“Let’s just say you’re right about this, and I’m watching someone. Who might that someone be?”
I shook my head. “You’re not going to get me to give up my suspects so easily.”
Suddenly he was in my face. He’d had something with garlic for dinner, had eaten mints since then, but they weren’t quite up to the job. “Suspects? You got suspects? If you know something, you better tell me now. I’m sick and tired of you butting your ass in where it doesn’t belong, but if your butting got you something useful you better tell me about it.”
“Back off, Detective.”
“And if I don’t?”
Hmm. Good question. “There’s really no one in there I suspect.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I came up to—”
His eyes wavered. Just for an instant his glance went off me and onto whoever was in the doorway to the meeting room. Then it returned to me. But something had changed. He’d seen whoever it was he wanted to see.
I turned. The person he’d reacted to was around my age, average height, jet-black hair. Thin features, just enough makeup, tasteful jewelry. She had her arms wrapped around a potful of oncidium. Its flower stalk towered over her head.
The guy I’d seen watching me at the judging, the one with the monumental forehead, emerged from the room, proprietarily put his hand on her shoulder, guided her down the hall and onto the stairs. I turned back to Casillas. “It’s that woman, isn’t it?”
“You are so wrong.”
“I saw your eyes flicker.”
“You’re going to see your head flicker if you don’t get your ass out of the way of official business.”
“It is her. Who is she?”
I’ve had about enough of you. “Just stay out of my way.” He barged past me, and down the hall to the staircase.
Gina emerged from the meeting room, barely carrying a cymbidium I was sure had been the biggest thing on the raffle table. “What’s happening?”
“Casillas suspects some woman.” I considered following him outside. I decided it wasn’t a good idea. I did it anyway.
The three of them were standing at the far end of the parking lot, engaged in a heated though low-volume conversation. I moved a few steps across the lot to try and hear them better. Casillas saw me. He gave me a nasty look. I beat it back inside and up the stairs.
“Who is she?” Gina asked.
“I don’t know.” I eyed her acquisition. “What’s with the plant?”
“I thought it would look good on the patio.”
“You realize how ugly those things are when they’re not in bloom?”
So I’ll throw it out. I only spent a couple of dollars on tickets. It was an impulse buy. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“In a minute. There’s someone I want to speak to.”
“That Sharon, no doubt.”
“I’ll meet you at the car.”
“Take this. If I try to carry it down the stairs, I’ll fall down them for sure.”
I let her give me the plant. “Okay, shrimp.”
She stamped off. I returned to the meeting room, where Sharon was winding up the fat extension cord that had powered the projector. “There’s a woman,” I said. “Forties, very black hair. With a guy with a high forehead who’s a judge. Who is she?”
“That would be Helen Gartner. The man’s David.”
I thought of the night Albert was killed. What Laura had told me. As for Helen, she has problems of her own.
“Casillas practically chased her outside,”I said.
“I wonder what for.”
“Maybe those business dealings you said they had with Albert went awry.”
“Maybe.” She indicated the plant I was carrying. “Nice cymbidium.”
“It’s my friend’s.”
“How much of a friend is she?”
“My best friend. Why do you ask?”
“I was just curious.”
Curious, my eye. I can recognize the Ten Warning Signs of Interest in the Opposite Sex.
I put down the cymbidium. “I hope to see you again soon.”
“That would be …nice.”
“Let’s go out on a date.”
Her eyes looked stricken. “Look,” she said. “A long time ago I had a bad experience with a relationship. I’m very careful now.”
“Fine. No big deal.”
She took up another loop of the extension cord. “I knew you would ask again.”
“I won’t bite, I promise.”
“I know you won’ t. I think you’re probably a very nice man.” At least she hadn’t said sweet. “But I need to know you a little better.”
How about this? Tomorrow afternoon I’ll be at the Kawamura Conservatory at UCLA. I do volunteer work there. Why don’t you come by, let me show you some of the plants I’m into. “We can spend a little time together, but it won’t really be a date.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“You told me interesting means a person hates something.”
“I did, didn’t I? That’s not what I meant just now. I meant it literally. I meant—”
“I smiled. I knew what you meant.”
“She returned the smile. This will work out well. Tomorrow’s my day off. What time?”
“How about two?”
“Sounds good.”
“You need directions?”
“I’ll find it.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Yes.”
“Two o’clock.”
“I won’t forget.”
“Good.” We stood there awkwardly, not knowing how to part. Finally I held out a hand, and she took it, and I put my other one over hers, and she put her other one over mine. We gave the whole thing a shake and she went on her way. I picked up Gina’s plant and went on mine.
We got back to Gina’s place at ten-twenty. She put the cymbidium on her balcony and went to check her answering machines. On the business line a client insisted the color was coming off her chairlegs and staining her carpet. “And,” the woman added, “I’m having the head of production at Sony over tomorrow night.”
