There were two burgundy leather armchairs. I took one, Jason took the other. Horton sat behind his desk, a beveled sheet of thick glass resting on a charcoal granite base as large as my kitchen which held a computer, a phone, pens, a Rolodex, a notepad, and a framed photo. Other office equipment and photos sat on a black-and-gray granite credenza, in the center of which was a simple tall glass vase with bloodred roses that explained the heady fragrance I’d noticed when I entered the room. Above the credenza hung a portrait of a young woman with curly brown hair and soulful eyes.
“My mother Katie, may she rest in peace,” Horton said with a catch in his voice when I asked him about the photo. “That’s a blowup of one of the few pictures I had of her.”
I told him how inspired and moved I was by his story. Horton looked pleased. “I’ve had my share of rough times. Some people call it bad luck, but I think you make your own luck. And a little help from the good Lord doesn’t hurt.” He smiled. “That’s why I wrote the book, to give people hope. My mother didn’t even have enough food to feed herself, let alone me. I think she would’ve been amazed and proud to see how I turned out. I just wish she’d lived to know my family. We had this taken Christmas.”
He turned the frame on his desk toward me and identified the people in the photo. His wife, Pam; Jason and his wife, Angie, and their year-old son, Tyler; his daughter, Kristen, and her husband and their two daughters, Nicole and Lisa.
His eyes lit up when he talked about his grandchildren. “They’re my future,” he said, gazing at the young faces before he turned the photo around. “So you’re writing about Rachel’s Tent. I apologize that I’m not familiar with your work, but I did look you up on Google. Well, Jason did.” Horton smiled again. “I have this new computer, but I still prefer pen and paper, and most of what I know I keep up here.” He tapped his temple. “I read that you write true-crime books and a crime column. I’ll have to get a copy of your latest, have you sign it for me. I hope you don’t think there’s anything criminal going on at Rachel’s Tent.” He laughed.
“Dad.” Jason laughed, too, but he sounded embarrassed, as though his father had propositioned me.
“Miss Blume knows I’m kidding. Isn’t that right?” he asked me.
“Absolutely. And I left my handcuffs at home.” I smiled. “I also write for several papers, including the Times, about all sorts of topics. Health, politics, gardening.”
Horton nodded. “Well, I hope your article reaches all the women who don’t know about Rachel’s Tent but could use help. Jason oversees the funding for the agency, so I thought you’d like to talk to him as well. What would you like to know?”
To tell you the truth, I’d come fishing. Bramer had set up the appointment, which hadn’t interested me much until he asked me not to bring up Randy and drugs.
“Background information, for starters,” I said. “I Googled you, too, but I’d like to hear your story in your own words. Tell me about Horton Enterprises.”
“It’s an umbrella company for a number of—well, I guess you’d call them enterprises.” Horton chuckled. “I started in property management, found out I was good at it. I’m a saver, Molly. I’m still driving the same Mercedes I bought seven years ago. I saved every nickel I earned, every dime. When I had enough, I invested in a property, then in another. When I had more, I bought a company that sold sports caps. I found out I could cut the price if I imported them. That led to importing other items, and then to other businesses. Jason?”
“We have land investments, an import-export business, oil wells, a printing company, medical supplies,” the son said, like a waiter informing me of today’s specials. “We’ve invested in several tech companies and we’re looking into fiber optics and genetic testing.”
Horton beamed. “Jason’s my right-hand man. We’re a team. Everything I know, he knows. You want to know the two most important rules in business, Miss Blume?” He nodded at his son.
“Diversification, and knowing when to cut your losses,” Jason said, a pupil who had learned his lesson well.
“Diversification, and knowing when to cut your losses,” the father repeated. “That’s in my book, but I don’t mind giving you a freebie. I’ve lived by those rules my whole life and I’ve never been sorry.”
“So you built up this business empire, and then you founded Rachel’s Tent,” I said, trying to make a smooth segue. “I’ve heard some of the success stories. They’re wonderful.”
