Cold Call (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 1)

by Dianne Emley

  “We forgot to pour the wine.”

  “I can do it.”

  “You never used to touch the stuff.”

  “You never used to have a daughter.”

  He walked out of the garden, cradling tomatoes in his arms against his chest. He looked at her and laughed. “That’s true.”

  She took one of the tomatoes, held it to her nose, and breathed the ripe sugar. A piece of vine with leaves was stuck to it. She crumpled the leaves in her fingers and pressed them against her nose, inhaling the pungent green aroma. “Boy. This brings back memories. Nothing like it. It feels like July and I’m standing in my backyard in shorts and bare feet. Funny, isn’t it? Years go by but something remains.”

  “The smell of tomatoes?”

  “Well, that, and I feel comfortable here.”

  “I’m glad. I’m sorry if I made you mad the other day.”

  She shrugged. “Forget it. Let’s not talk about it. I haven’t imagined Alley dead on that sidewalk for a whole hour.”

  “Deal. Speaking of comfortable, you’d probably fit into something of Chloe’s.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t think she’d want me wearing her clothes.”

  “I don’t think she’d mind.”

  “I don’t want her wearing my clothes.” The leaves of the old peach tree rustled and Chloe backed down a branch, stepped on a lower one, swung from it with both hands, then dropped to the ground.

  “Chloe, have you been up there the whole time?” John asked.

  “I always sit there. It’s my place.”

  “You should have told us you were there.”

  “I wasn’t listening.”

  “All right. Please take these tomatoes to the kitchen.”

  “I don’t want her wearing my clothes.”

  “John, I have some running stuff, shorts and tennis shoes and a T-shirt in my car,” Iris said. “I’ll run the tomatoes up to the house and change.”

  Iris carried her black linen suit and silk blouse folded in her arms and dangled her pumps from her fingers. She looked out the window of a bathroom tiled in black-and-white checkerboard and saw John and Chloe bent over the carrots, pulling them from the ground.

  Iris sat the bundle of clothing on one of the living room couches and wandered with her hands behind her back, her sneakers squeaking on the wood floor. She looked at the crowded bookshelves. There was a framed picture of a clean-cut John Somers looking official in a midnight blue LAPD uniform and a more recent one of Somers and Lewin and some other men in tuxedos. Someone’s wedding. Then there were pictures of Chloe. Toothy school portraits, as a baby in the arms of a roan-bearded, frizzy-haired John Somers, in a party dress at the front door of this house with several other girls.

  Iris wandered into the darkened den. She saw a desk lamp in the dim light and turned it on. The light shone on Alley’s briefcase. She jerked back and bumped into a floor lamp. She turned and steadied the lamp with trembling hands, then saw the white board.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  “What?” Iris turned.

  “This is my father’s office.”

  “I was just looking around… I wandered in.”

  Chloe walked assuredly to the desk and put her hand on the briefcase. The dog walked into the room behind her, its nails clicking on the hardwood floor.

  “This man was murdered.” She pointed to Alley’s somber photograph. “And this is his briefcase.” She pointed to the chocolate smear. “Know what this is?”

  Iris pressed her hand over her mouth. She closed her eyes.

  Chloe pointed to the white board. “He was stabbed with an ice pick.”

  Iris grabbed her stomach and turned away.

  “Chloe, what are you talking about?” John walked into the room.

  “I found her in your office, Dad.”

  “Iris can go wherever she wants. She’s our guest. How did you know about the ice pick?”

  Iris looked at him wide-eyed. “It’s true?”

  Somers looked at her without answering.

  “I have eyes and ears, Dad,” Chloe said.

  Iris left the den and picked up her clothes from the couch. She heard John’s voice low and Chloe’s higher, whining. She stood in the doorway of the den with her clothes in her arms. John stopped in midsentence and looked at Iris.

  “John… I can’t. You’ve been hospitable and nice, but Alley, I…”

  “Iris, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to see this.”

