Armando dropped the gym bag he was carrying and ran to her side. He held her body against his, gently stroking her hair as if that might stop the ragged crying.
“Milton, I’m so sorry,” she said.
Oddly, it was the first time I remembered hearing her refer to her husband by name. I stood motionless, watching the scene play out, waiting until her sobs softened to sniffles, then heavy breathing, then nothing. I felt intensely uncomfortable attempting to dissect her reaction, and struggled to find an exit strategy.
It’s strange what triggers grief. At our first meeting, Mona Polk claimed she cared deeply for her husband, but I hadn’t seen much evidence of that until today, not even at the funeral. Maybe in some strange way, she’d seen the insurance policy as a sign that Polk loved her after all. Regardless of how she’d perceived the gesture, I had to wonder if Mona’s emotional pain could just as easily be attributed to guilt. Perhaps she’d not only loved her husband but, conceivably, had murdered him as well.
Since I’d left my fingerprints all over a homicide scene less than twenty-four hours before, I wasn’t exactly eager to sashay into the nearest police station. But I had to find the NeuroMed documents, so I offered to follow up on the car. Mona seemed grateful. She gave me Detective Kleinman’s business card, which I took even though I had one of my own. Gripping Armando’s arm, she walked back along the flagstone path toward the house.
I tried to connect the dots between the events in Milton Polk’s last night alive. Had his discussion with Covington been a simple message of congratulations, as Mona had suggested, or had something in that conversation led to Polk’s tense search through NeuroMed and, eventually, to his death?
On the other hand, Mona may have lied when she claimed she hadn’t seen her husband again Saturday night. She and Armando could easily have arranged to meet him after the dinner and killed him for the insurance money.
I also couldn’t discount the possibility that Polk’s death wasn’t connected to anything I knew to date. It could have been a simple crime of passion committed by Kenny Chalmers. It was apparently no secret to people who knew them both that Kenny hated Milton Polk. Francine could have told him that the doctor was attending the Project Rescue charity dinner. Kenny could have waited outside the hotel that night and followed Polk until he found an opportunity to kill him.
By the time I reached the front door, I was up to my eyeballs in theories but still no closer to the truth. Armando stood at the foot of the stairs with his arms crossed over his chest, watching me. Mona lingered for a few seconds, holding my hand. All I could offer her in return was a small reassuring squeeze. If I was going to survive the next stop on my schedule—round three with my old buddy Detective Duane Kleinman—I couldn’t afford to let my guard down. I was going to need all the strength I could muster.
24
twenty minutes after leaving Mona Polk’s house, I pulled into the visitors’ lot at the LAPD’s Pacific Station, a two-story brick building that looked like a neighborhood library except for the sea of black-and-white police cars parked in the back lot.
I felt a little jumpy as a uniformed female officer at the front desk made a call and then escorted me into a room with stained royal blue carpeting, ringing telephones, and the smell of Chinese takeout. Hanging from the ceiling above pods of metal desks were engraved wooden signs with names like Autos, Burglary, and Homicide.
We passed through that area and continued down a narrow hallway to a room no larger than a closet. It was cold inside. The carpet had been ripped up, leaving patches of glue and bits of the pad still sticking to the plywood base. The walls were covered in some kind of pockmarked beige paneling—soundproofing, maybe, because when the door closed, I was left alone in stone-cold silence. I sat at a table on one of the two chairs and looked for hidden cameras or two-way mirrors. There weren’t any that I could see.
I was hugging myself for warmth and wondering why somebody didn’t spring for a heating system in this dump, when the door opened and a man walked in. But it wasn’t Duane Kleinman. This guy wore tight Levi’s that accentuated all the major muscle groups and a brown leather jacket that looked like Bambi’s mother. His hair was wet, as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. Delicate brown ringlets curled softly on his neck.
If I’d been capable of rational thought, I might have said something snappy. Instead, I sat frozen in my chair, unable to take my eyes off those curls.
“Joe Deegan,” he said, extending his hand.
