Foolproof (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 4)

by Dianne Emley

  Iris turned to Liz, “Keep the party going. I’ll be back in a minute.” She took the glass from Liz and slipped it inside her jacket, holding it under her armpit.

  “What are you up to?”

  “I’ll be back in a few. If anyone asks, tell them I had to make a phone call.”

  Iris cautiously walked through the sales department. Apparently, everyone who hadn’t gone to Julie’s had left for home. She deposited Evan’s glass, still wrapped in the napkin, in her briefcase.

  Wasting no time, she went to Evan’s cubicle. Before she touched anything in his briefcase, she formed a mental picture of its position so she’d be able to return it to the exact location. She started rummaging. Her initial examination yielded nothing out of the ordinary: today’s Wall Street Journal, a rubber-banded stack of personal bills, a Business Week, and a thick list of names and telephone numbers. From a pocket in the top, she pulled a manila folder full of sheets of light blue paper in a heavy bond. She rifled them with her thumb. The Canterbury Investments stationery letterhead was imprinted in raised navy blue letters and gave a West Los Angeles street address.

  She jumped when she thought she heard the front door open, almost dropping the stack of papers. The stationery was printed with statements of account activity, not unlike those issued by McKinney Alitzer or any financial services firm. They tracked buys, sells, dividends, and changes in market value of individual investors’ portfolios for the previous month.

  Iris selected one that showed a fair amount of activity and took it to the photocopy machine on the other side of the suite near the lunchroom. She’d made her copy and was on her way to put the original back when she heard the soft whine of the suite’s glass front door opening. She turned and saw Evan walking toward her.

  She continued past Evan’s desk and proceeded to her office, folding the statement and photocopy into small squares as she walked.

  “Hey,” Evan called to her. “Thought you were making a phone call downstairs.”

  She shoved the papers into her jacket pocket. “It was too noisy.”

  He walked over to her. “I wanted to thank you for inviting me to have a drink with you guys.”

  “I’m sorry I spilled it on you.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m glad you talked me into coming.”

  She jammed her thumb into her pocket, forcing down a blue edge of paper that was still visible. “It was my pleasure. Welcome aboard.”

  “What luck I’ve had lately. One minute, I’m new to L.A. without a job, and the next thing I know, Sam Eastman’s offering me a big signing bonus.”

  “Five thousand dollars, right?” Iris wanted to make sure she was clear on what Evan considered big.

  “Five thousand?” Evan made a face. “Try fifty thousand.”

  Iris gaped at him then quickly recovered. “Fifty?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No, no, of course I…ah…You must have been pleased to find out you’re worth that much in the marketplace.”

  “Heck, yeah. I know I have tremendous potential, but I’m new in the industry and don’t have much of a track record yet so I was surprised that you and Sam thought I was worth that much.”

  “Fifty is good dough.” She casually leaned against a sales assistant’s desk. “How did you get connected with Sam Eastman?”

  “Yale Huxley at the firm where I used to work gave Sam a call.” He eyed her boldly. “I get the impression you weren’t aware that Sam was recruiting me.”

  Iris tried to meet his stare as she had in the elevator, but couldn’t make it stick. Her gaze darted away. She couldn’t tell him the truth, that against her better judgment she’d caved in to Sam’s wishes thinking she’d score a political gain. “Of course I was.”

  His brown eyes still rested on her. “Okay.”

  She could tell he didn’t believe her. She was a lousy liar.

  “You run a nice office.” He walked to his cubicle.

  She hopped after him, hearing him snap the brass fasteners on his briefcase closed just as she reached his desk. “Aren’t you going back down to join the party?”

  “I’ve got too many things to do. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He grabbed the handle of the black leather briefcase, swung it off the desk, and walked down the corridor, turning to wave as he disappeared into the reception area.

  She shouted, “See you tomorrow.”

  After she heard the glass door swing open on its creaky hinge then close again, she pulled the Canterbury Investments statement from her pocket.