Horton nodded. “It’s all about giving back to the community, isn’t it? That’s what I’ve tried to teach my children. Pam shares my vision. She’s very involved with a number of charities. So are Kristen and Angie.”
“I was interested in the red-thread packets I saw at Rachel’s Tent,” I said. “Does one of your companies handle that?”
Horton turned to his son. “Jason?”
I felt as though I were watching a ventriloquist act. Horton pulled the strings, the dummy talked. I wondered if Jason felt the same way.
“We import the threads from Israel and do the packaging,” Jason said. “Our printing company does the envelopes. Rachel’s Tent handles the sales.”
“To be honest, it’s not a moneymaker,” his father said. “But not everything is about money. That’s in my book, too.”
“Dr. Bramer mentioned that a man who worked at Rachel’s Tent came up with the idea,” I said. “Randy Creeley?”
Horton looked as though I’d thrown cold water at him. Jason didn’t look much happier.
“That’s right,” Horton said, subdued. “Randy set everything up and handled it for a while. Then it got too big, so we took over.”
“You must have taken his death especially hard, since you helped him get the job.”
“It’s painful,” he said quietly. “I had high hopes for that boy. I help a lot of people, but there was something about Randy. . . . I felt a connection because his mother abandoned his family. I even loaned him money to hire someone to find her. I spent more time with him than with some of the others, had him over to dinner often. I hoped Jason would be a good influence.” He nodded in his son’s direction. “But you can’t fight drugs. Randy’s death is a tragedy for his family and friends. A goddamn waste.”
He sounded genuinely upset, and there were tears in his eyes. I debated, a little nervous to broach the next subject, but if you don’t stir the pot . . .
“I talked to the manager of the apartment building where Randy lived,” I said. “Apparently he had expensive tastes. Beautiful furniture, a big-screen projection TV, a Porsche. I can’t imagine he was earning enough at Rachel’s Tent to afford all that.”
Horton tilted his head and stared at me as though I was a dartboard and he was aiming for a bull’s-eye.
“I guess I should’ve paid attention to what I read on Google,” he said with the kind of quiet that’s more intimidating than shouting and that told me I didn’t want him as an adversary. “I thought you were interested in the women of Rachel’s Tent.”
“I am. But I’m intrigued by Randy’s story. Do you think he involved anyone else in his drug use?”
Something twitched in Horton’s cheek. “Off the record?” he said after what seemed like a minute but was probably only seconds.
Jason had turned white. “Dad—”
Horton silenced his son with a look—the dummy was talking without permission. Then he turned to me. “Well?”
“Off the record.” I would have agreed to pretty much anything if it meant I’d finally be getting information.
“Around a year ago Dr. Bramer came to me in a panic. Someone left him an anonymous note saying Randy was selling drugs at Rachel’s Tent. Randy denied it, of course. I was madder than hell. I’d given the guy a chance to make something of himself, taken him into my home.” Horton sounded pained. “Bramer worried that if we went to the police, they’d investigate everybody Randy came in contact with, and that would be the kiss of death for Rachel’s Tent. And a third strike for Randy, so he might ha
ve been in prison for life. As angry as I was, I didn’t want that on my head. So we let him go, and said he could tell people he’d quit. We didn’t report him, but as far as I was concerned, Randy Creeley didn’t exist.”
“You cut your losses,” I said.
“Exactly.” Horton nodded.
I told him that according to Gloria Lamont, Randy had made his major purchases, including the car, around five years ago.
Horton looked thoughtful. “Five years, huh? So he was probably dealing long before Bramer found out. You want to know the truth? Aside from the fact that Randy was jeopardizing Rachel’s Tent—and that really hurt—I felt like a fool. I thought I was a better judge of character. I guess I was a bigger fool than I realized.”
I thought about the newspaper clipping. There had been an item about a drug bust that had resulted in a third strike for the offender. Had Randy kept that as a warning to himself? If so, the warning hadn’t kept him from reverting to his old ways.
