Sophie finished putting her clothes in the drawer. “Sounds good. Give me twenty minutes to shower and change.”
Toots stood in the doorway. “Not one minute more. I want to get out of this place. I feel creepy just being in this room. You have nineteen minutes to make yourself pretty, or I’m going solo.”
“Then get out of here so I can shower,” Sophie tossed over her shoulder as she made her way to the small bathroom.
Toots flipped her middle finger high in the air as she crossed the hall to her new room. If these strange ghostly, haunting feelings continued, she would return to the Beverly Hills Hotel. At least there she could be scared in a safe and familiar environment.
Toots climbed behind the wheel of the bright-red Thunderbird that she’d purchased after she bought the paper. With a two-seater, she figured she would never have to haul more than herself and one person around, and that suited her. One person at a time in a vehicle on California’s freeways was as much as she wanted to handle at this stage in her life. Now when and if grandchildren came into the picture, well that was an entirely different matter.
She looked at her watch. Five more seconds and Sophie would be dining alone. One, two, three…
Toots put the T-Bird in reverse, then slammed on the brakes when she heard Sophie yell. “Don’t you dare leave here without me! I have two seconds to go.” Sophie opened the door just as Toots shifted into reverse again.
“I told you I was not going to wait longer than twenty minutes, and I meant it. I feel strange in that house, or I felt that way in your new room.”
Sophie tied a bright yellow scarf around her dark brown hair. “I haven’t felt anything yet, but it’s early. I’m going to set my surveillance equipment up as soon as we return. I did manage to sneak inside Ida’s room. I found those kitten slippers and placed one facing east and the other west, just in case.” Sophie secured the knot under her chin and slid on a pair of large-framed sunglasses. “We look like two movie stars, Toots.”
Knowing they’d be flying down the highway with the top down, Toots had tied her auburn hair back in a low ponytail. She’d added a thick white headband to keep her hair from going wild. She wore a pair of Christian Dior sunglasses, a gift from Chris, her stepson. She peered into the rearview mirror.
“I believe we do, Sophie. Let’s not talk about ghosts or Ida or anything negative. I want to enjoy the rest of the afternoon. I so love this California weather. In all the years I’ve spent in Charleston, I’ve never gotten used to that horrible humidity in the summer. I plan to spend summers in California from now on. What about you, Soph? Have you any plans for the future?”
Sophie leaned back against the headrest and stared up at the powder-blue sky, her yellow scarf billowing in the wind. “I try not to think that far ahead. Right now I’m having too much fun with one day at a time. These past few months have been like a breath of fresh air. For the first time in forever, I’m not walking on eggshells, I can say exactly what comes to mind without fearing Walter’s wrath. Did I ever tell you he wore lifts in his shoes?”
Laughing softly into the wind whipping over her head, Toots replied, “No, I believe that’s a piece of intelligence you kept to yourself. Maybe he suffered from small-man syndrome.”
“Who knows? I don’t care anymore. That part of my life is behind me. Now I can actually look to the future. You asked me if I had any plans, I guess not having any right now is what I would like to call my plan. Does that sound ungrateful or what?”
Toots realized Sophie was being serious and considered her answer before she replied. “No. It sounds like a woman who is finally happy and has every right to feel that way. Don’t ever feel guilty, Soph. You suffered way too long, if you ask me. I think not having plans is the perfect plan.”
Sophie simply nodded, a slight smile lifting one corner of her mouth.
Toots steered the small sports car down the narrow winding road over sloping hills covered in gnarled trees. Bright pink, red, and orange flowers dotted the edge of the road leading to the Pacific Coast Highway. Once she reached the highway, she pushed down on the accelerator. Toots raised her voice as the sounds of traffic surrounded them. “I love the colors here. Everywhere you look there is color,” she said, coming alive, instantly revived by the fresh ocean air.
