I opened the Venetian blinds that covered the glass door and looked out. There stood my friend Kitty, wearing skimpy cutoffs, a bikini top, flip-flops, and nail polish, her lavender-streaked platinum hair down to her shoulders.
I opened the door and let her in. She rushed into my arms and I held her trembling body close to me. I stroked her hair and said, “It’s going to be okay.”
She pulled away from me and gave me a valiant attempt at a smile. Her sapphire eyes were glistening with tears. “Guy,” she said, “have you seen Gracie?”
“Gracie? Not since last Friday afternoon,” I said.
“She didn’t come home on Saturday night,” Kitty said. “And she hasn’t been to the club. Nobody’s seen her for almost a week.”
I let out a huge breath of air. “This could get complicated,” I said.
“What do you mean? Do you know where she is?”
“No idea,” I said. “Sit down.”
We pulled chairs away from the conference table and sat. Kitty put her elbows on the table and placed her face in her cupped hands. “And with Roger gone too,” she mumbled, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“Gone where? Any idea?”
“He’s been out of town on business for a couple of weeks. I can’t tell you what that’s about, but he was making arrangements for a big change. He said he’d contact us, and we were going to join him. I’m not supposed to be telling you this, but I’m really worried. I mean, what if he got in touch with Gracie, and Gracie didn’t tell me, just left me out of it?”
“Out of what?”
Kitty started sobbing, hiccupping. I went into the bathroom and came out with a box of Kleenex. She blew her nose. I tried again: “Left you out of what, Kitty?”
“I can’t tell you. Guy, will you help me find them?”
“No,” I said. “I can’t.”
“Why not, God damn it? Not like you have anything else to do these days. Shit.” She blew her nose again. “You have to help me, Guy.”
“You want a glass of wine?” I offered. “I have some good Cabernet in the closet for special occasions.”
“No, I don’t want a glass of fucking wine. I want Gracie!” The tears were flowing again. “Why won’t you help me find her?”
“I’m not a detective, Kitty. You should go to the police.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Of all the stupid questions.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not like everything they do is strictly legal.”
“The police?”
Kitty gave me a look: get real. “Not the police. Roger and Gracie. You have to help me find them, Guy. If they’re trying to leave me behind, I’ll kill them both, I swear to God.”
“I’m sorry, Kitty,” I said. “I can’t help you. I don’t know anything, I can’t leave town, I can’t even talk to you. That’s a fact.”
Kitty stood up. “Fuck you, Guy,” she said. “Just fuck you, okay?” She walked out of the office and onto the street, rattling the glass door behind her.
***
Thursday passed. The phone rang a few times, and I let the machine do the answering. No call from Carol. No call from Rosa. Nothing more from Stephanie Roberts, Arthur Summers, Fritz Marburger, or Kitty Katz. People magazine called, but I didn’t pick that one up either; they probably wanted to know what I knew about Lorraine Evans. I was unavailable for comment.
I worked on a card catalog I was developing for my collection of first editions, the Post–World War II Western American poets. My goal was to have a way to sort the collection by author, title, publisher, and date of publication. Eventually I’d enter the information into my computer. Maybe. I was still pretty fond of index cards. It took me the rest of the day to complete the listings for two shelves of books. I worked slowly. I had my favorite poems in each book, and I couldn’t just record the data without rereading the poems. I had to find some sanity in the world, and that was the best I could do.
***
Friday morning I got to work early, after very little sleep. Another day, another.…
My glass front door was smashed in. Not big enough to step through, but big enough to put an arm through and reach the lock on the inside, which is what I did. The door was unlocked.
I opened the door and walked in. A pool of glass shards sprinkled out across the hardwood floor, and a trail of scratches and slivers led to my back office, where the door was wide open. I always kept it shut when I was out of the office.
I went to my desk, sat down, and picked up the phone.
***
Detective Rosa Macdonald was at my office door in less than ten minutes. She had two uniformed policemen with her. I let them into the office, telling them to be careful stepping over the glass. Rosa was in uniform. As she strode in, I noticed again what a strong woman she was, with shoulders like a swimmer’s and those dark, darting eyes. Rosa introduced me to the two cops, but I immediately forgot their names. One of the cops got busy gathering samples of the glass and taking measurements and photographs. The other cop and Rosa and I sat down at the conference table. The cop took notes as we talked.
“Any idea who did this?” she asked me.
“None whatsoever,” I answered. I had a good idea, but I wasn’t going to tell her about it. Marburger had a motive. But that was between him and me.
“Anything missing?”
I glanced over at my shelves of poetry books. “Everything seems to be in place,” I said. I guessed he was just trying to scare me. Send me a message. Sell or else.
“Petty cash?”
“I don’t keep any in the office.”
“We’re dusting the drawers just in case.” She turned to her assistant, “Steve, go out and get the kit.” The cop left and Rosa turned back to me. “I want you to tell me where Carol Murphy is.”
“I’ve told you, Rosa, I don’t know. I wish I did. I’m worried she may be in trouble, and I want you to—”
“She’s in a lot of trouble. Damn right she is.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What have you heard?”
