Cold Call (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 1)

by Dianne Emley

  Lewin walked through the door, keeping his eyes on Somers.

  “… and humble police detectives have their consciousness raised.”

  “Among other things?”

  “Lewin, don’t underestimate a good detective.”

  “I just might have to kill you, Professor.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Iris could have walked the five blocks to the bank but it was hot and smoggy and she was wearing her good silk blouse that she had already cried on and her pumps pinched her feet because she’d bought them on sale even though they were too small and the TR was hot enough without walking. Besides, nobody walks in L.A..

  She found a parking spot on the street right in front of the bank. She squeezed the TR in, pulling the steering wheel full right, then left, grunting against the manual steering.

  Alley’s envelope lay on the passenger’s seat, the top jagged where Iris had torn it open. She took the key out and ran her thumb across the 137 embossed on the front, then slid it onto her key ring, pulling off the adhesive paper stuck to the back that said SAFE BOX 1ST FED. The sticky label and the envelope were the only notes Alley had left. Iris thought of saving the envelope, then balled it up. A memento should be from a happy time.

  She walked up the steps to the bank and tossed the envelope toward a garbage bin a few feet away. She missed. She grumbled and picked up the envelope and walked it to the bin even though other pieces of trash lay on the ground around it. Her civic duty done, she watched as the driver of a beat-up station wagon parked in front of the TR started to pull out onto the street.

  The woman was backing up much too fast.

  Iris ran down the steps, her pump heels clicking sharply on the granite. “Hey, hey!”

  Impact. Chrome against chrome.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She walked to the driver’s window. “Don’t you know that car’s a classic?”

  The woman driving the station wagon had stringy bleached hair with dark roots and raccoon circles under her eyes from mascara that had bled in the heat. This morning’s lipstick had settled into the vertical lines in her lips. Her skin was thin and her face was lined, as if all of the youth had been sucked out of it even though she was about Iris’s age. A toddler sat in a baby seat beside her and two older children sat in the back, fiddling with toys. The paint on the old station wagon had been faded by the sun, and the body was pocked with dents.

  “Is that your car?” the woman asked. “I’m so sorry. Is it damaged?” She ran her hand through her hair. Beads of perspiration were on her upper lip. “Nothing’s gone right, today. I’m a nervous wreck.”

  Iris inspected the TR’s bumper. It wasn’t dented. Steel was poured thick in ‘72.

  “And then I hit your car.”

  Iris wanted to yell at her some more but couldn’t. “Forget it. There’s no damage.”

  Iris watched the woman drive off and felt conspicuously consuming in her Adolfo pumps and Anne Klein suit, her Louis Vuitton satchel over her shoulder. She felt materialistic and spoiled. Then she felt petulant and told herself she had earned it all and at no small personal sacrifice. Then she forgot about it.

  In the bank, Iris stood near the gate to the safe-deposit boxes and caught Howard’s eye. She smiled at him. He gestured that he’d be with her after he finished with his customer. He shot her a sidelong Lauren Bacall glance through his pale eyebrows then looked away when she caught him.

  He walked over to her. Howard’s chin receded so far that there was a straight drop from his mouth to his neck, the skin there peppered with old acne scars. Howard always looked at Iris with such longing that she felt like crawling into herself and pulling the door closed. She never let her uneasiness show, though, and was always friendly and pleasant. It was her job. She was in sales. Now she’d have to use whatever she had to get into that box.

  “Iris, you don’t have a safe-deposit box with us, do you?”

  She flashed him a bright smile. She reached out and touched his hand for good measure. Of course I don’t, you silly guy.

  “I’m doing a favor for a friend. You know Alley?”

  “That weird-looking deaf guy? He comes in here a lot.”

  She gave Howard the key. “Alley’s holding some stock he needs to unload pronto. He’s not in today, so he asked me to get his certificates for him.” She was sure “liar” was forming in welts on her forehead. Keep smiling.

  Howard gave Iris the sidelong glance again. “Well, this is irregular, Iris.” He flipped through a box of cards on the desk. “It flies in the face of bank policy.”

