by Style, Linda
Jordan pressed his lips together. Yeah, he understood. He understood she knew a lot more than she was saying.
CHAPTER FIVE
CAITLIN SLAMMED THE DOOR behind them and headed directly to her room. “Get washed up for dinner,” Laura called after her, unwilling to respond negatively to her daughter’s passive aggressive behavior and acting out because they’d left the park so soon. That would be exactly what the child wanted. Ignoring the behavior always seemed to work best with Cait and within an hour or so she’d be back to normal.
But Laura wasn’t sure she would be. Her nerves felt as tight as harp strings. A few minutes alone to clear her head was all she needed. Her decision to talk to the detective had backfired. He kept probing deeper and deeper about Eddie and Frank DeMatta. Whose murder was he investigating, anyway?
At the window of the sunroom, she leaned one knee on the love seat and pulled the lace curtains aside. Nothing. Still, her heart raced. Just seeing the car circling the park was an ugly reminder of what could happen. She pushed away from the window and paced from one side of the small room to the other.
“Hey, what’s up?” Phoebe came in and dropped lazily into a chair.
Laura stopped pacing. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? So how come you’re prowling the room like a cat in heat?”
“Let me rephrase. Nothing I want to talk about.”
The hurt in Phoebe’s eyes took Laura by surprise. Phoebe never let anything bother her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that like it sounded. I just meant that I have a lot of things on my mind and I need to sort them out—by myself.” She tried to smile, but it was a lousy attempt.
Even so, Phoebe nodded her understanding. “Yeah. I know what’s wrong.” She glanced to make sure none of the girls were within earshot. “You need someone to help you get rid of all your pent-up frustration.”
Laura sat in the chair next to her friend. Phoebe’s solution to every problem began with a man. “I wish that’s all I needed.”
“What about Detective St. James? He’s hot. Sizzling, as a matter of fact.” Phoebe sucked air through her teeth and shook her hands as if she’d been burned.
Laura grinned. He was all that. “You’re absolutely right. And getting too close to a guy like him is a good way to get burned.” But the words belied the emotions stirring inside her. Despite her discomfort with the detective’s questioning, the heat of his hand on her arm had gone directly to her core. His touch was gentle, yet firm, and the understanding in his eyes almost undid her.
Most officers who came to the shelter were all business or on some kind of power trip. While St. James was focused, there was something different about him, a sensitivity, genuine caring. And those qualities seemed to draw her to him like the proverbial moth to a flame—a perilous proposition for the moth. She couldn’t for one minute let herself forget how dangerous it would be to get involved with him. A man of the law. Yet he was exactly the kind of man she’d want.
If she wanted to be with someone.
If she even had the choice.
“So this thinking you need to do,” Phoebe said, getting serious. “You want to bounce something off me?”
Laura knew her friend would do anything for her, but there were some things that couldn’t be shared. “Thanks, Pheebs. But no. I just need a little time alone.” She pushed to her feet. “But now it’s time to make dinner. The rest of the girls will be back soon.”
They went into the kitchen together and checked the menu posted on the refrigerator. “It’s my night,” Laura said.
“You up for it?”
“I’m always up for food.”
“Which is another thing I can’t figure out. If I ate as much as you do, I’d be rolling across the room instead of walking.”
Laura couldn’t help but laugh. Phoebe was good at raising her spirits. Thank heaven.
“As it is, I’m a chub.”
“You’re just right for you. Self-respect, remember. You teach it to the girls all the time.”
“Yeah, I have self-respect—but it doesn’t mean I’m not fat.”
“Okay, have it your way. Now, let me get to work on this.” She glanced up at the other woman. “Alone.”
“All right. I’m outta here, anyway. I need to do some paperwork I didn’t get done earlier.”
As Phoebe left, Caitlin pranced into the room and out of the blue she said, “Do you like that man?”
“What man?”
“The one at the park. Jordan.”
Laura’s stomach lurched.
“I like him. And I think he likes you.” There was no uncertainty in Cait’s voice.
Laura took a package of chicken out of the fridge and brought it to the sink while Caitlin boosted herself up on a stool at the center island—really an old wood chopping block.
Cait eyed Laura. “So, do you like him?”
Um. “I think he’s nice.”
Laura tore off the plastic wrapping, took the chicken to the sink and ran some water over it, rubbing the cold slippery meat with her fingers. Junk-food junkie that she was, she’d rather have a cheeseburger. It was hell having to keep up a healthy diet for the girls, Cait included.
“If you think he’s nice, then you should go out with him.”
The thought appealed to her—if only circumstances were different. “Well, it’s not so easy. When he’s talking to me, he’s working. And you shouldn’t go out with people you work with.” Though that wasn’t the case with some, it was as good an excuse as any.
“Do you want to go out with him?”
Laura put the chicken on a plate, brought it back to the island and blotted it dry with a paper towel. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been out with anyone.” And it didn’t matter what she wanted. The other person had to want it, too.
“Jenny’s getting a new dad and I don’t even remember my daddy.”
