Without a Doubt

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  I squinted at the clock. “It’s Saturday, Tyler. Why are you calling—”

  “We need to talk.”

  Pushing my hair from my face, I told Tyler I was planning on coming into the station later in the afternoon, that I had left my car in Beverly Hills the night before. Sheri had said something about calling in the morning for a ride.

  “If you can give me a little time I can be there by—”

  “I’ll pick you up.” Tyler’s impatience was blatant, like the ticking of the clock on my bedside table. I pushed it off onto the floor. Hungover on two glasses of wine. Damn, I was such a lightweight.

  “We can grab breakfast at Nate ’n Al’s in Beverly Hills,” he said. “I’ll drop you at your car afterward. If you still want to come by the station, you’re free to do so.” Tyler hung up, his usual goodbye, leaving me with the dull dial tone droning in my ear that matched the pounding in my head.

  I grabbed a couple of aspirin from the medicine cabinet, splashed cold water on my face, and stared into the mirror. Who was this girl? I scarcely recognized myself. I was hungover, pale with puffy eyes and bedhead that looked like it had been ironed to my scalp. I hit the shower, washed my hair, and tried to imagine what it was Tyler wanted to talk about, on a Saturday of all days. What was he going to do? Fire me?

  No way.

  I dried myself off and determined no matter what the outcome of my conversation with Tyler, I wasn’t about to give up, and I wouldn’t come home. I was going to do exactly as I’d planned to do yesterday. Follow the story. Go to the station and hang out. At least then I could hear the police scanner. If the police found Tomas, I’d be the first to know. It sure beat the alternative. I wasn’t about to sit around the house and wait until Sunday morning. It would drive me crazy. With nothing to do but watch the clock and check my phone for messages while counting the hours to Diaz’s departure, I’d sooner eat worms.

  Thirty minutes later on the dot, I heard Tyler’s MG pull up outside my door and the rusty squawk from the horn.

  “Get in.”

  With the top down and driving at the only speed I think Tyler knew—fast—we sped up Beverly Glen, over Mulholland and down into Beverly Hills, weaving in and out of traffic. I knew better than to ask Tyler what this was about. Behind the small wooden sports wheel of the car, he was like a young Mario Andretti. With the wind in my hair and the sound of the engine’s roar, I couldn’t have heard him even if I had headphones on. Between Tyler’s lead foot and the gears grinding, conversation wasn’t top on his list.

  We pulled into an unbelievably good parking space directly in front of the restaurant. Only Tyler could have such luck. Parking in Beverly Hills at this hour on a Saturday morning, particularly right in front of Nate ’n Al’s, was at a premium. But Tyler jumped out of the car as though it were no big deal, his skinny legs slipping over the door like a sprinter, while I pushed open the door on my side and, after a clumsy exit, slammed it shut.

  I followed Tyler into the restaurant. Without a word to the hostess, he grabbed a menu off the counter like he was a regular and found an empty booth near the front.

  “Thought you might like to know,” he said, “we’re dropping the chick-lite format.”

  I wasn’t prepared for this. I felt like someone had ripped open the blinds in a darkened room and my eyes were burning from the bright sun. I squinted at Tyler and contemplated what it might mean for the station and me. Were the next words out of his mouth going to be “and with the format change, we’ve decided to let you go”?

  Instead, I asked, “You spoke with Morganstern?”

  “He’s okay with a format change. In fact, he says it was Bunny’s idea. They discussed it before she died and realized it was the only logical move. I’m going to make some personnel changes. I could use an assistant program director, and I’ll need some help. You interested?”

  I hadn’t expected such news. I leaned back against the booth and took a deep breath.

  “Program director?”

  “Assistant program director, and it’s temporary, Carol. Only until I get things straightened out.” The waitress arrived and Tyler took one quick look at the menu and put it aside while he ordered.

  “Pastrami on rye and a cream soda.” Then nodding to me, he added, “She’ll have coffee. You already ate, right?” I gestured with my hands, palms up, whatever, and waited for him to go on.

  “Anyway, far as the position goes, don’t get too excited. It’s mostly a glorified administrative position. But…”

  “But? What, Tyler?”

