by Dianne Emley
L.A. was some Fantasyland, all right.
She turned into the driveway and stopped at imposing iron gates shaded by a pair of olive trees. All she could see beyond the gates were poplar trees lining a curved cobblestone lane. An engraved brass plaque on the stone gate post said “Casa Feliz” with “Hughes” beneath it. There was a security camera above the gate keypad. The camera’s red light told Vining she was being recorded.
She looked at the camera’s make and model. She wanted such a motion-activated device for her home. After the attack, Wes had used his connections and helped Vining buy and install a security system, but cameras were the next step. Vining had not slept with a weapon in her bedroom until T. B. Mann. She knew lots of cops who did, but she had refused to live in paranoia. Before.
Emily had asked if T. B. Mann would come to their home. Given Vining’s increased interest in home security, it would have been disingenuous to rule it out. Vining told her daughter a half-truth. T. B. Mann’s return was a possibility. There was no need to be afraid, but it was smart to be prepared, just as they had set in supplies for the big earthquake that might or might not occur in their lifetimes. Emily had seemed satisfied with that answer.
But Vining knew she would meet T. B. Mann again. It was her destiny.
Vining called out her location on the portable. As she signed off, the gate rolled open. She heard the approach of a car, the sonorous rumble of an older model, and saw a red streak between the spaces in a stand of bamboo planted for privacy along the iron fence. With a screech of tires, a sports car, low to the ground and fire engine red, rounded a curve in the driveway and sped into view. The convertible top was down and the driver, wearing huge Jackie O sunglasses, the tails of the long scarf tied over her head flapping in the wind, looked as if she had no intention of stopping at the now-open gate.
Vining froze, wondering if the woman was going to ram her Jeep head-on.
The woman awakened from her driving-daze and slammed on the brakes, sending the car fishtailing and skidding sideways, coming to a stop inches from Vining.
The sports car’s door dropped open and the woman extracted herself from the small vehicle, shooting out long legs clad in tight jeans and expensive boots with dangerously high heels. She stomped over to Vining, tearing off her sunglasses with one hand and planting the other on her hip. Her ring finger was weighted with a huge diamond wedding set. She looked to be around forty.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What the hell are you doing there?”
Vining fumbled to find her shield that was hanging from a chain around her neck. Her rattled state was due to the accident that had nearly happened, but the woman’s ice blue eyes and gimlet stare weren’t helping.
She regained her composure, got out of the car, and fired back her own take-no-B.S. gaze. “I’m Detective Nan Vining with the Pasadena Police Department.”
“Oh, oh, oh…” Each exclamation ascended the tonal scale. The woman gaped as she crept forward for a closer look at the shield. “So you are. I’ve been waiting an hour. Have to leave. Cocktails on the west side. Traffic. Last thing I want to do, but…I didn’t even think about checking it out until I turned on the news. I went out to get it and there it was.”
She couldn’t follow the woman’s elliptical story. “There what was?”
Vining’s cell phone rang. The display said it was Sergeant Early. The fact she was using her cell phone said she was avoiding the police dispatch frequency that was often monitored by reporters and cop geeks.
“Hi, Sarge. I’m talking to her. Thanks.” Vining ended the call and looked again at the brass plate that was engraved “Hughes.” “Are you Iris Thorne?”
“Yes, I am. My poor husband…I try, but I can’t get the hang of a new name. I had the old one for so long. So I’m sticking with Thorne. Just call me Iris.”
“You have a video—”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you.” Thorne grimaced as she looked at a big wristwatch. She swatted the air. “Jam cocktails. Come up to the house.”
Before Vining could protest, Thorne put on her sunglasses and climbed back into the sports car. She gunned the engine, sending a puff of exhaust out the tailpipe, and headed up the lane.
Vining caught the TR6 decal with the British flag affixed to the rear fender.
S I X T E E N
T HORNE DROVE FAST AND VINING KEPT PACE. THE SIGHT OF HER SCARF tails flapping and the older car speeding past formal landscaping of trimmed boxwood, white roses, and citrus trees made Vining feel as if she were in another country. She had never traveled, but Italy, Spain, or maybe Greece seemed about right.
Around a bend, a house came into view. A manse was more accurate.
Thorne rounded a tiered fountain framed by a hedge in the center of a circular driveway, scattering several cats lounging on the warm cobblestones.
She cut the engine. Again, the car door dropped open and out flew the legs. From a tiny purse, she fished out a cell phone. With an annoyed jerk of her hand, she freed the earpiece from the purse, disgorging tubes of lipstick that went clattering across the stones.
“Son of a bitch.”
Vining parked and got out, picking up an errant lipstick tube. She noted the interlocked Cs on the label. Chanel, pricier than anything Vining could afford.
She handed it back. “Ma’am, I’ll take the video—”
Thorne mouthed “Thank you” as she put on the earpiece and began pressing speed-dial numbers on the face of the cell phone. “It’s a DVD. I’ll play it for you. Come in.” She jogged up worn marble steps to the massive front door.
