* * *
After Scott picked up Connie in Malibu, he was hit with a sudden inspiration: why not drinks at Toppers on the eighteenth floor of the Huntley Hotel in Santa Monica? They could watch the sun fade into the haze as the city lighted up. There was always a party up there, lots of foreign tourists who jumped around between tables, lots of embracing and cheek kissing. Why not have fun with this?
He drove down Pacific Coast Highway and up West Channel Road. The cop’s interview kept edging in on his good mood, gnawing at him like a rat, a big black rat. Grandmother’s ring on the arm? Impossible. The cop was trying to shake him up. And that stuff about Steinacker? And Sainte-Croix? That didn’t even make sense. His grandparents bought the ring in Grenoble. That’s what Oma always said. And worth a fortune? Bullshit. He’d had it appraised: It was worth a couple of mortgage payments. The cop was yanking his chain.
As the evening air blew past his face, he glanced over at the passenger seat, nearly surprised to find Connie there. That’s right—it was time to party. Instantly, he dismissed the annoying thoughts.
When they got to Toppers, it was packed. Scott figured the bar was written up in some tourist guide; despite having one of the best views in Los Angeles, there were hardly ever any Americans there. Tonight it was Greeks, joking, pouring drinks, and getting everyone’s name, while the Germans, after a few glasses of retsina, bought the entire bar a round and started singing. Japanese tourists sat with their noses to the windows, pointing at the sun as it sank below the purple Santa Monica Mountains; the Australian men huddled by the bar, flirting with the female bartender.
When the Greeks spotted Scott giving Connie the ring, what was already a boisterous party exploded into a celebration. They hoisted Scott and Connie up in their chairs and carried them around the room, then back to the table, where they ordered champagne for the young couple. All the men—and most of the tourists were men—wanted to practice their English on Connie. When the Greeks started dancing, Scott figured it was time to leave.
Around nine p.m., they finally made it to Gladstone’s. They’d lost their reserved table, so they sat at the bar. Neither one of them wanted to drink any more, so they ordered club sodas. The maître d’ said they’d probably have a ten-minute wait.
Thirty minutes and a margarita later, Scott thought maybe he was beginning to like Connie, that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to be engaged to her for a while. She was so wholesome and strong, the kind of woman you’d imagine driving a prairie wagon through Montana. He had to admit, it made him feel kind of grown up to be engaged, like he could smoke a pipe and wear a pocket watch and people wouldn’t laugh at him. Like he was a man. Maybe he’d stay engaged for a while, that is, until she started to take it seriously.
Finally, the maître d’ showed them to their table, by a window overlooking the ocean. They ordered right away. The food was slow in coming, so they each had another drink.
As Scott stared out over the dark waves, his mind drifted; he imagined sitting at a café on an island in Greece, watching the local girls glance at him, then lower their eyes and hurry on. Connie was talking about something he didn’t care about, and as he drifted off, her chatter turned into the banter of Greek fishermen hauling their nets onto the dock. Then she said a name that brought him back with a crash.
“Your sister was telling me about your last girlfriend. Laura was her name, wasn’t it?” she said. “It made me a little curious.”
Scott felt a sharp pain slice between his scalp and skull. He bumped the table and nearly upset the water glasses. “Since when are you talking to my sister?”
“Last week,” she said lightly. “After dinner at your mom’s house, she said she’d like to see my line of sports clothing, so I gave her a card. She called me up, and we had lunch. I like her. We had a good time.”
“Don’t let her play you for a fool. Sammy is always plotting something. I can guarantee you she wants something from you.”
“I didn’t get that feeling at all. I thought she was nice.”
Scott hoped his silence on the matter would steer Connie on to a different topic. Dense as a post, she rattled on.
“Whatever happened to Laura?”
“Do you mind? I’d rather not talk about her.”
“Sammy said she left town kind of mysteriously.” Connie ran her finger around the edge of her margarita glass, knocking off excess salt.
