails. I didn’t want any more of it. I knew Ev was bad news. I’m no kidnapper. It was just a game.”

  “Some game. But you did nothing when Ev killed your daughter. Kidnapped your granddaughter.”

  A look of annoyance crossed Rex’s face. “What exactly was I supposed to do?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—call the police maybe?”

  He actually laughed. “You don’t know Ev. Get on his wrong side, you’re history.”

  “So you did nothing?” She couldn’t believe it. “Nothing?”

  “I don’t think you know what’s involved if you cross Ev—especially with something like this.” His eyes were starting to glisten. “He’s got friends.”

  “Poor Rex. So you let your granddaughter be taken?”

  “Getting myself killed isn’t going to help her one bit. Not. One. Bit. Besides, none of this was my idea in the first place.”

  “The fake kidnap.”

  “None of it.”

  “It was Sir Ian Ellis,” she said.

  Rex made a stone face before he returned a single nod.

  “Because Gil Johns wants ‘Shades of Summer’ for an upcoming soundtrack,” Colleen said.

  “But Steve would never deal with Sir Ian, not with their history. So I was a natural middle man, with my movie connections, especially to Lynda and everything. But she said Steve would never go for it.”

  “So you arranged the bogus kidnap.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t try to pin that on me. Sir Ian and Ev came up with that. Don’t think I liked it—not one bit.”

  “But you went along with it.”

  “Steve was never going to get that royalty money anyway. He owed it to Lynda. And Melanie. And me. He owes me money, from when they first got married. Fucking bum.”

  Colleen shook her head at Rex’s rationale. “I need to know where to find Ev Cole.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t dealt with him since … the first Melanie thing.”

  “The phony kidnap.”

  “I met him during the first … thing. At a club in West Hollywood. Stig’s. Another time at a coffee shop called My Cup on La Cienega. That’s it. I don’t know where he lives, but I’m pretty sure it’s in the area. But I haven’t talked to him since before …”

  “Before he killed your daughter. Kidnapped Mel. Before he went out on his own.”

  Rex’s eyes were wet. “Do you think any of this is easy for me?”

  “No. That’s why you have to seek comfort in massage parlors.”

  Rex looked at his dangling feet. “Go to hell.”

  “Do you think Melanie’s alive?”

  He gave a deep sigh. “I hope so.”

  “Why hasn’t Ev called you? For ransom money?”

  Rex looked down again, brooding.

  “He did call you,” Colleen said. “Didn’t he?”

  “I don’t have it,” he mumbled. “Thirty grand?” He looked up. “Come on! Everybody thinks I’m loaded. I’m in a dry spell. This is a tough business. And that’s a lot of money. A lot of money. The only way I could get it would be through a deal.”

  “One where you could sell Steve’s catalog.”

  “But we all know how Stevie feels about that, don’t we?” Rex snapped. “But no, Steve’s precious catalog has to stay in limbo for eternity, no matter who suffers, who dies. He could’ve dealt with this a long time ago. Lynda would still be alive. Melanie would be safe at home.” He stared hard at Colleen. “Maybe Steve should be the one you’re harassing. Maybe you should go bust his balls. She’s his kid, after all, not mine.”

  Colleen shook her head again. “If Ev contacts you, you don’t breathe a word of this. And you let me know if he does. Find out where he is. You call my answering service.” She got a business card out, left it on the massage table, next to his flabby white knee.

  She left him there, the door open, the mood music playing, and she walked back down the cramped hall, the sounds of a man grunting as she passed a room on her way out.

  She found the tall bony woman in the foyer, in a turquoise blue silky robe, smoking a cigarette. She glared at Colleen.

  The smell of lavender now had a tinge of sweat and desperation to it.

  “Luther’s ready for you now,” Colleen said.

  She left the massage parlor, went out into the LA afternoon.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  A visit to the My Cup coffee shop on La Cienega revealed that none of the staff remembered or knew Ev Cole. Next stop was Stig’s, a rock ‘n’ roll club on Sunset that reeked of stale beer and mold. You could almost feel the lost brain cells swimming around on the damp floorboards. It was too early for any serious music or drinking yet—a little after 6:00 p.m.—and the only people on hand were staff setting up amongst the dim lights and an intense young woman with long hair, sandals, and acoustic guitar, singing something folky at a mic on a little stage. A spotlight shone on her earnest warbling.

  Before she could finish her song, the manager, a weary looking guy with long hair and an early stoop, said, “That’s enough. We’ll let you know.”

  “Okay,” she whispered, putting her guitar into a very beat-up case. She struggled with the latch.

  Someone put on a tape. Queen. “We Will Rock You.”

  Colleen ordered a dri
nk at the bar and a bartender in a tight leather mini, torn fishnets, and spiky hair set a gin and tonic down in front of her. Colleen over-tipped her and took a sip, lighting up a Virginia Slim to take the edge off the day, which had started with a pre-dawn departure from San Francisco, four hundred miles ago. The image of Rex Williamson’s naked body on a massage table in the throes of passion was still fresh in her mind. But still not as potent as whatever Melanie Cook might be going through. Time felt like it was running away at breakneck speed.

  She asked the bartender about Ev Cole.

  “You a friend of his?” From her sideways look, it seemed that she wasn’t.

  “A friend of a friend,” Colleen said.

  “I see.” The bartender plucked a maraschino cherry from a glass jar full of them, popped it in her mouth, chewed, looked off.

  “Know where I can find him?” Colleen asked.

  “What for?”

  “I was just in town,” Colleen said, sensing that the bartender might be wary to tell her.

  She retrieved a pink can of Tab from under the bar and took a drink through a straw. “You need to be careful with Ev.”

  “I know,” Colleen said, tapping ash into an ashtray. “Whatever you tell me is in complete confidence.”

  The bartender stowed her can of Tab back under the bar. “Ev used to crash at Deedra’s place but they—ah—parted ways.”

  “And where can I find Deedra?”

  “Right here,” the bartender said, “in about two months. She’s backpacking in India.”

  “Great,” Colleen said, sighing. She took a slug of G&T.

  The hippie girl with the guitar shuffled off behind them. The bartender gave her a lazy wave. “Good luck.”

  At a pay phone in the corner, Colleen dropped coins into the slot and dialed her answering service. A call from Moran. Yes! She slipped in enough coins to call Moran in Santa Cruz. For once Daphne wasn’t too difficult. Colleen must have caught her off guard. But she still wanted to know what Colleen wanted.

  “I’m returning his call—from Los Angeles.”

  “Hold on,” Daphne sighed.

  A few moments later, Moran picked up the phone, his calm voice a distinct contrast to his wife’s.