Cold Call (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 1)

by Dianne Emley

  “I listen to that station,” Iris said. “It wakes me up every morning.”

  “Music to find our lost souls by.”

  “Lost souls?”

  “I feel that way sometimes.”

  The waitress brought their drinks.

  Iris took the opportunity to drop the bait and move on. “So, do you have any leads about the murder?”

  Somers shrugged. “Probably some cracked-out punk who didn’t like the way Alley walked. I found out today that you taught the deaf. When?”

  “For a couple of years after I got my bachelor’s.”

  “How did you land at McKinney Alitzer?”

  “Restless. Wanted to see the world, or at least what was west of East L.A., make a lot of dough, live at the beach, lead the glamorous life I thought everyone else was having.” She lifted a shoulder and flicked a wrist. The subject was dismissed. “It’s been good… been great.”

  Somers sipped his beer. “Ever get married?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  “I thought we were here to talk about Alley.”

  “C’mon Iris. I haven’t seen you in fifteen years. I’m curious. Didn’t you ever think about me?”

  “Sure. From time to time. How’s Penny?”

  “Fine, I guess. We’re divorced.” He shrugged.

  “You dumped me for her and it didn’t even last?”

  “You’re kidding. You know that’s not true.”

  “Sure, I’m kidding,” she said. “How long ago?”

  “Three years.”

  “What happened?”

  “Whatever happens. Things.”

  “Sure.”

  “You dating anyone?” he asked.

  “I thought we were here to talk about Alley.”

  “We are… I…”

  “You’re just curious.”

  “C’mon, Iris. We were friends once. It was pretty nice, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it was.” She took a sip of wine and looked at the crowd.

  “Careful, hot plates.” The waitress turned the plates to achieve the ultimate presentation.

  Somers piled lettuce, tomato, pickle slices, and Bermuda onion on his burger. He wiped a knife full of mustard on the patty, then smacked on a glob of ketchup, trailing it over his fries. He took a big bite, sending a red-and-yellow stream out the back of the bun. He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and smiled sheepishly.

  Iris picked a walnut off the salad with her fingers. “Most people think the deaf are mentally deficient. You know, ‘deaf and dumb’?” She dragged her fork across the skin of the ravioli and brought the pink speckled red caviar sauce to her lips. She lifted the top off one and scraped out the duck filling. “The deaf don’t like the word ‘mute.’ There’s usually nothing wrong with their vocal cords. Please stop staring at me like that.”

  “Like what? I’m listening.”

  “You’re not interested in hearing about Alley.”

  “I’m listening to you. Go on.”

  “Alley was so sweet. He’d do anything for you.” She looked at nothing across the restaurant. Her eyes glassed. “Sometimes people were mean, mostly unintentionally. Could be just a look. Or a look away.” She looked back at Somers and touched her eye. “He used to put flowers from his yard on my desk.”

  “Think he had a crush on you?”

  “A crush? No. He was just that way. Very sweet.”

  “And you were nice to him. And you’re… you.”

  “Yeah… and… ?”

  “I can see how someone could have a crush on you.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I never got over my crush on you, Iris.”

  Iris winced in disbelief. “You son of a bitch. This isn’t about Alley. You could care less about Alley.”

  “Of course I care about Alley, but I’ll be frank with you. My partner and have a couple of leads and the murder is looking like a gang initiation. It’s cookbook. It’s sad, but it happens all the time.”

  “Poor Alley. People are still using him for their own ends.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What good fortune for you that a guy in my office was murdered. What an opportunity for you to come down here and drag up our ancient history. Damn, you’re jaded.”

  “I’ve been a homicide detective for eight years, Iris. My investigative instincts are good.”

  “Some instincts. Alley knew. He knew no one would dig beneath the surface.”

  “What did he know?”

  Iris threw her napkin onto her plate. “Nothing. What’s to know? It’s cookbook, right?” She fished her briefcase and purse from between the chair legs and squeezed between the tables, gathering her skirt in her hands to keep it out of the food.

  “If it’s about Alley, call me at the office. Otherwise, any unresolved issues between you and me are strictly yours.” She spun on her heel and walked away, her pumps clacking against the marble floor.

