He looked profoundly distressed at that thought.
“I know it was Warren’s phone because I put it back on the floor and waited,” he said. “He came looking for it. His jacket was on the coat rack and it must have fallen out of the pocket or something. But he also had his normal phone, the expensive one he’s always carrying. This was a different one.”
“Did he explain anything when he picked it up?” I asked.
“Well, ah, he probably didn’t see me.”
The break room was not that big. “How—”
“I was, ah, in the broom closet.” Brandon’s voice trailed off into nothingness.
I gave him a look.
“I’m not proud, okay, but the point is he was cheating on Callie. And before you even ask me, I know the texts weren’t from her.” He took a huge breath. “Because I saw him with the other girl when I followed him home.”
I held up my finger. I needed a minute.
Okay, so my fresh-faced young employee was a stalker. Right. I’m sure other managers of other theaters had similar personnel issues to deal with. My primary concern now was how to tell Detective Jackson what Brandon had found out without getting the teenager into trouble. Or giving him a plausible motive for the police to consider—Jealousy.
Which, I realized, would be the same motive they could assign to Callie.
Sure, managers of other theaters probably had to deal with things like this all the time.
Chapter 7
I left Brandon with some stern words about personal privacy as well as some unasked-for words about getting over his crush on Callie. I had little expectation of his heeding any of it. High School seniors aren’t exactly noted for taking advice.
After leaving him I grabbed my jacket and bag and went out for a walk. I’ve always thought best while walking, and I needed to think this through.
The early January evening was damp and chilly, the streetlights coming on to show the lightest of all possible drizzles, which would have been very atmospheric if I were making a film noir, but as I wasn’t it was just annoying. I pulled my hood up.
Did the police suspect Callie in Warren’s death? If so, I didn’t want to hand them what looked like a gilt-edged motive. But if the other woman Brandon had found out about did have anything to do with the crime, I didn’t want to withhold that from Detective Jackson.
It would be a lot easier if Brandon had actually seen the woman’s face. If he’d be able to identify her. But, although he’d admitted to following Warren fairly frequently, and seeing him meet her more than once, he hadn’t ever gotten a good look. He said she was taller than Callie, with short blonde hair, but that was about all.
I’d stopped digging for details when he’d said, “It was hard to get a good look at her face with Warren’s tongue down her throat.” That had pretty much eliminated any “maybe there’s a simple explanation” argument.
The explanation was simple. Warren was a cheating fink.
But did that matter to the investigation?
My rational brain shouted “Hell, yes!” But my protective brain cautioned “What are the consequences?” And I wasn’t at all sure.
So I kept walking.
I wandered around the city for over an hour. I’d gotten to know the area around the Palace pretty well in the last few months. I went uphill along streets lined with houses that were definitely out of my price range, then turned to follow the perimeter of the Presidio, a former military base that was now largely public greenspace, and back down through blocks of more houses until I found myself on the sidewalk in front of the place I had probably meant to go all along. June’s office.
The Howard Realty sign was still lit. I knew June and her staff kept whatever hours their clients demanded, so even though it was after seven and there was nobody at the receptionist’s desk, I knocked on the glass door.
A moment later June herself appeared in the lobby. She waved when she saw it was me.
“Nora, I’m so glad to see you,” she greeted me as she unlocked the door and let me into the blessedly warm waiting room. “I wanted to touch base.”
“Why? Have you heard something?”
She looked momentarily confused. “Oh, about Warren? No. Have you spoken to the police yet?”
“I was with Callie when she did.”
This conversation took place as she led me from the windowed lobby down a hallway to her office in the back of the building, overlooking a tiny garden. The office was small but decorated in the same faultless style that June showed in her wardrobe. Neutral tones, understated and expensive. The kind of place where Grace Kelly would feel right at home. I hadn’t noticed anyone else working late in the rooms we passed, but June closed the door once I’d taken a seat.
“How is Callie?” she asked. She opened a cupboard to reveal a small bar. “I was just going to have a glass of wine. Can I tempt you?”
“Without even trying,” I said. “She’s okay. I mean, as okay as you could expect.”
June uncorked a bottle of something white. “The poor kid,” she said. “Did they tell her anything?”
“It was more of an asking situation.” I accepted the glass she handed me. Instead of taking the guest chair opposite mine, she moved around to sit behind her desk, which made things feel more businesslike. “Have the police told you anything more?”
She shrugged. “What else is there to say, until they catch the burglar.”
If it had been a burglar. “How is everyone here doing?” I asked.
It couldn’t have been easy to lose a colleague to violent death. Even if he’d only been there a short time.
June shrugged. “As well as can be expected. A few tears in the breakroom. A lot of gossip and speculation about what happened.” She took a healthy swallow. On anyone less chic it might have been a gulp.
“What’s the prevailing speculation?” I didn’t come out and ask if it involved a mysterious blonde.
She shrugged. “Oh, all the kinds of stuff they’d see in movies. Was he involved with drug dealers? Did he owe someone money? Had he pissed off someone’s husband?”