The personal line bore a message from Gina’s mother. The Virgin had made an appearance in a little town in the Mojave, at a 7-Eleven, on the wall above the Slurpee machine. Mrs. Vela was making a pilgrimage in the morning and wanted to know if Gina would go with her.
“Fat chance,” Gina said. She went into the kitchen. “You want some ice cream?”
“I’ll pass.”
She came out with a pint of Häagen-Dazs chocolate chocolate chip and a spoon and transferred a couple of slabs into her mouth. Then she said, “Have you realized you’re interested in sex only when somebody gets killed?”
“I’m a man. I’m always interested in sex.” Pause. “What makes you think I’m interested in sex?”
“The way you look at that Sharon woman. The only time I see you look that way anymore is when somebody gets murdered and you get involved in the investigation.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”
“Is it? When was the last time you got laid? Or even had a date?”
“I don’t know, let me think—”
“Of course you know. It was right after we solved Brenda’s murder. That coed. And before that, the other one, while we were solving Brenda’s murder. And before that?”
“I don’t keep a scorecard.”
“Well, I do. Before that it was another year. Now don’t you think it’s weird that you got involved with two women when Brenda was killed, and now this Albert guy’s dead and you’re ready to go screw this Sharon, and in between you were like a monk?”
I’m not ready to screw her. “You’re making me sound like some kind of necrophiliac because I happen to meet interesting women only when someone gets killed.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Drop it, okay?”
“Okay. Sheesh.
”
“We put on the news, then watched Letterman. Julia Roberts, Madeleine Albright, Tori Amos. When they’d all done their thing, Gina got up from the sofa. I’m going to bed.”
“Okay.”
“Are you coming?”
I don’t think so. “Last night was one thing. We were drunk.”
“You’ll sleep with me only when you’re drunk?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Come on, Joe, do you really want to drive home at this time of night?”
“It’s not that late.”
She looked down at me. Fine. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She walked out of the room. Shadows in the hallway shifted as she turned on the lamp in her bedroom. I heard her doing stuff in the bathroom. Shadows reverted when she switched off the bedroom lamp.
I sat for ten minutes, got up, turned off the TV, walked into the bathroom. Always empty your bladder before you go home, that’s my motto.
As the stream diminished to a trickle, I asked myself, What the hell are you afraid of, Portugal?
Yeah, but what about Sharon?
What about her? You haven’t even had a Real Date with her.
You haven’t even had a pseudo-date with her.
I went into the bedroom, stripped to my Jockeys, climbed into the empty side of the bed.
Ten minutes later I was still awake. Gina wasn’t. Her even breathing was the only sound I could hear.
Until a car backfired outside. Gina raised her head from her pillow. She reached out a hand, encountered my shoulder, said, “Good,” withdrew her arm. Moments later she was back asleep. Sometime after that, so was I.
I awoke to the sound of Gina in the shower. When the hissing stopped, I jumped out of bed and got dressed. A few minutes later she came out, wearing the biggest terry cloth robe I’d ever seen. It dragged on the floor like a bridal gown. She saw me looking. “Mom got it at the outlet mall. Seven dollars. What a bargain.”
I went into the kitchen to rustle up some tea. She came in just as the water boiled. “Are you going to infiltrate anybody’s confidence today?” she asked.
“My day’s pretty well laid out. I may not have any time for infiltrating.”
“Oh? How so?”
“To start with, this morning I’m going to an acting class with Laura.”
I expected static. Nope. “That’s good. Some real acting would be good for you. What else?”
“I promised Eugene I’d work up at the Kawamura this afternoon. We’re shifting euphorbias.”
“Sounds like a Talking Heads album.”
“And Sharon’s coming up to see the collection.”
“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”
“Why don’t you want me seeing her?”
I don’t not want you seeing her. I want you to get laid. “So you’ll stop trying to maul me all night.”
“No mauling went on last night. I would remember.” I looked into her eyes. Gi, this sleeping in the same bed is really bizarre. “I think we ought to quit.”
You did too maul me. “I woke up in the middle of the night with your hand on my breast.”
“You did not.”
“Did. I poked you with an elbow and you rolled over.”
“I had a hand on a breast and I didn’t even know it?”
“You snooze, you lose.” She headed toward the door.
“Let’s have dinner at French Market tonight. Meet me there at seven.” Then she was gone.
I finished my tea, thought about going home to shower and shave and change, realized I didn’t have time. So I showered there and locked up. Gina and I had traded keys long before.
The sky was especially bright as I drove up Beachwood Drive and parked at Laura’s. The jacaranda danced in the breeze. The same two kids were out front. The bikes had been replaced by skateboards. I said hi to them. They mumbled something back.
I went to Laura’s door and knocked. No answer. I knocked again, louder, realizing how stupid that was. In that bandbox, if she didn’t hear me knocking the first time, she wouldn’t hear me if I used brass knuckles.
Could she have forgotten me? Doubtful. Maybe she’d run to the market and was even then turning onto Beachwood.