“From what I hear, this is what’s known as the ‘ritzy area,’ where the rich and famous live. We both know that there are bad areas just like anywhere else,” Sophie shouted.
Toots leaned in close so she didn’t have to yell. “I know that. Everything is just so perfectly manicured. I know it’s not real, Sophie. This is Hollywood, the land of make-believe. I can only imagine how much water is used, how much hard work goes into keeping these areas ‘ritzy.’ It must cost zillions to keep the streets in such pristine condition. Abby has told me all about the darker side of Los Angeles. I don’t have any immediate plans to venture into unfamiliar territory. If and when I do, I’ll make sure to drag your ass along for the ride.”
Sophie grinned. “You’re a true Southern bitch, Toots.”
Toots removed her right hand from the steering wheel, stretching her hand out so that it was directly in front of Sophie’s eyes. Then she gave her the one-finger salute.
Chapter 8
Amala was a whore and the greediest bitch he’d ever laid eyes on. A true slut if ever there was one. A guy could go far with her. Very, very far. For a price. How did he know that? Because on more than one occasion he had done so himself. But he had never paid the going rate; nor would he ever. Those luscious lips and dark seductive eyes of hers held no power over him. Unlike most men, he saw her for what she truly was. A conniving, double-dealing, manipulating scam artist. He should know. He’d lived with her for five years.
Mohammed Dasgupta laughed to himself as he parked the sleek white limousine beneath the portico in front of Ben’s Place. He’d been warned to use the proper name, the Center for Mind and Body, but it was too long. He liked Ben’s Place much better. Sounded much more American than the Center for Mind and Body.
This New Age crap they were trying to pass off as medical treatment was their biggest con to date. Luckily for that old woman who’d been afraid of germs, old Patel, a.k.a. Ben, did have a bit of medical knowledge, he just didn’t have the degree to back it up. It was only a piece of paper anyway. Patel was as good as any licensed medical doctor. This Mohammed knew, as Patel had personally saved his life many years ago.
He had to admit when Amala first approached him with her plans, he’d been intrigued. He was unsure if they could actually pull off such a stunt, but the payoff was worth the risk. Six months, she’d said. If they didn’t have their money by then, and she had assured him it would be in the millions, they would move on to bigger and better game.
Mohammed could have killed Amala when she took that phone call from the doctor in South Carolina, a friend of the good Dr. Sameer. After a lengthy discussion, they had all agreed Patel would pose as Dr. Sameer for the visits. Ripping the old women off was a bonus, one he now thought of as the real payoff as Amala had not been able to access Dr. Sameer’s accounts as quickly or as easily as she had originally planned.
Amala had worked as a receptionist at the Center for Mind and Body for the past year. She’d told him the only reason she’d taken the job in the first place was her hope to trap the real Dr. Benjamin Sameer into marriage by getting pregnant. Then she would be set for life. She would never have to turn another trick again, nor would she have to resort to any more con games. After a year of unsuccessful attempts at seduction, Amala’s plans to marry the doctor had been quashed when he told her he was gay.
Angry and embarrassed beyond her wildest dreams, she had been ready to quit when she fortuitously learned of Dr. Sameer’s plan to take a year off to travel to his native India for a sabbatical. She’d offered to stay on at the clinic part-time to make sure that everything was taken care of in his absence. She reminded him of his celebrity clientele, telling him this way she wou
ld be there to explain his absence, plus she could continue to monitor the weekly yoga sessions with Kyra, the yoga instructor. The stupid idiot had thought her offer beyond generous, or so he’d said. So generous, in fact, that he’d invited her to house-sit for him while he was away. Amala had accepted his offer, telling him she would treat the clinic and his home as if they were her very own. He’d barely been out of the country when she’d canceled Kyra’s classes for the remainder of his sabbatical. Mohammed had to give her credit, she hadn’t wasted any time.
If the good doctor only knew.