“Did Sammy ask you to grill me about her?”
“No, of course not.”
Connie began to irritate him intensely, but Scott realized he was going to have to say something. He attempted nonchalance. “After we broke up, she went to Europe. She’s touring France right now. I just got a postcard from Rouen. She loves Chartres.”
“Sammy said you wanted to marry Laura?”
“Christ, Connie! Do we have to talk about her?” he said, a little too harshly. Thankfully, the waiter brought their food, which had the effect of clearing the air briefly: swordfish for him, mahi-mahi for her. The plates were too hot to touch.
“Sammy said that when Laura broke up with you, you became obsessed with her and started to stalk her. She warned me—said I should be careful with you.” Connie said this simply, without smiling, as if weighing its merits.
“Sammy’s a bitch. She can’t keep a relationship, so she tries to ruin mine.”
“She told me she was a lesbian.”
“Sammy? No way.”
“That’s what she said.”
Connie was probing for something, Scott knew, but he didn’t know what. “Why are you so concerned about Laura? Are you afraid I’ll become obsessed with you?” He lifted one side of his mouth, teasing.
“Oh no,” she said. “I don’t suppose I’m the type of girl men get obsessed about.”
True, but he knew better than to agree with something like that. “Why all the questions then?”
Connie stabbed a morsel of fish and held it in the air, looking at it; its oily flesh glistened in the candlelight. She seemed close to tears. Scott scowled—it figured she was the kind of girl to get all weepy after a drink or two. She pressed her lips together, rested her fork back on her plate, then took a breath. “I guess I’m always going out with guys who are still in love with someone else. It makes me wonder if something’s wrong with me.”
Scott nearly laughed. So she wasn’t on to anything, simply preoccupied with herself, like everyone else in this town. He knew he was supposed to say something reassuring here, but he couldn’t make the words come out. The alcohol was wearing off and he was getting that raw, rutted feeling of sobering up while still conscious.
A rage swept over him like a cold ocean current. He felt something grabbing his ankles, pulling him beneath the water—the tentacles of female manipulation. He clenched his teeth together and tried not to speak. Finally, he blurted, “I think you’d be better off not talking with my sister anymore.” He heard himself, his authoritarian tone, like a father telling a daughter she couldn’t see her beau.
Connie blushed deeply, and didn’t say much for the rest of the evening. He was glad of it. He ate his food quickly and, as soon as he was done, motioned the waiter for the check.
Afterward, he took Connie home. She invited him in, so that took a little more time than he expected; it wasn’t bad, but not like Laura. No one was like Laura.
Damn, all this talk about Laura—he wished he could just forget about her. He stopped by a liquor store for a six-pack, then headed home to watch tennis.
* * *
The evening had started out fun, Connie thought, then, besotted with alcohol, had collapsed like a mud slide. Connie almost never drank, and it seemed to make Scott irritable and mean. In the time between Gladstone’s and her house, Scott didn’t say a word to her. It was obvious he couldn’t wait to get rid of her. She felt vaguely frightened of him, knowing she had displeased him. At the same time she was angry at herself for caring that she’d displeased him.
She was surprised when h
e walked her to her door. The moon was full, their shadows bright against the house. She thanked him and said goodnight, quickly letting herself in and shutting the door. She slipped off her shoes and felt enormous relief, the kind you feel when, after dashing madly to catch a plane, you can sink into your seat. She slid open the sliding glass doors to the deck, then went to the bedroom to change out of her cocktail dress, slipping on a green silk robe.
She went into the kitchen for a glass of water. When she turned, Scott had appeared on the deck, propped on his elbows against the railing, looking at her through the open door. He propelled himself off the railing and walked toward her, pausing at the threshold. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms.
