Kari looked stunned. Not only had Mimi surprised her with knowledge of Carmen’s work as a courier, but the fact that she thought her sister might also have been a target opened up a whole new discussion neither of us had expected. Kari smiled at me and grabbed the mic. “Mimi, that’s a stunning accusation, and I’m sure our listeners would like to know more. In fact, I can see from our call-in line that we have several calls waiting. Shall we take a few?”
The first caller wanted to pass on her condolences to Carmen, and Mimi promised she would. The second caller was Tim from Sherman Oaks. He was a photographer who said he just happened to be in Beverly Hills and taken a picture of Carmen with an unknown male escort coming out of Henry Westin’s just before the explosion. I had seen the picture in the paper that morning. A handsome couple ducking into a limo. With his hair slicked back, wearing glasses and face unshaven, nobody—except Sheri and me—would have known the man with Carmen was Eric. Mimi said she hadn’t seen the paper, and Tim said he was glad Carmen had escaped unscathed. Then ending the call exactly like the first caller had, Tim asked Mimi to convey his best wishes to her sister.
But it was the third caller that made me think our casual, chatty conversation concerning the robbery was being monitored by someone other than KCHC fans.
Kari welcomed the caller. “Good morning. This is Kari Rhodes. You’re on the air. May I ask your name?”
“Tomi, with an i,” she said softly.
The voice was mid-range, youthful, and quick-speaking. Not too dissimilar from a lot of KCHC callers.
“Welcome to the show, Tomi-with-an-i. And may I ask where you’re calling from?”
“Beverly Hills, or maybe I should say Beverly Hills adjacent. Does it matter?” A light, nervous chuckle followed.
“No, not at all, Tomi.” Kari sounded reassuring. “And what can I do for you today?”
“I was hoping to talk with Carol Childs.” My ears perked up. Working for the station, I must have heard close to twenty to thirty different voices a day, but this one sounded oddly familiar, although I couldn’t place it. “I wanted to call and say what a good job Carol did the other day. I was there when the bomb went off.”
Kari’s eyes shot in my direction, her brow furrowed. It was one thing for me to be in the field and to dig up news to share on the air. She loved the talking points I provided for her show, but she wasn’t used to having fans call in and ask to talk to me. Her pencil-thin brows raised begrudgingly in my direction.
“Well, Carol, it appears you have a fan.” Kari sat back and crossed her arms.
I picked up the conversation before Kari could say anything more.
“Thank you, Tomi. May I ask where you were when the bomb exploded?”
“Running for cover.” She laughed again. “Like everyone else.”
“Yes. It was manic out there. People were very frightened.” I covered my earphones with my hands, pressing them close to my head. I wanted to concentrate on the voice.
“But not you, Carol. No, you ran towards the scene.”
I still couldn’t place the voice.
“I’ll never forget it. But the police…they got it all screwed up. They’re such pigs—”
Kari nearly fell off the stool as she hit the seven-second delay button. I could tell she was about to signal Matt, our producer, to dump the call. But I put my hand up against the glass between our two studios and shook my head. I wanted to talk to this caller. If Tomi knew or had seen something, perhaps it could be helpful.
“Tomi, what is it you think the police got wrong?”
“The murder.” The voice sounded like a hatchet hitting a wood block. There was a finality about its tone and delivery.
Kari grabbed her mic and shook her head at me. We were close to commercial break. She wasn’t about to let my conversation go on longer than necessary.
“The old lady wasn’t supposed to die! Nobody was supposed to. That’s not the way it works.”
“Tomi.” I pushed the palm of my hand harder up against the glass. Please, Kari, don’t drop the call. “Do you know something about the robbery? Did you see something?”
There was no answer. Only silence.
Kari, Mimi, and I stared through the glass into the production studio at Matt. I pointed to the phone and mouthed, “Could we trace the number?” Matt gestured back at us, his hands up. The line had gone dead, and the sound escaping out over the airwaves droned in my ear.
