by Cheryl Crane
Inside the building, Nikki watched the Amish guy walk up to the glass window, speak to the clerk, and take a seat in the row of blue chairs. Nikki stepped up to the window.
The female police officer looked up at her, making Nikki recall the saying, “if looks could kill.” It was a cliché, she knew, but clichés were always based on truths, weren’t they?
“I’m sorry,” the officer said through the bulletproof glass between them. Her voice came out slightly muffled through the holes punched in the glass. “I don’t know anything more than the last time you asked. Or the time before that. Have a seat.” She returned her attention to the magazine she was reading.
Nikki returned to her campsite. At midnight, the female cop behind the bulletproof glass was replaced by an Hispanic male. Same empty look on his face, same lack of information or willingness to share. Nikki dozed on and off the rest of the night, occasionally making pilgrimages to the bathroom and to the cop at the front desk, only to be sent back to her plastic chair. At one point, a junior-size Amish impersonator was released from the bowels of the station and without speaking a word, the older Amish impersonator had escorted the younger out the front door and into the dark night. Nikki felt as if she had been awake all night, but apparently she hadn’t been because eventually Jessica appeared in front of her, nudging her shoulder and startling the bejeezus out of her.
“Come on, Sleeping Beauty. I can go now.”
Nikki shot out of the chair; she’d been hugging her Prada bag so close to her chest to keep it from being lifted that it had left red marks on her forearms. “They let you go?”
“For now.” Jessica headed for the door, amazingly still able to teeter on four-inch heels, even after an overnight interrogation. “I want to get the hell out of here before they change their mind, arrest me, and send me to Alcatraz.”
Nikki wiped something from the corner of her mouth that could only have been drool. “They never arrested you?”
“I was interrogated. The guy had the worst breath.”
“All night?” Nikki followed her out the door. The sun was already up, bright and full of promise, unlike Jessica’s life at the present.
“Yup. His breath stunk all night. Some awful combination of raw onions, rotten potatoes, and cinnamon Dentyne.”
“I meant, did they question you all night? I’m parked there.” She pointed to her white Prius. Her mother had given her a Jaguar XF for her fortieth birthday, but she rarely drove it. It embarrassed her to own such an excessive car. Jessica kept telling her she should sell it and blow the money on a trip to Monte Carlo, but Nikki couldn’t do that, either. So it sat in storage and once a month she and Jeremy took it for a drive. Always after dark.
Nikki fumbled for the key fob in her bag. She imagined her breath smelled as bad as the cop’s who had interrogated Jessica. The corn chips and coffee she’d had at three in the morning probably hadn’t helped matters.
“They kept you all night without arresting you?” Finally managing to unlock the doors, Nikki climbed in. “Can they even do that?”
“Do I care, as long as they didn’t arrest me?” Jessica buckled in and fell back against the leather seat, closing her eyes.
Nikki felt the sudden urge to reach out and give her a hug, a pat on the arm, something, but they didn’t have that kind of relationship. Nikki didn’t exactly consider herself a touchy-feely kind of person, but Jessica was off the chart when it came to physical affection. At least between friends. So Nikki kept her hugs to herself. “You all right?” she asked.
Jessica kept her eyes closed. “I just need a double espresso and a shower. I’ll be fine.”
Nikki started the car and it purred away from the curb. “I’ll take you right home.”
“Can’t.” Jessica sighed, kicked off her heels, and glanced at Nikki. “It’s officially a crime scene. I can’t go in, not even to get any of my stuff, until it’s been released.”
“Okay. So, my house.” Nikki gripped the wheel. A million things were running through her head, disjointed by lack of sleep, a corn chip overdose, and genuine fear for her friend. “So we should do something about getting you a lawyer. The sooner the better.”
“I can’t afford a lawyer, Nik. I owe American Express six thousand in two days. Why would I need a lawyer if I didn’t do it?”
“Then I’ll pay for the lawyer.” Nikki was generally careful about throwing money around. Her father had left her wealthy, immensely so, but she tried to live a lifestyle appropriate to her own income. Growing up, she’d seen what wealth did to too many people and she had decided years ago not to allow that to happen to herself. She had enough baggage to drag around without filling it with gold. It was a subject she and her mother had agreed to disagree on. On alternating Sundays, at least. The rest of the week, Victoria made a point of telling Nikki what a fool she was to even work.
