Cold Call (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 1)

by Dianne Emley

  Somers walked to look at the documents. There were resin-sealed diplomas—a bachelor’s degree in 1972 from Dartmouth, a Stanford master’s in business administration in 1974, a high school diploma and attendance award from a chi-chi San Fernando Valley prep school—certificates from seminars and speaking engagements, and a plaque from the Rotary Club proclaiming Raab as one of the Fine Young Men of 1971. It looked as if every official-looking document that passed through Raab’s hands made it to the framers.

  Lewin sat stiffly on a tapestry-upholstered chair facing the desk and stared at Raab.

  Somers studied the airplane and boat pictures.

  “Beauties, aren’t they?” Raab asked.

  “Nice,” Somers said.

  “Just flew the plane back from Tahoe last weekend. Building a house up there.”

  “Hmmm,” Somers said. He looked at a picture of a young Raab in the middle of a group of young men who were all wearing the same tie and all looked pretty much like Raab. A fraternity picture.

  “North side of the lake, one of the new developments there.”

  “They’re overbuilding in that area,” Somers said, “It’s polluting the lake.”

  “I’m very concerned about that. There’s a no-growth movement up there and I’m all for it.”

  “As long as your house goes in, of course,” Lewin said.

  Raab opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

  “Mr. Raab,” Lewin said.

  “Call me Stan.”

  “Let’s get on with our business. My partner and I have spent enough time here already.”

  “Detective, you’re angry with me.”

  “We have a murder to solve, sir,” Lewin said.

  “I made you wait. I’d be angry, too. Unfortunately, I had a previous obligation. Know that I have tremendous respect for the job you do and I’m as eager to find Alley’s murderer as you are.” Raab stood, walked around his desk, and extended his hand to Lewin. “Partners?”

  Lewin begrudgingly stood and took Raab’s hand.

  Raab put his other hand on top of Lewin’s, kept it there for several long seconds, and met Lewin’s eyes. “Partners, Detective?”

  With effort, Lewin cracked a smile. “Let’s do it.”

  Raab circled back to his desk, patting Somers on the back. “So what’s your background, Detective Lewin?”

  “I started with the force after the Navy, fifteen years ago. Been detective for seven and with Somers for six.”

  “Working with a partner for so long must be like a marriage, huh?”

  “You finish each other’s sentences.” Lewin looked at Somers. “And I can tell the Professor is anxious to get on with this. I have to be someplace, too.”

  “Just cut me off. I’ll gab all night. I’m fascinated by police science and criminology. I’ve done some study in the field. A person’s work habits and associations, all the small facts can be very telling, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Lewin said.

  “Stan, when did you last see Alley?” Somers asked.

  “Right. Let’s move forward. Yesterday, about eleven o’clock. Had him run papers down to the escrow office for me. I tell you, this house thing is something else. Escrow was supposed to close three different times now, but there’s been construction delays, then they poured the driveway wrong and—”

  “Stan,” Somers said, “did you notice anything different about Alley during the past few days, anything unusual?”

  “No. He was around, or underfoot,” Stan laughed. “Poor Alley. I had him run fabric swatches to the furniture manufacturer the other day. My wife wanted to order from the same guys that did our house down here. She doesn’t know anyone in Tahoe—”

  “Did Alley frequently handle your personal business?” Somers asked.

  “You know, fellas, some folks around here didn’t care for that, but Alley loved it. I gave him a little extra, you know, and I really needed the help. This house business is taking too much time as it is. My wife likes the sun. We have the house in Palm Springs, but I like the snow. Tahoe’s good for both of us. We’ll get a ski boat and the kids—”

  “Thank you for your time, Stan,” Somers said.

  “You guys done? That’s it? Listen to me go on. Can I get you some coffee? My girl’s gone home, but I can get it.”

  “We’ll call you if we need anything else,” Somers said.

  Lewin was quickly out of the chair and in the doorway.

  “Hey, any time.” Raab pulled a leather briefcase onto the desk and started gathering papers into it. “Have any leads yet?”

