I reached the back of the Quinn property and a gate set in a wood fence displaying a Guard Dog on Duty sign. Packages were stacked up against the gate, FedEx and UPS, from Banana Republic, Martha by Mail, and Sur la Table. I noticed a doorbell on the fence. I rang it, then tried the gate. It was open.
I tried to pick up the packages, but there were too many. I took the Williams-Sonoma gadgets out of their shopping bag, stuffed them in the pockets of my jacket, forced the Martha by Mail box into the shopping bag, picked up the other two packages, and squeezed through the gate.
I followed a path through a profusion of fauna that must’ve taken some tending, to be blooming in late November. It was quiet here, the foliage seeming to mute the sounds of the film shooting out front. The door of the artist’s studio was open. I knocked and stuck my head in.
“You look like Santa Claus,” Maizie said, welcoming me. “Is all that mine?”
“Left at the back gate.” I handed her the shopping bag and the packages and moved past her into the room. A fire blazed in the fireplace, making me want to stay forever.
“That damn film.” Maizie headed to the kitchen area. “My across-the-street neighbors rented out their house. On and off for weeks. Just when we think we’ve seen the last of it, they’re back. So inconvenient. Some workers don’t even try to get through. Service people just take the day off. Garbage trucks. I’ve actually faxed the UPS people maps to the backyard. I can’t live without my deliveries. Hot cocoa?”
“Yes. Great.” I sneezed. “What are you making?” Wood in interesting shapes covered the studio floor, getting a coat of primer. The sawhorse and circular saw I’d seen a week earlier had been replaced by a professional sander. Maizie wore a denim apron over her white shirt.
“Lawn ornaments. I’ve never found a really satisfactory Santa and reindeer, so I’m making some. It shocks me, how people have gorgeous homes and landscaping, then stick a plastic— Cat, move.” She made a pass at the yellow cat, who leaped out of the way, something in his mouth. She stood, hands on hips, then turned to me. “What’s up?”
“I’m wondering if you still have the pill you found under Annika’s bed.”
“Well, I’m not . . . sure. Why?”
I told her about the logo on Rico’s bedroom wall, and the pill Britta had given me. “Rico tried to recruit Annika and Britta as couriers, but this woman on my show, Savannah Brook, is the kingpin. Queenpin. Whatever. She’s the woman Rico told his mom about, the woman he was dating when he vanished.” I sneezed again. The cat was rubbing against my leg.
“God, that’s wild.” Maizie shooed the animal away. “And the police don’t know this?”
“No, but they will tonight. If I can pull it off.” If I had the pill, I told Maizie, I’d show it to Savannah, I’d tell her Rico had given it to me, that I was interested in a deal, in doing what Britta and Annika would not, because I needed the money. Savannah liked deals.
I did not, of course, tell Maizie I’d be wearing an FBI wire. I’d do what I had to for Simon, then get Savannah alone. She’d say something incriminating. If I had the pill. The pill would give me credibility with her, and then with Yellin, at the Sheriff’s Department. The pill in my hand, the logo on Rico’s wall, Savannah’s natural blond hair, her Capricorn birthday, her affair with Rico, an incriminating conversation caught on an FBI tape—whether or not the FBI acknowledged its existence—if all this wasn’t enough for the cops to investigate, it would be enough for the TV news. Especially when I, an FBI cooperating witness and incidental celebrity, was willing to give interviews. And explain that Annika Glück and Rico Rodriguez, two people who could tie Savannah to Vladimir Tcheiko, were now missing. What news station wouldn’t be interested? Three out of four of those people were celebrities.
Maizie replaced the top on a can of primer and wiped her hands on a towel. “I think I know where it might be—I’ll just run up to the house. Stay here, it’s freezing outside.”
I moved closer to the fire, and discovered the cat. He rolled around on a rag rug, as though doing spinal exercises. I said hello to him and he rolled away. He was still playing with his toy, batting it around gleefully. As long as it wasn’t a frog.
I used my cell phone to check my machine. One message. Rex Stetson, reporting about Kona winds and the Big Island volcano. The Honolulu airport crew was working to get the ash under control, but when they did, he’d be home, carrying his bride over the threshold.