They stood there looking at each other, not speaking. A breeze off the ocean was teasing and cool. She knew what he wanted, and she felt drawn toward him; not him, exactly, but something beyond him, something sultry and anonymous. She was a little frightened, yet felt bewitched. Slowly, she walked toward him, letting her robe fall open. As he pulled her to him, pressing his mouth on hers, she felt herself sucked down beneath the waves, deep into the black ocean water.
He didn’t say a word, backing her up into the bedroom, pushing her down on the bed, tearing off his clothes, lowering his weight on top of her, his hands squeezing her buttocks, his forehead pressed against her sternum; he’d plunged inside her, urgent thrusts, like a rutting Neptune, screaming as he came.
He collapsed for a few moments, then dressed and left, leaving the sliding glass door open behind him.
* * *
When Reggie arrived at the station that morning, McBride actually smiled. He handed Reggie a search warrant for Laura’s employee records. Reggie closed the door to his office and dialed Brian Johnson’s number.
“FBI Special Agent Clarence Whitefield speaking. How may I help you?”
Reggie yanked the receiver away from his face and looked at it, his brain spinning and coming up with nothing.
“Hello?” the receiver squawked.
Reggie suddenly felt a coffee burn in his stomach. “Yes . . . this is Detective Reggie Brooks, LAPD. I was trying to reach Brian Johnson.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Could I ask what this is in regard to?” the voice was cautious.
“I have some questions about one of his company’s former employees, Laura Finnegan.”
Another short pause, then some mumbling, as if Whitefield had his hand over the receiver and was talking with someone else in the room. “Is this in regard to the commission of a crime?”
“Possibly.”
More muffled mumbling. “Johnson is currently in FBI custody.”
“What?”
“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. If you’ll meet me at FBI headquarters, I can probably clear it so you can talk to Johnson.”
“In Westwood?”
“Correct.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Reggie hopped in a slickback, shot north on Centinela to Wilshire, then east to Westwood. His thoughts were racing, trying to make sense of it, but it felt like something was jammed in the gears of his brain.
After going through security, Reggie was escorted into a small, dimly lit room with a dozen chairs in two rows, facing a one-way window. A large conference table was pushed over by the wall. Through the one-way window, Reggie saw Johnson sitting in a small lounge that looked like it was a furnished stage set from a seventies sitcom: Johnson was sweating through his white shirt, face red, hands in his lap.
A woman in a blue suit stood and approached Reggie, extending her hand. “Agent Cooper. Agent Whitefield said you were coming. You can talk with Johnson whenever you want.” Over the sound system, they could clearly hear the echoing silence of the interview room, as well as Johnson’s labored breathing and scratching. “It looks like he could use a friend.”
When Reggie walked in, Johnson almost looked happy to see him. Then his face fell. “I thought you were my lawyer. I called him three hours ago, and he still hasn’t showed.”
“What’s going on?” asked Reggie.
Johnson sighed heavily, then wiped his palms down his thighs. Reggie noticed his socks didn’t match. “I don’t know. Last time you came to our offices, you saw we were in the middle an audit. Just like every spring at the end of our fiscal year. Today I come in, and the doors are locked . . . I mean our security cards don’t work. The whole fucking place is crawling with FBI agents. I look through the reception window, and they’ve got these wagons, and they’re loading up hard drives and files. There was an FBI agent in the lobby with an employee list. He checked off people’s names and sent most of them home. But six of us got pulled aside for questioning. Then they bring me down here.”
“Have you been charged with anything?” asked Reggie.
“No.”
“You said you called your lawyer?”
“Three hours ago! He works right up the street!”
“Did they say why they’re holding you?”
Johnson dropped his face in his hands, then sat back up. “There’s a problem with the audit. They say it shows that twenty million dollars has been skimmed off from the accounts of our major clients over the last year. It was all done in small amounts, through bogus expenses and fake investments. They say it was all done from my computer, with my passwords; that the money was diverted to an account in my name. But I don’t know anything about it!”
“Where’s the money now?”