  Somers finished his beer while he watched the pink lobster caviar sauce seep into Iris’s napkin and studied the cold space in his stomach. He’d screwed up with her again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Joe Campbell brushed his hair in the rearview mirror and saw the gray coming in and decided it was good. He touched his finger to his tongue and touched each eyebrow, smoothing the natural arch. He checked his look one last time and it was correct, appropriate, maybe even a little bit handsome, like everyone kept telling him he was but that he couldn’t really see, himself. He could see it a little bit now, but then the light was flattering.

  He traded his fawn Jaguar for a disclaimer: “Cars left with the valet service are done so at the owner’s sole risk.”

  Small white lights woven through the branches of Popsicle-shaped trees bordering the facade of Sonny’s twinkled off and on in the pink dusk. Joe walked down a red carpet underneath a white- and forest-green striped canopy and pulled on the edges of his summer-weight suit jacket so that it fell smoothly.

  “Good evening, Mr. Campbell,” the doorman said as he held the door open and waited while Joe made sure the dimple was still folded into the knot of his tie.

  “Good evening, Rocky.”

  Sonny himself was leaning against a podium inside the door, his half-glasses on the end of his nose, scanning the reservation list with a Mont Blanc pen, and shaking his head. Carmine, the maître d’, stood stiffly nearby and smiled with ersatz sympathy at two couples in pastel poplins who looked as if they’d driven in from the outskirts of some dry, distant suburb where housing was still affordable, probably drawn by the blurb describing Sonny’s as a “Dining Experience” that consistently appeared in a local restaurant reviewer’s annual survey.

  Sonny looked up accusingly from the page at the suburbanites over the top of his half-glasses, “Are you sure you have a reservation?”

  “Three weeks ago,” one of the men said, irritated.

  When Sonny saw Joe Campbell walk in, he made a brushing gesture with the back of his hand to Carmine, “Seat them at table nineteen.” Sonny walked up to Joe with arms open and kissed him on both cheeks. The violinist swung by and nodded. A waiter changed directions to shake Joe’s hand.

  “Joey, so good to see you. What a beautiful suit,” Sonny said as he rubbed the fabric of the cuff between his thumb and forefinger. Sonny walked Joe into the restaurant with his hand on his back between his shoulder blades. “How are things? Good?” He pointed across the room. “Your party’s already seated at your table.”

  The room was a large, high-ceilinged oval, circled with Ionic columns. The bar was on a second floor loft and a catwalk with an arcade extended from the bar around the perimeter of the room, the arches backlit with a soft pink light. A brass-and-beveled glass art deco chandelier etched with lotus blossoms was suspended in the middle of the room. Fired-glazed tile covered the ceiling and pink marble and oriental rugs covered the floor. Mahogany chairs with lotus blossoms carved into each back were upholstered in the same
peach color as the tablecloths and napkins that were arranged on the mahogany tables. Tall and wide fresh floral displays were everywhere.

  It was still early and most of the tables were empty. A group of men with short haircuts and their suit jackets off, sleeves rolled up, and ties loosened sat at a table, listening, nodding, and periodically laughing. A business meeting.

  Industry People, people in The Business, people working for The Company Town’s company were scattered at other tables wearing expensive, rumpled clothing with everything on top up—sleeves pushed up on summer crew-neck sweaters, collars standing up on polo shirts, loose-cuffed sleeves pushed up on linen jackets—and wrinkled linen or carefully faded denim below. The women wore short and tight if they had youth and tone or wore loose and long if they didn’t.

  A man and a woman sat at a center table nuzzling each other. The woman toed his calf and thigh under the table with a lizard pump. He held her hand with one of his, a gold Rolex screaming bright on his wrist, and talked on a cellular phone held in the other. She chewed his unoccupied ear, eyes lidded, apparently not caring whether anyone was watching, then looked around the room to make sure everyone was.

  “Check that out,” Sally Lamb said from his seat at the mahogany-and-brass upstairs bar. “He ought to do her right there on the table.” He took a sip of his Campari and soda, relaxing after a hard day of shaking down deadbeats at the Four Queens, but not relaxing too much. He was still on the job.