When he noticed how flustered I was, he flashed a grin. I could almost see the fluorescent lights glancing off his pearly white teeth. Little Red Riding Hood meets the big, bad wolf.
“Don’t break my heart and tell me you don’t remember me,” he said.
“What are you doing here?”
“Paperwork.”
“Why? Get tired of your little bouncer job and come to hang with the big dogs?”
Deegan laughed. “Not bad, but as I recall from our first date, you can do better.”
I glowered at him. “I asked for Detective Kleinman.”
Deegan must have noticed I was shivering, because he took off his jacket and tossed it to me. That’s when I saw the badge hanging from his belt, and the holstered gun strapped to his chest.
“My partner’s not here,” he said, “so I guess you’re stuck with me.”
It took a few seconds for that to sink in, and when it finally did, I had more than a few questions: If Deegan was a cop, then why was he working security at Wade Covington’s party? And exactly when had he read the notes from Kleinman’s interview with me—before or after the luncheon? At this point it really didn’t matter, because I was certain Deegan knew a lot more about me than I knew about him. All of a sudden, I had more cops in my life than Rodney King.
I put on his jacket because I was cold and because the knit collar smelled like cherry almond shampoo. Deegan sat down and tilted the chair back, crossing his legs in that male alpha-dog posture that said, “Here’s what I got, baby. Interested?” Yeah, I thought, like that’s going to happen.
“You come here to talk business,” he said, “or to apologize for all those naughty things you said to me?”
I took a breath to regain my composure and switched to my calm business voice. “I’m here because Mona Polk asked me to check on her husband’s Mercedes. I’d like to pick it up, today if possible.”
He flashed an indulgent smile, like I was some cute but dopey kid asking for Gummi Bears before dinner.
“Definitely not today,” he said.
I was getting nowhere, and time was running out. I had to know if the NeuroMed package had been found in the car, so I asked for an inventory of the Mercedes’s contents, adding some stupid line about being concerned in case something turned up missing.
A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. His eyes said, “This one’s yours, but don’t think I didn’t notice.” The guy had that nonverbal communication schtick aced. I figured him for the type you could be married to for twenty years and not know his favorite color.
Deegan rattled off the items found inside the car, but the NeuroMed package wasn’t among them. I didn’t want to make him suspicious by questioning his memory, but I asked if he was sure he hadn’t left anything out. He was sure. He’d just reviewed the report, and had listed everything that was in the car when it was recovered at LAX.
I wondered how the car got to the airport. Polk drowned in salt water, presumably in the Santa Monica Bay. That was a long way from LAX. Very odd. Maybe I’d overlooked something in his files that placed Polk at the airport that night, like an airline ticket receipt or an itinerary. It was improbable, but I still wanted to go home and take another peek. Maybe I’d call Mona and check with her as well.
Deegan didn’t seem in a hurry for me to leave. I half expected him to ask more questions about Milton Polk’s death, or worse, to tell me that one of Roy Trebeau’s neighbors had written down my license plate number, but he didn’t. Instead,
his questions seemed harmless and were asked in that flirty boy-meets-girl dance, a maneuver I assumed he used to keep me off guard, like he was playing the good cop to Kleinman’s bad cop.
I had to admit the guy was great-looking and kind of funny, too, but I wasn’t going to get sucked into his game, because he was also a homicide detective, and right now I was up to my ass in dead bodies. I centered myself with a few silent ommmmms, the kind Pookie used when she meditated, and hoped that Deegan wouldn’t ask me any more questions. It must have worked, because about that time, he announced he was late for a meeting with his captain. He told me he’d call if he had more questions.
I raised my eyebrows. “Call? Why not just break into my bedroom again?”
At first he looked puzzled. Then he put his arms on the table and leaned forward, crowding my airspace.
“If I’d been in your bedroom, believe me, we both would have remembered.”
I gave him my version of Venus’s stony stare. “I’m serious, Deegan. What were you doing in my house without a search warrant?”
His eyes narrowed, and his mouth set in a hard line. “What are you talking about?”