That last one sounded promising. “Is there any basis in reality for any of it?”
“Who knows?” She took another swig of wine. “But it’s all more dramatic than what probably really happened, which was that it was just his dumb luck to be home when somebody broke in. And lord knows everyone wants drama.” There was a bitterness to her voice that she probably hadn’t intended.
“How about you?” I asked. “How are you holding up?”
She gave her wine a contemplative look. “I’m sad, of course. And shocked that something like this happened. You read about things in the papers, but when it’s someone you know…” She made a face. “I called my security company to get a check on my home system. You can’t be too careful if this is turning into the kind of city that has this kind of crime.”
I was on the point of commenting that all kinds of cities have all kinds of crime, as do all kinds of small towns. But everyone reacts to this sort of thing in their own way. Instead I just said something like “Hmm.”
“Not that I would ever say anything like that to a client,” June said conspiratorially. Forgetting, apparently, that I was a client.
“Have you heard anything more from your team?” I asked her. “Callie mentioned a couple people were there at the bar on Friday night.”
“We were all so pleased for Warren.” This came out a tiny bit robotic. I got the impression that she’d said it a lot recently.
“Right. So I wondered if anyone had mentioned when he left the bar, or what condition he was in?” June gave me a curious look, so I hastily elaborated. “Callie just said it seemed like he was drinking fairly heavily.”
She pursed her lips. “I was happy to hear he didn’t drive home.”
So she had hear
d something. Had she heard about the last text Warren had sent to Callie? The one that said June would freak out about someone he’d seen at the bar? Had he texted June?
“That’s what I was worried about on Saturday,” she said. “When he didn’t show up at the open house he was supposed to be working, I thought he might have…” she shuddered. “But Sam told me he got a rideshare, so then I just went from being worried to being pissed.” She finished her wine and poured another glass. “If I only knew.”
I made a soothing noise. Then, “Sam stayed until the party broke up?”
June shrugged. “I suppose so. I didn’t interrogate her.”
“But she’s spoken to the police,” I said. Then, at the look of surprise on June’s face, I amended that statement with, “I would assume.”
“We all did,” she said. “Not that we had much to say. It’s not as though Warren’s work life had anything to do with his death.”
“Of course.” Unless it did. I was just about to ask her whether she’d been told about the text when she changed the subject.
“Nora.” Her tone became a little brisk. “I’m glad you came by. We should talk about Monday.”
Monday? Monday! I’d completely forgotten about the event June and I had planned for the next week. It was a corporate off-site. An all-day series of meetings, networking, and informative talks for her employees, as well as the staff of two other independent real-estate firms, roughly a hundred people in all. When she’d mentioned she was putting it together, I’d suggested that she cancel her reservations at a boring downtown hotel ballroom and hold it at the Palace instead. She’d instantly loved the idea of using the local landmark for her event. I’d loved the idea of opening up a new source of income for the theater.
“Of course,” I said. “Do you want to postpone?” Even as I asked her, my heart sank at the idea. I’d arranged for catering and the rental of furniture and equipment for the day’s speakers. I’d lined up a film crew to record the talks so June could post them on her website—okay, the crew was just some of Callie’s friends from film school, but still. I’d put a lot of work into the planning, hoping that renting the theater out for special events like this one might turn into a lucrative revenue stream. I hadn’t even thought about it since Warren’s death, but of course it would be in poor taste to hold what amounted to a corporate pep rally the week after a colleague was killed.
“No,” she said, surprising me. “I’ve thought about it, and as much as we all cared for Warren here, the event isn’t just for my company. A lot of very busy people have cleared their calendars for this, so I think we should go on with it.”
As the person who wanted to make the Palace financially viable, I was relieved. But as a person person, I felt more than a little squicky about it.
“I think we should start with a moment of silence,” June said. “For Warren. And then carry on.”
“And maybe shift the order of events?” I suggested. I knew the day was scheduled to begin, after coffee and pastries, with a rousing motivational speech entitled “Get Pumped and Stay Pumped.” It didn’t seem like the sort of thing that could easily follow a moment of silence for a murdered colleague.
June frowned. “You’re probably right. I’ll have Sam take a look at it all and call you in the morning.”
“Okay.” I finished my wine. “I’ll let the gang know we’re still on. Callie was going to help out, but I’ll find someone else.” I couldn’t imagine she’d still want to direct the filming.
“Good.” June looked relieved.
She stood, which gave me the feeling I was being very professionally kicked out. I hesitated when we got to the lobby door, but at the last minute I decided not to ask her about the text.
I’d ask someone else instead.
As I walked down the street toward the Palace, I took my phone out of my pocket, noted that my maybe-ex-husband still hadn’t responded to my text about Sundance, and dialed Detective Jackson.
Chapter 8
“Your not-a-boyfriend isn’t answering his phone.”