  “I know it’s a big favor, Howard. I guess I’ll just have to wait until Alley gets back.” She sighed, shook her head sadly, and gave a shrug of resignation. “I just wanted to do this deal before Alley lost even more money. Well, it’s money he won’t be sending home to Mexico.” She hoped Howard didn’t know that certificates didn’t have to be presented to be traded.

  “Well…” He turned the sidelong glance the other direction. “You do have the key.” An illicit spark of deviousness flashed in his flat gray eyes. “But on one condition.”

  “What’s that?” Smile. Don’t say it. Please, don’t say it.

  “Well… there’s something I’ve been wanting to know…”

  “Sure.” Don’t ask. Don’t ask me out. I’m sure you’re a nice guy, Howard, but…

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you…”

  I am not a snob. I am not a snob.

  The hand that was holding the card was trembling. “Oh,” he said, his voice pitching higher. “It’s nothing.”

  “You’re sure?” The tension left Iris’s shoulders.

  “Yeah.” He reached beneath the counter and buzzed the gate open. He took Iris’s key and returned with box number 137.

  Iris reached to shake Howard’s hand. It was soft and moist and limp-fish. “Thank you, Howard. Thank you so much. Alley will be so glad.”

  “Don’t stay too long. My boss is coming back soon.”

  Iris went into a small room and locked the door behind her. She set the box on a shelf, flipped open the metal lid, and smiled a small smile. She took out a miniature pair of leather cowboy boots attached to a key ring. She rubbed her thumb against the leather.

  “You little jerk. You were supposed to use this for the keys you kept carrying around loose. From my trip to Santa Fe. You said you’d lost it.”

  She stood the boots on the shelf, reached into the box, and took out a graying white chocolate rose on a long wire.

  “From Jaynie for Valentine’s Day.”

  She laid the rose on the shelf.

  “What’s all this junk?”

  She took out a tin of lemon drops, a brass angel, and a dried carnation and lined them up on the shelf, wiping away the tears that streamed down her face.

  “Oh, man. I’m really pissed off at you, Alley.”

  She took out a silver-and-abalone ring and slipped it on her finger.

  “You bastard. The ring from Mexico. My gifts. You were supposed to enjoy them, Alley. Live and enjoy them.”

  She sniffed and took a deep breath, then another and another until the tears stopped. She drew her fingers across the top of what was left.

  “This must be what I’m here for.”

  She started taking out the cash. There were mostly hundreds. She piled the bundles in front of her, twenty in all. She thumbed a bundle and did some multiplication. About two hundred thousand dollars.

  She chewed her thumbnail and looked at the ceiling, then at the floor, deciding what to do next. She dug her hand into her purse and pulled out a plastic bag from a Rodeo Drive boutique. She rolled her hand inside the bag and found the bracelet she was going to return. She put the bracelet in her pocket, pulled the drawstring on the bag wide, and scooped in the cash. Then she reached in the safe-deposit box for what was left, some paper folded to lie flat in the narrow box. She opened it. It was a bunch of stock certificates for a company called E
quiMex.

  “EquiMex… EquiMex?”

  She counted. Fifty thousand shares. They went into the bag with the cash. Then the trinkets followed.

  She waved good-bye to Howard and walked back to the TR. It was stifling inside. She rolled down the windows and unzipped the back window panel. The air was still. She started the engine. The plastic bag was on the passenger seat. She touched it.

  “Alley, what the hell am I supposed to do with this? What the hell is this?”

  Her voice rose and she flailed her hands.

  Passerby ignored her. Happened all the time, people raving to themselves. You’re better off not seeing anything.

  “Look at my face.” She opened the glove compartment. The only thing she could find was the paper towel she had used to check the oil. She found a corner without oil and blew her nose.

  “I won’t let you down, Alley. I won’t sell you out.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two hours had passed. Four secretaries and two sales assistants had said that Alley was polite, friendly, punctual, always ready to lend a hand and very particular about his appearance. They wanted to know who could have done such a terrible thing and why would somebody want to hurt such a nice man. Lewin kept saying, “There’s a lot of evil in this world, ma’am,” until Somers made him stop.

