False Profits

by Patricia Smiley

  I gave one last-chance knock on the kitchen window, staring at the rolled-up papers, wishing for X-ray vision. No Roy. No super powers. No dog. The rubber flap on the doggie door hung quietly on its hinge.

  Big doggie door, I noted. Almost as big as me doggie door. I shoved the toolbox aside with my foot and studied the opening. It wasn’t as if Roy hadn’t invited me over. It wasn’t even so much like breaking and entering as it was like crawling and reading. In and out. Five minutes max. Anyway, I should really leave a note for Roy telling him I’d been here. I’d take the high ground, let him be the creep. In fact, the more I thought about it, the better it seemed to do it this way. It would save him from making a toll call to apologize.

  I was tall but also pretty skinny, so if I went in on my side and held my breath, I could just make it. I pushed my purse through the door ahead of me.

  Rationalization can take you a long way past reason. Mine rolled to a stop just as the rubber door flap slapped against my thigh like a walrus flipper. Too late now. I couldn’t get back out until I got all the way in, or I’d risk getting snagged on the door. Getting through was like doing the lambada, but aside from having to detach a belt loop from one of the hinges and scraping some skin, I made it. Once inside, I stood up and brushed myself off. For a simple crawl-and-read, I was feeling an uncomfortable mixture of fear, guilt, and the urge to giggle.

  “Tucker, you got a screw loose,” I said out loud. But I was getting back in touch with my attitude.

  Now that I was inside the house, the TV sounded much louder. The screeching of a car chase could be heard from the next room. I walked to the table and pulled the papers from the chip bowl and unrolled them.

  It looked like the contents of Roy Trebeau’s personnel file. The layoff notice was there, along with a history of raises, and vacation and sick days taken and owed. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call a fast-tracker. He’d been with the company for eight years in the same position. The cost-of-living raises had stopped two years ago, probably due to Sunland’s financial troubles. Roy’s employment history was uneventful except for a written reprimand for a recent altercation with another employee, Anton Maslansky, the man he’d mentioned on the phone. Roy had apparently accused the guy of stealing equipment from the warehouse. Some ethnic slurs had been exchanged, which led to a fistfight. At least that explained the bruises on Roy’s face. But there was no evidence that any further action had been taken by Sunland. In fact, by all appearances, it looked like just another casualty of an overheated melting pot. There was nothing in these reports indicating that the fight was the cause of Roy’s dismissal.

  I flipped to an employee roster. Listed were several names I’d asked about, including Maslansky’s, but nothing else. My shoulders slumped as I took a deep defeated breath. Some of those people listed on the insurance claims obviously did work at Sunland, which meant that my little theory was at least partially wrong. Unfortunately, Roy’s information contained nothing whatsoever that could help me in any way. Damn. I needed to talk to him. Where was he anyway? He obviously hadn’t planned on being gone long, not with the TV cranked up like that.

  I rolled the papers up tightly and stuffed them back in the chip bowl. Then I looked around for a notepad. Better leave a message asking him to call me. If nothing else, I’d thank him for his efforts. There was no phone in the kitchen. No message pad. How come I never had any damn paper? That was really pissing me off. And so was the TV. Why did people leave the things on when they weren’t home anyway? Since I’d already broken into Roy’s house and invaded his chip bowl, why not go all the way and turn off the tube? He’d thank me when he got his next electricity bill.

  I slung my purse over my shoulder and followed a hallway that led past a small bathroom with vintage tile around the sink. If Roy wasn’t home, I wondered whose truck was parked on the lawn. Maybe he decided I wasn’t a cheap-wine-and-Doritos kind of girl after all, and at the last minute walked to the minimart for champagne and caviar.

  The hallway was dark, the television loud. The air felt warm and close. As I tiptoed along the linoleum, I began to notice a faint odor. I made a mental note to educate Roy on the finer points of potpourri. I held my breath and listened for any sounds, but there was nothing but a whiny orchestral piece, cueing the TV audience to bring on the tears.

