This Pen for Hire

by Laura Levine

  And who knows? She may even have had the keys to a black BMW.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “The cockroach was arrested on a morals charge.”

  Kandi and I were slurping margaritas at our favorite Mexican restaurant, Paco’s Tacos, a festive joint with piñatas hanging from the ceiling and burritos to die for.

  Kandi was talking about the actor who plays Fred the cockroach on Kandi’s show Beanie & The Cockroach.

  “The guy’s insane. He keeps exposing himself to fat ladies. They arrested him in the dressing room at Lane Bryant. Thank God the studio was able to keep it out of the tabloids.”

  A sweet young Latina in a full skirt and peasant blouse came over to take our orders.

  Kandi ordered a shrimp tostada. I was lusting after the beef burrito combination plate, but it had been an astronomically high-calorie day, what with bacon and eggs for breakfast and chocolate cheesecake for lunch. So I decided to keep it light and order the Mexican seafood salad.

  “I’ll have the beef burrito combination plate.” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Extra cheese on my refried beans.”

  I know, I know. I’m impossible. Remind me of this shameful episode the next time I start whining about my big tush.

  “Where were you last night?” Kandi asked. “I kept calling, but you weren’t in.”

  “Actually, I spent the night at Cameron’s.”

  “The gay guy?”

  “He’s not gay.”

  Kandi’s eyes lit up with excitement.

  “Does this mean you actually had sex? With another person in the room?”

  “No. We haven’t slept together.”

  “Then why were you spending the night at his place?”

  “He was afraid I might be in danger.”

  “From what?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  And I told it to her, filling her in on everything that had happened since the last time we talked. I told her about my talk with Devon and my aborted meeting with Andy, about Jasmine’s perfume and Elaine’s new apartment, and Daryush’s habit of going through his tenant’s drawers. And, of course, about the evil BMW. All this, while managing to pack away a beef burrito combination plate.

  “Good Lord,” she said when I was through. “That freeway thing sounds really scary.”

  “I know I should be frightened, but the crazy thing is, I’m not. Not much, anyway.”

  “Don’t you think you should let the police handle this?”

  “I can’t. They think Howard did it.”

  “Of course he did it. That’s obvious.”

  “You don’t understand. Howard Murdoch is a shy little nerd. He couldn’t possibly have killed anyone.”

  “Need I remind you that this shy little nerd was found with a bloody ThighMaster in his hands?”

  “I don’t care. Something in my gut tells me he didn’t do it. And I’ve got to trust my instincts. I’m an excellent judge of character.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s why you wound up marrying The Blob.”

  She had a point there.

  “You’ve got to promise you’ll be careful,” she said. “I’m worried about you.”

  “I promise. I’ll be careful.”

  Kandi licked the last of the salt from her margarita glass.

  “So what’s with this Cameron guy? You think he’s interested in you?”

  “Nah. I’m not his type. His last girlfriend had thighs the size of my ankles.”

  “Oh, well. Who needs him? You’re going to meet an absolutely wonderful guy at Christie’s.”

  In all the hoo-ha of the last few days, I’d forgotten about Kandi’s scheme to meet Eligibles while bidding for bibelots at an auction house.

  “They’re having an auction tomorrow. And we’re going to be there.”

  I put up a few feeble objections, but Kandi was firm.

  “We’re going,” she decreed. “Get used to it.”

  I got used to it, and was just popping the last of my refried beans into my mouth when the waitress came by to ask if we wanted dessert.

  They have a marvelous flan on the menu, but there was no way I was going to order it. No way at all. Not in a million trillion years, I told myself, would I let one more calorie down my gullet.

  P.S. It was yummy.

  I woke up the next morning consumed with guilt over all I’d consumed the night before. I vowed to go on a strict diet—nothing but veggies and fruit and skinless chicken breasts—a vow that I managed to keep for a full fifteen minutes before I broke down and nuked myself a cinnamon-raisin bagel.

