Thugs and Kisses (7 page)

We got through Monday with little problem. Tina called an employment agency, and they sent a new temp over. His name was John Warren, a budding musician who needed occasional office work for occasional cash. John had worked in our office before, and while he wasn’t suited for the long haul at Woobie, he could type fast and accurately and knew how to follow instructions. Jolene needed help, and Steele had left several dictation tapes before leaving for his mysterious trip. We could deal with a more permanent replacement in a few days.

When the Monday workday was over, I looked at the clock with dread. I didn’t want to go home. Even though Greg and I didn’t see each other that much during the week, I knew my evening would be empty without his nightly call. Zee had called earlier to invite me to dinner, but I had declined. I didn’t want to be with well-meaning friends, either. It was almost seven o’clock when Joan Nuñez stopped by to say good night.

“I was afraid you’d still be here,” she said from the doorway.

I looked up from the document I was reading, or trying to read. “Well, so are you.”

“Yes, but I’m working on trial prep, not avoiding a painful situation.”

“Sweetie, I’ve done trial prep,” I told her. “It is a painful situation.”

We both laughed, then I stopped short. Something I just said had jarred a rock loose in my thick skull: trial prep. There was a possible trial brewing, and it was a matter that Steele was involved with.

“Joan, Steele didn’t call in all day today, at least not to me. Did he call you?”

She shook her head. “Maybe he’s embarrassed about Rachel. Maybe he did do something to make her quit.”

“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “When have you ever known Steele to be embarrassed about anything? Remember that incident with Trudie? He wasn’t embarrassed about that in the least, and that was a 9.5 on the shame scale.”

Joan blushed as she remembered the short-lived Woobie career of Trudie Monroe, one of Steele’s conquests and short-lived secretaries. Trudie and Steele were caught with their drawers down when vandals broke into the law firm.

“Joan, doesn’t it seem strange that Steele didn’t call either one of us, especially with Silhouette heating up?”

Steele was a corporate attorney, but often he got involved with high-profile litigation matters involving business issues. The current brouhaha was between Silhouette Candies, our client, and Sweet Kiss Confections, another candy company started up by a former owner of Silhouette. The issue involved trade secrets, proprietary information, and unfair competition—all right up Mike Steele’s alley. The litigation attorneys on the case were Carl Yates, a name partner, and Fran Evans. That jarred another rock loose.

“Both Carl and Fran asked if I’d heard from Steele today,” I told Joan. “And Jolene said she’d tried to call him, but he didn’t answer.”

“That’s definitely not like Michael Steele,” she agreed.

I got up and walked the few steps down the hall to Steele’s office. Joan followed on my heels. Switching on the light, I went straight to Steele’s chrome-and-black-lacquered desk and checked out his phone. The message light was blinking. I pointed at it.

Joan looked at the light, then at me. “But he could have picked up his messages and then received some more.”

I hesitated. “Of course, you’re right. It doesn’t prove anything.”

We went back to my office, and I closed up shop while Joan waited. Together, we left for the night.

As soon as I got home, I kicked off my heels, grabbed my address book from my tote, and headed straight for the phone in the kitchen. The thing with Steele was bothering me. I had to make sure about the messages.

Mike Steele and I might butt heads more times than not, but there was one thing we did have in common—mutual trust. He may be an ass, but he’s an ass I can take to the bank on his word and his actions. And he felt the same about me. Since Steele lived alone and didn’t have any family in the area that I knew of, I had an emergency key to his home and kept track of all of his passwords and codes, including the one for his office voice mail. He had entrusted this vital information to me after he’d been assaulted in the office just over a year ago, during the time of the Trudie Monroe debacle. I kept the passwords in two places: in my address book, carefully scattered throughout, and taped under a desk drawer at the office. The key to his Laguna Beach condo was upstairs in a desk drawer. I could have retrieved the voice mail password at work, but I didn’t want Joan to know about it. It’s not that I don’t trust Joan; I do. But Steele also trusts me to keep quiet about it.

