by Susan Kandel
He stared at me blankly.
“Didn’t you?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “You and I have spoken only on the phone, Ms. Caruso. We’ve never had a face-to-face until this very moment.”
“Right,” I said, sitting down.
“Now, Marv—him you’ve met in person. He was here the day you came in. Holding down the fort, so to speak. Esperanza was sick. Me, too. Bad oysters. But I doubt you’re confusing me with Marv. He’s a big guy. High blood pressure.” Sy shook his head.
“Marv,” I said. “Of course. And where is Marv right now?”
“Honolulu.”
“Working on a case?”
“A tan.”
“Can we call him?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“He’s on vacation. His first in eighteen years. No wonder he has trouble with his ticker. Stress kills.”
It was then that I made the executive decision to go on the offensive. “Tell me, Sy, was it you or Marv who stole these from Anita Colby’s apartment?” I pulled the stack of envelopes from the manila envelope and waved them menacingly. “I’m concerned about the illegality of that. I think it’s imperative we get Marv into this discussion, and I mean now.”
“Ms. Caruso, you’ve gotta take it easy. You’ve got some short-term memory loss here or something. You might want to see a doctor. I’m happy to recommend—”
“I’m under the care of an excellent neurologist already.”
“Glad to hear it. Because Marv and I had nothing to do with getting those letters. You were the one who gave Marv those letters, to assist in the investigation. Don’t you remember? After dropping your stuff all over the office, I might add. Marv said he’d never seen anybody so verklempt. You gotta relax, Ms. Caruso! We are completely uninterested in how you got your hands on those letters. Your business is your business, even if it is trouble, which is also our business, as I might have mentioned. But speaking of trouble, we do owe you an apology about something. Mea culpa,” he said, raising his hands in the air. “Marv and I went out to Bakersfield like you asked, but All-America Auto was closed that day. So we never dealt definitively with the boyfriend question.”
At that moment, the intercom buzzed.
“That’ll be Big John,” he said. “How ya doing, B.J.? Give me a minute.” He put Big John on hold and walked around to the other side of his desk. “Good luck in all of your endeavors, Ms. Caruso. One last thing. About that $1200 invoice we sent you?”
I rose to my feet. “The check is in the mail.”
Back in the reception area, Esperanza was watering a plant.
“Stop by anytime,” she said. “You probably know you’re normal to oily, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. It’s best if you take your own temperature before you get out of bed or even speak, after a minimum of five hours’ sleep. Have a great day.”
I’d shoved my pink purse into my tote bag, buttoned up my coat, and was halfway through the door when Esperanza called me back.
“Sorry,” she said, running back around to the other side of her desk. “I’m sure you’ve got someplace to be, but I don’t want you to forget this again.”
“What’s this?” It looked like a business card.
“When you kind of lost it the other day, you know, dropped your purse and everything spilled out all over the place, you left this behind. Marv gave it to me and I completely forgot to stick it in the envelope I mailed you. Hope it’s not too late.”
I flipped over the card.
Cece Caruso had an appointment at Orchid Thai Massage in less than two hours.
Chapter 22
I pulled away from the curb like a bat out of hell, which turns out to be a bad idea in heavy traffic.
The accident sounded a lot worse than it looked. Despite partially caving in, my driver’s side door still opened and closed. As for the other guy, his Chevy Nova suffered only a little chipped paint.
The bad news was he wanted to file a police report.
The good news was neither of us had a cell phone.
The bad news was I could see a pay phone at the end of the block.
The good news was he hadn’t seen it yet.
I had to think fast.
The other guy’s name was Lewis. Lewis took pride in fulfilling his civic duty. He’d voted in every presidential election since 1956. Plus, he’d just changed insurance companies and was eager to find out about his new coverage. I debated telling Lewis that I was a suspect in a murder case in the process of fleeing the jurisdiction and therefore not exactly eager to alert the authorities, but I decided to skip the formalities and get right to the point.