  The living room was dark except for the flicker of the screen. The odor was stronger now. I pinched my nose and breathed through my mouth. Maybe Cujo had an accident and Roy was outside setting him straight. Several bulky objects were visible in the room, but nothing moved. No Roy Trebeau. The TV screen looked dim and splotchy. I searched the room for a light source until I spotted what looked like a lamp. It took three steps, and I was there. I fumbled for the switch. When the bulb came on, it managed to cast only a dim shadow. I looked around to get my bearings, scanning the room in slow motion. Couch. Travel posters in glass and clips.

  At first it seemed as if Roy was simply a victim of bad taste, because everywhere there were shades of red: the couch, the walls, the linoleum floor. But as my eyes became accustomed to the dim light, they settled on the TV. That’s when I realized it was too much red, and not the monochromatic red from a designer’s color wheel. It was spatters of red. And they were everywhere. I stood transfixed and horrified, unwilling to stay, unable to go, forcing my eyes to finish sweeping the room until they reached the easy chair in the far corner. There my eyes stopped.

  A man’s legs were sticking out from behind the chair. I recognized the jeans. It was the same brown pair Roy Trebeau had worn that day at Sunland, except now they were soaked in blood.

  My body began to tremble. From somewhere deep inside me rose a groan. It was guttural and wounded and vibrated my vocal cords like bike wheels on gravel until there was no air to support it. I’d come here to find Roy Trebeau and what he knew, but now Roy Trebeau was the last person I wanted to find.

  I stood for a moment in that room, not knowing what to do: check for a pulse, call the police, or get the hell out of there. I didn’t see how Roy could still be alive. There was just too much blood. But I couldn’t leave him there like that, either. Not until I was sure.

  I backed out of the living room, backed all the way to the kitchen, barely able to breathe. Fighting to keep upright, I turned the lock and opened the door. The welcome freshness of exhaust fumes and grit filled my lungs. I ran for my car and, once inside, locked the door, relieved to be away from the sound of the TV, the smell of the blood, the image of those jeans.

  I drove for several blocks, gripping the steering wheel and taking short, shallow gasps of air until my throat was dry and raw. Finally, I pulled into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven and used a pay phone to call 911, hanging up before the operator could ask my name.

  Suddenly, too many people in my world were ending up dead. Questions without answers pounded my head: Who had interrupted my telephone conversation with Roy? Had it been his killer, and had the timing of my trip to Reseda that night been too convenient for him to resist? Was Trebeau’s death linked in some way to Polk’s? That prompted the biggest question of all: Was I being set up to take the fall again—this time for murder?

  23

  a weight pressed down on my head, and the overwhelming odor of must filled my nose. My arms flailed in the dark until my hand touched something coarse and hairy. I heard a muffled growl. Muldoon. Sometime while I slept he’d once again decided to share my pillow. There was no moving him, so I crab-walked to the foot of the bed until I was free. Through one blurry eye, I read the clock. Ten a.m.

  My eyes were swollen from too little sleep. My head ached. I felt numb and in denial. Death looked so much more real in person than it did in a photograph. I hadn’t really known Roy Trebeau, but I still felt some indefinable loss—and fear, because while I was crawling through doggie doors, a murderer might have been watching. Might know what I looked like, what kind of car I drove, and might be able to trace me to the house through my license plate number.

&
nbsp; I took Pookie’s robe from the hook on the bathroom door. It smelled of chamomile and L’Air Du Temps, but didn’t offer the comfort I’d hoped for. The robe was way too small and made me feel like the Incredible Hulk, only pinker. At least it was better than nothing.

  Muldoon didn’t seem to notice that my eyes were puffy or that too much forearm was hanging out of Pookie’s miniature bathrobe. I returned the favor by raking my fingers through his bristly white coat until he rolled over on his back, legs in the air.

  Too bad contentment didn’t come that easily for me. The world was a scary place to be alone in right now. And as if things weren’t bad enough, now my fingerprints were all over the scene of a homicide. I’d never been printed before, at least not that I could remember, so maybe the police would never know I’d been there. Yeah, sure.

