Imitation of Death

by Cheryl Crane

  She wanted to get to Jorge before the cops did.

  Nikki grabbed her cell phone off her nightstand and hurried for the en suite bathroom. Stanley and Oliver beat her to it. “Out,” she ordered, pointing with one hand as she hit SEND on the phone with the other. “No dogs in the shower.”

  Stan darted out. Ollie lowered his head, looking pitiful, but did as he was told. Nikki turned the lock on the bathroom door; Victoria was as bad about respecting the privacy of others as the dogs.

  Jorge’s line rang.

  She had no idea what she was going to say when he picked up. How would she say it? She stepped out of her sweatpants; she’d left her Bruno Magli shoes at the end of her bed. Sending them had to be Victoria’s work. Amondo would never have gone into her closet and chosen a pair of shoes; he’d have grabbed the flip-flops.

  Nikki turned on the shower in the Italian marble stall. Her mother had had Nikki’s bathroom remodeled a couple of years ago while remodeling her own. Victoria didn’t seem to care that Nikki hadn’t lived at home since she was sixteen. “Just in case,” her mother had insisted.

  In case what? In case Nikki lost her mind?

  Which, apparently, she had, since she’d been here more than a week, with no escape imminent.

  Jorge’s line continued to ring in Nikki’s ear. She pulled her t-shirt over her head. “Come on . . . come on,” she muttered. “Answer your phone.”

  It rang until it went to voicemail. This wasn’t the kind of thing you left a message about. One of the dogs scratched at the bathroom door.

  “Go lay down, Stanley,” Nikki ordered, knowing very well it was him. He was the more outgoing of the two. The one more willing to dare scratch the paint on one of Victoria’s white doors. The other day he’d pulled a silk pillow off a couch in the living room and dragged it halfway across the room before taking a nap on it.

  Nikki dialed Jorge’s phone again. “Come on, pick up.” It was still early. He was probably asleep. Probably hungover. She didn’t think Jorge had a drinking problem, but he occasionally tied one on on a Friday or Saturday night, especially if there was fútbol on Telemundo.

  The call went to voicemail again. “Damn it, Jorge.”

  There was a knock on the bathroom door. “Nicolette? Are you in there?”

  Who else would be in here?

  “I’m in the shower, Mother,” Nikki called, hanging up, and dialing again. She glanced at herself, naked, in the mirror. Not bad for forty-one years old. Not curvy like her mother, but tall and slender. Nikki had always envied Victoria’s gorgeous platinum blond hair, but she’d come to accept and actually like her own red hair. Victoria referred to it as strawberry blond. The Bordeaux blue eyes made her face. She turned away from the mirror; it was beginning to steam over. “Go away, Mother.”

  Victoria knocked again. Then turned the locked knob. Then knocked again. “The police are here,” she announced. “They want to speak to us.”

  “I’ll be down in a few minutes. I have to shower and dress. They said I could shower.” Jorge’s line was ringing again.

  Nikki heard her mother sigh with irritation. “Well, don’t take long. I’m trying to keep Ina busy. She wanted to call Jorge, but I told her not to. That it would look bad. You’re going to call him, aren’t you?” It was quiet long enough for Nikki to think she might be gone.

  Then . . . “Nicolette?”

  “I’m trying, now, Mother.”

  “You think I should call my attorneys?”

  “Why would you call your attorneys?”

  “I don’t know, Nicolette. It’s the kind of thing one does in this sort of situation.”

  “I’ll be down in a few minutes. We’ll talk about it then.”

  The dogs barked. Nikki heard Victoria say something to them and then the bedroom door closed.

  By some sort of miracle, Nikki’s BlackBerry clicked in her ear.

  “Nikki?” It was Jorge. He sounded half asleep.

  “Jorge . . .” She didn’t know how to break this kind of news, so she just blurted it out. “Eddie’s dead and I’m pretty sure the police think you did it.”

  “Eddie?”

  “Eddie Bernard.” She stuck her hand in the shower to test the temperature. “Someone murdered Eddie Bernard last night, or early this morning . . . I don’t know when. I just know he’s dead. I saw him, Jorge. Dead.”