I pulled four hundred bucks out of my purse.
When they say money talks, they’re not lying.
After wishing Lewis a good day, I hopped back into my crippled Camry and headed west on Sunset, making four lights in a row.
It was half past noon now. I’d be fine assuming there were no more accidents.
I took it down to fifty-five, following Coldwater over the hill. After ten minutes or so, I started feeling nauseous. Maybe I needed food. I found the candy bar Bridget gave me and downed it in three bites. It had almonds, which made it lunch.
I felt better after that, and put on the radio. The relationship doctor was talking about people who couldn’t commit, which made me feel nauseous again, so I switched to classic rock. Unfortunately, Bruce Springsteen was singing “Born to Run.”
It seemed like a good idea to turn off the radio.
So this was life on the lam.
I tried to picture myself greeting each day peering through the slats of the blinds in miscellaneous anonymous motels. Eating at greasy spoons, where they always forgot to put the salad dressing on the side. Spending lonely nights at local dives shooting pool with petty criminals. What happened if I ran out of money before I got myself out of this mess? More to the point, would Coldwater ever end? Where the hell was I?
Uncharted territory, it would appear.
The San Fernando Valley, home to the multibillion-dollar porn industry and epicenter for much of ethnic Southern California. Not that you could tell. All I could see for miles in either direction were tract homes draped with last year’s Christmas decorations.
I kept driving.
Thirty minutes of citrus trees.
Ten minutes of auto-parts shops.
Finally, I found it, a sun-baked storefront with peeling floral decals in the window and a faded sign reading ORCHID THAI MASSAGE.
As I pulled open the door, the sound of gong chimes filled the air. The waiting room was empty, except for a small dog in a rattan basket.
“Can I help you, Miss?” The man behind the desk stood up. He was huge, at least six foot four, and garbed in a flowing white suit.
I told him I was waiting for a friend who had an appointment at two o’clock.
He checked his book. “Ah. Cece Caruso.”
“Yes. Lovely woman, isn’t she?”
“I haven’t met Miss Caruso yet,” he said, opening and closing his fingers like a flytrap. “So I have no idea. But she’s been coming regularly these past few weeks, so I’m certain she’s starting to glow from within. Thai massage not only addresses soft-tissue disorders, chronic back pain, joint pain, and migraines, it also firms and tightens the skin.” He peered at me. “You can forget about getting Botox after we’re done with you.”
“Cece looks fabulous for her age,” I said through gritted teeth.
“I’m sure she does,” he said. “Have a seat. It’s almost two.”
Whatever.
I went over to pet the dog, then sat down, wondering if I’d recognize Chantal in her Cece disguise. The way I remembered her, she looked nothing like me. But maybe I was flattering myself. Maybe I looked pretty good to myself, and beige, mousy, and in need of Botox to the rest of the world. It was kind of depressing.
Anyway, I didn’t want to get too hung up on Chantal. That would be a mistake. Becau
se it was quite possible she was innocent in all this and somebody else entirely was going to walk through that door, somebody I’d never laid eyes on before. Either way, I sat on the edge of my seat, ready to strike.
The minutes ticked by.
2:07.
I leaned back a little. Maybe she wasn’t going to show.
I thumbed through a couple of magazines. The dog was snoring now.
I stared into space. She wasn’t coming. But I wasn’t beaten yet.
“Excuse me, is that a surveillance camera?” I pointed to a black object with a lens affixed to the molding over the door.
The man in the flowing white suit looked up. “A surveillance camera? Where?”
“Over there.”
“Over where?”
I pointed again. “On the molding. Over the door.”
“Oh, over there.” He looked at it quizzically. “Yes, that’s a surveillance camera. We get some unwanted traffic from time to time. You know, people looking for a massage parlor.”
Cece had been coming here regularly.
There had to be footage of her in there.
How hard could it be to get my hands on it?
