Foolproof (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 4)

by Dianne Emley

  “Just great, Sam. You remember Liz Martini.”

  Both Iris and Liz grew distracted when the man who had been gazing out the window turned around. He was just as Liz had predicted. His features were chiseled, with a high forehead, seductively intense, deep-set, dark brown eyes, and thick hair that he wore cut short, combed forward from the crown and straight down at the sides. His only jewelry was a gold Rolex watch. His suit was understated and looked expensive, as did his shoes. His crisp, white shirt outlined a V-shaped upper body. He appeared to be in his late twenties.

  Sam strolled across Iris’s office to greet Liz with a bounce in his step that was decidedly cocky. “Our broker to the stars. You’re practically a legend in this town,” he enthused as he pumped Liz’s hand.

  Liz tore herself away from staring at the stranger to respond to Sam. “Ow! How old that makes me feel.”

  Still grinning, Sam waved at her as if she were quite the jokester. He was wearing his brown suit. He had five different suits—one for each workday. All of them were at least ten years old.

  Iris grabbed a copy of Wired magazine from her desk, one of the many high tech publications she’d loaded up on since her increased involvement with Pandora. Also on her desk was a manila folder labeled 3-D DIMENSIONS that Darcy from research must have put there. “Liz, here’s the magazine you wanted.”

  Liz reluctantly took it. “Thanks.” She openly eyed the new man in a way that made Iris cringe but that didn’t seem to bother him. He gave Liz a crooked smile and an appraising up-and-down look in return. He then did the same to Iris, and she blushed in spite of herself. He had the confidence of a man who was fully aware of the effect he had on women, and the effect was not lost on Iris.

  There was an awkward moment when the two women, Sam, and the stranger stood looking from one to the next. The younger man seemed amused by it.

  Iris took charge of the situation. “And who have you brought with you, Sam?”

  He rubbed his hands together. “I’m pleased to introduce you to Evan Finn. Evan, this is Iris Thorne, our branch manager, and Liz Martini.”

  Evan firmly shook hands with Liz, then Iris, bowing slightly. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Ms. Martini. And I’ve heard a lot about you, Ms. Thorne.” He slowly released Iris’s hand, drawing his fingers across hers.

  Her palm tingled. “Please call me Iris.”

  He lowered his head a little in her direction as if to say, “As you wish.”

  “And we came today to bring you some terrific news…in confidence.” Sam glanced at Liz.

  “Oh, of course.” Liz waved the magazine at Iris. “Looking forward to reading that article. Good to see you, Sam. Nice to have met you, Evan.” She left and Sam closed the door.

  Sam again rapidly rubbed his hands together in what seemed to Iris a false gesture of excitement. “Iris, I’ve just hired Evan Finn as a new broker.”

  “Great,” Iris said. “In which office?”

  Sam’s smile expanded. “Here. Your office.”

  “My office?”

  “Yes.” He nodded spastically as he continued grinning. “Congratulations.”

  “Why don’t we all have a seat?” Iris sat in her leather chair, which stood slightly higher than the others in the room, allowing her to sit raised above everyone else.

  Evan spoke. “I want to say that I’m delighted with the opportunity and pleased to be working with you.”

  “Who…ah…” Iris was discombobulated by Sam’s announcement. “Evan, you’ve worked as a broker before?”

  “He has a tremendous track record,” Sam interjected before Evan could speak.

  Evan answered for himself. “I spent five years with Huxley Investments out of Nashville.”

  Iris searched to place the name.

  “You probably wouldn’t have heard of them.” Evan casually stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “They’re a small firm whose clients are a select group of high-net-worth individuals.”

  She nodded, not liking his response. “And before that?”

  “I was at Harvard. After graduation, I bummed around Europe for a year, then went to work. Decided I wanted to move out West. Yale Huxley, the managing partner of Huxley Investments, was an acquaintance of Sam’s.” Evan nodded in Sam’s direction. “Sam interviewed me and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Sam’s had nothing but the highest praise for you. When he told me how he’d just promoted this hot new branch manager who was setting the city on fire, I knew this was the place for me.”

