by Lois Winston
“It’s Liana. My friends call me Lee. How’d you know who I was?” I asked, trying to make out his features against the back lighting.
“I’ve been assigned to this case.”
“So you got over the flu, huh?” I quipped.
“The flu? Oh, yes. A lot of men down. I’ve got a full report of D.I.’s activities, and I know you gave a depo in Palo Alto earlier today.”
He paused. He might have been smiling at me but, if so, it got lost in the gloom. His head moved, and I saw light blond hair, or maybe white, reflected in the narrow shaft of light. He continued speaking in the same smooth, conversational style.
“That was so we could save you a trip to the City but you came, anyway. What’re you doing here, Ms. Alvarez?” he asked and was quiet again.
I could feel him waiting for an answer. It would be difficult not to tell a person like this the truth, I decided, and went for it.
“Look, I don’t know how much you know about my part in this,” I began, “but I followed Mr. Wyler here on a routine...well, not so routine, because we don’t normally do this kind of thing—”
“What kind of thing is that?” he asked suddenly, his voice caressing the still air.
I felt sexual tension run through my body and tried to ignore it. “We don’t normally do surveillance. I know I probably shouldn’t be here, but the man died on my watch. So, I guess I needed to…know what happened.” I half-laughed apologetically. “You’re probably used to this. I don’t really do this kind of thing, as a rule. I do…” my voice halted as I wasn’t quite sure how to explain what I did.
“I know. Software piracy and hi-tech fraud. I knew your father. Bob was real proud of you. A shame the way he went. Aneurysm. Sometimes no warning at all with those things. That was probably real hard on you and your family,” he said softly.
Hot tears welled up in my eyes, and I hated myself for it. Damn! It had been two years now. When was I going to be able to get on with things? Richard had. He’d moved out over a year ago and got his own apartment, even a girlfriend.
Mom seemed to have moved ahead, too, taking complete charge of D.I. Once more, I felt the same emotional knife that had sliced through me right after the shock of his death wore away.
“Yes,” I said. Silence fell between us with a heavy thud. I changed the subject. “So where did it happen?”
“Where you found him. On the pier.” He hesitated but then made some sort of decision, “Come on.”
The detective turned and walked to the warehouse door. I followed him, glad to be going out into fresh air and daylight.
As I trailed behind, I sized him up, or at least, the back of him. I was right about the height, but he wore it even better in the sunlight.
He was slender with broad shoulders that made him look good in a suit, even one off the rack. He also looked like he worked out two or three times a week unless he lifted bales of hay for a hobby.
The back of his head showed him to be a natural blond, bleached a little by the sun. He had an easy walk, and I liked it. Right away he struck me as my kind of man. I made a mental note to stay clear of him. I haven’t done so well with my kind of man.
We walked around the warehouse and onto a cement dock approximately ten feet wide. A decrepit metal railing festooned with bird droppings was all that stood between the green-gray waters of the Bay and us. Here I saw the yellow crime-scene tape draped from the end of the building to the railing.
“We’re pretty sure he was shot out here even though the rain washed most of the blood away. Some of it got absorbed into those wooden slats at the edge of the pier. See? Over there.”
He pointed to a rotting wooden beam buried in the cement that had probably once supported a wooden railing before the metal one was put in place. The wooden beam had some fresh gouging in it, probably made by forensics for evidence.
I looked up and out at the Bay. The San Francisco Bay is one of the busiest waterways in the world and surely one of the most beautiful. Boats and ships glided by, some lazily, some with import and purpose. Waves lapped noisily against the pier.
Seagulls called overhead. The air smelled of the sea and timelessness. Directly in front of me was Angel Island. In the distance, I could see the other islands, Alcatraz, Tiburon, and Sausalito, as well.
Detective Savarese pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his top pocket and explained apologetically before putting them on over pale blue eyes. “I’ve got sensitive eyes. I can’t take the glare of the sun. Makes my eyes water. You don’t seem to have that problem.”
