Dead Ex, page 6
“God, this sucks.”
“There’s a Starbucks on the other side of Ralphs.”
“Too exposed. So anyhow, I stupidly didn’t say anything until we were driving to Rex and Tricia’s. He didn’t even have the imagination to deny it plausibly. So I knew. And he knew I knew. And I knew he knew I knew. And then we walked into the party.”
She looked immeasurably sad. The adjacent table was tearing into Greek salads with gusto, and I thought of Sheffo, saying that Greeks were everywhere. I asked Joey if she was sure she didn’t want some falafel, or a pita pocket, or maybe some frozen yogurt, but she shook her head. She glanced out the window behind us, then turned back to me.
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“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready to go, but I have a problem. Can you go over to Rite Aid and buy me a big hat?”
“Yes.”
“And can you pay for this coffee I’m drinking?”
“Yes.”
“And can we trade cars?”
“I have to drive your car?” I asked, alarm setting in. “Why?”
“See the Mini Cooper outside, parked parallel to us, first row over there?”
I could just make out a person in the driver’s seat. “Is it stalking you?”
“Yes,” Joey said. “He doesn’t know I’m in here, but he’s spotted the car.”
I didn’t need to hear more. I walked to the Topanga Canyon side of the strip mall, past the grocery stores and a dozen odd shops, ending up at an ATM machine. I then retraced my steps, acquiring merchandise as I went: a double espresso, a floppy hat, a cowboy hat, some tangerines, a half dozen protein bars, a previously viewed DVD of The Great Escape, three paperbacks, and a hairbrush. I had no idea where Joey was headed, but she wasn’t going to die of scurvy, caffeine withdrawal, or boredom on my watch.
Back at the pita place, Joey knocked back espresso and told me her plan. “If I can borrow your car to get home, I should be able to lose the Mini Cooper. I just need my purse and credit cards to check into a hotel.”
“I bet you can lose the Mini Cooper on the freeway in your own car,”
I said. “You’re the best driver I know.”
“No gas,” she said, stuffing her hair into the floppy hat. “No ATM
card, no money. And even if you lend me some, I stop at the 76 station, I’ll have a camera in my face, and just look at me. A bad angle in direct sunlight? I’ll look like a serial killer.”
She had a point. Beauty aside, her eyes were bloodshot and she was getting that gaunt look that happened when she skipped meals. I could imagine a photo taken today juxtaposed with one of her Vogue covers, with the caption “Former top model stoops to murder and pumping
own gas.”
“If I’m lucky,” she said, “something of national interest will happen soon, and David’s murder will get buried in the back pages.”
“Until the police arrest someone,” I said.
Joey didn’t respond immediately. “I can’t worry about that. I just gotta
4 8 H A R L E Y J A N E K O Z A K
get through the next few days. I don’t want to be within shooting distance of Elliot, because I swear to God, I could kill him, but I need stuff from the house.”
“Let me pick it up for you.”
“No, it’s better this way, with you in my car as a decoy. Can we trade jackets?”
“Sure.” I handed over my blazer and tried on her leather coat. It wouldn’t button across my chest. “Take some cash too. And why don’t you stay with us? Simon’s got room, and—”
“Nope. You’re in the honeymoon stage. You don’t need me hang-
ing out.”
Simon would probably agree. “Joey,” I said. “On the news last night, David’s housekeeper said you’d had a fight with him.”
She looked startled. “When? Oh, Christmas Eve. That was just . . .
nothing. A mild argument. Not even a blip on the screen, for us. I was back at his place Christmas morning.” She sighed. “I went back again today to pick up some of my stuff, but I couldn’t get in. The house is a crime scene, so the whole cul-de-sac is blocked off.”
“What stuff?”
“Clothes, books, my Day Runner.”
“God, Joey. It sounds like you were pretty much living there.”
“I was, this month. He never liked being alone, and now that he was dying . . . And we’d gone so long without speaking, we wanted to make up for lost time.”