A change of subject was most welcome, but not this change. With any mention of her father, Laura heard the need in Caitlin’s voice…almost a plea. Laura’s heart squeezed. She knew that need, felt it every day as a child. Like Cait, she’d longed to have a normal family like other kids. But nothing in Laura’s childhood had been normal.
“I know, sweetie. But in your heart, you’ll always remember how much he loved you.” Laura hadn’t even had that much.
“I don’t want him in my heart. I want a real dad, and you could get me one if you really wanted to.”
Laura sighed, picked up a piece of chicken and dipped it in flour. “It’s not easy, honey. I’d have to find someone I really liked, who liked me and who would also be a good father to you. That’s a tough act.” The hopeless trinity.
Caitlin became quiet.
“Sweetie, can you get me the big skillet from the bottom cabinet. Please.” Laura held up a sticky hand full of flour.
“Yuck.” The child scooted off the barstool. Handing the pan to her mom, she said, “I saw the other man at the park before.”
Laura’s swung around. “The other man?”
“The one in the car. I saw him yesterday in front of the house. Remember?”
***
“I can’t make it, Dad.” Rain drummed on the roof of Jordan’s Pathfinder. Holding the cell phone between his ear and his shoulder, he squinted to make out street signs through the sheets of water his wipers slapped off the windshield.
“Your mother will be disappointed.”
“Harry will be there.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m on a job. I can’t leave.” When his father didn’t answer, Jordan added, “You wouldn’t leave a company business meeting for a social event, would you?”
Harlan St. James paused for a moment, during which Jordan thought he heard a muffled laugh. Finally his father said, “Okay. I’ll make some excuse.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“But you’ll be at the stockholders’ meeting next week.”
It wasn’t a question. While J
ordan hadn’t any personal interest in the corporation, as a family member, he still held major shares. His grandfather had made sure of that. “I’ll be there.”
Jordan hung up knowing he’d been manipulated again. His father had given him something to turn down to make sure he’d feel obligated to come to the stockholders’ meeting. He chuckled. Gotta give the guy credit. His dad was a shrewd businessman and knew how to get people to do what he wanted. Especially his sons. Despite Jordan’s inability to meet his parents’ expectations, he had enormous love and respect for them.
He squinted at another street sign through the pelting rain. Over the past week, and after interviewing a half-dozen women who “might’ve” worked for Anna Kolnikov, he had little new information. He’d retrieved two pieces of paper buried in the case file without a single notation in the file on either one. A scribbled date on a piece of paper and a name on a birthday card sent to the victim wasn’t a lot to go on.
The windows started to fog, so he switched on the defrost. He checked for addresses again. A few blocks later, he found Thirty-Fifth Street, turned the corner and drove halfway up the block to a dilapidated apartment building, then directed his flashlight at the sign in front. La Mariposa. The infamous La Mariposa.
The building was a magnet for prostitutes who couldn’t make it on the streets anymore. Living at the complex, they made themselves ready for any pimp who could supply them some business—which he’d heard was poor because there were so many young women out there willing to practically give it away. Some were just barely teens.
Laura Gianni came to mind again. She was doing a good thing trying to help kids whose lives had gone down the toilet.
He parked curbside a half block away and jogged to the building. Scoping out the area, he opened his overcoat for easy access to his gun, then cautiously went inside and stopped by the stairwell. Rain dripped from his coat onto the cracked tile floor. He brushed his face dry with his hand and finger-combed his wet hair. He’d probably get the same runaround he got from everyone who’d supposedly worked for Kolnikov. No one knew anything, even when they’d known the woman for years.
But he had to try. It wasn’t a waste of time if he got even one clue—one piece of information he didn’t have before. Finding the first apartment number on his list, he knocked. Once. Twice. He heard a harsh voice—couldn’t tell if it was male or female—shout out, “Hold your freaking horses!”
Before the door opened, the disembodied voice yelled, “Who the hell’s there?”
“LAPD. Please open the door.”
The door creaked open and the sweet scent of weed wafted out. It was so thick he thought he might get high just standing there. A plump woman with dyed blue-black hair studied him with rheumy eyes.
“Ms. Rita Valdez?”
“That’s me. But I haven’t done nothing. I’m clean.”
Jordan pegged her to be in her mid-forties, but the hard lines in her face made her look years older.
He flashed his shield. “I’m Detective St. James. I’m only here to talk to you.”
She hesitated before letting him in.
The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn, and another sweet scent stuck in his throat. Incense. Used to cover other smells, except it wasn’t working. “I have some questions for you about Anna Kolnikov.”
The heavy mascara on the woman’s eyes seemed to weigh her eyelids down, keeping them at half-mast, but at the mention of Kolnikov’s name she snapped her eyes fully open. “I don’t know anything.”
“You worked for her before she died.”
“You can’t prove it.”
No, he couldn’t. And he didn’t want to. He was on a fishing expedition. Jordan sat on the arm of the ragged brown couch, indicating he wasn’t leaving until he got his answers. “I only want to know more about Anna Kolnikov.”
Rita, dressed in a red silk Oriental robe, sat at the other end of the couch and stretched out her legs, skin showing up to the thigh. A seductive pose just for him. He knew the drill.