I called the office voice mail number and punched in Steele’s extension. When prompted, I poked out his code on my dial pad. In short order, I was in his voice mail. He had twenty-three new messages and seven saved messages. Fortunately, the voice mail system automatically gave me the earliest-dated message first. Steele’s first unheard message was from Saturday, two days earlier, the day he left town. He had not picked up messages since. In the past, even when Steele had gone out of the country, he had picked up messages at least once a day. He was extremely conscientious about his job and giving his clients quality attention, if not quality personality.

I sat down at the kitchen table and stared at the phone, wondering what to do next. I wanted to check his home phone, but that was one password I didn’t have. Except for the spare key to his apartment, I had no access to Steele’s personal life. Seamus, upset that I hadn’t said hello to him yet, jumped onto the table and sprawled in front of me. I rubbed his belly with my free hand and listened to him purr while I pondered what this could mean. Another thing that nagged at me was that Jolene had tried to reach him on his BlackBerry and failed, nor had he responded to the message she had left. Anyone who even remotely knows Steele knows that the ubiquitous electronic device is nearly fused to his hand like an extra digit. He goes nowhere without it, and he almost always answers it. And he always returns calls.

Something was wrong, I just knew it.

My thoughts were interrupted by my own ringing phone. My heart did a leap, then dashed to the floor when I saw on the display Dev’s name and not Greg’s. Not that I wasn’t happy to hear from Dev, but Greg was the one person I’d give anything to hear from.

“Hello,” I said, after punching the answer button.

“Hi, it’s Dev. Just checking to see if you’re okay.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Not dandy, but fine.” I paused. “And thanks for checking up on me. Any news about Donny?”

“Not a thing yet. I gave the information you gave me to the guys in charge, but you still might have to answer their questions.”

“Whatever I need to do, I’ll do.” My voice was like cardboard, flat and dull. Too many things had happened in a short time. I was exhausted, emotionally and physically. Dinner, a hot bath, and an early bedtime were clearly in my future.

“Good girl,” Dev said with forced cheer.

“Woof,” I responded and panted into the phone. It got a half-hearted laugh, followed by a pause.

“I assume you haven’t heard from Greg.”

“Not a peep.” I didn’t want to talk about Greg. I didn’t want to think about him either. Today was the first day in a very long time that I hadn’t heard Greg’s voice, and it was killing me, squishing my heart like it was in a garlic press. I decided to switch to another worry.

“Dev, when someone goes missing, how long before you can report it to the police?”

“Someone missing, Odelia?”

“I’m not sure, but I think Mike Steele is.” I told him about the day and Steele’s uncharacteristic lack of contact with the office.

“Steele said he was going to be gone, Odelia. And you know it was for personal business, so maybe he needs to focus on whatever called him out of town. I’ll bet he’ll be back by Wednesday. If he’s not, then give me a call and we’ll see what we can do.”

What Dev said made sense, but only if we weren’t talking about Michael R. Steele, Esquire. Whether I liked it or not, Steele had me as fused to him as the BlackBerry. Even when Greg and I took vacations, I had to set down ground rules with Steele about how often I would check in. It didn’t stop him from leaving messages on my cell phone, but at least I controlled when I returned the calls. And two years ago, when Steele’s mother passed away, he left quietly for a week to attend the funeral and take care of family matters. No one knew where his family lived, but one thing was for sure, he had called me every day, sometimes two or three times, to make sure things were still running smoothly in his absence.

The two men who called me the most were now not calling me at all. One left me sad, angry, and confused. The other left me curious. Both worried me.

I said goodbye to Dev, saying he was probably right about Steele, even though in my heart I didn’t believe it.

A few minutes later, while I was scrounging in the refrigerator for some dinner, my phone rang. I jumped for it, only to be disappointed yet again. This time the display showed
no data
, meaning an unknown caller. I answered and got a huge shock.

“Odelia,” the caller said after hearing my hello. “This is Sally Kipman.”

“Sally?”

“Yes, quite a surprise, huh?”

I grimaced at the phone. “Yes, but a pleasant one.”

She laughed lightly. “You never were a good liar, Odelia.”

She was right, so I cut to the chase. Between Greg and Steele,
I wasn’t in the mood to play polite parlor games. “What’s up, Sally?”

“It’s about Donny Oliver. I was wondering if we could get together to discuss what happened.”

“Whatever for? Did you kill him?”

“No, of course not, but the police are questioning me and have me in their sights.”

