Deadline

by K. A. Tracy

“Be careful what you ask; I just might unload on you.”

  “Then Atkins really would eat glass. So, please—unload away.”

  Ellen laughed softly and shook her head. “You’re bad.”

  Sam could happily talk to this woman for hours but forced herself back to work. “I need to ask if Jeff ever showed up for work drunk or stoned.”

  “Never. Jeff didn’t do drugs.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Ellen walked back to the stool. “You don’t spend a lot of years on Hollywood sets without learning to recognize when someone is stoned.”

  “Okay, but just to play devil’s advocate, isn’t it possible he could have done drugs out of your presence, even just recreationally?”

  She considered the possibility a moment before resolutely rejecting it. “That’s just not who he was, Sam. To be honest, he could have used a little loosening up. Jeff was very serious-minded, so to him it would have been irresponsible.”

  “Serious-minded or single-minded?”

  “Both. When he committed to something, he was dedicated to see it through, whether it was volunteering, building a door, or running your errands. There was an endearing nobility about him.”

  Sam regarded Ellen a moment. “Do you have any enemies?”

  “Me?” she paused. “I’m sure I do, but why does that matter?”

  “Sometimes it’s easier to hurt someone indirectly through someone they care about.”

  Ellen gazed pensively at Sam and touched the backpack where the photos were. “In other words, is someone I know responsible for that?” She shook her head slowly. “I pray to God nobody in any aspect of my life is capable of such a thing. It would be devastating.”

  Sam snapped her notebook shut and rocked to her feet. “Thank you very much for seeing me on such short notice and letting me bypass the normal red tape.”

  “You’re very welcome.” Ellen opened the study door and walked Sam down the hall. “Feel free to call me directly if you have any more questions. You have my number,” she smiled, “don’t be shy about using it.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.” She reached into a side pocket of the backpack for a business card and wrote her cell number on the back. “Here, in case you think of anything. Or ever need to unload, off the record. I’m a good listener.”

  “I just might take you up on that,” she warned, briefly resting her hand on Sam’s shoulder.

  “I hope you do.”

  Walking to her car, Sam glanced back at Ellen’s house. A reflection of light from an upstairs window caught her eye, but by the time she turned to get a better look, all she could see was a swaying curtain settling back into place.

  Chapter Five

  Sam stopped by the office to make a phone call before picking Joe up for dinner. Nate Joseph was a private investigator whose specialty was retrieving personal records such as credit reports. When talking about the dead, it was not an issue—the right to privacy expires at death. The living, however, were another matter entirely, so Sam never asked how he obtained the information she requested. If she ever had to plead plausible deniability, the less she knew the better.

  A soft voice with a heavy Brooklyn accent answered the phone with a rapid fire, “Joseph here. Who’s this?”

  “Hi, Nate. It’s Sam Perry.”

  “Sam! I thought you dropped off the face of the earth, movin’ to some God-forsaken desert or something livin’ the life of leisure.” He said it leeshuh.

  “Well, it’s not exactly the Gobi, Nate. I’m in Palm Springs.”

  “Same thing. So what’s up? You back workin’ graveyard?”

  “I am. And I need you to do a background check.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Who was it is more like it.”

  “Oh, body bag time. Who’s the stiff?” From anyone else it would sound affected, but the clichés that tumbled from Nate’s mouth were the genuine article.

  “His name was Jeff Rydell.”

  “I’m assuming death by unnatural causes.”

  “I think torture, stabbing, and bludgeoning fit that category.”

  Sam gave Nate the few details she knew, including birth date and the social security number Rydell had given Rose. A social security number was probably the single most important piece of data when trying to piece together a person’s life. Nearly everyone had one, and they never changed although some less scrupulous people might use a second, fraudulent one.

  “So what you want me to do?”

  “Everything. I’d like to know who this guy is. Was.”

  “Regular mystery man, huh? The kind I like. I’ll get started on this right away.”