  Once again, I found myself thinking of Eric and looking forward to seeing him that evening. Okay, so trying to recapture the feelings we’d once shared wasn’t going to be easy, but we were already friends. Wasn’t that the hard part? Hadn’t he shown over and again that he cared? And right now there was nothing that meant more to me than that. Relationships were about compromise, and I was ready to make a few. I called his home number to reconfirm our meeting. He didn’t pick up, so I left a message assuring him that I’d be at the restaurant on time, no excuses, and I’d be ready to talk.

  While the coffee dribbled into the pot, I gave Muldoon a breath-freshening treat that looked like a macaroon, and let him out for a romp on the sand. A heavy marine layer had settled in, making the world uniformly gray and bleak. Only a slight breeze ruffled the sea grass. About a hundred feet offshore, a sailboat was swinging a slow arc on its bow anchor. I could barely see the name on the stern: Yachta Money. Funny. Boat names seemed to come in four flavors: (1) women’s names, (2) foreign words or phrases, (3) heroic adjectives, and (4) plays on words. At least it provided boat owners an outlet for creative thinking.

  While I mused, I kept a constant eye on Muldoon until he was back safely inside. I knew we couldn’t stay locked up in the house forever. Mo Whitener’s deadline was only two days away, and I still hadn’t found out if the NeuroMed package was in Polk’s Mercedes. I decided to drop by Mona’s house. While I was there, I’d tell her about finding the insurance policy.

  Since it was Saturday, I put on a pair of blue jeans and my favorite red alpaca sweater. When Muldoon sensed I was leaving, he became morose. He walked into Pookie’s room and ducked under the bed. She was due home in three days. Not soon enough for me. I hated feeling responsible for the little guy, even if his breath was smelling sweeter. No coaxing, sweet talk, or apologies moved him from his hiding place. So at the last minute, I caved in and asked Mrs. Domanski to watch him for the day. I prodded Muldoon out from under the bed with a rag mop and carried him next door. Mrs. D. was still in her bathrobe, wearing Ray*Bans but looking sober. Good signs all.

  I was cautious pulling out of the garage. Roy Trebeau’s killer was probably long gone, but there was still spooky Deegan to worry about. I checked my rearview mirror frequently to make sure I wasn’t being followed.

  When I arrived at the Polks’ house, a more accommodating Elsa led me to the English garden, where a buff-looking Mona Polk lay on a workout bench. She wore a fuchsia thong leotard and matching midthigh spandex shorts. Stomach flat. Biceps bulging. Thighs taut as frogs’ legs. Armando knelt next to her, a vision in formfitting black sweatpants and white polo shirt, resting his hand territorially on her abs. The five-pound weight Mona held in each hand didn’t quite account for the flush in her face. It was all so cozy. The grieving widow finds solace in the rigors of exercise.

  When he saw me, he flared his aquiline nose in an impressive Valentino impersonation. Mona sat up. At first she looked confused, as if she was searching for the politically correct widow persona, but within a few seconds she relaxed her face, as if the pretense wasn’t worth the effort.

  She smiled and motioned me toward a carved stone bench in front of a nearby gazebo. “Well, hello, Tucker. It’s so nice to see you here again.” La, la, la. The music in her voice had returned. She could have been auditioning for Hello, Dolly!

  I settled onto the bench. “Sorry I didn’t call first.”

  “No problem,” she said, “that is, if you don’t mind talking while I finish my workout.”

  Did I mind? Certainly not. Getting sweaty with Armando sounded like much more fun than a fistful of Prozac. Gee, with all the stress I was under, maybe I should ask him to add me to his client base.

  “Some of the information might be considered confidential,” I said.

  She glanced at him. “It’s all right. You can speak freely.”

  A-r-r-r-r-r-mando flashed his white teeth in a smile of comprehension. Those English lessons must be working. Mona wiped moisture from her forehead with a pink wristband that matched the rest of her getup.

  “We missed you at the luncheon,” she said.

  So much had happened. It was hard to fathom that Milton Polk’s funeral had been held just the morning before. I nodded and mumbled something lame, but it didn’t matter, because she wasn’t listening. She grabbed two hand weights, spread her legs, and reached down to touch her toes. I know that I was probably developing a prison fixation, but it didn’t look like a position recommended for men behind bars.

