Pushover (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 5)

by Dianne Emley

  “Thumbs down. What spooked Lazare?” Weems gave Iris a piercing look, his jaw noisily working the gum.

  Iris started to set the wig on the dresser when Cauble took it from her. She scratched her scalp with both hands and combed her hair with her fingers.

  Just then, a male FBI agent entered the room with a young Asian woman. She was wearing a hotel uniform of a red blazer and black slacks. A brass name tag was pinned to her lapel. She was clearly unnerved.

  The agent introduced her. “This is Jeannie Cho. She registered these two rooms yesterday evening to Enrico Lazare.” He handed Weems a hotel ledger card that bore Lazare’s signature.

  “Miss Cho,” Weems asked gently. “What do you remember about Mr. Lazare?”

  She held her hands by her sides, trying to maintain a calm, professional demeanor. “He was tall. I’d say around six feet. Clean-shaven. I couldn’t see much of his hair because he was wearing a ball cap, but it was dark brown. He had on sunglasses.” She tried to avoid looking at Weems’s bloody clothing and focused on his face.

  “Did he speak with an accent?”

  “Yes. It was hard to tell what, maybe French. Something European. He didn’t say much. He wanted the two adjacent rooms for the night. I tried to chat with him about the weather and such but he didn’t seem to want to talk so I dropped it.”

  “Was there a logo on the ball cap?” Weems asked. “Was it a team cap?”

  She frowned as she searched her memory. “Lakers. That’s right. I asked if he’d seen the game last night. He said it was great.”

  “In a French accent, he said it was great.”

  She nodded.

  “Show her that photo of Lazare.”

  The desk clerk looked carefully at the fuzzy photo Cauble handed her of Lazare taken at the wedding. She shrugged. “It could be him. I can’t really tell.”

  Weems smoothed his crew cut with his hands as he walked across the room. “Thank you, Miss Cho.” He was again looking out the open sliding glass door that led to the terrace.

  Jeannie Cho tentatively looked at the other agents in the room while stepping backward toward the door. When she reached the doorway, she turned and quickly left.

  “What about the garage?” Cauble asked the other agent.

  “Haven’t found anything—”

  “A frog who likes basketball?” Weems interrupted, turning from the terrace. “I think our buddy Lazare is just pretending to be French.”

  “What spooked him?” Cauble asked. “Maybe he recognized one of the agents. Maybe he saw Peru.”

  Walking again onto the terrace, Weems leaned against the railing and peered at the restaurant across the street. “But Peru came in the back, through the kitchen. Melba had already left before Peru entered the dining room.” He faced the room, resting against the railing, and studied Iris.

  “Of course it was me,” Iris said. “If Dean Palmer was in this room, that wig wouldn’t have fooled him. Once he saw it was me, he knew something was up. I warned you about that, but you—”

  “Why are you two standing around?” Weems flicked his hand in the direction of the two agents there. “Find out where that fingerprint guy is, check on Peru’s status, and see about the local cops.”

  Soon, Weems and Iris were alone. She stood with her hands clasped behind her back. He again leaned against the terrace railing, chewing the stick of gum. “Palmer isn’t in L.A. He’s in San Francisco. Agents have been tailing him for two weeks.”

  Iris frowned.

  “Lazare wasn’t spooked because he recognized our agents. He recognized you.”

  She hiked a shoulder.

  Weems went on. “You know Lazare. Why are you holding back on me, Iris?”

  “Bullshit,” Iris spat. “If that’s what happened, maybe Palmer or Todd Fillinger showed him a picture of me. I’ve never seen Enrico Lazare. I’ve been one hundred percent honest with you from the get-go. You, on the other hand, have lied to me from day one.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re sore about Fernando Peru? I told you I had an informant.”

  “Fernando told you everything that Winslow and I talked about at the Peninsula Hotel, didn’t he? That’s how you found out what happened. You sent Fernando to my house that night. You sensed I was wavering in helping you to buy the fox, so you told him to come over and pour it on about how much Todd Fillinger loved me, to punch my guilt buttons about poor Todd, didn’t you?”

