Cool Cache (23 page)

Ewing’s office was a small cubbyhole in a building on the main campus. I tried the door, but it was locked. I looked up and down the hallway. Nobody was around. I paced for a few minutes, reading notes on the bulletin board—students looking for a ride home for Thanksgiving break and notices for herbal weight-loss remedies.

My watch read 4:10. Ewing’s class had been over for five minutes. I hadn’t booked an appointment. I gambled he’d come back to his office before leaving campus, even if he had no formal appointments. If he didn’t show I’d try calling again, but I preferred talking to him in person. Charley claimed it was easier to read people when you sat face-to-face. I didn’t know how far away the room was from his office, so I decided to wait a little longer.

Ewing’s schedule wasn’t posted outside the door. Maybe it was inside, taped to the wall. The lock looked flimsy. I could probably defeat it with the lock-picking set Charley had given me. I reasoned that it was only illegal if you got caught. I was still warring with the idea when I heard footsteps coming toward me.

I turned to see a young woman wearing skinny jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. She was carrying a stack of books. Her eyes were wide with wonder and her body was ripe for trouble. She shifted the books to her left arm, took a set of keys from the pocket of her hoodie, and unlocked the office door.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m waiting for Dale Ewing. Do you know where he is?”

With the keys still in the lock, she pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her nose. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. I’m just dropping off some books. Do you want to wait in the office? At least there’s a place to sit.”

“That would be great. Thanks.”

She sneezed and blew into the soggy tissue.

“You have a cold?” I said.

“Allergies. Every November when the Santa Ana winds blow.”

“I have a friend with the same problem. He uses an air purifier.”

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll try one. Nothing else seems to help.”

She opened the door and waved me in. Ewing’s office was the size of a large closet, with room enough for a desk and a couple of file cabinets. Several cardboard boxes were stacked in a corner. On the desk were copies of journals and what looked like student exam papers. I sat on a chair and waited.

The student’s nasal passages vibrated as she tried to breathe. “I’m Pooh, by the way, Dale’s research assistant.”

Pooh? It was all I could do to keep from asking her if she’d found Eeyore’s missing tail, or if Piglet had really seen a Heffalump in the Hundred Acre Wood.

“Tucker Sinclair. How long have you worked for Dale?”

She set the books and her backpack on the desk. “About six months. I take every class he teaches. He’s sort of a mentor of mine.”

“So,” I said, “what does your mentor do for you?”

She had a dreamy look in her eyes. “Dale’s just there for me all the time. He lets me use his office to study. He gives me suggestions for class papers and edits my work. Right now he’s trying to get me an internship for next semester.”

Based on the gaga expression on her face when she mentioned Ewing’s name, I gathered Pooh was infatuated. I wondered how Ewing felt about her and if Helen had been barred from his house because of paint fumes or editing complications. I was beginning to suspect everybody had a secret agenda.

“What kind of internship?” I said.

“He thinks I should be an analyst for the CIA when I get out of school. My dad is a software engineer, so he’s taught me a lot about computers. Dale says the government is looking for people like me.”

I cocked my head and frowned. “How do you get a job with a spy agency?”

“They recruit on campus for permanent jobs, but not for internships. Dale has juice with some big mucky-muck with the agency in Washington, D.C., so he wrote a letter of recommendation for me. I’m still waiting to hear back.”

“How does Dale Ewing know this guy?”

“He used to work for the CIA. He doesn’t tell a lot of people, so please don’t spread it around.”

I remembered Ewing’s use of
collateral damage
that day in Helen’s condo. At the time, I’d thought he’d been in the military. I would never have guessed the CIA. He didn’t seem the type. Despite Ewing’s confidence in Pooh, she was going to make a lousy spy. Somebody needed to tell her that loose lips sink ships. If she told
me
about Ewing’s secret past, she’d likely told others.

“What did he do for the CIA?”

“I shouldn’t say.”

“Come on, Pooh. You’ve already told me he worked for the agency. I promise not to tell anyone else. I’m just curious. That’s all.”

