Lalla Bains 02 - A Dead Red Heart

by Dahlke, RP

  I shook my head. Bad lighting. And besides, I'd promised myself not to allow Del's paranoia to infect my good opinion of Pippa. And I was sure that I'd been wrong to think the worst of Grace, because no matter what she did, or didn't do in the parking lot, I also knew she'd saved me from something much worse.

  "I guess I was putting too much into what these snowflakes might reveal."

  She nodded thoughtfully and I felt something shift, and we were back on easy terms. She lifted the box out of my hands, put the rubber band with its identifying tag around it, and left it on the table for the duty officer.

  After she saw me safely to my car, I cranked up the A/C, and with my sweaty armpits held akimbo, put the car in reverse, and pulled out onto G Street. Going east I cut over to 11th and headed back for the freeway, wondering what the ambitious Pippa might be willing to do if it meant she could make detective before Byron. World peace aside, Pippa Roulette had ambition written all over her pretty face. Yes, if I were her, I'd befriend Lalla Bains, climb over Byron's back, and make detective in record time. Besides, unlike poor Byron, I was sure she could pass the detective's exam in one take.

  I took one hand off the wheel and reached over for my bag and cell phone to call Caleb, then pulled it back. No, not the cell phone. If Del could listen to my cell, then so could someone else. Brad had said it was a cop. Cops have connections to listen in on cell phones. Now I was paranoid, and rightfully so. I had to see Caleb in person.

  I was passing cars, weaving in and out of traffic, driving too fast, but anxious to get to Caleb. I'd leave out the real reason why I was at the police evidence room, and just tell him I was there to talk to Pippa. Maybe tell him about the mugger, but leave out the theft of my notebook, then ask him if he could call in a favor with the military police to see if there was any possible connection between Billy Wayne's tour of duty and Mr. Kim.

  I hit my brakes in time to avoid climbing up the rear end of a Ford F-150 behind a long line of red taillights. Too impatient to handle the stop and go that it would take to get around a fender-bender, I got off at Carpenter, gunned the engine and sped up the overpass and down the ramp onto the freeway. Ha! The clogged mess was behind me and the road was mine again.

  I punched the gas pedal and was pleased to feel the big engine sink its teeth into the pavement. I was tearing along the dotted line when I looked over to where I'd left the card and pen on the seat. All that heavy braking had tossed everything to the floor. I could reach it if I stuck my arm way over, snag it with my fingertips.

  I looked up to check the road in front and also my rear view mirror.

  All clear.

  I bent over, leaning as far as I could and made a swipe at the items on the floor. Damn—missed it!

  Popping up again, I checked traffic, and with the road clear, I reached down and gleefully snagged the card.

  And as luck would have it, the pen rolled a bit closer. One more stretch should do it.

  I looked up for a quick check in the rearview, then checked out the front.

  You know what they say about seeing your life flash in front of you when met by the possibility of sudden death? It was all true.

  I'd drifted across the far right lane, crossed two lanes into on-coming traffic and was heading for the other side. I knew better than to jerk the wheel and send the big Caddy careening back across the lanes. Instead, I tapped the brakes, gripped the wheel between both hands and gave it a quarter turn to the right. It was enough. I scraped along the edge of the berm for a few minutes, bounced once and came to a stop. Whew!

  Just as I was congratulating myself for avoiding yet another disaster, I saw a black and white roll up behind me, lights flashing.

  It was the California Highway Patrol, and there would be no getting around this one. My luck had just run out.

  I sat where I was, watching his lights churn in time to my miserable heartbeat. It was now obvious that I was soon going to have that one special phone call. He was checking his computer for priors, and whether I might have a warrant out for my arrest. By now he knew my name, age, height, date of birth and the fact that I'd already had all the comedy clubs my poor driving record could handle and that my insurance was expired.

  I mutely handed over the requisite information, including my expired insurance card and waited. I wasn't surprised when he asked me to get out of the car and then politely asked for permission to look inside.