  “I want you to think about taking on a one-hour show. Late night Sundays. I’d like to call it ‘Inside LA with Carol Childs.’ You can do with it what you like. Investigative reports, city news. I don’t care, but it’d be in addition to your regular duties with the newsroom and top of the hour reports. And before you say anything, I know it’ll be a conflict with your son, but fact is, Charlie’s getting older. No reason he can’t be alone on a Sunday evening for a couple hours. Plus, there’s a little more money in the budget, and I’ll swing some your way so you can hire a housekeeper if you need.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was getting my own show and a raise?

  “You mean a real format change? No more anniversary stories like National Crockpot Day? Or Key Lime Pie Day? Or chasing down Festivus interviews?”

  “Don’t get cute, Carol.” Tyler didn’t appreciate my reference to Hollywood’s parody of a secular holiday that served as an alternative to the pressures and commercialization of Christmas. “I’m going to need you to focus on more serious matters, and I still have my doubts about you. You’re still, in my opinion, the world’s oldest cub reporter, but I’m giving you a chance. As for Festivus…this is Hollywood, Carol, what do you think?”

  By the time I got to the office, it was midday. Things were usually pretty still around the station on weekends. There was a different vibe. Voices of prerecorded shows echoed in the nearly empty hallways. The studios, for the most part, were dark. The sales staff was gone, and the station operated with a skeletal staff. It was exactly the atmosphere I wanted.

  I headed to the newsroom. Tyler had excused himself, grabbed a newspaper, and made his way to the men’s room. A ritual I knew would allow me at least thirty to forty minutes alone. Enough time to listen to the police scanner and check the newswire uninterrupted. I wanted to see if there had been any new jewelry store robberies reported or something that might indicate the cops had picked up Tomas. There was nothing.

  In less than twenty-four hours Diaz and his team would be on a plane winging their way back to Europe. I picked up the phone and called Nina. Maybe she had news. Perhaps Tomas had resurfaced at the barn.

  “Nina, I called to—”

  “Carol, you’re not going to believe what’s going on. Donatella’s moved out of the big house she shared with Diaz and into one of the small trainer cottages below the barn.”

  “Did they break up?”

  “Looks that way, but that’s not all.”

  “It’s not?”

  I hoped the next words out of her mouth would be that she had seen Tomas, or perhaps that he was hiding in one of the small trainers’ cottages as well. If he were, I could call the police and we’d catch him.

  Instead, she said, “Mimi’s back. She’s moved into the big house and announced she’s planning on going to Europe with Diaz. She says he was always hers, and now with Carmen gone, it’s just the right thing to do.”

  Wow. I whistled. This was big news. I wondered for a moment if I had it all wrong.

  “You don’t think Mimi had anything to do with Carmen’s death after all, do you?”

  “No. Absolutely not. If you ask me, you were right. Donatella was after Diaz for his jewels. She and the polo team are nothing but a bunch of thieves who’ve been using Diaz as a cover to travel back and forth from he
re to Europe.”

  “Does Diaz know?”

  “Mimi told me the police clued Diaz in when they were here to question Donatella about Bunny’s death. They told him he had to keep it quiet until they could finish their investigation, but it definitely was the beginning of the end for Donatella. According to Mimi, Diaz staged a big fight with her over the way she was handling the horses and then he moved Mimi in right after. They’re sitting out on the balcony of the big house right now. Mimi’s still in her negligee. They’re having breakfast.”

  I glanced at the clock. It was almost one p.m. “A bit late for breakfast.”

  Nina laughed.

  “And what about Donatella?” I asked. “Do you think she knows Diaz is on to her?”

  “That would be assuming the girl’s smart. And he certainly didn’t let on. I doubt Donatella has the faintest idea. She’s convinced her job is done, at least as far as Diaz goes. Sooner or later she had to figure Mimi was going to come between her and Diaz. I’m sure she thinks that’s all it is and doesn’t really care. Like you said, it was all an act with her, and now I think she’s looking forward to going home and being done with him.”

