by R. J. Kaiser
“It is the police, madame. Are you still indisposed?”
“The police?”
Stella fought back the niggle of panic. Gathering herself, she hurried off to the bathroom to check her makeup. Then she took a peek out the window to see if there were any news trucks or reporters out front. There were not. She wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.
The sad-eyed man waiting in the foyer was Jaime Caldron. Mac had warned her he might be calling, but she’d have recognized him, anyway—even after all these years. He was one of the characters in that terrible movie that always ran in her head.
“Inspector Caldron,” she said upon reaching the last step, her voice cautiously cheerful. “You at my door after all this time.”
She extended her hand and smiled. Caldron took it, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah, good to see you, Mrs. McGowan,” he mumbled, frowning. He glanced over at Bonny, who looked back at him for a moment or two, then withdrew. “Uh, could we talk in private?” he said to Stella.
“Sure. Let’s go into the sitting room.”
Stella led him into the front room, moving with studied grace. Her insides were in a knot, but fortunately she was prepared.
After returning from Mac’s office, she’d changed into pale yellow silk pants and a white silk blouse. She sat on the padded bench, striking a demure but serious pose. Caldron sat in the wingback armchair closest to her. He did not lean back for a moment, then finally did, as if surrendering to his fatigue. Stella fought to sustain her pleasant, curious, yet completely innocent demeanor. She raised her brows slightly as if to say, “Well, what brings you here, my dear man?”
“I guess your husband told you we’d talked.”
“Yes, Detective, he said he’d seen you.”
“Did he explain what brings me back after all these years?”
“Something about you retiring, I believe.”
Caldron grimaced. “Well, not exactly.”
“Oh?”
“Look, Mrs. McGowan, can I be blunt?”
“If you wish.”
“That house you had with your first husband, the one in Brentwood…”
“Yes, what about it?”
“I think it’s about to give up a body.”
“A body?”
“I talked to the real estate agent representing the new owners. They’re going to put in a new pool. We plan to be there when the work is done. I expect to find Aubrey St. George.”
She managed to hide her surprise. Mac had said nothing about this. Had he known? “Why would you expect that? Aubrey drowned out at Malibu while swimming.”
“Yeah, I know that’s the theory, but I think the facts are otherwise.”
“Facts? What facts?” When he didn’t respond, Stella added, “I’m certain you’re mistaken, Inspector.”
“Well, we could debate that all day long, I guess. When the time comes, we’ll find out. But that’s not really what I came here to discuss. I’m prepared to make you an offer that’ll get you off the hook.”
“What sort of offer?”
“I’ll have to clear it with the D.A., of course, but I’m prepared to ask for reduced charges, no jail time, in exchange for testimony against your husband.”
Stella was caught flat-footed. “Testimony about what?”
“That he killed Aubrey St. George and hid the body. If St. George’s remains show evidence of a gunshot, then we’d want testimony that he shot the victim—or confirmation of whatever the evidence shows. You give us eyewitness testimony as to whatever you saw, and we overlook your participation in the crime. That’s what I’m prepared to ask for. You cooperate and I’ll sell it to the D.A.”
She was incredulous. Caldron was handing her the perfect answer to her problem. She could go to her husband and use this as leverage. “They’re making it easy for me, Mac. Give me a reason not to take their deal.” Surely it would be worth a couple of million dollars to him. Surely.
But her immediate problem was not her husband, it was Jaime Caldron. “But, Inspector,” she said, “you don’t expect me to lie, do you?”
He gave her a hard glare. There was no embarrassment in his eyes. He had the look of a tough, unrelenting cop. “Mrs. McGowan, you trying to tell me your husband didn’t do it?”
“If by ‘do it’ you mean kill Aubrey, the answer is no, most definitely no.”
“You understand that when the body shows evidence of death by foul play, and you’re implicated, you won’t be in such a good bargaining position as you are now.”
“I won’t lie.”
