Cold Call (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 1)

by Dianne Emley

  “Are we something or nothing?”

  “What brought this up?”

  “What am I to you?”

  “You mean a lot to me.”

  “I’m not the only woman in your life.”

  “You’re the most important woman in my life.”

  “The most important woman in your life. I guess that’s about what it is, isn’t it? Between you and me.”

  “You said you were happy with the way things are.”

  “I was.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. I just… I don’t know.”

  She put her nose in the hair above his ear. A sob welled up inside and she tried to catch it. Too late.

  Steve leaned back his head to see her better. “Iris, what’s wrong?”

  “Alley was murdered last week.”

  “Your deaf friend at the office? How?”

  “Somebody stabbed him on his way home from work.”

  She put her head on his chest and sobbed. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. The tears ran down her face and onto his chest. He didn’t reach for a tissue or tell her it was going to be all right so she could stop crying now. He just held her without saying anything.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Lighten up. Brighten up. Alley’s in a better place. He’s standing tall and walking straight, talking lies and chasing ass. He spits no more. He wouldn’t have wanted you to be blue.”

  “It really fries me when people talk about what dead people would have wanted. If it were me, I’d be totally pissed and I wouldn’t want any platitudes about how I’m in a better place. Who the hell knows, anyway?”

  “Whoa! What happened? Didn’t your swordsman come through last night?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “I know just what you need. A little pick-me-up.” Teddy pulled a glass vial from his jacket pocket, dipped in a tiny spoon, and held it up to her. “Have a toot.”

  “No thanks.”

  “C’mon, Iris. I thought you were cool. Aren’t you cool?”

  “I just see the clothes I could have bought instead. Besides, I’m hung over.”

  “Just the thing.”

  “You should ease up on that stuff.”

  Teddy held the spoon to one nostril and snorted wetly. He tipped the spoon in again and did the other side. Then he gently ran his finger around the edge of each nostril, gathered the stray particles on his fingertip, and rubbed his finger against his gums.

  “Ahhh, breakfast of champions.”

  “I care about you, Teddy.”

  “That’s special, Iris. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

  “Why do I care about people who don’t care about themselves? Maybe I don’t care enough about myself.”

  “We can pick up a book on codependency. There’s about twenty-five of them out.”

  “I don’t care if you fry your own brain, Teddy. But if you’re ripping off investors and harassing a friend of mine, I have an obligation to speak up.”

  “Hey! Don’t ruin my day by mentioning the man poison. She’s history, all right?”

  “It’s over?”

  “Yeah, it’s over. I don’t need someone who gives my gifts back.”

  “And the penny stocks?”

  “That’s all on the up-and-up. Just… you know, Iris… don’t take care of the world.”

  “Nobody gives a damn about anybody anymore. No one has any time.”

  “Can you see the black eye behind my shades?”

  “Yeah, your cheekbone’s all bruised.”

  “Shit. Where the hell are we, anyway? Mexican heaven?”

  “Pacoima.”

  “Watch out for stray bullets.”

  “Watch for Louise Street,” she said.

  “Seaview, Seashell, Seamist and Seabreeze. A developer’s wishful thinking. Mary Ellen, Donna and… Betty Street. Fifties ladies. Why are those men doing the third world squat on the sidewalk?”

  “They’re looking for work.”

  “On the street?”

  “People drive by and pick them up for day work. Construction and gardening and stuff.”

  “All we need are a few chickens and a couple of stray dogs…”

  “At least the streets have life. In Beverly Hills, all you see is a gardener clipping a hedge or a maid walking to the bus stop.”

  “Streets are for driving. You’d think it’d kill them to throw a little paint on these houses. There’s Louise. There’s the church. Big turnout.”

  “There are the cops. Crap.”

  Teddy swung his head around. “What cops?”

  “The cops that were at the office.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Check it out,” Lewin said. “Chuy from the Cirrus Street gang and his girlfriend, Blanca, helping Alley’s mom out of the car. Touching. They related?”