  “Did you get my message about the Mercedes?” I said.

  “I got your message, and the answer is no. The police haven’t returned it yet. Frankly, I forgot about the car. I should call about it, though, shouldn’t I?”

  The new, proactive Mona Polk. Could a cure for cancer be far behind? She continued exercising while Armando went off to look for Kleinman’s business card. I could have given her the detective’s telephone number, but I was glad for the opportunity to speak with her alone.

  “The Friday before he died,” I said. “Dr. Polk was upset about something. Do you know what it was?”

  She hesitated. “Not really. Something about a letter, but he discussed it with someone he trusted, and things were going to be all right. By Saturday night he was fine, even cheerful.”

  I wondered if the letter she was talking about was from Mo Whitener. I also wondered why Mona Polk hadn’t mentioned it before. In any event, Polk certainly hadn’t met with anyone at Aames & Associates Friday night. Gordon would have told me. More likely, Polk had seen a lawyer.

  “I read in the paper that Wade Covington got an award that night,” I said.

  Mona exhaled deeply, resting the weights on the bench. “Yes, we hoped to raise a lot of money for our women’s shelter that evening, but we needed extra security, and that cut into our profits. Peace of mind doesn’t come cheap.”

  “Extra security because of the stalker?” I asked.

  She paused and stared at me with an expression that mingled surprise with grudging respect. “You know about that?”

  I nodded. She gazed back into the garden, which was heavy with the scent of jasmine. She inhaled deeply before she spoke.

  “We got a letter at our headquarters. It wasn’t signed, of course, but it warned us not to give the award to Wade. I don’t recall the details. I don’t want to remember.”

  Her statement sent another thought flitting through my mind. Maybe Polk had been upset that Friday afternoon, not by a letter from Mo Whitener but by one from the same person who was threatening Wade Covington. A person who thought Polk bore some responsibility for Teresa García’s death.

  “Was your husband’s name mentioned in that letter?”

  She looked up. Her surprise seemed genuine. “What an odd question. My husband wasn’t involved in Project Rescue.”

  Armando returned with the detective’s business card. Mona studied it for a few seconds and then set it on the bench beside her. She picked up the weights and, with Armando hovering protectively over her, began another set.

  “Did you see Dr. Polk talking with anyone Saturday night?” I said. “Or see if he left with anybody?”r />
  Mona frowned in thought. “He spoke with Wade, of course. Congratulating him, I’m sure. I didn’t see him with anyone else, but I wasn’t watching him all night, either. When things settled down, I looked around, but he was gone. I didn’t think anything of that. My husband hated those events. Frankly, I was surprised he offered to go with me.”

  “Mrs. Polk, I hate to ask you this, but do you think your husband’s death had anything to do with his conversation with Wade Covington?”

  She looked at me. Armando looked at her. I looked at both of them. Everybody was looking and calculating.

  She rested the weights on her hips. “As I told the police, my husband could be a hard man to understand sometimes, but I don’t know anyone who wanted to harm him—certainly not Wade Covington. Why are you interested in all this?”

  I thought carefully about her question. “Because I want to know who killed him—almost as much as you do.”

  “Of course, we all want that.” An edge had crept into her voice, which caused Armando’s body to stiffen.

  “Do you know where Dr. Polk was during the day on Saturday?”

  “I have no idea,” she said. “I was busy, getting ready for the dinner.”

  She signaled a wrap-up to Armando. He gathered the gym equipment and began stowing it in a nearby black bag. Apparently, the workout and the interview were over.

  “Just one more thing,” I said. “When I was sorting through Dr. Polk’s papers, I came across an insurance policy, listing you as the beneficiary. It was taken out fairly recently. The amount was two million dollars.”

  Mona exhaled with a raspy cry as the weights she was holding thudded to the ground. She stood for the longest time, holding herself together, but eventually her tranquil mask began to crumble. Her face became flushed; her eyes grew moist and red, until both were consumed with anguish. Finally, she covered her face with her hands and began to sob. I’d seen enough sorrow in my life to recognize the real thing. It was never easy to watch.