  “There were a lot of witnesses, but thousands of men in Los Angeles fit the killer’s description,” Lewin said.

  “And there’s no statute of limitations on murder, right?”

  “That’s right,” Lewin said. “But the trail can get pretty cold after a few weeks.”

  “Excuse me, Stan.” A tall man with dark hair and a face that could get away with murder stood in the doorway. His expensive gabardine suit draped his athletic frame without a fold or pucker. “I’m going to meet my dad. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Stan introduced Joe Campbell. “We were just talking about the odds of solving Alley’s murder.”

  “Does it look good?” Joe asked.

  “We’ll get the bad guy,” Lewin said.

  Somers thought Joe Campbell looked familiar. He glanced at the fraternity picture again and saw Joe standing to the left of Stan Raab.

  “But Alley’s murder, someone walking up to a guy on the street, killing him, disappearing—the odds of solving something like that must be pretty slim,” Raab said. “That’s scary.”

  “I haven’t seen the perfect crime yet,” Somers said.

  “The perfect crime must be a real challenge for a criminal mind,” Campbell said.

  “Cases break with dogged, routine work,” Lewin said. “Criminals aren’t usually tidy… or smart.”

  “Let’s hope so, for Alley’s sake. See you tomorrow, Stan.”

  “Give your dad my best.”

  After Campbell had left, Somers said, “You and Mr. Campbell went to college together.”

  Raab walked to the door. His head reached Somers’s shoulder. He was a man who gave the impression of being much taller. “Very observant, Detective. Joe and I have been friends since our fraternity days. So, what’s our next step?”

  “The case isn’t twenty-four hours old yet,” Lewin said. “We continue the investigation.”

  “Of course. My salesman’s need for closure. Sunshine, go home,” Raab said to someone outside the door. “My star. Can’t keep her away from the office even though her friend was killed. That’s who you should talk to, gentlemen. Iris Thorne, friend of birds with broken wings and disabled mailroom boys. Iris, Detective Lewin and Detective Somers.”

  Iris met Somers’s eyes and stared openmouthed for a second before remembering herself. She extended her palm to Lewin and shook his hand firmly in the Raab style. “Detective Lewin. Pleased to meet you. Detective Somers.” She took Somers’s hand and quickly let it go. She smiled tightly and looked at Raab and did not look at Somers.

  Lewin looked from Iris to Somers.

  “Iris has an interesting background,” Raab said. “She got her MBA from UCLA after teaching Special Ed. She was a risk for me, no business experience”—Raab put his arm around Iris’s shoulders—“but she’s been just a little blond stick of dynamite”— and squeezed—“even though she is a public school MBA” He gave her shoulder a shake and laughed.

  Iris laughed too, even though it was clear to Somers that she didn’t think it was funny. Raab didn’t seem to notice.

  “I have to leave you gentlemen.” Raab gave them the two-handed politician’s handshake, the left hand clasping the elbow. “If you need my help in any way, don’t hesitate to call.” He started walking. “Promise to let me know about any developments right away. Let’s catch this creep.” He winked at the detectives. “Good night, Iris.”


  “‘Night, Stan.”

  “So you’re Ms. Thorne,” Lewin said. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Have you?” she asked.

  Somers looked at his shoes.

  “My partner’s talked about you nonstop.”

  Iris turned cool blue eyes on Somers. “Really?”

  Somers blushed wildly.

  “I’d love to stay, but… banana sheet cake time,” Lewin said. I’ll leave you with my partner, Ms. Thorne. You’re in good hands. I guess you know that.”

  The red flush crept up Somers’s neck again.

  “I’ll expect your report tomorrow, Professor. Ma’am.” He gave Iris a half-bow then left.

  The heavy glass door of the suite swung closed with a sucking noise.

  Somers let loose the grin he’d been wrestling with.

  Iris kept her arms folded and turned up one corner of her pursed lips. “You shaved your beard.”

  “About nine years ago.”

  “Isn’t this rich?” Billy Drye said. He appeared at the top of a nearby partition, his head propped up on his palms. “The cold-call cowgirl and the cop.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Duhda dudah DUNGH DAAAH...ba baba ba ba BAAAH...”

