Finally, he put down his fork and returned to the subject. "Probably Amanda just hired Brad to find it in order to keep seeing him. My secretary says word's going around the office that they're seeing a lot of one another."
Since that mirrored my own opinion of the situation, I didn't contradict him, but I reminded him of something he'd said on Tuesday. "You told me the other night that she might have a boyfriend outside the firm."
"I thought so, but perhaps I was mistaken. Even if she did, your brother isn't bad looking. I can see she might be attracted to him and dump the other guy."
"Maybe. Okay," I took a sip of my wine. "Final question. No, it's not a question. It's a comment. Congratulations. I heard Amanda officially made you her executive assistant."
He smiled, then looked serious. "Of course, the board of directors has to approve her being made president, but I think that's just a formality. So thanks."
"I probably shouldn't tell you this, but Brad thinks Amanda doesn't trust you. If that's true, why would she promote you?"
He looked surprised at the question. "Did she say she doesn't trust me?"
"No, Brad's just guessing, but his detecting skills are very good."
"Well, he's off base this time. I told you that I'm one of the few people in the office who gets along with her—one who doesn't resent an attractive woman holding such a responsible position."
I agreed with Carl. I had already begun to doubt Brad's objectivity in the case. He could be letting his infatuation with Amanda influence his judgment.
Carl broke the brief silence. "Now can we talk about us?"
I found myself jerked out of my speculation. "Us? Why talk about us? We're just, uh, friends."
He laughed—a laugh I interpreted to mean he intended to change my opinion. I didn't disabuse him of the idea. I smiled back, knowing interest, not the quiche, caused the tingling in my midriff.
As if willing to wait for a more appropriate moment to continue, he changed the subject. He talked about his plans for the firm, new marketing strategies, advertising, endorsements, and so forth. He also mentioned his background: how his father moved to the US, made a lot of money in the wholesale plumbing business, and retired to Florida in his forties. A year later, much to his parents' surprise, Carl was conceived.
I listened, but I couldn't help noticing the way his hair waved in front and the tiny dark spot, like a freckle, just to the left of his mouth. He had nice lips, not too full, not too thin. I wished I could remember how they felt when he kissed me earlier.
When the waiter came to suggest coffee and dessert, Carl declined for both of us. I didn't object, since I figured the decibel level in that place had reached the unsafe range.
Carl leaned across the table. "I'm staying at the Residence Inn next door, and we can have coffee in my bungalow. I'd like to continue our conversation."
So maybe he didn't choose that particular restaurant to save money. Did he want to confide in me, or had sex reared its head?
His suite consisted of a living room, bedroom, bath, kitchenette, and a small table for dining doubled as a desk. I sat on the sofa that served as a divider between the living room and dining/office area, and when he took away my coffee cup, he leaned over the back of the sofa and kissed me again.
This time he made it a lingering kiss, and for some reason I can't explain, my hand went up and stroked the back of his neck. Then he joined me on the sofa, and we kissed like tomorrow had been repealed.
I hated to admit it, but just like some sixteen-year-old, I suddenly began to have second thoughts. Brad would be so angry if I did what my traitorous body was longing to do and went to bed with one of our suspects. Sure, Carl had explained how he found Harry's body and that he hadn't killed him, and I believed him. But what if I was wrong and my infatuation with Carl affected my judgment? I so didn't want to go to bed with a murderer.
"Oops." I pulled away. "It's getting late. I'd better go."
"It's not even ten." He caught my hand on my way to the door, pulled me back, and put his arms around me.
"But I have to catch an early flight to Los Angeles tomorrow." He kissed me again, and that time I almost weakened.
"If you're sure you must." He opened the door, and I stepped out. Gentleman that he was, Carl drove me back to the office, where I'd left my car, and waited until I was safely inside.
"I can't thank you enough," I said. Then I paused ten seconds. "Well, actually I could, but you probably have plans for the rest of your life."
He gave me a strange open-mouth look, and then, suddenly realizing it was a joke, broke into a smile.
I drove away, mentally kicking myself all the way home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I lay awake a long time, replaying the scene with Carl but with a different ending, then dropped off at last. I overslept and made a mad dash to the airport the next morning. Thank goodness I didn't have to compete with rush-hour commuters between my house and SFO.
Once more, I hailed a taxi at LAX and let someone else do the driving. The traffic on that Saturday seemed lighter than it had been the last time I'd come, but that's only relative. Compared to driving around San Ricardo, it resembled a not-very-well-organized stock car race. I used the time, as I had while flying south, to relive my action of the previous night. I decided I had foolishly let my maturity get in the way of a possibly meaningful relationship. I vowed not to make that mistake again if the opportunity reappeared. Somehow, I had a suspicion it would.
I also worried about the ethics of getting involved with a man suspected of murder. I didn't think Carl had committed the crime. My instincts were sufficiently sharp, I hoped, to keep me from falling for a killer. Brad might not understand if I let things go that far, but my love life didn't concern him.
I directed the taxi driver to take me to the address Hammond had jotted down on the secretary's desk calendar, and as I suspected, he stopped in front of a jewelry store on a busy street. Not Rodeo Drive but posh enough. I paid the driver and entered the shop.
