Nikki, in the rear, looked out at the family homes and said, “Works for Victoria.”
They’d grown up with Victoria Allard, whose last name had been Martin in those days. The all-pro basketball star Ken Allard had moved her from the old neighborhood into Malaga Hills. Moved her in, lived with her for five years and dumped her for some young tramp. Rather than give up her home, she’d transformed it into a clothing boutique.
“Not much crime out here,” Sonny said.
“That what turns you on? Crime?” Loreen asked him.
“Not exactly,” he answered. “But I’m ready to handle it if it comes my way.”
“I bet you are, Wesley. I just bet you are.” The moment Nikki had introduced them, Loreen had told Sonny he reminded her of the actor Wesley Snipes. Nikki, who saw no similarity, didn’t know if her friend was just being pleasant or if she was coming on to Sonny. Time would tell on that score. Loreen wasn’t what you’d call shy.
“I do my job,” Sonny said. “This the place?”
He’d stopped the Olds in front of a large ranch home with a healthy green lawn and several cars, including a BMW station wagon, parked in the drive.
“You did good, Wesley,” Loreen said, opening her door and struggling to get out.
“We won’t be more than fifteen or twenty minutes,” Nikki told him.
“My time is yours,” Sonny said without emotion.
“Man is sooo poetic,” Loreen said without a trace of sarcasm. Definitely coming on to him. “Sure you don’t want to come in,” she asked him, “have a pop?”
“I don’t drink on the job,” he said, his eyes patrolling the quiet street.
Nikki pulled her friend away from the car. “C’mon, Delilah. Samson’s not going anywhere.”
As they approached the front door, Loreen asked, “You ever wonder where Victoria gets her goods?”
Nikki pressed the doorbell. “She says she’s got contacts at the factories. Considering my measly little paycheck, I’m not about to press—”
Victoria’s front door was opened by someone Nikki had never seen before. He was very young. Handsome. Clean-cut. Dressed in an orange and black Nike tennis outfit too crisp to have ever been used in a game that showed off his muscular arms and legs to advantage. The only thing marring his college-net-star appearance was a thick scar that began at his left elbow and continued nearly to his wrist.
“Oh, two of you. Well, come on in, ladies,” he said. “My name is Rupert. I’ll take you back to the rooms. Victoria will be with you in a minute.”
As he led the way down an off-white hall toward the rear of the house, Loreen made obscene gestures behind his back until Nikki nearly burst with laughter.
Victoria had turned two large bedrooms into her display areas. Each was filled with racks of women’s clothes of all styles and colors, arranged according to size.
“Browse like always,” he said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or a Coke? Or something stronger?”
“I’ll have a Remy,” Loreen said.
“Victoria’s holding an evening dress for me,” Nikki told him.
“I’ll check,” Rupert said. “And a drink?”
She shook her head. When he’d gone, Loreen said, “Victoria’s sure got herself a fine-looking...assistant.” She laughed.
Smiling, Nikki moved on to the next room in search of her size.
She was examining a designer jacket marked down from $500 to $250 when she heard Loreen saying, in a surprisingly arch tone, “What the hell’s going on, Victoria?”
Curious, but not alarmed, she tried on the jacket. It felt all right, but she thought it might make her hips look a little too large. She walked to the mirror on the back wall.
“That’s too grandma for you.” The speaker was a young woman standing in the doorway. She was wearing a strange silver-colored wig, an orange T-shirt, and black tights patterned with orange question marks of varying sizes. Black running shoes with a splash of orange at the toe completed the ensemble. She held a leather case maybe two feet long and four inches across. She carried it like some women carry purses, clasped between arm and side with her hand holding it from underneath. “Get yourself something kickin’,” the girl said.
“You work for Victoria?” Nikki asked.
“Yeah, like I’m a salesgirl.” She took a step back into the other room and shouted, “She’s in here, trying on some industrial-looking old folks shit.”
Her call brought Rupert. He smiled at Nikki and said, “Let’s go see Victoria.”