“What about the red-thread packets?” I asked. “Is that how Randy distributed the drugs?”
Father and son looked at each other.
“That’s what we suspected,” Horton said. “We never found out for sure. But we took over the whole operation. Like I said, that was almost a year ago. I can promise you that the only thing in those packets now is red threads from the Holy Land. Does that answer your question?”
“Pretty much. I appreciate your candor.”
“Candor, hell.” Horton grunted. “If I didn’t tell you, you’d go digging and find out anyway. I care about Rachel’s Tent, Miss Blume. It took years of hard work and a lot of dollars to make it what it is today. All it takes is a couple of questions, a raised eyebrow, and the place is history. And then where do all those women go to get help?”
I reiterated that I wouldn’t include what he’d told me in an article. A safe promise, since I didn’t plan to write one. “Did Randy ever mention a man named Jim?”
Horton shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Jason looked equally blank.
We talked awhile about Rachel’s Tent. Horton hoped to establish two more centers, one in the San Fernando Valley and one in Southeast L.A. Under different circumstances I probably would have wanted to write about the agency.
“By the way,” I said as I was ready to leave, “Randy’s sister told me he was trying to make amends for things he’d done wrong. Did he contact you?”
There had been no check next to Horton’s name on the list Randy had written, so I assumed that if Randy had written a letter, he hadn’t sent it. But there had been the phone calls. I wanted to see if Horton admitted to them.
“I’m glad you told me,” Horton said. “As a matter of fact, Randy phoned the office a couple of weeks ago. I couldn’t take the call, and when I returned it, he wasn’t in. That was the day he died. What day was that, Jason? Tuesday?”
“I think it was Thursday.”
Horton waved his hand. “Doesn’t matter. The point is, when I heard he died, I felt terrible that we didn’t have a chance to talk. I guess he wanted to go with a clean conscience. I have to give him credit for that. And maybe I wasn’t completely wrong about him after all.”
twenty-nine
GLORIA LAMONT WAS WEARING DUCKS TODAY. I KNEW my stock had risen when she invited me into her living room and offered me a seat on a green velvet sofa while she took the beige armchair that looked worn, in a comfortable way. I was happy to sit. After leaving Horton Enterprises a little after ten, I’d spent two hours collecting Crime Sheet data from the Northeast and Wilshire Divisions, and my feet ached from the high heels I’d worn to go with the black power suit I’d decided would impress Horton, though I can’t say he even noticed.
“You doin’ okay?” Gloria asked, her brown eyes filled with concern.
“Pretty okay. I have a favor to ask, Mrs. Lamont. I know you keep files on all the tenants, and I’m wondering if I could take a peek at Randy’s.”
The manager frowned. “I don’t know that I can do that. What would you be needing to see it for, anyway?”
“I’m trying to help his sister.”
“That poor girl.” Gloria tsked. “She looked something awful at the funeral. How is she?”
“I haven’t heard from her since yesterday.”
I’d phoned Frederick’s and learned that Trina had taken a leave of absence. I’d left a message on her phone but wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t returned my call. She probably didn’t want a babysitter.
“Trina gave me Randy’s cell phone.” I took the phone from my purse, turned it on, and showed it to the manager. “See the message box? There are two voice messages, and Trina wants to hear them, in case they’re important.”
Gloria eyed me, dubious. “Important how? Randy’s dead, honey. It don’t matter who called him. An’ why isn’t Randy’s sister here askin’ me? Why did she send you?”
“Somebody trashed her apartment. She’s staying in a hotel, I don’t know which one, until she figures things out. She thinks the person who did it killed Randy.”
“Randy killed?” Gloria put her hand to her mouth. Then she narrowed her eyes and dropped her hand. “Is this one of your stories?”
“No, ma’am.” I told her about Trina’s Saturday-night call for help.
“So what all do you need from Randy’s file?”
“His social security number. If I have that, I can call the cell phone company, change the password, and listen to the voice messages.”
Gloria chewed on her lip. “It don’t seem right.”
