by Dianne Emley
Iris extended her hand, catching him off guard. His relations with women didn’t appear to include business deals. He clasped her hand with his moist palm.
“Thanks for meeting with me, Mr. Melba.”
She watched as he quickly left the bar, only to have the maître d’ chase after him to retrieve the borrowed jacket and tie. Iris counted not quite to ten before Melba scurried back and demanded the jacket he’d been wearing. He safely retrieved the money envelope and left.
It was just short of 10:00 p.m. when Iris drove the rental car into her driveway. A minivan she didn’t recognize was parked across the street one house up from hers, right where Weems had parked when he had been watching her.
“Pay attention, boys,” she muttered to herself. “You just might see something.”
She pulled her mail from the brass box next to her front door and went inside her house. It was a welcome sight. She checked her phone messages on the answering machine in her home office. There were two, both from Garland, the second one left an hour ago. He was worried about her and wanted her to call as soon as she got in, regardless of the hour.
She looked at her watch. From a public telephone in the Clift Hotel, she’d left a message with Lazare’s answering service for Palmer to call her at home at ten tonight. She had call-waiting, but didn’t want to awkwardly interrupt her talk with Garland if Palmer called. She’d have to call Garland later. He’d definitely try to stop her if he knew what she was up to. It was best if she kept it from him. He wouldn’t understand. She didn’t quite understand herself why she was doing it.
She pulled off her pumps with a groan and dangled them from her fingers as she walked into her bedroom and put them on her shoe rack next to many other similar pairs in different colors. She closed the blinds over her windows, disturbed with the thought that Weems or his people might be outside in the darkness watching her. She took off her jacket and began to unbutton her blouse when she saw something that unnerved her more than a Peeping Tom. The receiver on the telephone next to her bed was in the cradle backward, the cord turned toward the top. She never hung up the phone that way.
She picked up the receiver, put it to her ear, and heard the dead sound of the dial tone. There was no indication that the bug Weems had planted was there. She could have easily removed it from that phone and the others in her house, but there would be plenty of time for that later. She set the receiver back in the cradle the right way, suppressing the anger that welled inside her. As much as she resented the violation of her privacy, she had hoped that Weems would do something like this. She had played right into his hand and now he was playing into hers. She took off the rest of her clothes, wadding them for the dry cleaners, and put on her old terry cloth bathrobe.
It was 10:15 and she was starting to wonder whether she’d thrown away $5,000 for nothing. Then all the phones in her house rang in a chorus of different tones. She rushed to her bedroom and smiled when she saw the location and phone number displayed on her Caller ID. The call was from Furnace Creek, California.
“Iris Thorne.”
“Hi Iris, it’s Dean Palmer.”
“Hi Dean,” she said, trying to sound warm.
“Is this on the up and up?”
“Look, Dean. The FBI forced me to pose as Margo Hill. This agent, Roger Weems, threatened to arrest me if I didn’t. You know me. I’m no FBI informant. I’m a investment counselor. I’m through with the FBI. This is between you and me now.”
“How did the FBI catch up with you?”
“Fernando Peru was an informant. He was passing on everything that happened with the fox to Roger Weems. Weems is a jackass. A real piece of work.” She poured it on for Weems’s benefit through her bugged telephone line.
“If Peru was a rat, that explains a lot. What’s your angle now?”
“I have a client who’s willing to pay top dollar for the fox.”
“No bull?”
“No bull.”
“Why bother? Like you said, you’re an investment counselor, not a stolen art fence.”
“Money,” she replied. “When I heard about the cut Melba was getting by just hooking you up with a buyer, I thought to myself, I can do that.”
Palmer hesitated. “I don’t know, Iris. I have to talk to my partner. You were cooperating with the FBI. I don’t think he’s going to go for it.”
“I explained how that happened. Look, I’ve got a client with lots of money. You need to unload this fox, the sooner the better. Things are hot for you now. You may not get another chance like this. The next deal you do will probably be with the FBI.” If there was one thing she excelled in, it was closing a sale.
“I’m ready for something to happen with this fox. I’ve got a lot invested to be sitting like a prisoner out here. And we’ve got a little power trip going on too, which is starting to get under my skin.”
“Think about it. Call me at this number.” She gave him Liz’s cell phone number. “If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, the deal’s off.”
“That’s not much time, Iris.”
“This has to be done pronto or not at all. I’m not going to wait around until the FBI gets wind of it.”
“Well, they won’t hear about it from me or my partner. He’s covered our tracks. No one will ever find us.” Palmer blew out a puff of air like he couldn’t begin to describe it.
Iris looked at the Furnace Creek telephone number displayed on her Caller ID. She glanced at the photocopy of the shots Todd had done of the Furnace Creek city marker with the donkeys standing in the shade of a shadow cast by the sign. “Hey, who was the woman who picked up the urn at LAX?”
“Kathleen, my fiancé. She’s a good gal. Put up with a lot of crap.”
“Dean, you can make yourself a rich man with one phone call.”
“It’s sounding sweeter by the moment.”
“Call me tomorrow.”
