by Paul Bishop
Sitting on the edge of the bed in naked splendor, she stretched by pulling each knee individually to her chest, wiggling her foot, and then straightening her leg out again. She flexed her torso and rolled her head around on her neck several times. She stood up and slipped on a light robe when she heard the knock on her door.
She chose the exclusive Century City Towers Hotel because of the anonymity and security it offered and easy access to the surrounding Los Angeles area. She had reserved the room for three months, but hoped to be checked out sooner if everything went according to her plan. The problem was Isaac Cordell didn't appreciate what she was doing for him. By escaping, he had screwed up her original plan three ways to hell. But Janice Ryder was very good at adapting on the fly.
As long as it wasn't in the morning.
She opened the door on the security chain and peered out. Cabo, a smooth-looking gigolo type, was standing outside with a perky look on his face. He handed her the large manila envelope and stood waiting.
Janice wondered if he expected her to ask him in. If he was, he was in for a big disappointment. She didn't like the smooth and oily types. Then she realized he was expecting a tip.
“Give me a second,” she said. Leaving the door open on the chain, she rummaged through her briefcase until she found two crumpled dollar bills. She took them to the door and shoved them through the opening.
“Thanks,” she said as Cabo whisked the bills away.
“Is there anything else?” he said, innuendo dripping off every word.
“Sure as hell not at this time of the morning,” Janice said, and slammed the door.
How she hated people who were happy in the morning.
She walked toward the bedroom looking more closely at the envelope. On first inspection, it was nothing impressive—an oversize manila envelope with her name printed in black marker, the word urgent printed in red marker. The envelope was blank on the back, but the locking flap had been clasped down and then taped.
Janice threw the envelope on the bed and picked up the phone receiver from the night table. She never ate after three in the afternoon, so breakfast was her big meal of the day. When room service came on the line, she ordered fruit; a mushroom, tomato, and bacon omelet; wheat toast; yogurt; and coffee. Lots of coffee.
Hanging up, she looked at the envelope again. She had no idea who it was from, but she could feel the contents were going to be dynamite. She wasn't ready yet to handle dynamite. Ryder's rule number one: Coffee first, then dynamite.
She reached for the envelope, then pulled back again empty-handed. Best to stick by the rules, she decided.
For as long as she could remember, Janice Ryder had been driven. She knew people called her as an ice queen, coldhearted, calculating, frigid, anal-retentive, and many other non-flattering terms the less-driven reserve for the more determined.
Janice agreed with most of the tags except for frigid. It was a word she hated, a demeaning and sexist slur. Frigid was a handy label her husband threw at her when she refused to engage in sexual games with groups of three or more. The term hadn't gotten him far in the divorce settlement, leaving her easily able to afford staying for three months at the Century City Towers.
She made no argument about being driven. She had specific goals to attain. She'd have plenty of time later to take things easy. Until then, easy going was not one of Janice's personality traits.
She was thirty-one before she found and was capable of handling the case of Isaac Cordell—a man whose innocence she'd believed in absolutely and positively from the start.
Her peers said she was a fool to take the case—there was nothing in it but certain loss and a smear to her professional reputation. But Janice had five years of hard slog behind her in the public defender's office and the district attorney's office. She’d performed brilliantly, but chafed at doing what others told her. When the Cordell case came along, she was in private practice and didn't care what her peers and detractors thought.
The case had been perfect for her purposes. She couldn't have set the situation up any better. And she'd achieved a brilliant opening victory when she'd won parole for her client.
The toughest thing about the whole scenario had not been the legal wrangling, which had been fairly straightforward. The biggest problem she had to overcome had been gaining the confidence of her client. Ten years in jail had not been kind. Physically he was a fine specimen of monster proportions, but survival behind jail walls had twisted and perverted his emotional and mental makeup.
After the time she'd spent with Cordell preparing his case and securing his release, Janice understood what she was releasing into the outside world—a psychotic killer. But he was also the perfect weapon for her purposes. And the cold, calculating, frigid, anal-retentive bitch didn't care. She'd deal with the consequences after her end game had been played.
Room service knocked on the door and wheeled in a cart full of food. Janice signed the check and added a generous tip. Anybody who brought her coffee deserved a generous tip.
She raided the coffeepot. Double strength as requested, black, no sugar, piping hot. Swallow it down without it touching lips or tongue. Wait for it to hit bottom, and boom, bring on the caffeine rush.
Two cups down. Fruit and yogurt devoured. Omelet and one slice of toast half-eaten. Third cup of coffee in hand. Heart in gear. Eyes open. Time to expose the contents of the envelope.
One long red fingernail slipped under the flap and slit open the top of the envelope. She slid the contents out into her hand. One typed sheet of paper. Double-spaced, half-full. Her eyes rapidly scanned the words. She'd been right, it was dynamite. Absolute dynamite.
She turned the photograph over. It showed two women embracing in a nightclub. Janice stared at the photo dumbfounded.
She'd been wrong.
This wasn't dynamite.
This was a nuclear explosion.
Chapter 30
Fey felt rough when she dragged herself out of Jake's bed early in the morning. It would have been nice to spend a few extra minutes next to Jake's comforting form, but Fey had an obligation to fulfill before going to the station.