  “That’s very flattering.” Now Iris was certain that something was up. She plastered a complaisant smile on her face as she waited for more to be revealed. She sensed there was much more.

  Sam raised his hands as if to ward off an impending blow. “Look, Iris, I should have called you, I know. But Ron Aldrich over at Pierce Fenner Smith had already made Evan an offer. I know you and he have kind of been on the outs ever since you hired Liz away from him, and he was hot to keep Evan out of your hands. Evan was just about to accept the offer so I had to act without delay and nab him while I had the chance.”

  “Sam offered you a good signing bonus?” Iris asked.

  Evan smiled broadly. “Excellent.”

  Iris said, “Maybe you’d like to have a tour of the office. I’ll have my assistant, Louise, show you around.” She picked up the telephone receiver, punched in three buttons, then murmured almost inaudibly into it. Within seconds, Louise was rapping on the closed door. She scooped up Evan and escorted him into the suite.

  Iris closed the door behind them. Sam seemed nervous but continued to act inappropriately jovial. She didn’t mince words. “Sam, what’s up?”

  “Up?” He jumped from the chair as if the word were a command. “Nothing’s up. Frankly, I’m a little surprised at your attitude, Iris. I’m only trying to help you out. Your goal is to build a champion sales force here, and Evan’s the cream of the crop.” He dismissively waved a hand. “I know I should have consulted you first, but there was simply no time. Besides, this is a team effort, Iris. We’re all in this together. I know you like being the lone wolf, but you have to trust your fellow team members to do the right thing.”

  He put one hand into his pocket and gestured with the other. “I realize this is unusual, and I know you have the final say on hiring decisions in your office. But I remind you that recruiting always was my strength. I had a hand in hiring you, after all.”

  Iris set her elbows on the desk, rested her head against her clasped hands, and watched Sam without comment.

  “Evan’s a top-notch guy, Iris. You’ll thank me for this. But if you want to think about it for a few days, you have every right to make that decision. Just be aware that he may not be available after you make up your mind.”

  Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Iris thought to herself. She was familiar with this sales pitch. She’d used it herself a thousand times. “How much was Evan’s signing bonus?”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  “Five thousand? That’s not an offer that can’t be refused. That’s a token. Heavy hitters can command signing bonuses in the high five figures.”

  “It wasn’t money that sold Evan, it was the opportunity to work with you. I’ll admit I was out of line by not consulting you first.”

  To Iris, Sam’s contrition seemed as thin as his worn suit pants. “I assume he took his client book with him from the other firm?”

  “Absolutely. He’s ready to hit the ground running.”

  She swiveled her desk chair and looked out the window. Dark clouds moved across the sky. Rain was predicted to arrive in the next few days. Clouds are rumored to have silver linings. She wondered if there was one here. Sam wanted Evan for some unknown reason. The L.A. office’s success or failure directly reflected upon Sam, so presumably he wouldn’t do anything that would damage his own standing in the firm. If she acquiesced, maybe it would finally defrost relations between her and her boss. It was possible that everything Sam said ab
out Evan was true. She again swiveled her chair to face him. “Sure. Let’s bring him on.”

  Sam seemed almost relieved. “You’ve made the right decision Iris. You’ll see.” He again rubbed his hands as if they were two twigs he was using to make a fire. “This is going to be great.”

  Sam retrieved Evan. Iris welcomed him aboard.

  “Is tomorrow too soon to start, Evan?” Sam asked.

  “Look forward to it.”

  Iris said, “I have very few office rules. I expect you to be here during market hours—six-thirty to one. Most of the sales staff stay much later, doing research, calling clients, but that’s up to you. And I expect you to meet your quota.”

  “Easy enough,” Evan smiled at her, and it was all Iris could do to stop herself from bashfully looking away.

  “There are two empty cubicles. You can have your pick.”

  “I noticed an office that looked empty. I’d like to have that.”