Three couples, their backs to the door, peered into the glass cases in front of them or gazed at jewelry displayed on black velvet pads. Each couple had a salesclerk in front of them, with no one left over to help me. I moved off to the side of the room to wait, but a young woman, who wore a tailored black suit and no jewelry at all, appeared like magic from a partition and offered to be of assistance. I asked if she was the manager.
"No, but I'll get him for you."
She retreated behind the partition again, and soon a short chubby man with a fringe of gray-black hair appeared and came over to me. "I am Philip Leibowitz. How may I help you?"
I handed him one of the cards Brad had made for me. "My name is Olivia Grant, and I'm with the Featherstone Detective Agency, which is currently investigating the murder of Harry Hammond."
Mr. Leibowitz's eyebrows rose at the word "murder."
"I understand he visited you a week ago."
Leibowitz frowned and suggested we go into his office for privacy. I followed him, walking between two of the glass cases and behind the partition. A right turn brought us to a small, richly-furnished office, and he sat behind his desk and offered me the tapestry-covered antique chair in front. I put my handbag in my lap, took out the recorder, and turned it on, nevertheless leaving it out of sight.
"I don't know anything about a murder."
"No one suspects you, Mr. Leibowitz. The murder took place in San Ricardo a week ago, and perhaps it didn't make the papers here." I gave him my most reassuring smile. "We only want information about Mr. Hammond's movements. We know he flew to Los Angeles and that he intended to come here on Friday."
"Hammond, did you say? Do you mean the Hammond of Hammond Jewelers? If he planned to come to see me, he didn't make it."
I reached into my bag and pulled out the photo of Harry. "This is Mr. Hammond."
Leibowitz glanced at the photo and handed it back to me. "No, I didn't see that man. I'm sorry."
&nbs
p; I took a deep breath, wondering what to ask next. "Were you here that day?"
"Yes, I spent both Friday and Saturday in the store."
Saturday. Harry didn't return to San Francisco until late that afternoon. Perhaps he made his appointment not for Friday night at all but Saturday. And, come to think of it, he saw Epstein, not Leibowitz.
"Are you familiar with a diamond dealer named Epstein?"
"Of course."
"Did he come here on Friday or Saturday of last week?"
"Yes, we had a short meeting on Saturday."
"Is it possible Mr. Hammond saw Mr. Epstein that day?"
Leibowitz straightened in his chair, frowned, reached out for the photo, and pulled reading glasses from his breast pocket. He leaned forward and studied the picture carefully that time before returning it again. "If this is Mr. Hammond, yes, he did."
"And you saw him too."
"Yes. After we concluded our business, Mr. Epstein asked if he could wait in my store for a few minutes because he'd told a client to meet him there. He didn't tell me the man's name, only said the meeting would save him a trip to San Francisco."
"So then Hammond came into your store."
"Yes, about five minutes later."
"That would have been about what time?"
He returned the glasses to his pocket. "About eleven. I'd expected to take Mr. Epstein to lunch, but when this man arrived, they talked for almost an hour in my office, then Epstein said good-bye to me, and they left."
"Together, presumably to lunch?"
"Perhaps. I didn't follow them, but they may have gone to Caesar's restaurant in the next block." He raised an arm and pointed to his left. "Rather pricey, but the food is good, and they specialize in New York cheesecake."
"So you didn't see Hammond or Epstein again that day?"
"No, I didn't."
I snapped off the machine, put it back in my purse, and stood up. "Thank you very much, Mr. Leibowitz. I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me."
"I'm glad to have assisted." He walked me to the door.
"You've been very helpful." I meant that, as I'd already run into too many people who seemed bent on saying as little as possible. We shook hands, and I let myself out then walked up the sidewalk, glancing into store windows as I went, continuing on to the next block, looking for Caesar's restaurant. The street seemed to be lined with jewelry stores, boutiques, and antique shops, all very glamorous and definitely out of my price range.
I finally found Caesar's at the very end of the block, with a side entrance. Its brick exterior, with short striped awnings over its windows, differed from its chrome, glitzy neighbors. The door was heavy and carved out of some dark wood, and when I gratefully stepped out of the sunshine, I had to adjust my eyes to the gloom of the interior. I shivered from air cooled beyond the comfort zone, as if, unless the temperature stayed under sixty degrees, the restaurant's machine wasn't doing its job.
A young man, holding a handful of menus, materialized out of the darkness. "Table for one?"
"Um, no." I pulled out the photo of Harry again. "I wonder if you could help me. Do you remember seeing this man come into the restaurant a week ago?"
"A week ago? You mean like today, Saturday?"
"Yes, at around lunchtime. Were you here last week?"
"Yeah." He studied the photo and returned it to me, shaking his head. "I don't recognize him. He's not one of our regulars."
"He might never have come here before, but I hoped—"
"We get a lot of customers. Heck, I can take the picture into the back and ask around."
I nodded and let him go, waiting in the small foyer and thinking that idea was bound to be unproductive. Maybe stupid. Even if a waiter knew they'd been there for lunch a week ago, he wouldn't be able to tell me what they discussed or where they went when they left. I sighed.