Behind me I heard a man’s voice answer. “I was a political analyst, a desk jockey.”

I glanced toward the door and saw Dale Ewing walking into the room, wearing his signature tweed jacket and carrying a stack of notebooks.

“Among other things,” he went on, “I researched political decision-making processes of various European Union members and attended a lot of embassy cocktail parties.”

I took a deep breath, searching for an appropriate response. “Does Helen know?”

He set the notebooks on his desk. “Of course she does.”

“Would she have told anybody else?”

“She may have. Pooh’s correct. I don’t broadcast my resume, but it’s hardly a secret.”

“Did my assistant call you in the past few days?”

Ewing wrinkled his forehead as if that would help him remember. “Eugene? No, but if he called my house I may have missed it. I’ve been moving furniture, getting ready for the painters. I accidentally pulled out the telephone cord and broke the plastic clip. I had to drive to the hardware store to get a new one.”

Pooh’s cheeks were turning scarlet.

“What’s wrong?” I said to her.

She swallowed hard and looked at Ewing. “He called last night when I was here working on a class assignment. He said Helen Taggart told him you used to work for the CIA in Guatemala, and he had some questions to ask you about the civil war.”

My gaze darted to Ewing. “You were stationed in Guatemala?”

He crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive posture. “Yes, and please don’t give me grief about the CIA’s role in the civil war. It was wrong. Okay?”

Pooh collapsed in the chair behind Ewing’s desk. “I told Eugene I’d written a paper about the war.”

Ewing shot her a benevolent smile. “I suggested Pooh write about the conflict because it has some thought-provoking historical issues and a legacy that’s still alive today in L.A.”

“How so?” I said.

“Many Guatemalans came here during the war and applied for asylum. It’s taken years or even decades for those cases to reach the courts. Now that they have, the government is ruling against them. Thousands of people have already been deported.”

“I told Eugene all that,” Pooh said, “but it wasn’t what he wanted to know. He asked where he could find old police records about a theft from some museum in Guatemala City. I told him I didn’t know. He’d have to call back and talk to you.”

Eugene had talked to Aidan Malloy on Saturday and told him he was planning to contact the CIA. That was almost a week ago. I wondered why he’d waited so long to call Ewing. Maybe he hadn’t yet put all the puzzle pieces together.

Ewing checked his watch. “He hasn’t called yet. Sorry we couldn’t be of more help. Pooh and I are going for coffee. Would you care to join us?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I have work to do.”

It was comforting to learn Eugene was still alive and well, but I had a creepy feeling he was getting too close to the truth for his own good. The clock was ticking. I just hoped Charley could find the former owner of the Mayan spouted chocolate pot—and soon.

I still thought it was possible Lupe’s killer was the same person who broke into Helen’s condo. Charley hadn’t had much success interviewing her neighbors, but that had been on a Friday. Tomorrow was Saturday. People would be home from work. I planned to make another sweep of the condo complex to see what I could find.

Chapter 30

As soon as I arrived at the cottage, I brought Muldoon home from Mrs. D’s place. He looked hungry, so I scrounged around in the refrigerator, looking for something for us to eat. I’d already served the panini, which limited my choices to a tub of sour cream that had expired two months before and a sack of petrified baby carrots. There was still a can of politically correct, environmentally aware dog food and a handful of kibble, which was good news for Muldoon and bad news for me. The market wasn’t far away, but the thought of pushing a cart down the aisle and waiting in the checkout line sounded like too much effort. Muldoon ate the dog food, and I dipped a couple of sweet pickles in a glob of peanut butter and called it dinner.

After that, Muldoon and I retired to the couch and listened to Bill Withers sing, “Lean on me when you’re not strong.” It made me think of Jordan Rich and all the reasons there were to fall for him. He was intelligent, kind, compassionate, and financially secure. I swept that last word from the list as an invalid reason to fall in love. Security was for quitters.