  "I lost my pen and paper on the floor," I said, as he shoved back the driver's side seat to wave his flashlight around on the floor. I thought it would help to add, "That's when I leaned over to retrieve it. I must've bent the wheel too far over and accidentally sailed right across all those lanes." Why was I bothering to explain myself?

  He stood up, looked me over, then nodded agreeably and asked if I'd pop the trunk.

  "I have to do it with a key," I said, pulling the keys out of the ignition. "These old classics have temperamental latches."

  We walked to the rear where I inserted the key to the trunk, lifted the lid and got the surprise of my life. I squeaked once, and then reached out a shaky hand. But before I could touch him, the officer grabbed my wrist.

  "Stand back, miss." He then put two fingers on the neck of the body and shook his head. Weak-kneed, I slumped against the bumper and stared unhappily at the body. I covered my mouth to choke back the cry, then turned away and promptly vomited.

  "You know this man?"

  "He's a friend. Del Potts. Works for the newspaper," I croaked, wiping my mouth with my shirt sleeve. "I saw him less than an hour ago. Are you sure he's dead?"

  The trooper had a tight hold on my arm, though at the moment I wasn't sure whether it was to keep me from falling over or to make sure I didn't run for it.

  "Can you tell me how he got into your trunk, ma'am?"

  "I—I don't know. No. I can't." Had someone knocked me out to kill him and then used my keys to stuff him into the trunk?

  The officer turned me around, cuffed me, and I can honestly say was actually gentle when he shepherded me into the backseat of his cruiser.

  "I was coming to see you," I said to Caleb.

  Caleb nodded to the deputy, and the door to the holding cell closed behind him. He waited until the door-lock clicked shut behind him, then reached out and pulled me to his chest. I rushed to sob out my story, and this time vowed not to leave anything out.

  I told him everything, finding Del waiting for me at the police evidence building, the attack, and finally, Grace Kim bending over me. "I swear to you I didn't kill him. I don't want Pippa to get in trouble because of me."

  "It's not a problem. Pippa didn't remove anything from Evidence, and we'll leave it at that for now, okay? Your lawyer has already been here, you'll be released into my custody, that is, if you'll do as you're told."

  "Of course, I will," I said, all too happy to comply.

  It was Caleb's reputation, not mine, that swayed a judge to release me on bail.

  Outside, I inhaled the sweet perfume of freedom. My dad stood quietly waiting by his truck. He set down a small suitcase with my things in it. He said, "Our new lawyer will be contacting you tomorrow."

  "Dad, I'm awfully sorry, but I had nothing to do with this."

  He nodded. "If you really want the bait to stay on the hook then you've got to stick it on good."

  My mouth sagged open, not really expecting that his quote would connect to this, or any other problem, they seldom did. But he also didn't give an attribute with his quote. I waited. When it didn't come I asked, "So, Socrates, Euripides? Walt Disney?"

  "Me," he said. "Take care of her, Caleb."

  Nothing I said was going to make a difference now. Once again I was a disappointment to the only two men who mattered.

  Caleb carried my suitcase into the house and then dropped it onto his polished tile entrance. "The guest room?"

  I looked down the hall and nodded at the open door to his bedroom. "Please, can I sleep with you?"

  He set the cas
e down on the white quilt covering his neatly made queen-sized bed. How, I wondered, did he do it? Didn't we just mess up that bed a few days ago? If it had been my bed, the sheets would still be on the floor, the mattress halfway off its frame.

  His wistful sigh said we could mess it up again if I just gave the word. My answering smile was all he needed. He reached out and enfolded me into one of his deep hugs.

  "Harder," I said. When he obliged, I burrowed my face into his neck, deep enough so I could feel his steady pulse against my open mouth. I licked at the pulse, and then, ever so gently, nibbled at the tendon in his neck. His breath strummed at the erotic tug of teeth on vulnerable skin. He pulled back to look me in the eyes. "Just so I'm not making a wrong move here, exactly what is it you're doing?"

  "Making it up to you for putting up with me?"