  While waiting for the cream cheese to melt on my bagel, I leafed through my Jobs Pending file. Not a pending job in sight. A situation that would normally send me spiraling into a mild case of hysteria. But for some reason, that day I didn’t care. Clearly, I was growing more than a little obsessed with Stacy’s murder. My mind kept wandering back to the sight of Daryush, standing in Stacy’s apartment, going through her desk drawers. What the heck had he been looking for?

  I slapped a dab of Smucker’s strawberry preserves on top of the melted cream cheese, and reached for the phone.

  “Hello, Cameron. It’s me. Jaine.”

  “Hi. How’s it going? Have you thought about what I said? About giving up that crazy investigation of yours?”

  “Yes, I thought about it.”

  “And?”

  “And I will. Just as soon as we break into Stacy’s apartment.”

  “What?”

  “Remember what you said about Stacy’s parents? How they’re supposed to clear out her apartment this weekend? I want to take a look around for clues before they get there.”

  “Call me nutty, but isn’t that the first thing the police do after a murder? Look for clues?”

  “Yes, but they look for blood and blunt instruments and stuff like that. We’re going to be looking for insignificant stuff the police overlooked. Like, for instance, what Daryush was searching for in Stacy’s desk.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?”

  “I’m going to need your help, Cameron.”

  “Forget it. I’m not helping you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ever hear the expression ‘breaking and entering’? People get arrested for it all the time.”

  “Fine,” I said, in what I hoped was a tone of icy disapproval, and what I feared was a nasal whine. “If you don’t want to help me, I’ll manage myself.”

  There was silence on the line for a few nerve-racking seconds. Then Cameron sighed deeply.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll help. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

  “Oh, Cameron,” I squealed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, you’re an angel, an absolute angel—”

  “Skip the eulogy, okay? Just how are we supposed to break into Stacy’s apartment?”

  And I told him my idea.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Mr. Kolchev?” Cameron said into the telephone, lowering his voice a notch or two. “This is Detective Timothy Rea with the LAPD.”

  I sat across from Cameron on his living room sofa, palms sweaty with anticipation.

  “Is he buying it?” I mouthed.

  Cameron nodded to me, and went on.

  “I’m afraid one of our officers may have left his wallet in Stacy’s apartment. It probably fell out of his back pocket when he was dusting for fingerprints in the bedroom. Can you check and see if it’s there? It’s brown eelskin. The officer’s name is Webb. Frank Webb. If you find it, call me: 555-9565. . . Thanks.”

  He hung up and grinned. “He bought it.”

  Cameron was enjoying himself in spite of himself.

  We raced to the window and peeked through a slat in the blinds, our eyes trained on Daryush’s front door. Sure enough, after a minute or two it opened and Daryush came out, popping what looked like the last of a cheese blintz into his mouth. He wiped his greasy fingers on his T-shirt, then took o
ut his key ring and headed over toward Stacy’s apartment.

  We waited until he unlocked the door and let himself in.

  “Okay, let’s go!”

  We slipped out into the courtyard and hurried across to Stacy’s place. Thankfully, no one was hanging around the pool.

  “We’re crazy, you know that,” Cameron said. “What if we get caught?”

  “Oh, come on. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “We go to jail for impersonating a police officer. Correction, I go to jail. You stay home and bake me a cake with a file in it.”

  By now we were at Stacy’s front door. Just as we’d gambled, Daryush hadn’t closed it behind him. We slipped inside the apartment. We could hear Daryush mumbling to himself as he rustled around in the bedroom. Then we tiptoed to the coat closet and hid inside.

  I must say it was rather heavenly, being trapped in a coat closet with Cameron. Standing there huddled next to him in the dark, feeling him so close, breathing in his citrusy aftershave. . . .

  Now do you see why I wasn’t about to give up this investigation?