  Kip Cross sat behind an antique wood desk in a cozy room of his house that Bridget had used as her office. Exposed beams lined the ceiling. A stone fireplace extended the entire length of the room. The furniture was overstuffed and comfortable. The turquoise blue shutters that decorated the windows of every room of the house were closed here. Rain pounded against them. It had been raining all day with no end in sight.

  The only light in the room was given by the eucalyptus logs burning in the fireplace and the computer monitor on the desk. Kip hadn’t touched the keyboard for many minutes and a screen-saver displayed exploding fireworks. He stared at the screen without seeing it, his right hand massaging his left eyebrow, his upper body rocking, the rhythm as steady as a metronome.

  He suddenly looked at the ceiling as if he’d only then become aware of the pounding rain. He scanned the ceiling, listening, as if the rain were speaking to him. He slowly rose from the chair, unlocked the iron bolt lock on the thick door, and walked into the arched main corridor of the house. It was faintly illuminated by electric candle sconces set along the walls. He crossed the tiled foyer, went down the three steps that led to the family room, his rubber flip-flops squeaking slightly against the tiles, opened one of the French doors that led to the patio, and walked into the rain. His jeans and T-shirt quickly became soaked.

  In the pool house, he removed the long, hooked pole from the wall. At the patio gate, he entered the code to deactivate the alarm and stepped outside onto the cement staircase. The rain was pounding so hard, the narrow, gray stairs were almost invisible. There was no moon or other natural or artificial light to guide him, but he had been up and down those stairs so many times that he didn’t need light.

  He hopped down sixteen steps, the rainwater swirling around his ankles, until he reached the fifty-fourth step up from Capri Road. There he wriggled between the steel railings. The blanket of dead leaves and pine needles had been washed away, leaving slick mud behind. His flip-flops created a suction with the mud, almost causing him to pitch face-forward as he struggled to walk. He finally pulled the rubber shoes from his feet and stretched to set them on the stairs, where they were quickly washed away by the rushing water.

  Grasping the mud with his toes and using the pole end of the pool hook as a cane to avoid slipping, he walked to the storm drain, struggling to remain upright on the steep slope. He set the pool hook on the ground next to the drain, quickly grabbing it again before the light plastic was swept down the hill. He awkwardly tucked the pole under his arm and straddled the drain. He pulled the drain sections apart without too much difficulty as the rain had worked fine sand underneath the sleeve that held them together. Water rushed from the drain’s open end. He slipped onto his knees. He got up, fed the hook inside the drain, and pulled it out, finding nothing. It had been washed clean. He angrily kicked the drain with his bare foot, almost losing his balance.

  Leaning on the pool hook with one hand and trailing his other against the stair railing for balance, he inched his way down the muddy hillside. The open end of the drain jutted over the edge of a retaining wall four feet above the street. He climbed over the wall and jumped down to the street below. His arms and legs were covered in mud. He looked to the left and right. It was the wee hours of the morning and the houses along the street were dark. No one was around.

  He fed the pole into the open end of the drain, fished around, and pulled it out—coming up with nothing but wet debris. He w
as standing in a pile of wet leaves, pine needles, and mud that had washed from the drain. He dragged the hook around in it, finally hitting something solid. He dug his hands in the muck and pulled out a handgun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was still raining when Iris opened her front door to retrieve her newspaper. She looked at the rain and her flooded lawn and flowerbeds and at the Triumph parked in the driveway. She had never replaced the badly corroded rubber seals around the frame that held the rag top in place. The car was bound to be damp inside. She worried about this and about the other job she should have done before the rains came—shoring up her backyard. It wasn’t supposed to be raining like this. It was supposed to be a dry winter.

  Mulling over these and a million other things to do, she started to dash from the house to get the paper, but stopped when she almost stumbled over a box on the front porch. About a foot square, it was wrapped in glossy pale pink paper and had a big white bow on top. There were no stamps or address. It had to have been hand-delivered during the night. She looked without touching it and noticed that the box’s bottom and lid were wrapped separately, with the ribbon tied just around the lid, like a television show gift that can be opened without any of the wrappings torn, leaving the package looking pretty.