I'd have to find a taxi and go back to the airport. Worse, I'd have to admit to Brad I'd been mistaken, and this had been a wild goose chase. All I knew for certain was that Harry had been in that area on Saturday afternoon and saw his diamond dealer. We could have waited to find that out—and what they talked about—when we called Epstein Monday morning. So much for my intuition.
A different waiter returned with the photo. He was also young, with a small mustache, and wore the same dark pants and white shirt as the other. He smiled at me. "I remember him."
"You do?" I could have kissed him.
"Yeah. He and another guy sat at one of my tables."
"Are you sure?" I found myself repeating what the other waiter had said. "That was a whole week ago, and you get so many customers."
"Normally, I wouldn't have remembered, especially since they weren't regulars, but this guy…" He tapped the photo. "…left twice and came back."
"What do you mean, 'left'?"
"They ordered, and the guy walked out of the restaurant."
"He didn't just go to the men's room?"
"Nah, he went outside. Stayed away a long time. When I brought their lunches, the other man asked could I keep his friend's hot a little while. So I took it back to the kitchen, and luckily, someone else had ordered the steak sandwich, so we served it. That just does not keep." He spoke with authority, nodding for emphasis. "We made him a fresh one when he got back."
He looked a little smug about the way he'd handled the situation, probably got a big tip for the special service. Perhaps that helped his memory.
"You said he left twice."
"Yes. The first time, the other guy handed him something out of his briefcase. Then this guy, the one in the picture, took it with him when he went out and came back without it."
"You're sure?"
"Pretty sure. Of course, I didn't watch every second."
"When did the man go out the second time?"
"They ordered cheesecake and coffee, and the guy gets up and goes out again. I served the cheesecake, but I didn't pour his coffee. That time he didn't stay away so long though."
"Do you have any idea where he went when he left the restaurant?"
"Nope, but when he came back the second time, I noticed he had a package with him."
"What kind of package?"
"I figured he had brought back the thing, whatever it was, that he had taken with him when he went out before."
"What did the thing look like? What size?"
"About like—" He indicated with his hands that it was about the size of a hardcover book. Considering the state of secondary education these days, I wasn't surprised he didn't describe it that way. Probably hadn't touched one since being forced into reading Moby Dick in high school.
"You said when he came back the second time he held a package. Wrapped? Or in a paper bag? Did you see a store name on the bag?"
"In a bag, I think. I didn't see a name, but there coulda been one."
"Did you notice anything else about him or his companion?"
He thought for a moment. "Nope, that's it."
"Thanks. You've been a great help." I gave him five dollars, put the photo away again, and stepped back outside, letting the Southern California sunshine warm my chilled body.
I stopped to think. Where had Hammond gone on his mysterious errand? And had he visited the same place both times? What would cause a man to buy a book in the middle of lunch? I hadn't passed a bookstore on the way, but maybe one occupied a spot beyond the restaurant or, perhaps, across the street.
I moved over to the curb and looked across. I saw more boutiques and another restaurant. A red sports car pulled away from in front of a video store, and I looked to the right, scanning signs.
And then I did a double take. A video store. Even in that neighborhood, the patrons needed their Hollywood fix, but what must the rent have been like? My senses had perked up, and my brain made the connection. I waited for the light to change, crossed the street, and walked over to the store. A tastefully printed sign in the window announced that they sold cameras, rented cameras, and videotaped weddings.
Also, they would transfer your home movies or anything else to tape or DVD while you waited. Bingo!
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
What's approximately the same size as a book, at least the book the waiter described to me? Right, a videocassette tape. What had gone missing from Hammond's briefcase? A videocassette tape. Furthermore, there, right across the street from the restaurant where Harry had lunch the day of his murder, was a video store, one that offered to transfer home movies or anything else to tape or DVD. In addition, according to the waiter, Hammond left the restaurant on two brief occasions, the first time with a "thing" the size of a book, and he returned the second time with a package. I didn't need the Los Angeles Coliseum to fall on me to realize Harry might have had the store copy a tape for him during lunch. Now I needed to prove it.
I pushed open the door and went inside. The front part resembled a typical video rental place: walls lined with the small colorful boxes that contained tapes and DVDs of movies. Several rows of five-foot-high narrow shelves housing more films occupied the center of the room, and I saw several people browsing.
Near the front, on the left side, two young women—make that girls who looked every bit of fifteen but were trying for a world-weary thirty—stood behind a long counter, checking out rentals to customers. On the right, a glass-fronted cabinet displayed video cameras and accessories. The back wall held an open doorway to a long hall, but my glance in that direction didn't give a clue about what lay beyond. I waited until one of the young girls finished with her customer and then asked if I could see the manager.
"He isn't in today."
"Is there anyone else in charge, maybe an assistant manager?"
She seemed to be thinking, but I could tell she wasn't good at it. "Uh, yeah."
"Could I please speak to that person?"
Something apparently registered in her mind, and she moved to the end of the counter, retrieved a telephone, pressed a button, and said, "Someone would like to see you," into the mouthpiece. Then she put it down, said, "He'll be out soon," and went back to her position.
Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) Page 14
