Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

“And you!” Irina wheeled on her, eyes huge. “You make enemy out of Arkady Petrenko? Are you out of your mind? The man at the gate was part of bad-news crew—do you understand? All those tattoos mean something, myshka, and his meant killer. Even a man like that knows to fear Arkady Petrenko!”

  “Yeah, well.” The girl shifted uncomfortably. “I’m taking a crash course on fearing Arkady Petrenko now, and I’m a fast learner.” It occurred to her that her housekeeper might actually be a source of information; her husband was a journalist during Petrenko’s ruthless climb up Russia’s post-Soviet capitalist ladder. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “About Petrenko?” A shiver ran through her. “He is relentless. He has no conscience, no soul. If you took something from him, give it back. Give it back, and hope he gets bored trying for revenge!”

  With those words hanging in the air, the woman turned to her work. It wasn’t like Margo hadn’t considered returning Petrenko’s valuables, though. She’d held on to them in the hopes they could be sold, but now that she’d been identified, it was a different game; now those jewels represented the only possible bargaining chip she had.

  The second-floor hallway was stuffy, the air thick and sour, and for the first time in weeks Margo realized how grim her life had become. Pushing into her bedroom, she encountered the depressing spectacle with fresh eyes—rumpled sheets, dishes on the floor, pajamas rank from days of continuous wear. She’d forbidden anyone, even Irina, from coming up here since Harland’s death, not wanting to be disturbed in her sorrow; not able to face the prospect of anyone going through her father’s things and carting away even the smallest fragment of his memory.

  And now? Her lethargy and denial, her refusal to deal, might save her in the end.

  Quickly and methodically, she packed a bag, putting together whatever she thought she might need for an indefinite time away. And then she got down on her knees, and reached under the bed, practically trembling with the fear of a faulty memory; terrified that she was reaching for something that wasn’t there. But her fingers found an object—hard, smooth, and cool—and she pulled a cut-glass tumbler out into the light.

  It was still glazed on the bottom with the remains of Brand’s whiskey.

  * * *

  The Grove, an outdoor mall adjoining LA’s famous Original Farmers Market at Third and Fairfax, was famous for a lot of reasons: There were chic stores and restaurants, an animated fountain, and even a trolley for tired shoppers. But what Margo loved most was the view from the top deck of the attached parking structure. From eight stories up and smack in the center of town, Los Angeles spread out in a remarkable panorama—from downtown to Westwood, and from the Valley’s high passes to the glittering southward hills.

  She arrived in a rented Mini Cooper. A car service had retrieved her BMW, digging it out from under a drift of parking tickets issued by the Beverly Hills police, but stowed it in a long-term garage. Driving it would be hazardous, now that Petrenko’s people knew it on sight; and with them watching the mansion, she’d canceled all standing deliveries and hired—ironically enough—a private security firm to watch her front gate.

  Sooner or later, Petrenko would tire of waiting for her to fall into his clutches, and he would send someone to raid the mansion. He wouldn’t find the jewels, presently under lock and key in a Pasadena bank vault, but it still felt like something she should discourage.

  Parking the Mini, she hefted a carrier bag out of the back, and made her way through a grid of cars to the low wall facing north. It was midday, and even in winter, amber light fell like a veil on Los Angeles. The Hollywood sign gleamed from the hilltops, an airplane flashed in the sun as it turned toward LAX, and a woman a few feet away sighed wistfully.

  “Sometimes I forget how beautiful it is here,” she murmured, shielding her eyes from the glare. “Everything looks different from the ground. I guess it’s a matter of perspective.”

  “Or maybe the farther you are from something, the fewer flaws you notice,” Margo returned. Glancing over, she took in Dr. Khan’s pensive expression. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch since you came out to the mansion. How are—”

  “I got fired.” Nadiya gave a bitter laugh that scattered in the wind. “Addison didn’t even wait for me to complete the project I was working on. I made that grand, idiotic speech, ‘I won’t go down without a fight,’ and then he showed me the door before I could land a single punch.”

