Cool Cache (7 page)

“I’m late for a doctor’s appointment,” she said with a haughty edge to her voice. “Give me six apricot truffles and six bourbon balls. I want them in the gold box with a red ribbon. And give me a gift card.”

In her rush to be served, the woman pushed aside a stocky man wearing a navy blue suit. His white shirt was starched to perfection and stood in stark contrast to his dark skin. He was probably in his sixties but he seemed older, almost prehistoric, like a pre-Columbian stone god in the jungles of Belize. The man seemed unfazed by the brouhaha. His expression was placid, almost meditative. He held up his hand to address the crowd, exposing fingers stained brown by nicotine.

“Pardon,” he said, trilling the “r” like a Latin lover. “A woman in a hurry is a dangerous thing. Wouldn’t you agree? To save us all, I will allow this lady to take my place in line.”

As Kathy hurried to put the woman’s chocolates in a box, the man strolled to the back of the store. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him studying the pictures on the wall and waiting patiently.

A moment later, a black SUV pulled up to the curb in front of the store. A mountain of a man, dressed head to toe in black, exited the driver’s seat and walked around to open the rear door. Everything about him screamed
bodyguard
.

A young woman stumbled out of the car wearing a skimpy getup that made her look like a contestant in a new reality show called
America’s Top Tart
. Cradled in her arms was a white rat with a pink nose that matched his pink-jeweled collar and leash. As she walked through the front door, she tripped on her four-inch platform shoes. The bodyguard caught her just before she did a triple-header into the glass display case.

When the young woman was upright again, she pushed her way through the crowd to the counter and threw her scrawny arms across the top, knocking over a basket of chocolate bark. The rat must have sensed trouble, because he jumped over her shoulder and scurried down her back as far as the leash would allow.

“I hear somebody got creamed in your back room last night.” Her words were slurred by booze, drugs, both, neither. “You should call this place Death by Chocolate.” She giggled at her joke.

She didn’t look like a member of the newspaper-reading public, so she must have heard the scoop about Lupe Ortiz’s death someplace else, maybe by word of mouth. I imagined the store becoming a stop on some macabre tour of famous crime scenes. It was troubling that Nectar’s profile had been raised by a murder in the bathroom, but there was nothing I could do about it at the moment.

Kathy seemed flustered by the appearance of the morning’s second unruly patron. She picked up the spilled bark and set it on the back counter. “I’m with a customer right now. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“A minute?” The young woman’s voice squawked as if she had just been startled awake from a bad dream. “Don’t you know who I am?”

Maybe Kathy didn’t recognize her, but I did. She was Alexis Raines, a pop princess for the bubblegum crowd who’d ruined her career by growing into adulthood, physically if not emotionally. In the past year, she’d had a succession of DUI arrests and unflattering mug shots plastered across the front page of every tabloid newspaper and celebrity magazine in the country.

The woman with the Fendi bag whipped around. “Excuse me, young lady. Can’t you see I was here first?”

That’s when she saw the rat. She screamed and raised the Fendi above her head, as if she was a trendy cavewoman about to bag dinner. I knew if I didn’t do something fast, the rat was going to end his life as a pancake. I rushed from behind the counter in time to catch the blow from the purse just as the bodyguard pulled Alexis to safety.

The Fendi woman gaped at me, stretching the surgery scars near her ears to a pearly white. Her gaze cut to the bodyguard looming over Alexis. Without so much as an apology, she grabbed the box of chocolates Kathy had packed for her and left the store.

“Christ on a cracker,” Alexis said, cuddling the rat in her arms. “You saved Aldo’s life. I owe you.”

“No big deal—”

“I mean it. You deserve a reward.”

“How about buying chocolates for a hundred of your closest friends, and we’ll call it even.”

“That’s all you want?”

“That’s all.”

“It’s not enough. I’m going to send you tickets to my next concert. Front-row seats.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell Alexis if she didn’t get her act together, there would be no next concert. There may not even be a tomorrow. While Kathy and I filled her order, Alexis lurched up to the newspaper article mounted on the wall. She turned and scanned the room.

“Hey, what happened to all the stuff in the picture?”

