Evening Bags and Executions

by Dorothy Howell

  I pulled into a parking spot and hopped out of my car, trying to draw on the beauty queen genes I’d inherited from my mom—such as they were—and channel her there’s-no-way-the-judges-could-hate-me-but-I’m-going-to- pretend-everything-is-okay-just-in-case expression. I slammed my car door and turned to walk away, then froze at the sight of a man standing at the rear of my car, blocking my path.

  My heart did its this-doesn’t-look-good flip-flop.

  He was tall and burly, fortyish, with old-school black hair, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. He didn’t look happy.

  My heart amped up its flip-flop to a trot.

  I glanced around, anxious to see someone else in the parking garage, or maybe a security guard.

  Nobody.

  “You Haley Randolph?” he asked.

  He sounded like he was from New York. I didn’t know if New Yorkers were really angry all the time or if their accent just made them sound like it.

  “That’s me,” I said. I tried to come across all brave and bold, but I don’t think I pulled it off.

  He just stared at me, like maybe he was deciding if my body would fit into his trunk.

  “I’ve got to get to work,” I said, and backed away.

  “Mike sent me,” he told me.

  Mike Ivan had sent this guy? He’d never done that before. Mike had always showed up in person.

  Oh my God, what did that mean?

  I searched my brain trying to remember if I’d done something to make Mike mad, something he might have misinterpreted or misunderstood.

  I couldn’t come up with anything.

  I didn’t know whether to be relieved or more frightened.

  “I got something for you,” the guy said, nodding to a black Lexus SUV parked nearby. “From Mike.”

  Of course. The Beatles gift bags for Sheridan’s party. Whew!

  Jeez, why had I gotten so upset? Mike had always been great to me. He insisted he wasn’t in the Russian mob or involved in any sort of criminal activity, so why had I thought that him sending this guy meant trouble?

  “Great,” I said.

  “I’ll put them in your car,” he said, and headed for the SUV.

  Mike had told me it would take a couple of days to manufacture the bags, but he’d gotten them finished ahead of schedule. I made a mental note to call and thank him.

  I popped my trunk and rearranged the stuff that was back there. The guy brought over four brown cardboard boxes and fitted two inside, then put the others in my backseat.

  “Thanks,” I said, hitting the remote to lock my doors.

  The guy just stood there for a while staring at me. I wondered if I was supposed to give him a tip or something. Then he pulled a small white envelope from his jacket pocket and held it up.

  “From Mike?” I asked, thinking it was the invoice for the bags.

  He pulled it back. “Not from Mike. From nobody.” My heart jumped.

  “You got that?” the guy asked, leaning forward slightly. “From nobody.”

  I tried to answer, but all I managed was a quick nod.

  I guess that was enough. The guy slapped the envelope down on the trunk of my car, got in his SUV, and left.

  I scanned the parking garage to make sure no one had seen what had gone down, then picked up the envelope and opened it.

  Inside was a slip of paper with an address on it.

  Okay, that was weird.

  Why the heck would Mike give me a street address, of all things, and have it delivered by that scary guy who insisted it wasn’t from Mike?

  I looked at the address again and tried to figure out why a place in Bellflower would—oh my God.

  Bellflower.

  The address was in Bellflower, the city I suspected Detective Shuman had been searching for Adolfo Renaldi, the guy the LAPD was sure had murdered Amanda. Mike had known Adolfo and his brother, too. He’d mentioned them—no, he’d specifically asked about them—when I’d last seen him.

  I shoved the slip of paper into the envelope, dropped it in my handbag, and headed for the elevator.

  This address had to be the location where Adolfo Renaldi was hiding. Somehow Mike had found him.

  Mike had seemed sympathetic toward Detective Shuman when we’d talked about Amanda’s murder in the fabric store. He seemed to understand what Shuman was going through—which made me realize how little I actually knew about Mike. Maybe he’d also lost someone he loved to violence.

  I’d gotten the feeling that, in a way, Mike admired Shuman for hunting down Amanda’s killer, especially since he wasn’t supposed to. In my heart I knew that Mike would have handled it the same way.

