K is for Killer (24 page)

“Pop by if you can. I got it fixed up real cute. If business is slow, I'm usually home by one . . . provided Lester isn't bugging me to score. Thanks for dinner and the ride.”

“Thanks for the cut.”

I watched her clop off into the night, high heels tapping on the short brick walk to her front door, dark hair trailing down her back like a veil. I fired up my car and headed for the Keplers' house.

 

I
parked in the driveway and made my way along the flagstone path leading to the porch. The porch light was off, and the yard was dark as pitch. I picked my way up the low front stairs, which were dimly illuminated by the light from the living room windows. Janice had told me they usually ate dinner at this hour. I tapped on the front door and from the direction of the kitchen heard a chair scrape back.

Mace answered my knock, his body blocking most of the light spilling out the door. I smelled tuna casserole. He had a paper napkin in one hand, and he made a swipe at his mouth. “Oh, it's you. We're eating supper right now.”

“Is Janice here?”

“She's already left. She works eleven to seven every day, but some girl got sick and she went in early. Try tomorrow,” he said. He was already moving to shut the door in my face.

“Mind if I talk to you?”

His face went momentarily blank, just a tiny flick of temper that wiped out any other expression. “Pardon?”

“I wondered if you'd object to a quick chat,” I said.

“Yeah, I do. I work a long, hard day, and I don't like people watching while I eat.”

I felt a flash of heat, as though somebody'd taken a blow torch to the back of my neck. “Maybe later,” I said. I turned and moved down the porch steps. As the door closed behind me, he muttered something obscene.

I backed out of the drive with a chirp and threw the car into first. What a turd. I did not like the man at all. He was a horse's ass and a jerk, and I hoped he had itchy hemorrhoids. I drove randomly, trying to cool down. I couldn't even think what to do with myself. I would have gone to Frankie's to talk to Janice, but I knew I'd say spiteful things about her spouse.

Instead, I went to the Caliente Cafe, looking for Cheney Phillips. It was still early for a Wednesday night, but CC's was already crowded, sound system blasting and enough cigarette smoke to make breathing unpleasant. For a place with no Happy Hour, no two-for-one deals, and no hors d'oeuvres (unless you count chips and salsa as a form of canapé), CC's does a lively business from the time it opens at five
P.M.
until it closes at two in the morning. Cheney was sitting at the bar in a dress shirt, faded jeans, and a pair of desert boots. He had a beer in front of him and was talking with the guy sitting next to him. When he saw me, he grinned. Lordy, I'm a sucker for good teeth. “Ms. Millhone. How are you? You got your hair cut. It looks good.”

“Thanks. You got a minute?”

“Of course.” He picked up his beer and eased himself off the bar stool, scanning the place for a vacant table where
we could talk. The bartender was moving in our direction. “We need a glass of Chardonnay,” Cheney said.

We found a table on the side wall. I spewed for a while about my dislike of Mace Kepler. Cheney wasn't all that fond of the man himself, so he enjoyed my comments.

“I don't know what it is. He just gets me.”

“He hates women,” Cheney said.

I looked at him with surprise. “Is that it? Maybe that's what it is.”

“So what else are you up to?”

I spent a few minutes filling him in on my trip to San Francisco, my talk with Trinny, her confession about the porno tape, and finally the money missing from the account. I showed him the bank statement, watching his face. “What do you think?”

By then he was slouched down on his spine, his legs stretched out in front of him. He had one elbow propped up on the table, and he held the statement by one corner. He shifted on his seat. He didn't seem impressed. “She was going out of town. She probably needed money.” He sat and studied the bank statement while he sipped at his Corona.

“I asked Danielle about that. She says Lorna never paid. She only traveled with guys who sported her to everything.”

“Yeah, but it still isn't necessarily significant,” he said.

“Of course it isn't
necessarily
significant, but it might be. That's the point. Serena says J.D. went into the cabin briefly while they were waiting for the cops. Suppose he lifted it.”

“You think it's sitting right there, this big wad of dough?”

“Well, it could be,” I said.