No. Her car was outside.
Maybe she was in the laundry room.
Or maybe—
I don’t know why I took the knob and tried to turn it. I don’t know why I wasn’t surprised when I was successful.
I poked my head in. “Laura?”
The sofa bed was pulled out, the sheets and pillows scattered around on it. Suppressing a ridiculous urge to make and fold up the bed, I walked into the kitchen. That’s where I found Laura.
She was lying on the floor, more or less on her left side. There was a gun by her side, a few inches from her outstretched hand. There was blood on her head, and on the floor. Not a huge amount. Just enough to tell me she was dead.
12
I CALLED 911 AND TOLD THEM WHAT HAD HAPPENED AND gave them the address and my name and whatever other trivia they asked for. When I hung up, I looked for something to cover Laura with. It seemed cruel to leave her there, exposed to the world. But grabbing a shroud might mess up evidence. I looked at her one more time, feeling horribly guilty about my doubts about her innocence, then let her be and went outside.
The taller of the skateboard boys knew something was up. He rolled over, with the other one close behind. I shut the door and stood in front of it. I told them nothing was happening. They didn’t believe me. I suggested they go back to their previous loitering spot. They liked their new one. We made sparse small talk until authority arrived.
The paramedics came first, with a couple of uniformed officers at their heels. They hustled my new friends and me off to the sidewalk in front of the house. Another car or two showed up, and while the first pair of cops protected and served inside, their comrades strung yellow crime scene tape and kept an eye on me. Some length of time later—it might have been five minutes and might have been thirty, things were a little hazy—Casillas showed up.
He was driving a big blue Chevy sedan with an antenna farm on the roof. It looked identical to the one he’d driven a year before, prior to his promotion. He got out and saw me and rolled his eyes. “Make sure this one doesn’t go anywhere,” he said, and he and the lanky guy who’d been riding shotgun went inside.
A crowd, a weird midmorning mix, gathered and gawked behind the yellow tape. Some senior citizens. Some young faces who had the look of out-of-work actors. Ambition tempered with the beginning of the realization that they hadn’t a chance in hell of making it in their chosen profession. They’d all have an interesting story to tell their waiter and waitress friends that evening.
There were a couple of street people too. One had a brown cardboard sign telling the world he was a Vietnam vet with diabetes. Maybe he was telling the truth about the diabetes. If he’d served in Vietnam, he was about six months old at the time.
They all stood making conjectures about what had happened. Somebody said a gas leak had killed someone. One of the old folks began a discourse on automatic earthquake shutoff valves. If there’s been one, he said, no one would be dead now. The cardboard sign guy pointed out that there hadn’t been an earthquake.
Finally Casillas came out. The bags under his eyes were darker than ever. He spotted me and said, “I’ll take this one,” like I was a burrito in the deli case at Vons. He led me under the overhang, where a skinny Filipino guy, one of ten or so crime scene types scurrying about, was poking around in Laura’s Accord.
I thought the first thing out of Casillas’s mouth would be an accusation. Tell me you did it, I expected him to say. Then we can all go home early. But he simply pulled out his pad and cheesy wood pen. Okay. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened here today?”
“How the hell do I know?”
I mean when you came up here. “I’m assuming it was after she was dead, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I shrugged. The door was unlocked. I went in. I found her. “I called 911.”
“How come you happened to be over here?”
“Laura was going to take me to her acting class.”
“You need classes for commercials?”
“I thought I might get back to the theater.” Like he cared. He wrote something on his pad, looked up at me again. “Got any idea why she did it?”
It took me a second. What? “You think she killed herself?”
And Oberg too. “It makes a nice little package, doesn’t it?”
The scene in the kitchen materialized in my mind’s eye. “You’re assuming, just because the gun was in the general vicinity of her hand, it was suicide?”
“Sure. Felt guilty about Oberg.”
“But she has an alibi for the night he was killed.”
“She does, does she?”
“You know she does. She had dinner with Helen Gartner. Speaking of whom—”
“Time of death could have been after they say they went their own ways.”
“Could have been?”
“You think we can come in, see a body, know the minute they died? You been watching too much Diagnosis Murder.”
“But she has an alibi after she left Helen too. She came back here to feed her cat. She must have told you this.”
“You believe the cat story, huh?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“It’s not much of an alibi. No one saw her doing it except the cat, and he’s not talking.”
“He didn’t yell for his food when I took Laura back to her place. So she must have fed him when she said she did.” My experience with cats was pretty much limited to Garfield, but the yelling thing seemed reasonable.
“You an authority on cats?”
“No, but you know how animals are when they haven’t been fed.”
He pursed his lips. I got the impression he agreed with me but didn’t want to admit it. “If she didn’t do it,” he said, “who do you think did?”
“You’re asking for my opinion?”
A small shrug. “Can’t hurt.”
Death of an Orchid Lover Page 9