  “And Mimi? Can she be trusted not to say anything?”

  “Mimi’s got one thing on her mind. She wants to be the next Mrs. Umberto Diaz de la Roca. As far as she’s concerned, she’s got it all: Diaz, his money, and the jewels. She’s not going to say or do anything to interfere with that.”

  Chapter 36

  Sunday morning started early. Sheri and I arrived at the cargo transport hangar off Avion Drive, just north of the airport, before sunup. An oversized building big enough to contain several football fields and tall enough to easily house a jumbo jet backed up to the airport’s international runways and specialty cargo loading areas. A small nondescript white metal door with an orange awning above it indicated this was the entrance for Triple-A Animal Transport. Deliveries were to the left, through a sliding gate large enough to accommodate a semi. We entered through the front door and were met by a pimply-faced security guard who looked like he was barely out of school and surprised to see us. I explained I was a reporter on assignment, and needed to speak to Mr. Diaz, who I knew was here prepping his team for a flight to Spain.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” He shook his head as he checked the roster. “Your name’s not here.”

  “It’s important. He’s expecting me,” I lied and looked over his thin shoulders through a filmy glass window and into the hangar behind him. “I have to talk to him before they finish loading the plane.”

  “Hate to be a pain, but we’re understaffed. Right now, we’re a ways away from loadin’ Mr. Diaz and his horses. Things out on the tarmac are a zoo. We just loaded an eight-thousand-pound elephant onto a plane and she’s nervous as hell. Pilot won’t take off ’til she settles down. ’Til then nothing’s movin’.”

  Sheri stepped forward and peered over the counter and into the hangar behind him. “What’s she doing, rocking the boat?”

  The young guard didn’t look amused and took a step to block Sheri’s view of the hangar behind him. “Hey, it happens.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said. I was trying hard to find some middle ground, anything that would get me out on the tarmac. “Why should animals be any different than humans? Gotta be a tough job. Make an interesting interview. Don’t you think, Sheri?”

  Sheri nodded and I noticed security-boy checked his clipboard again.

  “Reporter, huh?”

  “Yeah, ever listen to KCHC’s late night Sports Talk?” A wild guess on my part, but not uneducated. A number of KCHC’s late night audience were male, age eighteen to forty-nine, and enthusiastic followers of the show.

  “Sometimes. Hey, any chance you can get me tickets to a Lakers game?”

  I wasn’t surprised by the request; in fact, I’d counted on it. A lot of listeners, once they find out I work for radio, asked about tickets. At times, I feel more like a vending machine than a reporter.

  “Nothing’s impossible, but I really do need to get out there and see Mr. Diaz.”

  “Let me check.” He motioned to a couple of cheap folding chairs by the front door and said he would be back in a few minutes. But he didn’t sound very encouraging, and I wasn’t about to sit and wait. The moment he left, I leaned up against the heavy glass doors and cupped my hands around my eyes, peering through the filmy window into the hangar. There was a giant menagerie of cages, caged animals, and large wooden cargo boxes, each tagged for a different part of the world. At the far end, sunlight and a bay of oversized garage doors yawned open to the tarmac. I could see an army of activity beneath the belly of a plane. Screw waiting. I wasn’t going to get stuck in some stuffy little room while Donatella and her band of thieves escaped.

  I pushed through the glass doors with Sheri behind me. Together we dodged any two-legged human security types that patrolled the hangar, hiding behind large freight containers and sneaking our way down the aisles and onto the tarmac. The young security guard was right. It was a zoo.

  Ahead of me were two huge cargo jets, one slightly behind the other. The plane closest I figured was for Diaz and the horses. The second, a wide-bodied 767, had begun slowly taxiing away from the hangar and towards the runway. I could only assume this was the elephant express, and that the animal had finally calmed down enough for the pilot to take off. To my right, more activity. An eighteen-wheeler, Diaz’s mobile transport for his horses, was beginning to unload. The horses, each haltered and accompanied by one of the airline’s animal transport officers, were slowly escorted one at a time from the truck and up onto the plane’s loading ramp.