Kari was first to jump back in, filling the void. “Well now. That was a surprising note to end today’s show on. But unfortunately, folks, we’re out of time. You’ve been listening—”
The musical sting announcing my top of the hour newscast began to play, drowning out Kari’s sign-off. I pulled up a list of chick-lite news stories, my stomach turning, and began my report.
“Spice the missing Pomeranian has returned home. The lost pooch, who last week was believed to have been kidnapped from his backyard, was found on the doorstep of his home in Woodland Hills early this morning. In other news…”
Chapter 8
Whoever Tomi, my mystery caller, was, she didn’t call back. Nor did she make any attempt to leave another message. Often times the station gets a crazy, someone who calls in for no other reason than to spook the host and rile the audience. With close to half a million listeners it’s not unusual and with no way to trace the call, I gave up worrying about it. I figured next time I talked with Detective Lewis I’d mention it. I knew the cops had their fair share of the same. People who’d confess to crimes they didn’t commit or call to offer false leads. I filed the idea of Tomi in the back of my mind. If she called back, I’d worry about it then, but for now, I needed to focus my attention on finding Carmen.
Nobody had seen or heard from Carmen since she was last seen on video inside of Henry Westin’s three days ago. As far as I knew, the last person to see her as she hurriedly left the store with Eric in a stretch limo, was me—and of course, Sheri.
The only thing I could figure was that if Mimi believed someone had been following Carmen and had spilled the beans on the air, then Carmen must need protection. And, after seeing Eric with her, I figured the FBI had been called in to do the job undercover. Added to that fact was Detective Lewis, who said he was investigating a recent rash of robberies in the Beverly Hills area. And since jewelry store robberies are one of the FBI’s specialties, it wasn’t a big stretch to imagine they might be working together as a joint task force. In my mind, LAPD had to be working the robberies from their side, while the FBI protected Carmen and perhaps investigated Diaz, or maybe both of them. I didn’t know if Carmen was a potential target or part of some international jewelry theft ring, but I was going to find out. Bombings and robberies in Beverly Hills were one thing, but a socialite predator on the arm of my boyfriend was another, and I wasn’t about to let it go.
I picked up the phone and called Carmen’s agent. I needed to find her. Despite the fact that Carmen wasn’t an actress, she retained a high-profile public relations agency to handle all her appearances. Their job was to quietly cue the paparazzi whenever needed. Carmen went shopping, they were there. Carmen went to the theater, and she was surrounded by fans. Carmen went out to dinner, more paparazzi. Her publicist, Penny Salvatti, answered the phone.
Penny’s answer to my question concerning Carmen’s health and whereabouts felt over-rehearsed. I was certain she was telling me exactly what she told every other reporter in town. “Miss Montague was greatly disturbed by the events of this week’s bombing and is taking some much-needed time for herself. I’m sure you understand how deeply distressing something like this can be. I’ll be certain to relay your message, and when she wishes to speak to the press, I’ll see she has your name. Now if you’ll excuse—”
“Can you tell me where she is?” I blurted into the phone before she could brush me off.
“I’m afraid I’
m not at liberty to say. Goodbye.”
I felt as though I’d just been tossed a bone by a dismissive master and locked outside in the doggie run with all the other media people. I was at a dead end. But unlike any other reporter in town, I, at least, knew Carmen was last seen with Eric. Which meant one of three things: A, Carmen was at home, hidden behind the twelve-foot walls that surrounded her Bel Air Estate. B, Carmen was with Diaz at their former ranch in Simi Valley, preparing for an upcoming polo match. Or C, after the bombing, the FBI had decided Carmen’s life really was in danger and she had been whisked away and was maybe onboard Eric’s yacht in the marina. That thought, like the vision of Eric with his arm around Carmen, was a bit unsettling. Quarters aboard the Sea Mistress were tight, with little room for privacy.
