by Dianne Emley
Everything was everywhere.
She carefully took the grocery bags off the handlebars, slowly set them on the floor, pulled down the kickstand with her foot, and balanced the bicycle, operating in a sort of surreal hyperspace. She looked at the billowing drapes and started to walk toward the terrace, stepping through the albums and CDs strewn across the floor. The terrace was a mile away and she walked on legs that weren’t hers, walking to the gates of hell.
Midway across the room, she bolted and fell on the drape pulls, whimpering while she fumbled for the right one. The drapes rose and fell. She finally found the pull and let the world in.
The terrace was empty.
She sighed in relief.
Then she stood stone still and listened. She heard her heart beating and the blood rushing in her ears and the rolling ocean outside and they were the same noise. She wished they’d stop. She needed to hear better. She stood still for a long time—longer, she figured, than anyone else there could possibly remain quiet. Then she stood quiet even longer and didn’t hear anything and decided that whoever had done the dirty deed must have left.
She walked into the kitchen, rolling the little round bottles from the splintered spice rack out of the way. She wasn’t cleaning that rack now. Some of the cupboards were scraped clean, their contents covering the counters and floor. Others looked like the stuff inside had just been moved around. She thought it looked like the work of two creeps—one neat, one frenzied.
The smash-master must have done the china hutch. Most of the china and crystal was on the floor, most of it broken. It must have made a wonderful clatter.
Iris was pragmatic. Now she wouldn’t have to worry about the earthquake doing it.
The empty champagne bottle from her Saturday night party for one poked up through the mess. She lifted it by the neck. The base was broken. She held it in front of her, business end out, saw a bloody image of someone using it on her, but took it anyway.
Now armed, she walked assertively toward the hall, flipping on the hall light without stopping, marching into the bedroom, jumping when she saw a figure silhouetted against the bedroom window, relieved when the light turned it into her bathrobe.
Her goose down comforter had been thrown off the bed, her Laura Ashley sheets slashed, the mattress stuffing pulled out in tufts and scattered across the room.
The walk-in closet was three feet deep in clothes, shoes, purses, belts, hats, and luggage. Quelle soirée. Her new Anne Klein suit lay on top of the pile. She held her breath as she picked it up. It wasn’t slashed. At least they hadn’t been sick enough to slash her new Anne Klein.
They had been sick enough to play with her lingerie. All of it was pulled out and displayed on top of the other mess. She looked through it, lifting each piece by her fingernails, thinking maybe they’d left behind a surprise wadded inside.
At least they weren’t perverts.
Then she saw the sign scribbled on the bedroom mirror with a lipstick, her new shade.
NATSY, it said.
“Natsy?” Iris said.
The police arrived in eight minutes. It was Sunday night and the action in the neighborhood was slow. Iris put her lingerie back, then called John Somers’s house after she’d called the police, then threw the telephone across the room when she heard some hokey music click on and his voice over it. She retrieved the phone and called his office. He wasn’t on that night. It wasn’t their business to keep track of him.
She threw the phone across the room again.
She put the couch back together, sat on it cross-legged, and watched the police poke around. They’d asked her if anything was missing. She did a quick inventory. Nothing was.
Well, why was her place trashed?
How the hell did she know?
She sat with arms crossed and legs crossed and sulked.
Then Paul Lewin came in. Just breezed in, wearing a plaid short-sleeved shirt buttoned over his belly and jeans that were too baggy in the seat.
“You don’t knock?” Iris asked.
“This is a crime scene, ma’am,” Lewin said.
“So, crooks and cops own my privacy.”
“Just conducting my business, Ms. Thorne.”
“No bodies here, Detective.”
“The station said you called for Somers. Thought I’d follow up.”
“Where is he?”
“On police business, ma’am.”
“What business? Isn’t this his case?”
“I can’t discuss it, Ms. Thorne.”
“Please stop calling me ma’am and Ms. Thorne.”
“They’re terms of respect.”
“Somehow you don’t make it sound that way.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, ma’am.”
Iris blew out air and shook her head. She scraped the polish off a fingernail with the thumb of her other hand. “Doesn’t matter. Guess he didn’t believe me.”
“Ma’am?”
“John. Something I told him.”
“I followed up on your Disneyland lead.”
“He told you?”
“We’re partners, ma’am.”
“What happened?”
“I can’t discuss a case in progress.”
“But I’m the one who told John.”
“How did you come across that information, Ms. Thorne?”
“What information?”
“Ma’am, this isn’t a game.”
“You know who Joe Campbell’s father is. Tell me.”
“I suspect you already have that information, Ms. Thorne.”
“Who is Joe Campbell’s father?”
Lewin put his hands on his hips and looked around the room. “It’s police business. Judging by the looks of this place, I’d advise you to stay out of it.”
“Why don’t you like me?”
“Ma’am?”
“Is it because of John?”
“I’m doing my job. Whether I like you or not doesn’t have a thing to do with it.” He left the room.
Iris sank her head down lower. She started scraping another nail.
After a few minutes, Lewin strolled back into the room.