  “Just doing my job, Iris. Aren’t you being just a tad emotional about the whole thing?” He smugly held his arms open. “After all, we both have the same goal here.”

  “You manipulated Rita Winslow. You knew she was insanely jealous of Fernando. You led her on, told Fernando to suggest that maybe he was double-crossing her after all, hoping she’d crack. You played her, just like you played me, and it unfolded just the way you wanted it to. She gave you a reason to take her out. Finally you got revenge for Buenos Aires and Greg Kelly.”

  Weems blinked.

  Now Iris became smug. “Rita Winslow paid me a little visit earlier today and told me some things about you, Roger.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, huh?” she shouted. “Winslow is dead and Fernando is shot full of holes because of you.”

  “You’re not going to shed any tears over that squirrelly old Winslow bird, are you?”

  “I bet you’re not going to shed any tears about Fernando Peru either. Used him up and threw him away.”

  Weems eyes narrowed. “Fernando was not supposed to get hurt. He’s a good man. He’ll pull through this, and after he’ll head for Miami where he has a girlfriend and a little girl. They’re what made him decide to turn on Winslow. She was a lunatic when it came to him. He’d tried to leave her before, and she’d stalked him all over the world. He was afraid for his woman and child. I’m very sorry about Fernando Peru, but he’ll make it and he’ll finally be free of that lunatic Rita Winslow.” He gingerly touched the dried blood on his clothes. “I’m not as callous as you think I am, Iris.”

  She leaned against the desk and absently picked up a paper cocktail napkin that had been folded into accordion pleats. She stared at the cocktail napkin, turning it in her hand.

  Turning to face the street, Weems said, “The fox is still out there.”

  Glancing out the window at Weems, she pressed the folds of the napkin back into place and slipped it inside a pocket of her jeans.

  Weems came back inside the room. “Lazare and Palmer will still try to unload the fox. If they’re smart, they’ll wait things to cool down, but I think they’re more greedy than smart.”

  Iris looked at the cocktail glass on the desk.

  Don Vinson entered the room, his face grave. “Roger, Fernando didn’t make it.”

  Weems pressed his lips together and nodded. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll catch you later.”

  After Vinson left, Weems rubbed his hands over his face, leaving them there for a long time. When he finally pulled them away, Iris was looking at him with disdain.

  “Iris, I need you more than ever. You can draw Lazare out. Tell him Todd gave you information.”

  She watched him dispassionately.

  “We can get the fox and Todd’s murderer.”

  Quickly unbuttoning her blouse, she pulled it off, ripped open the Velcro fasteners on the Kevlar vest, shrugged it off and flung it on the bed as hard as she could. She yanked off the adhesive tape that fastened the listening device to her, bundled the device in her hand and threw it, missing the bed and hitting the floor. She buttoned her blouse again, not bothering to tuck it in.

  As she headed out of the room, Weems grabbed her arm. “Iris please, I need you. Do it for Fernando.”

  She jerked away. “Screw you.”

  She had reached the sidewalk before she realized she didn’t have a ride home and that her purse was in Weems’s office. Standing in the street arguing with a Pasadena police officer who was trying to keep him from the
scene was Garland. Iris couldn’t remember ever being so glad to see someone in her entire life. She ran and leaped on him. He twirled her around.

  “They reported the shooting on the news and said a woman had been killed. I was so worried, Iris.”

  “It was Rita Winslow.”

  “My Lord.”

  “Fernando’s dead too. The fox is still missing. But I’m all right.” She repeated it as if to convince herself. “I’m all right.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Iris fell into a deep sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. Several hours later, she opened her eyes in the darkness, wide awake. It was 3:00 a.m.

  She looked at Garland, who was on his back, breathing deeply, face slack, mouth slightly open. His familiar face looked foreign without his personality to animate it. She watched him sleep. Sleep. It was so mundane, available to everyone, but inaccessible to her right now.