  “Offices are perks given to the higher-producing brokers. If your sales production reaches that level, I’d be happy to give you an office and the title that goes with it.” Iris found his request brash, but she wasn’t too surprised by it. She expected salespeople to be pushy.

  Sam said, “If the office is empty, Iris, I don’t see why Evan couldn’t have it.”

  Evan watched Iris with interest as he waited for her response.

  She held firm. “That wouldn’t be fair to the other brokers who are working hard to try and earn an office.” She extended her hand to Evan before anyone could say anything else. “Congratulations.”

  After more pleasantries all around, Evan and Sam left. Liz almost immediately appeared in Iris’s doorway. “He looks just like Tom Cruise! Who is our tall, dark, and handsome?”

  “The newest addition to our sales team.” Iris then relayed her conversation with Sam and Evan.

  “Very irregular,” Liz commented.

  “I know.” Iris raised her eyebrows. “But what’s the worst that can happen? If he can’t sell, I’ll fire him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Ms. Thorne?” asked the Latina maid wearing a light-pink dress who answered the door. “Stay here,” she harshly ordered. Iris obeyed and remained standing in the foyer while the maid walked on rubber-soled shoes down the hallway and turned through a side door. Her dark braid, long enough for her to sit on, swung as she walked.

  Iris casually roamed through the two-story-tall foyer of the brand-spanking-new house that had been constructed to resemble a French château. She tapped a fingernail against what appeared to be gray stone that formed an arch over a doorway. It returned a hollow sound. She did the same thing to the front door that looked like a massive block of carved wood. It was hollow as well. The whole place was as substantial as a movie set.

  The huge house was located in Calabasas, a thirty-mile trek northwest from downtown Los Angeles. Calabasas prided itself on its western heritage and had a couple of good cantinas that drew lively crowds on Saturday nights. Over the past fifteen years, L.A.’s urban sprawl had gradually reached out here.

  In addition to the Southwestern-inspired tract homes and mission-style strip malls endemic to L.A.’s newer suburban neighborhoods, a curious thing happened in Calabasas. Nouveaux millionaires fleeing L.A. began building fairy-tale mansions in the hills. Where once there were dirt, hills, and an occasional horse, now there were dirt, mansions, an army of sports utility vehicles, and an occasional horse. The homes were mostly owned by people in the business. There were many businesses in L.A., but when people referred to the business, they were talking about movies and TV.

  The maid returned. “Please come.” Iris followed her down a domed hallway inlaid with faux stone and out a door at the back that led to a lush garden. A marble fountain—or what looked like marble—in the middle of the garden babbled pleasantly. Sprinklers aggressively hissed water in a struggle repeated across Southern California as residents fought daily battles in the losing war to turn a desert into a verdant landscape.

  “I’ll be out on the six-o’clock.” Jim Platt was pacing around the fountain as he talked into a cellular phone. He wore faded, button-front Levi’s, a white, knit, collared shirt with the Polo logo on the breast, and worn leather Top-Siders without socks. His hair was wavy, thick, and as unruly as a young boy’s. He’d just turned twenty-seven and was one of the hottest directors in town based upon an oeuvre of two stylistically unique, ultraviolent films. He glanced at Iris, frowned, and continued pacing and talking. “He’s driving. You know he refuses to fly. That was before he became a star. Now he won’t fly. Ciao.”

  He clicked off the phone, set it on a stone bench next to the fountain, and again looked at Iris as he might a trail of ants invading his Froot Loops. She was glad she wasn’t there to ask him for a job. She suspected he’d forgotten she’d called earlier about coming over.

  “I’m Iris Thorne. I called—”

  He stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah.... Look, I don’t have any information.” He spoke in staccato bursts. “The police have been over and over this. Alexa didn’t have any enemies. You should have known that. You said you were friends with her. She hadn’t been receiving threats.” He raised his hands, shoulders, and eyebrows at her. “Okay?”

  “What’s your theory about what happened?”