  Alley’s mother was a small woman dressed in head-to-toe black. Her veil was pulled back over the top of her hat and draped down both sides of her face. She was somber and composed. Nothing left but dry grief. She held the arm of a younger man dressed in a short-sleeved, loose shirt, buttoned to the neck, the tail dropping almost to his knees, his hair slicked back, and his expression set in don’t-fuck-with-me stone.

  A rotund, fortyish man with pomaded hair and a suit with western-style detailing took the arm of a tiny woman with gray hair wrapped and pinned into a bun, who was the next one to step out of the big, older car.

  “Must be the grandmother,” Somers said.

  The two detectives were standing on the sidewalk in the shade of a huge elm tree growing in the parkway.

  They watched as a woman with a thick braid, doubled in half and pinned base-to-end at the back of her head, anxiously stared at Alley’s mother, leaning forward on the balls of her feet, a large manila envelope in her hands. She took a tentative step toward Alley’s mother, then stopped.

  “That’s Carmen,” Lewin said. “The waitress from Café Zamboanga. A lot of people here we haven’t talked to. Check it out.”

  Lewin jerked his head in the direction of two young men wearing wraparound sunglasses and long, loose shirts buttoned to the neck over pressed khakis and white Nike tennis shoes.

  “Flaco and Tiny, from Cirrus Street.”

  “Means Cirrus Street didn’t do Alley. They wouldn’t come to bury the guy,” Somers said.

  “Why was Alley so popular with the homies?”

  “Chuy’s blood?”

  “Makes Alley a good target for a rival gang.”

  “Gentlemen, good morning.”

  Lewin and Somers turned to face a smiling Stan Raab and a sedate Joe Campbell.

  “Stan,” Lewin said, extending his palm. “And Joe.”

  “I was just telling Joe that I was surprised to see you here, Detectives,” Stan said. “Then I remembered reading that attending the funeral of a murder victim is standard police procedure, correct?”

  “Absolutely,” Lewin said, amused.

  “People will reveal things about the deceased that they wouldn’t if the person was alive,” Stan said.

  “People talk”—Lewin opened and closed three fingers against his thumb several times—“in their grief. Money trouble, love trouble, habits—anything. You’re absolutely correct.”

  “And the perp might even show,” Stan said.

  “The perp?” Joe Campbell said.

  “The perpetrator,” Lewin said.

  “Why do you think so?” Joe asked.

  “He might feel remorse or disbelief about the crime,” Stan said. “The funeral validates the crime. So, keep your eyes open, Joe.”

  “You’re quite a Renaissance man, Stan,” Lewin said. “Building houses, flying planes, sailing boats, studying criminology…”

  “Life’s not a dress rehearsal. That’s what I always say. How’s the investigation going?”

  “Only a matter of time,” Somers said.

  “That’s good news. This must be a tough one with so many men in
L.A. who fit the description of the perpetrator.”

  “It’s the kind of case that usually gets solved sooner or later by careful, routine police work,” Lewin said.

  Joe slipped his hand into a pocket of his slacks. “That’s not always true, is it, that the perpetrator feels remorse?”

  “What do you have in mind, Joe?” Somers asked.

  “Like, a professional. There’s no remorse… wouldn’t seem.”

  “Generally, no. That’s like a business transaction. Why?” Somers said.

  “Just thinking.”

  “The paper said you’re holding to the theory that it’s gang- or drug-related,” Stan said.

  Lewin became distracted. He leaned toward Somers’s ear and said, “Look at baby in black, traveling with my favorite asshole.”

  Somers turned to see Iris and Teddy walking down the street.

  When Teddy reached the edge of the church grounds, he cut across the lawn, and headed toward the back of the building. Iris called after him but he waved her off and kept walking.

  Somers watched Iris’s legs in black stockings and Lewin watched Somers watch Iris’s legs.

  “Morning, Detectives, Stan. Hi, Joe,” Iris looked at Somers a second less than cordial.