She hung up and called Garland, trying to sound as chipper as possible as she told him the truth, but not the whole truth. It didn’t quite seem like lying that way, but it was a lie and it was getting too easy for her. She wondered whether rubbing elbows with thieves and liars was having a permanent adverse affect on her. She trusted it would go away as soon as she closed the deal for the fox.
She threw on some clothes, climbed into the rental car, and drove to an all-night coffee shop on Pacific Coast Highway in Santa Monica. The van followed her.
It wasn’t late enough for the real parade of weirdos through the coffee shop to begin. A few lonely souls hunkered over cups of coffee at the counter. Iris took a booth by the window so that her shadow in the van could keep an eye on her. She ordered a tuna salad sandwich on wheat toast and splurged on a chocolate shake. It was the first real meal she’d had since lunch that afternoon although she’d downed two saucers of hot, salted mixed nuts at the Redwood Room.
When she was midway through her sandwich, she got up and made her way through the restaurant to the ladies’ room. Looking out of the corner of her eye through the big windows, she didn’t see anyone leave the van to follow her. She was glad to see that the pay telephone near the restroom was unoccupied and functioning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Roger Weems entered the conference room in the Department of Justice office full of energy. He looked dapper in a well-tailored lightweight wool suit, but its dark color with his black hair gave him a sinister aura. Maybe Iris found this to be so only because she knew the man’s true character.
“Iris, I was so pleased to receive your telephone call. What good news, what good news.” He was as effusive as a Pentecostal preacher at an Easter Sunday service. He pulled out a chair beside Iris’s, sweeping it in a semicircle before planting himself down. He propped his elbows on his knees, steepled his hands and gazed at her over his fingertips, giving her his full attention. “What’s on your mind?”
Iris knew darn well that he had listened to her telephone conversation with Dean Palmer. She didn’t know whether he’d bee
n shadowing Douglas Melba even though Melba had bought her line about that, probably because it made Melba feel important to think the FBI was following him. He could use it to impress his cronies and maybe some dimwitted women, until he wore it out.
She set down the bogus Czarina’s fox she’d been looking at while she’d waited for Weems to show up. She turned it so that the fake ruby eyes were looking at her as the fox slinked away. “I got in touch with Dean Palmer.”
Weems leaned back and regarded Iris with surprise. “How did you manage that?”
“I contacted Douglas Melba through the Bay City Diner. He gave me a number for an answering service that Lazare uses. I left a message there and Palmer called me back.”
“My, my, Iris. You are resourceful.”
“Did you know about the answering service?”
“Hell, of course we knew about it. It’s a dead end. Registered to a post office box that’s registered to some nonexistent address. What possessed you to do all this?”
“I’ve set up a buy for the fox. I told Palmer that I have a wealthy client, an art collector, who’s willing to pay big money for it.”
“And he went for it even though he knows you were working for the FBI?”
Iris demurely clasped her hands in her lap. “Well, I sort of ran you down to him. You’re not any friend of mine and all that.”
He grinned, his small, square teeth gleaming. “That’s all right. Whatever it takes to get the job done. What did Palmer say?”
“He went for it. The way he talked, the situation between him and Lazare is crumbling. He wants to sell the fox and get his dough.”
“When does this go down?”
“Tomorrow.”
Weems raised his eyebrows. “Short notice. Well, I guess there’s no time like the present. You’ve worked out the details with Palmer?”
“Yep. Public place, middle of the day.” She knew that Weems had heard her entire conversation with Palmer and was well aware of the arrangements she’d made to buy the fox.
Weems spread his arms. “Maybe you should have considered a career in the FBI.”
She smiled blandly.
“Why are you going to all this trouble, Iris? I thought you wanted to put this whole incident behind you.”
“For the same reason I helped you in the first place. I want Todd Fillinger’s murderer.”
“It’s an honorable motive.”
“And I want you out of my life.”
The simpering grin faded from Weems’s face. “Now Iris, I’m just trying to do my job.”
Iris privately considered the history of horrors committed with that as a justification. “I suppose you are.”
It was late morning by the time Iris arrived at her office, and business was in full swing. The market had been on a rollercoaster ride for two weeks, hitting new highs before plunging when profit-takers took their money off the table and then soaring again as investors snapped up bargains. These cyclical periods had been so frequent lately that neither the bulls nor the bears paid much attention to them. McKinney Alitzer’s clients were putting in lots of calls to their investment advisors and Iris’s staff was holding many hands. It came with the territory.
Iris’s boss, Sam Eastman, was in her office when she came in. Louise had stepped away from her alcove and wasn’t available to warn her.
“Sam, what a surprise,” Iris said truthfully. She wondered if he was here to tell her that he was retiring. Jim Hailey told her that no one in the company at large would know that Sam had been forced into retirement. They’d let him leave with dignity. She was glad. Even though she and Sam had been adversaries, there was something sad about his departure. All things considered, he’d been an occasionally irritating but generally benign presence in her life.
The whites of his eyes were unnaturally bright, as if he’d used Visine so they wouldn’t look bloodshot. She smelled strong mint on his breath from across her desk.