  “Bad lay,” Jimmy Easter said.

  The woman below made eye contact with Jimmy while her friend nuzzled her neck. Jimmy puckered his lips at her.

  “Why bad lay?” Sally Lamb asked.

  “All show and no go. Know what that broad needs?”

  “What you got, right?”

  “Well...yeah...,” Jimmy ran his hand through his thick hair. “Know what else? An attitude adjustment. She’s comin’ on to every guy in the room. And that guy puts up with it. What a wuss. But what can you expect from someone who dresses like that?”

  “Hey,” Sally nudged Jimmy and pointed with his chin toward Joe Campbell crossing the room.

  “Daddy’s pride and joy,” Jimmy said. “Wonder where he gets his clothes.”

  Joe Campbell walked to the usual table, unconsciously smoothing his tie and looking at his watch again without seeing the time. He stood at the table and extended his palm.

  “Hi, Pop.”

  Joe’s father, Vito, set his cigar in the ashtray, a martini in a still-frosted glass in front of him, and took Joe’s hand, pulling him down and kissing him wetly on both cheeks.

  Joe lightly caressed his father’s shoulders. “How are you, Pop?”

  “You act like you’re gonna jump outta your skin. Say hello to Wendell. Sit down.”

  “Hello, Wendell.” He shook the other man’s hand and sat. “How are you?”

  They were at a large table with five chairs, even though there were just three of them.

  “Just great, Joey,” Wendell Ellis said. “How about…”

  “Why are you sitting there?” Joe’s father asked.

  “For chrissakes.” Joe pulled out the chair to his father’s right so he wasn’t sitting with his back to the door.

  “My son. He knows everything. How come you know so much? What are you drinking?”

  “Mineral water,” Joe said.

  “They have the new Beaujolais. Try that.”

  “I’m good with water right now, Pop.”

  “How are you doing, Joey?” Wendell Ellis asked. He was light and dark. His silver hair and bonded teeth contrasted with the tan he carried all year from golf and tennis in Palm Desert during the winter and boating off Balboa Island during the summer. His navy blue suit was brushed lint free and his crisp button-down shirt looked frosty white against it. Blue eyes bright like marbles, Wendell Ellis had a warm and friendly face. Easy and confident, his manner was understated, as that of the powerful can be.

  “Who’s the nerd?” Jimmy Easter asked, filing his fingernails with a Swiss army knife attachment.

  “Lawyer,” Sally Lamb said.

  “Let’s order,” Vito said. “I’m starved.”

  He called to a passing waiter who quickly came over.

  “Wendell,” Vito said to the attorney, “lombatino di vitello again? With a carpaccio appetizer. And gnocchi with the garlic and butter as secondi. All around.”

  “Nothing for me,” Joe said. “I had a late lunch.”

  “Bring him that spaghetti with the pepperoni—what is it?”

  “Pop, I said I had a late lunch.”

  “You can’t come to a place like this and not eat. What’s that dish?”

  “Spaghettini con pancetta, cipolle, e pepperoni.”

  Joe exhaled and spun a cut crystal rose bowl filled with sweet William that sat in the center of the table.

  “Bring him that. And we’ll have the zabaglione for dessert. And bring that wine we had last time.”

  “Sir?”

  “That Italian red wine. You know. Ask Sonny.”

  The waiter left, walking with quick, purposeful steps.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Vito asked. “You had a late lunch… We’re supposed to be having dinner.”

  Joe spun the bowl one last time. “I’m meeting some friends later for a bite.”

  Vito raised his eyebrows. “Friends? What friends? A girlfriend?”

  Joe shrugged. “Friends.”

  Vito said to Wendell. “He’s so mysterious. So, you’re meeting friends. Why the big secret?”

  “Pop, did you have a reason for calling this meeting other than to give me a hard time?”

  Vito leaned forward on his elbows. He pointed toward the center of the table then pulled his hand back and began stroking the bulb of his long nose. The shadows in his face deepened.

  Joe looked as if he was about say something, then settled back into his chair.