“Not really.”
I turned to face him. I wasn’t interested in sunglasses, glare from the sun or even eyes that looked a lot like Paul Newman’s before his salad dressing days. He was starting to get on my nerves, this John Savarese, silky voice and all.
“So Detective Savarese, do you have any idea why this happened to Portor Wyler? I mean, he seemed like such a harmless little man,” I said.
“He was a rich little man whose wife says she hired you people to see if he was cheating on her. Now he’s dead. Who did it? Might be her, might be the purported other woman, might be anyone. Might be you. After all, you found the body.”
He took a step toward me, and I saw my startled face reflected in his sunglasses.
“So, you can see that when you’re a rich businessman you’re not as harmless as all that.” He leaned on the railing and stared at me.
“His wife went to school with my mother, and I’ve seen Mrs. Portor every now and then throughout the years, but I didn’t know him from a hole in the wall. I hadn’t seen him for more than fifteen years until my assignment three days ago. He was always working or something.” We were both silent.
“Seriously, it’s not me,” I offered after several seconds.
“I didn’t think so, Lee. You’re not really a strong candidate, but for the record, you’re being checked on.”
He turned his attention out to the Bay. I followed his gaze, and we were both drawn for a moment to a sleek sailboat with a black lab on the deck, barking its head off at a passing pelican.
I had never been a suspect in a murder investigation before, even a gratuitous one, and I felt oddly uncomfortable. I fought the feeling and tried to stay calm.
“There’s something wrong with that room back there,” I stated, changing the subject. “That office room. The dimensions are off somehow.”
I didn’t look at the handsome detective but down at the railing. I felt his eyes burning into me.
“So you noticed that? Well, forget it.” The quietness of his voice was gone.
“Listen to me, Liana Alvarez. Your father did me a good turn once, a very good turn. I owe him a lot. You’re fooling around with something that could be very dangerous. I want you to promise me that you’ll go back to Palo Alto and forget this whole thing. The man’s dead. Your job is over.”
I was so startled by his speech and its intensity I had no ready response. However, I was not thrilled. This was the second man today who was telling me what to do, and I didn’t like it one bit. I looked him in the eye or, rather, looked his sunglasses in the eye.
“You know, I’ve got to stop wearing my hair in a ponytail. People seem to think I’m a lot younger and more inexperienced than I really am. I also smelled urine.”
Now it was his turn to be startled. “Excuse me?”
“Ur-ine.” I broke the word up into two distinct syllables. “I smelled it from somewhere near that office. The human kind. And what’s with the White House kind of security on the cage? Doesn’t make sense,” I added for good measure.
He smiled at me, the warmth returning to his face. “You’re good. You really are. Not many people would have noticed those things. If you ever want to go into law enforcement, you let me know. Meanwhile, I’m going to ask you again not to interfere with this case.” He added in a friendly tone of voice, “And come on, Lee. This really isn’t your job. It’s mine.”
I gave him an initial hard lo
ok but relented, returning his smile after a moment. We both relaxed somewhat. After all, he was right, and I had a lot of work piled up on my desk. It was close to three in the afternoon, I was tired from the night before, and I really did want to go home.
“Okay,” I said. I could see him let out a deep breath. I turned to leave, and he got in step with me. To my surprise, he started walking me to my car.
Is he just being a gentleman or does he want to make sure I leave, the way I said I would?
As I unlocked the door of the car, he said, “It’s been nice meeting you, Ms. Lee Alvarez, but I don’t want to see you back here again. Do I make myself clear?” The voice was still melodic and quiet, but there was an edge behind the words that made my mouth go dry. I got inside the car and started the motor.
“By the way, were you inside the warehouse about a half an hour ago, as well?” He nodded toward the warehouse across the street.
“No,” I stammered and felt like an idiot for allowing him to intimidate me this way. I cleared my throat and looked at him defiantly. “You saw me about one minute after I arrived. Why?”
