The Fright of the Iguana (15 page)
Read The Fright of the Iguana Online
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
“Please let Dr. Gasgill know I’ll be outside on the street waiting for her,” I said impatiently. Irritably. But Lexie was happy, since that gave us time for a walk.
We didn’t go far before I saw a woman in a white lab coat hustle outside the office and start scanning the sidewalk. We hurried toward her. “Dr. Gasgill?” I inquired.
She was short, her black hair was curly, and she wore tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses behind which close-set blue eyes squinted. “You must be Ms. Ballantyne.”
I nodded. “Kendra.”
“Call me Marla. Do you have any word about Cramer?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Her narrow shoulders slumped, making me wonder if her unbuttoned lab jacket, whose open front revealed an orange T-shirt and brown denim slacks, would slide right off.
She knew no more than Libby Emerich did about her missing dog. Ignoring what her staff had insisted on, she invited Lexie and me inside, where she took me into her smaller, more mundane office and also allowed me to review a copy of her ransom note. Again, I made notes on anyone she might consider, if not an enemy, then less than a friend, but no name meshed with any others I’d collected. I added another photocopy of a ransom note to my collection, and we likewise traded commitments to keep in touch regarding the pet-napping. Then, Lexie and I left.
I felt drained after this day of emotional meetings that amounted to apparently nothing helpful.
“Let’s go to the office,” I told my tired pup. “Maybe I can at least accomplish something there.”
LEXIE AND I settled into my small but familiar law office, which I’d helped to make all mine some months ago, both in furnishings and degree of disorganization. Then I called Althea. “Thanks again for all the info you gave to Jeff for me,” I began.
“That was two days ago,” Althea interrupted, “and you’ve already thanked me. Who else do you want me to check out?”
“I’m pretty transparent, aren’t I?” I said with a quasi-embarrassed laugh.
“Sure are. But my boss seems happy you’re asking me all these questions. The guy really wants back in your good graces, Kendra.” I heard the question in my buddy Althea’s tone.
“I don’t . . . I mean, he isn’t . . . Oh, hell, Althea. I’m just so confused I don’t know what the devil I’m doing around him.”
Should I have admitted that? Probably not to someone who was clearly on Jeff’s side. I waited for her sales pitch on how Jeff was totally reformed now that his ex-wife had exited his life. How he was miserable without me. How he really wanted me, and I was hurting him so much by my ambivalence. How—
“Well, you’d better figure it out soon, Kendra, or you’ll lose him. Now, give me the new list of names and their relationship to the situation.”
I swallowed whatever else I was going to say and complied with Althea’s demand. I pulled my notebook from my large purse and dictated the pertinent names I’d collected from Libby and Marla. I thanked Althea yet again, including in advance for the info she was about to seek for me.
And when I hung up, I felt so confused I wanted to puke.
Was I going to meet Jeff for dinner that night, as he’d insisted?
More important, what would I do about him in the long run?
AS IT TURNED out, the decision about dinner was made for me without my having to make any determination.
Later that afternoon, while I worked on arguments about the weimaraner’s custodianship for the meeting scheduled for after the weekend, my cell phone sang from somewhere inside my desk.
It brought Lexie, who’d been asleep on the Berber rug by my chair, to attention.
I yanked open the drawer and tugged out my big bag. I rummaged inside quickly till I came across my phone.
And blinked. I’d programmed the Dorgans’ number into my address book, and that was who appeared to be calling.
“Hello?” I said quizzically, pretending no clue at all who was there.
Sure enough, it was Hillary.
“Kendra? I got another one.”
I was immediately on board, sitting up straight and clutching the phone in two trembling hands. “Ransom note?”
“Yeah. It tells me how much and where, to get Zibble and Saurus back. I’m not to call the cops again, but it didn’t mention you or anyone else. You want to come along tonight while I ransom my pets?”
“I’ll be at your house in half an hour.”
Chapter Twelve
“THAT’S A LOT of cash to come up with in such a short time,” I told Hillary a while later.
I had taken the entire half hour I’d promised, since I’d brought Lexie home and secured her inside before dashing to the Dorgans. Now, Hillary and I stood in her restaurant-size, amazingly equipped kitchen, counting twenty-dollar bills.
“ATMs work wonders,” she said.
Sure, but that presupposed the cash was there to withdraw in the first place. Plus, “Aren’t there limits on how much you can take out at a time?”
“Oh, we’ve gotten them to waive that. Every once in a while, we’ve needed cash quick to deal with a shoot, so we’ve gotten advance permission to take any amount we wish.”
Even with a limitless bank account, who could they pay in cash and not get in trouble with Uncle Sam? Well, I might ponder the question, but the answer wasn’t my problem.
It was nearly eight at night. Though Hillary wasn’t dressed as chicly as she’d been for travel when I’d last seen her, she still managed to appear as though her embroidered denim blouse and matching jeans were designer wear. Her short, light brown hair hadn’t a strand out of place, and her makeup might well have been newly plastered on. Apparently, it was de rigueur for fashionable women at the acme of the film industry to be at their lovely best while ransoming their pets.
We were packing the amount in question into a black nylon duffle bag. What amount? Fifty thousand dollars. Most people would have trouble paying that without blinking for their dearest human friend or relation. Hillary hadn’t even questioned coming up with that amount for the family dog and iguana.
Zibble was a prime Shar-pei from a show dog family and was sometimes called upon to sire other Shar-pei pups, but he’d have to father a lot of expensive scions to reach a total worth of half the ransom. And I had no idea at all what Saurus could do to earn the other half.