I’d had no idea. I’d been too wrapped up with Simon. “And Elliot didn’t mind?”
“Elliot encouraged it. As it turned out, he was rather busy himself.”
I took a deep breath. “Joey, did you—I mean, you didn’t . . . shoot David, did you? Not murder, of course, but—did David ask you to help him die?”
Joey’s eyes filled with tears. They were wide-set and river green, eyes that looked like they’d stayed up too late and seen too much. “I didn’t shoot him,” she said. “Not for any reason. But I don’t know if anyone in this town will believe that.”
“I do.” It unnerved me, seeing Joey so vulnerable. “Come on. Let’s get you wherever you’re going, so you can get some sleep.”
Te n
I am not a car person. I’m certainly not an Other People’s Cars person.
So it was with anxiety that I pulled onto Topanga Canyon Boulevard in Joey’s Mercedes.
The gas warning light was on, and I looked for a gas station that didn’t require a left-hand turn. The Mini followed. I passed one mall after another, headed for Chatsworth, or somewhere. San Francisco. An-chorage. A phone rang in Joey’s coat.
I checked a pocket and pulled out two dimes, some chewing gum,
and a parking ticket, on the back of which was printed “sudstud,” in sloppy pink letters. I turned it upside down and now it read “pntspns.”
I threw it across the seat and tried another pocket, and found the phone.
“Hello?”
“Joey? Hot Spot magazine, and we’re interested in your side of the story and—”
“What story would that be?”
“How you reconciled with David Zetrakis after he fired you from At the End of the Day ten years ago, which was the beginning of the end of your career—”
“That wasn’t the end of my career!”
“Really? That disfiguring facial scar wasn’t a—”
5 0 H A R L E Y J A N E K O Z A K
I hung up.
This was bad. I was shaking with indignation, and I didn’t have half the temper Joey did. She could deck someone. She might avoid a murder charge, only to be picked up for assault. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Yes, the Mini was still behind me. What if they took my photo, thinking I was Joey? What if I ended up in the Los Angeles Times?
Simon wouldn’t like that. He wouldn’t be crazy about someone following me home, either.
I’d been followed before, once or twice. By Simon, actually. This should be old hat by now, and I should be able to disappear in traffic.
How hard could it be?
A gas station appeared on the corner; I pulled over to the right fast, cutting off a Honda minivan, which caused it to honk at me, which upset me. I missed the entrance, took a quick right on Sherman Way, and pulled into the station’s adjoining car wash.
I zoomed up to the attendant, hopped out of the Mercedes, and
handed him a ten-dollar bill. “If you can push my car through first, ahead of everyone,” I said, “I’ll give you another tip on the other side. Big hurry.”
“What kind of wash you want?” he asked. “Silver? Gold?”
“I don’t care. Whatever. Blue plate special. You pick.” I was running toward the cashier when the attendant called me back, waving the invoice at me.
“What kind of air freshener?” he called. “Banana, vanilla, pine, coconut—”
“It doesn’t matter. Banana.”
“And Armor All?” he said. “On your tires?”
“Anything! Anything!” And I was off again, running into the convenience store to pay the bill. God knows how much this maneuver would cost, and I hadn’t even gotten gas. Through the window, as I was talking to the cashier, I could see the Mini pulling into an adjoining parking lot.
Out of the Mini stepped a very short man. He looked around, seeming not to see the Mercedes. Good. It worked. Joey’s car was now hidden inside the car wash. But car washes are not forever.
The man reached into the Mini and pulled out not a camera, but a yellow legal pad. He climbed over the hedge separating the car wash from the mall and walked right toward the convenience store.
I was about to duck into the bathroom when I realized that a short
D E A D E X 5 1
man with a legal pad posed no clear threat to either Joey or me. I went out to meet him.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
He looked at me curiously. He had a happy, elfin face. “I don’t know.
Do I need help?”
“Are you following Joey Rafferty’s car?”
“I am. But you’re not Joey Rafferty, are you? No. Wait—” He looked at the leather jacket and frowned. “Have I been following you all along?