“Ms. Thorne, are you involved in any political organizations—” he searched for the right words—“any… movements?”
“Movements?”
“Abortion, whales, skinheads…”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“They’re calling you a Nazi.”
“Who is?”
“On the mirror, in your bedroom.”
“Nazi?” Iris was incredulous. “That doesn’t say Nazi.”
Lewin put his hands on his hips. “Why don’t you tell me what it does say? Ms. Thorne.”
“It doesn’t say anything.”
“What’s it doing there?”
“You’re the detective, Detective.”
He looked out the open glass door at the phosphorescent white caps on the rolling sea. He turned to face her.
He stared.
She stared back.
“Ms. Thorne, what have you got that someone’s looking for?”
She stared. “Nothing.”
“Who are you protecting?”
“No one.”
“Teddy Kraus?”
“No one.”
“Joe Campbell?”
“Seriously? No.”
“Yourself?”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
“You’re only endangering yourself.”
“You hung Alley out to dry.”
“This doesn’t look good for you, Ms. Thorne.”
“My condo gets trashed and I’m the bad guy.”
“This is no coincidence. Is Alley worth it?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Sleep well, Ms. Thorne. And don’t leave town.”
Steve stood in the open doorway and watched Iris iron. It was after midnight.
“Iris, why is the door wide open?”
&
nbsp; “Everyone in the world’s coming through anyway. Why make it hard on ‘em?”
“Look at this place.”
“Yeah, look.” She smashed the iron against a blouse draped over the board.
“What are you doing?”
“Ironing something to wear to work.”
He picked his way through the clutter, took the iron out of her hand, set it on its base, and put his arms around her.
She sank into them.
They managed to put enough stuffing back into the mattress to sleep on it. She set the alarm for 4:25 in the morning. She watched Steve sleep, his eyes fluttering beneath his lids, his face calm. What was he dreaming? Of her? Of another woman? Or was he just at peace with himself?
She picked up the gold-and-midnight-blue velour Crown Royal whiskey bag from her nightstand and took out the handgun that was inside. Steve’s gun. Protection from pirates. He thought she should have it. Steve had taught her about guns, first at sea, then at a shooting range. She held it up and aimed it at the NATSY message, then at the Rodeo Drive shopping bag with the two hundred thirty-eight thousand dollars in it, then at her own head, just to see how it felt. Then she put it away and lay down and did not sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Steve.” Iris stroked his bare shoulder. “Steve, wake up. There’s a problem with the TR.”
“Prince of Darkness?”
“Electrical’s fine. It’s dripping fuel. There’s a big puddle on the drip pan.”
“Need a ride to work?”
“Please?”
“I’ll run the TR to the shop.”
“Thank you.”
“Want me to pick you up later?”
“That’s okay. I have an appointment in Century City. I’ll get there and home somehow.”
Steve pulled up in front of Iris’s office building in his beat-up Volvo and ponytail and earring and suntan and Iris felt like she was standing on the street in her merry widow and G-string. She put on her jacket, grabbed her briefcase, kissed Steve, patted his sun-bleached hair, watched him drive away, and wished she was going wherever he was going.
She was late. It was Monday morning and the market had been open for forty-five minutes. The office was buzzing.
Iris stood tall and held her briefcase with a firm hand and her head high and ignored her grainy eyes and took sure steps, making eye contact all around and smiling and forcing a spring into her stride.
She smiled at Joe Campbell. He fumbled a greeting and averted his eyes. She kept smiling.
She smiled at Billy Drye. He pointedly looked at his watch. She flipped him off, shielding it with her briefcase. He winced and mouthed “oohhh.” She kept smiling.
She smiled at Stan Raab. He watched her from his office and didn’t look at his watch but Iris knew that he knew that she knew what time it was. She kept smiling.
She smiled at Teddy Kraus. She rubbed his bald spot for luck and he smacked her hand away without looking at her, too hard to be just fooling around. She kept smiling.
She threw her purse into her desk drawer, flipped on her computer with her workday one-two motion, sat down, and took out a pad and pen. She held the telephone receiver to her ear, listened to the dial tone, stared at the fake wood-grain desk top, and tried to remember what she did there.
It came to her. She talked on the phone. She made deals. She earned money for people with money. She got paid for good and bad decisions, both ways. She built paper empires. She sold promises.
She got up to get coffee. Stan watched her. She smiled. She knew that he knew that she hadn’t produced today. She hadn’t used her telephone relationships to make paper wealth. She was off quota. She didn’t care.
John Somers was wolfing down two eggs, two strips of bacon, and two pancakes. Paul Lewin spooned a bowl of bran cereal with 2 percent milk and eyed Somers’s bacon. Somers was talking.
“The Oaxcatil police had wanted to talk to us, too. They figured the drug cartels had found the perfect courier. Someone everyone notices but no one suspects.”
“But Alley’s going ‘Par-ty’“ Lewin said. “Fiesta. Baile.”
Somers explained. “They think Alley was bringing down cash in suitcases or something, then handing it off or depositing it in a bank down there that’s not curious about cash. Then it was probably transferred through a bunch of Caribbean shell corporations and finally wired back here as clean money.