“Like you said, Randy’s dead. It’s not as though his social security number means anything to him anymore.”
“You really think someone killed him?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Trina thinks so. Did you see anybody coming to his apartment the night he died, Mrs. Lamont?”
“I was asleep before nine o’clock. I had a cold and took some of that NyQuil. I was dead to the world. Randy’s girlfriend had to ring my bell twenty times before I heard her and dragged myself out of bed.”
“So can I take a look at his application, Mrs. Lamont? No one will even know. I promise.”
Gloria tugged on the sleeves of her sweater. I could see the uncertainty in her eyes and was surprised a moment later when she nodded.
“I’ve got a box full of files. It’ll take me a few minutes.”
While she was gone, I looked around the room. There was a small brown spinet and some framed photos, one of a pretty woman who looked like a younger version of Gloria. Probably the daughter, Shirrel. Several more of Shirrel’s son and daughter. Cute kids.
“Well, here it is,” Gloria said as she came back to the living room. She handed me the application form.
I took out my notepad and pen and wrote down Randy’s social security number. “I can’t thank you enough, Mrs. Lamont.”
“I hope you’re wrong about Randy being killed,” she said as I was leaving. “I don’t like thinkin’ something like that could happen right here.”
She shut the door. I heard the sound of a dead bolt as I walked down the hall to Mike’s apartment. I rang his bell.
“Hey,” he said when he opened the door in shorts and a black T-shirt. “What’s up?”
It was almost one o’clock, but from his tousled hair and rumpled appearance, I could tell I’d woken him up. “Sorry to bother you. The night Randy died, Mike, did you see him?”
It was the first question I’d asked days ago when we were talking on the front lawn. I’d been sidetracked when he told me about Randy’s drunken confession and hadn’t realized until an hour ago that he’d never given me an answer.
“Yeah, for a minute,” he said. “I was leaving to grab a bite and catch a movie when the Domino’s guy showed. I invited him to come. Randy, not pizza man.” Mike’s smile stretched into a yawn. “He said he was meeting someone at eight, and Doreen later. He looked uptight. I thought maybe they weren’t getting along.”
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“What time was this?”
Mike scratched his head. “Seven-ten, -fifteen? The movie was nine-thirty. That was the last time I saw him. But his Porsche was in his spot when I came back before midnight.”
From Hollywood I drove to Burbank and barely got there in time for my one-thirty next-to-final fitting for my gown—a simple, full-length ivory satin slip dress with echoes of Vera Wang, a modest jewel neckline, and long, fitted sleeves.
“You lose more weight.” My dressmaker, a tiny Asian woman who made me look tall, clucked. “Okay. I take in here and here.” She pinched the fabric at my waist and hips and inserted a few straight pins, which she pulled from her mouth. “I don’t want touch here, line is beautiful.” She ran her hand across my chest. “You bring two padded bras Thursday, okay? We see which one better. Length is good?”
The length was fine. Two or three millimeters too short for the three-inch-heel ivory satin pumps I was wearing, but no one would notice. And after the chuppa, I’d be wearing the new white tennis shoes Liora had dressed up with pearls, rhinestones, and lace appliqués. It’s what many Orthodox brides do, and their mothers and other women in the bridal party. I love my heels, but they’re not made for the high-energy Israeli dancing we’d be doing throughout the dinner reception.
“You eat,” the dressmaker instructed as I was leaving. “But not too much.”
Back in my apartment I changed into comfortable clothes and fixed myself a tuna sandwich. I phoned Trina and left another message.
I contacted Randy’s cell phone service. I gave them Randy’s cell number, told them I’d forgotten my password and couldn’t access my voice messages, and supplied the necessary ID: Randy’s social security number and his mother’s maiden name, which after some hard thinking this morning, I’d remembered was Jasper.
When I hung up a minute later I had Randy’s new password, and a problem. If I accessed the voice mail via my phone, I’d be eliminating a received call, the one at the bottom of the screen.
Grave Endings Page 20