They were now going into the fourth month, and Mohammed had yet to see any money of any kind. Yes, he’d been living in Dr. Sameer’s home along with Amala and Patel while he played the role of limousine driver, but the waiting game was getting old fast.
He was tired of playing by her rules, so he’d come up with a plan of his own. Granted, there were a few wrinkles that needed to be smoothed out, but he had faith in his abilities. Unbeknownst to Amala or Patel, he’d been watching those four old women closer than they knew. The little lady with the germ disorder wasn’t the only one who had money. The tall redhead was loaded and good-looking to boot. He’d followed her, watched her pay for that beach house with a check. So what if she was old enough to be his mother? Older women were attracted to younger men, especially here in California, where a guy could get a month’s free rent if he met a rich woman willing to pay for a decent roll in the hay. He knew that because it was how he made his living when he wasn’t dealing drugs for Patel or participating in other criminal activities.
Mohammed had found his golden goose. Now all he had to do was train her to lay a golden egg right in his lap.
“Why did you want to come here?” Amala demanded, as they were led to a discreet table in the corner of the patio at the Polo Lounge. “This is so Hollywood. Were you hoping to catch a glimpse of a famous movie star? I didn’t think you had it in you, Sammy. I thought you were above all this glitz and glamour. You surprise me.”
“I have my reasons. Now relax and pretend you enjoy my company,” Patel said scathingly. “This isn’t always about you. There are other issues I must take into consideration if we’re to see this plan through to its end. Wining and dining Ida was not my idea, remember?”
Amala swung her dark hair over her shoulder. “It was Mohammed who first suggested this. I did not want to get outsiders involved. We could have it all if you two would just be patient.”
“So you say. It’s been much too long for us. We have seen nothing monetary. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend to, as you call it, ‘wine and dine’ the old woman. She’s stupid and full of herself. If I were a certified medical doctor, I would commit her to an asylum.”
Their waiter came to the table, interrupting further discussion. After they placed their orders, Amala said in a hushed tone, “You could have refused. No one forces you to have sex with her all night every night. I am tired of listening to her moan and groan. It is sickening.”
He laughed, “Ah…so you listen, not that this surprises me.”
Amala gave him a hostile glare. “How could I not? The rooms are not soundproof.”
“Dr. Benjamin Sameer,” real name Patel Yadav, smiled and replied in a cool yet sharp tone, “Then you should have thought of this, too, Miss Amala. I can walk away now. I have invested nothing; therefore, I have lost nothing. You, on the other hand, have invested more than a year of your life trying seduce a man who prefers men. Now you not only want to take away his fortune but also his identity. If these are not your intentions, then I suggest you go back to that one-room apartment you share with Mohammed, where you can listen to the rats clawing in the attic at night.” Patel took a sip of water and raised his thick brows in question. “The choice is yours.”
“I have said nothing about giving up. You and Mohammed are impatient.”
“Then you must stop complaining about my nighttime adventures with the old woman,” Patel said.
“Possibly you could tone things down a bit. Besides, I cannot keep forging prescriptions for that disgusting performance drug you need for those all-night sessions.”
He was tired, but never would he allow Amala to know that.
Patel Yadav had come to the United States more than thirty years ago after leaving the All India Institute of Medical Sciences in Delhi. He’d been serving his internship there and was in his last year when he was forced to give up his internship after he and a fellow intern were charged with drug theft. The chief of staff had been easy on them. They could remain and fight the charges, or they could quietly slip away with no charges brought against them, minus their medical degrees. Both had taken the offer. Punishments for such crimes in his native country were brutal. After a year of roaming his country working in makeshift hospitals that were willing to overlook the fact that he hadn’t completed his medical training, after months of seeing the poor, the hungry, and the desperate people in his country, he’d fled for the United States in search of a more promising future. Sadly, he’d fallen into the same path upon entering the States. He didn’t qualify for government loans because he’d entered the country illegally, and not even the lowliest of medical schools would accept him. He was right back where he’d left off in India.