  She quietly slipped from underneath the covers, pulling them up over Garland. Tiptoeing across the room, she grabbed from the boudoir chair the jeans and denim shirt she’d worn the previous day and hadn’t found the energy to hang up. She slipped her fingers in a crack of the closet door and opened it a few more inches, cringing when the hinges squeaked, standing frozen when Garland stirred. When he fell quiet again, she snatched her tennis shoes from the floor and a sweatshirt from a hook on the wall and carried the bundle of clothing from the room, breathing a sigh of relief after she closed the bedroom door behind her.

  She made a pot of coffee. She dressed in the clothing she’d brought from the bedroom, neglecting to don underwear, which added to her slightly off-center feeling from starting her day in the middle of the night.

  Unzipping Todd’s portfolio which she’d leaned against the dining room wall, she reached inside and took out the framed photo of herself and him at Le Café des Quatre Vents. The Café of the Four Winds. She hadn’t appreciated the irony until now. No wonder Todd had chosen it as his hangout.

  She stood the photo on the breakfast bar and climbed onto a stool with a mug of steaming black coffee. Something occurred to her that she’d never thought about before. Why did he hang out there? He didn’t live close to the café. His grand apartment was a good half-mile and a number of similar cafés away.

  Slipping from the stool and digging in the portfolio again, she found the fading Polaroid snapshot of Monsieur and Madame Mouche. She stuck it in the corner of the picture frame and wondered what happened to the couple as she drank the coffee as quickly as its heat would permit. She watched the clock on her kitchen wall, the hands in the shape of a knife and fork, slowly tick off the minutes. 3:47 a.m. Almost four o’clock, which was very early to be up but more or less officially morning. It was almost noon in London, 1:00 p.m. in Paris, and 3:00 p.m. in Moscow. Four major cities, four different stories. All of them with one common thread: Todd Fillinger.

  She pulled Todd’s scrapbook toward her on the bar and found the article on London antique stores with its photo of Rita Winslow proudly standing in front of her shop. Iris knew a bit of Fernando Peru’s life but almost nothing of Winslow’s. She used the title Mrs. but had she ever married or did she use it because it commanded more respect than Miss? Did she have children? Who ran the shop in her absence? Do they know she’s dead?

  Iris thought sadly that perhaps she had no real friends, that she had invested too heavily in the attentions of handsome young men whose interest in her didn’t extend beyond what she could do for them. She suspected that Winslow finally realized she’d invested poorly and that’s why she clung so desperately to Fernando, as if she felt that as long as he stayed with her, she could pretend it was real, that life was beautiful. Like Todd Fillinger had clung to her, lassoing a star that was doomed to burn out but hanging on for dear life anyway.

  She propped the scrapbook opened to Winslow’s photo on the bar next to the shot of herself and Todd. She ducked her head to see the wall clock. It was finally 4:00. The sooner the night ended, the better.

  Rummaging in her kitchen cabinets, she located a thermal carafe and a squat-bottomed commuter mug. She filled the mug with coffee and poured the rest into the carafe. She set out another mug, a spoon, and the artificial sweetener that Garland liked. He would know to get the creamer from the refrigerator. Iris always chided him that he was turning his coffee into a milk shake with all the flavorings he added to it. She, however, was a coffee purist, only drinking hers strong and black.

  On a piece of paper from a gummed pad, she left a note: “Went for a walk. Back soon.” She intentionally didn’t leave the time, knowing he’d worry if he knew she’d left while it was still dark.

  She propped the note against the empty coffee mug and spent a moment taking in the little domestic scene. It warmed her.

  Digging her finger around the ceramic bowl in which she tossed all her keys, she picked out the spare key to the front door that was on a plastic fob printed with her dry cleaners’ logo. She quietly closed the front door behind her, stood on the porch, and pulled on her sweatshirt.

  The air was cool and clear. The fog hadn’t rolled in that night. The sky had paled slightly, enough to turn from blackness to midnight blue. There were still a few stars and a thin crescent moon high in the sky.