“So what happened?” Nikki asked, easing onto Sunset. “They questioned you about Rex and . . .”
“And they questioned me and questioned me.” Jessica gestured wildly as she talked, her words becoming manic. She acted as if she’d already had two double espressos. “They asked me why I killed Rex. I said I didn’t. They asked me how he could be alive when he’d crashed his plane in the desert. I said I didn’t know. They asked me how his body got in my apartment if I didn’t kill him and I said I didn’t know. It kind of went around in a circle after that.”
“But they believed you? They must have believed you.” Nikki hit her horn as a monstrous black SUV with tinted windows cut her off. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have released you, right? I mean, they would have arrested you if they really thought you did it.”
“Oh, they think I did it, all right. That or they’re just too lazy to get off their asses, get out there, and find out who did. Apparently, because they found no murder weapon in the apartment, no evidence I killed him, they couldn’t arrest me. You know, it’s all circumstantial bullshit. But they said it was only a matter of time before they had what they needed. I can’t leave the state.”
“So what about the fact that Rex was already dead? How did that play into the whole questioning thing?”
“Not at all. I mean, obviously, he wasn’t dead. Even those boneheads figured that out.” She looked at Nikki. “I need a cigarette. Can we stop and get a pack?”
“Sorry.” Nikki made a face. “You can’t smoke in my car. You know that. Or my house.”
Jessica wiggled in the car seat, pulling down her fitted navy skirt. After a night of interrogation, she looked a hell of a lot better and far less wrinkly than Nikki. “There are cigarettes in my car. And some other things. Can we run by?”
Nikki hesitated. Obviously, she wanted to help Jessica any way she could, but as her friend, she felt as if she had to keep Jessica from doing anything that might rile the cops even more. “I don’t know that you should be near your apartment. It might seem suspicious.”
“I don’t want to go inside.” Jessica shuddered. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to sleep in that bed again. I just can’t get that picture out of my mind, of Rex dead on my St. Geneve silk sheets.” She gripped the sides of the leather seat as if she was holding on for dear life. “Please. I just want to get into my car and get my cigarettes and my bags. I went shopping at lunch yesterday. I bought the cutest Raquel Allegra tunic. I can put it on after I shower.”
“The police might have already impounded your car,” Nikki argued. But she was already hitting her turn signal to head back toward Jess’s, on Hancock.
“If they can find it.”
Nikki cut her eyes at Jessica. “It’s not in your apartment garage?”
“On the street, a block down.”
“Why?”
“This weirdo was following me yesterday on the way home. I parked and cut through the alley. I didn’t want him to know where I lived. Why would the police want my car?”
“There could potentially be evidence.”
“Evidence of what? I didn’t k
ill him, Nikki!” Her last words came out in a sob.
Nikki broke the rules and gave Jessica’s manicured hand a quick squeeze. “I’m telling you how the cops might be thinking, not me.”
“I can’t believe the police think I did this.” Jessica sniffed and pressed the heel of her hand under her nose. “To . . . to Rex.”
“When he was already dead,” Nikki added.
“Exactly. Oh, Nikki.” Jessica, breaking her own rules, wrapped her fingers around Nikki’s wrist. “What am I going to do? What if they railroad me? What if they say I killed him and they put me away for the next twenty years?” She sounded as if she was going to burst into tears.
Nikki gripped the wheel, staring at the bumper ahead of her. “Here’s what you’re going to do. We’re going to grab your bags from your car, you’re going to take a shower at my place, and you’re going to lie down for a couple of hours and then you’re going to go to work. You’re going to go about your day as if this is all a misunderstanding, you’re innocent of all charges, and someone is trying to frame you, which obviously they are.”
“Okay, okay.” Jessica nodded, as if seeing the plan now. She looked up. “But what are you going to do?”
Nikki turned onto Jessica’s street and spotted her green BMW. “I’m going to prove your innocence.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’m going to find out who killed Rex . . . this time.”