  “Oh, God, Nikki,” Jorge whispered.

  It was a strange Oh, God. One she couldn’t quite interpret. Was he saying Oh, God because he felt badly that Nikki had had to see another dead man? Was it Oh, God, poor Eddie? Or something else, entirely?

  “Your mother found him.”

  “My mother?”

  “She’s okay. She’s worried about you, is all.” She took a deep breath. “You may have to turn yourself in.”

  “What are you talking about? Turn myself in for what?”

  That was better. He was angry now. Anger was a good response.

  “He was killed with your pruning shears, the ones with your name on them.”

  “Oh, God,” he repeated. Now he sounded scared. Even more appropriate.

  “The police are here. Asking questions. I’m guessing they’re at the Bernards’ by now, too.”

  “And someone is going to tell them about our fight,” he said in a small voice. “Where was he killed?”

  “I don’t know, but he ended up in the alley behind Mother’s house. He was posed, Jorge, as if whoever did it meant for him to be taken away with the trash.” She then filled him in on the more mundane facts, as if anything about finding a man’s body by her mother’s trash was mundane.

  He said almost nothing.

  When she finished, she said, “I have to go, Jorge. But I’ll be there as quickly as I can. If the police come for you, don’t say anything. Okay?”

  There was silence before he answered. “Okay.”

  Jorge hung up and Nikki jumped in the shower. Twenty minutes later, she walked down the stairs, dressed in slacks, the Bruno Magli flats, and a short-sleeve sweater she’d picked up at a vintage shop on Santa Monica. Her hair was still damp, but she’d taken three minutes to throw on some cover-up (the pimple), lipstick, and mascara. She was preceded by a double-dog entourage. From the black-and-white tiled front foyer, she heard male voices and followed the sounds to the dining room.

  There must have been a dozen police officers, uniformed and plainclothed, milling around the tasteful dining room, carrying luncheon plates and teacups from Victoria’s art deco 1920s Noritake china. Victoria stood in the doorway, dressed in a cute blue skirt, white top, and Chanel kitten heels. Every hair was in place, her makeup was perfect, and she was wearing the smile.

  “A buffet, Mother? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Stanley and Oliver barreled into the dining room, scampered under Victoria’s dining table (seating for twelve, with Chinese Chippendale chairs), and flew down the hallway toward the kitchen. Amondo, dressed in black slacks and a white Armani shirt, stood near the white sideboard and added coffee to a silver urn.

  “It’s not a buffet,” Victoria corrected. “I simply offered our guests coffee and danish. Amondo had the danishes delivered from that little bakery I like on that corner.” She lowered her voice. “I told Ina it was all right if she threw a fruit salad together, but that was all I wanted her to do.”

  “Mother,” Nikki whispered.

  “What? The fruit was going to go bad in the refrigerator, anyway.”

  Nikki shook her head.

  “You speak to him?” Victoria whispered through her smile. “Jorge.”

  “Yes. I’m going over as soon as I can get away from here.”

  The Robert Redford–looking detective Nikki met in the alley approached, carrying a delicate teacup of coffee. Nikki matched her mother’s smile.

  “This was very kind of you, Ms. Bordeaux.” He glanced at Nikki with . . . interest. “Certainly not necessary.”

  “Lieutenant Detective Dombrowski.” Nikki offere
d her hand. “Nikki Harper. But you know that.”

  “I imagine it will be a long day, Lieutenant Detective. I just thought some coffee might be in order.” Victoria leaned around him. “Amondo, could you check with Ina to see if we have any disposable cups? In case any of these gentlemen would like to take their coffee to go.” She looked up at the detective, who towered over her. “Shall we get to your questions?” She folded her hands neatly. “So you can get on with your day, and I can get on with mine.”

  Chapter 5

  Nikki eased her Prius to the curb in front of the tiny bungalow where Jorge, his sister Rosalia, and her husband, Hector, lived. Two of Jorge’s JORGE & SON pickup trucks were parked in the driveway. Jorge had no sons, no daughters. He was divorced, but he had liked the name when he went into business seven years ago. Maybe it had been wishful thinking.