“Maybe even though you and Mr. McGowan are separated you feel you’ve got to play the loyal wife. Maybe he’s paying you a lot each month and you don’t want to lose that. Or maybe you haven’t had a chance to think this thing through. I don’t know why you’re protecting him. But remember this—I’m offering you a good deal, Mrs. McGowan, a real good deal. Why don’t you give it some thought? You don’t have to say yea or nay on the spot.”
“The truth is the truth,” she said.
Caldron smiled for the first time. “Yeah, that’s definitely true. Well, you sleep on it. Let me give you my card.”
He took a business card from his pocket and handed it to her. Stella studied it a moment. “Why are you so sure Mac killed Aubrey?”
“The way I see it, there’s only one other possibility and that’s you.”
“Divide and conquer?”
He smiled faintly. “I sure hope you won’t disappoint me, Mrs. McGowan.”
“Thank you for stopping by, Inspector.”
Caldron got to his feet. “Oh, and by the way, who was the young woman with your husband?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“At his office this morning. I came to see you earlier, but you were just leaving, so I followed you to Studio City, your husband’s office. I see you go into the building, then he comes out with a young woman. Just curious what’s going on.”
“My, but you’re eager.”
“She have something to do with what’s going on?”
“That was a private investigator who works for Mac. Her name’s Jade Morro. They’re having some sort of problem with a few of the employees. I don’t know much about it.”
“Oh, I see. Well, you give my offer some thought, Mrs. McGowan. Regardless of what you’re saying now, I have a hunch you’re going to do the right thing. And that’s good because it’ll make living the rest of your life a whole lot easier.”
Stella smiled pleasantly. No, she thought, a couple of million dollars would make living her life a whole lot easier.
“Well, I’ll be going. Don’t get up,” he said. “I can find my way out.”
She did not move from her bench, nor did she let the shiver ripple though her until he’d left the room.
South Central Los Angeles
Jade had been feeling uneasy about having a showdown with Ricky Santos. It had been her fondest wish never to lay eyes on the man again. Probably what she feared most was that he would mistake her overture as interest, when in fact nothing could be further from the truth. She was going to nip this stalking business in the bud and, if that meant confronting an old lover she’d rather not think about, much less see, then that was what she’d do.
She turned onto Ruthie’s street half an hour before the time of her scheduled meeting with Ricky. It was a neighborhood of simple, unpretentious bungalows, not that different than her own neighborhood, except the houses were newer by a decade or two and many had bars on the windows. But most of the homes were kept up, and a few of the lawns and flower beds were worthy of anything you’d find in West L.A.
She parked in front of a pleasant little bungalow, with beds of pansies in front and pots of fuchsias hanging from the roof of the porch. The bars on the windows had always seemed incongruous, but as Ruthie said, “I consider it cheap insurance.” Jade went to the door and rang the bell.
Rundel Jones, Ruthie’s cousin and longtime friend, answered the door. He
was a two-hundred-fifty-pound pile of muscle in a black tank top and pair of basketball shorts that made his legs look like a pair of telephone poles in a skirt. A one-time linebacker in the L.A. Raiders development squad, Rundel’s current occupation was bodyguard. He hired out to various celebrities and dignitaries, counting many among his friends.
“Hey, Sen˜orita Morro,” he said. “How’s it goin’?”
Rundel had this idea Jade was Hispanic, probably because of her name, but it was only partially true. In fact, her father’s father had been Puerto Rican, but her father’s mother was Irish, her grandparents on her mother’s side Cajun and Polish, Italian and Swedish. She’d gone over her genealogical data with Rundel before, but he liked to call her sen˜orita, anyway.
“It’s goin’ okay,” she replied as Rundel admitted her to Ruthie’s tidy front room and closed the door.
“Ruthie!” he hollered toward the back of the house. “Jade’s here.”
Ruthie Gibbons came into the living room after a minute, giving Jade a hug. “You okay, sugar?”
“Sure, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” She was being sincere, totally sincere, but she also knew Ruthie might know something she didn’t, like maybe the fact that she was in denial. Which, when she thought about it, made her very uncomfortable. Maybe she ought to be a lot more upset about this. After all, Ricky had been the love of her life, the man who’d wounded her as badly as a woman could be wounded. Maybe she ought to be freaking out at the prospect of having to see him again. Or, at least nervous. Well, she was nervous, she wouldn’t deny that. Wary, then? Afraid?