  “And Nate, I want you to run another name. Ellen Konrad.”

  “The actress? Hey, she’s a real looker.”

  “You should see her in person.” Sam gave him Ellen’s birth date and address.

  “What’s up with her?”

  “I don’t know yet. That’s why I pay you the big bucks.”

  “You writers are such jokers.”

  • • •

  The Patio at Vallarta was only half-full, but Joe insisted on sitting directly under the misters. Sam positioned herself as far as possible from the constant rain of fine spray, but she could still feel her hair sprouting wings.

  Joe’s bruises had taken on the colors of a wonderful desert vista at sunset, a nice counterpoint to his crimson face. Despite the sunburn, Joe seemed oblivious to any discomfort as he cheerily poured himself another margarita—his third. He topped off Sam’s drink—her first—with dregs from the empty pitcher.

  “You know,” she warned, “nothing’s worse than waking up with a sunburn and a hangover. Maybe we should order some food before you break into your Carmen Miranda impersonation.”

  “Why? Is there a sarong and basket of fruit close by?” Joe asked brightly then swatted away her concerns with a flip of his hand. “Sam, I’ve had a hard twenty-four hours, so don’t nag. These drinks aren’t that strong, and the glasses are small. Besides, it’s your fault. You said this was an Italian restaurant.”

  “It was, last week.”

  “So you say.” He downed half the drink and sat back with a satisfied sigh. “Have you nailed my assailant yet?”

  “I’m not the police. Ask them.”

  “Yeah, but you’ll find out quicker because you’re smarter—”

  “Stop trying to butter me up.”

  “…and because you’ve got a personal interest in it—namely me.”

  “Actually, my personal interest in this story is my weekly paycheck.”

  “All $300 of it,” Joe snorted. “You work because you’re driven to, not because you need the pittance they pay you at that rinky-dink newspaper.”

  “You don’t know what they pay me—” Sam stopped when the waiter appeared at their table. She ordered chicken fajitas for them to share, and Joe ordered another pitcher. When the waiter walked away, she added softly, “It’s $700.”

  “Must have broke the bank,” Joe drawled without skipping a beat, making Sam laugh. “So tell me, what’s Ellen Konrad like?”

  She thought a moment, moving the margarita glass in small circles on the table. “Smart. Charismatic. Funny. Gorgeous. Intriguing. Great hair. Even better legs. Killer smile. But other than that nothing special.”

  “She sounds like a catch,” Joe observed. He popped a guacamole covered chip into his mouth and joked, “Maybe you should ask her out.”

  “I wish,” Sam said absently.

  Joe stared, surprised. “I meant as a friend, but that works too.” Sam blushed, and he leaned forward. “My God, you really are smitten with her. Well, it’s about time.”

  “What’s that mean?” she asked defensively.

  “It means I’m glad you’re finally keeping an open mind. Listen, it couldn’t turn out any worse than Olaf.”

  “Jens.”

  “Jens, Hans, whatever.” Joe knew the name, but loved ragging Sam about her ex-boyfriend. “You
’re far too independent, far too stubborn to spend your life being an emotional fluffer. You need a peer, a partner, an equal—everything Gustav…”

  “Jens.”

  “…whatever, was not.”

  “An emotional fluffer?”

  “Stop changing the subject. All I’m saying is, you can do better. You deserve better.” He paused while the waiter delivered the fresh pitcher on their table then leaned forward. “Do you remember me asking you in high school if you were attracted to Pam Magnin?”

  “I remember. I lied and said I wasn’t.”

  Joe sat back, feeling vindicated. “Why didn’t you just tell me instead of keeping it a secret? I told you everything about me.”

  “Yeah, but you were comfortable with yourself. I was afraid of what other people might think, so there was no way I could admit it to you or anyone. Plus I hate the idea of being labeled. As it was I knew there were people who assumed I was gay because I wasn’t exactly the frilly type.” She studied Joe a moment. “Did you?”

