Dead Ex, page 17
He continued looking at me. I wanted to tell him everything: how bad I felt about lying, what a nice person I often was, and how the day was going for me. But it wasn’t about me. It was about Joey.
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“Maybe,” he said, “she wasn’t home, she was talking from somewhere else?”
“You know, I’m not very good at this. I’m disappointing you, aren’t I?”
“You do okay when you stick to the truth.” Detective Born stood.
“You’ll most likely be hearing from me again.”
“Anytime. Aren’t you going to tell me not to leave town?”
“Don’t leave town.”
• • •
I’d told Simon that the police station was a safe place to be, but when I reached the door I heard a “Hey!” and saw a stranger emerge from a taxi, flagging me down. He was a slight man, not visually threatening, but still. Paparazzi. I didn’t want to talk to him. I covered my face, in case he had a camera, and hurried across the parking lot.
“Hey, you, ” he called, like that would sell me on him.
I ran. When I reached my car, I looked back to see him entering the police station. I unlocked the Integra and scrambled in. Then I screamed.
Simon was in the passenger seat.
“What are you doing, scaring the life out of me?” I yelled.
“This,” he said, leaning over to pull me into him. He kissed me.
I thought about not kissing him back, but it was the end of a long day and resistance is exhausting. Strangely, once into the kiss I couldn’t remember what I had to be resistant about.
After a few minutes of that, we stopped and sat back, staring at each other. How beautiful he was, even in the near dark. I reached out and touched his jaw, and then he took my hand and pulled me toward him again and we kissed some more.
“How’d it go in there?” he murmured after a while.
“Lovely,” I said. “How’s work?”
“Couldn’t be better. Would you consider getting naked in a park -
ing lot?”
“My car or yours?” I said.
“You think I’m kidding?”
I reached for his belt buckle. “Not at all. I know how serious you are about sex.”
His hand caught mine. “Not this parking lot. Across the street. Where are you staying, by the way?”
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“Haven’t figured that out yet,” I said.
He leaned back against the passenger door, regarding me. “It’s after ten. When were you planning on thinking about it?”
“It’s no big deal. I can stay with Uncle Theo.” I suddenly remembered his apartmentful of illegal immigrants. “Or Fredreeq, or . . .”
“Call her.”
“Later.”
“Now. I want to know you’re set for the night.”
“Later.”
“Okay,” he said, losing patience. “I’m calling a hotel.”
“Make it the Bel-Air. It’s my favorite.”
“Fine.”
“I’m kidding, Simon. Look, I’m not one of your junior operatives, so you don’t get to give orders and you don’t have to worry about me.”
“Don’t I? Do you know your friend David was killed execution-style, suggesting a mob hit? Except that—”
“Is that the theory at the Vegas office?”
He frowned at me. “Except that there are no indications that David had a problem with the mob. Which suggests there’s a killer out there with a cold-blooded manner and some planning skills. If I were LAPD, I’d take a hard look at Joey, because she was close to the victim and that’s where you start. And she profited from his death—yes, I’ve watched the news. If she’s innocent, the detectives eliminate her. But from what I can tell, they’re not doing that. Probably because she’s not acting innocent, she’s behaving erratically, and she’s involving you at every turn—”
“No, she’s not, she’s—”
“You’ve driven her car and answered her phone. You’ve been mistaken for her. The killer’s watching the news too, which means the killer’s watching Joey. And, by extension, you. So you’ll forgive me if I want to know where you’re spending your nights.”
My mouth went dry. “I’m not abandoning Joey just so you can sleep better. As to where I’ll be staying, when I know, you’ll know.”
Simon said nothing for a long moment. “Ever hear the phrase ‘pick your battles’? Because you’re not going to win this one. Call Fredreeq.”
I hit redial.
Fredreeq answered on the first ring. “Wollie?” she yelled, causing me
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to pull the phone away from my ear. “I was just going to call you. I’ve got Joey in my car, heading to her place. Can you meet us in Pasadena?”