“You already know what I’ve heard, Guy. Carol Murphy’s vehicle was seen on the scene of the fire at the time that fire was started. Now the car’s gone missing, and she’s missing with it. She’s our number-one suspect. I’m sorry. And if she’s angry with you—”
“God damn it, Rosa, that’s ridiculous. She wouldn’t bust into her own office.” I stood up and tried to look tall.
“Why?”
“Because she has a key! Somebody is out to ruin my business, and it wouldn’t be her. She’s part of the business. That means she’s probably in trouble too. Look. I’m being threatened. My office has been vandalized. The books on those shelves out there are all I have left in the world. I want you to—”
“Hush. I’ll have your front windows covered with plywood. Now sit back down.”
“What for?”
“I’m the cop, remember? Do as I say.”
I sat down.
“I want you to tell me where Carol Murphy is and what you were doing Saturday evening between ten and eleven o’clock.”
I shook my head.
She shook her head back at me. “Do you have a phone?”
“Duh.”
“You have a lawyer?”
“Channing Bates,” I answered. “Esquire.”
“He’s a good man,” Rosa said.
“I think so. What’s going on here?”
“Guy Mallon, I am taking you in on suspicion of murder, arson, and obstructing justice. I’m going to read you your rights now, as soon as Steve gets back here to witness it. Then I want you to call Channing Bates and tell him to meet us at my office.”
“Channing Bates? Your office? Murder?”
“I have a feeling Mister Bates will encourage you to cooperate with me fully and tell me everything you know. I�
�m sorry, Guy, but you leave me no choice.”
Chapter Fifteen
“So that’s where you were when the warehouse fire started?” Rosa Macdonald asked, her black eyes wide and fierce. “In a strip club?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “What? That’s so bad?”
She shook her head. “And you wonder why your honey skipped town?”
“She didn’t skip town. Well, okay, so she skipped town, but that was before I ever went to a strip club.”
“Maybe,” Rosa said. “But if that’s the way you feel about women, no wonder Carol Murphy doesn’t think you’re worth the effort.”
“What are you, a therapist now? I thought you were a police inspector.”
She smiled at me as if I were a bad boy and she were the teacher. “My line of work, I deal with crazies. So I guess I’m part therapist. Okay, back to business. So what you’re saying is these two men,”—she consulted her notes—“Arthur Summers and Maxwell Black, can substantiate your whereabouts at the time of the warehouse fire. If that’s the case, I can’t hold you any longer.”
“I’d rather you left them out of it,” I said. “Call Kitty Katz. She’ll vouch for me.”
“I should take the word of a stripper?”
“Now who’s putting down women?”
Rosa nodded and picked up her pencil. “What’s Miss Katz’s phone number?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But you could go find her at the Kountry Klub.”
Rosa drummed the pencil on her pad until the point broke. “You go find her,” she said. “I’m releasing you, and I want you to go find this Katz person and have her get in touch with me.” She smiled and added, “Your bruises hardly show at all now, by the way.”
***
I ate dinner that night at the Super Rica taco stand on Milpas, then drove down under the freeway to the industrial part of the city. I didn’t go to the warehouse, or where the warehouse had been. I went to the Kountry Klub.
It was only eight o’clock when I got there, the sky still full of evening light. I parked the car, walked across the parking lot, and pushed the door open. I stepped into a dark vestibule where a burly young bouncer sat behind a counter. “Tsup,” he said. I remembered him from the time I’d been there before.
“I was just wondering,” I began, “if—”
“Admission’s twenty-five. Two-drink minimum, drinks are five each.”
“Is Kitty here?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Pussy Katz,” I said.
“She’ll be here in about an hour,” the bouncer said. He grinned. “You like her, huh? She’s a hot chick.”
“Yeah. Listen, I don’t really want to see the show. I just have to ask Kitty a question. Could you ask her—”
“Doesn’t work that way, dude.” He stood up so I could see just how tall he was, as if I didn’t already know. “You buy your ticket, you go in and buy your minimums, and then you can have a nice long chat with Miss Pussy. She’s available for personal dances, private sessions, whatever you want. That’s about it. But first.…” He held out his hand.
“Aw shit,” I said. “Okay, here.”
But while I was reaching for my wallet I heard a voice from behind the inner curtain call, “Hey, Terry!”
The bouncer yelled back, “Yeah, just a minute.” He turned back to me and said, “Let’s go, dude. They want me in there.”
“That was Kitty’s voice,” I said.
“Like I said—”
“Hey.” The curtain swooshed back, and there she stood, wearing a sparkly floor-length cocktail dress. “Terry, we got a drunk prick passed out on his table and he’s….Guy, that you?”
I nodded. “Hi, Kitty. I need to ask a favor of you.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “Like I owe you any favors. What?”
“Would you be willing to swear I was here a week ago last Saturday night?”
