City of Mirrors

by Melodie Johnson Howe

  “Diana, when are you going to let her go?”

  “Colin wasn’t true to himself. And he wasn’t true to me. But you were.”

  “I did it for both of you.”

  “I’m going home. Do you want a ride?”

  “No, I’ll walk.”

  “Don’t drink too much.” I leaned over, put arms around his shoulders, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Ryan.”

  He shrugged in my embrace. The martinis had dimmed his intelligent eyes.

  Gathering my purse and phone, I slid out of the booth and stood looking down at him. “Tell Parson to call me when he wants his next payment. That is if he, or his lackey, don’t kill us first.”

  It’s always depressing to leave a bar and walk out into the daylight, but this time it fit my emotional state perfectly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The tether that held me to Colin had snapped completely and I sat in my car not knowing what to do with myself. I couldn’t go home. What would I do? Stare at Colin’s Oscars and my mother’s urn? Christ. How could she? And I’d been trying to find a way to love her. I decided to go grocery shopping. I drove further up the coast to Ralph’s Market in the Malibu Colony Plaza.

  Filling my cart with Lean Cuisine, a lot of wine, and the antidote coffee, I thought of Beth Woods telling me that lonely women don’t have alibis for the early morning hours. And Celia realizing her life, which she had so carefully structured, gave her no support. And I’d been clinging to eight years of my past for support.

  A blond actress I knew from various readings where we’d been up for the same roles pushed her cart toward me. I stood riveted by the freezer cases. Seeing me, she immediately ducked down another aisle. Had she seen me with the urn on TV? Or didn’t she want me to see her doing something as humdrum as shopping for dish soap? I caught my reflection in the glass of the freezer door. An un-tethered, abandoned, frightened, forty-year-old child in the clothing of a confident actress. Okay, so it wasn’t the urn or her own concerns that made her turn away. It was the expression on my face.

  On the way to the cashier I tossed a California Wrap, a kind of healthful gourmet burrito, into my cart.

  Now with a bag of frozen swill wedged onto the passenger seat of my car, I was forced to go home or it would defrost.

  In the kitchen, I put the food away and poured myself a very large glass of white wine. Taking a few gulps, I opened Colin’s office door. I gazed at the computer, the mementoes, the books, and the empty chair that was turned toward me, always waiting for me.

  “You bastard!” I threw the wine at the chair and watched the chardonnay run in rivulets down its tufted-leather back and eventually drip off the edges of the seat. “Why her? Why?”

  I slammed the door.

  Standing on my deck watching the sun make a fiery red dramatic exit, I ate the California wrap. Swallowing it back with my tears, I thought of my mother, Colin, and me sitting out here one summer afternoon drinking Margaritas and chatting about which famous star was better at shooting a gun. Colin had said it was James Cagney. I went for Clint Eastwood. My mother had chosen Bette Davis.

  “She killed men while wearing a mink coat and holding a handbag,” she said. “And Davis was always walking downstairs toward her male victim, arm straight out, gun unwavering.” She’d extended her arm, her hand, imitating a gun, and said in a deadly voice, “Bang. Bang. Bang.”

  Colin laughed. “No, it’s got to be Cagney. When he shot a gun, it was as if he were dancing.”

  Then I said, “Bette Davis’s mother wanted everything her daughter earned. If Bette got a new mink, her mother had to have one too.” I looked off across the ocean. “I wonder if that also included her daughter’s husbands and lovers.”

  Turning somber, Nora stared down at her gold-sandaled feet, her blond hair falling across her face. “I need another drink.” And even though her glass was full, she went into the kitchen.

  I’d closed my eyes against the sun, assuming she’d interpreted my comment about Davis and her mother as Diana not wasting any chance to attack her. So sure of the one person I loved, it had never occurred to me that I’d spoken a truth. Or had I intuited in some deep primal place the truth all along: that my own mother had known what Colin’s naked body had smelled and tasted like.

  “Diana?” The sound of my name jolted me back to the present. I recoiled back into the shadows of my house.