He didn’t answer, but took off his sunglasses and leaned into the driver’s side of the car smiling genuinely. His pale blue eyes searched mine for something. What, exactly, I didn’t know.
“Give my best to your family,” he said. Then he abruptly stood up, checked for traffic left and right and slapped the top of the car with his open palm, a gesture I’d seen only in the movies.
“It’s clear now. Pull out.”
He turned and strode back to the warehouse. I did as I was told and headed for 101, becoming more and more irritated by the detective’s condescending behavior.
“Just who the hell does he think he is, anyway?” I asked the sun visor. “Him and his good looking suit. It’s not even an Armani, for crying out loud!” I blustered, every inch the offended snob.
By the time I got home, I had worked off some of my anger. I found the kitten in the middle of the black leather sofa having a nap.
He looked so adorable; I decided then and there I would surround myself with felines instead of men for the next one hundred years or so. I would be different, however. I would forgo the rocking chair. Maybe a Barcalounger.
Next to the cat were all of the toys I had bought plus several new makeshift ones. Stroking his head, I watched his little body stretch luxuriously under my touch. He never opened his eyes but purred loudly.
I found a note in Spanish from Tío outlining the day’s activities in such detail, you would have thought I was an anxious parent needing reassurance from the daycare worker. From what I could surmise, my uncle left only about a half an hour before I arrived after an exhausting day for both of them. I knew if things continued at this level, the kitten should begin math and philosophy lessons the following week.
I picked up the phone to let Tío know I had returned, and he answered on the third ring, barely concealing a yawn.
“Hola, Tío,” I began, “I’m home,” and then repeated in Spanish, “Estoy en casa.”
I told him a little about my day, and then, unfortunately, he began to press me on a name for his new charge. I glanced in the direction of the “little guy,” who had now arranged himself in a hilarious position.
He lay on his belly with his head hanging down off the front of the sofa and his front legs stiffly pointing toward the easy chair. His back legs and tail stretched out behind him.
“So, mi sobrina,” Tío Mateo questioned, “what do we call him, this ‘little guy’?”
“How about Little Guy?” I offered lamely. Tío grunted his disapproval, so I added quickly, “Actually, Tío, I’m going to name him from a book written by T.S. Eliot.”
From where this inspiration came, I don’t know, but I went with it.
“Do you know who he is?" I asked, knowing full well Tío didn’t. When he confessed ignorance, I launched into a full explanation of Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, the poems therein, and the Broadway musical Cats.
“I’m going to read it over again tonight and pick a name from it. If you remember, Tío, I auditioned for a road tour of Cats. Of course, I didn’t make the final cut. That was in the days when I thought I could be a dancer.”
“You’re a beautiful dancer.” He jumped in to defend my negligible talents.
“Gracias, Tío.” I smiled at his protestations of my abilities despite the fact life had proven the contrary. I was, at best, a mediocre dancer and at this point of my life, an old mediocre dancer.
I had learned early on that ambition may be given to many but talent to few. I also learned you need to be gracious about what you can’t do and grateful for what you can do. Dad taught me a lot of survival skills and that one is at the top of the list.
“Anyway, I want to give him a name from that book of poems. Tomorrow I’ll tell you his new name. I promise.”
I hung up the phone and viewed the day’s recorded tapes on the laptop in the living room. I drank hot tea and caressed the kitten that slept beside me. I felt my blood pressure decrease with each stroke of his fur.
It didn’t take much to convince me after one cursory examination nothing could be revealed without all of the tapes being entered into the database for sorting by the program. So I fed them into the network computer and sent them off to Richard with my blessings.
I also sent along an email message asking him to let me know as soon as possible if he found anything of interest.
I took a cue from the kitten and fell asleep on the couch next to him while the six o’clock news blared in the background. I awoke abruptly around eight forty-five filled with anxiety and called Vets and Pets for the results of the Feline Leukemia test.