  Teddy Kraus smacked the strings of his air guitar, the fingers of his left hand trembling on the cords. His back arched toward heaven. His head writhed against the guitar neck. Rock out! Get up! Everyone was out of their seats.

  The elevator arrived.

  Teddy got in. He faced the back and blotted his huge forehead and dome with a folded handkerchief. Everyone shuffled around to avoid touching each other. They uncomfortably avoided making eye contact with Teddy.

  Two young women in cotton summer blouses, work skirts, and white pumps giggled.

  “You’re looking lovely today, ladies,” Teddy boomed.

  More giggles.

  “Why is that funny?”

  There wasn’t a good answer.

  The doors opened on parking level two and Teddy got out. “Remember, folks. Today is the first day of the rest of my life.” He hummed as he walked through the garage. He put his hand in his pocket and a shiny, candy-apple-red BMW with vanity plates that said MAKE ME chirruped electronically and flashed its lights twice.

  “Lassie waits for her master outside the school gates.”

  He gave a thumbs-up to a parking lot attendant who sat in a glass kiosk reading the Star. Teddy stopped at the garage exit and slid the sunroof open. He jutted clenched fists skyward and screamed.

  “Arrgghhh!”

  He listened to the noise then screamed again.

  “Arrgghhh!”

  The parking lot attendant laughed.

  Teddy circled his fist around his right ear in a cranking motion and barked, “Rwoof rwoof rwoof rwoof rwoof.”

  The parking lot attendant did the same thing back. The energy level in the garage escalated.

  Teddy floored the Beemer and was out of there.

  “Bell! Here I come!”

  He drummed his hands on the steering wheel.

  “Bell babell babell bell bell rwoof rwoof rwoof rwoof.”

  Teddy turned left on Third Street, entered the One Eleven south, then circled around the interchange to the Five. He cut a diagonal across four lanes to cruise in lane one, the fast lane.

  He punched in the heavy metal station on the radio and raked his fingers through his sparse hair, which danced in the wind.

  “Daddy’s coming, baby!”

  He twisted the volume up and the bass down and turned on all four speakers.

  “Arrgghhh!”

  Teddy rode up the tailpipe of the car ahead of him. The driver held his position for two minutes then violently pulled into lane two. Take, it buddy. Teddy did. Then he rode up the tailpipe of the next car. In your face, man. Make me. Just make me. The car pulled over. This was too easy. Then the car in front of that and the car in front of that and then the next one and the next one and the one after that and the one after that. Make meeeeee!

  The next car wouldn’t move.

  Make me.

  The other driver covertly glanced in his rearview mirror without turning his head. He held the lane.

  Teddy got closer.

  The other driver didn’t care. Teddy didn’t exist. He was a hallucination, a specter, a commuter’s nightmare. The other driver wasn’t moving. He’d take a stand for decency and fair driving habits. Go away, ghost of bad driving. I am not afraid.

  “You shit-head-dick-head-sphincter-sucking-dog-fucking-asshole!” Teddy waved his fists menacingly through the sunroof.

  The other driver smiled slowly. His adversary was displaying his crucial weakness. I am not afraid.

  Teddy pulled right, fast. Across lane two, lane three, touching down in lane four, then back, pedal to the metal, across three lanes. The other driver sped up too, losing his Zen in the adrenaline rush. Teddy came anyway, fast, faster, fastest, cutting in front of the other driver’s front bumper with a hair to spare.

  “Arrgghhh!” Teddy held the steering wheel with his knees and raised both arms with clenched fists.

  He was king. King of Lane One.

  Teddy pulled a glass vial from his jacket pocket, flipped the stopper off with his thumb, and took a victory snort.

  At Florence Avenue, he got off the freeway. Teddy had arrived in the city of Bell.

  “Made it in half an hour. Gawdalmighty. Where the hell are the cops in this town?”

  He drove down Florence Avenue past fast-food restaurants, car dealerships, and corner strip malls.