  Somers half-turned away with the frost. He became interested in a ramshackle tree house built in a giant elm that was growing further down the grassy sidewalk parkway. The elm’s old roots had raised the sidewalk in slabs.

  “Iris,” Stan said, “we were talking about the detectives’ theory that Alley’s murder might be gang- or drug-related.”

  “That theory stinks,” Iris said. “With all due respect for your professional opinion, Detectives.”

  Stan laughed. “You have to admire Iris’s frankness. You always know where you stand.”

  “No doubt,” Somers said.

  “Iris can probably put a unique spin on the situation,” Stan said. “She and Alley were quite the office buddies, as you know, Detectives.”

  “Yes,” Lewin said, turning to Somers, who was still looking down the street, “we know.”

  “It’s textbook, Stan,” Iris said, facing Raab but speaking loudly, “One Mexican kills another, and the cops blame gangs or drugs instead of doing a thorough investigation. Or is ‘cookbook’ the appropriate jargon?”

  “You think we’re off track, Ms. Thorne,” Lewin said.

  “I think you’re very busy. So you do your job as best you can and you’re off to the next thing. It’s reality. Alley wasn’t very important in the scheme of things.”

  “Iris, you have to give the police credit for expressing an opinion based upon experience,” Stan said.

  “I’ll give credit when it’s due. The drug theory stinks. Alley had been ill so much of his life that he was very careful about his health.”

  “He didn’t have to do them to be involved with the trade,” Somers said, turning back, pushing his suit jacket aside and putting his hands on his hips.

  “He was very caring about others,” Iris said, her hands now on her hips. “And the idea of gang involvement is ludicrous. Anyone who knew Alley would tell you that.”

  “Seems like all we gotta do is ask you, ma’am,” Lewin said.

  “I’d be happy to give you any information about Alley if anyone cared enough to ask, sir.”

  “It’s a lovely, old street, isn’t it, Iris?” Joe asked her.

  “Excuse me?” Iris was biting her lower lip.

  “It’s a lovely, old street.”

  “Yes,” Iris said, “it is.”

  “It’s too bad the houses are so run-down,” Joe added. “But the church is beautiful. Big and open. It’s fitting for Alley.” He smiled at Iris.

  Iris sucked her lower lip and bit back a tear. “There are a lot of people of here. Where’s Alley’s mother? I want to make sure I greet her.”

  “I think she went inside,” Somers said.

  Lewin caught the eye of Carmen, the waitress, standing hesitantly underneath one of the parkway elms. He gave her a short nod. “Ma’am.”

  Carmen nodded back, clutching the envelope to her chest. She looked at Iris, looked as if she were about to speak, then turned and walked quickly up the church steps.

  “Who is that woman?” Iris asked.

  “She’s the waitress who works at the café where Alley had coffee every day after work,” Lewin said.

  “Why is she watching me?”

  “She’s probably admiring your taste in clothes,” Joe said.

  Iris cocked her head and smiled at the broad complement.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, pal.”

  “Thanks, Joe,” Iris said.

  Somers looked at Joe, the only man in the group who stood even with him, then took interest in a group of people getting out of a car.

  “What a surprise,” Stan said. “Here comes Bill Drye.”

  “Good morning, everyone,” Drye said brightly.

  “Pleasant surprise, Drye,” Iris said.

  “I wanted to pay my respects to my coworker, Alley.”

  “Ms. Thorne, didn’t I see you drive in with Teddy Kraus?” Lewin asked.

  “The Tedster’s here?” Drye said. “All right.”

  “He had to use the restroom.”

  “I didn’t see him come up the steps,” Lewin said. “Why didn’t he come in the front door?”

  “You’ll have to ask him, Detective Lewin.”

  “I’ll do that, ma’am.”

  “A lot of people here to see Alley off,” Drye said. “I didn’t know he was that popular. Probably all that drug money he spread around.” He winked at Iris.

  “Well, let’s let these men do their work,” Stan said. “They have it cut out for them. Let’s go inside.”