  She cautiously stepped around it, visions of the Unabomber dancing in her head. She toyed with the idea of calling the police, but decided it was probably a housewarming gift from Liz. It looked like something Liz would do, dropping off an elaborately wrapped gift on her way home from some gala.

  Still, she went back inside the house and retrieved a broom. Holding the front door partially closed as a shield, she hooked the broom handle beneath the lid, counted to three, and flipped it off. She screamed and slammed the door as something exploded into the air. Within seconds, her phone rang.

  “Iris, love!” Marge cried. “Are you all right? Did I hear you scream?”

  Iris was panting. “Just a second.” She peeked through her living room blinds at the front porch and laughed with relief. “It’s nothing. Someone’s playing a joke. There was a package left on my front porch full of those exploding snakes. Thanks for calling. I’m fine.”

  Iris went back outside and looked at the long snakes of accordioned yellow, blue, and red tissue paper that now covered the front porch and were growing soggy. One had a small, folded piece of white paper attached to it. The note had apparently weighted down this snake, as the end still dangled inside in the box. She leaned over and picked up the note from the end that lay on the porch. The typed message said: Wrong move! Mind your own business or your next move might be your last.

  She heard a sound that she at first thought was rain flowing through the gutter leading from the roof. Then she realized it was coming from somewhere much closer. She peeked inside the box. A snake, not of tissue paper, was coiled there, shaking its rattle.

  “It could have been any one of a number of people who think I’m too involved in their business: T. Duke Sawyer, Summer Fontaine, Evan Finn, the managers at Pandora who want me to sell to T. Duke…” Iris looked into her mug of coffee and trailed off. “Or Kip Cross.”

  Detective Tiffany Stubbs was taking notes on a small, spiral-bound notebook. “Is this the first time since Bridget Cross’s murder that anyone has threatened you?”

  Iris nodded. “I wish I knew where that rattlesnake went. I don’t want to meet it again in one of my closets.”

  “Too bad the animal control people couldn’t find it. Like the guy said, it’ll probably find itself a nice home in the brush around here.” Stubbs flipped the notebook closed and slipped it and her pen into her purse.

  “Lovely.”

  Stubbs pinched her fingernails against the edge of the threatening note, picked it up, and dropped it inside a brown paper bag. “Looks like it was produced on a laser or ink-jet printer. Virtually impossible to track to an individual machine. I miss the days of the manual typewriter. But we can test the note and the box for fingerprints.”

  She started to get up and Iris put her hand out as if to prevent her. “Look, Detective, I’m positive this Evan Finn guy has some connection to T. Duke Sawyer.”

  Stubbs stood in spite of Iris’s admonition and slipped the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, as if she wasn’t interested in what Iris had to say about Finn. “Ms. Thorne, I’m sorry about any difficult situations you have at your office. I know how trying things like that can be, but I don’t see any connection between Evan Finn and the Bridget Cross and Alexa Platt murders.”

  “But he might have a huge connection.”

  Stubbs pursed her lips. She was getting annoyed.

  Iris went on. “I have a cocktail glass with Finn’s fingerprints. Please—”

  Stubbs put her hand up, cutting Iris off. “I’m sorry, but I’m working on six murders right now. I don’t have time for this.”

  Iris stood also. She had quickly changed from her nightclothes into jeans and a sweater before Stubbs arrived. “Maybe you have time for this. Brianna Cross has been drawing pictures of what she saw the night of the murder.” She had Stubbs’s attention now. “I have them.”

  “And you didn’t immediately turn them over to us?”

  “I only got them yesterday. I didn’t have to tell you about them at all.”

  “Fair enough. Give me the glass with the fingerprints.”