How had the ransom note been delivered? Via the good ol’ U.S. postal system. Hillary hadn’t been at home when the mail arrived, so she had only just found the plain white envelope with the computer-generated address and ordinary stamp when she returned from a shopping expedition. She had watched enough TV to know to stick both note and envelope into small plastic bags once she realized what they were. The envelope was probably smeared already with fingerprints from everyone down the line in the post office, so the sender’s prints would never be ID’d from it. The note itself, though? Well, it was worth a shot.
When we could call the police and pass it along.
So far, Hillary had obeyed the latest directive and called no one official, only me.
And I? Well, I hadn’t much admired the lackluster detectives assigned to this pet-napping. I’d have considered calling Ned Noralles, even though we rubbed each other wrong in homicide investigations, but I chose to honor Hillary’s wish to obey the command and keep the cops out.
But private cops? P.I.s were not expressly excluded. And so I had called Jeff.
We wouldn’t do dinner tonight, but at least we might see each other. Later.
Right now, I intended to accompany Hillary to the ransom drop spot, a garbage Dumpster behind an abandoned restaurant on Victory Boulevard.
Victory? Areas of the avenue more resembled a boulevard of defeat, in relatively seedy neighborhoods, but the street tended to be busy. Wouldn’t there be a danger of someone rooting in the trash there and absconding with the ransom before the pet-napper could retrieve it?
Hell, yes, but what else could Hillary do? The note said to leave, with the money, a cell phone number where the thief could text-message the whereabouts of the pets, after the money was in that slimy rat’s possession. There wasn’t any way for Hillary to communicate she’d left the package, as instructed. If it happened not to be waiting for the Zibble and Saurus snatcher, the poor pets might yet become toast.
Assuming they weren’t already. Trust a thief’s integrity? Not hardly.
“Ready, Kendra?” Hillary asked, zipping the duffle closed.
“As ready as I’ll ever be. Want me to drive?”
“In the car you picked me up in at the airport?” Her aghast glare suggested she would rather walk, even though the location had to be five miles away. “No, I’ll drive.”
There was nothing wrong with my poor Beamer since its gouge had been repaired, except that it was growing old like the rest of us. However, I had to drool a bit and feel somewhat happy I wasn’t driving when I saw Hillary’s wheels: a gorgeous Porsche 911 Carrera, brilliant yellow.
As we drove out through the massive wrought-iron gate, I leaned back in the comfy leather seat and asked, “Are your security guys primed to leave us alone?”
“Yes,” said the wealthy woman I’d never imagined would act as my chauffeur, even for an evening. “And that P.I. you said you were going to call in?”
“I called him when you were in the bathroom. He’ll stake out the garbage dump and see who roots around there.”
“He won’t stop whoever it is, will he?” Hillary’s voice rasped with emotion. “If he’s seen, I’ll never get Saurus and Zibble back.”
“He’ll take pictures using telephoto lenses, hopefully of both the snatcher and getaway car. Once the pets are safely home, he’ll call the cops and give them copies of the photos so they can take over and apprehend the suspect.”
“You sound like a cop.”
“Heaven forbid,” I said. “But I’ve been around them too much lately.”
We arrived at the building—what was left of it—in about ten minutes. It had obviously been gutted by fire, maybe recently. Though there were streetlights around, and other businesses that were probably open and operational during the day, this block was basically black on both sides of the street.
We nevertheless exited the car, both walking slowly, gingerly, and nervously. This wasn’t exactly a locale where two ladies wanted to be alone at night, even though it was not extremely late. At least we saw no one else around—like gang members intent on fencing stolen stuff or worse, or druggies ready to jump anyone available and steal money for their next fix. It was that kind of a lovely place.
There was a small alley behind, and we immediately picked out the Dumpster designated for the drop. Hillary had been carrying the bag, and I pulled up the bin’s squealing metal top.
“Here goes,” she said, and heaved the duffle inside.
I looked around, hoping to see Jeff, but if I’d seen him that would mean the pet-napper would, too, when he or she came to collect.
I only hoped there were sufficient lights and angles for Jeff to get good photos.
And then Hillary and I were gone.
SO WAS THE money, it turned out a while later.
That’s what I learned around midnight when Jeff called.
Hillary and I sat in her spacious living room on a beautiful red velvet-upholstered sofa with carved back and arms that matched the two smaller seats facing it. On the parquet floor was a patterned area rug below an exquisite coffee table. The fireplace that took up one wall was surrounded by warm wood paneling and had a collection of artistic dishes arranged on the mantel. Then there were those old, original, and lovely paintings on the walls.
All gorgeous. All expensive. Of course.
So was the wine we sipped so nervously that I nearly dropped my cell phone when it began to sing. Thank heavens, it was Jeff. We’d been waiting for his call.
“Damnedest thing, Kendra.” His tone suggested unabated rage. “I saw Hillary and you arrive and settled myself at the back of one of the buildings that was unoccupied at that hour.”
“I won’t ask how you got in,” I said.
“Good thing. Anyhow, there I was, lying low and unobservable, taking post-drop photos without flashes, when a truck rumbled down the alley. I figured it had been sent to tow the trash bin and everything in it, so I took its picture including its license plate, photos of the driver in the cab, everything. But it didn’t stop, just came through the alley and went on. The bin was still there, seemingly untouched.”
“Seemingly?”
“Yeah. I waited for a while longer, and when no one else came, I carefully went outside and took a peek. There wasn’t anything inside the Dumpster anymore. It hadn’t held garbage before and it still didn’t. No black bag, either.”
“What? How—?” I began.
“Wish I knew,” he interrupted. “I have Buzz Dulear checking on the company that owns the truck. He called but of course no one answers the phone at this hour. What do you want to bet they were just paid to take a drive tonight?”
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