It took me a moment to realize what she was talking about. The display shelves.

“The owner took them down to make room for more tables.”

“Why don’t you put it over there?”

As Alexis swung her arm toward one of the glass cases to illustrate her point, she nearly upset a jar of cacao nibs. I grabbed the jar before it went flying across the room. The crowd of customers stood frozen, as if they were watching a train wreck.

“Thanks,” I said to her. “I’ll mention your decorating ideas to the owner.”

Alexis liked the look of the
molinillo
in the picture and wanted to know what it was. I told her it was used for frothing chocolate. She wanted to buy it. I told her it wasn’t for sale. She expressed interest in the heart box and the chocolate pot, too, but I demurred. Her negotiating skills were lucid and surprisingly sophisticated, which made me wonder if all that stumbling and slurring was just an act.

Two hundred dollars’ worth of chocolates later, the bodyguard carried the bags and Alexis out to the SUV and drove away. Raines was a disaster waiting to happen, but if she came back and brought all of her celebrity friends, she could guarantee Nectar’s success.

When Kathy and I were finished waiting on all the customers, the man in the back of the room stepped up to the counter.

“Thanks for waiting,” I said to him. “You’re a real gentleman.”

He smiled like a contented lizard sunning himself on a desert stone. “I did not know that buying chocolates today would earn me the praise of a beautiful woman.”

“I’m sorry for what happened. It’s usually not this crazy. I hope you’ll come back.”

“It is a long drive for me, but worth the trip. I tell my wife that cacao is good for my health, but she says my guilty pleasures will kill me one day. Too bad that young woman has no one to warn her of her fate.”

“Money and immaturity are always a bad combination.”

The man selected six chocolates. It wasn’t many for the length of time it took him to pick them out. The last he chose was my all-time favorite. Helen called them Forget-Me-Nots, because once you sampled one, you weren’t ever likely to forget. A delicate flower was stenciled on a thin crust of dark chocolate that covered a chocolate ganache so rich and sensual it made you want to say, “It was good for me, baby. Was it good for you?”

“If you work here,” the man said, “you must share my passion for cacao.”

I handed him the box. “I love Helen’s chocolates, but I don’t work in the store. I’m just filling in today. I’m a consultant, sort of a business doctor.”

He nodded. “This Helen is a wise woman to seek help. I myself own a small business. I am always looking for new ways to make money so I can continue to indulge those guilty pleasures of mine.”

I reached under the counter and handed him a card from my purse. “I’ve worked with a lot of small businesses. If you ever want to discuss your options, call me at any of these numbers.”

“Perhaps I will.” He gave me a placid salute and made his way toward the door.

It was getting late. I didn’t want to miss my appointment with Elizabeth Bennet, so I hung up my apron and headed for the door. I was just backing out of the alley when I was startled by a knock on the passenger-side window. I turned and saw Detective O’Brien staring at me through the glass. He didn’t look happy.

Chapter 8

I got out of the car and stood facing O’Brien over the roof of the Boxster. The sun at his back made his red hair look like a burning bush. I hoped I wasn’t about to meet my destiny.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

“Looking for Lupe Ortiz’s cell phone. It’s missing. Too bad the crime scene was closed without consulting me. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

The scratch on O’Brien’s face seemed to be healing, but his disposition was still raw. He was probably pissed that Dale Ewing had complained to his supervisor.

“I thought you solved the Ortiz case.”

“We made an arrest, but the investigation isn’t over. You never know what else might turn up if you dig deep enough.”

His words sounded ominous, sort of like a threat. The last thing Helen needed was a Beverly Hills cop with a little power and a lot of attitude.

“You think somebody else was involved?” I said.

“That feather we found at the scene is from a bird called a quetzal. It’s a symbol used by a street gang called the MayaBoyz. Roberto Ortiz is a member. We think he killed his mother because she was interfering with his gang activities. Now we want to know if any of his homeboys helped him out.”

As I’d promised, I told O’Brien about the break-in at Helen’s condo and asked if he thought Roberto might have been involved. He didn’t express an opinion; just said he’d check it out with the LAPD.