  “It’s Heath!” The voice called out louder.

  One of the last men I wanted to see. Wiping my tears away, I stepped forward and peered down. Looking up at me, Heath stood on the beach, the wind blowing his dark brown hair, and his graying temples almost silver in the dimming light. “I rang your doorbell. You didn’t answer.” He wore an expensive suit jacket, jeans, a white shirt open at the neck, and lug-sole shoes too heavy for the sand. He was a man who belonged on cement.

  “I can’t hear it when I’m out here on the deck,” I shouted back.

  “We need to talk.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “The pool man at the Bel Air house got shot.”

  My muscles tightened. “What does that have to do with me?”

  “I know you were there.”

  “I’ll give you ten minutes.”

  Inside the house, I sat down on the sofa. Legs apart, Heath stood in front of the fireplace, my ghosts on the mantel lined up behind him. He moved toward me, placing a wrapped piece of candy on the table.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your mint from the Red Pepper Restaurant in Camarillo. Two of them came with the check. I ate mine. That’s yours. It reminds me that you and I should be more truthful with each other.”

  “Really? You go first.” I leaned back and crossed my arms.

  He returned to his spot before the fireplace. “In Santa Barbara I held on to your cell phone because I knew if you had it you’d do just what you did … call a cab so you wouldn’t have to drive back with me.”

  “Why was it so important I drive back with you?”

  He ran a finger down the ridge of his battered nose. “To see that you got home safely.”

  “And?”

  “And I needed information.”

  “Who told you I was at Binder’s?”

  “I can’t tell you. But I know Parson’s men were following you. Your turn. What happened at the pool-supply store?”

  “I haven’t lied to you. I haven’t abducted you. I haven’t threatened you.”

  “Parson is a man out of control.” Urgency filled his dark-chocolate eyes. “His daughter has been murdered. One of his men got killed and another is very pissed off. And you don’t want Rubio pissed at you, Diana.”

  “Is Rubio the guy with the tattoo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Too late,” I said.

  “Christ.”

  “I may have broken his leg. Unintentionally.”

  “You really don’t know the people you’re dealing with, do you?” His voice rose with anger. “You can criticize me for what I did in the military while you run home and sit here smug and secure in your little make-believe Hollywood bubble …”

  “The same bubble you get paid to keep intact for a lot of ugly people.”

  “I need you to tell me what you found out at Binder’s and why one of Parson’s men ended up dead. And I need it to be the truth.”

  I thought of Pearl, who had stolen a key so she could go back to hooking. An old man who loved her. Ryan, who’d had sex with Jenny Parson not knowing who she really was, and who had protected me and Colin by paying Parson off all these years. “I can’t.”

  He let out an exasperated sigh. “Are you trying to save your friend Ryan Johns?”

  I sucked in my breath. “Why do you ask?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “A DVD was mailed anonymously to my office this afternoon. It
was Ryan Johns and Jenny Parson having sex.”

  “Did you give it to Parson?”

  “No. I locked it in my safe. Nobody has seen it but me. But that doesn’t mean whoever sent it didn’t send a copy to Parson. I recognized the purple velvet sofa. It’s the same one that’s in Bella Casa. Talk to me.”

  I needed time to think. I needed to talk to Ryan before I even thought of turning him over to Heath.

  “Your ten minutes are up.”

  As I started toward the front door to let him out, he stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “Guilty or innocent of Jenny’s murder, Ryan Johns is in real danger. And he’s probably not the only one.”

  “I can’t say any more.”

  The sound of a sharp pop, like an exploding arc light on the set, filled the room. As I looked toward the deck, where I thought the noise had come from, Heath grabbed my shoulders. There was another quick pop and my feet were no longer under me. He was pushing me down. I landed on my back on the floor with him on top. My breath slammed out of me. And then there was nothing, only an eerie silence.

  “What happened?” I gasped.

  “Somebody just tried to shoot you. I guess Ryan isn’t the only one in danger.”