  Alley’s work area was a desk wedged into a closet-sized supply room. Rubber bands, paper clips, bottles of Liquid Paper, and yellow sticky notepads were organized in separate compartments in a plastic tray on top of the desk. A figurine made out of glued shells holding a small plastic guitar with MEXICO painted on the base stood in a corner next to a blue Smurf figure wearing glasses and holding a silver briefcase. A miniature sombrero with MEXICO on the brim was on the Smurf’s head. A silk rose was stuck in a pencil box. A DON’T WORRY, BE HAPPY bumper sticker was taped to the wall.

  The drawers were neat and unrevealing. Two well-thumbed paperback books, Be The Best You! and Yes, You Can! were inside, along with pads of paper, envelopes, a box of tissues, a knife and fork, and several cans of cola.

  A blotter with a big calendar pad was in the middle of the desk. A partially completed supply order form, written in ball-point pen with a heavy hand, was tucked in the corner. Notes were written on the calendar days in the same heavy, angular handwriting. An algebra class met Tuesdays and Thursdays and an English class met on Wednesday nights. Tío Tito’s birthday was in two weeks. OAXCATIL was written over three of the weekends, once at the beginning of the month, once two weeks after that and again over the upcoming weekend. Somers wrote OAXCATIL in his notebook and debated with Lewin over whether it was a person, place, or thing.

  Somers now sat in a straight-backed chair outside Stan Raab’s office. Raab had made three phone calls and taken one since his secretary had said he’d be right with them. He was still on the phone. The secretary had left ten minutes ago.

  Most of the brokers’ cubicles were empty. Cigarette smoke drifted out of Raab’s office along with loud and jovial laughter as if a lot of backslapping would be going on if there had been any other backs to slap in the room.

  Lewin paced the floor and looked at his watch.

  “You’ll be home on time,” Somers said.

  Lewin paced back toward Somers and leaned toward him. “This is exactly the kind of wait-on-me crap I hate.”

  Somers couldn’t disagree. He stood up and started to pace in the opposite direction. He stopped at one of the cubicles and picked up a snapshot in a Lucite frame off a desk.

  “A girl and her car,” Teddy Kraus said, sitting in the adjoining cubicle.

  Lewin stood next to Somers. “Great car. Cute chick.”

  “That’s about the only thing the Ice Princess warms up to,” Billy Drye said from across the room.

  “The Ice Princess?” Lewin said.

  “Mizzzz Iris Thorne.”

  “Oh, Miss Thooorne,” Lewin said, appraising.

  “Mizzzz Thorne,” Drye corrected. “The TR. The red car. That and a looong stock portfolio, throbbing with blue chips.” He giggled a hybrid of Vincent Price and Beaver Cleaver.

  “Now, Billy, leave Missy Thorne alone, hear?” Teddy said, affecting a Southern tinkle. He sniffed and pulled at his nose. “Jus’ wanna tear the girl righ’ down. Da-dada-duhn-da-da baby! Got me on my knees!” His fingers twitched over the neck of his air guitar. “Slow hand.”

  Lewin wondered how much coke he had done. “What’s your name?”

  “Who are you? Joe Friday?” Teddy asked.

  Billy Drye laughed.

  “I asked you what your name is.”

  “T. K. Three,” Billy Drye said.

  “I asked him.”

  “Theodore Albert Kraus the third, sir!” Teddy saluted and sniffed. “Talk straight for the man.” Teddy stood and adjusted his suspenders. He towered over Lewin. His fingers twitched on the air guitar. “You need a high school diploma for this job or what?”

  Lewin stood with his legs apart and looked up at Teddy, his hands rolled into tight fists in his pockets, putting more stress on the seams of his suit pants. “You get high every day?”

  “Yeah, man. High on life. You get high? Probably come across the primo shit, huh?”

  “Must be hard to make a good dollar in this business these days,” Somers said, diverting attention.

  “There’s always money to be made for a clear-headed, quick-thinking guy,” Drye said. “So who killed the gimp?”

  “Who do you think?” Somers asked.

  “I did! Slow hand!” Teddy roared laughter.

  “You’re a smartass,” Lewin said.

  “Smartass? Now you’ve hurt my feelings, man.”

  “He was pathetic,” Drye said.

  “Seems like he was handy to have around,” Somers said.

  “You’ve been talking to Jayne Perkins. What did she say about me? Billy Drye?”