It was around one thirty before I got back to the office. Eugene was working at his computer. The air purifier was still hanging around his neck, whirring. I handed him the chocolates Helen had sent. He clutched the bag to his chest in ecstasy.

“Isn’t she just too wonderful?”

“Yeah,” I said. “She’s a peach. Did you find out any more about the quetzal?”

He set the bag on his desk and handed me a stack of notes. “Yes, but it’s going to make you sad. I still don’t know if they’re extinct or not, but it doesn’t look good. The birds were considered a symbol of freedom to the Maya because they couldn’t be held in captivity. If you put them in cages, they’ll kill themselves in a sort of live-free-or-die suicide pact.”

For a moment, I imaged a cult of colorful birds wearing black tennis shoes and toasting the arrival of the Hale-Bopp Comet with poisoned punch.

“I found a book in the library’s online database,” he went on. “It’s about an East L.A. street gang called the MayaBoyz. And—get this—there’s a picture of some gang graffiti on the book cover. There’s a feather that looks a lot like it came from a quetzal. At least, it was long and green. There must be something about it in the book, or the link wouldn’t have come up in my search.”

“O’Brien told me Roberto Ortiz is a member of that gang, but I’d like to find out more.”

“I’ll stop by the library this weekend.”

The library. That didn’t sound dangerous.

“Great,” I said.

I was heading toward my office when Charley strolled into the lobby.

“Any luck with Helen’s neighbors?” I said.

“Nah. Only one person was home—the guy who lives next door. He said he was home sick all day Thursday, but didn’t see anything unusual. Claims he took enough cough syrup with codeine to sleep through an earthquake. He didn’t want to talk to me, wouldn’t even open the door. Said he was afraid I might catch whatever he had. The guy was weird, like one of those quiet types who turn out to be a serial killer. He gave me the willies.”

“Somebody must have seen
something,
” Eugene said.

Charley shrugged. “The place is secluded, lots of trees, and all the units have separate entrances.”

Eugene’s face was flushed. “Doesn’t Helen’s condo have a security gate or a concierge?”

“Sorry, kid,” Charley said. “The place doesn’t have anything like that.”

“So Helen loses again, and nobody can do anything about it.” Eugene’s voice was laced with futility and indignation. “We’re private investigators. We should be able to solve a simple burglary.”

Charley put his hands on his hips. I could tell he was about to scold Eugene about the use of the word
we
. I didn’t want Eugene pressured before he downed a couple of Mango-Tango squares, so I caught Charley’s eye and shook my head.

“What about that police contact of yours?” I said. “Did he know anything?”

“Not much. One of the neighbors heard Ortiz arguing with his mother at around four thirty. The kid wanted money to buy drugs, and she wouldn’t give it to him. The neighbor saw her leave for work at around five o’clock. Roberto left a few minutes later.”

“So the police think Roberto followed Lupe to Beverly Hills to kill her?” I said.

“Yup.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Charley. If he needed money for drugs, why didn’t he steal the cash from Nectar’s register?”

“Beats me.”

Charley walked into his office. Eugene and I followed. Several file folders were stacked on his desk chair. He dropped them on the floor and sat.

“Where did they find Lupe’s car?” I said.

“She was driving a van from the janitorial service she worked for. Beverly Hills PD found it in a parking garage about a block away. Funny thing, though: her cleaning bucket and some supplies are missing.”

I cocked my head. “That’s odd.”

“Who knows? Maybe her kid took them.”

“Why would he take cleaning supplies? Roberto’s a druggie who needed a fix. It’s not like a can of Old Dutch Cleanser is worth big bucks on the street. I just talked to Detective O’Brien. He says her cell phone is missing, too.”

Eugene picked up the files and set them on top of the cabinet. “Roberto didn’t do it. The police arrested the wrong guy.”

Charley and I exchanged skeptical glances.

“Believe me,” Eugene continued, “I understand the lure of matricide, but Roberto Ortiz had too much on his plate last night to pull it off. He had to drive all the way from East L.A. to Beverly Hills, kill his mother, and then drive home to open the door when Helen and Tucker got to his house. From what Tucker said, the guy was high on drugs. I don’t know how he could drive, much less accomplish all that.”