  “I thought it was possible but not because you didn’t wear dresses. You just didn’t seem that attracted to guys. I knew the difference because I was attracted to guys.”

  “That’s not totally accurate. I was, and have been, attracted to men.”

  “Alright, but I bet you’ve always been more attracted to women.”

  There didn’t seem to be much point in denying it. Sam’s one serious relationship, with Jens, lasted almost eight years before fading away over accusations that she was more interested in murder and mayhem than having a private life. She angrily denied it but had since wondered if there might not be more truth to it than she cared to admit. Dealing with the dead was heartrending but decidedly less complicated than dealing with the living—especially when you hadn’t openly acknowledged certain fundamental truths about yourself. Her years with Jens had confirmed what Sam had long known—she had no significant emotional connection to men, romantically speaking. On the other hand, she found women endlessly beguiling.

  “That’s probably why I started dating Ross,” she mused, “to prove I fit in. But that was then; now it just doesn’t seem like a big deal anymore.” She took another sip, adding, “And before you ask, no, nothing has ever come of it.”

  “Aren’t you at all curious?”

  “Sure,” she again moved her glass in circles on the table, “more than just curious. But since the only women I’ve been attracted to were all straight—”

  “Or so you thought. There are a lot of lipstick lesbians in the world.”

  “Yeah? Where?”

  “You are so cynical.”

  “The bottom line is the situation never presented itself. And however intrigued I might be, you know I’m not one to pursue anyone, regardless of gender.”

  “But if a woman you found attractive came on to you now, would you go for it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Depends who.”

  “If you went to a lesbian bar at least you’d know the women there are—”

  “No, thank you,” Sam waved her hands. “I have no desire to be part of any meat market pick-up scene, straight or gay, anymore. Those days are over. Been there, done that, over it.”

  “Then how are you ever going to meet anyone?” he asked, exasperated.

  Sam shrugged. “I don’t know, Joe. I guess they’ll have to find me.”

  Before she could turn the tables and ask Joe about his love life, he veered the conversation back to Ellen. “So tell what else about her.”

  “Well, she’s holding back.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can just feel it.”

  “What’s she lying about?”

  “I wouldn’t say lying exactly; it’s probably more omission. Whatever it is, she’s not being completely forthcoming about Rydell. I just feel it. Plus, look,” she reached down and pulled an envelope out of her backpack. “Here’s a copy of Rydell’s phone bill for the last month—”

  Joe snatched the sheets out of her hand. “How’d you get these?”

  “Through keen reporting.”

  “Seriously, how’d you get these?”

  “Rose called as I was leaving the office tonight. She took Jeff’s mail so it wouldn’t get stolen again and wanted to know what to do with it. I told her I’d be happy to take it off her hands. It was a bunch of junk mail and his phone bill.”

  “Is it legal for you to have this?”

  “Technically?”

  “Never mind; I don’t want to know.” He handed back the pages. “This is very interesting, but what does it mean?”

  “The only thing it means for sure is that Jeff Rydell spoke with someone at Ellen’s house—at length—nearly every day. That’s her home number there. Tomorrow I’ll check to see who the other numbers belong to. What’s curious is that he received many more calls from the house than he made to there.”

  “So are you thinking they were lovers?” Joe sounded skeptical. “Somehow, Ellen Konrad doesn’t seem the type to go slumming.”

  “From the expert on slumming?”

  “Very funny. Very brave. Very true.”

  Sam smiled and stretched her arms over her head, setting off a series of muted cracks along her spine. “She denies being involved with Rydell—rather colorfully and convincingly. And my gut believes her; I don’t think that was a performance. But the closer you get to the truth the more of a reaction you get. Rydell is a definite hot button, but why? Maybe he was blackmailing her.”

  “For what, minimum wage? He sure wasn’t spending money on fabulous living quarters.” Joe drained his margarita just as the waiter brought their fajitas, and the conversation veered off to Joe’s account of a recent trip to Mexico where he took a tour identifying indigenous flora known to be hallucinogenic.