  “Thanks,” Iris said with relief. She left the room and returned with Brianna’s drawings and the cocktail glass that she’d sealed into a Ziploc bag.

  Stubbs eagerly looked through the drawings. “I’m going to petition the court to have Brianna interviewed by a psychologist whether Kip approves of it or not.”

  “Poor Iris!” Toni commiserated. “Who would do such a terrible thing to you?”

  “Seems like someone’s playing Suckers Finish Last for real.”

  They were sitting in Toni’s office at Pandora.

  “The vipers’ nest is in the second level,” Toni said. “Whoever’s behind this is clever, I have to hand him that.”

  “And very sick.”

  “Maybe.”

  “How’s the temperature around here?” Iris asked.

  Toni rolled her eyes. “Mick and Today are mad at Kip, mad at you, they’re just tweaked in general. They don’t think you know what you’re doing and feel like no one’s running the company. I told them to show a little compassion. I reminded them that if it wasn’t for Kip, there would be no Pandora. He still has contributions to make to the firm. He’s almost finished a new graphics accelerator engine, and from what he says, it’s brilliant.”

  Toni pulled her legs underneath her to sit cross-legged on the rolling desk chair. She was wearing a long purple sweater, black leggings, and lace-up boots. “And I told them to give you a break. You didn’t ask for Pandora—it fell into your lap. I told them I’ve been helping you as much as I can, and I’m happy to do it.”

  “I appreciate it, Toni. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “I was kind of hoping to become indispensable.”

  Iris sensed more was coming, having suspected there was a method to Toni’s madness.

  Seeming to recognize her demeanor was less than professional, Toni put her feet on the floor, sat straight, and looked at Iris with a sober expression. “I know you’re recruiting someone to run Pandora. Give me a chance, Iris.”

  Iris let her go on.

  “I don’t pretend for a minute that I could immediately step into Bridget’s shoes, but with a little time, I know I could. I know the players. I know the culture. You might find someone with more experience, but I know how this company works and what makes it work.”

  As dippy as Toni frequently appeared, right now she was coming off as controlled, clear, and assertive.

  Toni went for the close. “What do you say?”

  “You make some good points, Toni. You’ve given me a lot to think about, and I will think about it.”

  Toni looked at Iris as if she was exp
ecting more. When nothing more was forthcoming, she said, “That’s all I hoped for. Thanks.” After a few prickly seconds, she changed the subject. “Guess who I went out with last night?”

  “Baines?”

  “Evan Finn.”

  Iris wasn’t completely surprised. Toni seemed to have a problem with looking for love in all the wrong places.

  Toni’s professional demeanor disappeared and she giggled. “Thanks so much for inviting me to have drinks with you guys. I’m so happy I met Evan. He’s wonderful!” she gushed. “We’re going out again tonight.”

  Iris was less enthusiastic. “You didn’t ask my opinion, but I’d go slowly with him. Frankly, I’m not too sure about him at all.”

  “What do you mean?” Toni asked, her eyes impossibly naive.

  “I don’t think he’s everything he pretends to be. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Toni bristled. “Easy for you to say, Iris. You have a man.”

  Iris let the subject drop. It was clear that advising Toni to examine her taste in men was as pointless as telling Liz to eat more. She looked at her watch. “It’s showtime.”

  They left Toni’s office and traveled down the catwalk to the computer lab. Kip, Today, and Mick were already there, sitting in front of an extra-large computer monitor, engrossed in what was displayed there. Summer was there also, standing behind them, appearing interested in the goings-on but easily distracted when Toni and Iris came in. The men seemed unaware of them.

  Summer smiled at Iris and then at Toni, who gave her a cool look in response. Summer petulantly shrugged a shoulder and lowered her eyes at her.

  “It’s neat, Kip,” Mick enthused. “Really cool.”

  “The UI is a little dicey,” Today said.

  “It’s a rough prototype,” Kip responded. “I took some of our existing graphics and adapted it just to give you an idea of how the engine works.”