  Much to my dismay, Daryush didn’t linger in the bedroom. Before we knew it, he was stomping across the living room and back out into the courtyard, muttering something about a wild-goose chase. Only with Daryush’s accent, it came out “wild-koos chess.”

  When we were certain we were alone, we ventured out of the closet, free to explore Stacy’s apartment. Everything had gone exactly according to my plan. (If you don’t count my heavy breathing in the closet.)

  “Hey, look at this,” Cameron said. He was standing in front of an oak bookcase. “Who would’ve guessed Stacy was a reader?”

  He pulled out one of the books from the shelves.

  “The Complete Guide to Multiple Orgasms.”

  “Oh, brother,” I sneered, “what an intellectual.” Meanwhile, I made a mental note to log on to Amazon to see if they had any copies.

  Cameron walked over to a small desk in the corner of the living room, the desk I’d seen Daryush rifling through.

  “Let’s see if we can find what Daryush was looking for.”

  The desk had two drawers, and for the next half hour we went through their contents item by item. But all we found were a bunch of old bills and a pack of Care Free sugarless gum.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I bet there’s a hidden compartment somewhere.”

  Cameron sighed. “Jaine, secret compartments are found in expensive pieces of furniture. I doubt very much we’ll find one in a desk made of particle board.”

  We abandoned the desk, and headed for the bedroom, where we plowed through Stacy’s dresser drawers and closets, a search that yielded a treasure trove of crotchless panties and strawberry-flavored vaginal lubricant, but little else.

  “I told you, if there was anything here, the police would have found it,” Cameron said smugly.

  “Okay, okay. You’re right. Let’s go.”

  We started for the door, when I stopped and headed back to the bookshelf.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, sheepishly, “but I can’t resist.”

  I took out The Complete Guide to Multiple Orgasms.

  “I’ve just got to take a look at this.”

  Cameron grinned.

  Like two naughty schoolkids, we opened the book and started to pore over it. And that’s when we found the photo. Stuck between pages 156 and 157, smack dab in the middle of the chapter called “The Pros and Cons of Vibrators.”

  It was a scenic shot of Stacy’s bed. Featuring Stacy in a pair of those crotchless panties. And lying there beside her, demonstrating the “pros” of vibrators, was none other than our lovable Russian handyman, Daryush Kolchev.

  Cameron whistled softly. “I think we just found what Daryush has been looking for.”

  I stared at the photo, stunned. And nauseous. The sight of Daryush naked is not a pretty picture.

  “My God,” I said, “a person could knit a sweater with the hair on that guy’s back.”

  Then suddenly we heard the sound of the key in the lock. We lunged for the hall closet, but it was too late. The door swung open.

  And Daryush came storming in.

  “What are you two doing here?” he growled.

  It was one of those pivotal moments in life, when a person’s mettle is tested, and she finds out whether she’s got what it takes to come through in a crisis.

  Unfortunately, I flunked the mettle test. My first instinct was to make a mad dash for the terrace and hurl myself into the lilac bushes.

  But cooler heads prevailed.

  Without missing a beat, Cameron said, “I just came to pick up a few of my things.”

  And with that he pulled The Complete Guide to Multiple Orgasms out from where we had jammed it back into the bookshelf.

  Daryush stared at him, slack-jawed. “That book belongs to you?”

  “Yes,” Cameron said, strolling to the bedroom, as innocent as you please. “Be right back,” he added with a wink.

  Daryush stared at me with glazed eyes. I was expecting him to chew me out for lying to him about being a reporter with The New York Times. But that whole episode was forgotten as Daryush stood there, breathing heavily through his mouth, trying to process this latest piece of information. I could practically see the wheels turning in what passed for his brain.

  Undoubtedly he was asking himself if Cameron had been having an affair with Stacy. And that question was answered in the affirmative when Cameron came strolling out from the bedroom with the jar of strawberry-flavored vaginal lubricant.