My heart stopped. I looked at the cat. He was a big cat, but my African goliath frog could eat him for breakfast. An amuse-bouche. How could I call myself a professional? The Stetsons’ kitchen was a fright, and it was irresponsible of me to be here. I should be in Sherman Oaks painting the wall white, committing murder-suicide. Maybe there was still time. If Maizie found the pill fast, I’d drive back there, throw on the first coat of paint, and—
My cell phone rang. I answered. This was a mistake.
“Where the hell are you?” It was Simon, as angry as I’d ever heard him.
“I—took a cab home.” I couldn’t believe how feeble my voice sounded.
“Stay there. Don’t even think of moving. Don’t drive, don’t walk. Stay. In. Your. Apartment. The next time I call I want to hear you’re sitting in Esterbud’s car. Jesus Christ, he’s a federal agent, he’s there to protect you, not play hide-and-seek. You got that?”
My heart was racing, angry at him for yelling at me, angry at myself for reacting. What kind of whistle-blower would I make, going weak in the knees in the face of someone’s anger? I focused on the yellow cat, with its sudden energy, and reined in my emotions.
“Simon,” I said calmly, “tell Esterbud I’ll meet him at Fini at six. I think I’m capable of driving my own goddamn car to my own goddamn job. But thank you for caring.”
I pushed the end button on my cell phone, cutting him off mid-word. It wasn’t a nice word.
The yellow cat toyed with its little object, tossing it my way, chasing it, reclaiming it with the glee of a kitten. The first sign of real life I’d seen from him.
Why was Simon so flipped out, I wondered, turning off my phone. Was Savannah really so dangerous? Was she on to me? Or did he just not like having his plans messed with?
I went to the window. The light was fading. It was almost the shortest day of the year. In the distance I heard a high-pitched voice. Emma, skipping toward the Range Rover.
The outdoor lights popped on, the little ones that illuminated the footpath. The late afternoon was coming to life now: the singing of the child, the playfulness of the cat. He flopped onto his back, showing me his stomach as he played with his toy. I thought of the Oriental fire-bellied toad, Bombina orientalis, his body green for everyday life. When push comes to shove, he flips over, arching his back and exposing his red belly, threatening predators with poison.
How angry Simon had been. You never really knew someone until you pissed them off. People’s styles of rage were so personal. As individual as sex.
I felt like someone had kicked me. What was I thinking? My God, if I pulled it off tonight, my own evidence-gathering mission, we would never have sex. I would never kiss Simon Alexander again.
I had to sit to absorb this. There would be no going back. He would never kiss a whistle-blower, someone who’d gone behind his back, to the cops, to the press. But how could I want to kiss someone willing to sacrifice my friend Annika?
But I did want to.
The room grew cold.
Emma’s singing was stopped by the slam of a car door and the sound of an engine starting. I moved to the fire, thinking of the song still going on inside the Range Rover. What was it about being three that made you sing the same song over and over?
Not three, though. Two and three-quarters. Fractions. Math. It was everywhere.
It’s strange how a mind works, how you can puzzle over something, a riddle, a song lyric, a poem . . . and then you relax and look away for a moment and things slide into place like thread across a loom, re
vealing the pattern you hadn’t seen before. Maybe that’s all math is, a design. Maybe if I’d done the math . . .
I thought of Emma saying, “Two and three-quarters,” and her mother saying, “Two and eleven-twelfths. Santa brought you to me,” and my own mother saying, “Christmas. Jesus was a Capricorn, didn’t you ever hear that?”
My breathing changed. The coldness in the pit of my stomach spread to my intestines and down my legs.
The yellow cat threw his toy in the air, the paws tossing it like a volleyball. It landed at my feet. I looked at it. It was a strange-looking thing, no bigger than a thumbnail, but thick. I’d been watching it for minutes, ever since I walked in, seeing something flash bright in the firelight. I reached down to touch it with my fingertip.
It was hard and dry and gray.
I drew my hand back.
It was an earlobe. The small, once soft end of an ear. In it was a gold stud earring. Embedded with a red gem. A ruby.
A gold stud earring I’d seen once before, worn by Rico Rodriguez.
