Cold Call (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 1)

by Dianne Emley

  “Sushi?” Lewin said.

  “I never liked the stuff to begin with.”

  Lewin looked at Somers quizzically.

  “I’ll tell you about it later. Raab jabbered nonsense the whole time he was bleeding to death. Something about plans.”

  “Plans?”

  Iris rasped, “A yuppie’s death rattle.”

  Somers poked his head inside the door. He smiled. “I didn’t know you were there. How are you doing?”

  She nodded. “Okay. Throat hurts.”

  Lewin poked his head inside the office and nodded curtly. “Ms. Thorne.”

  She mimicked the nod. “Detective.”

  “I’m gonna check on things over there,” Lewin said. “They’re probably taking pictures of their shoes.” He walked away with heavy footsteps.

  “I hate people who walk heavy like that. It’s so”—Iris shrugged—“intrusive.”

  Somers laughed. “I’ll run you to the hospital.”

  “Can’t I go home?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Thanks for tracking me down.”

  “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

  “Wanna buy some stock?”

  “Yeah.” Somers laughed. “Maybe I do. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  Iris tried to stand, to see how she felt. She rolled Jaynie’s desk chair back. It hit the draped wall behind her. There was a soft paper crunch. Iris leaned on the edge of the desk to steady herself as she slowly got to her feet. She was dizzy. She walked behind the chair, pulled back the drapes, and saw a large manila envelope propped against the wall. She leaned over. Blood throbbed in her head. She stood straight until her head cleared, then held on to the chair as she leaned over to grab the envelope by the corner. Her name was written on it in Alley’s handwriting. She touched the heavy, round script and thought of Alley’s Certs that Stan had taken. Her eyes filled with indignant tears.

  She pulled open the glued flap. Neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills were crammed inside. She took one out and fanned it with her thumb. About two hundred bills and about twenty stacks.

  “Ready?” Somers stuck his head in the door.

  Iris slammed the flap closed. “Yeah… just one second.”

  She zipped the envelope inside her backpack. She went to the door. Jaynie’s suit jacket hung behind the door on a hook. She put it on and buttoned it to cover her gore-stained clothes. She turned off the light and locked the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “Hello Mr. Byrne. You don’t know me and I realize this call is an intrusion on your busy day, but you’re a person with substantial net worth and business acumen and a person like you is busier making money than investing it. My business acumen is turning money into more money. I understand. No problem. I’ll call you next week. How about Thursday at two o’clock? Friday at two o’clock…”

  “Same to you, Mr. Byrne,” Iris said to no one.

  She swiveled her chair to look at the skyline and unconsciously smoothed the neck of the sleeveless silk turtleneck she’d bought in twelve colors to hide the red mark that seemed to never fade.

  She studied the upholstery of the twin chairs facing her desk and the wallpaper and thought that she would change the color of the contrasting wall after all. Fortunately, Joe Campbell had good taste. She was mostly happy with how he’d decorated his office.

  “You got flow-wers,” a secretary sang. She carried in a dozen white roses in a tall vase.

  “Wow.” Iris picked up a large rubber dildo that she used as a paperweight and moved it and a stack of papers to the credenza behind her.

  “Why don’t you get rid of that thing?” the secretary asked.

  “Tried. They multiply around here like bunnies. I’m having this one bronzed.”

  Iris saw Billy Drye and some of the Boys’ Club loitering outside her office, preparing their report on her flowers for the troops. Iris pulled a small envelope off a long plastic fork in the middle of the bouquet. She took out the card. Multicolored heart-, star-, and crescent-shaped confetti flew across her desk.

  Holding the card in front of her, she said in a loud voice, “Thanks for last night.”

  A whoop went up outside her office door. Billy Drye peeked inside her office door, grinning broadly.

  Iris smiled crookedly at him.

  The boys walked away, laughing. That Iris.

  Iris read the card to herself:

  Roses are red.

