She gave a slight nod.
I let my hand come back to the brownie. “It seems like you’re one of the few people who knows Josh well. Could you just tell me about him generally? You don’t have to break any confidences.”
She searched my face. “I guess it can’t hurt.”
I nodded, glad my mouthful of brownie gave me an excuse to stay silent.
“I met Josh about six years ago when I was given the opportunity to go to his culinary school. He was always friendly when he was there, but it was only after I graduated and started buying groceries for him that I got to know him a bit more.” She pushed her half-eaten brownie around her plate. “He’s generous and kind, but his work is his life.” She paused.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I said.
“True, but, it’s not so much that he’s a workaholic, it’s more like he doesn’t trust anyone. I’ve been working for him for four years, and I’d never met any of his family or friends, until Dana.” She searched my face again. “Between you and me, I don’t need the extra money from doing his groceries anymore, but I’ve told him I do so I can keep an eye on him.” She shrugged. “It’s silly I guess, but I get the feeling he’s lonely and likes having me nearby.”
“I don’t think it’s silly. I got the impression he trusts you more than most.”
She released the brownie, which had done so many laps around her plate it was starting to crumble.
I racked my brain for questions that Connor would want answers to. “I’m sorry to ask, but can you think of anyone who might want to hurt him?”
“No. I mean aside from his competitors maybe.”
“Anyone in particular?” She shook her head. “Or anyone else in his life?”
She stayed silent for a long time, considering. “He’s, um, had the occasional woman over the years, but they were always short affairs. I suppose some of them could have been married.”
“Do you know any names?”
“No. Like I said, I’ve never met any of them except for Dana. I’ve just noticed some of the signs when I dropped off food.”
I tried to think of what else to ask and remembered the list Josh had given us. “Josh mentioned his maid, his gardener, and you came to his home in Pacific Palisades in the last two weeks. Have you seen anyone else? Or anything suspicious?”
She shook her head. “No. Sorry. There was a guy repairing the garbage disposal, but that was more like three weeks ago.”
I kept the disappointment off my face, certain that Connor would’ve had better questions than I did. Which reminded me, “I know Connor already asked, but are you sure no one could have gotten ahold of your key somehow? Made a copy and replaced it, or just borrowed it?”
“I’m sure. I keep it on my main key ring. I’d notice if it went missing, and I live alone.”
That fit with the photos I’d seen, and I wasn’t sure what else to ask. I remembered my dad telling me open-ended questions were better at getting someone talking than the yes or no kind, so I gave it one last shot. “Can you think of anything else that might help? It doesn’t matter how unlikely or insignificant it might seem, it’s better to be aware of it just in case.”
She began to shake her head, setting her golden earrings jangling, but paused, her eyes widening. “Oh, I almost didn’t think of it, but I started doing his fan mail a few years ago, and sometimes he gets a threatening one. I always tell Josh about them, but he says it’s normal to get a few crazies and not to worry about it. So I didn’t, but I did put them aside. Should I grab them for you?”
“Yes, that would be great.”
She looked alarmed at my enthusiasm.
“I mean, Josh is most likely right about them being harmless crazies, but just in case…”
She went to another room to fetch them and Connor reappeared.
“Get out,” I hissed, “she’s opening up to me.”
“I know.” He gave an unapologetic shrug. “I’ve been listening in since my phone call finished.”
I glared at him.
“Wrap it up now. I don’t think she’s got much more to say about Josh, and you’ll shatter any trust you’ve built if you start asking questions about her. We need to keep moving.” He left the room again, probably to eavesdrop behind the door.
Tahlia returned with a box chock-full of envelopes. “This is it for the actual letters. I also have a bunch of emails I could forward to you.”
“Yeah, thanks, that would be great.” I gave her my email address. “You’ve been really helpful Tahlia, thank you. And thanks for the amazing brownies too.”
She smiled, meeting my eyes this time. “You’re welcome. I hope it helps somehow.” I turned to leave, but she touched my arm, “Isobel? Do you think you could let me know if you find out anything important? I’m worried about him.”
I had no idea if Connor would let me, but promised, “I will if I can.” I gave her a quick, impromptu hug and followed Connor out to the car with her scent of flowers, flour, and brownies trailing after me.
He was looking smug as I placed the box of letters on the seat and got in after them.
“What are you so happy about?” I asked.
“I’m just happy I’ve got you on this case.”
He was either lying or there was a very big catch.
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to let you be the one to read through Josh’s hate mail tonight.” His tone was as cheerful as I’d ever heard it. “And you do look particularly good in that skirt.”
I wanted to be outraged, but I was invested in the case, and the hate mail would be more entertaining than the sci-fi I’d borrowed from Oliver anyway. Plus, the compliment was helpful for my self-esteem after all the gorgeous people I’d met today, and I had done my fair share of staring at his ass earlier.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
His smug look got worse. “Also, you might want to check the mirror, you’ve got some brownie stuck in your teeth.”
So much for my self-esteem.
He drove in silence while I removed the offending bit of brownie. It was delicious.