  Of course, Mike hadn’t hesitated to tell me exactly what he thought of the Renaldi brothers and their whole family. It was possible Mike had an ulterior motive for giving me the address. Obviously, there was no love lost between them. I didn’t know the extent of their involvement with each other—which suited me fine. I figured I was better off not knowing.

  I took the elevator up to the third floor, ignored Mindy’s greeting—no way was I ready to party at the moment—and went to my office. I sat at my desk, thinking.

  Mike had found Adolfo Renaldi’s location.

  And now he’d passed it on to me.

  For a few minutes I considered calling Detective Madison and telling him where he could find Renaldi. I envisioned the entire LAPD mobilizing, S.W.A.T. rolling out, helicopters launching, dozens of officers converging on the Bellflower address.

  But I wasn’t sure Madison would believe me. He’d probably want me to come to headquarters so he could question me. He might think I was somehow involved with Amanda’s murder. At the very least, he’d expect me to give up Mike Ivan as the source of the info—which I would never do, of course.

  If we got past all of that and the LAPD took Renaldi alive, would a smart defense attorney get him released on bail, as Detective Shuman had suggested? How many years would pass before he even went to trial? Plus, there was no guarantee that Renaldi would be convicted. Witnesses could disappear. Evidence might go missing. It had happened before.

  I sat at my desk staring off at nothing and thinking that maybe I could call in an anonymous tip to the police. But I had no way of knowing how long it would take for the info to reach the right people. With the entire LAPD searching for him, Renaldi might be jumping around, staying for only a short time at different places. I had to move fast.

  And that meant my only other choice was to tell Shuman.

  I got out of my desk chair and walked to the window. I stood looking down at the traffic on Sepulveda Boulevard and let the idea swirl around in my head for a while.

  If I gave Shuman the address, if I told him where to find the dirtbag who murdered Amanda, I was pretty sure I knew how he’d handle it.

  Then another horrible thought came to me. What if I gave this info to Shuman, he acted on it, and he got hurt or killed. How would I live with that?

  But if Shuman were in my position, what would he do? What would I want him to do?

  He was my friend. So really, it wasn’t much of a choice at all.

  I couldn’t stay in the office for long, not with Vanessa mad-dogging me every time I passed her in the hallway and my living in constant fear that my name would come up in the rotation again and I would be assigned another kid’s or dog’s birthday party—I still wasn’t sure which was worse—so I had to get out of there as quickly as I could.

  That, unfortunately, meant I first had to do some actual work.

  I checked L.A. Affairs’ list of approved vendors and hired a security firm for the Beatles memorabilia at Sheridan Adams’s house, then called Muriel.

  “Any word from the kidnapper?” I asked when she picked up.

  I didn’t know what else to call the culprit. “Bobblehead-napper” seemed a little lengthy to me.

  “Not yet,” Muriel said in a low voice. “Things are su-perintense around here.”

  I figured that was code for Sheridan-is-still
-running-around-the-house-screaming-like-the-crazy-woman-she-is.

  “I hired a security firm. I’ll text you the info,” I said. “They can start this evening.”

  “Good. I’ll let you know when I hear something,” Muriel said, and we hung up.

  I sat at my desk and texted her, then found myself more than a little annoyed that I hadn’t yet heard back from Jack. I really wanted to talk to him before I had to deliver the ransom money—there were probably some stealthy private detective moves he could share with me. I figured he must have been doing something important—which was probably also way cool—if he hadn’t returned my call. I found myself a little envious.

  I wonder if Jack would like a partner.

  The idea swirled around in my head for a minute or two, which made me even more anxious to escape my office.

  I checked my e-mail and cringed when I saw that Annette had sent me a message. I forced myself to open it and saw that she was asking for a different idea for her puppy Minnie’s birthday celebration—just how she knew Minnie wasn’t loving my Hollywood or garden party suggestions I don’t know. I replied with the first thing that popped into my head—a Star Wars theme.