  The house was old, built in the fifties, but well maintained. The yard was lush and, of course, immaculate. Nikki left her bag in the car and took her key. She hurried up the cement sidewalk, through a trellis gate framed with fragrant yellow roses. A black wrought-iron security door, which stood slightly ajar, covered the front door.

  A dog barked from the backyard next door and Nikki hustled up the steps. She didn’t really feel unsafe, just out of her element in the working class neighborhood of El Sereno. There was no doorbell. She raised her hand to slip it between the two doors and knock.

  The inside door opened before Nikki had the chance. It was Hector. She wasn’t sure who was more startled, her or him. He looked as if he was on his way out.

  Nikki took a step back, dropping her hand. “Hector.”

  “Nikki.” He rested his hand on the security door and pulled it toward him. This morning he sported a ball cap advertising Bohemia beer, bottled in Mexico. He glanced over his shoulder. He looked . . . nervous.

  “Is Jorge here?” Nikki asked, unsure how much Hector knew.

  Jorge appeared behind Hector. He was taller, broader shouldered, and better looking than his brother-in-law. Nikki didn’t know Hector well, and couldn’t say whether or not she liked the guy. Like Jorge, he had a short fuse, only his, according to stories she’d heard from Jorge and Ina, was shorter.

  “Oh, good, Jorge,” Nikki said with genuine relief. “You’re still here.” She looked at both men through the wrought-iron bars, thinking it was a little weird that Jorge hadn’t asked her in. But who thought of manners when they were about to be arrested for murder, right?

  “Can I come in?” she asked.

  Hector looked back at Jorge.

  “Let her in,” Jorge said.

  Nikki looked at Hector, then Jorge. She still couldn’t tell how much Hector knew about what was going on. “Everything okay here, Jorge?”

  “What do you think?” Jorge reached around his brother-in-law and pushed open the door.

  Nikki walked into the house. Hector walked out. She glanced over her shoulder, wanting to ask Jorge where the heck Hector was going, but she held her tongue. Maybe Hector didn’t know about Eddie.

  Jorge’s sister, Rosalia, was sitting on a couch on the opposite side of the living room. Like the outside of the bungalow, the inside was immaculate, with plain, simple furniture: a couch, a chair, a couple of end tables, and a small, flat screen TV. The walls were a cheery yellow, hung with original paintings of flowers: white daisies, red poppies, white lilies. Jorge’s hobby. Behind the couch, over Rosalia’s head, was a large oil painting of sunflowers, à la van Gogh; there was something special about it. Something very . . . Jorge. The colors were brilliant, the textures so lifelike that Nikki felt as if she might be able to reach out and pluck one of the flowers from the painting. He was quite good, Nikki realized. She had known for years that he painted. Why hadn’t she known how good he was?

  “Rosalia.” Nikki smiled kindly. Rosalia’s eyes were red, her cheeks blotchy; she looked as if she had been crying for a while. Did that mean she knew what was going on with her brother? Which would mean Hector would have had to know, too.

  Rosalia was seven years younger than Nikki and Jorge, so she and Nikki had never been close. But Nikki had always liked the shy girl. And Jorge had always been there to protect his little sister. When Rosalia had gotten pregnant with their first child, Jorge had been the one who insisted that she and Hector get married; he had also been the one to hire Hector, who had a criminal record from his days of gang involvement as a teen. Jorge had welcomed them into his home, and still paid the lion’s share of the mortgage, Nikki suspected.

  “Nikki. Thank you for coming.” Enormously pregnant with her third child, Rosalia rose slowly from the couch, her small hand supporting her back.

  Nikki turned to Jorge. “She knows?”

  He nodded.

  Nikki crossed the room to give Rosalia a hug. “Your mother wanted to come, but Mother thought it better if she stayed put. We were afraid it might look . . . incriminating, if she ran to her son. And the police are still everywhere on Roxbury Drive. At our house and the Bernards’. I told them I was leaving to run to the office to get some information for a client.” She looked down at Rosalia. “I didn’t want Jorge to have to go to the police station alone.”

  Jorge stood at the door. A loud engine started outside and then a car squealed down the street. Hector. There had been a red 80s Mustang parked out front. Nikki wondered why he was leaving at a time like this. Leaving his pregnant wife. Leaving his brother-in-law, who was in trouble. She didn’t ask.