I decided to call Eric. Not that we could talk about Carmen or what was going on. That was strictly taboo. Open communication concerning the case, particularly between Eric and me, was verboten. I knew it. He knew it. But aside from the case, there was no reason we couldn’t have an idle conversation, something that might give me a hint as to where he was.
“Hi. It’s me.”
“Hey, me.” Eric’s voice was hushed, almost whisper-like.
“So…” I stammered, trying to think of what I could say, my mind frozen on what I couldn’t. After all, I wasn’t supposed to really know what Eric was doing. Although we both knew I did.
Eric filled in, his cool demeanor setting the tone. “So how’s Charlie?”
“Good. Doing better, in fact. Back at school.” My response felt forced and stilted.
“Anything else?”
“No. Just wanted to say hello.”
“Hello back,” he said.
There was an awkward silence. I wanted him to take the conversation in a different direction. I’d hoped he’d volunteer something, anything, that might hint at what was going on with Carmen, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen. Frustrated, we agreed we’d catch up later. I hung up, knowing later would only be another dead-end conversation.
I glanced at the clock. I didn’t have time to think about it. Kari’s remote broadcast was scheduled at The Grove, a good fifteen minutes away, traffic permitting. I grabbed my reporter’s bag and filed my concerns about Eric in the back of my mind.
The Grove, designed to look like a quaint European shopping quarter, was a bustling promenade of trendy stores, hip restaurants, and a theater. Located adjacent to the old Farmers Market just south of Beverly off Fairfax, there was never a time of day when it wasn’t crowded with locals and tourists.
For the holidays, The Grove’s cobblestoned Main Street, with its trolley car and lampposts, was dressed with Christmas garlands and tiny white lights. Christmas wreaths adorned every shop door, and a Santa’s village, complete with a sixty-foot white fir Christmas tree, stood on a small knoll behind an enormous musical water fountain.
KCHC’s street team had set up a broadcast table at La Piazza, one of several restaurants facing an open air courtyard. Despite the view of The Grove’s maimed Christmas tree with its decapitated top and today’s warm southern California temperatures, it looked like a winter wonderland.
Kari arrived dressed in a red fringed caftan and strappy gold gladiator sandals that wrapped halfway up her skinny white calves. The shoes looked impossible to walk in. She entered the restaurant in her usual huff, talking as she approached the table, and ordered a large glass of ice water with lemon wedges on the side. Then, noticing me standing by the table, she asked if I’d seen Bunny.
“Bunny?” I hadn’t heard anything about the new owner’s wife attending today’s broadcast. My heart sank. Were our plans derailed? How could we chat casually about the robberies with Bunny here after her firm dictate about chick-lite news? “Why? Did you invite her?”
Kari looked at me like that was an absurd question. Tossing her head back and rolling her eyes upward, she crossed her arms across her skinny flat chest. “It just so happens, Carol, that she told me she planned to be here today. Turns out she’s not only a fan of my show but also of Michael Bolton, and when she learned he was going to be a guest with us today, she insisted on coming. What would you have me do? Say no?”
I wanted to groan. Our proposed agenda to continue our discussion about the robbery had already hit its first snag.
“However,” Kari continued, “I wouldn’t worry. Mimi’s promised to call in. She says she has big news. She wouldn’t tell me what, but I see no reason for you to be concerned. Perhaps you might use whatever she’s calling about as a lead-in about the robbery. I know you want to, and if Bunny’s upset, it’s going to be with you, not me.”
Before I could think of an appropriate response, a small white hand, fingers wiggling frantically from within the crowd of shoppers, interrupted me. “Kari!” I turned to see Bunny, her dark curly hair piled atop her head along with her designer glasses, barging through the crowd like a force of nature. She was dressed in a ruby red blazer, black tuxedo pants, and red stiletto heels, a short, tight-bodied cougar with her skin smooth and botoxed like she’d just come from the tanning salon.
Kari tapped the white linen tablecloth in front of her and looked at me. “You don’t mind, do you? I’d like Bunny to sit next to me. You could take a seat at the end of the table, or perhaps over there.” She pointed to a smaller café table where her producer Matt was setting up.