She looked at me like I was nuts. “Piss up a rope,” she said. “Terry, you got to get in there. He’s grossing everyone out. He barfed on the runway. You need to toss him out behind.” With that she turned and drew the curtain behind her.
“You coming in or what?” Terry asked me.
“Terry, you were here that night,” I said. “Remember me? Short guy?”
“You want a ticket? Hurry up, my man. I got a job to take care of in there.”
“Would you be willing to say I was here?”
“To who?
I decided not to say the word “police.” “I don’t know, to anyone who asked?”
“This place is discreet, man,” he said. “We don’t share that kind of information, company policy. It’s for your own protection. There’s the door, behind you. Come back when you’re ready to pay your money and see a good show.”
***
It was around ten o’clock the next morning when I left for my office, with a stop at the P.O., where I picked up my mail and bought a copy of the News-Press from the box outside. When I reached the office I found my glass windows were boarded over, but the door still accepted my key, and the inside was intact.
I sat down at my desk and began opening mail, most of which was for Carol. I sorted her mail by size, then put it in neat stacks on her desk, along with all the other business that had accumulated for her in her absence, which was now approaching three weeks’ worth. There were only a few new phone messages on the machine, and they, too, concerned the business side of the business. I wondered if I’d eventually have to start taking charge of the sales and marketing.
Where the hell was my partner?
Was she safe?
If she was in trouble, was there anything I could do about it?
If I lost her, would I….
I quit thinking. I needed a beer.
I took care of the few pieces of mail that fell into my department, then stood up and tucked the newspaper under my arm. It was eleven-fifteen when I left for lunch.
***
I went to the Paradise Cafe, where I sat on the terrace, under an umbrella, sipping my Dos Equis and waiting for my burger and shoestrings. I opened the newspaper to see what the world had to offer.
Weather. The hell with the weather.
Sports. Screw sports.
Politics. Who cared.
Page seven:
BODY FOUND IN WAREHOUSE IDENTIFIED
Newport Beach retiree dies in Santa Barbara fire
The body of an Orange County resident was discovered in the debris of a warehouse fire that occurred Saturday, September 9. The man was said to be visiting Santa Barbara for the month of September, staying aboard his yacht in the marina. His yacht, however, has been missing since last Sunday morning, the morning after the fire that destroyed the old DiClemente Avocado warehouse on September 9th.
The victim, Robert Worsham, 72, was a retired naval officer, an avid sailor, an elder in the Orange County Pentecostal Church of Jesus Christ, and the author of a recently published religious novel, Onward Christian Sailors. He was identified by dental records, according to Santa Barbara Police Department arson inspector Detective Rosa Macdonald. Worsham’s identity was withheld until yesterday, when Macdonald was able to contact Mr. Worsham’s family.
The cause of the fire that destroyed the building, owned by Marburger Enterprises, Inc., is still unknown, Macdonald said...
I stood up and tucked the newspaper under my arm, then fished a twenty out of my wallet. I left the money weighted down by what was left of my beer and left the restaurant, running.
***
“Because, Mister Mallon, I don’t have to tell you dick.”
“But Rosa, for Christ’s sake, I’m the one who told you who Robert Worsham was.”
Rosa gave me a look that was half smile, half sneer. “Right,” she said. “He was the murderer, if I remember correctly. And the arsonist.”
“Okay, so I was wrong about that. How did you know to check his dental records, an
yway?”
“Because, my friend, investigation is what I do. When a woman tells me her husband hasn’t been heard from for five days and I have an unidentified body in the morgue, I tend to put two and two together.”
“So,” I said. “So you admit you called Worsham’s wife, which you wouldn’t have done if I hadn’t told you about him. You were expecting to find him at home, right? I at least put you on the right track, right? Right?”
Rosa Macdonald sighed. “Okay, Guy. What else do you have to tell me? Any other hot tips? Let’s have it, because I have a lot on my plate right now.”
“Why are you so mad at me?” I asked.
“I’m not. But I’ll tell you this: if you start your own investigation again, I’ll be mad. I’ll be more than mad. I’m running the investigation. So if you have anything for me, let’s have it right now.”
“First tell me—”
“No, no. Information flows this way. It’s a one-way street. We’re not swapping secrets. You’re contributing to my investigation, and if you know something and don’t tell me what it is, you’re obstructing justice, and you know what happens when you do that.”
“You don’t seem to realize that the woman I love is missing, too,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t expect me not to try to find out where she is. The arson investigation is your business. Carol’s safety is my business. Don’t you obstruct me, either.”
She nodded. “Okay, I understand. If I find out anything about Carol Murphy, I’ll certainly let you know. I promise. I have to tell you she’s number three on the list of people I most want to locate myself.”
“And the others?”
She shook her head.
“Roger Herndon?” I asked. “Now that he’s among the living?”
“Lucky guess. Now—”
“Fritz Marburger.”
She laughed. “Okay. Bingo. Now do you have anything to tell me?”
“No,” I said. “Sorry. If anything turns up, I’ll—”
“Guy,” Rosa said, “be careful. Don’t go looking for trouble.”
Vanity Fire Page 12