From the church?”
“What church?”
“The Church of Religious Science. Toluca Lake.”
“No, you’ve been following me from Ventura Boulevard.” Now I was confused. “Are you a reporter?”
“No, I’m a lawyer. Here—” He reached into his sports jacket for a business card. “I saw you pull in here, so I figured you—Joey—was trying to ditch me, so I was just going to leave a note on the car.” He wrote numbers on his legal pad and tore off the page. He handed it to me. “The business card’s old. But that’ll explain who I am. She’ll know. Tell her we must speak, that my spiritual survival is at stake. And warmest regards to her. And to you too.”
“And to you too.” I remained confused. As he moved off, I glanced at his card. “Avram ‘Ziggy’ Ziegler, divorce attorney. Houston, Texas.” I stared. Was this some new form of ambulance chaser, a lawyer who heard rumors of a troubled marriage and stalked the unhappy spouse to solicit business? I was about to call Joey when I realized I had her cell phone.
And, of course, she had mine, left in my Integra. I called myself. Joey answered.
“Never heard of him,” she said when I filled her in on Avram “Ziggy”
Ziegler. “Hey, some new creep is following me. Either he saw our bait-and-switch routine or you have a paparazzo of your own. Can I take you up on your offer? I just need a few things from home and I don’t want to lead him to my front door.”
“No problem.” Twenty minutes later I reclaimed the now clean Mercedes and found the spare set of house keys she kept in the glove box.
Joey kept spare keys everywhere, in anticipation of losing them.
I pulled around to the gas pump in Joey’s car, filled Joey’s tank with gas, and set out for Joey’s house, deeply thankful that I wasn’t Joey.
E l e v e n
T he Pasadena residence that Joey and Elliot called home was so serious it had a name: Solomonhaus. It’s a place you’d see in Architectural Digest and think, What kind of people live there? Even Joey, before she moved in, wondered that.
The answer, we now knew, was: one person obsessed with architec-
ture and one willing to overhaul her lifestyle to go along for the ride.
Joey’s money provided the down payment, but Elliot was the obsessive, studying up on the 1920s modernist movement to live in it as Rolf Solomon, the architect, had intended. What would happen to Solomonhaus in a divorce? Easy to imagine Elliot fighting for custody of it the way other men fight for the children. Easy to imagine Joey walking away.
Someday. Now she was more likely to burn it down.
Elliot’s BMW was gone, but when I pulled into the driveway a Jeep drove in behind me.
I got out of the Mercedes as a man and woman got out of the Jeep. Our doors slammed as if synchronized. The man had a camera up and shooting before I could think what to do, and the woman hurried toward me.
“Hi. Miss Rafferty?” she said.
I was so taken aback to be mistaken for Joey this close up, I said,
“What?” The man, perhaps taking that as a yes, kept filming.
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“We’re sorry for your loss,” the woman said, with no trace of sorrow in her voice. “Can you tell us how you heard the news?”
“Who are you?” I asked, but it was a stupid question. Who else could she be?
“Have the police questioned you? Are you a suspect?”
I came to my senses and said, “Go away.”
They didn’t move. I raised my voice. “Go on! This is private property.” The camera came closer. Amazingly, I wanted to kick the guy, and contented myself with stopping the lens with my hand. It was a reflexive response. A lifetime of watching news clips where celebrities and defen-dants put up a hand, blocking out the picture, now made sense. I also had a new understanding of that special L.A. pastime, assaulting photographers. Resisting the impulse, I ran to the front door, fumbling with keys, opened it, and slammed it behind me, locking it.
The house was cold, made of mostly concrete and steel, with wood accents. It was art-gallery bare. In the center of the living room was an unadorned fir tree. Its nudity was due not to post-Christmas undressing but to the fact that Rolf Solomon had not believed in ornamentation and, thus, neither did Elliot Horowitz. For that matter, Elliot didn’t believe in Christmas. He’d spent this one in Vegas, on business. The tree was a concession to Joey’s cultural sentiments, but it looked lonely and dys-functional. Still, it had once been alive, which was progress. In their first year in Solomonhaus, Elliot had brought home a “fir” tree made of iron.