I stepped aside as Bunny wiggled into the seat between us, asking the waiter to bring her a glass of champagne. I took the chair at the end of the table and listened as Kari described today’s lineup. Michael Bolton was here to sing “White Christmas.” A group of Hollywood Rockettes would perform a brief dance number. Santa would stop by and say a few words, and—“Oh, by the way, you know Carol, our news gal?”
Bunny flashed a curt smile in my direction and turned her attention back to Kari. I was about to start reviewing my notes concerning the robbery when I noticed Detective Lewis. He was seated at the station’s VIP guest table directly across the room, wearing one of the station’s Santa hats. Next to him, dressed in a matching red cardigan, was a woman I assumed to be his wife. With his arm around her and a glass of champagne in his hand, he looked very relaxed. I waved a welcome and he nodded, whispered something in his wife’s ear, then waved back. I took that to be a good sign and made a mental note to do a shout-out to him during the broadcast. Another opportunity to slip in something about the robbery.
Halfway through the show, after Kari had completed the rededication of the Grove’s maimed Christmas tree and Michael Bolton had finished singing, Kari’s on-air producer announced he had an excited caller on line one.
Kari shot me a quick look. We both knew the caller was Mimi, my lead-in to our discussion concerning the robberies.
I glanced over at Bunny. By now she’d had at least three glasses of champagne and had switched to white wine. The woman was feeling no pain. Michael Bolton had thoroughly charmed her with his stories and kissed her goodbye. The woman was too starstruck to object to much of anything.
“Mimi!” Kari said. “How nice of you to call in. Merry Christmas, my dear. And why are you not here with us today?”
“I would be, Kari, but I’ve been so busy. Getting ready for the holidays and upcoming awards shows. But the big news…you won’t believe it. I just received a call from Henry Westin’s. They found my necklace. It wasn’t stolen in the robbery after all.”
I looked over at Lewis. He was staring at his cell phone, his Santa hat on the table beside him. I wondered if he was getting the same news concerning Westin’s robbery as Mimi had just reported. I hadn’t heard a thing regarding any of the missing jewels, much less Miss Taylor’s necklace. Since sobering up in the hospital, Churchill had become very tight-lipped and had offered nothing more concerning his knowledge of what had been stolen. I raised my hand and wiggled my index finger in his direction, hoping I might get his attention. Could we tal
k?
Lewis shot me a quick look and nodded. I reached for the mic, and with Mimi still talking in the background, I interrupted.
“Mimi, this is Carol Childs. I was at Henry Westin’s the day of the robbery. I’m happy to hear your news, and—”
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Mimi chattered on. “A real Christmas miracle. It would have been such a loss if—”
“In fact,” I said, talking over her, “with us in the audience today is one of LAPD’s robbery-homicide detectives, Detective Lewis. He was there the day of the robbery. And if I might, Kari, I’d like to ask Detective Lewis to join us. Perhaps he might be able to shed some light on your good news.” I paused, nodded towards his table and gestured to an empty seat between myself and Bunny. When Lewis sat down, I handed him an extra set of earphones.
Bunny glanced over at me. The look on her face said it all. Happy news, Carol. Her eyes narrowed. I shrugged. I wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass. Mimi had opened the door and it was better news than either Kari or I could have planned. The necklace was found. I couldn’t just leave it at that. This was Liz Taylor’s La Peregrina, estimated to be worth eleven million dollars. It didn’t get bigger than that, not in LA, and not on an entertainment-based radio station.
Bunny bristled beside me, readjusting herself in her seat as I recapped the activities of the robbery, careful to leave out the gory details of Ms. Pero’s death, and quickly introduced Lewis. I explained the detective was a member of LAPD’s robbery-homicide division and had been in the area the morning of the bombing. He was following up on another recent burglary when he heard the alarm and raced to the scene.
My first question concerned the necklace.
Without a Doubt Page 5