I felt a burning in my eyes. The coldness inside me turned to nausea.
I heard the crunch of leaves outside. I saw the doorknob turn. I watched the door open and Maizie Quinn come into the studio.
39
“No luck,” Maizie said, locking the door behind her. “But I thought of one more place the pill might be. I’m sure I didn’t toss it, and it’s not like I mailed it to Annika’s mother.”
I snapped out of my paralysis and pushed the earlobe aside with my foot. The yellow cat, thinking it was a game, bunched himself up, swaying, ready to pounce. I stepped lightly on the earlobe, covering it with my sneaker.
“Check this out.” Maizie bent down to a braided area rug and moved it aside. “I designed it and, I have to admit, I’m pretty proud of it.”
She knelt on the white floor and counted tiles. She found the one she wanted, pushed on one end with her thumb, then lifted it out to reveal an aluminum-like surface underneath. A metal ring rested in the aluminum. She hooked her finger through it and pulled. A section of floor lifted up and became a trapdoor.
She stood and smiled, gesturing to the open door. “After you,” she said.
I thought of Seth, the Krav Maga instructor, and something he’d said in class: “Don’t get in their car.” I hadn’t understood it then, but now it was obvious, which was funny because this wasn’t a car but an underground room Maizie was inviting me into. I knew that going down there was a bad idea. Bad, bad, bad.
“Wollie?” She seemed not to notice that I hadn’t said a word since she’d walked in.
I stepped forward and looked down. A light had gone on automatically, revealing a spiral staircase of polished oak. Spiral staircases, Fredreeq said, were bad feng shui.
The yellow cat nuzzled my foot.
Maizie was waiting. Smiling.
“I’d rather not,” I said. “I get . . . claustrophobic.” It wasn’t a lie. I’d never been before, but now I had a profound need to be outside and far away.
“Wollie, it’s incredible. I have something so similar, with airplane cabins. Severe. I can’t fly, not for all the tea in China—it’s not flight itself, it’s the closed cabin. Believe me, you’ll like this.” Maizie put a hand on my arm, guiding me toward the trapdoor.
I kicked the earlob aside, talking loudly to mask the sound of its journey across the tile. “It’s not claustrophobia, technically, it’s—” I searched through what was available of my brain. “Spelunkophobia. Fear of caves. Basements, subways. Rec rooms.”
“Try it. If you hate it, we’ll come back up. Cat! Leave that alone, the primer isn’t dry.”
I turned to see the cat batting at the torso of a wooden reindeer leaning against a counter. The earlobe must’ve landed behind it.
I should run for it. Maizie stood between the door and me, but I could just barrel over her. We were probably in the same weight class, although I had two inches on her, even given her high heels. But she looked solid whereas I was a jellyfish. And there’d be no going back. There’s no alternative scenario, no polite reason for bashing into someone. Once you do it, from then on it’s all about who’s stronger, who’s meaner, who’s been to the gym more. And that wouldn’t be me.
But I couldn’t go down that staircase. Only an idiot would go down there.
Unless she had a gun.
She did have a gun.
It was in her apron pocket, not even hiding. Part of the outfit. Had it always been there, or had she gone to the house for it?
Okay, once a gun shows up, the rules change. Don’t they? Wasn’t it better for the gun to stay in her pocket than get pointed at me?
She was looking at me. Her hand went to her pocket.
“Maizie!” My voice was shrill. “I’ll do it. Before I lose my nerve. Feel the fear and do it anyway. I think that was the name of a book. Anyway, I love to see how other people do their houses. Did you design all this yourself? I think your husband mentioned that you did.”
“That’s right, you met Gene.” The cat knocked over the reindeer torso. Freaked out, he raced across the room. Maizie grabbed him. She walked toward me, the cat wiggling and mewing, wanting to get back to the earlobe. Rico’s earlobe. The earlobe of Rico Rodriguez.
The cat was no match for Maizie Quinn. Nor was I. She held him in one hand, the other hand in easy reach of her gun. The three of us were going down.