“I don’t know! There’s nothing in the account. It’s been routed to offshore banks.” Sweat poured off Johnson’s face. “I don’t know anything. They say they can’t trace it, and they keep asking me where it is. Over and over. How would I know?”
“Could one of the other employees have used your computer and password?”
“That’s what I keep on telling them, but they don’t believe me. Honestly, I don’t know how someone could do it. My office is locked at night. No one knows my passwords. Besides, we have to change them every two weeks. I swear I’ve never taken money from clients. I know I’m not smart enough to get away with it.”
“I’m sure they’ll clear you if you’re innocent.”
Johnson made a ragged bleating sound. “That’s not all.” His collar was completely soaked. “It gets worse. They’re looking at every website I ever logged on to.”
“Let me guess. Pornography.”
“I didn’t do it during company hours. I didn’t download anything, except once.”
“You’re more worried about that than getting caught stealing twenty million dollars?”
“But I didn’t steal anything!”
Whitefield entered the interrogation room. “If you didn’t, someone tried very hard to make it look like you did.”
“Where’s my lawyer?” demanded Johnson.
There was obviously no love lost between Johnson and Whitefield.
“If you tell us where the money is, I’m sure we can convince the DA to cut you some slack.” Whitefield smirked.
“I’m not dealing without my lawyer present. I need to go to the restroom.”
Whitefield nodded at Reggie, and they left. Outside, Whitefield instructed Agent Cooper to escort Johnson down the hall to the restroom. “See if he wants a soda. We don’t want him dehydrated.”
When they were alone, Reggie asked, “Have you run a polygraph on him?”
“Yeah. Three times. He passed once. The other two times were inconclusive.”
“I don’t think he did it,” said Reggie.
“Sure he did. He left his electronic fingerprints all over the place. We have tech heads going over everyone’s hard drive in the whole company. If someone else is involved, we’ll find out.”
“Where do you think the twenty million is now?”
“Who knows?”
“Can cash like that just disappear?”
“He sure knew what he was doing, I’ll say that. Dummy corporations, moving money constantly. We’re not even sure ho
w he did it. You mentioned a former employee you wanted to question Johnson about?”
“Laura Finnegan.”
Whitefield looked in a file and ran his finger down a list of names. “Yeah, she’s here. Her hard drive was completely stripped in April. Sometimes, if you keep on crashing, that’s all you can do. What did you want to ask about her?”
For a moment, Reggie couldn’t remember. “What was the date of the last transaction involving the stolen funds?” he asked.
“April twelfth. On the same day, one of Johnson’s accounts was emptied except for a thousand dollars. He denies even knowing anything about the account, of course.”
A cold wind ice-skated up Reggie’s spine. Laura disappeared between April 12 and 15. “Are you going to charge him?”
“Probably. We have a deputy DA en route. What did you want to ask about Laura Finnegan?” Whitefield was clearly not a man to get sidetracked.
Reggie felt a strong urge to keep the FBI from taking a close look at Laura. At least until he knew more. “Well, you know about Johnson’s record?”
“First thing we looked at. Sexual harassment. She have problems with him?”
“Yes.”
“Why would a homicide detective who’s head of an antigang task force be involved in that?”
So he’d been checked out. Reggie felt a simultaneous dislike for this man and sympathy for the suffering Johnson. “A family favor,” he said.
Whitefield looked at him blankly; it was obvious he didn’t buy it. “Well,” he said, “I don’t think you’re going to get anything more out of him now. He’s clammed up till his lawyer shows. But he’s not going anywhere. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about him feeling up the help.”
Reggie left with his head spinning, wondering how Laura’s disappearance figured into everything. All he could think of was how Laura looked that day when she’d said to him at the juice bar after class, “Guys like Johnson generally get what they deserve,” with a smile on her face that could melt butter.
Reggie began to feel a dry itch in his eyes and a chill on his neck. He felt the frosty lips of doubt.
Good Morning, Darkness Page 19