She was all of those things to one degree or another, but what bothered her most was the prospect that this whole thing was a dumb idea. Hell, she knew Ricky Santos, and she found it hard to believe he was behind this stalking business. She’d allowed Ruthie to talk her into believing it was Ricky. And she also knew exactly what he’d be thinking—that she was using the stalking as an excuse to see him again. Of course. If he was innocent, what else could he think?
“You don’t look so fine to me,” Ruthie said.
“I really am.”
“You sure?”
Jade abruptly began to pace back and forth, finally blurting it out. “Ruthie, I don’t think I want to do this.”
“Why not, girl?”
“Because Ricky’s going to think I’m making a play for him.”
“What do you care what he thinks? The whole point is to find out what’s going on, right?”
“Yes, but there’s no need to make a fool of myself, is there?”
“Who’s going to know but you and me and him? Screw the dude. And if he’s doing what we think he’s doing, then he’s going to pay.”
Jade could see there was no point in arguing. The more she denied her feelings, the more unsure she became. Ruthie was probably right. What did she care what Ricky Santos thought? About anything.
She shut up then and sat nervously waiting for Ricky, reminding herself how much she hated the bastard, how he’d screwed her over and how, if he was the moron behind these incidents, he’d get his due.
“So, how’s Mr. McGowan?” Ruthie asked.
Jade was surprised by the question. “How’d you know I saw him this morning? I didn’t tell you.”
“I didn’t know for sure. But you do have a glow on your cheeks.”
Jade gave her a look. “I met with Mac and his wife.”
“Wife? Yuck. Never did like that word. What she doing there?”
“I don’t know. She came to see him about something.”
“So, girl, don’t keep me in the dark. What’s she like?”
“Attractive, rich. She seemed well cared for, but I’d say older than Mac.”
“Older wife? The man’s ripe to be plucked, honey.”
“I’m not in the plucking mood.”
Ruthie put her hands on her hips. “What’s it going to take to get you out of denial?”
“You’re in denial, Ruthie. You can’t accept that I’m happy the way I am.”
Ruthie rolled her eyes. “Maybe I’ll go make some coffee, just in case this little showdown at the OK Corral gets sociable.”
“No chance of that.”
“Then I’ll make some for us chickens.”
Poor Ruthie. She’d made Jade’s love life her Holy Grail. The fact that it was a losing cause almost made Jade feel guilty. Funny thing, though, she had been thinking about Mac and his wife. Mostly she’d wondered how on earth they could ever have gotten married. It had to have something to do with Aubrey St. George’s death. She didn’t want to think Mac was mixed up in something illicit or criminal, but her instincts told her he was. As a minimum there was a dark secret, and it clearly had come back to haunt him.
Jade found herself feeling sorry for him. Which didn’t mean she could forgive anything he did, but she wanted to be on his side…and not just because he wrote the checks. Mac was a nice guy—whether Ruthie appreciated the word or not—and she liked him. There was something soulful and caring about him. Yes, that was a good way to describe him—Mac seemed to care. And not just about himself.
She’d told Ruthie he was the cuddly type. Men, in her experience, could be repulsive and they could be alluring, but not many of them could be comfortable, and that was a good way to describe Mac McGowan. He was a comfortable guy.
“So, you think this dude’s going to show?” Rundel asked as he kept an eye out front in fine bodyguard form.
“If he doesn’t, that could be the story right there.”
“If he been stalkin’ you and he shows his ass, then he got balls.”
“Which means if he shows, he’s probably innocent. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what to hope for.”
“Well, you better make up your mind,” Rundel said, “because here’s the dude now.”
Jade’s heart rose into her throat. Shit. She knew then that she hadn’t wanted him to show. But he was here, and she’d have to deal with it. Was she ready? She knew she wasn’t. She hadn’t figured out what to think, how to feel, how to act, but she needed something. She frantically searched for anger, indignation.