  “Teddy,” Iris whispered. “Where have you been?”

  “In the head, like I told you.” He was still wearing his sunglasses.

  “All this time?”

  “I’m not feeling well, okay?” He was breathless.

  “Did you eat anything today?”

  “Cool it, Mom.”

  “I got you a program. Here.”

  “Keep it. Why are those cops at the front of the church?”

  “To see what they can see. The murderer might show up.” She raised her eyebrows. “Or perpetrator, to use Stan’s word.”

  “They know that?”

  “Criminology. Stan was just bending my ear about it. I begged off to come sit back here. This is a McKinney circus. I can’t deal with it.”

  “What’s Drye doing here?”

  “Brown-nosing Stan, as usual. Joe Campbell’s here.”

  “Is it true his shit don’t stink?”

  “Lay off. He’s good people. Shhh. They’re starting.”

  Teddy drummed his palms on the back of the pew in front of them.

  “Stop it,” Iris hissed.

  He sat on his hands and bounced his feet on his toes. “That short cop is staring at me.”

  “The tall one is staring at me. I’m getting tired of pretending I don’t notice him. The short one wanted to know where you went.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That you had to use the restroom. He wanted to know why you didn’t come in the front and I said he’d have to ask you and he said he would.”

  “Why is he so fucking interested in me?”

  “He’s a jerk. His stupid ma’ams and Ms.Thornes.”

  “Fucking do-gooder.” Teddy mopped his dome with a handkerchief and dug his fingers under his shirt collar. “This whole thing’s in Spanish? Oh, man. And what’s that? Sign language?”

  “Will you relax? I’ll translate the sign language. What’s wrong with you? It’s not hot in here.”

  Teddy put the handkerchief up to his mouth. “I can’t catch my breath.” He belched.

  “You’re pale.”

  “I told you I don’t like funerals. I’ve got to go. I’m going.”

  “How are you going to get home?”


  “I’ve got to go. Let me through.”

  He stood, banging his knee against the pew in front of them. She pulled her legs underneath her, but he still kicked her ankle with his big wing tip as he stumbled out, holding his handkerchief over his mouth. People turned to see what was going on.

  The congregation started a hymn. Iris fumbled through the hymnbook and rubbed her ankle. She silently mouthed the words.

  They kneeled. They stood. They kneeled. Iris leaned her forehead against the back of the pew in front of her and picked at graffiti carved there. She cocked her head and thought she heard Teddy retching on the church steps. She said the Lord’s Prayer, drawing the words out of her memory, like the Pledge of Allegiance.

  A priest delivered the eulogy. Iris looked away from the woman signing at the front of the church and studied the stained-glass windows, lined on the street side with protective wire mesh. Bright colors. Yellow, green, red, blue. The sunlight behind them threw colored spots on the stone floor. Jesus as a shepherd leading a flock of sheep. Jesus speaking to a crowd kneeling at his feet. The priest’s musical Spanish circled around her. Alley is dead. She looked front again and saw John Somers watching her. His face seemed schoolboy smooth and sorry. She was sorry too. Let’s do it over, from the top. Life is too short. Too short.

  It was time to pay her last respects. She was afraid. She slid out of the pew and stood behind Stan Raab and Joe Campbell.

  Drye hovered among them, not wanting to miss a scrap of conversation. They looked down at Alley in the open casket.

  “He looks peaceful,” Raab said.

  “Yes,” Drye said, breaking a red carnation off of one of the floral displays and putting it in his lapel.

  Raab frowned at him.

  “I want to keep it as a memento.”

  “I guess you can never really know a person,” Campbell said. “There’s always something inscrutable.”

  Iris stood quietly, her hands clasped in front of her.

  Somers stood a few feet away, watching.

  “His face,” Raab said. “His death wasn’t a struggle. It was easy. A relief, really. Look.”

  “They did a good job,” Drye said. “Looks like he’s just asleep.”

  “The makeup’s not right,” Iris said. “It’s too dark.”

  “Leave it to Iris,” Drye said.