“Okay, but—”
“And don’t tell Simon what’s going on. Make something up.” With
that, Fredreeq hung up.
“Oh . . . kay,” I said slowly to the dead phone, then turned it off.
“Go ahead, make something up,” he said. “Entertain me.” He folded his arms, managing to look relaxed even in the Integra’s small passenger seat.
I sighed. “Fredreeq is not the most soft-spoken of my friends.”
“If she thinks you’re capable of inventing a story I’ll buy, she’s not the smartest one either.”
I climbed over the console to get right in his face. “Have I told you that I’m in love with you?”
He breathed heavily, unevenly. We stayed that way, face-to-face, breathing heavily, both of us. Not touching.
“No,” he said finally. “You hadn’t gotten around to that.”
I whispered it a few more times, just to make sure he got it. Then I drove him to his car. As he opened the door, I said, “Rain check on the car sex.”
He turned to me. “You’re going to do whatever you can for Joey. I understand that. But if you get in too deep, I’m coming in after you. You’re what I care about. I’ll shut this down if I see you getting hurt.”
And without waiting for a response, he climbed out and closed the door.
Tw e n t y - e ig h t
T he drive to Pasadena was beautiful, meaning nearly traffic-free, but I didn’t rush. I didn’t want to get to Solomonhaus first, because the place gave me the willies in the dark. And in daylight. Also, I was not happy about Simon’s parting words. It wasn’t just the Gary Cooper delivery; he thought I was in danger. I couldn’t focus on that, because I’m a natural coward. To be of any use to Joey, it was better to stay in denial.
But something else bothered me too. Simon talked like he had the power to stop me from helping her. It brought to mind Zeus on the sidelines of the Trojan War, staying out until he didn’t like how things were going, then jumping in. It wasn’t just autocratic; it made me wonder, How did he plan to do it? Would he use his resources to monitor my activities? Should I check the Integra for bugs? On one hand, it was nice to know someone had my back, but I had little experience with men who rode to my rescue. In my family, men read poetry. Unless he was also planning to ride to Joey’s rescue, I wasn’t interested. Also, did that ma-cho chivalry thing ever work? With Mr. Right guarding the door, wouldn’t the bad guys just come down the chimney?
Fredreeq’s car was under the carport when I pulled into the driveway.
“In the kitchen,” Fredreeq yelled, in answer to my knock. I found her
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frowning at a hot-air popcorn popper, speaking loudly to be heard above a whirring noise. “This is it for food. This and three bottles of capers. No wonder their marriage is on the rocks. They better have butter, or this popcorn is going to taste like packing peanuts.”
“Where’s Joey?” I asked, finding a stick of margarine in the refrigerator.
“Bedroom. Setting up the TV. They keep it in a closet. How can people live like this?” She lowered her voice. “I brought her home because she’s broke and he should check into a hotel, not her. She’s not well. I don’t suppose you have any sedatives on you? Never mind. But one of us needs to stay here tonight.” Tentative pops emerged from the hot-air popper. “I vote you because I’ve got in-laws coming tomorrow. And it won’t hurt Simon to know that a king-sized bed without you in it is a sad thing.”
“I’ll stay.” I went into the bedroom and found Joey cross-legged on the bed, with a remote. On a steel shelf was a small TV. On the floor was an open bottle of champagne.
I sat on the bed. “What’s up?”
“I went to Malibu to find Elliot. His surfing haunts. The last place I tried, one of the guys had seen him in the parking lot with a woman. The bastard.”
“Arguing with her!” Fredreeq yelled.
“Immaterial!” Joey yelled back.
“A woman who looked like you, don’t forget!” Fredreeq yelled. “At least he’s consistent.”
Joey clicked the remote at the TV with a certain ferocity. “Fredreeq showed up and we found his car parked at Zuma. I assaulted it with my purse.”
Fredreeq appeared in the doorway. “I got it away from her before the strap broke. So then she starts in on the car with her hands. Rafferty, I’m signing you up for anger management. I understand beating on a husband, but when you start terrorizing a car with your own purse—that’s a Dolce & Gabbana.”