“You?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.

I tried to remember where Sally was when Donny came staggering into the reunion, shot and dying, but couldn’t. But at that exact time I was dancing with Dev with visions of white gowns and flowers parading through my head. A pang shot through me like an electrical shock at the memory. Suddenly, dinner didn’t seem important, but a box of Thin Mints definitely was in order.

“Why would the police suspect you?” I asked her while rummaging through the freezer for my private stash of the minty chocolate cookies.

She hesitated, no doubt weighing her answer with care. “Because Donny and I were … well, we were involved in a legal action many years ago.”

“You?” I said again. After retrieving a box of cookies, I shut the freezer door and concentrated on the call.

“Yes, me. And the police are nosing around to see if it might be some sort of revenge killing.”

“I take it Donny won the legal battle.”

“Yes, Odelia, he did.” Her voice was curt.

“May I know what it was about?”

Another pause. It made me wonder if she was going to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, or a watered- down version.

“Donny is the father of my son, Lucas.”

My eyes popped open at the news. There was nothing watered down about an answer like that.

“When Lucas was eleven,” she continued, “Donny found out he was the father and fought for custody. He won.”

“He won? Who’d give that jackass a kid?”

“The court, Odelia. Donny made a strong case that I wasn’t fit to raise a child, especially a boy. It was a morals issue.”

I was speechless.

On the other end, Sally sighed. “It’s rather ironic, actually.”

She paused. I waited.

“You see, Odelia, you were right all those years ago. I am a lesbian.”

Trying to listen to Dev’s advice and not panic, I made it to Wednesday. There was still no call from Greg, still no call from Mike Steele. Two boxes of Thin Mints and three fingernails had been sacrificed to the cause, along with a bit of my sanity. Tonight, I was meeting Sally Kipman to discuss Donny Oliver’s murder. Something told me that by tomorrow I wouldn’t have a box of cookies or a single nail left.

I know I promised Dev I wouldn’t get involved with Donny’s murder. And Sunday I told Greg I had no interest in it. But this morning, while walking with Reality Check around the Back Bay, Zee had taken me aside and insisted on knowing if I was sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. I couldn’t or wouldn’t give her a straight answer, which in itself was an answer. She had stared hard at me, hands on hips, for a long time. Then she shook her head, gave me a hug, and started walking after the others down the trail. Zee understood that when something bothered me, I couldn’t let it go until I had answers, and that I would be relentless in my search. I did this with both big and small issues alike. She also understood something about me that the men didn’t, or didn’t want to—that when I was in such an obsessive mindset, I would make up my own mind and do what I felt I should do, contrary to all good and sound advice.

Maybe Greg was right. Maybe I hadn’t been part of an “us” relationship. Maybe I never could be, after being alone most of my life.

As I waited for my computer to boot up, I mentally reviewed the situation. I had spent part of Tuesday digging through Steele’s desk, hoping to find a clue to his destination. I also searched the secretary’s desk, hoping he had given even a scant piece of information to Rachel and that she had jotted it down somewhere on a sticky note or scrap of paper. Both times I came up empty-handed. The only trace of his trip was a note on the calendar that he would be out of the office Monday, Tuesday, and possibly Wednesday. Behind closed doors, I even listened to all of his messages, including the saved ones, hoping to find a tidbit of information to grasp, but all related to issues he was handling for the firm. Even his e-mails hadn’t been picked up. All of them, from Saturday on, were marked unread—something else that was uncharacteristic, even when he traveled.

“Odelia,” someone said to me.

I turned away from my computer screen and toward my office door to find Carl Yates looking at me. Carl was a man on the brink of sixty, very tall and angular, with thick hair the color of fading flax. He had an easy smile and manner, which belied the tough, take-no-prisoners litigator beneath. His jacket was off, his tie askew, and his shirt sleeves rolled up. His reading glasses were perched on top of his head.

“Has Mike returned from his trip yet?”

“I haven’t seen him.” I turned in my chair and gave him my full attention. “In fact, Carl, I’m quite worried. No one has heard from him since he left. That’s not like him. Has he called you?”