Chapter 5
Nikki hesitated at the apartment next to Jessica’s, finger poised over the doorbell. Was she doing the right thing, or was this one of those instances where Victoria’s words would haunt her later?
Back at her place, Nikki and Jessica had both showered and while Jessica lay down, Nikki had thrown on some clothes and run out to get bagels. She didn’t want to leave Jessica alone for long, but, on impulse, she’d made a detour to Jessica’s apartment building. She knew the logical thing to do was just let the police handle the investigation, but all these years of guilt about leaving her father’s murder to the authorities told her that she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. If only she had interfered in that case, maybe her dad’s killer wouldn’t have gotten away scot-free. To kill again.
So here she was. She assumed the police had questioned all of Jessica’s neighbors, but she knew Mrs. McCauley from previous visits to the building. More importantly, she knew the elderly woman didn’t get out much, so she made a career of watching her neighbors. The thing was, Mrs. McCauley could be a little difficult to talk to sometimes; she rambled and she didn’t always make sense. What if the police had missed something in their conversation with her, or just written her off as the neighborly nut job?
Either way, it wouldn’t hurt for Nikki to speak with her. If nothing else, she would brighten the old lady’s day by stopping to say hello. Nikki rang the doorbell, which chimed inside. The chimes were followed by a bizarre series of scraping, thumping sounds, as if someone were dragging a bag of bricks to the door.
“Yes?” Mrs. McCauley called from inside. She had a slight European accent. Eastern Bloc, Nikki guessed.
Nikki stepped back so the senior citizen could see her through the peephole. “Mrs. McCauley, it’s Nikki Harper.”
“Nikki Harper? I don’t know you.”
“Yes, you do.” Nikki could see a filmy cataract-covered eye through the peephole. It was a little unnerving. “We’ve met before. I’m a friend of Jessica’s . . . Jessica Martin. Next door. In 322?”
The pale eye blinked.
“I . . . I was wondering if I could speak with you, Mrs. McCauley.”
“Nikki Harper,” the old lady repeated.
“Yes. Yes, that’s right. I’m Nikki Harper. I’m a real estate agent. And . . . and a good friend of Jessica’s.”
“You’re Natalie Wood’s daughter.”
Nikki grimaced. She had nothing personally against Natalie Wood, but Victoria and Natalie had not been the best of friends, not after Natalie had gotten the part in Splendor in the Grass and gone on to receive an Academy Award nomination for her performance. To this day, despite its Academy Awards for Best Writing, Story and Screenplay, Victoria refused to show Splendor in the Grass on movie night. “No, no, not Natalie Wood’s daughter. I’m Victoria Bordeaux’s daughter.”
Again, the eye blinked. “Victoria Bordeaux wasn’t in Rebel Without a Cause.”
“No, she wasn’t, Mrs. McCauley, but she was in Fortune’s Wheel the same year.”
“But not with James Dean. He’s dead, you know. Such a waste. Stupid boy.”
Nikki’s phone rang in her bag. She ignored it but Mrs. McCauley stared. “You going to get that?”
“Um . . . no. Sorry.” She reached into her Prada, glanced at the screen long enough to see that it was Jeremy calling again and hit the power button. She’d call him later. For sure. “I’m sorry,” Nikki said. “You were saying?”
“I was saying Victoria Bordeaux definitely wasn’t in Rebel Without a Cause, and don’t try to tell me otherwise.”
Nikki looked up and down the hallway. This was a bad idea, coming here. She’d have been better off questioning the bagels in her car. “No, ma’am.”
“That was Warren Beatty. In that movie with her. He slept with a lot of women, you know.” The eye squinted. “Probably with your mother. Between husbands, of course,” she added quickly.
The old woman knew her 1960s movies, Nikki would give her that. “Mrs. McCauley, could you open the door? I’d like to speak to you and I . . . I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Because your mother’s a movie star.”
“No, not because my mother’s a movie star. She isn’t really anymore, anyway. She’s pretty much retired.” Nikki heaved her bag from one shoulder to the other. “I don’t have a lot of time because I need to get home and get ready for work.”