  Violets are blue.

  Try dinner again?

  Call me if you’d like to.

  John

  Iris took out his business card. She knew where it was.

  “I would,” she said into the telephone.

  “I’d wanted to ask you sooner, but I thought I’d let the dust settle first. No South Pacific?”

  “There’s enough adventure around here.”

  “Steve must be lonely.”

  “He won’t be for long. I moved into Joe Campbell’s old office. It’s a step up.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. Although my detractors are calling it my A.D.D. strategy—Advancement by Death and Disgrace—forgetting I was the largest producer after Joe. We have a new manager. He’s really smart and low-key. What else? The SEC is investigating us. They’ve hired replacements for Jaynie and Alley. And Teddy’s in jail.”

  “He’ll be out in six months. Sounds like the place is different.”

  “It is. I talked to Joe Campbell. He went to Europe after the hearing but he’s back now, as Joe Camelletti.”

  “What’s he doing with himself?”

  “Nothing right now. He banned from the industry for life. I don’t know what his plans are.”

  “We found Alley’s murderer.”

  “You did?”

  “Actually, Lewin did. He stuck to the case like glue and it finally broke. Raab hired a homeboy from another neighborhood to kill Alley. The homie had a friend drive him from the scene in a black hearse.

  “Alley decided to play Robin Hood after he withdrew the last of the Worldco cash from the Mexico City bank. Raab never got that last delivery. Alley dropped a shopping bag with about three million in cash on the doorstep of a school for handicapped children in Mexico City. They kept it without spending it, then felt guilty and told the police. Then there’s the two hundred thirty-eight thousand from the safe-deposit box. Raab’s estate had cash and receipts for about six million. That’s about eight hundred grand that hasn’t turned up. You were right about Alley. You stuck with him.”

  “Yeah. My mother’s still on Valium. John, there’s something I have to tell you. The night Stan died, I found a manila envelope that Alley had left for me. It had four hundred thousand dollars in it. I want to turn it in.”

  “Keep it.”

  “What?”

  “Keep it. The case is closed. It probably wouldn’t make it past the clerk in the Evidence Department.”

  “It’s in a safe-deposit box. I’ll just leave it there.”

  “I didn’t hear a thing. Dinner Saturday? I’ll cook.”

  “Will your daughter be joining us?”

  “She’ll be with her mother.”

  “I see.”

  They completed arrangements and Iris hung up. She swiveled her chair to face the brown skyline. It was October. No matter. It was hot and smoggy. The Garfield cat from Jaynie’s office and the Smurf figure with the briefcase from Alley’s desk were on the credenza. Iris turned them around so they could share the view with her. She looked west, over the buildings of downtown, then east, toward the hills of East L.A. where she’d come from. She again faced her desk and punched in the next number on her prospect list. Her goal was twenty-five cold calls before noon.

  She picked up her BUDGETS ARE FOR WIMPS mug. Wet confetti from the card floated on the surface of the coffee.

  “Hello, Ms. Morgan. You don’t know me and I’m probably an intrusion on your time right now…”

  BONUS: EXCERPT FROM SLOW SQUEEZE


  The second Iris Thorne mystery

  CHAPTER ONE OF BONUS EXCERPT

  It was Easter Sunday. Barbie Stringfellow was lying on her back in bed, propped up against fluffy goose down pillows, wearing a negligee of many yards of fabric, some sheer and some slippery satin, all purple. Barbie was not a slender woman. Her breasts and thighs tested the fabrics. Her pose seemed casual and relaxed, in spite of her dishabille. She had a pleasantly surprised look on her face, the look of someone who had won five dollars in the lottery or who had been tapped on the shoulder by a friend at the supermarket.

  The morning light filtered between the wood shutters. A moment before there had been silence, but all at once the birds came alive and started chirping merrily. Outside the bungalow, the air was fresh. A rainstorm had moved down the coast during the night, raising the scent of the pine, eucalyptus and cypress trees and of the musty soft soil underneath the fallen pine cones, seed pods, leaves, and needles.