“What?” Nikki asked, confused.
“Everybody’s waiting,” he said. “Come on. I got something to show you.”
“Hey, whip it out, boyfriend,” the girl said, giggling.
Rupert ignored her. “Come on,” he said to Nikki. “Let’s go.”
Nikki removed the coat she’d been trying on. It probably was too old for her.
They moved aside for her to precede them.
Victoria’s office was a space so immaculate it resembled Hollywood’s idea of a germ-free environment. White walls. White rug. White, glistening furniture. Even the computer was bone white. Two young men engulfed by orange and black gangsta garb, one short, one average, stood on either side of an anxious-looking Loreen. A third leaned against a wall.
Victoria sat at her white desk. Like Nikki, she’d been an awkward girl who’d improved considerably with age. She was wearing a casual pantsuit that looked like it had been made for her. She wouldn’t meet Nikki’s eyes.
“Guess my evening dress isn’t ready, huh, girlfriend?” Nikki said.
“This wasn’t my idea, Nikki,” Victoria said.
“It wasn’t you who called to get me here tonight?”
Victoria continued to look away.
“She’s cooperating with her number one supplier,” Rupert said. “Like we explained to her, we just want to pass along some information you can use. Thought it might be easier in a friendly atmosphere than out on the street.”
Suddenly, everybody had information for her. “This atmosphere’s getting less friendly by the second,” she told him. “Say what you have to and let us out of here.”
“Take a walk, just me and you.”
“Don’t go off with that punk, girl,” Loreen said. The short gangsta beside her reached deep into his pocket and withdrew a knife. He moved his wrist, making figure eights in the air with the blade, bringing it closer to Loreen, who watched it with alarm.
Nikki recognized that figure-eight gesture. “You bastards were in my house,” she said.
Unruffled, Rupert replied, “There you go. Was anybody hurt?”
She was seeing red. “You violate my home. You threaten me. Try to run over my dog. And now you brag on how nobody got hurt?”
“That dog thing was my li’l bro’. He don’t much care for dogs. Come on now. Let’s take that walk.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you, little smart-ass turkey trying to act like a man.”
Rupert’s lips twitched. She cursed herself for losing her temper. The others were looking at their leader expectantly.
Even if he’d been sincere about his peaceful intentions, she’d forced his hand.
“We were told not to harm you,” he said to Nikki. “But your ugly friend is fair game.” The girl in the silver wig held out the long case. Rupert shook his head. He nodded to the boy with the knife. “Waste of a blade to cut on that face. The woman’s got nice hair. Scalp her.”
Nikki saw Loreen’s eyes widen. Her hands went to her hair protectively.
The police special was in Nikki’s purse, but she wasn’t exactly Jackie Brown when it came to guns. “Enough bullshit,” she said. “You got business with me, let’s finish it.”
“Now you’re talking,” Rupert said. He gestured to the door. Silver wig followed, but he stopped her. “This is private,” he told her. “Let’s give that scalping thing some further thought. It’s an amusing idea, right?”
Not even his gang knew how
to answer.
Rupert walked Nikki down the hall to what appeared to be a guest bedroom. He gestured toward a chair beside a table. A Manila folder rested on the table, facedown.
“Let me get my reading glasses,” she said, starting to open her purse.
The boy grabbed the purse, tossed it away from them onto the bed. “Your eyesight’s fine.”
She sat down on the chair and looked at the folder. There was a brown smudge on its surface. “Is that dried blood?” she asked.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his knees close to hers. “Madeleine Gray’s,” he said.
“You kill her?”
“No. That’s the whole point here,” he said. “To get it straight who did. Go ahead. Open the folder.”
She reached out, but hesitated about touching it.
He stood impatiently, bent over her, and grabbed the file, dropping it on her lap. “Don’t worry about fingerprints. This is just for your eyes. It’s not gonna wind up in any court, I can guarantee.”
