Waltz would share the money with Lala. He would be rich. He couldn't believe it.
She resumed the massage. "But the president of Dance Terminal can cash, right?"
Jim leaned back and sighed. "It depends on your company's bylaws. You might need the signatures of more than one of the officers of the corporation to cash the check."
"I see." Lala stroked Jim's hair. "Jim, your hair is thick. Is very nice." She paused. "But we get million six, right?"
"There could be a problem with this claim. Sleeping pills and alcohol is a common method of committing suicide. The insurance company must consider that possibility."
Lala resumed the massage. "Then if Jazz killed himself, no is accident. We only get eight hundred thousand dollars?"
"Normally that would be true. In this case, the timing is very bad. You still have a week to go on the two-year suicide clause. If the insurance company ascertained that it was suicide, you wouldn't get anything. Of course, I'm sure that wouldn't be the case, but we'd still have to investigate, you understand."
Lala stopped the massage. "You mean... if the poisoner waited one week more."
She trudged around the desk and sank into the chair from which she pulled Jim. She put her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands.
Waltz's eyes teared. "No way would Jazz commit suicide. He loved life. He loved himself too much."
Lala's voice was muffled. "Is true. He take vitamins. He exercise. He try to live one hundred years." Her shoulders shook. She was crying.
"The family never believes the insured killed himself. We'd have to investigate. That would hold up the claim. I'm sorry, Lala."
"The cops think someone murdered him. If they convict the murderer, then we get the money?"
"Yes. In that case, the company couldn't question the claim."
Lala lifted her head from her hands. "Murder is accident, true? So we get million six?"
"That's right."
"What if cops send Waltz to jail?" She indicated Waltz with a head nod. "Insurance still pay?"
Waltz pitched forward in his chair to keep from going over backwards. She still thought he did it.
Lala started at the movement. She turned to Waltz and winked. "We must have money to defend Waltz... or what if cops send me to jail?"
"It wouldn't matter who murdered him. The money goes to the studio. The company would issue a check to Dance Terminal. The remaining owner, being an officer of the corporation, could cash the check."
Lala smiled at Jim. "Much thanks, Jim."
Jim smiled at Lala. "I'll do my best to expedite the claim. You let me know as soon as he dies. Let me write my home number on my card. Call me anytime day or night. You wouldn't disturb anybody. I'm not married."
***
Later that afternoon, Waltz went to Hook 'Em's trailer to hunt Jazz's stash. They called every bank in town, Hook 'Em in the bedroom on her cell, Waltz at her desk on the land line. They told each bank they wanted to pay the bill for Jazz's safety deposit box. They found no box in Jazz's name.
Pretending she was searching for a doctor for herself, Lala had questioned students and instructors about their doctors. She compiled a list. Hook 'Em and Waltz, masquerading as the suspects, called the doctors and asked for a refill on their prescriptions for sleeping pills.
Hook 'Em walked into the living room. "Olivia and Rachel both have prescriptions."
"Rachel wouldn't poison Jazz."
Hook 'Em shrugged. "You want to get the guy, you've got to follow all the leads. Rachel has sleeping pills and a motive. We have to question her."
"Armando has a prescription. Refilled twice." Waltz paused. "And." He paused again. "Ken claimed he lost his pills twice in the last ten days."
"Ken?"
"Gordon's boyfriend."
Hook 'Em's eyebrows rose. "Suspicious. Motive?"
"He acts like he hates Jazz."
"How does he know Jazz?"
"He was in the ballet in New York."
Hook 'Em stroked her chin. "Maybe Ken told the truth about losing his pills. Maybe Gordon took them."
"I saw sleeping pills on Gordon's night stand at the hospital."
"Maybe he needed more. We'll talk to Gordon and Ken tonight."
***
Gordon played with his cane. "Let me have the check."
Waltz shook his head. "I don't have a check for you. I said it was about the check. I'm sorry about the stop payment. We didn't have enough cash to cover it."
"You stick me with a bad check. Then you come here and say you have a new one."
Hook 'Em broke in. "I said that."
"Who the hell are you?"