  “It’s my fault. I was snooping. Maybe Alley’s just another homicide to you, but he was my friend. They buried him today.” A tear rolled down her face.

  John winced.

  “Maybe you can separate it. I can’t.”

  “Iris, let’s eat something…”

  She looked past him. He followed her gaze. She was looking at her name on the white board.

  “Iris, your name’s circled because you haven’t been interrogated yet.”

  “See?” She walked to the front door and opened it. “This isn’t going to work, John.”

  The sun shone through the colored stained glass in the door and made a pattern on the wood floor. Iris tiptoed around the colors. She looked at John and pointed at the ground. “It’s like at Alley’s funeral. ‘Bye, John. Chloe.”

  She closed the door and the colors shimmered on the floor.

  John watched the undulating lights. Chloe put her arms around him.

  “That’s all right, Dad. You still have me.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I’ve got Alley’s briefcase.”

  “Let me change phones.”

  Somers heard Lewin’s voice from across the room. “Jason, hang up the phone after I pick up, will ya?”

  There was heavy, moist breathing into the phone. A young hand was holding the receiver too close.

  “Jason, you can hang up now. From where?”

  “The waitress. Carmen.”

  “Carmen.”

  “You have to have the right touch, Shamus.”

  “Guess she has a thing for goofy redheads. So what’s in it?”

  “Thanks, partner. Mostly a lot of junk.”

  “Great find.”

  Somers told Lewin about Alley’s business cards, about Tió Tito’s house with the expensive toys and new furnishings, about Alley’s so-called promotion and his trips to Mexico, about the noise back from Oaxcatil, about Chuy vowing to get the cabrón who did Alley, about the Lady Upstairs and the big car.

  “Huh,” Lewin said. “Drug courier.”

  “Remember what the guys at the office said.”

  “Wait. Jason, put the phone down! Damn kids. Go to school and thrill their friends.”

  “Chloe too. Could be all the brains had to do was include Alley. Tell him he’d be one of the boys. Invite him to the frat party. Throw him some cash for pain and suffering.”

  “Seems like a lot of cash.”

  “Maybe Alley got greedy. Then Alley got dead. But it could be sweeter than that. Look at the obvious. Ambitious yuppies with megabucks passing through their hands every day. Avaricious, willing to sacrifice anything and anyone for the almighty greenback.”

  “Get off the soap box, Professor. But it’s worth following up on. What did Ms. Thorne have to say?”

  “About what?”

  “Don’t be coy, Professor. You were going to interview her today.”

  “Didn’t come off. We had a scheduling conflict.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “C’mon. What did you bring to the party today?”

  “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you. About you and Ms. Thorne.”

  “Why do you say her name like that?”

  “It’s her name, isn’t it?”

  “What do you have against her?”

  “I never said I have anything against her.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I just want to know what her angle is on this case. And I’m getting tired o
f you making excuses for not facing her down.” Lewin’s voice rose.

  “Ease up. There’s no reason for you to get upset.”

  “You’re avoiding talking to her about the case because of some prior relationship you had with her. Don’t deny it.”

  “Look. If I can’t get what we need from Iris by Monday morning, she’s yours, okay? No reason to get bent. It just didn’t happen today, okay? This case is moving forward just fine. She probably can’t even add anything that we haven’t already found out.”

  “It’s principle.”

  “I don’t like my credibility being questioned. We’ve worked together a long time.”

  “My point exactly, Professor. I want to go on that way.”

  “Goes without saying. What else you got in mind?”

  “I think I’ll drop by and see Teddy Kraus. See why we make him so nervous. See him without his buddies around so he can’t goof for their benefit. Wanna come?”

  “No, I’ve got Chloe.”

  “Here’s something for you. Jayne Perkins sought a restraining order against one Teddy Kraus.”

  “Office lovers?”

  “Looks like. Ms. Thorne could have told us that three days ago.”