“You can’t tell Tahlia anything by the way. She’s a suspect in this investigation, along with everyone else. She might have owed someone shady a favor or been so in love with Josh that she wanted Dana dead or is lying to protect someone who had access to her key. You can’t rule her out because she bakes well.”
Damn. I should know better than to judge a person’s character by their cooking talents—Steve cooked amazing pasta after all.
I didn’t want to think about my ex-husband, so I asked, “Why didn’t you question her about possible motives then?”
“Because one of the challenges of being a private investigator is that people don’t have to talk to you. I can usually get inside the door using the weight of the high profile client I’m protecting, but it doesn’t mean people won’t kick me out again if I come on too strong. You have to learn when to push and when to tiptoe.”
I tried and failed to imagine Connor tiptoeing, so I focused on how to catch the would-be killer in time to save Dana instead. The private investigator point was one more challenge in a long line of insurmountable hurdles. The nice thing about a bullet, or a strangulation, or almost any other type of murder you see on TV, was that you could narrow down the time of death, and therefore the window of opportunity, to a period of only a few hours. Then you could narrow the suspects down to those who didn’t have alibis in that time period.
It was neat, efficient, and impossible to do in this situation where the time frame was a week and a half long. You couldn’t accuse somebody just because they couldn’t account for all that time. Probably one reason poison is the weapon of choice among the world’s movers and shakers. I exhaled in frustration.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t see how we’re going to catch the bad guy in time with this ten-day window, and the chance that any of our suspects could have hired someone else to do th
e dirty work for them. The possibilities are endless, and Dana can’t wait for us to track them all down.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m going to try to rule out or get a lead on that last option. I have a contact who should be able to find out if any of the local criminals-for-hire were involved.”
I felt a spark of hope. “That’s good.”
“We also now know that Dana was right about the Ambience. That’s what my phone call was about. Tox screens confirmed it was in the blackberries in a large enough dose to be lethal. Ambience is a pretty painless way to kill someone as far as poisoning goes, but since it’s relatively easy to come by and can be mistaken for an overdose, the perp might have used it for convenience rather than kindness. Either way, we know they used a second substance too, otherwise Dana would have responded to the Ambience antidote.”
My throat felt constricted, like it was having a fat day and unwisely wearing its tightest pair of pants. We’d been taught that this was how things worked, and I’d thought I had a handle on it. Now that I was in the middle of it, with someone I cared about as the victim, I was seeing it in a different light. And the light was dirty and dark and terrifying.
“If we have tox screens back on the Ambience already, how come it takes over a week to test for everything else?” I asked.
“It’s complicated.”
“I’ll try to keep up.”
Connor was silent, considering. “Because the machines can only confirm or deny the presence of chemicals or molecules you’ve told them to look for, and they can only look for so many at a time. A single test may take hours or even days to come back. We also don’t know for sure whether the second poison was in the soufflé, or if she had a delayed response to something she ingested earlier. That means they’re testing Dana’s blood and urine too, but poisons change as soon as they’re absorbed by the body, so they can be almost unrecognizable, and some don’t show up in the blood or urine at all. That’s not even the half of it, but you get the idea.”
I did. And I didn’t like it.
“The Taste Society has the best facilities and forensic toxicologists in the world. If we were relying on government resources, the timeline would be closer to a month, and they wouldn’t agree to test for everything anyway.”
It didn’t matter for Dana. A day too late, rather than weeks too late, had the same fatal outcome.
I stared out at the passing scenery and saw we were no longer in a glamorous district of Los Angeles. Garbage littered the streets, and even the graffiti-decorated walls were grimier. About a third of the windows we passed were furbished with bullet holes, and another third were boarded up, probably due to more bullet holes.
It was a vivid reminder that pretty much everyone in America owns a gun, except me.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Florence-Firestone.”
I swallowed. “Isn’t that a gang area?”
“Yes.”
Now the bullet holes made even more sense.
Connor parked in front of a building that was as disreputable as the rest. He pulled a gun out of the glove compartment and tucked it in his waistband before looking at me. His no-nonsense business face had returned.
“I’m going to talk to my contact. Stay in the car. Don’t get out or unlock the door for anyone. Call me immediately if you have trouble.”
“Are you leaving me here for my own protection or to make sure your car’s still here when you get back?”
A trace of humor appeared in his eyes. “Both.”
I watched him leave and then turned to survey the empty street, not liking how the hair on my neck stood up as soon as he was out of sight. It was late afternoon, and the sun was creeping down over the building behind me. I hoped we wouldn’t still be here when it got dark.
Maybe I’d get a start on the hate mail to distract myself.
I pulled out the first letter and was rereading it for the third time, unable to concentrate, when a loud bang on my window made me jump. A pimply pale face loomed through the window.
“Hey, lady, open the door. We could go for a ride.” He leered at me suggestively, just in case his meaning hadn’t been clear.