  Securing the area, I counted six blue-jacketed FBI agents. I noticed Eric, his back to me, along with three other agents. In front of them lay a line of tack boxes, duffle bags, and backpacks, like a trail of birdseed from the back of the horse trailer to a forklift parked beneath the plane. It was exactly as I imagined it to be. Agents on one side of the bags and members of Diaz’s team on the other. They eyed each other suspiciously. I could tell from Eric’s stiff posture they didn’t have anything. Whether it was a sixth sense or some form of nonverbal communication people close to one another share, I knew. His shoulders were squared and his jaw clenched. He wasn’t happy.

  Farther to my right, I noticed Diaz’s black Hummer. It was parked in front of the horse trailer, and standing next to it was the man himself. He was dressed in a camel cape, looking like a forties noir film star. Next to him, tucked coquettishly beneath his arm in a symphony of white like she was about to embark on her honeymoon, was Mimi. The smile on her face said it all. She had just won the lottery. Perhaps she had. The woman finally had everything she wanted, the man and his money. I suggested to Sheri she go stand next to Diaz and congratulate Mimi. I had work to do.

  I looked back at the plane. A custom-built Boeing 727, designed to fly horses like first-class passengers around the world. Beneath the belly of the plane, a cargo trolley loaded with saddles, horse blankets, lead ropes, and miscellaneous gear for the trip waited to be loaded onboard. Between the cargo trolley and the line of tack boxes and bags belonging to Diaz’s team was Donatella. She was sitting on one of Diaz’s monogrammed hunter green tack boxes and dressed as I had never seen her before, in a short skirt, cowboy boots, and jean jacket, staring at her cell phone.

  It was as plain as the early morning sunshine on the tarmac that Donatella was distancing herself from Diaz as well as her band of thieves. She sat with her back to them all as she stared at the phone in her hand. She had to know something was up. The FBI was searching through luggage, and despite the fact they hadn’t found anything, the flight had been delayed. But I had to give it to the girl; she was holding on to her charade for all she was worth, playing the jilted girlfriend, sulking like a broken-hearted school girl as she texted.

  Wait. Who was she texting?

  I looked back at the line of
men, Diaz’s grooms and riders, waiting patiently next to their bags lying on the tarmac from the horse trailer to beneath the plane. The men were all trim and fit, dressed in jeans and comfortable shoes for the flight home. I noticed three of them had formed a small group beneath the wing. They stood more closely together than the others. One was staring at a phone in his hand while the other two appeared to be reading over his shoulder.

  Was it just a coincidence, or was Donatella texting one of the three men beneath the wing of the plane? I studied the grouping. These had to be the same three men I had seen in the barn with Donatella the day of Carmen’s memorial. I scanned the tarmac. If Donatella was here, Tomas had to be somewhere on the airfield. Just like Carmen’s funeral, he was probably silently watching. Waiting. I could feel it.

  I took the jeweler’s loupe Churchill had given me from my jacket pocket and placed it around my neck. If I didn’t spot Tomas, maybe he’d spot me. My hope was the jeweler’s loupe might catch his eye. A quick tell, no matter what his disguise, man or woman, would reveal his identity. It was a long shot. But it was all I had.

  I approached Eric. “Any sightings of Tomas?”

  Eric shook his head, surprised. “How did you manage to get onto the tarmac, Carol? I left word with security at the gate—”

  “Don’t ask. But I think you’re going to be glad I’m here. I know where the jewels are hidden.”

  Eric looked at me without saying anything, his eyes narrowed.

  “After the accident with the horses in Florida, Diaz was devastated. He never trusted anyone. His loss was too great. I’ve been thinking about it, and if I was Diaz, no way would I risk someone messing with my horses’ meds ever again. Or their food or water, for that matter.”

  “What are you saying, Carol?”

  “I think Diaz travels with his own hay and medical supplies. Usually, the transport companies provide food and water and sometimes even basic meds. I know because when I was a kid I used to hang around a barn and ready the horses for the shows. The transport always came with everything. All we had to do was load the horses. But both Tomas and Donatella know how Diaz feels about that, and they would have arranged to transport everything, including their own food.”