  If Minnie loved the idea I would definitely have to use the Force to figure out how to pull it off.

  Then I saw that Maeve had also e-mailed me about food and beverages for the birthday party for her twin girls. I dashed off a quick reply stating that the only way I could see getting through the event was with a full bar and a dozen hot-looking guys who would tend bar without their shirts on.

  Then I came to my senses and deleted the message.

  “Enough . . .” I mumbled.

  I got my things and left the office.

  I called Tiberia Marsh on my cell phone as I took the 405 south.

  “The gift bags are finished already?” she asked. “How wonderful. I can’t wait to see them.”

  “I’m headed your way now,” I said.

  “Of course. Please, come,” she told me.

  All I could figure was that Distinctive Gifting must be a fabulous place to work, because Tiberia was always upbeat and in a great mood.

  Jeez, I wonder what that would be like.

  I exited west on Santa Monica Boulevard, then cut over to Melrose Avenue and found the Distinctive Gifting office among a row of upscale businesses. I pulled into their driveway and parked behind the building. A large van was backed up to a service entrance and a couple of men with dollies were carting boxes inside.

  I gave Tiberia a call and told her I’d arrived. A minute later a tall, super-slender, dark-skinned woman walked out the rear door. She had on a long sheath dress in deep purple, jeweled sandals, and lots of chunky accessories. Her thick black hair stood straight out. The look gave her a chic, sophisticated appeal.

  “Haley, I’m delighted to meet you,” Tiberia said, and threw her arms around me.

  She motioned to one of the men unloading the truck. He wheeled a dolly over, stacked my boxes on it, and took them away.

  “Come inside,” Tiberia said. “Let me show you what I’ve assembled for your gift bags so far.”

  My day definitely needed a boost, so I said, “I’d love to.”

  The interior of Distinctive Gifting was as elegant, serene, and sophisticated as Tiberia herself. Everything was decorated in soft whites and cool blues.

  She led the way down a corridor and unlocked a door with the key she pulled from her pocket.

  “My treasure trove,” Tiberia said, as I followed her inside.

  “Wow . . .” I said. I might have moaned that.

  I felt like I’d walked into Neiman Marcus—only better because it was all free.

  Hundreds of items were stacked on shelves—jewelry, bottles of champagne, beauty products, cell phones, fragrances. There were vouchers for resorts, hotels, and memberships at celebrity spas. Designer brands, exclusive destinations, exquisite items, affordable only to the wealthy and elite.

  Everything was fabulous—totally fabulous.

  An image popped into my head.

  “Do you happen to have the Enchantress evening bag here?” I asked. I’m sure I moaned that.

  Tiberia gave me a knowing smile. “Ah, Haley, you are a woman of discriminating taste. But, alas, I have no Enchantress.”

  Darn it. I was having no luck at all getting an Enchantress in time for Sheridan’s party.

  “I suppose I could settle for one of the gift bags,” I said, and gave Tiberia an I’m-really-serious-but-I-want-you-to-think-I’m-kidding smile.

  “All these beautiful items. How could you not want them?” she said. “Perhaps Sheridan will present you with one for the fabulous job you’re doing on her event?”

  My spirits lifted—a little. Sheridan wasn’t happy with me right now, but after I recovered her Beatles bobbleheads surely she’d feel differently.

  “More items are on their way,” Tiberia said as we left the room. “I’ll send you a complete list when I have everything.”

  I thanked her and headed outside.

  I’d left my totally fabulous Betsey Johnson bag in my car, so when I got in I checked my cell phone. Damn. Jack had called and I’d missed him. I tried to reach him, but my call went to his voice mail.

  We couldn’t keep playing phone tag. I needed to talk with him before Muriel called with instructions on the ransom demand. I hadn’t wanted to leave him a message spelling out the situation, but if I didn’t get to actually speak with him soon, I’d have to.

  I started my car and was backing out of the parking spot when my phone rang. Thanks God, Jack was calling me again.