“Yeah, right. For all you know, Lorna was involved in off-track betting or she picked up a fur coat or bought a shitload of drugs.”

“Uhn-hun,” I said, cutting in on his recital. “Or maybe the cash was lifted by the first officer at the scene.”

“There's an idea,” he said, not liking the image of police corruption. “Anyway, you don't know it was cash. It could have been a check made payable to someone else. She could have moved the money over to her checking account and paid the balance on her Visa bill. Most people don't walk around with cash like that.”

“I keep picturing a wad of bills.”

“Well, try to picture something else.”

“Serena might have taken it. She pointed a finger at J.D., but really all we have is her word she didn't go into the cabin herself. Or maybe Lorna's parents found the stash and kept their mouths shut, figuring they'd have to have money for the funeral. I was going to ask about that, but Kepler pissed me off.”

Cheney seemed amused. “You just never give up.”

“I think it's interesting, that's all. Besides, I'm desperate for a lead. Mace Kepler doesn't have a record, does he? I'd love to get him on something.”

“He's clean. We checked him out.”

“Doesn't mean he isn't guilty. It just means he hasn't been caught yet.”

“Don't get distracted.” He pushed the statement across the table. “At least you know who mailed the porno tape to Mrs. K,” he said.

“It doesn't lead anywhere.”

“Don't sound so depressed.”

“Well, I hate these raggedy-ass investigations,” I said.
“Sometimes the line is so clear. You pick up the scent and you follow it. It may take time, but at least you know you're going someplace. This is driving me nuts.”

Cheney shrugged. “We investigated for months and didn't get anywhere.”

“Yeah, I know. I don't know what made me think I could make a difference.”

“What an egotist,” he said. “You work on a case three days and you think, boom, you should be solving it.”

“Is that all it's been? Feels like I've been on this sucker for weeks.”

“Anyway, something will break. Killer's been sitting around all this time thinking he's in the clear. He's not going to like it that you're nosing around.”

“Or she.”

“Right. Let's don't get sexist about homicide,” he said.

Cheney's pager went off. Until that moment I hadn't even been aware that he was toting one. He checked the number and then excused himself, going into the rear of the bar to use the pay phone. When he came back, he said he had to leave. One of his informants had been arrested and was asking for him.

After he left, I hung around long enough to finish my wine. Business was picking up, and the noise level was rising, along with the toxic levels of secondhand cigarette smoke. I grabbed my jacket and my shoulder bag and headed for the parking lot. It was not even midnight, but all the parking spaces were filled and cars were beginning to line the road out in front.

The sky was overcast. The lights from the city made the cloud cover glow. Across the road, at the bird refuge, a low mist was rising from the freshwater lagoon. A faint sulfurous smell seemed to permeate the air. Crickets and
frogs masked the sounds of traffic on the distant highway. Closer at hand, an approaching freight train sounded its horn like a brief organ chord. I could feel the ground rumble faintly as the searchlight swept around the bend. The man on the bike went by. I turned and stared after him. The mounting thunder of the train made his passage seem as silent as a mime's. All I was aware of was the dancing of the lights, his juggling performance, for which I was an audience of one.

In the side lot, I spotted the rounded roofline of my VW where I'd parked it in a circle of artificial light. A shiny black stretch limousine was parked across the row of cars, blocking four vehicles, including mine. I peered toward the driver's side. The window was lowered soundlessly. I paused, pointing at my car to indicate that I was hemmed in. The chauffeur touched his cap but made no move to start his engine. Little Miss Helpful, I waited for half a second and then said, “Sorry to bother you, but if you can just move up about three feet, I think I can squeeze out. I'm the VW at the back.” The chauffeur's gaze moved to a point behind me, and I turned to see what he was looking at.

The two men had emerged from the bar and were heading in our direction, feet crunching on gravel, their progress leisurely. I moved on toward my car, thinking to go ahead and unlock it and get in. No point in standing in the cold, I thought. The cadence of the footsteps picked up, and I turned to see what was going on. The two men appeared on either side of me, crowding in close, each man gripping an arm. “Hey!” I said.