  “You don’t have to take me to the police station, Nikki.” Jorge was dressed in khaki shorts and a pale green plaid shirt; he looked neat and well groomed, as always. “I’ll drive myself.”

  “You sure?” She felt so helpless. She wanted to help him, she just didn’t know how. “At least let me go in with you.”

  “Absolutely not.” Jorge turned his back on her, then faced her again. “They really think I did this?” he asked, passionately. “That I would kill a man? Even a worthless piece of crap like Eddie?”

  “Jorge,” Rosalia admonished softly. “Don’t say things like that.”

  Nikki turned to him. “All the police have to go on right now is whatever was said at the Bernards’ . . . and they have the pruning shears.” Her gaze strayed to a duffel bag sitting next to the door. Like someone was about to take off. “You know where you left the shears last night, Jorge?”

  “No . . . I don’t know. The whole . . . thing with Eddie and Ree. I was upset. Hector and I, we packed up and . . .” He let his voice trail into silence. “I don’t know.” He looked up suddenly. “If I did it, would I really have left the weapon there? With my name on it?”

  “I know it sounds crazy . . . but you did threaten him,” Nikki said softly.

  “I did,” Jorge agreed.

  Nikki was quiet for a minute. Then, “Well, I think it’s best if you go to the Beverly Hills police station sooner rather than later. Amondo overheard some uniformed cops talking before I left. Someone’s definitely going to be headed here. I was afraid I wouldn’t make it here before they did.”

  Rosalia began to cry and Jorge closed the front door, went to his sister, and put his arm around her. “Go lay down for a little while. I’m sure Hector will be back soon.”

  “No, Jorge. I don’t want you to go.” She threw her arms around him and Nikki glanced away, feeling awkward at such an intimate moment between brother and sister.

  “I’ll be fine. I didn’t do this, Rosalia.”

  “I know you didn’t,” she sobbed. She whispered something in his ear.

  He hugged her. “You have to stop crying.” He smoothed her shiny dark hair, cut in a bob that framed her pretty, heart-shaped face. “You have to think of the baby. Now, go on. Go lay down. Rest while you have the chance.”

  Rosalia’s lower lip trembled. “Hector?”

  “He’ll be back,” Jorge reassured her. “You know he will.”

  “You’re sure?” Another stream of tears ran down her cheeks. “Because I can’t do this alone, J
orge. Not with two little ones and another on the way—”

  “He’ll be back,” Jorge repeated. His tone was sharp this time.

  Nikki watched her waddle slowly down the hall. “The children?” she asked Jorge, referring to his niece and nephew.

  “With our next-door neighbor. She’s promised to keep them all afternoon. I didn’t want them to see me taken away in handcuffs if—”

  “I understand,” she said quickly. “And now Rosalia can rest.” She stood there for a minute looking at Jorge, remembering him at age fourteen, and how understanding he had been when Nikki had been struggling with her relationship with her mother, with her own identity. They’d known each other so well then, but she felt as if she didn’t know him at all anymore. It made her sad. “You should get an attorney.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t do anything wrong.” He looked at her. “We live in America, Nikki. Here, we’re innocent until proven guilty.”

  She glanced away, thinking how naïve he sounded. And wishing she was a little more like him. The justice system’s complete failure in the handling of her father’s murder in New York City had left her . . . jaded. Because of police errors in the investigation, the judge had set the killer free. Three months later, the killer struck again only a block from her father’s penthouse apartment. The second time, the psychopath murdered a financier, his wife, and his ten-year-old daughter. So, Nikkie didn’t have the confidence in the legal system that Jorge had. “If it’s the money you’re worried about, Mother—”

  “It’s not about the money,” he said firmly. “It’s about what’s right. I don’t want a lawyer. I don’t need a lawyer.”

  She considered bringing up the fact that he was Hispanic and that Eddie was Caucasian . . . and filthy rich. But Jorge wasn’t stupid. He had to know the chance he was taking. He didn’t like to be told what to do. Never had. “You should go,” she said quietly.