  “In what West German city did the Beatles perform in the fall of 1960?” Crap. It was Eleanor with another quiz question.

  I’d read the Beatles book I’d bought—well, okay, I’d skimmed it—and I’d watched some of the stuff I’d downloaded, but I had no clue what she was talking about. So what could I do but say, “Jeez, Eleanor, you’d said your questions would get harder but this one is so simple. The Beatles performed in—”

  I hung up.

  What else could I do? I was already in enough trouble with Sheridan. I didn’t need Eleanor ratting me out about not knowing the answer to her who-really-cares-anyway question.

  I pulled back into the parking space, accessed the Internet, then called Eleanor back.

  “Hamburg,” I said, and hung up again.

  I’m not sure my answer really counted since I didn’t answer it on the spot, but this would have to do.

  My day definitely needed a boost—a big one. I headed west and took Pacific Coast Highway north. This was one of my favorite places to clear my head and put things into perspective. The view was spectacular along this stretch of PCH. High, rugged hills dotted with fabulous homes on my right, and the blue waters of the Pacific on my left, sparkling in the sunlight.

  Ty floated into my head. Not long ago he’d offered to buy a beach house, if I’d move in with him. He’d sweetened the deal with a convertible and tons of new shorts, tops, bathing suits, cover-ups, sundresses, sandals, and flip-flops—okay, the clothes were my idea, but he’d have definitely been okay with them.

  Now everything was different—real different. Ty was engaged—maybe. My heart started to hurt just thinking about it.

  I’m not big on suspense, usually, but I hadn’t wanted to confront Ty and ask him outright. I’d put it off on Marcie, and that hadn’t worked out either. There was nothing left to do but handle the situation myself.

  I accessed the address book on my cell phone and called Amber, Ty’s personal assistant. Yeah, okay, this wasn’t exactly the boldest move I could have made, but it was the only one I could manage.

  Amber answered right away.

  “Hi, Haley, I’m really glad to hear from you,” she said. “How are you?”

  She sounded as if she was genuinely glad to hear from me. We’d always gotten along, and I didn’t want that to change by putting her in a difficult position with Ty by asking a lot of perso
nal questions about him.

  “Is Ty engaged?” I asked.

  Damn. I hadn’t meant to say that—not so soon in the conversation, anyway.

  “Engaged? Are you kidding? Mr. Gloom and Doom?” Amber asked. “No way.”

  I almost ran my car off the highway.

  “Oh my God, he’s not engaged?” I am pretty sure I yelled that.

  “Why would you think that?” Amber asked.

  “Sarah Covington is engaged. Since she’d been all over Ty all the time, I figured they were a couple,” I said.

  “I haven’t heard anything about Sarah getting engaged,” Amber said.

  “A friend of mine got a visual on her wearing a diamond ring,” I told her.

  “Ty hasn’t been acting like he’s engaged,” she said. “But he has been really weird lately.”

  Ty was stable, sensible, cautious, predictable. Weird for him could mean he’d taken an alternate route home from the office.

  “Weird how?” I asked.

  “Secretive. He used to tell me everything, now not so much,” Amber said.

  “What’s he keeping secret?” I asked. “Any idea?”

  “It started back when he was in the car accident, remember?” Amber said.

  I remembered how the hospital had called because Ty wanted me to pick him up from the emergency room. I remembered how scared I was thinking he’d been hurt, how relieved I’d felt when I saw him and knew he was okay.

  “And a couple of days ago,” Amber said, “he had me hire actresses. Twenty of them.”

  Okay, that was definitely weird.

  “Maybe he wanted them for show. Maybe he was having a party or something?” I didn’t like the idea, but it was all I could think of.

  “A party with hot chicks? Ty?” Amber asked.

  True, Ty wasn’t the party animal that some people—okay, me—were, but I’d seen flashes of a wild guy lurking inside him. He’d had to take over the helm of the family business when his dad had a heart attack, even though I don’t think he really wanted to. Five generations of the Holt’s chain were riding on his shoulders. He wouldn’t let the family down.