  “Why should she mention you?” Somers said.

  “I’m notorious around here. My unique worldview. She didn’t mention me?”

  “Your unique worldview,” Somers said.

  “Yeah. Take Alley. Everyone crying, ‘Poor Alley, poor Alley,’ doesn’t mean diddly squat to me.” Drye leaned toward Somers. Confidential. “You never know what someone like Alley can get himself into.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Mexicans,” Drye whispered, loud. “Third-world types.”

  “Go on,” Somers said.

  “Gangs, drugs, theft… it’s a way of life. And this handicapped business? He used it, let me tell you. You should have seen the way the women sucked up to him. Made me want to get an eye patch and gimp around myself. Know what I mean?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “So you’re on the gimp’s side.”

  “I didn’t know we were picking sides.”

  “You always pick sides in life, Detective,” Drye said.

  “I have to agree with you, Mr. Drye. You do have a different way of looking at things.”

  Drye smiled, self-satisfied. “See?”

  “Hey, man. Don’t be pissed,” Teddy said. “I just can’t help myself sometimes.” Teddy extended his palm. “Friends?”

  Lewin didn’t move, his hands still in his pockets.

  “C’mon man. Some of my best friends are cops.”

  Lewin stared at Teddy. “This isn’t a joke, pal.”

  “Suit yourself, Joe Friday,” Teddy put on his jacket.

  “Where you going?” Lewin asked.

  “Quittin’ time. Places to go, people to see.” Teddy clicked off his computer terminal. “Things to do. A budding executive’s day never ends.”

  “Don’t leave town, Mr. Kraus.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a murder suspect.”

  Teddy sputtered through his full lips. “Com’oooonnnn!”

  “Teddy!” Drye said, “What shit you been talkin’? Can’t turn my back on you for a minute.”

  Teddy grinned ear to ear. “I’m outta here.” He form
ed his hands into pistols and leveled them at Lewin. “The man, Joe.”

  He turned to Somers. “And the big man, the red man, the quiet man”—Teddy fired six-shooters at Somers—”and the thin man, the real man, the one and only”—Teddy threw a series of fast balls down the corridor— “Billy Drye.”

  “Hey! Ted-ster!” Billy Drye made one-two punches with his fists, finishing by snapping his fingers and pointing at Teddy.

  “See ya!” Teddy thundered down the corridor. “Hasta la vista, baby!”

  “I’m gonna end up punching that clown out,” Lewin said out the side of his mouth to Somers. “I’d rather be on the street with Paco and Flaco. At least you know where they’re coming from.”

  “Hey, I gotta go,” Raab’s voice went from a close murmur to loud enough to be clearly heard outside his office. “I got two cops waiting to talk to me. Our mailboy was murdered last night. Terrible, terrible thing. I’ve kept these good men waiting long enough.”

  “You guys are up,” Drye said.

  Stan Raab put out his cigarette and ran his fingers through his short, receding, sandy blond hair, touched each corner of his mouth to remove any goo, put on his suit jacket, and pulled his shirt cuffs down beneath his jacket sleeves, one quarter inch all around. He walked out to the detectives, extended his palm, and smiled the smile that had closed a thousand deals.

  “Gentlemen. Stan Raab.”

  “I’m John Somers and this is my partner, Paul Lewin.”

  Lewin gave Raab a look that would sour milk.

  “Forgive me for making you wait.” Raab distributed a firm, dry-palmed handshake, not releasing first.

  “We’ve been talking with your junior associates here,” Somers said. “Very enlightening.”

  “I’ve got quite a group. Some great guys and girls… ah, women. Be lost without ‘em.” He pointed at Drye and winked.

  “Come in and sit down.”

  Raab’s corner office had two glass walls that overlooked the city, facing west. On a clear day, he could see the ocean. He’d probably have to wait until March. His office was cluttered with toys—a basketball hoop and Nerf ball, a dart board with brass darts, a brass Slinky, and a Lucite frame with chrome pins that held the impression of any object pressed against it. Framed pictures of a pretty wife and kids and a pretty boat and airplane were on the desk. Larger pictures of the boat and the airplane were on a wall along with degrees and certificates. The office was crowded with heavy antique furniture.