“Please be very quiet,” one of them murmured.

They began to walk me toward the limo, virtually hoisting me off the ground so that my feet barely touched as they
hurried me along. I felt like a kid being held aloft by my parents, lifted over curbs and puddles. When you're little, this is fun. When you're big, it's scary stuff. The rear door of the limo opened. I tried to dig my heels in, but I had no purchase.

By the time I gathered myself and bucked, squawking, “Help!” I was in the back of the limo with the door slammed shut.

The interior was black leather and burled walnut. I could see a compact bar, a phone, and a blank television screen. Above my head, a band of varicolored lighted buttons controlled every aspect of the passengers' comfort: air temperature, windows, reading lights, the sliding moon roof. The interior glass privacy panel was rolled up between us and the chauffeur. I sat there, squeezed in between the two guys on the back bench seat, facing a third man across a spacious length of plush black carpeting. In the interest of personal safety, I made a point of looking straight ahead. I didn't want to be able to identify the two sidekicks. The guy facing me didn't seem to care if I looked at him or not. All three men were throwing out body heat, absorbed by the silence, which ate up all but the sounds of heavy breathing, largely mine.

The only lights on in the limo were small side bars. The floods from the parking lot were cut by the heavily tinted windows, but there was still ample illumination. The atmosphere in the car was tense, as if the gravitational field were somehow different here than in the rest of the world. Maybe it was the overcoats, the conviction I had that everybody in the car was packing except me. I could feel my heart thumping in my chest and the sick thrill of sweat trickling down my side. Often fear makes me sassy, but not this time. I felt excessively respectful. These were men
who operated by a set of rules different from mine. Who knew what they'd consider rude or offensive?

The limo was so long that the man across from me was probably sitting eight feet away. He appeared to be in his sixties, short and blocky, balding on top. His face was dotted with miscellaneous moles, the skin as heavily lined as a pen-and-ink sketch. His cheeks bowed out almost to a heart shape, his chin forming the point. His eyebrows were an unruly tangle of white over dark, sunken eyes. His upper lids sagged. His lower lids were pouched into smoky poufs. He had thin lips and big teeth, set slightly askew in his mouth. He had big hands, thick wrists, and heavy gold jewelry. He smelled of cigars and a spicy after-shave. There was something distinctly masculine about him: brusque, decisive, opinionated. He held a small notebook loosely in one hand, though he didn't seem to be referring to it. “I hope you'll forgive the unorthodox method of arranging a meeting. We didn't intend to alarm you.” No accent. No regional inflection.

The guys on either side of me sat as still as mannequins.

“Are you sure you have the right person?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know you,” I said.

“I'm a Los Angeles attorney. I represent a gentleman who's currently out of the country on business. He asked me to get in touch.”

“Regarding what?” My heartbeat had slowed some. These were not robbers or rapists. I didn't think they were going to shoot me and fling my body out into the parking lot. The word
M-A-F-I-A
formed at the back of my mind, but I didn't allow it to become concrete thought. I didn't want confirmation, in case I was forced to testify later. These guys were professionals. They killed for business,
not pleasure. So far, I
had
no business with them, so I figured I was safe.

The
alleged
attorney was saying, “You're conducting a homicide investigation my client has been following. The dead girl is Lorna Kepler. We'd appreciate it if you'd apprise us of the information you've acquired.”

“What's his interest? If you don't mind my asking.”

“He was a close friend. She was a beautiful person. He doesn't want anything coming to light that might sully her reputation.”

“Her reputation was sullied before she died,” I pointed out.

“They were engaged.”

“In what?”

“They were getting married in Las Vegas on April twenty-first, but Lorna never showed.”

I
stared across the dark of the limousine at him. The claim seemed so preposterous that it might just be true. I'd been told Lorna met some heavy hitters in the course of her work. Maybe she fell in love with some guy and he with her. Mr. and Mrs. Racketeer. “Didn't he send someone up here to find her when she didn't show?”