His intensity made my palms sweaty, made me want to tell him everything and nothing—mostly nothing. On the other hand, there wasn’t any reason to withhold that information. I explained about leaving my jacket at Covington’s, and about how it had been returned. All he’d said was, “It wasn’t me,” and that gave me a really creepy feeling. If Deegan hadn’t been in my house, then who had?
“So what were you doing at Covington’s party anyway?” I said.
“I think this’ll work better if you let me ask the questions.”
That irritated me, and I was about to tell him so when I noticed that he was staring at me like an entomologist with a bug pin. Then I realized he wasn’t actually looking at me at all. He was thinking.
“You know what to do if somebody attacks you?” he asked.
“Blow em away with my forty-five?”
He looked annoyed. “I’m just guessing here, but I’d say you don’t have a forty-five.”
“Maybe I’ll get one.”
He had on his serious-cop mask now. “Anyone who owns a gun should be prepared to kill.” He paused to make sure I was paying attention before continuing. “Two things you should do. First, if the guy’s got hair, grab it and pull. Then find his neck, and hit it as hard as you can with your fist or the side of your hand.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I thought. Why was he telling me all this? Cop paranoia?
“What’s number two?” I asked.
“Kick him in the balls and don’t look back.”
I didn’t have time to listen to a Neighborhood Watch lecture, even though his concern was sort of charming. He must have noticed my eyes glazing over, because he dropped the subject. His eyes lingered on mine for a few seconds, as if he was wondering what might have happened between us if we’d met under different circumstances.
Finally, Deegan let out a dismissive sigh and stood. “I’ll call you about the car.”
I gave him a nonchalant shrug. “Call Mrs. Polk. Our business is over.”
A hint of amusement flickered briefly in his blue-gray eyes.
“You know what they say,” he replied in a tone that I couldn’t quite read. “It ain’t over till it’s over.”
Deegan escorted me to the lobby. As I walked toward the main door, I realized I was still wearing his jacket. I took it off and tossed it back to him. On my way out I thought I heard him say, “See you around, Stretch,” but I couldn’t be sure. I had some bad news for Deegan. He might as well save that flirting routine for happy hour at his local pickup bar, because I wasn’t in any mood to grant conjugal visits at the Gray-Bar Motel to a cop.
Besides, I had work to do. I had to get home and have another look at Milton Polk’s files. Maybe he’d left me some clue after all. I just had to find it.
25
all the way home I couldn’t get my mind off Milton Polk. From what I’d been told, he left work early on Friday afternoon. He was upset, presumably about a letter he received. What I didn’t know was whether that letter had been from Mo Whitener, Covington’s stalker, or somebody else. Later that evening, the doctor met with someone he trusted—someone who assured him that everything would be all right, which put him in a better mood. Perhaps that meeting went on too long, and Polk didn’t have time to go back to the Center to pick up his tux.
What he did all day Saturday was still a blank, but that evening he went to the Project Rescue dinner in his brown suit, still in good spirits. He even volunteered to go, which was out of character for him. But perhaps that dinner was different because he planned to meet someone important there that night. Maybe Wade Covington. At least, I knew that he spoke to Covington around ten o’clock and had presumably left shortly thereafter. Within the next two hours, something or someone had upset his equilibrium enough to trigger a mad search through his files at NeuroMed. So where had he gone after that? I had to find out.
I still had no clue where the NeuroMed file was—or, for that matter, Mo Whitener’s money. I was feeling a little desperate. To calm myself, I put the top down on the Boxster so I could smell the ocean, feel the wind on my cheeks, and be with my thoughts, which were now reading like one of Pookie’s movie scripts:
FADE IN EXT.—MORNING, HOTEL GRAND CAYMAN. Former manager of NeuroMed, FRANCINE CHALMERS, sits by the pool on a chaise longue, wearing a skirted bathing suit and big white sunglasses. Her husband, KENNY, is crushing the umbrella from his piña colada in his clenched fist. Enter IRENE BORODIN, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, wearing a souvenir muumuu from a Shriners’ luau. She carries a suitcase full of money, ill-gotten gains from the trio’s crime spree.