  She walked down her brick front path, eagerly stepping on two snails and making plans to put snail bait in her flower beds that weekend. She began a mental list of a million other household chores. It was only Tuesday but she could hardly wait to get started on them. Mindless, back-breaking chores and a trip to the home warehouse store where she’d wander the aisles and load her cart with things she never knew she needed until then.

  It had been only a week since Detective Davidovsky had approached her in the bar of the Metropolis Hotel and told her she was leaving on the next flight to Los Angeles. It had been a week and a day since Todd Fillinger had met her in Moscow.

  She walked in the middle of the street, which was reinforced by sturdy pilings buried deep in the ground. Some of the pilings were visible, the asphalt draped over them like sheets on unused furniture, where the ground had eroded around them. The hillside community of Casa Marina was slowly crumbling. Passage was restricted to residents and guests to preserve the fragile environment. There were no gates or guards to enforce this, just a sign at the entrance of Casa Marina Drive and eagle-eyed residents who weren’t above stopping unknown cars and asking drivers their business.

  Iris walked past her neighbor Marge Nayton’s house and looked at her neat yard and garden. Even though Marge was in her seventies, she kept up her yard and did most of her household maintenance herself. Iris had even seen Marge on her roof, cleaning her rain gutters. She decided to ask Marge what to do about snails. Marge would know. She was a font of practical and impractical information.

  Next to Marge’s house was the first of three narrow cement staircases that traversed the hill, connecting the three streets that partitioned it like the layers of a wedding cake. Several of Los Angeles’s older neighborhoods had staircases like these, all of them constructed in the 1920s, well before cars outnumbered people in the city, as they did now.

  Iris quickly descended the sixty steps, finally accustomed to the width that was narrow and the depth that was high by today’s standards. Dense natural vegetation, most of it bone dry at the end of the summer, grew on either side of the steps, providing privacy for homeless people who lived there. The steps were not the safest place to be alone in broad daylight, not to mention in the darkness of the early morning. But after everything that had already happened to her, she felt strangely invulnerable.

  A bird sang. The first bird of the morning. Iris smiled. At least she wasn’t the only one who was up.

  Iris’s and Marge’s homes were on the first tier of the terraced hillside. At the bottom of the hill three hundred feet below was Pacific Coast Highway. The steps stopped well before that at a bridge that crossed the highway and led to the beach on the other side. Iris stopped in the middle of the bridge and leaned
against the wire-mesh dome that encased it, preventing people from throwing objects or themselves on the cars below. Traffic on the highway was light but still flowing. Traffic never completely disappeared from major thoroughfares anywhere in the city anymore.

  The bridge’s interior walls were covered with spray-painted graffiti. An odd assortment of litter had worked its way into the corners. There were the usual fast-food and soda containers, crumpled cigarette packs and butts, and a few bits of clothing—a single shoe, a belt. And then there was garbage unique to the beach environment: suntan lotion bottles, a broken beach chair, a good towel accidentally dropped, and a child’s rubber flip-flop with a plastic daisy decorating the strap.

  Iris stretched her arms up against the wire mesh, which was moist to the touch. She watched the cars pass beneath her, their headlights still on.

  She remembered the big Mercedes in which Todd had picked her up from the airport and his intimidating driver, Sasha.

  “Moscow has been very good to me,” Todd had told her. She had bought it, all of it, hook, line, and sinker. What a pushover.

  She turned and jogged across the rest of the bridge, skipping down the spiral staircase at the end, trailing her hand against the steel railing. At the bottom she almost collided with a homeless person who was coming from the beach with a sack of treasures—objets perdus now objets trouvés. She started running, not looking back, struggling in her tennis shoes on the soft sand. She bent over and pulled them off without untying them and kept running, reaching the smooth wet sand left behind by the receding tide. She didn’t stop. Her clothing felt bulky and restrictive and it chafed because of her lack of undergarments, but she kept running, pumping her arms with a tennis shoe in each hand. She ran fast, as fast as she could, not needing to pace herself because she didn’t know how far she was going. She just needed to run.