“Why do you think I know anything about that woman?”
“Because you sent her a birthday card the month before she died. She kept it in her personal belongings. People don’t send birthday cards to people they don’t know.”
“Well, maybe I knew her, but my memory ain’t so great.”
Jordan pulled out a twenty. “Maybe we can jog it a little.”
Rita snatched the bill. “Maybe.”
“Did she have friends?” He pulled out a notepad and a pen and another twenty.
“Everyone liked Anna,” Valdez said, snatching the second bill. “She was a business lady through and through. She had lots of friends.”
“Were these friends outside the business?”
“I don’t know.”
“Got some names?”
“Me. I was a friend. She helped me when my daughter was in the hospital.”
“I’m sorry your daughter was ill,” he said, hoping to put her at ease, get her to relax and open up. Fact was, if she’d had a real job she’d probably have had hospitalization to cover a sick child. But he wasn’t there to lecture or dole out advice.
“Thanks.”
“How did she help you?”
“She gave me money, and she helped me get off…the junk so the welfare wouldn’t take my girl away.”
From the tracks on the inside of her leg, Jordan guessed the rehab had been temporary. “Where’s your daughter now?”
The woman looked down. “She’s gone. Foster care. But I’m going to get her back.”
Again, Jordan fought the urge to give advice and say something about needle diseases and responsibility. But he knew the futility of it. She’d been given the opportunity to change, probably more than once, and yet her daughter was in foster care.“So, give me some other names. You know Delores Matthews?”
She nodded. “Dee was Anna’s friend. But I heard she disappeared.”
“Anything else you know about her? Did Matthews have friends who might help her?”
“Nope.”
“She ever talk about going anywhere?”
The woman squinted at him with uncertainty, as if deciding whether to say anything more. He took another bill from his pocket and fingered it.
Rita sighed heavily. “She used to talk about starting over in Hawaii or somewhere exotic. She was a dreamer. She wanted to get out of the business. I think Anna was going to help her, but then she died and Dee disappeared.”
He had a theory that the Kolnikov murder and Matthews’s disappearance might be related somehow. What Valdez said fit perfectly. But theories only went so far. More important were motives and actual evidence.
“What about other friends of Anna’s?”
“There was a guy Anna took up with the year before she died. Handsome man. Younger than she was. But I never got introduced.”
“Were they dating?”
“I couldn’t say for sure, but they were mighty friendly.”
Jordan stood, too impatient to sit for long. “Anything else? You must remember something else.” He handed her the other bill.
“He was blond and…um…he was around all the time.” Furrows on her forehead proved she was thinking hard. She pushed at the front of her lacquered hair. “I heard he came from the town where she grew up.”
Jordan’s skin prickled. The town where she grew up. Kolnikov had a life before she came to L.A. A life that could provide more clues about the woman, clues that might lead to her murderer. He didn’t recall seeing anything in the case file about it. Nothing about a younger boyfriend, either. Odd.
“What town was that?”
The woman shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Getting back to Delores. Did you know her well?”
She shook her head. “No, but I bet they dumped her body in the ocean.”
“They? Who do you mean?”
She frowned, then shrugged. “Whoever killed her.”
“But she only disappeared. There’s
no indication she’s dead.”
“Might as well be,” the woman said, shrugging again.
Jordan was just about to ask another question when they heard a loud double knock along with a short one at Rita’s door.
The woman stood. “I’m having company, Detective. And I really don’t think I can entertain you any longer.”
“Sure.” He pulled out a card and gave it to her. “Call me if you remember anything more.”
She smiled as she fingered the money she still had in her hand. “Maybe. If I think of anything.”
CHAPTER SIX
“YOU SEE THAT tweeker friend of Brandy’s around here lately?”
Laura stopped dusting and looked up at Rose. “No. Why?”
Rose shrugged. “I saw him twice in the last week.”
“No one has said anything.”
“Well, maybe it’s nothing.”
Maybe. Or maybe not. They’d had stalkers at Victory House before—a junkie boyfriend of one of the girls, a pimp one of the girls had worked for. “I’ll keep a watch for him.”
“Good.” Phoebe headed for the kitchen just as Caitlin came in the front door with Alysa on her heels. Cait had walked home from school with her friends all week, and Laura could see her daughter’s confidence growing. Cait needed to feel capable, every bit as much as the girls staying at the shelter. And with each day that passed, Laura had felt less worried—until now.
She started to ask Alysa if she knew anyone who might be hanging around, but with Cait right there, she decided against it. “Hey, ladies. How was your day?”
Alysa tossed her bag down. “Great. I got an A on my last midterm exam.”
“Wonderful,” Laura said. “I didn’t expect anything less.”
Alysa beamed
“And how about you, squirt?”
Cait waggled her hand in a so-so gesture.
“Do you have homework?”
“I have tons of homework. I always do. My teacher sucks.”
Laura swung around to look at her daughter, who was now heading down the hall to her room. “You love your teacher. What’s this all about?” Laura said, following Cait, arms folded across her chest.