“And he got company,” Rundel said, peering not too subtly out the curtains.
“How many?”
“Only one.”
Jade relaxed a little at that. Two they’d be able to handle.
“Ruthie!” Rundel hollered. “Our boy’s here.”
Ruthie arrived from the kitchen, sassy with righteous energy. There was no sooner a knock and she opened the door. Jade stayed in her chair, struggling hard to be disdainful. From where she sat, she didn’t have a clear view out the door. She heard Ricky’s voice first.
“Hi, Ruthie,” he said.
“Ricky…”
Jade heard surprise in her friend’s voice. Just in the way she said his name. Then Ricky again.
“I’d like you to meet my wife,” he said. “This is Luz.”
Silence.
Wife? The word echoed in Jade’s brain like a round fired into a bullet trap. Wife?
“Nice to meet you,” Ruthie said. There was no enthusiasm in her tone, certainly no joy.
Wife?
Jade couldn’t get rid of the word, nor could she conjure up the implications of its meaning. Not even when Ruthie stepped back to admit the visitors into the house. He brought his wife?
Luz Santos, the pretty esposa of Ricky Santos, stepped into Ruthie Gibbons’s front room. Luz looked like the sort of person you’d expect to see in a milk commercial, south-of-the-border style. Bonita, linda. Not just pretty. Wholesome pretty. Pretty as in the young mother of two young children. Pretty as a contestant in the Mrs. Mexico contest. A little round of face and body, but only a little round, like a peach left on the tree a day too long.
Luz’s hair was a black cloud, back-combed into a shiny, smooth, ebony corona. She was in a mostly white dress with black trim. Not virginal, but pure. She had large pretty eyes and a pretty mouth. A bit too much makeup, but maybe tha
t was because she was in black heels and carried the sort of purse you’d take to see an expensive lawyer or to a family baptism. There was wifely pride in her carriage, fire in her rouged cheeks. Rectitude, Latin style.
Jade’s former lover’s wife glanced up at Rundel, towering above her like a redwood tree. Jade would have left right then and there if she could. Or she’d have melted into the chair like a stick of butter on a hot stone. But she was stuck, trapped there whether she liked it or not. Only then did Luz spot her, her eyes leveling on her with the impersonal hostility of a rattlesnake. Her pretty face seemed to say, “So, you, my husband’s lover.”
Ricky, the Ricky Santos Jade knew through the prism of hundreds of sexual encounters, appeared next to his wife, easing his body against her like an ocean liner kissing the dock. Jade knew it was the same man, but he was in disguise—the disguise of husband.
“Hello, Jade,” he said, finding the happy balance between friendly and unfriendly. “This is Luz.”
Jade got to her feet. She was in jeans and the long-sleeve pink T-shirt she’d worn all day, an outfit better suited to go one-on-one against Rundel on a basketball court than to meet Luz Santos at the baptismal font. She pushed her sleeves up her forearms, reminding herself that Luz was not the only aggrieved party here. Jade had slept with Ricky thinking he was single. The pretty wife was his secret. He was the villain in this melodrama.
Jade looked at him without clearly seeing him, mostly because she couldn’t bring herself to see him. That vague cloud of masculine beauty across the room was a gigantic lie. An impostor. A joke. “This is Luz,” he’d said, as if identifying a bloom of truth in a field of lies. Jade felt so sorry for herself, she wanted to cry. If he’d said he was sorry for all the suffering he’d caused, uttered a single word of remorse, she would have broken into sobs, bawled big salty tears right in front of the whole crowd. But he didn’t. So, she didn’t.
Ruthie, unwitting hostess of the farce, intervened. “Come sit down,” she said, too solicitous by half.
Luz, a touch unpracticed in her heels, stepped over to the sofa and sat, arranging her ample skirts. Ricky, former pretty-boy cop, sat beside her. Jade could smell his cologne across the room, the cologne he’d put on after his shower and before they’d make love. He was close enough to his wife that their legs touched, but he did not lean back. Rather, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, the big, clunky watch on his wrist gleaming. Jade did not look into his eyes. She did, snake-to-snake, with Luz.