Moving quietly into the kitchen, she made a cup of instant coffee and buttered two pieces of toast she burnt on purpose. The first time Jake saw Fey eat burnt toast, he couldn’t believe it. His surprise did nothing to change her preference for charred bread.
After sleeping briefly in post-coital glow, Fey awoke with Miranda Goodwinter’s murder haunting her like a poltergeist whirling around a belfry. The specter of Isaac Cordell spooked her.
Clearly, Cordell had been falsely convicted of murdering his wife in San Francisco. Was it possible he was innocent this time? Not innocent due to double jeopardy, but truly innocent—set up as a patsy again?
Fey struggled with the concept. If Cordell was innocence, who had killed Miranda Goodwinter? Was it someone connected to the first case, or someone involved with Goodwinter’s more recent life?
Finishing her toast, Fey called the station. She identified herself to the watch commander and requested Colby's home address. She knew he lived with his father, who was some kind of toy maker, but she’d never paid attention to particulars—too busy sparring with Colby to care about his personal life.
Fey wasn’t surprised to find Colby lived in Pacific Palisades, an exclusive community splitting its personality between cliff houses overlooking the beach and custom homes hidden within rambling hills. However, the specific address—a street considered exclusive even by Pacific Palisades standards—was unexpected.
Hanging up the phone, Fey slipped into her shoulder rig before grabbing her jacket and briefcase. She wore a light blue blouse, dark blue slacks, and matching shoes. She kept the outfit at Jake's for when she spent a night without going home.
On the short drive to Pacific Palisades, she felt her stomach fluttering with self-recrimination and anticipation. The murder case had not been the only thing plaguing her in the early hours. She was upset by he
r actions toward Colby at Two-Step's. Being slightly drunk and pissed off were not acceptable excuses.
Sexist actions cut both ways, and Fey cursed herself for acting in a manner she expected from Colby, but not from herself. If she had been the brunt of the joke, she would have been embarrassed beyond belief. Though she had never encouraged Colby's attentions, she should have found a better way to defuse him.
She had been mad, thinking it would be funny to give Colby some of his own back. It had been funny. At the time. In retrospect, she knew she made a bad mistake at Two-Step's and was not sure how to rectify it.
Her own insecurities also played a part. Part of her couldn’t help wondering if Colby was right. Perhaps she didn't deserve—or couldn't handle—the job. Logically she knew it wasn’t true, but she couldn't help beating herself up emotionally for having screwed up.
She turned off Pacific Coast Highway and wound her way along the hilly residential streets of Pacific Palisades. Parking outside the address scribbled in her notebook, she was taken aback by the imposing residential structure. She checked the street address again. It was correct.
The house was huge, well into the several million-dollar-plus range. Fey considered Colby might be on the take because of his flashy clothes and flashy car, but the type of corruption required for this level of wealth was reserved for politicians. Colby's father's toys must bring in a lot of dollars.
Looking closer, Fey realized the house showed signs of neglect. The front grass and garden were tidy, but not well-tended. The used brick exterior had weathered well, but the shingled roof sagged slightly in need of replacement. The effect was of an ancient, once rich, dowager forced to keep up appearances on a fixed income.
Fey didn't see Colby's car, but there was a long driveway running out of view along the side of the house. She knocked at the imposing front door. Most cops always knock. In a police academy officer safety class, rookies were told about an east coast cop who'd been blown up when he pushed a doorbell buzzer.
The warning always left an impression. It didn't matter no other cops had been killed by an exploding doorbell. One cop dying horribly made every cop who heard the story wary of pressing doorbells. There were so few dangers cops could control, but not pressing doorbells had the same effect of not stepping on sidewalk cracks or walking under ladders on Friday the thirteenth.
When there was no answer to her knock, Fey gathered her courage and played Russian roulette with the doorbell. After a second, the intercom by her elbow crackled with a male voice.
“Hello. Who is it please?”
The voice wasn't Colby's. The butler maybe? Many houses in the area supported maids.
“My name is Fey Croaker. I'm looking for Colby…er…Alan.” Colby's first name tasted strange in Fey's mouth.
She didn’t want to face this chore, but it was necessary. She was Colby's supervisor. After her actions the previous evening at Two-Step Tilly's, it was her responsibility to address the situation.
“Come on through the house to the workroom in back,” the voice from the intercom directed.
An electronic buzz swung the front door open. Fey stepped into a foyer where she had the choice of stairway or hallway. Fey looked up the stairway, but the vast reaches of the second story remained hidden.
The hallway led Fey through living room and formal dining area to a large family room opening on one end to a bright kitchen. The furnishings and decorations were expensive, but old-fashioned—bought years before and never replaced. The color scheme was deep forest greens, reds, and blacks with a touch of gold.
There was a huge sliding glass door giving access to an overgrown garden with a small carriage house standing in the center. The carriage house was the same used brick style as the main house. It had probably been servants' quarters at some time in the long-ago past.
A man waved at Fey from the door to the smaller building. Fey followed a path of wandering stepping stones through the garden to reach him.