The typed label on the folder read “Soul Sister.” Inside, she found copies of the documents Goodman had described. The marriage certificate. Newspaper accounts of the trial and conviction of Dyana Cooper’s husband. His mug shot.
She studied the pages carefully, then looked up at Rupert. “Okay. Now what?”
“Don’t you have any questions?”
“No.” It was a lie, of course. Her mind was buzzing. Could he possibly be Goodman’s source? If not, how did he get the file?
Her apparent disinterest seemed to unnerve him. He took the folder, straightening the sheets almost prissily. “This came from Madeleine Gray’s house after the murder.”
“I figured that.”
“I didn’t take this. The person who did was working for Dyana Cooper, doing the cleanup for her after she did the murder.”
“You saying Dyana Cooper killed Maddie Gray?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“I’d like to talk to this cleanup person,” Nikki said. “In the other room?”
He shook his head. “No. We were not involved in the murder in any way.”
“You’re just trying to save somebody’s ass by throwing the blame on Dyana Cooper,” she said.
“You don’t give a shit for the truth, do you?” He was bristling. “You put Mason Durant in the joint, even though you weren’t totally convinced he was guilty. We’re
killed Maddie Gray.”
“How do you know about Mason Durant?”
“There are ways of finding out everything. Maddie taught me that.”
“You knew her?”
“We helped her with stuff. That’s why we don’t want her killer to go free.”
There was a knock at the door. Silver wig. “Time to book,” she said.
He consulted the fancy sports watch on his wrist. “You hang in here for five minutes, Nikki,” he said. “And maybe we won’t scalp your friend.”
He folded the file and jammed it into the waistband of his shorts. Then he grabbed her puse. At the door, he turned to her and held it up. “I’ll leave this with Victoria. Be cool. Don’t be a fool.”
Don’t worry about that, you little pissant, she thought.
She waited about two minutes and left the room.
Victoria was in her office, alone. “Nikki, please understand—”
“Where’s Loreen?” she asked, grabbing her purse from the desk, checking to see if the gun was still there. It was.
“I told you not to bring her.”
“Where is she?” Nikki demanded.
“They took her. Rupert said he’d let her off at her shop. He’s not a bad—”
“Rupert’s as bad as they get,” Nikki said, moving toward the door. “Just because he looks like Tiger Woods doesn’t mean he won’t slit your throat for a quarter. They could have killed us, and you, too, without cracking a frown. Your business partners.”
She shook her head in disgust and left the room.
Victoria ran after her. “Nobody’s gonna be hurt,” she shouted.
“We don’t know that yet, do we?” Nikki threw open the front door. “We go back to being kids together, Victoria, and you set us up for this kind of bullshit? I promise you: They put one little bruise on her, you’re gonna wind up doing time. And you’re out of the clothing business as of right now.”
“Don’t try messin’ with my business, Nikki,” Victoria shouted.
“Or what? You’ll put your thugs on me. Been there, done that.”
Sonny was getting out of the Olds, a look of confusion on his broad face. “What’s goin’ on? Where’s Miss Loreen?”
“Let’s go find out,” Nikki said.
For the first half of the drive, she had to keep interrupting his questions to urge him to go faster. For the second half, she had to keep interrupting his apologies.
They arrived at the beauty parlor just in time to see a black Chevy driving away, leaving a bewildered Loreen standing on the sidewalk in its wake.
Nikki was out of the Olds almost before Sonny could stop it at the curb. Her arms went around her friend. “I’m okay,” Loreen said, trying to catch her breath. “They didn’t do anything. I was so scared, Nikki.”
Sonny joined them, looking sheepish. “I blew it,” he said. “I shoulda come in.”
“It might have made things worse,” Nikki said. “We’re all okay.”
“I really screwed up,” Sonny said. “I didn’t even check the perimeter to see if there was a rear way in and out. I would have seen their car parked back there.”
Loreen was fanning herself with her hand. “I’ll forgive you, Wesley,” she said, “if you just do two things. First, drive us somewhere quick where I can get a cigarette and a shot of cognac for my nerves.”