I stood, breathing heavily from exertion—I never exercise—and
residual anger, and wondered how long this was going to go on for Joey.
Maybe it wasn’t so strange to be mistaken for her. It’s not that we looked alike, other than being tall and female; it was that those reporters didn’t know her. Joey was a star only to people who remembered her acting work, mostly from her last TV gig, Gun Girl, but also the old At the End of the Day fans. That left out most of humanity. Even those who’d watched the news last night wouldn’t know her this morning, so great was the difference between Joey all dolled up and Joey au naturel. She had a strong chameleon quality, going from plain Jane to glamour and back again with a change of lipstick and some pressed powder.
I moved aside a window shade to peek outside. The couple was still in the driveway.
5 4 H A R L E Y J A N E K O Z A K
Where could Joey live until the fuss died down? I could hole up anywhere, if I had art supplies, but Joey would get cabin fever. I set about in search of creature comforts for her.
Solomonhaus was so bereft of personal effects, it was almost creepy.
There were no books, for instance. Built-in bookcases, yes, only they held nothing but an occasional vase. Sans flowers. The house had drama without warmth.
What made all this unclutter possible was storage space; I found the cell phone charger in a kitchen drawer, a carry-on bag in a living room cupboard, along with her purse, and Joey’s clothes in the bedroom closet, wedged in with surfing equipment. I plugged in her phone so it could get some juice before I left, then called Simon. “It’s me,” I said.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said. “What are you doing?”
“Hiding from reporters.”
“Why? What have you done?”
“Nothing, don’t worry. They think I’m Joey.”
There was a pause, the kind that told me Simon was censoring his immediate response. “Why would they think that?”
“Oh, who can say?” Actually, I could’ve said, but thought it best not to. “I just called in case you were trying to reach me. Because I have Joey’s cell phone and she has mine.”
“And the reason for that is—?”
“Complicated,” I said. “Look, gotta go. Time is money.” And with that aphorism, which no doubt had some applicability to some part of life, I more or less hung up on him.
The phone rang again, but I ignored it. It wasn’t absolutely Simon, right? It could’ve been anyone.
This was going to be a problem. Simon, with an insistence that bordered on eccentricity, craved regular phone contact. I wanted to accommodate him, but if he planned to worry over every unforeseen incident, then wasn’t he better left in the dark? I thought yes. He’d disagree.
Joey had told me not to bother with anything except her running
shoes, iPod, and purse, that she’d buy what she needed, but I packed two days’ worth of clothes and sundry items, including a framed photo of her family that hung on the inside of a closet door. I imagined her brothers handling the reporters in the driveway with a few well-placed punches.
D E A D E X 5 5
Or gunshots. Her sisters too. God knows what they’d do to Elliot. Judging by the stories I’d heard about the Rafferty clan, Elliot should stay out of the Midwest. Maybe leave the country.
I took forty-eight dollars from a piggy bank to pay the parking ticket I’d found in her pocket. No point in having her car impounded a year down the road, or whatever they do to scofflaws. I peeked outside again, this time from the bedroom window. The good news was, the Jeep was gone. The bad news was, Elliot was walking toward the front door.
I’d make a run for it. Out the back door and into the garden. The last thing I wanted to do was face my best friend’s philandering husband.
The front door opened with a groan.
“Joey?” he called.
Damn. He’d seen her Mercedes. In fact, he’d parked behind it. What had possessed Rolf Solomon to design a driveway only wide enough for one car? There was no excuse for it. Even in 1924 people must have gone mad, forced to move cars every time the first person in had to go out. The strain involved in that! No wonder this marriage was crumbling.
“Joey!” Elliot called again, irritable now.
I could fit in the closet. But was social awkwardness sufficient reason to hide among Boogie boards and wet suits? Probably not. I walked out of the bedroom. “No, it’s me.”