“How do you like that model?” I asked innocently. “I’m comparing brands for my house. I’ve had a couple of break-ins lately.”
“I’m not sure,” he said, picking up the phone. “It just arrived yesterday. We haven’t even hooked it up yet.”
But the red light was blinking.
“I see,” the huge man said into the phone. “Consider it done. Good-bye.” After hanging up, he stood up so abruptly his chair fell over backward. He came out from behind the desk and loomed before me like a national monument. “That was Miss Caruso on the phone. She’s running late.” He took my elbow and lifted me to my feet. “Instead of sitting here waiting for her, I’m going to lead you back to Tony. He’s got twenty minutes to kill.”
Tony? Tony didn’t sound like a Thai name to me. And I didn’t like the sound of the word “kill.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I said. “But totally unnecessary.”
“I insist,” he said, pushing me through a curtain of multicolored beads. “Our business depends on word of mouth. You’d be helping us more than we’d be helping you. You like to help people, don’t you?”
“But—”
He led me into a small, dark room that smelled of incense, and blocked the exit with his hulking physique. “I’m going to leave now. Tony will be in momentarily.” Then he closed the door behind him.
I waited until I heard him walk away, then made a beeline for the door, which was kind of pointless because anybody who goes to the movies could tell you that the door was going to be locked and I was going to be trapped in an incense-filled room in the San Fernando Valley for all of eternity, or at least as long as it took for the Stockholm syndrome to take effect, causing me to sympathize with my captors and not try to flee.
To my surprise, the knob turned easily.
Careful not to make any noise, I pushed it open and peered down the hall. I was expecting armed guards. Instead, I saw one small guy carrying a fresh white towel.
“Hi. I’m Tony.” He was wearing a white T-shirt and baggy brown pants. “You here for the complimentary minimassage?”
The man had glasses on, for God’s sake.
“Yes, that’s me.” I could really use a massage. And Freudian psychoanalysis. Combined with a drug regimen. It was official now.
Back in the room, Tony had me take off my coat and shoes and lie face down on a padded mat on the floor while he applied a hot, herbal compress to the back of my neck.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“Mm. Wonderful.”
“Do you know anything about Thai massage?”
I shook my head.
“It was developed by Jivaka Kumar Bhaccha, physician to Buddha, more than twenty-five hundred years ago in India.”
If it was good enough for Buddha, it was good enough for me. I felt myself sinking deeper into the mat.
“From there, it made its way to Thailand, where the ayurvedic techniques and principles gradually became influenced by traditional Chinese medicine. For centuries, it was performed by monks as one component of Thai medicine. Did you notice the Wat Thai temple across the street? Cool roof, all fancy? I trained with the monks there after dropping out of med school. My mom was disappointed after all the money they’d put into my education, but my dad got it.”
“Too much information,” I mumbled.
“What?” Without waiting for an answer, Tony told me to flip over onto my back and sit up. I scooted forward on the mat so he could lie down behind me. He raised his knees, then balanced a pillow on top of them. When he was in position, he had me do a kind of backward swan dive so that the small of my back was supported by the pillow, my head was resting on his pelvis, and my arms extended backward, palms up, until they reached the tops of his shoulders.
With his warm, strong hands, Tony pulled my shoulders back, intensifying the stretch.
I have never felt such bliss.
“The Bridge Pose,” he said modestly. “Now for the Butterfly.”
I lay down on my back, arms against my sides, and raised my knees up until they were at my shoulders. Then, with a small push from Tony, I lifted my back off the ground and extended my calves straight out over my head, toes pointing down. Tony ran around behind me, tucking his feet under my shoulder blades and squatting down so that we were pressed buttocks to buttocks. Then he grabbed the soles of my feet and tugged them gently toward the ground.
I couldn’t speak. I was soaring heavenward. All my cares had evaporated. There were angels singing.
No, those were gong chimes.
The front door had opened.