  My permanent chill sliced through me. “Maybe he was aiming for you.”

  A hint of a grim smile. “Keep down.” Quickly getting to his feet, he stayed low, took a gun from a holster on his belt, and crept toward the deck door.

  I rolled onto my stomach and then up on my hands and knees and stared at two jagged bullet holes in the pane of my sliding door. Fissures radiated from the holes like giant, icy spider legs. I felt as fractured as the glass.

  Heath glanced over his shoulder at me. “Stay here.”

  Holding his gun in one hand, he reached out with the other and carefully slid the door to the side. As he did, the glass broke into shards and clattered onto the floor. The damp ocean air billowed in as he ducked out onto the balcony and crouched behind the wicker chair. We both froze in our positions, waiting. Then the roar of a motorcycle, its tires squealing, came from the walkway between my house and Ryan’s. I jumped to my feet and ran out on the deck. Heath was already bounding down the stairs. I was right behind him.

  With Heath in front of me, we sprinted up the path to the front of my house. The biker had disappeared into the traffic, but not before I glimpsed the back of his bomber jacket and his white helmet.

  “I guess Rubio didn’t break his leg.” I was out of breath.

  Heath whirled around, facing me. “You finally ready to talk?” Headlights from the highway spread across our faces.

  “Take me to Kiki’s bar,” I said. “Ryan’s there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  It was seven o’clock and the bar was two deep. Over the din of conversation the Beach Boys sang in high-pitched voices about surf, cars, and girls. Instead of Ryan in the center booth there was a young long-haired celeb with great cleavage and the aging record producer Bobby Sanders. Heath followed me over to see Kiki, who was still on his stool at the end of the bar, coffee cup in front of him and a swizzle stick hanging from the corner of his mouth. His nappy peroxided hair covered his head like a badly knitted cap.

  “Did Ryan leave?” I asked.

  “He’s in the back room, sleeping it off.”

  I sighed with relief. “I’ve come to take him home.”

  “I’m glad you care about him. He’s a good guy. Come on.” Kiki slid off the stool. His legs were bowed as if he’d once been a cowboy instead of a surfer. He pulled himself up to his full height of five foot two, and we followed him through the bar and past the restrooms.

  Kiki opened a door to a storage area filled with cocktail-napkin boxes, extra hurricane candleholders, and other necessities for the bar. In the middle of this was a narrow cot covered with a Bird of Paradise print quilt. Next to it was a table with a hula-dancer lamp. The cot was empty.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “He must’ve left, but I didn’t see him go,” Kiki observed.

  “He could be walking home.” But on the way to the bar I’d scanned the highway for a weaving Ryan.

  I hurried to the men’s room and peered in. Tom Smits, an agent who wouldn’t take me on as a client when I returned to acting, stood at a urinal.

  Glancing sideways, he gaped at me. “Diana!”

  “Have you seen Ryan Johns?”

  “No.” I took a moment to assess his penis, shook my head, then I stepped out, closing the door. “He’s not in there.”

  Kiki’s black-button eyes were wide. “What’s going on?”

  “You keep your exit door open during business hours?” Heath asked tersely.

  “Always,” he responded. “You a cop?”

  Shaking his head, Heath shoved the door open, and the three of us stepped out into an alley that backed onto a wind-eroded mountain which threatened to slide down on the bar every rainy season. The only illumination came from a rusty lantern hanging from the eaves. Taking a small flashlight from his pocket, Heath shined its intense beam to the alley’s left, then to the right.

  “What’s that?” I saw a dark lump in the middle of the cracked asphalt.

  Heath moved toward it, leaned over, and snatched up something that looked like a boot. I sucked in my breath. He retraced his steps, his face harsh in the single overhead light.

  “Recognize it?” He handed me an Ugg.

  “Yes, it’s Ryan’s.”

  Heath turned to Kiki. “Anybody in here earlier who wasn’t a regular?”

