“You have any other ideas?”
The woman narrowed her eyes. Rachel could see the pale hair on her cheeks. “You a friend of his?”
“He works for me.”
The woman studied her for a moment, then the curlers bobbed as the round head nodded. “Can I see some ID?”
“All I have is a drivers license.” Rachel flipped open her wallet.
The woman peered at it a moment and the plump shoulders shrugged. “He keeps a spare key in that pot.” She pointed to the geranium. “Sometimes I water his plants for him. Go on in, see for yourself and quit the damn racket.”
Rachel tipped the flowerpot. “Thanks.”
“In the pot, not under it.” The woman waddled back into her own apartment and pulled the door shut loudly behind her.
The soil was dry and the geranium roots lifted out easily. At the bottom of the pot was the key. Rachel wiped off the soil, carefully replaced the plant, and inserted the key in the lock.
The living room was furnished with beanbag chairs and strewn with empty soda cans. A half-eaten bag of pretzels had spilled on the red-and-black-striped carpet. Tightly closed blinds blocked most of the sunlight.
The door swung shut behind her and the room went dim.
“Lonnie? Are you home? It’s me, Rachel.”
She stepped carefully over the soda cans. The kitchen was just beyond the living room. Dirty dishes were jumbled every which way in the sink. At the edge of the counter, a dainty, lidless porcelain teapot looked self-conscious among the lidless canisters and dirty glasses. Without thinking, Rachel picked it up to move it a safer place.
Inside was a Ziploc bag.
Her shoulders sagged. She blew a stream of air between her lips and held the bag up to the light. The contents looked like sugar, but there was sugar in one of the canisters. She opened the bag and sniffed, couldn’t identify the odor, sealed it again and, knowing what it had to be, stuffed it into her purse.
Lonnie was probably passed out somewhere. She herself had once slept forty-seven hours after a three-day binge. She’d have to get him on his feet and to a clinic. Maybe the rent-paying relative could be coerced into footing the bill.
From the living room, she followed a narrow hall past a bathroom to a closed door. She knocked on it and called out. No response. She turned the knob. The door opened easily.
He lay like a bundle of dirty laundry on the bed, his face turned away toward a window darkened by a heavy shade. A pale blue carpet had pulled loose from its tacks and was curling in from the wall.
“Lonnie,” she called loudly, feeling remotely embarrassed. Ambling into a man’s bedroom and shaking him awake seemed a little crude.
This was a job for his AA sponsor, but she didn’t know the guy’s phone number. She would have to do it herself.
“Lonnie!” she called again. A tiny fear licked at her insides.
He didn’t stir.
She crossed the blue carpet. His elbow stuck out toward her. A faint odor of garlic rose from the sheets. She shook his arm.
The flesh was cold, the arm rigid.
Rachel’s stomach pitched. “Oh, God,” she breathed. If only she had come sooner. She moved her hand to his shoulder. His head tilted stiffly toward her. There was no need to search for a pulse.
Hand covering her mouth, she slowly backed away as though fearful of disturbing him. The doorway was right behind her. If she could get to that, she thought stupidly, she would be okay.
When she reached the door, she closed it carefully and quietly behind her, as if once she could no longer see the body, it would cease to be there.
The world began a slow spin. She staggered down the hall, breath coming in small, ragged puffs.
In the kitchen, she took the receiver from the wall phone and dialed nine-one-one.
There was little reason to wait for the medics. Nothing she could do would help.
She didn’t bother to lock the door of the condo. Forcing limbs that seemed made of lead to move, Rachel climbed into her car.
She had just entered the Pasadena Freeway when a red light began flashing behind her. Heart racing irrationally, she hit the brake and guided the car to the shoulder. Had she been speeding? She wasn’t sure. She reached for her purse, opened it and stared, mouth open.
The Ziploc bag was crammed between her wallet and sunglasses.
She drew out the wallet, rolled down the window, and tried to smile as the cop approached.