  No one spoke.

  “Joey,” Wendell finally said, “There’s an issue we need to discuss, an irregularity…”

  Vito pulled his hand away from his nose and twitched it at the table. Wendell stopped talking.

  “Joey, look. We need to talk about Worldco.”

  “It’s doing well,” Joe said.

  Vito twitched his hand at the table again. “I know, I know.”

  “Joey, you’ve done remarkably well managing the Worldco portfolio,” Wendell said. “Especially considering the volatility in the market lately.”

  Vito’s eyes went glassy. “I sent him to Dartmouth and Harvard. Ivy League, like the Kennedy boys.”

  “That performance is completely on the up-and-up, Wendell.” Joe said. “No manipulated funds or insider information… and I don’t intend to start.”

  “Not this again,” Vito said.

  Joe sat stiffly in the lotus blossom chair. “The SEC would have my license if they knew how Worldco’s funded.”

  “Nobody asked you to do anything,” Vito said.

  A different waiter displayed a wine bottle in front of Vito.

  “That’s it. That’s the red. Robert, where you been? We had to give our order to that other guy.”

  “I apologize,” Robert said. “We’re busy tonight.”

  “You’re busy. Busy is good. Have some wine, Joey. Why are you so tense?”

  “I told you I’m not drinking tonight, Pop.”

  “Pour him a glass. You’re tense.”

  The waiter filled the glass half full. Joe raised it and toasted his father.

  “Look, Joey… Wendell was in St. Martin last week, in the Caribbean, where Worldco is set up.”

  “Incorporated offshore, for the tax benefits and confidentiality about corporate ownership,” Wendell said.

  Vito put up his hand. “Joey, I’ll show you how it works.” He took packets of sugar from a silver basket and placed them in a semicircle on the table. “Say these sugars are the Caribbean islands.” He took out a pen, picked up a packet, and marked it with an X. “And this
one is St. Martin.”

  “I know how it works, Pop,” Joe said.

  “Listen because you might learn something.” On the back of St. Martin, Vito wrote WORLDCO and drew a little stick figure of a man. “This is me.” He placed St. Martin at the edge of the semicircle. “Okay, this basket”—he pulled the silver basket in front of the Worldco packet—“is the corporate veil. All everyone outside sees is—” he picked up a saltshaker and plopped it on top of the Worldco packet, the silver top visible behind the basket—”the local man in charge.”

  “Local administrator,” Wendell said. “Countries friendly to offshore corporations have local administrators to handle the corporations’ routine transactions. Only one director of the corporation must be on record and this person is usually a local agent-nominee, shielding the true identity of the owners from federal investigators from the States.”

  “Point is,” Vito said, “me, I’m protected by the corporate veil.” He took a handful of blue-packaged sugar substitute out of the basket. “Money comes in”—he dropped some behind the basket—“some call it ‘dirty,’ and money goes out, clean”—he took blue packets from behind the basket—“to buy real estate and securities.” He nodded at his son. “Through the laundry. And no one knows who the money belongs to except this guy.” He tapped the top of the saltshaker. “The local administrator, who knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

  Joe refilled his wineglass.

  “And over here”—Vito picked up a sugar packet at the other end of the semicircle—“is Curaçao.” He palmed the sugar packet and wrote something on it, showed it to Joey, then put it back in its place in the archipelago.

  “EquiMex?” Joe said.

  Vito looked at Joe mischievously. He dropped his peach napkin on top of the EquiMex packet, “corporate veil,” grabbed the pepper shaker, danced it across the tablecloth on its base, then put it on top of the EquiMex packet, wrapping the napkin so that just the silver top of the shaker was visible. He tapped the top sharply with the nail of his index finger. “Local administrator for EquiMex.”

  Vito took four blue packets of sugar substitute. He wrote $100,000 on one, $500,000 on another, and $4.7 million on each of the last two. He stacked them behind Worldco’s corporate veil. “Our dough. From business operations.” He slid the $100,000 packet across the Caribbean and underneath the corporate veil of EquiMex. Then came the $500,000 packet, then the first $4.7 million packet, then the second one.