Hook 'Em leaned forward, focused on Gordon. "Waltz didn't stick you with a bad check. Jazz did that. Waltz is facing death for something he didn't do. We needed to talk to you. You were hiding."
Ken put his hand on Gordon's shoulder. "Do you blame him? He may be attacked again. Some madman poisoned Jazz. Jazz is going to die. This madman may come back to finish Gordon. The only way Gordon can be safe is to stay hidden."
How could Waltz bring up the sleeping pills diplomatically? Gordon was already pissed off at them, still suffering the pain of his injuries, and mourning the loss of his toe. They couldn't get any information out of Gordon.
Hook 'Em poked him and nodded. Waltz was supposed to start the questioning to get practice in how to interrogate suspects.
Waltz cringed. "Ken, we know that you refilled your prescription for sleeping pills twice in ten days, claiming that you lost them. How do you explain that?"
Ken didn't speak.
Waltz was supposed to wait. Ken would crack under the pressure.
Hook 'Em played a fanfare on her harp.
Waltz cleared his throat. "Well?"
"They simply disappeared. I don't know what happened to them. I didn't poison Jazz."
"They disappeared?"
"Yes."
"So Gordon took them?"
Gordon slammed his cane on the floor. His face reddened. "That's enough. Get out."
Waltz remained silent. According to Hook 'Em, the pressure would build. Ken or Gordon would reveal something incriminating.
Nobody moved or spoke.
Hook 'Em nodded.
Waltz set his feet. "Well?"
Gordon smashed his cane on the floor again. "I said get out."
Hook 'Em got up. "Come on, Waltz. Let's go. Remember. The killer may come after Gordon."
Waltz walked toward the door with Hook 'Em. "So?"
"Don't tell anybody where Gordon is hiding."
"Certainly not. The killer might find out."
"Of course, I guess you'll have to tell Lala. She'll need the forwarding address for tax purposes."
"I won't tell anybody but Lala. And Olivia."
Hook 'Em stopped and gawked at Waltz. "Olivia? She's the biggest gossip in town."
"I'll swear her to secrecy."
Hook 'Em started for the door. "Oh, and I'll have to tell the police. I'm a private investigator. They could take my license and charge me as an accessory."
"I'll be forced to tell my lawyer."
"I owe a favor to a reporter."
They got to the door.
Gordon pounded his cane on the floor. "Yes, I could have taken Ken's pills. But I didn't need to. I had plenty from the hospital, probably enough to kill three men. But I didn't poison Jazz."
Hook 'Em turned and played a wah wah on her harp. "So you say."
"Okay. You got me. I confess, Sherlock. Jazz gave me a check for a thousand dollars and offered me a cushy lifetime job to replace my current job, which I'm probably going to lose now, thanks to my missing toe. And he promised to pay my hospitalization. Enraged, I poisoned him, an act which benefitted me greatly, allowing Lala to rescind the check, the hospitalization, and the job offer." He held out his arms. "Go ahead. Cuff me."
"Maybe you didn't want to work for him. Maybe you hated his guts."
"And the check?"
&nbs
p; "Maybe you didn't know the studio was broke and figured on cashing the check quick, before Lala thought to stop it."
"If you believe that, you're stupider than I think."
"Oh, I'm far stupider than you think." Hook 'Em's voice was soothing. "Okay. You and Ken didn't do it. Who do you think did?"
Gordon leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He didn't speak.
Ken glanced at Gordon. He turned back to Hook 'Em. "I'll tell you who might have done it." He stopped. His gaze went back to Gordon.
Gordon opened his eyes. "Olivia."
Ken sighed. "Yeah. Olivia. She was at the next table at the party. When Jazz collapsed, she said something like, 'Jazz cheats people out of their hard-earned money. He deserves to die.'"
Gordon patted Ken's knee. "Tell them about the pills."
"We were at her beauty parlor. Gordon wanted to get his hair touched up."
Gordon stamped his cane and glared at Ken.
Ken gazed at the floor. "You talk about pills. She takes every kind of pill you can imagine. Pills to sleep at night, pills to wake up in the morning, pills for thrills. You name it. She's got it. And she was sitting next to Jazz's table that night. She could easily have slipped something into his drink."