  Barbie’s red Mercedes convertible was parked beside the cabin. The rag top had been left down during the night. The white leather interior of the car was now wet and covered with leaves and needles. Curious squirrels had gathered their courage and were exploring the car’s interior, periodically lifting their heads and sniffing the air.

  The ocean had been stirred up by the storm, and it pounded the cliffs bordering the Central California coast town of Las Pumas. Barbie was in the Central Coast’s best hotel, the Mariah Lodge, and in the lodge’s best bungalow, the one called the Cabin in the Woods, nestled in the forest with a garden fronting a cliff.

  At the base of the cliff in a sandy alcove out of reach of the waves, a flock of sea gulls had lighted. Several gulls were fighting over something that lay in the sand. Something fleshy. Another gull flew up to the group, landed, then circled around the others, intimidating them until they scattered. This gull grabbed the prize in its beak and ascended the cliff. One of the gulls that had been chased away rallied. The two gulls struggled in midair. The object was dropped in the fracas and fell against the side of the cliff. They tried to retrieve it, skimming close to the cliff, but it was lost. They flew away, side by side across the ocean, and were soon joined by the others.

  Inside the cabin, Barbie’s expensive clothes had been carelessly tossed around the room as if there were plenty more where they had come from. A purple silk blouse lay across the back of a rough-hewn wooden chair, which had snagged it. Designer jeans were in a twisted heap on the floor. Leather cowboy boots were near the fireplace, where the fire was now dead. A full-length red fox coat was spread across the bed, near Barbie’s feet, like a faithful dog.

  A platter of untouched fruit and cheese withered on a wheeled table near the door. The table also held a bottle of bourbon and another of soda water. An almost empty bottle of flat champagne rested in a silver bucket full of melted ice next to two cut crystal champagne flutes. The rim of each flute had a lipstick imprint, one hot pink, the other red.

  Barbie still lay in her negligee on top of a patchwork quilt that covered the bed. The quilt was handmade, sewn in the broken star pattern with scraps of red, blue, and green fabric. The Mariah Lodge spared no expense in decorating its cabins in rustic Americana.

  Dark purple and red bruises circled Barbie’s neck. Her hand was lying palm up next to her on the comforter, the fingers curled inward in repose. Blood had pooled beneath her hand in an irregular circle. There was a stump of red flesh and white bone where the little finger of her left hand had been.

  A key jiggled in the lock and the bungalow door was pushed open. Police Chief Charles Greenwood stepped inside, his cowboy boots on the hardwood floor conspicuously announcing his arrival. He rolled a milk chocolate Easter egg around his mouth, lodging it against his cheek, where it made a small protuberance. The rich color of the chocolate matched the color of his skin. He walked heavily to the bed. A maid peeked behind him through the doorway.

  Barbie didn’t stir. A dead woman wouldn’t.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Special appreciation to Rowland Barber for the Saturday mornings of conversation and guidance on the art of novel writing. To Dana Isaacson, editor extraordinaire. To valued friends for commenting on the manuscript: Mardi Bettes, Greg Denton, Ann Escue, and Mary and Don Goss. To Katherine Johnson, for sharing her experiences on life in the securities industry. To my family for your support. To Charlie, for bringing bagels and having big shoulders to lean on.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dianne Emley is a Los Angeles Times bestselling author and has received critical acclaim for her books which include the Detective Nan Vining thrillers: The First Cut, Cut to the Quick, The Deepest Cut, and Love Kills and the Iris Thorne mysteries: Cold Call, Slow Squeeze, Fast Friends, Foolproof and Pushover. Her books have been translated into six languages. A Los Angeles native, she’s never lived more than ten minutes away except for the year she lived in Southern France. She now lives in a hundred-year-old house near L.A. with her husband.

  www.DianneEmley.com