  Margo smiled a little. “Well, it’s time to lace up your gloves. I’m tagging you in.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Reaching into her bag, Margo produced the tumbler. “Do you think you can analyze the contents of this glass?”

  “Possibly.” The woman took hold of it carefully. “I don’t have a lab anymore, but I know places—and people who owe me favors. What is it? And what are you looking for?”

  Margo explained, and Dr. Khan widened her eyes, examining the tumbler. Nervously, the girl asked, “Do you think you can detect it? We must have been to dozens of hospitals and clinics, and nothing ever turned up in Dad’s blood samples.”

  “They were probably searching for the wrong things,” Nadiya responded immediately. “Known drugs and toxins. If Manning is future tech, this is future biochemistry. There’s no telling what it looks like on a molecular level, or how it metabolizes once it’s in the body. I mean, a designer poison, engineered to such exact specifications that it only targets a single genetic profile … It’s remarkable.”

  “You sound impressed.”

  “I am,” the woman admitted with blunt candor. “It’s unethical, probably illegal, and downright terrifying, but as a scientific achievement? It takes my breath away.”

  “It took Dad’s, too.” Margo was grim. “Can you do it?”

  “We’ll find out.” Dr. Khan slipped the glass into her own bag. “This is going to sound morbid, but it would help if we had blood or tissue samples from your father, for comparison. It would help me understand the mechanics better.”

  “Dad was cremated.” She thought for a moment. “He must have had gallons of blood drawn while we were trying to figure out what was wrong with him, though.”

  “Most medical facilities don’t hold on to those samples indefinitely, but you might as well ask around. If he left any organs to science, he might have specified it in his will, but—”

  “He didn’t.” Margo ran a hand through her hair. “I’ve read that thing so many times I could recite it in my sleep.”

  “Well.” Dr. Khan sighed. “We do what we can with what we have. I’ll take care of this as soon as I can make the arrangements, and I’ll let you know what I discover.”

  “Thank you.”

  The woman laughed again, and it was not a sweet sound. “The pleasure is all mine. Addison Brand deserves an ugly fate, and I’m happy to see him to it.”

  She turned and headed off across the parking deck, the sun gilding her back.

  * * *

  For the next three days, Margo searched for Nina McLeod, the nurse who’d witnessed the will. It wasn’t easy; she’d quit her job at the hospital just days after Harland’s death, and they had a policy against sharing contact information for former staff members—even to grieving daughters who “just wanted to say thanks.”

  The internet yielded a small crop of listings in the greater LA area for either Nina or N McLeod, and with what little information she had to go on, she still managed to narrow the list to three possibilities. Cranky and determined, Margo hopped in the Mini and set out to investigate.

  Her first stop was a house in Sherman Oaks, where an online background-check site promised her she’d find “N McLeod,” age seventy-two. That was a little older than Dallas’s estimate, but not by too much. It was a tidy property, with an orange tree in the yard, and when she rang the bell, a garrulous man answered the door. His name was Nathan, he was a widower, and it took fifteen minutes to extricate herself from an ad hoc lecture about model boats.

  Address num
ber two was an apartment in Studio City, where “Nina J. McLeod” lived with about fifty-odd tropical birds. Just glancing over the woman’s shoulder into the living room, Margo could see cages with brightly feathered creatures inside, and a macaw not quite the size of a pterodactyl perched on the back of a sofa. Nina J was a retired script supervisor, had never worked in a hospital, and did not appreciate being interrupted during her afternoon programming.

  The last address was on the west side, near Sawtelle, and Margo drove with her fingers crossed. Pulling up outside of a modest bungalow, her heart sank when she saw the FOR RENT sign posted in the yard. Workmen came and went through an open front door, and when she addressed one of them, he surprised her by pointing her to a man in a tie—the property owner.