  “You already made that point. You’d think Jayne would have better taste.”

  “So, big Saturday night?”

  “I might call the police down in Oaxcatil, Mexico. See if they have any skinny on Alley.”

  “And you’re working on Ms. Thorne’s tail. I mean, trail. Ooops, another call coming in. Damn ‘call waiting.’ Hang on.”

  “I’m done.”

  “Okay, Professor. Keep low and drive slow.” Lewin clicked the other call in. “This is Lewin.”

  “Detective, this is Stan Raab—”

  “Stan, what’s up?”

  “—from McKinney Alitzer?”

  “Sure, sure. Of course. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home—”

  “No problema.”

  “—but you said to call if I thought I had information pertinent to the case. Well, something unusual happened today after the funeral.”

  “Yeah…”

  “I went back to my office, downtown?”

  “Yeah…”

  “And I found out that Iris Thorne, one of my sales reps, had been there.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Well… no… She comes in on Saturdays sometimes. I know she was there today because she dropped a program from the funeral on the floor inside my private office.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I think she pried open my filing cabinet. There was a knife on top of the filing cabinet and the cabinet was unlocked.”

  “Anything missing?”

  “A file, for one of the firm’s accounts.”

  “Why would Ms. Thorne be interested in this account?”

  “It’s… one of our larger accounts. A big… unique account.”

  “The name?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The account’s name?”

  “Oh… Worldco.”

  “Could your secretary have taken the file?”

  “She could have. Yes, that’s possible. She could have taken it.”

  “Could anyone else have been in the suite?”

  “The cleaning crew was there when I came in.”

  “So, they could have been in your office.”

  “Yes… yes, they could have.”

  “Stan, I’m a little confused. Does this file have something to do with Muñoz?”

  “No. It was… just an account file. This sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I’m sorry. I’m on edge. I’m seeing the bogeyman everywhere.”

  “How do you know the funeral program was Ms. Thorne’s?”

  “She’d written on it. I recognized her handwriting. She wrote directions and an address. Here, it says: Twelve Withered Canyon Road. And there’s a phone number. I think she was going to this place tonight. It says six o’clock.”

  “Well, isn’t that damn interesting?”

  “Really, why?”

  “Stan, you still haven’t said why she’d want this file.”

  “You know, you’re right. My secretary was in my filing cabinet on Friday. I’m making a big deal over nothing. I’m just rattled. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “No bother at all, Stan. You never know. Cases sometimes break from oddball information. Call anytime.”

  Lewin hung up the phone. “Damn interesting.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Paul Lewin parked across the street from Teddy Kraus’s house in a quiet West L.A. neighborhood where real estate inflation had made the modest, older homes too rich for most working folks. The lawn was paid-gardener neat and Lewin guessed that the interior would be paid-housekeeper tidy also.

  Freaking yuppies, Lewin thought. Life’s just one big Hacky Sack game.

  He watched the house for a few minutes out of habit, then opened his car door to get out.

  Teddy came out of his house just then and got into his paid-hand washed clean, candy-apple red Beemer. The electronic chirp of the car alarm being disengaged joined the other clear noises of the late summer L.A. night. The sweet fragrance of night-blooming jasmine hung thick in the air. A few stars and a three-quarter moon shined weakly through the smoggy sky.

  What the hell. It’s Saturday night. Lewin followed Teddy.

  The traffic on the Five south was light on Saturday night. Monday through Friday, the southern leg of the Golden State Freeway is owned by big rigs in the very early hours and by Orange County-to-L.A. commuters other times, everyone rolling down the old asphalt, which doesn’t seem up to the task.

  Tonight there wasn’t much action on the Five. Teddy chewed up the asphalt.

  Damn, Lewin said to himself.

  When they exited at Florence Avenue, Lewin felt the bass of Teddy’s stereo through the steel chassis of his wife’s minivan. He saw Teddy drumming his hands on the steering wheel in time with the beat.