Cece was here.
Oh, my God.
I had to get up.
I couldn’t get up.
I was halfway into a somersault with Tony’s hands wrapped around my feet.
“Tony?” My voice was muffled by my thighs, which were hovering an inch above my face.
“Shh.” He pulled harder on my feet. “Give in to it.”
I had no choice.
“Fire!” I cried.
Tony let go instantly. “I don’t smell anything.”
I flipped my legs back down and scrambled to standing. Then I threw on my coat, grabbed my shoes and bag, and pulled open the door, which banged loudly against the wall, upsetting a pile of freshly stacked white towels.
“Where are you going?” Tony cried.
I ran down the hallway and into the waiting room, just in time to hear the gong chime as a tall, dark-haired woman fled Thai Orchid Massage.
“I told her you were here,” said the man in the flowing white suit. “And she just turned on her heel and left.”
“Cece’s full of surprises,” I said, taking off after her.
Chapter 23
I didn’t know a person could run that fast in spike heels.
She had on a great outfit, by the way: dark blue jeans tucked into high cognac suede boots, topped with a cropped, cream-colored jacket with three-quarter-length bell sleeves. And what looked like a real Chanel bag, the kind with the double gold-chain handles. At least my imposter recognized my superior taste in clothing.
“Stop!” I cried as she sprinted across the four lanes of Coldwater, dodging a big rig with aplomb. I was decidedly less graceful. I was also barefoot, and trying not to sever an artery on a piece of broken glass.
“Watch it!” The driver of the big rig leaned on his horn. “You crazy?”
It was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t bother answering.
She was headed toward the rainbow-bright Wat Thai temple opposite, and I was stuck between lanes.
Car after car sped past me, the drivers screaming obscenities in myriad foreign tongues.
She was through the ironwork gates now.
She was getting away.
“Give me a break!” I shouted at the top of m
y lungs as I braved an oncoming Mercedes, hopped the curb, and bolted down the sidewalk, racing past a long row of cypress trees and through the gates only to find myself in a swarm of at least five hundred people. Turns out weekends are the worst time to chase your doppelgänger through the Wat Thai Buddhist Temple of North Hollywood.
There was a band playing Thai pop in the middle of the courtyard, a mob of teenagers organizing a pickup basketball game, and vendors selling light-up good luck cats and Buddhist-themed amulets. The air was thick with the heady aroma of ginger, garlic, and fish sauce.
I stopped a woman in a white apron and asked her what was going on.
“Food fair,” she replied, juggling a pile of Styrofoam plates. “Every weekend. Big deal on the Internet. Now nobody can find a place to park. You come to my stand and I give you free sample of kanom krok. Or maybe you prefer som tum?”
I had no idea what kanom krok was, but som tum was green papaya salad, which I loved. They do a good job at Palms Thai on Hollywood Boulevard, plus Thai Elvis, aka Kavee Thongprecha, performs Wednesday through Sundays in his platforms and shiny suits. But I digress.
Where the hell was Cece?
My instincts said go left, so I went right, stopping short to allow a procession of monks to pass. They looked splendid in their saffron-colored robes. Legend has it that Buddha was born in a grove of jackfruit trees, and the saffron represents the brilliant color of the pods inside. I learned that from the pamphlet the lead monk handed me.
“Welcome.” He bowed.
“Thank you.” I did the same.
“We appreciate the show of respect,” he said, “but you need not remove your shoes unless you are going inside.”
I clutched my gladiator sandals closer to my chest. “I am. Going inside.”
I bowed one last time, then pushed my way past the elderly man hawking satellite TV systems to a shrine no bigger than a bus shelter. At the entrance were some grubby sneakers, a pair of stone lions, and an urn filled with sticks of burning incense. I dropped my shoes to the ground and tiptoed inside. Two people sat cross-legged before a statue of a female deity festooned with ropes of plastic pearls and colorful beads.