He began rubbing his palms together in a gesture that indicated he was about to impart exciting news. People who work together for years become as predictable to one another as old married couples.
“Well, Iris, I’m retiring. I know Jim Hailey’s already broken the news to you, but I still wanted to tell you personally.”
“Jim did tell me. Congratulations, Sam.”
He put on his broad salesman’s smile but his eyes seemed sad. “My youngest is graduating from college this year and Janet and I thought it was time to enjoy life for a change. Travel while we’re still young enough.”
“It’s wonderful. How many years have you been with McKinney Alitzer?”
“Twenty-five,” he said momentously.
“That’s quite an accomplishment.”
He sat across from her, his arms stiff against the arms of the chair. “I know Hailey’s offered you the regional manager job. I told him I didn’t know a better person to fill it.”
“Thanks, Sam. I’m touched,” she said sincerely.
“Well, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, Iris, but I think you know how much I respect you and the job you’ve done here. Have you made your decision?”
She shook her head.
“If you’ll allow an old guy to give you a piece of advice, make certain it’s what you really want to do. I’ve made a couple of career decisions based on what other people thought was the right thing for me. Let me tell you, it doesn’t pay in the end.”
It suddenly occurred to Iris that Sam’s antagonism through the years was due to the fact that he hated his job. That’s why he continually shot himself in the foot. He wanted to sabotage his career.
“Iris, I’m telling you this because I’m not convinced you want the job. I’ve known you a long time. If you really wanted the job, you would have decided by now. If the decision is taking too long to make, there’s something wrong. There’s no shame in being happy with where you are.”
He slapped his knees and pushed himself up. “I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn.”
“Not at all. I appreciate your candor.” She stood as well and held her hand out. He took it between both of his. “Thanks for the advice, Sam.”
He patted the back of her hand then turned and left.
She was still standing, looking at the empty doorway, when Liz’s cell phone rang. It could have been Liz’s hairdresser or manicurist or her dogs’ hairdresser or manicurist or one of Liz’s innumerable friends. She hoped the call wasn’t for Liz.
She walked to her door, tipped it closed, and picked up the ringing telephone. “Iris Thorne.”
“It’s Dean Palmer.”
“Dean.” She suppressed a sigh of relief. “So glad you called. I’ve met with my buyer and the deal is good. Five million.”
“Five? That’s great. That’s more than we’d hoped for. The same arrangements we made last night?”
“Almost. My buyer wants a small change. Here’s the deal…”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Union Station in downtown Los Angeles, at noon on a weekday, was virtually empty. A brand-new light train system was being constructed and several lines had been completed, but Angelenos still preferred their cars. The sparse number of train travelers pleased Roger Weems, who sat on the last of several rows of massive wood benches, pretending to read a newspaper.
At the opposite end of the bench facing Weems, an aluminum briefcase full of money was standing on the ground next to the feet of a female FBI agent who was posing as the representative of the buyer of the Czarina’s fox. Other undercover agents were nearby. Iris had told Weems she would not participate in the exchange this time. She had set up the deal and that was it. That was fine with him.
The aluminum briefcase contained hundred-dollar bills in banded stacks. Palmer would arrive with the fox and ask to see the money. The agent would show it to him and then demand the fox. As soon as he turned the statuette over, Weems would arrest him. The female agent could easily arrest Palmer, but Weems made it clear that this arrest was his.
/> High noon, the arranged time for the deal to take place, came and went. Weems noisily turned a page of his newspaper and looked at his watch, even though a prominent clock high on the wall facing him displayed the accurate time. Minutes ticked by. A homeless man attempted to sit next to Weems, and there was a small altercation as Weems tried unsuccessfully to get him to move. A twenty dollar bill finally did the trick.
A man and a woman entered the station, looking around as if they weren’t certain where they were going. They were ragged and their clothes needed laundering.
Weems had seen Palmer only in photos, and the man with sunken cheeks and jaundiced skin wandering through the station looked like a caricature of those photos. There were small sores on Palmer’s hands. He looked like a junkie and the woman with him didn’t look much better.
Weems carefully folded the paper into quarters. The FBI agent sitting with the briefcase caught the signal and turned to see Palmer and the woman scanning the benches with a hint of panic in their eyes.
Finally, Palmer spotted the aluminum briefcase. He tugged his partner’s arm. She couldn’t disguise her excitement and clasped Palmer’s hand between both of hers. They scurried to the briefcase. Palmer asked the FBI agent, “Is that it?”
“Dean Palmer?” she asked him.
“Yes. Is that it?” he sharply repeated.
“Just take it and let’s get out of here,” his partner hissed.
“Kathleen, I have to check it out.” Palmer sat on the bench next to the agent. “Well?”
“Go ahead.”
Palmer grabbed the briefcase handle, picked it up, and set it on the bench near him.
Kathleen wrung her hands and looked nervously around. “Hurry up. Let’s go.”
Palmer snapped the clasps and opened the case. He sucked in a breath when he saw the money. Eyes wide, he ran his hands over it.