I informed Marty of this when I got back to the Palace. He was up in the dimly lit projection booth, fiddling with some piece of machinery and half watching through a tiny window as Fred and Ginger drifted elegantly around a gloriously art deco set in The Gay Divorcee. Fred was graceful and sophisticated. Ginger was too, but backwards, and in heels.
“He’s not my—” Marty began. Then he shot me a hostile look. “I’m not his keeper.”
“But it occurred to me that you might know if he has plans this evening.” I came into the booth and closed the door behind me. This was Marty’s lair, and I always felt a little nervous in the cluttered, confined space. One false move and I could break the last thingamajig on earth that made the ancient projectors work. And with carefully arranged mechanical junk balanced everywhere, it wouldn’t be hard to make one false move.
“Why do you care?” Marty regarded me narrowly. “What are you up to?”
“I have to tell him something,” I said. Leaving out that I also wanted to ask him something. “So I was thinking. If you were planning to meet for an after-work drink or late dinner, maybe I can tag along for a few minutes.”
I gave him my friendliest smile. He looked like I’d suggested something obscene.
“You one hundred percent cannot tag along,” he said. “And besides, David doesn’t drink.”
“Really?” Several dozen cop clichés sprang to mind. That’s what happens when you’re a recovering TV writer. I’d already mentally spun out a plot involving the tragic death of his partner and a shaky hold on recovery before I caught my next breath.
“Really,” Marty said. Then he gave me a long-suffering look. “He does, however, eat ramen.”
My eyebrows went up. “So you’re meeting him? I can go with you?”
“Don’t be insane. But if you were to go to Marufuku in Japantown right about now you’d probably find him ordering the deluxe pork belly special. Extra spicy.”
“Thanks, Marty.” I reached for the doorknob.
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Also don’t mention the fact that I’ll close everything out and lock up around here with only the help of one mopey teenager. Really, don’t worry about it. It’s no bother.”
Oh. Right. I guess I had been making an assumption that I was free to traipse off again after already leaving the theater once that night. “Thank—”
“Do not thank me again,” he said swiftly. “If you want to thank me, just be gone by the time I get there.” He sniffed. “I’m meeting David at the Kabuki to see an after-hours animation festival, which is his idea of entertainment, not mine. And before you even think to ask, no, you may not tag along.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I knew Fred and Ginger would wrap things up in twenty minutes or so, and Marty would probably be able to lock up fifteen minutes after that. So I didn’t have time for the thirty-minute walk to Japantown. I called a rideshare instead, wanting to make sure I was finished with Detective Jackson by the time Marty arrived for their date.
Marty and Detective Jackson. I still couldn’t quite wrap my head around that. Marty and anyone, really.
The restaurant was inside the confusing warren of shops and restaurants that made up the Japan Center mall. I’d only been to the center once before, when checking out the huge and modern Kabuki movie theater that anchored one end of it. That time I’d gotten hopelessly turned around in the mall, but luckily Marufuku was on the street level and the driver let me out at the entrance closest to it.
It was due to close in less than half an hour but was still filled to capacity. Once I stepped in and inhaled the heavenly scent of rich spicy broth, I realized the Kabuki-adjacent location probably wasn’t the only reason Jackson was there. I also realized I hadn’t eaten all day.
I saw him seated at a table for tw
o against the wall and told the hostess I was expected. Which wasn’t a lie. Jackson looked up as I approached, and the lack of surprise on his face told me Marty must have sent him a warning.
He half-rose from his seat. There was an awkward little dance because the server chose that moment to bring him a huge bowl of steaming yumminess and she seemed a bit thrown by my late arrival.
“Please eat,” I told Jackson. “I promise I won’t stay long.”
Then I caught a good look at his ramen and turned to the server. “I’ll have what he’s having,” I said. Then, hastily, “To go.”
Detective Jackson poured a cup of tea from a small iron pot and pushed it toward me as I sat down. “Ms. Paige. What can I do for you?”
“You can eat your noodles and call me Nora,” I told him. “I really do apologize for hunting you down like this, but there’s something I think you should know. Something about Warren.”
“What’s that?” He’d unwrapped his chopsticks and began stirring chunks of pork and hard-boiled egg into the noodles and broth of his soup.
I hesitated. “I know you said Warren’s phone was missing. Have you been able to find it?”
“Do you know something about it?”
I noticed he didn’t answer the question. “I just thought I should tell you that he had more than one phone.”
He glanced up from his noodles. “How do you know that?”
“Did you already know?” I asked.
“Ms.…Nora,” he said. “We have something of a history, so I’m cutting you some slack. But the way this works is you tell me things. I’m the one who gets to ask the questions. I’m the one with the gun and the badge.”
“Right,” I said. “Got it.” Apparently, I wouldn’t be finding out what he knew about Warren’s last text to Callie. I cleared my throat. “The thing is, one of my employees found a phone in the staff break room a while ago, and it turned out to be Warren’s. Not his everyday phone, but another one.”
Murder in the Balcony Page 5