“No, he hasn’t, and I’ve left a half-dozen voice mails for him, both here and at home. The Silhouette matter is heating up, and I need his input.” He started to leave, then stopped. “And you’re right; it’s not like him at all. Hope nothing’s happened to him.”

“I don’t want to seem panicky, but maybe we should call his emergency contact. He was due back today.”

“Good idea, Odelia. Take care of that, and keep me posted.”

Tina Swanson provided me with the emergency contact information from Steele’s personnel sheet. It was for a Karen Meek in Santa Barbara. Tina didn’t write down what Ms. Meek’s relationship was to Steele, just her home and office number.

Looking at my watch, I noted that it was just about two thirty, so I tried the office number. A woman answered, “Karen Meek’s office.” She sounded young.

“Is Ms. Meek in?”

She asked my name and what it was regarding. I gave her my name, the firm’s, and Steele’s, and was put on hold. Shortly, another woman came on the line and identified herself as Karen Meek. Her voice was educated and efficient. I identified myself as Michael Steele’s paralegal and told her we were concerned because he had not returned from a trip. I further explained that she was his contact information.

“But I saw Mike this weekend,” she told me.

I sighed in relief. Maybe she was a girlfriend, although she didn’t sound like one of his usual bimbos. Then it occurred to me that perhaps Karen Meek was his sister or some other family member. “Do you know where he is now?”

“He told me he was going to spend a couple of days at the Inn. Said he needed to think some things through, something about work, a trial or something, and wanted to do it away from the office. He said he needed some downtime.”

“Downtime? Steele?”

The voice on the other end laughed, making me realize I probably shouldn’t have been so candid.

“Yes, even Mike needs downtime every now and then. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

I laughed lightly. Whoever this Karen Meek was, she sounded cool.

“Ms. Meek, we haven’t heard from Mr. Steele since he left Friday evening. That’s highly unusual for him, even when he travels.”

She laughed lightly again. “Sorry, but that was partly my fault. Saturday and Sunday he was at my house, and I wouldn’t allow him to use his cell. He seemed preoccupied, and I wanted him to focus on family issues. I don’t know why he didn’t call after he left. Maybe he enjoyed being untethered from the office and decided to continue it. Like I said, he seemed preoccupied with something. Maybe he decided he could think about it better without any disturbance.”

“You’re family, then? Are you his sister?” I stopped and rethought my question. “I’m sorry, I’m being too nosy.”

Again, I heard a light laugh from the other end of the line. “I’m like a sister to him, though not by blood. In reality, I’m his ex-wife.”

Well, that knocked me over. I knew Steele had been married before. It was a tidbit of personal information he had let slip once. I remembered him saying it was during law school and short-lived. I had assumed that he and the ex had parted permanently, not remained close friends. But that was my assumption, not a fact, obviously. I also remembered him saying they had no children, and I wondered what family issues he had in common with his ex-wife. But I had reached my nosy quota with Karen Meek, at least for now.

“Well, Ms. Meek, maybe you’re right about Mr. Steele deciding to remain incommunicado, but he hasn’t returned yet and was due back in the office no later than today. So I’m sure you understand why we are so concerned.”

“Of course,” she replied. “And I’m getting worried now myself. Mike is always where he is supposed to be when he’s supposed to be there. It’s as much of a flaw as it is a good trait. True?”

I smiled at the comment. Yes, this woman did know Steele. “What was the name of the place he was going to? The Inn?”

“Yes, the Ojai Valley Inn & Spa. Do you want me to call them for you?”

“No, thank you, Ms. Meek, you’ve already been quite helpful. I’ll give them a call. Maybe he’s on his way back and is stuck in traffic.”

“It’s quite possible. But please keep me posted, won’t you? Or have him call me when he returns so I won’t worry.”

“Of course, Ms. Meek, thank you.” The list of people who wanted to be kept posted was growing by leaps and bounds.

I looked up the number for the Ojai Valley Inn & Spa and dialed it. I asked for Michael Steele and was told there was no guest registered under that name. When I pressed for more information, I was transferred to the manager’s office. I spoke to a Mr. Fernandez, who explained that he could only tell me that they had no guests registered under that name at that time.