  After dinner, they walked into the balmy night, the temperature hovering around one hundred degrees. Sam was parked near the post office on Calle Encilia, a block east of Indian Drive. During the day the street was busy, but at night the area was dark and deserted.

  “We need to stop at the drugstore,” Joe told her.

  “Why?”

  “I ran out of aloe. Actually, you ran out of aloe.”

  She looked at him before stepping off the curb to cross Calle Encilia. “You used that entire bottle—”

  “Sam! Watch out!”

  She turned toward the sound of a gunning engine to her right and was aware of a dark shape hurtling towards her. Joe yanked her by the arm, causing her to fall backwards onto the sidewalk just as a large black car zoomed by so close Sam could feel the heat of exhaust fumes as it passed.

  “Samantha, are you all right?” Joe’s burnt face was strangely pale.

  Sam rolled to her feet, brushing off the seat of her shorts. “What the hell was that?” she asked furiously. Whenever Sam was frightened, it caused an immediate anger response; the bigger the scare, the bigger the knee-jerk ire.

  “That car almost ran you over.”

  “No fucking shit,” she snapped. Despite the heat her skin felt chilled, which helped douse her indignation. “I’m sorry. What did you see?” she asked more evenly.

  Joe took a deep breath. “Just as you stepped off the curb a car that was parked right there suddenly took off,” he pointed to a now-vacant parking place. “It was heading right at you. Sam, it missed you by inches.”

  “Its lights weren’t on,” she said, remembering the sound of a car accelerating but not seeing it. They stared at each other a minute. “I think somebody’s trying to send me a message,” she finally said.

  “And I think I need to change my underwear.”

  • • •

  Sam walked into the house. Ellen was sitting on the steps, dressed in jeans and leather boots.

  “You were supposed to meet me at four.”

  “I couldn’t find my keys.”

  “You know the door is unlocked.”

  Sam followed her to the office. Inside, part of it had turned into a bedroom. Ellen
sat sideways on the desk, smiling at her. She had changed into a blue silk robe that matched her eyes.

  “You need to listen, Sam.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  Sam walked behind the counter to get some wine, and when she looked up they were in a ship’s cabin. Ellen opened the doors and stepped out onto the balcony. Sam joined her, and they jumped into the water. It was only waist deep and very warm. Sam took off her shorts.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Sam wasn’t sure what she meant. They stood close to one another. Sam could smell Ellen’s perfume. They kissed. Her lips were soft, her tongue gently assertive.

  Ellen reached into the water. Sam felt the touch of fingers between her legs, sliding in, then out. Ellen pulled her under the waves as an exquisite surge of pleasure rushed through her body…

  She sat up, heart racing, body still electrified. Disoriented, her initial reaction was embarrassment at having lost control. She was also mortified that Joe might have heard her. But once Sam’s head cleared and her libido simmered down, those concerns eased. She closed her eyes, reliving the vivid sensations, savoring the unfamiliar emotion of it. This wasn’t the first time she dreamed of kissing a woman. But this was the first time a kissing dream had made her climax. And made her yearn.

  Sex with men had always offered basic physical release but lacked genuine passion. Rather than directly confront the glaring implications of that, she spent her adult life escaping into work and sublimation took precedence over introspection. Except she couldn’t escape her dreams.

  In the instant before she fell back asleep, her last thought was of Ellen’s smile.

  • • •

  “Oh Monica, could you come here a minute?” Sam asked sweetly.

  “Uh-oh, I know what that means—more work for Monica.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah, well…subtlety never was my strong suit.” She handed Monica the phone bill. “I need to know everybody Jeff Rydell called.”

  “Please say you’re kidding.”

  “Don’t panic. It’s not as bad as it looks. Call Mike Lewis again. He should be able to track down who these numbers belong to. Tell him I will be forever grateful—and that two bottles of single barrel scotch will be there by the weekend.”