  I could feel his warm smile on my mouth as his hands worked underneath my T-shirt, his fingers coolly climbing the ladder of my ribs until he came to the obstruction of my bra. With his lips lazily nibbling mine, he slid his fingers around the edge and deftly unsnapped it, releasing the last possible objection. I sighed against his mouth and pulled away to lead him to bed where I could make it up to him the best way I knew how.

  Chapter twenty:

  After Caleb left for work the next morning, I punched in the cell number from Jan's business card.

  I barely had time to say, hello, when she gushed, "Oh, my God, Lalla! It's all over the news, but of course I don't believe you had anything to do with leaving him to die in the trunk of your car."

  "Right. Why would I do that anyway? If I had a gun in my hand, I couldn't have forced him into that trunk. "Then I winced as I remembered that Jan, aka Margarithe Delacorte, was also a reporter. I could see tomorrow's headline: He was Impossible to Control—Unless I Held a Gun to his Head!

  "I know Del wasn't easy, but who would hate him so much that they'd put him in a hot trunk to die?" she asked. Uh-oh, I'd walked right into this one. She was fishing for information and I couldn't afford to have her misquote me.

  "Gee, I can't tell you anything, Jan. I was out cold through most of it."

  "Well," she said, her voice trembling, "if there's anything I can do, all you have to do is ask."

  What was this? I thought she'd be handing out prizes to the person who finally took him off the planet.What was it she'd said about him? He'll abuse your trust then leave you bleeding all over the carpet like the rest of us who get in his way. Well, damn. I'd completely missed the signals. She wasn't talking about the newsroom politics. They'd been involved, and knowing Del's take on women, she'd taken the breakup harder than he did. Maybe there was something she could do for me.

  "Jan, do you by any chance have keys to Del's place?" There was a lull over the phone line, then, "I'm that easy to read, huh?"

  "Can we talk about it at his place?"

  "I don't know if I can go back there. It's just too painful."

  "I'm hoping he left some clues that will help us find out who killed him."

  "Oh, of course." I could hear sniffling over the line. "Give me half-an hour, okay? I'll meet you there."

  "Uh, Jan, I might have a little problem with that."

  "Oh." She giggled, then sniffled again. "I suppose you do. Give me the address and I'll pick you up. We'll go through his apartment and look for clues," she said, her voice a limp sigh. "Del would've wanted us to."

  I was choking up a bit myself.

  There was not one single brook, vista, or rambling stream running through the maze of look-alike apartment complexes that ran between Standiford and Pelandale. Still they all had names like Shadowbrook, Mountain Vista and Sweetwater printed on wooden signs to distinguish one from the next.

  We pulled into Meadow Brook. Covered parking, grassy well-kept grounds, units by the pool, and as anonymous as a Catholic girl's school uniform, which, knowing Del, would be just the way he liked it. I felt the tears well up again and tamped them down. Jan handed me a tissue, and we exited the car, blotting our leaking eyes. Damn his hide for dying!

  At number 512, she pointed to the scuffmarks on a planter box with dried geraniums. "I never did have the key, but I know where to find it. I told him it wasn't safe, that any kid could do it too, walk right in and take his stuff. But he just laughed at me.

  "Del says…" she gulped down her tears and continued, "said I shouldn't stress over the apartment, not when we were moving, anyway. He was starting at the Chicago Tribune in December, and I was going with him—you have to step up on this planter to reach the ledge. I'm wearing heels, but still, too petite, n'est-ce'pas?"

  I looked at her five-foot-three inches in strappy heels, then shrugged and went up on tiptoe to feel around the ledge.

  "Got it," I said, dropping down again.

  She gave me a quick mile. "I guess that's the compensation for being a bean-pole."

  So as not to rub it in, I didn't mention that compensation for beanpoles these days ran in the six figures, and handed her the key.

  Jan never had to slouch her way through high school, and with her curvaceous figure she practically invented the term "juicy". She also had a track record for back seat romances that was the stuff of jealous whispers all through our senior year. I couldn't say how she did with men since then, but if Del Potts was any indication, I'd say her expectations had fallen on hard times. But, then maybe Del's sex appeal lay in his journalistic prowess.