  “My theory about what happened,” he repeated dully. “Okay,” he said as if he’d decided to humor her. “After she left Bridget and Brianna, some unknown creep, some stranger danger, pulled her back into the park, smashed her head with a rock, and she fell into the ravine. The only person the police know for sure was around was this groundskeeper guy, but there’s no evidence linking him—or anyone else—to the murder.”

  “Apparently, there wasn’t a struggle,” Iris said. “If there had been, trace evidence would have been transferred to Alexa. It’s as if she was killed by someone she knew, someone she felt comfortable turning her back on.”

  Platt shook his fist. “If only she’d scratched him or pulled his hair or something. I get pissed at Alexa when I think about it. I’m like, ‘Come on, Lexi! Be a wild woman. I know you can do it.’” He stared into the fountain. The bluster momentarily left and Iris sensed that Pratt was in deep mourning. After a while, he said, “What she and I had, most people never touch, you know?”

  Iris sat on a stone bench. “I’m very sorry.”

  Platt again twisted his upper lip into what appeared to be a well-practiced disdainful look. “Yeah, whatever.”

  Iris was surprised at how quickly his attitude had changed. She suspected the vulnerable side she’d glimpsed was kept tightly under wraps. “My understanding is that Alexa left Pandora on good terms.”

  “They loved her. She hated to go and they hated to lose her. She said that Kip could be a pain in the ass, but, you know, he’s a genius and all that. She thought that Bridget had made him. Taken Kip’s raw talent and molded it. Alexa always liked being around brilliant people. Being challenged in that way.” He shrugged self-importantly. “Anyway, the police have already milked the Kip Cross connection.”

  “Do you know whether Kip and Alexa had an affair?”

  He looked affronted. “Of course not. She thought he was an asshole.”

  Iris silently reflected on the irony of his comment.

  He impatiently glanced at his watch. “Look, I’m realistic about this. I think there’s a good chance we’ll never know what happened to Alexa. Sorry about Bridget, but—” Platt again looked at his watch.

  “I think there’s an angle the police haven’t looked at.”

  Platt began quickly pacing back and forth, four steps in each direction. “What angle?”

  “I believe there’s a connection between your wife’s murder and Bridget Cross’s. I’d hoped we could sort of…brainstorm.”

  He stopped pacing. “I don’t have time to brain…storm.” He sarcastically elongated the word.

  “Don’t you want to find out who murdered your wife?”<
br />
  Platt raised one side of his upper lip. “Of course I do. What kind of man do you think I am?”

  “A smart man. A man who can put together ideas and make connections that everyone else has missed.” She stoked the fires of his big ego. It might not help, but it sure wouldn’t hurt. “I have a theory that Alexa’s and Bridget’s murders are somehow related to the businesses they’re in.”

  Platt found this interesting. “How so?”

  “Both Bridget and Alexa were in the business of depicting violence. Some would argue, glamorizing it.”

  Platt bristled. “It’s a chicken-and-egg thing. The violence came first. Artists simply reflect what’s going on in their world.”

  “And what’s going on is a source of concern for a lot of people. Open any newspaper and you can read about outrage over sex and violence in movies and TV and the misogynistic and anti-police lyrics in gangsta rap records. People are upset over the availability of pornography and hate literature on the Internet, how one can meet pedophiles or find formulas to make bombs.”

  Platt grabbed his index finger with his other hand. “First, no one has proven that a normal kid, after seeing something of a sexual or violent nature on TV or in a movie, is then more likely to go out and imitate it. The hair-trigger whackos out there are probably going to do what they’re going to do anyway.” He grabbed his middle finger. “Second, isn’t it the parents’ job to monitor what their kids are doing? Hell, now they’ve got the V-chip to help them. Movies have been rated for years. They’ve got blocking software on the Internet—Net Nanny, Cybersitter—there’s a bunch of them. So what’s the big deal?”

  Iris nodded. “The problem is, any young hacker worth his salt can get around blocking software or password access. If a V-chip is installed on one home’s TV, odds are there’s another house in the neighborhood that doesn’t have it. And in terms of the movie-rating system, I went into R-rated movies when I was younger than sixteen and I’m sure you did too.”