  “Well,” Cameron said. “I guess that’s about it.” He took out a key from his pocket and offered it to Daryush. “Would you like my key? I won’t be needing it anymore.”

  Daryush nodded dully, and Cameron tossed him the key.

  “I guess we’ll be going now.” He smiled cordially.

  And with that, he took me by the elbow and led me to the front door.

  Daryush wasn’t the only one who was dazed. Cameron had utterly floored me with his quick thinking and sangfroid. I was crazier about him than ever.

  What can I say? I’m a sucker for sangfroid.

  “We got away with it!” I whispered, as we hustled across the courtyard back to Cameron’s place. “Thanks to you. You were terrific.”

  “I was, wasn’t I?” Cameron preened. “I hate to admit it, but you were right. This detective stuff is fun.”

  At which point, Daryush stepped out from Stacy’s apartment. Cameron, the model tenant, waved to him.

  “Bye, now!”

  Daryush gave a feeble wave and waddled back to his apartment, a shaken man. He let himself in and disappeared inside, no doubt heading for the kitchen to sedate himself with another blintz or two.

  “That key you gave Daryush,” I said. “It wasn’t really Stacy’s, was it?”

  “Of course not.”

  He reached down under a potted azalea at his front door and unearthed a muddy key. “Luckily, I keep a spare.”

  He wiped off the key with his shirttail and let us in.

  “What happens if Daryush tries the key in Stacy’s lock, and it doesn’t work?” I asked.

  “I go to jail, and you bake me that cake with the file in it. Hey, how about I make us some lunch? This life of crime is making me hungry.”

  “No, seriously,” I said, following him as he headed into the kitchen. “What happens if Daryush tries the key?”

  “Seriously,” he said, taking a can of tuna down from the shelf. “I go to jail. Is tuna okay?”

  I must’ve looked worried because he ruffled my hair and laughed.

  “Come on. Daryush won’t test the key; that’s the last thing on his mind right now. He’s too worried about a missing X-rated photo.”

  I took out the picture of Daryush and Stacy from The Complete Guide to Multiple Orgasms.

  “What self-respecting Fotomat would develop stuff like that?” Cameron asked as he tossed the tuna into a mixing bowl and spooned
in gobs of mayonnaise.

  “I still can’t get over it,” I said. “Stacy and Daryush. Talk about beauty and the beast.”

  “Who knows? Maybe he’s an incredibly studly lover.”

  “Oh, please. Going to bed with Daryush would be like boffing a hairball.”

  “Maybe she did it so he’d give her Marian’s apartment.”

  “That’s a mighty high price to pay for a terrace,” I said, counting the folds in Daryush’s belly.

  “Do you think it’s possible she was blackmailing him?” Cameron mused. “Maybe she threatened to tell Yetta about their affair.”

  “That’s hard to believe. Daryush doesn’t look like he’s exactly rolling in dough.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Cameron said, spreading the creamy tuna mixture onto slabs of wheat bread. “Rumor has it that he’s not just the manager here. Marian once told me that she thought he owned the building.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Marian’s theory was that he and Yetta never told anyone, because it was the perfect excuse not to make repairs. They could always tell tenants that The Landlord said no.”

  “Then the whole blackmail thing makes sense. If Daryush really does own the building, he’s got some major bucks.”

  Cameron took a tomato out from the fridge and started to slice it.

  “Mind if I use your phone?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said, artfully arranging the tomato slices onto the tuna. “Who’re you calling?”

  “The L.A. County Assessor’s Office. I want to find out who owns Bentley Gardens.”

  Having had at least a gazillion clients (okay, three) who lived next to commercial property, I was an ace at writing angry letters complaining about noisy parking lots, loud music, and wheezing air conditioners. I was also an expert at ferreting out elusive property owners. It’s easy, really. You just call up the county assessor and give the address, and they tell you who owns the building. It’s all a matter of public record, and as a stalwart member of the public, you have a right to know.