  “Yeah, Nina was a nurse. I’m sorry you didn’t track her down earlier … she and Jake lived here for something like twelve years. The area’s rent-controlled, so I was losing a fortune on them, but they were good tenants. Left the place in great shape, considering.” He gestured around, at the gutted kitchen and naked floors. “I could’ve left it with twelve years of wear and tear and still raised the rent five times over, but why not aim high?”

  “Why not?” Margo murmured. Aim high was practically engraved on the Manning family crest, but she couldn’t help noticing that she could have bought two Mini Coopers for less than what this man intended to charge for one rented year in his tiny bungalow.

  “I thought they were pretty happy here,” he went on, “but two weeks ago they told me they were leaving, just like that. And within forty-eight hours they were gone.”

  They hadn’t left a forwarding address, he said, and he didn’t know what moving service they’d used. Margo went door-to-door, talking to the neighbors, but even those who’d been friendly with the McLeods were mystified by the sudden disappearance—and no one remembered a logo on the side of the truck that departed with the couple’s things.

  Back in the car, Margo screamed obscenities that would have made Irina blush. It wasn’t a dead end—not yet. She could start calling around to moving companies, concoct a ruse and see if she could find the one the McLeods had used and where they’d gone. If she had to, she’d hire a private detective. But she’d find Nina and shake the truth out of her.

  * * *

  Back at the motel, she ordered delivery and spent a few hours studying the judo throws known as the “sacrifice techniques”—so called because each one required falling with your opponent in order to use their weight and momentum against them. The yoko-wakare, the tomoe-nage, the sumi-gaeshi … Margo knew them by heart from years of practice; but under her current circumstances, each move served as a necessary reminder that it was possible to turn a vulnerability into a strength.

  Her phone rang on the nightstand.

  “Margo? It’s Dr. Khan.”

  “Did you find something in the whiskey?”

  “Yes and no. I identified several synthetic compounds—binders and reagents and a few errant proteins—and some alien organic material that’s partially degraded.”

  “Alien?”

  “Sorry—alien meaning ‘unfamiliar.’ Earthly, but not part of the scotch.”

  “Oh. But that means you found it, right?”

  “I found something. The results are fascinating … I believe the proteins form the building blocks of the actual poison, catalyzed by a reagent and guided by organic matter to attack the specified target—”

  “My father.”

  “Yes. But none of what I found is entirely conclusive.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means the drink was undeniably doctored—in a court of law, you could prove that Addison Brand put a foreign substance into this glass. And I believe I could demonstrate how the poison might have worked. But…”

  “But?”

  “It’s all speculation. You drank most of this scotch, Margo, and you’re fine. Until I can prove the genetic targeting—which I can’t, without reconstructing the complete formula and consulting a dozen other experts—juries will see this as a fairy tale.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “I’m sorry. But don’t give up hope. This is still progress—”

  “He cannot get away with this. I can’t let him get away with this!”

  “He might have a supply somewhere, if he hasn’t destroyed it yet. Maybe you can still get your hands on a complete sample.”

  “…”

  “Margo?”

  “I have to go.”

  31

  The fierce report of spiked heels against polished marble echoed like gunshots in the Manning Tower lobby the next afternoon. Dressed in a tweed pencil skirt and a cream silk blouse, her hair in a neat bun and her lips the same red as the soles of her designer shoes, Margo headed for the reception desk. In every way possible she was dressed to kill, and struggled to remember that she was supposed to be charming just now.

  “Miss Manning!” Lloyd, the guard, blinked with surprise when he recognized her. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

  “Hi, Lloyd.” She let him give her an awkward hug. “Actually, I was hoping to … well, a lot of people from the company came to Dad’s funeral, and I’m afraid I really wasn’t myself. I wanted to stop by and say a personal thank-you to a few folks; it would have meant a lot to my father that so many people here paid their respects.”