“They were going to nab Alley on his next trip down. When I told them he was offed, they figured he got caught in the cookie jar. But it was beautiful while it lasted. Alley kept a prostitute down there, name of Mariposa. Butterfly tattoo on her breast. Seventeen years old, if that. Decked out in clothes her sugar daddy brought from el norte. Alley’s requests were pretty plain vanilla, except for a few times…” Somers shook his fingers as if they were hot.
Lewin dropped his spoon in the empty cereal bowl with a clatter. “So, Teddy uses too much and gambles too much and gets in deep with Lamb and Easter. They offer to work something out. Courier this dough across the border. But Teddy won’t soil his hands. He recruits Alley, who’d do anything to be his friend. But Alley skims off the top and the geeks put the heat on Teddy for it. Or maybe Alley threatened to blackmail Teddy. Or maybe Teddy planned to off Alley as soon as the job was done and it all came off like planned.”
“Murder for hire doesn’t fit Teddy.”
“He’s got money trouble. He’s got drug trouble. Not losing face is important to a guy like that.”
“He’s a knucklehead. Look at his show at the funeral. That wasn’t the move of a calculating criminal. He’s as wide open as an all-night convenience store,” Somers said.
“He felt guilty. Don’t forget he’s threatened his ex, Jaynie.”
“A crime of passion, yeah, but Teddy’s too sloppy for something planned. He keeps bad company. He says stupid things. He’s volatile. So what? Nothing ties it back to Alley.”
“Except Ms. Iris Thorne.”
“Go on,” Somers said.
“Alley couldn’t resist bragging to his lady friend.”
“Okay.”
“She puts him up to stealing a hunk off the top.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Iris wouldn’t do that. I know her. I’ve known her for years.”
“You knew her. We all said our prayers before going to bed back then.”
“It’s worth something.”
“Why did she put us onto that Disneyland thing? Oh… check this out.” Lewin opened his wallet and took out the Polaroid folded inside. “Joey and his papa.”
“Vito Camelletti.”
“Was Vito Camelletti. Word is, he’s retired.”
“We should check OCU,” Somers said.
“I’ve checked Organized Crime, and he’s clean.”
“Like Joe Bananas was clean.”
“That’s the way it’s done now. The old stuff’s penny ante. The big money’s on Wall Street. No muss, no fuss. Just send a few faxes, tell a few lies, forge a few signatures, fudge a few numbers. No ring around the collar.”
“My son, the securities expert. Sweet deal for the old man,” Somers said.
“Probably changed his name to avoid the underworld rep.”
“He’ll have to do more than that to get out. Who do the geeks work for?” Somers downed his last piece of syrup-soaked bacon.
“Lamb and Easter? Camelletti. At Disneyland, they were busy keeping the man safe from opportunists. You didn’t give me any bacon.”
“You’re not supposed to have any.”
“It’s probably Camelletti’s dirty money going through the laundry and Ms. Thorne stumbled on the connection between Camelletti and McKinney Alitzer.”
“Try this,” Somers said. “Alley bragged to Iris, but she’s afraid Campbell and his father will find out she knows about the laundry. So she tips us off, we find out on our own, and no one knows she knows.”
“But what’s her angle? Why p
ut herself at risk?”
“Wrong place, wrong time,” Somers said.
“Wake up and smell the coffee, Professor.”
“You’re not coming to this party empty-handed either, Shamus. You won’t let go of Teddy Kraus when the only thing we have on him is that he’s a jerk. But he pissed you off. And Iris pissed you off. But Raab’s such a great guy that his name doesn’t even come up. What about that missing file? He jumps all over Iris and you let it lie there.”
“He said he was just seeing the bogeyman.”
“Why didn’t he just ask Iris about it? Why call you at home? And why was Raab schmoozing with Camelletti? All this stuff is going on and he doesn’t know anything about it? But he makes an accusation about Iris and you’re ready to hang her.”
“Hey, Stan’s been more than helpful all down the line.”
“Then he should be really glad to see us again.”
Iris poked her head in Jaynie’s office. “Hi. Can I bug you for a big favor?”
“Sure.”
“The TR’s at the mechanic near your house and I can’t get there before they close because I have an appointment in Century City. Could you pay the guy and park it on the street? I’ll write you a blank check.”
“No problem. How are you going to pick it up?”
“I’ll take a cab.”
“That’ll cost a fortune. I’ll get the TR and pick you up.”
“That’s a hassle for you.”
“It’s fine. I need to get out.”
“What’s up?”
“Teddy was parked outside my apartment the whole night. Iris, what am I going to do?”
“Take the cure… shopping!”
“Let’s buy something foolish and expensive.”
“And eat French fries and onion rings.”
“And chocolate chip cheesecake at that place. Where should I meet you?”
“Five o’clock in front of the Tower Building.”
“Great.” Jaynie’s phone rang. “Iris, Stan wants you in his office.”
“Probably wants to give another one of my accounts to Billy Drye. See ya.”