The eye disappeared. Then, on the other side of the door, Nikki heard the same scraping and banging she’d detected when Mrs. McCauley first came to the door. The door slowly opened. Mrs. McCauley stood just under five feet tall and was accompanied by a walker. It was a plastic stool she’d been dragging . . . behind her walker. A stool that, apparently, allowed her to see through her peephole.
“Mrs. McCauley, thanks. For taking time to speak with me.” She tried not to stare. The old lady was wearing a very short pink and blue plaid kilt, red tights, tap shoes, and an A-Team t-shirt. Old-school TV. Not the Liam Neeson flick.
Mrs. McCauley shook Nikki’s hand, studying her suspiciously. The cataract-clouded eyes were blue. Her close-cropped hair was also blue, though a different shade. “Victoria Bordeaux’s daughter, eh?” She rolled the walker forward a couple of inches to get a better look at Nikki. The walker came equipped with a quilted bag holding multiple tabloid magazines, a copy of the latest issue of The Economist, and a toilet bowl brush.
“You’re tall,” she continued. “I liked her in Fortune’s Wheel, but not in The Widow’s Daughter. She should never have taken that part. I told my husband Sean that. I said ‘Sean, Victoria Bordeaux should never have agreed to be in that film!’ He’s been dead twenty-two years, God rest his soul.”
Nikki nibbled on her lower lip. “Um . . . I’ll be sure to tell her.” She looked up and down the hallway, then back at Mrs. McCauley. Apparently she wasn’t going to be invited in, which was okay. The apartment smelled of brining cabbage. “I was wondering. Um . . . did you . . .” Nikki sensed the need to work on her interrogation skills. “Did the police speak to you yesterday?”
“About the murder next door?” the old lady asked matter-of-factly. Despite the accent, her English was very good.
“Yes.”
“I think the police have lost their minds. But that’s obvious, isn’t it? Such behavior. Racial profiling. On the take. All you have to do is watch TV. Read the newspaper. You have nice hair. Red. I always wanted red hair. No one killed Rex March in that girl’s apartment,” she scoffed. “He couldn’t have been there. He was dead already. I’d certa
inly have known if a dead man was here.” She squinted her eyes. “I know everything that happens in the building. You know that, don’t you? Is your hair real or out of a box?”
Nikki wasn’t sure how to respond. “Um . . . it’s my natural color.” She didn’t think she needed to confess that she highlighted it every once in a while. “So . . . you didn’t see Rex March go into Jessica’s apartment? Or . . . anything else unusual?”
“All those policemen. That was unusual. We don’t get many cops here. It’s a quiet building, except for the loud music in 311 sometimes.” She leaned forward on her walker. Despite needing assistance to get around, she seemed pretty spry for a woman who appeared to be . . . a hundred, a hundred-and-twenty years old. She looked as if she were wearing a wrinkle suit, the wrinkles on her face and arms and hands were so pronounced.
Nikki gestured. “Before that. I meant, did you see anything unusual before the police came? During the day. Like . . . maybe Rex March going into Jessica’s apartment?”
“I already told you. I’d have noticed a dead man walking in the hallway. I usually keep my door open, you know. I have a gate I put up here to keep people out, but with the murder and all, the police say I should keep my door shut.” She held up a finger. “Oh, but you know what did happen yesterday that was out of the ordinary?”
Nikki waited.
“Jean-Luc Picard was in the garden. In the back. I saw him from my balcony. I see a lot from my balcony. 209 sunbathes without his shorts. You know him, don’t you?”
Nikki wasn’t sure if she meant the nude sunbather or the TV/movie character. She shook her head in confusion.
“Of course you do. Captain of the Enterprise. The new starship, not the old one. Kirk blew that up.” She smiled slyly, balancing with one hand so she could waggle a finger with the other. “Very handsome man, that Captain Picard. Wouldn’t mind if he beamed himself into my boudoir, I’ll tell you that.”
Nikki took a step back. This was more like it. This was the Mrs. McCauley she knew. “He is handsome—Patrick Stewart—the actor . . . who plays Jean-Luc Picard.” She studied the old woman’s wrinkles on her face. “So, Picard was here, but you never saw Rex March?”