“But Joey,” I said, “if Elliot and this woman were arguing, why would you assume they were romantically involved?”
“It’s Elliot’s M.O. He likes makeup sex.”
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“Well, you ought to know,” Fredreeq said, retreating to the kitchen as the popping sound slowed. “Channel Nine!” she called. “Seconds to go.”
“So Fredreeq hauled me out of there, because I was attracting a crowd.”
Joey reached for the champagne. “Bottom-feeder,” she added, referring not to Fredreeq but to Angel Ramirez, in a “Channel Nine Special Report.”
Angel, microphone to her pink lips, announced that the bulk of
David’s estate was going to his former girlfriend Joey Rafferty and his brother, Charles, implying that the police need look no further for suspects. Angel also mentioned the early rumors of assisted suicide, but only in order to refute them. Jen Kim appeared on the small TV screen, caught outside the Century City office building that morning.
“David was living for February sweeps,” Jen said in her rapid-fire delivery. “We have a hot storyline coming up, which he created before he got too sick to work. I’m not saying he wouldn’t orchestrate his death, but not till March at the earliest.”
Tricia appeared next, in a tiara and a strapless evening gown, presumably interviewed from the set. “As a Christmas present, I sent David my acupuncturist,” she said, “and he brought David to a very good place mentally. So suicide just wasn’t an option. He’s excellent. Chinese. The acupuncturist, I mean.”
Next up was a nun. “Just after Thankgiving,” she said, “David heeded a call to return to the faith, which prohibits suicide. I began coming to the house, doing visits and so forth, part of a parish-patient outreach program. David was very determined to make his peace with everyone before meeting his Maker.”
“I’d say that’s overstating it, Sister,” Joey said to the TV.
“And so,” Angel said, returning to the screen, “perhaps we can lay to rest the theory that David Zetrakis had a hand in his own death. As for those reports that the murder weapon was a gun from his own soap opera, At the End of the Day, LAPD has not yet confirmed them, but we’ll let you know the moment they do.”
We stared at the screen as a car commercial appeared.
“Oh, God,” Joey said. “Tell me I didn’t just hear that.”
Fredreeq passed the popcorn. “What’s the problem? It’s not like
you’re on the show anymore.”
“I was there constantly. The set. The whole month. David put me on
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the list at the guard gate, I had my own parking place. He was trying to produce the show from his deathbed, so he had me running back and forth all the time. I humored him. We all did.”
“You didn’t tell him about Jen’s rewrites, though?” I said. “About the people she saved from nuclear death?”
“No, but he found out—about Tricia, anyway. Her new contract.
That’s what we fought about on Christmas Eve. He was mad that we were keeping things from him, and I told him to let it go, to let Jen find her way, give her some breathing room. He was a micromanager. It was at odds with this newfound spiritual thing, this spirit of forgiveness that came over him at the end. I just wanted him to relax.”
“Back up,” Fredreeq said. “I don’t understand this gun business. If the murder weapon was a prop, how could it kill someone?”
“Shows use replicas and real guns both,” Joey said.
“Clay Jakes was talking about this last night,” I said. “Now I understand it.”
Joey silenced the car commercial with a click. “Clay’s another problem. I’ve known him for fifteen years. We’re buddies.”
“So?” Fredreeq said.
“I hung out in the prop room a lot. At the holiday party a few weeks ago we were in there doing shots of tequila. Clay was schnockered.
Showed me the current arsenal. He locked it up afterward, but the keys were lying around all night.”
“So everyone had access to the gun,” I said. “Anyone working on the show.”
“You’re missing the point,” Joey said. “I’m not anyone. I’m now the trifecta of homicide suspects. I’ve got means, motive, and opportunity.”
“Have the cops figured that out, do you suppose?” I asked.