For thirty years he had pulled off hundreds of scams and made and sold illegal drugs to anyone who could pay for them. He made a decent living, but nothing like he’d dreamed of when he came to America. At sixty-seven he was still searching for his pot of gold.
He’d met Mohammed fifteen years ago when he’d stumbled upon him sleeping in the streets of West LA. Only sixteen years old at the time, Mohammed had been addicted to crack and near death. Patel had taken him back to his apartment and eased him off the street drug that had almost cost him his life. In return, Patel had asked for nothing except his loyalty. He often felt that Mohammed was the son he’d never had. There had been several times when both wanted nothing more to do with the other, as a father and son could be expected to, but they always managed to overcome their differences and remain friends.
Patel knew it was wrong to deal drugs to kids on the street. Mohammed’s life was proof of that. He himself never indulged; he rarely even took a drink. Sadly, there were users who needed a supplier. With his medical knowledge and laboratory skills, he had the power to ensure that his drugs were as pure as any addicted user on the street could expect to buy. Mohammed swore to him he did not use drugs, not since Patel had rescued him. For the most part Patel had believed him. Lately, however he was not so sure.
Though he would never admit to it, Mohammed would do anything Amala told him. If she asked him to share a line of coke or a hit of meth, Patel knew that he would. Hence the reason for that day’s luncheon. He also had other reasons, but they were of no concern to either Amala or Mohammed.
“Again, I will remind you that this was not my idea. I am only doing this for you and Mohammed,” Patel added, though if he were to be honest with himself, he was enjoying his time with the old woman. She was as spry as an eighteen-year-old. At least in bed. He had watched her when she thought he wasn’t looking. She rubbed her lower back and stretched her neck from side to side as though she were stiff and sore. It pleased him to know their late nights weren’t easy on her either.
“I did not want to bilk those old bitches out of their money. Dr. Sameer has millions and millions of dollars. I am sure the old women aren’t near as wealthy. That’s your and Mohammed’s gig. I want nothing to do with it,” Amala said.
“I suppose you will want nothing to do with us if there is a large sum of money involved?” Patel suggested.
Amala swung her head from side to side. “You are a stupid old man, Patel.”
Before he could respond, their waiter returned to the table with their entrées: a Caesar salad for her and his grilled Kobe burger. After assuring the waiter that they were fine, Patel glanced from left to right, making sure the conversation couldn’t be overheard. “No, Amala, it is you th
at is stupid. You think you are smarter than I.” Patel leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You are stupid to insist Mohammed partake in your little coke habit. He cannot handle himself when he is half out of his mind. You might want to take this into consideration the next time you offer him drugs. He talks. You would not know this because you are too involved with yourself. Your plans to steal Dr. Sameer’s fortune will be ruined if Mohammed starts running his mouth. He does that when he is out of his mind. I suggest you stop offering him the drugs. If you have to indulge, do it when you are alone.” Patel glanced at the diners seated outside on the patio. When his eyes rested on the pair entering the patio, his heart stopped.
“Whatever you do, do not turn around. Ida’s friends are here.”
“So?”
“I don’t want them to see us together.”
Amala took a bite of her salad. “Why? Is there something wrong with a girl’s father taking her to lunch?”
Patel took a deep breath. “I suppose not. Do not do anything to draw attention. If they see us, act surprised, then insist we are running late. I do not want to linger with them here any longer than necessary. Just eat and keep your eyes focused on me,” Patel ordered. “I mean it, Amala.”
“Of course, old man. I wouldn’t want to shame the good doctor.”
“Your barbs are childish. I suggest you focus your anger on something or someone else. I have very few enemies, but those I have know what it is like to be subjected to my wrath,” Patel said before taking a large bite of his juicy burger. Blood from the rare meat ran down the sides of his mouth. He mopped up the juices with his napkin, never once taking his eyes off Amala.
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