  Inside was no big surprise: dying houseplants, newspapers and books littering the coffee table, the sink full of dirty dishes, and somewhere, the distinct aroma of a clothes hamper overflowing with sweaty gym socks.

  Jan dropped the key into her bag and honked into a tissue. "He wasn't much of a housekeeper."

  She walked over to a houseplant, pinched off a couple of stiff brown leaves and fussed with the remaining few stems. "We were always upstairs anyway. I know I acted like I hated him, but now I understand why he did it."

  "Did what?"

  "Broke up with me, of course." She tilted her chin in a defiant gesture. "I know it sounds egotistical, but I took my mama's advice to heart; it's the woman that picks the man, not the other way around. Once you understand that, you can never be hurt by falling for the wrong guy."

  "Oh yeah? So what the hell happened?"

  Tilting her head back to keep the tears from spilling, she settled her hands on the curvy hips and gave a quick laugh. "I screwed up."

  "Uh-huh." I couldn't begin to see the attraction and said so.

  She angrily backhanded her wet cheeks and said, "You should talk, Lalla Bains. You came home from New York City and married Ricky Halverson. I mean, really, Lalla. Every girl in town took a ride on that stallion."

  Satisfied to see the barb hit home, she continued, "Yeah, I did Ricky. He made it sound like you were in New York and didn't care who he screwed. You should thank me, or that silly little bitch secretary you finally caught him with."

  "And Del was different, how?"

  "We're—we were both news hounds, same drive to get into the big time and out of Modesto. Then last week he picks this horrible fight, and he starts calling me ugly names." She turned to me, tears again threatening to spill. "And now he's dead."

  "You're saying he knew he was in danger?"

  "What an ass, huh? I'd like to have the chance to kick his butt all the way to Chicago."

  My next question was interrupted by a noise. Jan heard it too, and putting a cautionary finger to her lips, cocked her head to one side. Then her breath quickened, and with a flick of her fingernails, she motioned for me to get out of sight.

  "Are you nuts?" I whispered. "It could be a break-in. One of those kids you were talking about."

  Shooing me towards the kitchen, she hissed, "Trust me, I know what I'm doing."

  Not so sure she was right about this, I backed into the kitchen counter where my hand encountered the handle of a big, cast iron, egg-encrusted skillet. I hefted the pan up to shoulder height and waited.

  She nodded
her approval at my choice of weapon and went to stand at the bottom of the stairs.

  Then, in a voice meant to lick honey off a lemon, she called, "Who's there?"

  Who was this sexpot, and what the hell did she do with Del's grieving lover?

  The floor squeaked and heavy steps shuffled against the carpet floor. I could tell someone was at the top of the stairs, but I couldn't see him.

  From Jan's expression, I'd say the burglar was a familiar face. The change from go-getter newswoman to sex kitten was impressive. She did that hair-swing thing she used to do in high school, licked her already red lips and purred, "Well, look what the cat drug in."

  Heavy footfalls slowly descended, and then I saw the back of a head, thinning dark hair at the neck of a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to show thick, hairy forearms.

  Rodney.

  "Hey, yourself," he said. His voice had a frightening intimacy to it that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. "What're you doing here?"

  Jan dangled the house-key between her fingers. "I have a right to be here, as well you know. You'd better not have been pawing through my lace panties either, you big perv."

  I shivered at the wicked sound of his laughter. Why was she antagonizing him like this? Didn't she know the guy was an animal? I had to give it to the girl; he stood at the bottom of the stairs looming ominously over her, his fists clenching convulsively and she didn't give an inch.

  "I didn't have time to get into your panties, but we can make up for it right now." He grabbed a handful of her hair and jerking her head back, went for her mouth.

  She twisted away from his kiss, pushing at his shoulders. "It's over, I told you that last week."

  Last week? The ready grip I had on the skillet slipped a bit with that news. She'd been doing Del Potts and the detective? This girl sure got around. I steadied my hold on the heavy frying pan and waited for her signal to step up and bean the creep. Keeping his back to me, she ignored the anxious appeal in my eyes, and continued her shuffling dance with Rodney.