He was built like a rocket and looked about seven feet tall.
Hand trembling, she held out her license. “What did I do, officer?”
He bent nearly double to look in the window, eyes darting about the car’s interior. “Mind getting out of the car, ma’am?” The voice was low, but nothing about it was friendly.
“Why?” The scene was all too familiar, all too much like another. “Was I speeding?” The words had a plaintive squeak. She cleared her throat. “Officer?” The throat-clearing hadn’t helped.
He backed a step or two from the car, hand hovering over his holstered gun. “Just do as I say, ma’am. Keep your hands in sight. Open the door slowly and get out.”
Rachel’s sweaty fingers could hardly work the latch. Still clutching her handbag, she managed to get her feet on the ground and body into a standing position.
The cop’s eyes swept her up and down, looking, she knew, for the hint of a hidden weapon.
Her tongue moved across dry lips. “What’s going on?”
He moved slightly behind her and took her upper arm in a light clasp that she knew could instantly tighten like a vice.
“Mind coming with me?”
In lock step, they moved toward the squad car. When they reached the passenger side he said, “Please hand me your purse. Slowly. Just hand it to me.” The letters on the silver tag on the breast-pocket of his blue shirt spelled HAMILTON.
“But why? What have I done?” Her arms went weak and she almost dropped the purse as she handed it over.
So much for her new start in life. The lush plants along the freeway looked bright and green, as though they were part of some other, happier scene.
“Lay your hands across the hood and keep them there. You can lean on your elbows if you like.”
He walked to the driver’s side of the squad car, set the purse, unopened, on the front seat, then moved sideways, to her car, which he circled slowly, his eyes leaving her only long enough to dart quick glances into the interior.
“Mind if I look inside?” he shouted. Somewhere in a passing cars a boom box was going full blast.
Refusing would only convince him she was guilty of something. He could easily haul her into the station where legal technicalities would be dealt with and they would search anyway.
Despising the awful feeling of helplessness that overwhelmed her, she drew herself up and with what she hoped was some dignity said, “Suit yourself.”
He opened the Honda’s door, all but his feet disappearing as he searched beneath the seats.
“The glove compartment is open,” she called, praying for a way to distract him from searching her purse. “The lever for the trunk is on the floor next to the driver’s seat.”
He extracted his tall frame from the Honda, nodded, bent over again and popped the trunk lid, keeping his eyes on her until he reached the back of the car.
Rachel tried to remember what was in there. Not much, she thought, beyond jumper cables, an old umbrella, a box of Band-Aids, and a tire iron.
A driver, obviously speeding, whizzed past on the freeway, jammed on his brakes, and slowed to an innocent crawl.
Officer Hamilton removed the spare tire, examined it, went back to rummaging in the trunk, and emerged with the device she used to open car doors. Holding this out, his eyebrows aiming for his hairline, he strode toward her, looking like Wyatt Earp closing in on Billy the Kid.
She explained what the device was and why it was in her trunk.
He returned to the squad car and reached inside
.
Rachel almost stopped breathing. Now he would bring out the purse.
His hand emerged holding instead the receiver of a phone.
She wilted with a relief she knew could be only temporary.
He turned slightly away from her. His words were lost to the traffic noise.
After a long wait, he spoke into the receiver again, then put it back into the squad car and brought out her purse.
A silent scream rose in her throat as she struggled to keep her face impassive. Her knowledge of the law was limited to television shows and one personal incident so ghastly she remembered almost nothing about it.
She decided to ask him for a search warrant, which might only prolong things, but at least she would have more time to think.
Could he claim probable cause and open the handbag anyway? If so, she would be taken to the station and life as she knew it, tenuous as it was, would be over.
They might even charge her with selling Lonnie the drugs that had killed him. Certainly they wouldn’t believe she didn’t know what was in that packet in her purse.
Officer Hamilton handed her the purse.
She gazed at him blankly, waiting for the demand, disguised as a request, to open it.