***
Early the next afternoon, Olivia fingered Waltz's hair. "Nice texture. You must use a good conditioner."
"Super Wave, pH balanced. No animal testing. All protein, zero carbs, approved for the Atkins diet."
"Nice." She fingered his hair some more.
"My doctor won't give me any more sleeping pills. I heard that you might sell me some."
"Oh. I see. You're trying to find out if I dropped sleeping pills in Jazz's drink."
So much for the subtle approach. "Did you?"
"No."
What a detective he was. He asked. She said no. "Did you sell sleeping pills to anybody at the studio?"
"I don't sell drugs."
"Not even sleeping pills?"
"No."
"Did you give anybody sleeping pills, as a favor?"
"No."
Was she lying? Hook 'Em would say she was lying. "How do you feel about Jazz? A lot of people say you have it in for him."
She continued to fondle his hair. "I won't lie to you. I hate him. He screwed me out of a lot of money."
"I can't believe he'd do that."
"He sold me a lifetime membership at a huge discount, a special sales price for paying cash. This was at the old branch studio in Coast City, knowing all along that he was closing it, leaving me hanging, twisting in the wind."
"He did that, knowing he was closing the studio?"
"Yeah, but I fooled him. I moved to San Salsa."
"Good thinking."
"Not so good. He pointed out a clause in the contract saying the membership was only good in Coast City. I threatened to make a lot of trouble over it. Finally, he agreed to honor it, but refused to schedule more than one lesson a week."
"I'm sorry."
"I told him if he didn't give me at least three lessons a week, I'd sue him. You'd think that would scare him, but no. He laughed at me. He said if I screwed with him, I'd get no lessons at all."
Waltz wished he could hear Jazz's side of the story. Waltz watched her eyes in the mirror. He couldn't tell if she was lying. "You hate him."
"Yes I do. But lots of people hate him more than me."
"Who?"
"How about a permanent? You'd look great with ringlets framing your face."
"No. I like it the way it is." He got nervous going to his regular stylist. He didn't like anybody messing with his hair, especially somebody new.
She ran her hands through his hair again. "Your hair is perfect for ringlets and so is the shape of your face."
She pointed at a poster on the wall. "Look at the do, third from the left, like that. It wouldn't be permanent, you understand. We could try it. If you didn't like it, I could take it out."
"No. I don't think so." Why wouldn't she drop it? "Tell me who hated Jazz."
"Girls go for guys with curls. I promise you'll like it. If not, I'll take it out."
"No, thanks. Who do you think poisoned Jazz?"
She fingered his hair. "I know some good dirt. Stuff about Armando and Rachel. You need to know it. Let me curl your hair."
"No way."
"Armando hates Jazz. He thinks Jazz screwed him."
"Armando told me that."
She arranged instruments on the counter behind Waltz. "He might have poisoned Jazz."
"Maybe. What else?"
"I've got a letter. It's about Jazz and Rachel."
"Let me see it."
"As soon as we get started on the permanent."
"No permanent. Can't you just let me see it?"
She shook her head. "No, I've been thinking about how you'd look with curls for a long time. I have to see. I don't often get a chance to work with texture like this."
"No way."
"What if you refused to try new dance steps? You'd make no progress at all. The same thing is true with hairstyles. You've got to experiment sometimes."
"No."
"Rachel was at Jazz's table that night. This letter might save your life."
Could the letter explain why Jazz fired Rachel, giving her a motive to poison him? "I'll pay you for the permanent, but you don't give it to me."
She held up a bottle. "I tell you what. I'll use a bare hint of curling solution, just enough to show what the do would look like. The curls will go away by morning. Your hair will be the same as always, but you'll know what a permanent can do for you. Test it on the girls. If you like it, I could give you a real permanent."
Should he? He hated to mess up the wave. Still, he needed to know Rachel's motive. "The curls will go away by morning?"
"I promise. And I'll give you the letter. You can take it to the cops."
"You sure the curls will go away by morning?"
She shook the bottle hard. "I've been a licensed beautician since I was fifteen."