I thought about ringing Connor, but I wasn’t certain one scrawny teenager counted as trouble. With the way his pants were hanging around his knees, I was pretty sure I’d be able to outrun him, even in heels and a fitted skirt. Not that I should need to outrun him.
I double-checked that the door was locked, pulled my bag up to my shoulder so my phone was in easy reach, and proceeded to ignore him. Picking up the letter again, I pretended to read.
“Hey, lady,” the youth’s voice, which had been ugly to begin with, was attaining new levels of nasty, “I told you to open the effing door!”
I snorted. This kid couldn’t pull up his pants or cuss right.
I turned to give him some pointers, and my heart started working double time. He had a gun. The pimple-faced kid had a gun.
How can someone who can’t even put on pants properly have a gun?
It was pointing at my head.
“Don’t make me tell you again, bitch,” he growled, knocking the gun against the glass for emphasis.
I was pretty sure this was what Connor counted as trouble, but unless he’d been holding out on me, I was also pretty sure he couldn’t respond fast enough to stop the bullet.
Praying my assumption about being able to outrun the youth was true, and that my poor heart wasn’t going to give out under the strain of six brownies and the aforementioned run, I lifted a trembling finger to unlock the door.
As soon as I did, the scrawny thug yanked it open and pulled me out with surprising strength. I flew out of the car, straight onto the sidewalk. Blood began oozing from my knees, and I felt the gun nudge the back of my head.
“Stay down, bitch, and don’t do anything stupid.”
I stayed down. Was he about to blow my brains out? Beat me? Or worse? My eyes searched the ground for something to defend myself with. Luck decided to give me a break; there was a broken screwdriver within arm’s reach. Probably left over from a burglary somewhere. I didn’t care. It was enough to do some damage if I got the chance. The gun left my head and a door slammed.
I snatched up the screwdriver shaft and spun around, keeping low against the sidewalk. The little bastard was stealing the car. I looked at the weapon in my hand, remembered the gun in his, and decided to stay where I was. The engine started. Having nothing better to do, I drove the screwdriver hard into the front tire wall. It didn’t stop the kid from driving off, but I watched the tire begin to deflate with some satisfaction. Then, still on the ground, I pulled my phone from the bag looped around my shoulder and dialed Connor’s number with shaking hands.
6
Connor answered quickly. “Isobel? Are you okay?”
I surveyed my filthy skirt and bloodied knees. “Yes. But your car’s been stolen.”
“What? Stay put, I’ll be right out.”
True to his word, he was there in moments. He took one look at me trembling on the ground and pulled me up and into his arms. “Tell me what happened.” His voice was stern, but his arms were protective around me.
“There was a kid. A pimply, scrawny kid.”
“Go on.” His words held a hint of amusement at the details I thought were important.
“He told me to unlock the door.”
“I said to call me if there was trouble.”
“He had a gun.”
He rubbed my back. “Sweetie, this is America, everyone has a gun. And I work in security, remember? The glass is bulletproof, and there was a spare gun under your seat.”
The adrenaline was wearing off, and the cuts on my hands and knees were starting to sting. Holding in tears, I let out a sob that was more like a hiccup. “You could have told me.”
He rubbed my back some more. “Yes, you’re right, I should have told you.”
I was unable to do anything more than nod my head against his shoulder.
“I’m not going anywhere, but I have to make a few calls.”
I nodded again, hoping he wouldn’t remove his arms to do it. I wasn’t sure I’d stay upright without them.
To my relief, he only moved one. “Hi. It’s Agent 1493. I need an SUV delivered to East 81st Street in Florence-Firestone as soon as possible. My vehicle has just been stolen. If you have a spare retrieval team you can set on the case now, you might be able to get it back before it’s chopped into pieces.” The person on the other end said something I couldn’t make out. “Yes, that’s right. See you shortly.”
“The tire’s flat.” I sniffled.
“What?”
“I saw he was stealing it, so I stabbed the tire with a screwdriver.”
“You had a screwdriver?”
“A broken one. I found it. I thought it might slow him down.”
The rubbing of my back resumed. “Good girl. That was quick thinking. I’ll tell the retrieval team when they arrive.”
Rub, rub, rub. It was starting to be less comforting and more irritating.
“You even saved Josh’s hate mail.”
I did a sob-hiccup again and pulled out of his arms, just to prove I could now stand on my own. “I did?”
He pointed at the box on the ground. It must have been in my lap when I’d been yanked out of the car.
“I mean, of course I did.”
He smiled, or at least his eyes seemed to. I was getting better at reading him. “That’s more like it.” He studied my disheveled appearance again. “We’ve got a replacement car coming soon. I’ll drop you home so you can get cleaned up. How does that sound?”
I stood there, swaying on my own two feet, thinking about my comfortable bed in my comfortable apartment, and realized a couple of things. One: Not falling apart in the last five minutes was an achievement for me and probably good practice for when Bruce-the-Bruiser came around. Two: Being held at gunpoint had burned through the brownies and left me starving. Connor was still looking at me, waiting for an answer.
Eat, Pray, Die (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 1) Page 6