“Sorry,” he said. “The car we’re looking for is a dead ringer for yours.”
Chapter Thirteen
Her apartment had seemed airless and dismal, so in the false light of Los Angeles’ night, Rachel sat on the bench in front of the garage eating an orange. Carefully, as though she had never done it before, she dug her fingers into the peel and tore away a small chunk. It was nearly midnight and this was the first food she had eaten since her hasty slice of morning toast. Before Lonnie.
The flood of relief when the highway patrolman handed back her purse had made her light-headed, but relief was now fading to dull despair. If only she had gone to Lonnie’s apartment yesterday, as soon as he failed to show up for work, he might still be alive.
She was still chewing the last bit of fruit when a woman appeared on the steps at InterUrban’s entrance, waved, circled the Merry Maids van parked in the horseshoe in front of the building, and strolled toward Rachel. Despite Goldie’s rumpled tee shirt and khaki pants rolled up at the cuff, there was something about the way she held her head that was almost regal.
She leaned over to peer into Rachel’s face. “You sleeping on the street again, sweet pea?”
“No, no. Just getting a breath of air.”
“I figured you’d be feeling fine since we solved all those problems of yours the other night, but here you are looking peaked as a rooster on an egg farm. You been working yourself too hard?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Goldie swung her hips down on the bench. “You call the cops about that car?”
Rachel swung her face away. “Nope. I’m not going to, either.”
“The kids aren’t finished over there yet.” Goldie nodded at the InterUrban offices. “You might as well tell me why.”
Rachel picked up a pebble from the ground. “I really can’t talk about it.”
Goldie turned, leveled a gaze at her, then dipped her head. “Okay. Sorry I asked.” She got to her feet and sauntered toward the curb.
For reasons she couldn’t account for, Rachel blurted, “A friend of mine is dead and it’s probably my fault, and I came within a gnat’s eyebrow of getting myself arrested.” She kicked at an imaginary stone on the pavement.
Goldie turned back. “You sound like that guy in the Bible, Job. Next thing, you’ll be getting yourself a case of hives.”
“Boils,” Rachel said. “Job got boils.”
“Whatever. The preachers all say he didn’t have much fun.” She sank again onto the bench, leaned back, crossed her ankles and her arms. “So this friend of yours—what happened to her?”
“Him,” Rachel’s voice choked and a tear dribbled its way toward her chin. Slowly, the words began tumbling out.
A Chevy Blazer passed and minutes later, a Volvo, tires hissing along the pavement. This area, like the office buildings that flanked it, was almost deserted at night.
“Don’t see how you think you’re responsible,” Goldie said when Rachel finished. “Everything that happens in the universe ain’t your say so. This Lonnie was a grown adult person. Why d’you think you were his keeper?”
Rachel was staring at her feet. The heels of her loafers were worn, she’d have to remember to get them to the shoe shop. “A couple of years ago, he pretty much saved my life. I should have gone over there sooner. I shouldn’t have waited.”
“Lord, girl, if people did all the should-haves, my Mama wouldn’t be going to church on Sundays ’cause we would all be in Heaven.”
“If I ever find out who sold him that stuff, I swear I’ll kill him.”
“Guess it wouldn’t do much good to tell you to lighten up.” Goldie leaned forward as a boy from the cleaning crew crossed the street. “What you doing out here by yourself, Peter?” she called. “You got all that work done?”
Peter grinned widely as he got to the curb and waved something that looked like a piece of dark paper. “Those others are slow. But they be done soon.” He seemed to chop his sentences to a manageable length.
“What you got there?” Goldie frowned at the envelope. “You didn’t take anything from the offices did you?”
“No.” Peter looked pleased with himself. “Not from an office. I don’t do that. You know I don’t.” Rachel noted a dimple in his left cheek that made his face winsome.
“Then where did that come from?” Goldie pointed at the dark rectangle in his hand.