Somewhere in the middle of “Grandma’s Hands,” Muldoon started barking. A moment later, I heard a knock on the side door. I crept to the window and peeked outside. A petite blonde wearing a puffy ski jacket that made her look like a plus-sized Teddy bear stood on the deck. It was my mother, looking droopy and tired. When I opened the door, Muldoon stopped for a quick hello before racing toward a flock of gulls on the beach.

“Are you sure you were at a retreat, Pookie? You don’t look very relaxed.”

She leaned over and picked up a suitcase, triggering multiple alarms in my head. My mother used to live with me. Then she met Bruce and he’d moved in for a while, too. I loved my mother, but I wasn’t ready to have either of them as roommates again.

“What’s going on?” I said.

She walked passed me into the house. “I thought I’d stay with you for a couple of days.”

“Pookie—”

“I need a quiet place to think.”

“Do you hear all that barking out on the beach? That doesn’t sound very quiet. Besides, how can rooming with me be more peaceful than the Happy Baby pose on one of Kismet’s cushy yoga mats?”

Pookie continued down the hall toward the spare bedroom. “I can’t think with Bruce around.”

I left the door open a crack so Muldoon could get back inside. Then I followed my mother, wondering if the same cosmic vacuum that had sucked out Bruce’s brain had attacked hers, too.

“Bruce is an annoying distraction,” I said, “but he’s your annoying distraction. Why mess with a good thing?”

Pookie set her suitcase on the bed. “Things change.”

Her comment surprised me. My mother knew I didn’t approve of Bruce. I thought she could have done better, but she wasn’t defending him as she normally did. That was a bad sign. She opened the suitcase and began sorting clothes. Clean ones on hangers. Dirty ones in a pile on the floor. She must have come to my house without stopping by her apartment to repack. Another bad sign.

“Okay,” I said, “what’s going on?”

She stopped sorting and met my gaze. “My agent called while we were up north. I’ve been cast as the lead in an independent film directed by Raj Territo.”

The name sounded familiar. It took me a moment to remember why. Territo had won a Best Director Oscar a few years back for an indie film that took the world by storm.

“Is he still big in Hollywood?”

“The biggest.”

“Do you want the part?”

“Are you kidding? It’s like a dream come true. The script is brilliant. Most actors wait their whole careers to find a part like this.”

“That’s great news. Congratulations.”

She picked up a denim jacket with the word JACKIE embroidered on the back. It was the name of the character she’d played ten years before in
The Hot L Baltimore
. The jacket had been part of a costume she’d been allowed to keep when the play closed.

“Filming starts next week in Toronto,” she said.

I sat on the bed next to the suitcase. “Uh-oh.”

“Right. Uh-oh. Bruce doesn’t want me to go.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t, but he’s got to understand what a great opportunity this is for you.”

“He doesn’t understand. He wants me to say no. We’ve been arguing about it for days. This film role may be
my
dream, but Kismet is
his
. He thinks I’m trying to destroy it.”

Dueling dreams seemed to be the penultimate problem couples faced. What came next was usually the division of community property in the divorce.

“Bruce can manage the studio for a couple of weeks,” I said. “Petal can help him.”

“Petal is going back to school next quarter. She can only work on weekends. Besides, Bruce says he can’t run the studio by himself, even with Petal.”

“Then you’ll just have to hire somebody. A temp.”

The suitcase was empty now. Pookie snapped the latch shut just as Muldoon rejoined us after his run with the gulls. His tongue was hanging out and his paws were covered with sand. He glanced at the pile of clothes on the floor, and moved over to claim them as his bed. Pookie set the suitcase in the closet and closed the door.

“Bruce doesn’t want strangers working at Kismet,” she said.

“He can’t have it all his way. He has to compromise.”

“He says Kismet was built with his money, and I agreed to help him run it. He thinks I should honor my commitment.”

“Why is he pulling that ‘my money’ crapola on you now? This is a community-property state. You’re married. What’s his is yours and vice versa. Besides, you put as much of your blood, sweat, and tears into that place as he did. The studio is up and running. He followed his dream. Now he should let you follow yours.”

Pookie moved Muldoon off the pile of dirty clothes and headed for the laundry area. “He doesn’t see it that way.”