Of course, I didn’t really believe Francine was on the lam in the Caymans. She was probably at home, nursing a cold and checking for winning numbers on her Lotto tickets. But it certainly hadn’t looked as if she was coming back to NeuroMed anytime soon.
I pulled into my garage and entered the house through the side door. My paranoia was still primed, so I did a little tippy-toe through each room before breathing freely. When I went to rescue Muldoon, he was sprawled on a lounge chair on Mrs. Domanski’s deck, wearing a pair of yellow sunglasses and a matching cashmere sweater. I had to drag him home. Loyalty, schmoyalty. You couldn’t blame the guy for liking cashmere.
I gave him some Pookie-approved canned dog food, but he wouldn’t go near it. Too full of caviar and martinis, no doubt. I decided to pamper myself with a cup of tea in my good china. As I carried the step stool to the kitchen cabinet, I realized that if Eric were here, he could reach the top shelf without it.
There were three more messages from Gordon on my machine: one angry, one conciliatory, one pleading. He wanted to speak with me . . . had been lobbying on my behalf with the partners . . . thought he’d made some progress. Where the hell was the NeuroMed file? Had I found it yet?
I weighed the pros and cons of calling him. The argument was heavy on the con side, so when the phone rang, I didn’t pick up until I recognized my mother’s voice on the answering machine.
“How’s Muldoon?” she asked. “Does he miss me?”
“Not really. Mrs. Domanski’s been treating him to cashmere. He hardly even asks about you anymore.”
She sighed. “I’ve been worried about you. Is that work thing settled yet?”
I filled the kettle with water and found the tea bags. Muldoon sensed the lull in my activity and started pawing my leg for attention.
“I’ll tell you all about it when you get home,” I said. “What time should I be at the airport?”
She hesitated. “Well, see, that’s just it. I called my agent this morning to tell him. I’ll be away a little longer than I’d planned.”
“Nice to know I’m first on your call list, Pookie.”
She ignored my sarcasm.
“Remember that man I told you about? Bruce?” she said. �
�Well, we ended up sort of hitting it off. In fact, we’re roommates here. After the retreat he wants me to go with him to a kahuna workshop in Maui.”
“You’re sleeping with a hippie named Bruce who can’t remember your name?” I said. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m only fifty-one, Tucker,” she said defensively. “Sex is still an option. Besides, I’ll be out of your hair. You can do your own thing for a change. Take a few days off. Go skiing.”
I felt my jaw tighten. “Look, Pookie, if you want to hang ten with some guy you picked up in a sweat lodge, be my guest, but don’t make it sound like you’re doing me a favor.”
There was a long pause before she said softly, “He makes me laugh, Tucker. I like him.”
Okay, so she was an actor, and making people dredge up emotions like guilt and shame was part of her craft. So why did she have to be so damn good at it? I knew that if I told her Aunt Sylvia was taking me to court, two people were dead, my life was a shambles, and I didn’t want to be alone anymore, she’d be on the next plane. But what was the point? There wasn’t anything she could do.
“In that case,” I said, “Muldoon and I will be fine. Aloha.”
Another pause. Pookie was obviously weighing her anxiety and guilt against her hopes that, despite whatever I wasn’t telling her, I’d still land butter side up.
“What will you do for Thanksgiving?” she said.
“I don’t know. Maybe skiing does sound fun.”
“I’ll miss you, Tucker,” she said softly.
“Yeah.” But only after I replaced the receiver did I add, “I’ll miss you, too, Mom.”
The teakettle started whistling, so I pulled it off the burner and poured hot water into the cup. Muldoon had given up scratching on my leg long enough to find his stuffed bear, hoping to interest me in a game. I picked him up. He was warm and hairy, and when I laid my head against his neck, he smelled of Mrs. Domanski’s heavy perfume. He wasn’t such a bad guy, so it wasn’t his fault that I’d never felt so alone in my life.
False Profits Page 21