They were negative, and I celebrated with the new “guy” in my life by broiling a steak and sharing half of it with him.
SEVEN
All In A Day’s Work
The next morning was a workday. My six-thirty a.m. morning barre and floor exercises took nearly an hour. I had a quick shower, and went to my walk-in closet full of expensive, classic and trendy garments.
Okay, let’s get one thing very clear up front. If it were up to me, I would be wearing stuff from consignment stores instead of clothes from some big-name designer.
However, I have a trust fund left to me by my maternal grandfather; so, long ago, I came to the decision that because it was Mom’s father who left me the money, I would spend every penny of it on what is important to her, chic clothes.
At any given time, I have nearly three-dozen suits by the likes of Escada, Versace, Yves Saint Laurent, and Chanel in a myriad of styles and colors. There’s also the assortment of dresses, shoes, handbags, and all the rest of the trappings of the well-appointed, executive woman, crammed inside this inadequate and frightened closet.
Lastly, I’ve got a few pieces of fine jewelry tucked away in a safe under the hallway’s floorboards. I hardly ever put them on, but when I do, it’s more out of obligation than anything else.
I make two weekly trips a year to New York City for the outfits I wear to the office. Anyway, that’s what I’ve told my mother.
They’re actually purchased in-between sightseeing, ballet performances, and Broadway shows. Because I can wear nearly anything in either a size 6 or 8, I phone several of the shops that know me, ask one of the saleswomen to pick out what she likes in those sizes, charge it to my credit card, and have the clothes sent over to the hotel room.
I keep whatever fits and return the rest. If I’m lucky, the whole shopping process takes about thirty minutes, instead of days, and no one’s the wiser. Then at the end of the year, I donate most of that year’s clothes to a battered women’s shelter in East Palo Alto. One thing I like to see is a struggling, single mother of four wearing some of these glad rags on her way to work. It makes my day.
I glanced out the window and saw it was a dismal day, gray and humid, with "spits" of rain falling intermittently. As a native Californian, I know the look o
f all day precipitation and that morning I had to remind myself that Northern California needed as much winter weather as it could get. It was a rare day in summer we see even a drop.
Without the sun, the temperature had dropped into the low fifties, and I could feel a damp chill in the air. I chose a hot pink, two-piece, cashmere suit trimmed with black leather on its high-necked collar and peplum bodice.
It was “bold yet classy.” That’s what the salesgirl told me. There are only two things I refuse to knuckle under on with Mom. One is color. Everything in my wardrobe is vibrant and bright. Not only do strong colors look best on me, they make me feel happy. No neutrals for me, much to Lila’s dismay. Mom’s staple colors of gray, beige, and tan will never see the inside of my closet. Color me, please.
The second thing is jewelry. Nearly anything that glitters on me comes from the silver mines of Taxco, acquired during our frequent visits to relatives in México. Like many other tourists, we often make side trips to Taxco, specifically for the handmade jewelry.
The artisans there are famous for making spectacular silver pieces, often designed around semi-precious or precious gems. I purchased my first one-of-a-kind piece at the tender age of eleven and never looked back.
That day, I chose swirling silver and onyx earrings, slipped on the matching bracelet, and pulled my hair off my face in a chignon at the nape of my neck.
I really need to get it cut, I thought. It was half way down my back. I finished the outfit off with black leather, three-inch pumps and a matching handbag. I have a weakness for handbags; I must own fifty of them.
Looking at myself in the full-length mirror, I caught a glimpse of the kitten, dear Little-No-Name, staring up at me as if he had no idea who or what I was. I scooped him up and laughed, as I hugged him. He was quickly gaining weight and had adjusted to his new home remarkably well.
“Don’t worry, little guy. I may look like something out of Vogue magazine, but it’s just me.”
He batted at the shine on one of my earrings, and I made a mental note to get up twenty minutes earlier in the mornings to play with him. Not so much for him as for me. He had a relaxing effect on me.