The house was impressive. Surrounding the front door and extending to the second story was an elaborate façade of gray stone that seemed lifted from a medieval church. The plaster walls were terra-cotta red, shades lighter than the tiled roof. Mullioned windows lined the lower and upper floors. An incongruous touch diluted the formality. In the flower beds on either side of the porch were dozens of plastic pink flamingos.
Vining took a step toward the house then remained in the driveway. There was no need for her to go farther.
“Gar, sweetheart, I don’t think I can get there before Wink has to leave,” Thorne said into the cell phone as she opened the door. A prealarm sounded. She disappeared inside, the alarm quieted, and she reappeared to stand on the threshold, looking at Vining.
“A police detective is here. You know the homicide victim they found by the bridge yesterday? Our security camera off the back wall picked something up. Wild, huh? With traffic, I’ll just be showing up when Wink has to leave for the airport.” She waved for Vining to come up before again going inside, heels clacking against the marble floor.
Vining looked at the stairs and the darkness beyond the open front door. She didn’t move. She found this pushy woman tiresome. She had to go to the Huntington Hotel yet. Who knows how long that would take? Emily was waiting at home. And Vining was feeling drained.
Go inside the house.
Her conscience was pitiless.
She wasn’t doing it. Especially an older home like this. It looked heavy with memories. Hidden behind gates on a hilltop, anything could have happened. Just thinking of it made her palms perspire.
This is your job. Do it.
She’d demand the DVD and leave. She could avoid it this time, but the day would come when she would have to enter a house that felt wrong. On that day, she might not have the luxury of no other PPD officers around to witness her meltdown.
She heard the click, click of high heels returning. Thorne stood on the threshold, holding the cell phone by her side and talking into a twig of a microphone that extended from the earpiece. Her free hand was again on her hip. She’d taken off the scarf. Straight blond hair fell to her shoulders.
“Oh, hell. Wink won’t care. He never liked me anyway.”
She looked at Vining as she spoke, her eyes asking what was going on.
“He called me a trophy wife to my face.”
Vining flushe
d, recalling her use of the same epithet.
“Nobody puts Baby in a corner. Garland, I’ve told you what that means a million times. It’s from Dirty Dancing. Forget it. I’ll see you later. Give Wink a big kiss for me. Love you.” She chuckled before snapping closed the clamshell phone.
“Detective, your timing is perfect. You saved me from having to see this business associate of my husband’s. A Neanderthal in Armani. Going to the Westside after two o’clock on a weekday? Puh-leese. Won’t you come in? Don’t you want to see the recording?”
“I’d rather you bring it out. I don’t have much time. We’ll need to watch it at the station anyway.”
She gave Vining a puckish look. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Of course not.”
“I mean, you’re the one with the gun.” Thorne entered the house while saying, “Suit yourself.”
Vining felt foolish. She climbed the steps, counting each one, attempting to distract herself. There were six. Six marble stairs with hollows worn into them from the innumerable footsteps of people, each with their own story that had unfolded inside that house. She stepped over the threshold and entered the foyer where Thorne was standing beneath an alabaster and brass chandelier. Staircases with wrought-iron banisters circled to the right and left. Suddenly, the foyer began to expand and telescope, making Vining’s stomach churn. She blinked to shake the illusion, only to dizzily see Thorne looking at her scar. Damn the blasted thing. Maybe she would invest in that heavy-duty makeup they used in mortuaries after all.
Thorne shifted her gaze, embarrassed at being caught. “Are you all right? Would you like a glass of water or something?”
Vining started when a cat darted across the hallway. She felt nauseous.
The hell with it. If I faint, I faint.
“Thank you. I would.”
“This way.”
They circled a marble-topped table that held a crystal vase of white gladiolas. Arched doorways opened onto rooms carpeted with Oriental rugs but scant furnishings.
Vining’s breathing grew labored. She wanted to turn back, but kept on. She couldn’t give in. She had been pumped-up arrogance the week before her return. Simply seeing a corpse and entering a strange house had cut her down to size. Her career was dust. She’d get it over with and tomorrow would ask for a transfer to a desk job in Community Services.
The soul of this house cannot harm you.
Her conscience was trying to set her straight. She tried to pay attention.
Thorne walked surprisingly fast on stiletto heels. She flicked her hand toward a room that contained only a shabby recliner, an end table overflowing with reading material, and a floor lamp in front of a fireplace with a massive stone surround.
“We haven’t furnished most of the rooms yet. I’d like to tell you we’ve just moved in, but it’s been over a year. I should hire a decorator, but the first thing they all want to do is junk my pink flamingos. Too trashy for the grand manse, you know.”
Vining slumped onto a parlor bench. “Ms. Thorne…”
“Iris, please. Whoa…Should I call somebody?”
Vining drew fingers across the perspiration on her forehead. “No. Just…” she panted. “If you wouldn’t mind, would you please bring me the DVD outside?”
She stood, steadying herself against the bench and then began walking, working on placing one foot in front of the other. She felt Thorne’s eyes on her back and was relieved when she heard her footsteps receding. She reached the front door and pulled it open. The air was warm and smoggy but it felt like a balm. Dropping to sit on the top step, she rested her head in her hands and gasped.