  A car full of girls out on Saturday night pulled beside Teddy. Happy days. He stared at them and they ignored him and he stared at them and they finally turned and giggled. Teddy half-stood through the open sunroof and blew them a kiss. They drove off, giggling. Ladies, ladies! You don’t know what you’re missing!

  The facade of the Four Queens Card Club was lit up like a Christmas tree in red, green, and white neon. Christmas every day. Blinking white lights swirled around and around—a drunk’s nightmare.

  Lewin parked one car away from Teddy and watched through the windows of the car between them. Teddy hadn’t seen him. Lewin figured that Teddy probably wouldn’t notice him unless he went right up to his face. Teddy was that kind of a guy. Full of himself.

  Teddy took a snort off a vial.

  Get some courage, baby.

  Teddy lit a cigarette with the Beemer’s lighter and then got out. He hitched his pants up over his belly and started toward the club. The Beemer chirped twice behind him.

  The place was packed. A low cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Waitresses wearing short, poufy skirts buzzed past, balancing trays of drinks. Chip attendants wearing red shirts with the Four Queens logo embroidered across the back hopped from table to table, buying and selling poker chips. A hypnotist did a show in the lounge. Laughter and applause spilled out.

  Lewin pictured people doing stupid things like acting like strippers or as if they were in love with people they didn’t know.

  What a crock.

  The reservation hostess’s voice carried across the main room.

  “W.R. for five-ten stud, smoking. W.R. for five-ten stud.”

  There wasn’t much talking. There was a buzzing white noise of poker chips being jiggled in palms, tossed onto felt, stacked on top of one another. A clattering hum of plastic on plastic.

  Teddy made his reservation and walked to a cash machine. He took out his wallet, pulled out a stack of credit cards, and examined each one.<
br />
  “Not you, not you. Limitsville for you. Whoa! Come to Daddy. Five-thousand-dollar limit. Just sign on the line.”

  He slid the card into the machine and it handed him cash. Magic.

  Lewin ordered a scotch on the rocks from a passing waitress. Coke and gambling. Could definitely change things.

  The hostess called Teddy’s reservation. “Follow Frankie to your table.”

  Teddy hip-hopped over to Frankie, who glared at him from across the room, holding a walkie-talkie in his left hand like a broken bottle.

  “Frankeeebuddeee,” Teddy said.

  “Asshole,” Frankie said.

  “What have I ever done to you, Frank-eee?”

  “They let you back in here, huh?”

  “Eddie and I go way back, Frank-eee. Way back.”

  Frankie started walking.

  Teddy sauntered after him to a table where eight men were already seated—four blacks, three Asians, and one white guy. The dealer was middle-aged and white, with graying Elvis hair. He rolled a poker chip up and down over the tops of his fingers and looked bored.

  “Sit,” Frankie ordered.

  “Here.” Teddy tried to hand him a ten-dollar bill.

  Frankie glowered at him. “Get out of my face.”

  Teddy turned to the group. “Gotta love this guy.”

  The three Asians smoked cigarettes and drank from glasses of beer on little round tables positioned between every two chairs. The white man had thin gray hair deeply parted at the side and combed over his bald patch down the center of his head. One of the black men had neat, short-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair and was wearing a cotton crew-neck sweater with the sleeves pushed up. The other three blacks looked to be in their early twenties and were wearing designer jogging suits with the jackets zipped open and no shirts, beepers clipped to their waistbands. One of them had his hand inside his jacket and was absentmindedly stroking his pectorals. They looked at Teddy impassively.

  “Men!” Teddy said. “I’m Teddy Kraus the third and I’m pleased as hell to meetcha all.” He smiled like a scout leader at a jamboree.

  The other players either ignored him or looked as if they didn’t know what to make of him.

  “Friendly group,” Teddy said. “Boys, just don’t spend the rent money. You’ll have hell to pay at home. Dealer, let’s party.”