“Hello,” the man said. “I'm Arthur Colby, Alan's father.” He held out his hand, and Fey shook it. His fingers were strong and rough. “Come in, please,” he said, stepping back and ushering Fey into his workshop. “I'm putting the final touches on a new toy design.”
Fey looked around in wonder and delight. Everywhere, shelves held beautifully carved and chiseled wooden toys.
“The Square Head toys,” she said with delight.
“Humble, but mine own,” Arthur Colby said, reveling in Fey's recognition of his work. “My father invented the originals, and I have carried on the tradition.”
“I always wanted them as a child, but they were so expensive.”
A cloud came over Arthur Colby's face. “The choice of the company who purchased the designs. If it were up to me, I would give them all away—and I do, to children's hospitals and other charities.”
“I'm sorry,” Fey said, embarrassed. “I didn't mean to imply...”
“Of course, you didn't.” Arthur Colby waved away her protests and smiled again. “The toys are expensive. So expensive they priced themselves out of the market. The company who mass-produced the toys discontinued the line five years ago. They couldn't compete with the Japanese.”
“I thought you said you were finishing a new design?”
“Business setbacks only curtail sales, they can't stifle the creative spirit. This world around you was created from the residuals on the designs. Now there are no residuals, but there are still collectors willing to pay for individual items of quality work.” He moved past Fey. “Come look at this,” he said, leading her to a large workbench.
“It's beautiful!” Fey said.
On the workbench—surrounded by wood chisels and chips—was a hand-carved fire engine made completely from different-shaped wood blocks. There were several tiny firemen, their heads proportional square blocks, placed strategically along the length of the toy. The detailing on the fire engine was meticulous, bearing all the signs of a master craftsman.
“This isn't a toy,” Fey said. “It's a work of art.”
Arthur Colby glowed with the praise. “Thank you. It is too bad more people don't have your appreciation.”
Fey looked around at the similar toys on shelves around the room. There were cars and buildings and work machines and houses and schools—all populated by the square-headed people from which the toys took their name.
She gave a slight gasp as she spotted one toy in particular. “The merry-go-round!” She took a step toward the toy, reaching out to push a square-headed horse. The horse and its compatriots obligingly spun silently around.
“The origin of the line. Designed by my father.”
“It was always my favorite. I loved horses as a child. Still do. I remember seeing this in a Sears Christmas catalog. I was twelve or thirteen.” She gave a sad laugh. “I didn't believe in Santa Claus, but I was willing to believe again if this turned up under my tree. I wished on stars. I said my prayers. I crossed my fingers...”
“And?” Arthur Colby asked gently, after a few seconds of silence.
Fey snapped out of her reverie. “And nothing. Only Democrats believe in Santa Claus.” She took a deep breath. “Is Alan here?”
“I'm sorry. He left early this morning.”
Fey was puzzled. “Then why...”
“Why did I have you come in?”
“Yes.”
“An old man's foolishness. I’ve heard so much about you from Alan. I wanted to meet you.”
Fey gave Arthur Colby an appraising glance. He was not such an old man. Somewhere in his late-fifties, he had a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. It was still easy to see where Colby had inherited his movie-star looks. Arthur Colby's features were matured, but he still cut a fine figure.
“I'm sure not much of what Alan told you about me was good.”
Arthur Colby bestowed the same brilliantly smile possessed by his son. In the father, however, the smile came without his son’s trademark leer. He flapped his hands expressive
ly. “With Alan you have to listen beyond his words. He is full of untested confidence. There isn't much room left for common sense.”
Fey figured young Colby was full of something other than untested confidence. Arthur Colby seemed to sense what she was thinking. He held up a hand as if to stop Fey's train of thought.
“Any extra emotional room Alan has is filled with anger.” Arthur Colby shrugged. “He would never agree, but you are good for him. You keep him in line. Something, I was regrettably too busy to do when he was a child. Now it is far too late.”
“What about his mother?” Fey asked, wondering at the why she cared.
“She died in childbirth—part of the reason for Alan's internal angers. He has never forgiven her for abandoning him.”
“It doesn't sound as if she had a choice.”
Arthur Colby shrugged again. “It is easier to blame someone else for our miseries than to accept and change our own shortcomings. Alan has suffered other letdowns. The women in his life have been far from consistent.”
“Meaning?”
“After his mother died, his maternal grandmother blamed Alan for her death. She blamed me for impregnating her, and Alan for being born. She never relented in her verbal attacks even though she insisted on seeing Alan. She went to court and obtained visitation rights. This went on for several years until her mental abuse of Alan became physical and I was able to break the court order.”
Fey knew about abuse. “What about his other grandmother?”
“My mother, Lila, was a good woman. My father died several years before Alan was born. When Anna, my wife, died, Lila moved in here. She cared for Alan as her own, and he loved her dearly. However, when the battles with my mother-in-law were at their worst, Lila was killed by a hit-and-run driver. Alan was six. Lila's death devastated him. Every woman ended up terrorizing or abandoning him.”
“Growing up is tough,” Fey said. The words came out sounding more flippant than intended. Growing up was hard. She'd experience it firsthand.