“Bathroom.”
“Give it here.” She held out her hand.
Peter held it above his head and Rachel could see it was a brown envelope, about five by seven inches. Abruptly, his resistance evaporated and he held it out. “Didn’t steal it. Found it.”
“Not a lot of difference between stealing and finding,” Goldie said, taking the envelope from his outstretched hand. “Depends on whether the owner lost it before you found it.”
Peter hung his head.
Goldie ruffled his hair, fondly. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it, but I sure don’t want anyone getting the idea you stole it.”
“Looks like it’s just an empty envelope,” Rachel said.
“It’s an envelope, all right.” Goldie was opening the flap. “But not quite empty.” She shook some of the contents into her palm. The little mound glowed purple in the streetlight. “What the hell is this?”
Rachel stared at the small sand-like heap in Goldie’s hand. “Let me see.” She shook the envelope into her own hand, got up and moved to the yellow light over the garage’s pedestrian exit, where the color became whitish. “Peter!” she called. “Where did you find this?”
He had started back across the street. “Bathroom,” he called. “Like I said.”
“They doing H over there or what?” Goldie muttered. “I’m not sure I ever seen any myself, but I expect that stuff ain’t sugar.”
Peter stood on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, his shoulders slumping dejectedly.
Rachel gazed at him a moment, then strode across the street, squatted down at his side and looked up into his cherub’s face. “Can you show me where you found that envelope?”
Goldie, moving as deliberately as ever, arrived at Rachel’s elbow. “You know what it is?”
“All I know is it looks exactly like the stuff that was in the teapot in Lonnie’s kitchen.”
“The stuff that did him in?”
“Far as I know, yeah,” Rachel said. “Peter, show us where.”
The office, almost as big as a conference room, was paneled with a dark wood that showed red in the grain. On the gray plush carpet, a blue-and-white-print Victorian sofa and two pale blue, velvety wingback chairs sat across from a huge, highly polished teak desk. The top was barren of papers.
“This is where you found it?” Rachel asked Peter.
Goldie gave the room an appraising gaze. “This guy don’t like cheap bric-a-brac does he?”
“What makes you think this is a guy’s office? The chairman of the board is a woman.”
“No joke?”
“Nope.” Rachel moved across the thick, plushy carpet, opened the door Peter had pointed and flipped on the light. On the shelf over the sink sat a marble mug and two onyx-handled brushes, one obviously for shaving.
“If this belongs to a woman, she’s got a beard,” Goldie drawled.
“Might be Jason’s office,” Rachel muttered distractedly. “He was the only exec high enough to rate an office like this, except the chairman.” She picked up the mug. Something inside it rattled.
Goldie frowned. “The guy who got himself killed?”
“He was general manager of this place.” Rachel was peering into the mug. There was no soap inside. Instead there was something small and shiny. She tipped the cup over her palm and a cuff link rolled out. On its silvery face was the etched form of a tortoise.
She motioned to Peter. “Show me exactly where you found this envelope.”
“Over there.” He pointed.
“In the toilet?”
“No,” he giggled. “Behind it. I was doing the mop. I bump it.” Peter pointed to the lid of the tank. “That envelope, it fell down behind.”
Rachel examined the envelope. The rim of the flap was damp. “Look,” she said, as much to herself as to Goldie, “he fit the flap over the edge of the tank and the lid held it there. But why?”
Goldie was still staring at the tank. “Because if he was a coke freak or something, he couldn’t exactly leave the stuff laying around.”
“But in a regular office envelope? Not wrapped up or anything? Any user knows you have to keep the stuff clean and dry.”
“You’re making a big mistake if you think folks always do things sensible.”
Rachel’s gaze was fixed on the envelope’s contents. “No,” she said softly, running her tongue over dry lips. Her eyes, huge and dark, found Goldie’s. “I don’t think Jason was a user. But I think I might be looking at why he was killed.”
Thicker Than Blood Page 6