The staircase was a long one. The underground room had a high ceiling—or a low floor, depending on your perspective. And Maizie was right; it wasn’t cramped. You could have ballroom dancing down here or, more likely, a cooking class. Half the room was a test kitchen, with extra sinks and stovetops, all of it well lit and aggressively clean. Walls, floors, and counters were white, with copper hardware. And it smelled of perfume, something spicy. That scent again. Annika’s.
“What did I tell you?” Maizie said. “Does it feel like you’re underground?”
“No. It’s wonderful. Is this where you make your aromatherapy products?”
She smiled and stroked the cat, who purred so loudly I could hear him across the room. “That’s right. Shampoo, conditioner, body lotion, and methylenedioxymethamphetamine. Ecstasy. With a little something extra. Fentanyl. X plus F: I call it Euphoria.”
Another interesting thing about the human brain, at least my brain, is that while I expect it to work in an orderly fashion, one discovery leading to another, building to an inevitable conclusion, in fact it’s one big shopping bag I throw things into: tax receipts, toenail clippers, half a banana, nothing connecting to anything else until it all comes together in one big Aha! moment. That’s what Joey calls it, the Aha! moment, but in this case it was more of an Uh-oh! moment, followed by an I Can’t Believe How Stupid I’ve Been moment.
Everything I’d surmised about Savannah Brook actually applied to Maizie Quinn. Maizie, with whom I’d spent time on a practically-every-other-day basis, Maizie, dropping clues right and left, except I was too busy admiring her quilts and flowers and homemade lawn ornaments to notice. Maizie, who made her own sausage and bread, now standing between me and the staircase that was my only way out of here.
I found my voice. “Wow. For . . . how long?”
“Down here? Less than a year. Oh, you mean when did I get into the business? I cut my teeth on Ecstasy back in college. I was the sorority supplier.”
“But, Maizie—” I heard my voice squeak. “You act like it’s nothing, but you invented a drug. That’s historical. You’re the Madame Curie of Encino. How did it happen?”
Maizie laughed delightedly. “I just love you, Wollie. Thank you. It is a big deal, it’s huge, but you know, I was sitting around one night thinking about analgesics and hallucinogens, and voilà! Exactly like cooking. You know how that is?”
I said, “I don’t cook.”
“Well, but you paint. Cooking, painting, organic chemistry—same thing. The experimental spirit. If you’re willing to make mistakes, you can achieve anything
.”
I nodded, thinking of my freehand mural. My West African goliath. My mistakes. Just stay connected to her, I thought. “But to go from an idea to an actual product—?”
She nodded too. “I derivatized some fentanyl, combined it with MDMA, and started test-marketing. People loved it. So then I had to talk Gene into a regular supply of fentanyl—he’s such a stick-in-the-mud, but once he saw the profit potential—” She guided me farther into the room, away from the staircase.
“That’s right, Gene’s a doctor, isn’t he?”
“Not the most inspired, but he’s found his niche now, running this pharmacy scam; he gets me all the fentanyl I need, in the form of pain patches. A man has to thrive professionally or he feels like a big fat loser. Remember that when you get m—. Oops. Sorry.”
“No, what about?” I said brightly.
“I was going to say ‘when you get married,’ but obviously you won’t. Now.”
Something inside me started to tighten up, in my throat, but I waved off the implication as if it were nothing: a party I wasn’t invited to, a bad haircut. I just waved it away, my hands doing air ballet. “Okay, but listen—Vladimir Tcheiko, it’s him, right? That you’re going into business with? Because I actually read about him in International Celeb—”
“My God, Wollie, I’m giddy.” Maizie laughed. “Did I tell you it’s tonight?”
“Tell me everything!”
Maizie nearly squealed. “We’re meeting here. It’s like the president coming for dinner. No, better, it’s like the Rolling Stones. I mean, the arrangements—endless. They didn’t want Gene here, no one but me, they did background checks on the family, Lupe, the gardeners, people in the neighborhood, the goddamn film across the street—”
“Why do this at all, if they’re so paranoid?”
“Because Vladimir’s bringing me into his organization, and he won’t take on anyone he can’t see face to face; he goes with his gut. And since I cannot get on a plane and you can’t drive to Africa, the mountain, so to speak, is coming to me.”
Dating is Murder Page 30