“And the second thing?” Sonny asked. “We can talk about that later,” she said.
SEVENTY-SIX
Jamal was still living large. Enjoying room service. Piling up tube time. But his shyster, the king of the comb-over, wasn’t giving him the attention he thought a new millionaire deserved. The last time they’d talked, the lawyer had asked him a mess of questions about Madeleine Gray’s ring. Like the ring being in his pocket might be a deal breaker or something.
The dumb-ass ring.
All he’d had to do was pass that ring on by. The cracker cops would still have busted him on general principal. Then his false arrest case would’ve been golden.
But he had to grab the ring.
The brass ring. Wasn’t there something about grabbing the brass ring?
Shit, it didn’t matter.
He walked barefoot across the thick carpet into the bathroom. The first thing he was going to do when the eagle flew was to get a place with a shit stall like this. Floor to ceiling mirrors. He struck a few poses. Front and rear view. Looked fly. Superfly. He chuckled. He had a picture of the original Superfly on the wall of his place. Just as a goof. Big floppy felt hat. Droopy-ass lip brush. A ton of metal on his fingers. What were they thinking back then?
He peeled the bandages from his knife wounds.
Shit, they were just little slits now. Pinpoints where the stitches used to be. Didn’t look much worse than the sex marks that sweet-and-hot Dorothea left on his back. Some pucker, but not bad. Still had that war wound thing. Impress the hell out of the ladies.
He thought he might just take a trip up to the rooftop pool. Catch the sunset. See what was lying around having evening cocktails. Comb-over told him to stick to his room, but, shit, it was a nice evening. Won’t be any shank-waving assholes up by the pool. Nobody with machetes, neither. Just some fine ladies, maybe, waiting to hear a little jaw music.
He studied the collection of swim trunks he’d charged to his room from the shop in the lobby and selected a little thong number. In honor of the European women he’d noticed seemed to be in the majority poolside.
He slipped into the thong, slapped some cologne (seventy-five dollars the ounce, from the hotel shop) on his face, and se
lected one of his five new pairs of Ray-Bans, the sleek, skinny pair that looked like the shades Will Smith wore in that alien movie. He grabbed the fluffy white terry-cloth robe with the hotel’s crest. He slipped his plastic room card into a pocket of the robe and marched out to sample the delights of the evening.
He’d just settled on a cushioned lounging chair, pillow behind his head, wine spritzer on the deck near his right hand, when there was a tap on his shoulder. He put on his best dude-of-the-world expression and sat up, twisting a little to show off his abs.
Carlos Morales stood beside his chair. “Been lookin’ all over town for you, Jamal,” he said. “How’s about we have a little talk? Or would you rather get your bony ass tossed off this fucking roof?”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Goodman spent the weekend at Gwen’s apartment.
She didn’t want to be by herself.
They ate, watched TV. Didn’t talk much. Didn’t make love.
It wasn’t until Sunday morning that the detective decided to call home for messages.
He was surprised to hear the electronic voice say that he had nine. He rarely got more than two or three, especially on weekends. As they unspooled, he discovered that they’d come from only three people.
The winner with most calls, six, had been Nikki Hill. She’d started phoning Saturday morning and gone on until the early evening. Judging by the messages, she was in need of some sort of information or advice. As her messages tapered off, his partner’s began. At a little after six P.M., Carlos had wanted Goodman to phone immediately. Something needed to be done and he wasn’t sure he could handle it by himself.
The next Morales message, an hour later, was a bit more profane and abusive, suggesting that Goodman disengage from a sexual activity that was unlawful in most of the United States and answer the damned phone. The final message, made at eleven-forty-three P.M., the night before, was from his depressed neighbor across the hall, Dennis Margolis, whispering that he could hear someone trying to break into Goodman’s apartment. He thought it might be the fake policemen. “If you’re in there asleep, Ed, better wake up,” Dennis had cautioned.
The Trials of Nikki Hill Page 32