She shook her head, recognizing the ridiculousness of her situation. How she had thought she could beat this thing by lifting weights and going into strangers’ homes. She saw now that she had tried to stop a hemorrhage with a Band-Aid.
She straightened when she heard Thorne come onto the porch.
Thorne sat beside her. She carried a DVD in a plastic box, a portable player, and a bottle of water. “How are you?”
“Fine. I’m fine. Thank you.” Vining opened the water and guzzled it. She twisted the cap back on and slowly inhaled and exhaled. Her physical symptoms faded, but she felt defeated.
“Iris, I apologize. I’m overly tired. It’s my second day back at work after a long leave.”
“You’re the officer in the El Alisal Road—”
“Yes.”
Thorne opened her mouth as if to say more, but did not. She turned her attention to the DVD, pressing the top of the player. The screen popped open. She slid in the disk.
Vining was grateful for the unasked questions.
“I had a guy from the security company out. I couldn’t figure out their software. He copied the section I wanted onto DVD.”
The small screen filled with an image in that extreme black and white created by night-vision cameras. A digital clock on the recording reported the time as 3:12 a.m. and kept a running count of the seconds. The view was from up high looking down onto scrub brush and trees. Something was moving in the brush. After a few seconds, a coyote came into view, sniffing the ground.
Thorne said, “The camera’s on the back wall. The coyote triggered the motion detector. We installed cameras around the perimeter of the property after a couple of people camped out in our backyard one weekend while we were gone. They used the pool and the barbecue. Hey, I would have, too. We’ve got barbed wire on top of the wall now. But look what’s going on in the background.”
Tiny in the distance was the western edge of the Colorado Street Bridge, the globe lights lining it glowing. Barely visible was an SUV parked on the packed dirt off the end of the bridge. A person was standing at the edge. Something large flew out and dropped over the slope. A second person of smaller stature who had been hidden by the first started running. They appeared to be a man and a woman. She ran away from the bridge and the street, past the car, and started heading down into the brush and trees. The man chased and tackled her. They disappeared over the slope only to reappear a minute later as he dragged her up onto the asphalt. She shook him off and ran toward the car. The recording ended.
“The coyote went back into the brush,” Thorne said. “So the camera shut off.”
Vining blinked at the dark screen, her mouth gaping.
“It’s the people who threw that policewoman into the arroyo. Don’t you think?”
“Could be,” Vining said.
“Too bad it’s so far away. Maybe you could have it enhanced.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Thorne removed the DVD and returned it to the case. “I hate coyotes. One of my cats disappeared and I’m sure a coyote got it, but this mangy beast here is my hero.”
“No kidding.”
“I wonder why they picked that spot to dump a body. They’re almost underneath a streetlight. It was after three in the morning, but someone could have come by. They took a huge risk to do that.”
Vining agreed. She climbed to her feet, using the railing for assistance. She felt as haggard as she was sure she looked. She brushed off the back of her slacks and held out her hand for the DVD.
“Thank you, Iris.”
Thorne stood as well. “You’re welcome.”
Vining remembered to fish a card from her jacket pocket. “I’ll find this camera around the back?”
“Yes. There are two cameras, one on each corner. The one responsible for this is on the left as you face the arroyo. I can show you the backyard.”
Thorne turned and again started up the marble staircase.
Vining spotted a side yard lined with stepping-stones and creeping rosemary. “Can we go through here?”
“Sure.”
After passing through the side yard, they entered a pergola-covered patio set up for outdoor cooking and dining. The property was deep and terraced down the hillside. Steps took them to another level and a large pool. The bottom was painted off-black, making the water look like a pond. Pricey out
door furniture and desert-hued, drought-resistant landscaping surrounded it. Vining felt as if she was at a luxury resort. She’d been with the PPD for twelve years and this was the first time she’d been inside one of these homes.
Surrounding the property was a six-foot-high wall of cement painted with a straw-hued wash that complemented the house. A spiral of concertina wire was on top.
“It’s that camera on the corner. Here…”
Thorne began dragging a teak bench and Vining helped. They both stood on it to see over the wall. On the other side, the hillside dropped steeply. The brush had been cleared fifty feet from the wall as a baffle to protect the house in case of fire. Looking right and left, Vining observed that not all of Thorne’s neighbors were as conscientious. There was an unobstructed view of the bridge. Vining looked back at Thorne’s house and saw that windows and terraces were well-positioned to take in the view.
She replayed in her mind the couple throwing Frankie’s body down the slope. There were many remote, isolated areas not far from here, but they had chosen that place. It was not random. She climbed off the bench.
Thorne yelped and windmilled her arms when she stepped wrong and one of her high heels hit an opening in the bench slats.
Vining steadied her as she made her way to the ground. They moved the bench back in place and returned to the driveway.
Vining took the hand that Thorne offered.
“Thank you very much. I’ll call you if we need anything else.”
“My pleasure.” Thorne looked at her watch. “I have newly found time. I can go back to my office and catch up. Hooray. Thank you, Detective.” She ran back inside the house.
Vining got in her car. She was elated by the confirmation that Lolita had been working with someone. Lolita was alive. At least she had been early Monday morning.