My next call was to Dev Frye. I received his voice mail and left a message, which he returned within twenty minutes. I told him about Karen Meek and the inn, and how Steele had not shown up yet and not called anyone here at the office. I carefully left out the fact that I was meeting Sally Kipman tonight for dinner. After all, my call to Dev was about Steele and Steele alone. I also wasn’t in the mood to be lectured. Dev told me to sit tight and he’d get back to me shortly.

Sitting tight is not in my genetic makeup. I was meeting Sally for dinner at seven at Houston’s in Irvine, just off the 405 Freeway, and I was dying to know what she was going to tell me. I was still shaken by her admissions that she was gay and her child had been fathered by Donny Oliver. I was actually more surprised about her connection with Donny. If she was a lesbian, why and how did Donny manage to impregnate her? For all his faults, he hadn’t seemed the type to force a woman. Maybe she wasn’t gay then. Maybe her experience with Donny had turned her gay? Then I dismissed my last thought as pure poppycock. I knew better, and after all, I had survived Donny. Seven o’clock just couldn’t come fast enough. I reached into my tote bag and grabbed some emergency Tylenol. All this sitting tight was giving me a headache.

Dev’s call came on my cell phone just as I was leaving the office for Houston’s. He had some information, although it wasn’t really anything regarding Steele’s whereabouts, just his non-whereabouts. It’s never a surprise to me that cops know other cops. Dev knew some of the detectives involved with Donny’s murder case, and it turns out he knows someone who knows someone in the Ojai Police Department. That person made a quick courtesy call to the Ojai Valley Inn & Spa.

According to Dev’s source, Michael Steele was well known at the inn and had a reservation for two nights, Monday and Tuesday, but had been a no-show. Generally, he brought a female companion with him, but this time the reservation had been for one guest only and included a Tuesday morning tee time. After telling me all he could, Dev suggested that either I or the firm file a missing person report and he would be happy to facilitate it.

A formal missing person report—yikes. That really elevated Steele’s absence to a new level, like the Homeland Security Advisory System upgrading its terrorist risk from yellow to orange and putting everyone on alert. I told Dev that I needed to discuss this with someone at the office and would get back to him.

Dev ended the call by asking me to dinner, but I demurred, saying I had a lot on my mind and needed some time to digest it.
I still wasn’t of the mind to tell him that I was about to add Donny’s murder to my already full plate.

I made a quick call to Sally Kipman, telling her something had come up at the office and that I would be about thirty minutes late. I offered to reschedule, but she said she’d wait. That taken care of, I went in search of Carl Yates. I wasn’t surprised to find him still hard at work. He was ensconced in a war room, a small conference room near his office that had been set aside to house the voluminous documents and work in progress for the Silhouette matter. With Carl were Joan Nuñez and Fran Evans. Joan looked up from the pile of documents in front of her and smiled at me. Fran frowned.

“I hope,” Fran said to me in her usual frozen demeanor, “that you’re here to tell us Mike Steele’s back. We really need his help.”

I ignored her and directed my words to Carl. “I have some information on that project you asked about.”

For a second his look was blank, then understanding filled his tired eyes and made them spark. He turned to Joan and Fran. “There’s nothing more we can do tonight, why don’t you both go home.” Joan nodded, but Fran started to say something. Carl stopped her. “Joan, can you be back here tomorrow morning around seven thirty or eight to go through those new documents that arrived today?”

Joan had already stood up and was rolling her neck and shoulders, loosening them. No doubt she’d been bent over documents close to ten hours today, with more facing her tomorrow. “Yes, of course, Carl. I’ll be here by seven thirty.”

“Good.” He turned to Fran. “I need to give Odelia some time, and then I’m heading home myself. Get some rest, Fran; you’ve been hitting it pretty hard.”

“But what about Mike?” she asked, looking from Carl to me. “Any news?”

“He still hasn’t called me,” I told her.

Before Fran could ask anything more, Carl directed me a few doors down the hall to his office. After closing the door, he took a seat behind his large, imposing desk and indicated for me to sit in a chair across from him. Carl’s office was as cluttered as the war room, with expanding files, boxes of documents, and file folders stacked on most flat surfaces. Interspersed between the documents and files on his desk and bookcase were numerous family photos.

“What do you have to tell me, Odelia?”

“It’s not good, Carl,” I started. “Not terrible, but not good.”