  “We always get a few, but usually they leave after one drink. We don’t make ’em feel too comfortable. I gotta protect my clientele. People like Diana need a place they can be themselves and not see it on TV the next day.”

  “So was there anybody unusual at the bar?” Heath persisted.

  “A guy with a shaved head. A Bruce Willis wannabe. But he looked more like an ex-con to me.”

  “Did he have a blue bomber jacket on?” I asked.

  “T-shirt. And he had notes to himself.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Heath asked me.

  “Tattoos,” I explained, then to Kiki: “Did his ink art say ‘One Night With You?’”

  “Didn’t get close to enough to read it. But it ran down the length of his right arm.”

  “What time was he in here?” Heath pressed.

  “An hour ago, maybe longer. He talked on his cell a lot. I think I should put up a sign: no cell phones allowed. But then everyone would stop coming.”

  “Where was Ryan when the guy came in and sat at the bar?” Heath asked.

  “He was in his booth. And then Mick, bartender, and I had to help Ryan to the back room. Now that I think about it, the guy must’ve followed us because he came in as we were putting Ryan on the cot and then he asked me where the men’s room was. I told him to turn around and he’d fall into it.”

  “So he knew Ryan was in the back room,” I said.

  He nodded. “Ryan was passed out by then. When I got back to my place at the bar, this guy was already on his stool talking on his cell again. Then about a half hour later he leaves.”

  I looked at Heath. “You think he was calling Parson?”

  “Telling him where his boys could find Ryan.”

  “Does that mean Parson got a DVD sent to him, too?”

  “Hey, what’s going on here?” Kiki asked.

  Ignoring him, Heath aimed his light at a dumpster.

  I hadn’t noticed it there, hidden in the dark shadows of the rocky hillside. Now it loomed up in the glow like a giant coffin. Clutching Ryan’s boot, I stepped back and leaned hard against the doorjamb.

  “You want to help me look in here?” He gestured to Kiki.

  “You kidding? For what?”

  “Ryan,” I whispered.


  “Shit.” Like an aged cricket, Kiki hopped up on the side rungs while Heath pulled himself up and over the rim.

  I turned away, peering back inside the club. My legs felt weak. If Ryan was in the dumpster, I didn’t want to see his body.

  Paul Meany, a character actor, came out of the men’s room, his hand automatically checking his fly.

  “Diana,” he acknowledged. Years ago he and I had had a bumbling sexual encounter while he was having an affair with my mother.

  “Paul.”

  “Sorry to hear about your mother. She was a true pro.”

  “A pro.”

  “You look great. Are you seeing anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  He stared at the Ugg I was holding, seemed to decide it wasn’t worth asking about. “Well, see you later.” He headed back toward the bar.

  I forced myself to look back at the dumpster.

  Soon Kiki’s head popped up over the edge like a perverted jack-in-the-box. “He’s not in here.” His white teeth flashed.

  I let out a deep breath and lessened my grip on Ryan’s boot.

  The two men scrambled out of the bin and brushed themselves off.

  “I gotta get back to the bar,” Kiki told me. “Anything I can do to help you, just let me know, Diana. They don’t call me the majordomo of Malibu for nothing.”

  “There is something, Kiki. Could you find someone to go to my house and board up the sliding door on my deck? The glass broke.”

  “No problem. And don’t worry about Ryan. He always turns up.”

  I wasn’t worried. I was terrified.

  “I’ll tell you what I know,” I said to Heath, hoping it wasn’t too late.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Still clutching Ryan’s boot, I sat in Heath’s car, which was now an Escalade instead of a Mercedes.

  “Talk to me, Diana.” He turned in his seat, facing me.

  I described everything that’d happened at Binder’s; from our first arrival at his office to our return and finding Binder wounded and that his girlfriend, Pearl, had sold the Bella Casa key to Zackary Logan. I also told him what happened after I left him yesterday; the meeting at the Formosa, Beth Woods driving me to Bella Casa, and the discovery of Zackary Logan’s body. I didn’t tell him about Colin, or Celia and Ben’s encounter.