He promised Jazz to get the guy. "Okay."
She retrieved equipment from the shelf behind her. She twisted little clumps of his hair up in rollers. His hands squeezed the arms of the chair so hard they cramped.
What was wrong with him? He relaxed his hands. The curls would be gone by morning. He had bigger problems. "Let's see the letter."
She wiped her hands on a towel and opened the drawer behind her. She shuffled through some papers, extracted one, and handed it to him.
It wasn't handwritten or typed. Like a blackmail letter in an old movie, it was a jumble of letters and words cut from a newspaper and pasted on a yellow sheet from a legal pad.
Waltz gaped at it: Guess which Rachel is having an affair with the Jazz Man. Truth Monger.
***
Waltz glared at the mirror. His hair rose above his head in a mountain of curls, rose to a peak so high that a Sherpa couldn't climb it. Olivia claimed that the chemical to take the curl out was too harsh to use for a week.
He slapped on his cap and tugged it tight. Maybe Lala wouldn't notice the curls sticking from the edges. He could keep them hidden until the next day. They'd be gone by then.
***
Lala started her car and glanced at him. "You learn much from Olivia, yes?"
Waltz handed her the note.
She read it, eyes wide. Her face contorted.
He should've broken it to her more gently. He grabbed a tissue and handed it to her.
She laughed. It was a hearty laugh. It lasted a while.
He loved her laugh, but it wasn't what he expected. "What's so funny?"
She dabbed her tears with the tissue. "You know Jazz. He hate cheating. Because you have girlfriends, he tell you one million times you go to hell for adultery. He would never have the affair, with Rachel or anyone."
Lala slapped the note with the back of her fingers. "Olivia paste it together. She afraid we recognize her handwriting."
"Yeah, I
bet you're right. She wants me to suspect Rachel."
"Hmm... Rachel was mad when Jazz fire her." Lala studied the note. "Maybe Olivia tell the truth. It would be iron, no?"
"Iron? You mean... ironic?"
Lala handed Waltz the note and pulled out of the parking lot. "Yes. Ironic. If Jazz cheat, and so is killed, such a destiny for him. Fate mock us, no?"
"I can't believe it's true. How could he prefer Rachel to you?"
She patted his thigh. "True. Still, you must confront her."
"Hook 'Em and I will talk to her tonight."
They stopped at the first key maker on the list, a hardware store.
They pretended to be cops. They showed the clerks pictures of everyone who attended the party. They always took pictures of the partyers for the bulletin board.
They started out optimistic. They knew the date and time that the key was made - the two hours that his keys went missing. The clerks claimed they could barely remember what happened the day before, much less two weeks ago.
It was hopeless. What was the point?
Being a divorce detective was easy. You just followed somebody's spouse and took pictures of him cheating. What could be simpler?
Being a real detective was hard. To catch a murderer, you followed your leads, no matter how weak. What were the odds that a clerk would remember the person making a key two weeks previous?
But Lala stayed optimistic. She kept driving them to the next place, striding in as though she was a rich woman on a shopping spree. Maybe that was it. She enjoyed shopping without spending money. In Lala's mind, that was the only way to shop.
They finished the stores. The clerks recognized no one. The keys were a dead end.
Waltz got in the car and stretched. What could he do? He'd never find the guy. He wasn't a detective and could never learn to be one. He removed his cap and scratched his head.
"What you do to your hair? My God." Lala laughed longer and louder than she had at the thought of Jazz as a womanizer.
He slapped his cap back on.
Lala grabbed it by the bill and snatched it off. "Face me."
Slowly he turned to face her. He couldn't look her in the eyes.
She roared with laughter again. "You let Olivia do this?" Tears rolled down her cheeks. Finally, she stopped laughing. "Olivia claim another victim."
"It'll be back to normal by morning."
Lala replaced his cap and pulled it down tight.
***
They returned to the studio a little before seven. Students lined the benches, chatting and awaiting their instructors.
Sarge and the lieutenant lounged in the office.
Lala smiled. "Lieutenant. How nice to see you."
Drink, Dance, Divorce Page 14