  “Bell! You’re beautiful!” Teddy crowed to the brown air. “I’ll take Jaynie here. Jaynie! Jaynie! Jaynie! She loves me! She just doesn’t know it. Women are like that. Misguided.”

  The Four Queens card palace juts from Bell’s stucco L.A. suburban landscape like a piece of Las Vegas sent flying across the desert, over the Sierra Nevadas, landing on Florence Avenue. One by one, the neon queens in the giant fan of four cards glowed red, white, and green. White lights circling the roof blinked crazily off and on, an effect that was lost in the flat, smoggy late-summer sunshine.

  Teddy pulled the Beemer into a spot near the door. He took another snort, wiped the residue from around his nose with his index finger and rubbed his finger against his gums. His elastic face stretched into a dreamy smile. He pocketed the vial and chirruped on the car alarm.

  He pushed open the swinging doors of the Four Queens and sauntered through the red-and-gold lobby dangling a lit cigarette from his right hand. He paused in front of a large gold-framed photograph that he especially liked of several blond models dressed in period saloon-girl costumes with cleavages squeezed into tight bustiers, standing with their arms around a gambler in a shiny brocade vest, cards held close to his chest, a cigarette on his lower lip. Teddy took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled a long stream of smoke, and imagined his face in the models’ cleavage. Tits galore.

  “Non-smoking, one holder, one game, seat open.” The reservation hostess’s amplified voice carried across the room.

  “M.S. for the one-three stud.”

  The card room was as brightly lit and shadowless as a supermarket. Rows of oval tables made parallel lines across the floor, each dealer’s blue ruffled shirt a dot against the center edge. Voices were subdued with concentration. Poker chips clattered like a field of insects.

  The hostess, a heavy-hipped woman in a blue ruffled shirt and tight black pants, stood on a raised platform in front of a large, white board, marking reservations and announcing tables through a microphone suspended from her neck. “Three-six low-ball blind for G.R.. Again, one-three stud for the person with initials M.S. Listen up, folks.”

  Teddy made his reservation—“T.K. for five-ten stud, smoking”—then leaned against a brass rail that circled the platform. He drummed the rail with the palms of his hands in time with the band in the lounge and the band in his head, his class ring tapping against the brass. His fingers twitched in an air guitar riff.
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  “Ted-dy!”

  “Ma’am, follow Frankie to your seat,” the hostess said.

  Teddy kept tapping.

  “Bud-dy!”

  Teddy looked out then down into Bobby’s acne-pitted face. “Bob-by! The man!”

  Teddy enveloped Bobby’s chubby fingers with his paw.

  Bobby clenched the sleeve of Teddy’s jacket and laughed through his nose. He ran his hand up and down Teddy’s arm. “Sheeet. Buddy, where you been?”

  Teddy drummed on the rail. “Gardena. Change of scenery.”

  Bobby pulled down on Teddy’s sleeve and stretched toward his ear. “Eddie looking for you.”

  “M.S. for the one-three stud. Last call.”

  Teddy stopped drumming and took a drag from his cigarette. He put the butt out on the brass rail and looked around for a place to throw it, then cupped it in his palm.

  “Eddie who?”

  Bobby stared at Teddy. Then he laughed through his nose and rubbed Teddy’s sleeve. “Sheeet. Funny guy.” He pulled on Teddy’s sleeve and stretched toward his ear. “You know Eddie who.” Bobby looked across the card room and jerked his head toward a door with a window mirrored in two-way glass.

  “Oh, that Eddie.” Teddy flicked the cigarette butt toward the mirrored glass. “Place is quiet since they closed down the Pai Gow games. Sent the Vietnamese boys home. Better lock up Fido. Rwoof, rwoof!”

  Bobby snorted. “Vietnamese. Cambodians. No class.” He wore a silk sport coat with an open-necked shirt and a thick gold chain with a shiny flat link around a chubby neck that grew out of his shoulders like a tree stump. The rings of flesh were moist even in the air-conditioned room. He opened his angled eyes wide. “You want Pai Gow? We go Westminster.” He stretched toward Teddy’s ear, looked around the room, and whispered, “Private game.”