  Something in the man’s eyes melted. “Oh sure, of course. That’s a very high-class thing for you to do, Miss Manning. And if you don’t mind my saying so, it was quite a blow to us all when your father passed.”

  “Thank you.”

  He stepped back to the desk, reaching for the phone. “What floor?”

  “Oh, um…” Margo put some elbow grease into her sweet-and-doleful act. “I wanted to start on thirty-one, with HR, but … do you mind if it’s a surprise? It would make it feel more meaningful somehow.”

  “I guess I can understand that.” Lloyd hesitated with the phone in his hand, clearly unsure; but finally placed the receiver back into the cradle. “Well, what the hell, why not? About time everyone here had a nice surprise.”

  “You’re the best, Lloyd,” Margo said with a bright smile.

  He walked her to the elevator bank, keeping up a steady stream of chatter, and guided her into an open car. Leaning inside, he swiped his card and selected the thirty-first floor. Margo bade him a friendly goodbye, but the second he turned around she pressed the button marked fifty-four.

  Nadiya’s suggestion had been the same as Davon’s—steal evidence to incriminate Addison Brand—and Margo had been forced to reject it for the same reasons. She didn’t have the luxury of time to do the necessary research, to figure out where Brand kept his supply, and under what conditions. If a supply even existed at all.

  Meanwhile, Petrenko posed a looming threat, and Margo was already weary of looking over her shoulder and sleeping in a loud, shabby Hollywood motel. It was lucky that both her birds could be brought down by the same stone: If she exposed Brand, his conspiracy to arm child soldiers in a foreign conflict would be forced into the light, and then both men would get what they had coming.

  When the elevator opened onto the executive floor, Margo swept right past the flustered receptionist and made a beeline for the largest corner office. She’d been inside it, of course, admired its teak wood trim and leather club chairs—admired the dazzling view northwest across the city. It was the CEO’s office. Her dad’s office.

  Addison Brand’s office.

  Her rage whipped up until she was practically levitating, and she barely heard the man’s administrative assistant as she stormed by the woman’s desk. “Margo? Is that—wait, you can’t—he’s in a meeting!”

  When she flung open the door, her father’s killer was talking with a florid man sporting a sandy mustache. Brand glanced up in surprise at the interruption, recognition flitting into his eyes only a second before Margo grabbed him by the throat and sl
ammed him backward across his desk.

  Her father’s desk.

  “You son of a bitch,” she snarled, her voice trembling.

  “Mr. Brand!” the man’s assistant cried from the doorway.

  “It’s all right, Donna.” Addison remained utterly calm. “Please take Tom to the lounge and get him anything he needs. We’ll resume our conversation when I’m done with Miss Manning.”

  “You’ll be having it through the bars of a jail cell,” Margo snapped, but the door closed on her words, Donna whisking Tom safely out of earshot.

  Lightly, Brand said, “Margo, how nice of you to drop by.”

  “You killed my father, you piece of shit.”

  His features betrayed no emotion. “I notice you waited until all witnesses left the room before trotting out that little bit of slander.”

  “It’s no slander, asshole. You poisoned him for months—right under my fucking nose! You showed up every other day like clockwork to give it to him. You watched him suffer. You—you…” she couldn’t continue.

  “You sound hysterical.”

  “Fuck you,” Margo raged, tightening her grip. “I have proof! I took a glass of whiskey you poured from that flask of yours and had the contents analyzed. I know what you gave him, and I know exactly how it worked.”

  This time his face stilled, his eyes reading hers carefully. “Interesting.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “I’m wondering where you got this supposed evidence. Because I made a point to wash those glasses every—oh.” Realization dawned. “The one I poured for you.”

  “The night before my father died.”

  He thought quickly—she could see it in his eyes. “Whose fingerprints will the police find on that glass?”

  “Yours.”

  “And yours,” he returned. “But not Harland’s. All you’ve got is a claim that you were poisoned—but you look just fine to me. How do you expect to convince the authorities that whatever you may have found factored into Harland’s death?”