“Yeah.” Joey reached for her bottle of champagne. “There’s a message on the machine, wanting to know if I’ll take a polygraph test. You know, to ‘rule me out as a suspect.’ ”
“And?” I said. “Are you going to?”
Joey downed the last of the champagne, then lay back on the bed, closing her eyes. “Hell, no.”
Tw e n t y - n i n e
I woke the next morning to the sound of a doorbell alternating with frantic knocking. It took me a second to realize whose door and bell it was; I was in a bedroom so austere it might have been a space module.
Once I figured it out, I waited for Joey to answer her front door. When that didn’t happen, I wrapped a gray cashmere blanket around myself and padded across gray concrete floors to the foyer.
The man seeking to enter Solomonhaus was athletic and tan, with
gelled hair and irritation wrinkles on his face. “Who are you?” he said.
“The butler,” I said. “Who are you?”
“Where’s Elliot?” he asked, and brushed by me, displacing my blanket. I wrapped it more firmly about me.
“No idea,” I said. “But Joey’s here someplace. I smell coffee.”
“This is one goddamn peculiar house,” he said, heading for the kitchen quadrant. “I keep telling him, ‘Guy, get a flat-screen TV. Hang some pictures.’ Here, I brought the mail in. It was falling out of the box.” He handed me a clump of letters and magazines as though I were in fact the butler, then helped himself to coffee. He took a sip and grimaced. “Stuff could fuel a jet. Hey, Joey!”
He continued on his way through the house, with me behind him.
Joey wasn’t in her room, but the bed was rumpled. There weren’t many
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places to hide in the house, and when we went through the sliding doors to the backyard, there she was, lying in the sun on a stone chaise, eyes closed, coffee mug resting on her concave stomach. She wore the clothes she’d been wearing the night before.
“Hey, Rafferty. Wake up,” the man said, grabbing one of her cowboy-booted feet and wiggling it.
Joey’s eyes opened. She looked at him, at me, then back at him. “Hi, Van Beek. Where’s Elliot?”
“That’s what I’m here to ask you.”
Joey frowned and sat up, setting her coffee mug on the grass beside her. “You really don’t know where he is?”
“I really don’t. We were supposed to do a conference call with our accountant this morning and he didn’t show. What’s up with that?”
“Your accountant?” Joey said. “Why was he talking with an accountant?”
“Calm down. We had to do year-end stuff. Who cares? The point is, he didn’t make the call, and where the hell is he?”
Joey stood up, rubbing her face with both hands. “Sorry. I don’t know where he is. Obviously. Did you two meet, by the way? Wollie, this is Drew Van Beek, Elliot’s partner in all his nefarious enterprises. Drew, this is my best friend, Wollie.”
We shook hands. “Pleasure,” he said.
“Wollie, help yourself to my clothes,” Joey said. “I’ve got sweatpants and stuff in the bottom drawer in the bedroom.”
I thought of Achilles lending his armor to his friend Patroklos, inad-vertently causing his death. This was Simon’s doing, putting thoughts like this in my head—
“Hey!” Van Beek was staring at me. “You were in Elliot’s reality show, weren’t you? Didn’t recognize you in a blanket. Did something to your hair too.”
“Yes, I know, I—”
“Okay, I’d love to chat, girls, but here’s the deal. I need him to sign off on two documents by the end of business today, because tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve, after which options lapse and two projects fall off the table. Get it?”
I said, “Can Joey sign stuff on his behalf? Since she’s his wife?”
“You mean forge his signature?” He looked at Joey. “You any good at that?”
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“Not great.” Joey glanced at me. “Wollie doesn’t mean forgery; she means legally, as his wife, could I—?”
“Is there a Mrs. Horowitz on the letterhead? Are you at the board meetings? No. What are you talking about?” Van Beek was irritated, but he wasn’t questioning her marital status. If Elliot knew about Ziggy’s perfidy, he hadn’t told his business partner.
“Okay, just trying to be helpful.” I headed into the house to change.
Joey got up to follow, saying, “We better call what’sername, the flight attendant he’s been sleeping with.”
