“Shhh, you dippy dog,” I whispered. “You’re gonna get us killed.” Bark! Bark! Bark! The guy just couldn’t take advice.
I quietly turned the knob. Muldoon barreled inside ahead of me. Growling, panting, searching, and then nothing. No yelping. Good sign. With my back against the wall, I nudged the door fully open with my heel and turned my head so I could see inside. Muldoon’s front half had disappeared inside the closet, which left his hairy white butt and carrot tail aiming up at the ceiling. The closet was awfully cramped to hold a burly guy, but you never knew. Carefully I flipped on the light and stepped closer. Heart pounding, I knelt beside Muldoon and peered into the closet. Nothing. No beady eyes stared back at me. I collapsed on the floor with my back against the doorjamb of the closet and took my first deep breath in way too long. The pencil was still fixed in my fist like a bayonet. Celery greens were cocked and ready. I wanted to giggle, but my body said tremble, so we compromised.
Murff, murff. A dog with a mission.
“What now?” I said aloud.
Muldoon was still sniffing. Wouldn’t let it be. I pulled him away and squinted to get a better look. In the back corner of the closet was a dark, still form. It looked like a piece of clothing that had fallen from a hanger. I reached in and pulled it out. A chill moved up my spine. Once again I scanned the room, looking for shadows, listening for sounds. I refocused my attention, staring in disbelief at the thing in my hand. It was the jacket I’d worn to Covington’s luncheon. Clipped to the lapel was a name tag that read Tucker Sinclair.
18
it was nine-thirty the next morning, Friday, and three days from the deadline Mo Whitener had set for returning the group’s eleven million dollars. The police had released Polk’s body, and I was on my way to the private graveside service at Forest Lawn Memorial Park, in the Hollywood Hills. I was still shaken that an intruder had been in my house, and worried about leaving Muldoon alone. I considered asking my neighbor, Mrs. Domanski, to watch him, but for her, cocktails started at dawn, and I figured he was safer alone. As a precaution, I tucked both the Teresa García and the Tucker Sinclair medical charts inside a large box of shredded wheat, which I hid in the kitchen cupboard.
Mona finally called. She told me Elsa searched the house but didn’t find the original NeuroMed package. She agreed to give me a key to the Center so I could look for it there. The documents were probably long gone, but perhaps I’d find some other evidence pointing the finger at Polk or his accomplices.
Mona also told me she didn’t know anyone named Teresa García. She had no idea why a newspaper article about the girl’s death was in with her husband’s possessions. Apparently, she and Polk had met Covington through her work with Project Rescue. Covington had given a modest amount of time and an excessive amount of money to the cause. To her, that made him as fine a man as she’d ever met. Irony.
Just before we hung up, Mona informed me she’d received a call from the police. They were no longer focusing on suicide or accidental drowning as the cause of Milton Polk’s death. They considered his death a homicide. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t considered the possibility that he’d been murdered, but somehow, hearing it confirmed left me feeling queasy. I couldn’t tell from Mona’s tone just how she felt about the news.
Forest Lawn has never been quite sure whether it’s a cemetery or a theme park. It’s the butt of a lot of jokes, which might lead a person to believe that nobody takes it too seriously except the people who get buried there. In reality, it’s one of several Forest Lawns in Southern California. The Hollywood Hills locale is a good-looking piece of real estate with rolling lawns, gardens, and statuary. It isn’t as impressive as the original, in Glendale, with its movie star mausoleums and full-scale copy of Michelangelo’s David, but despite subdivisions with overwrought names like Vale of Hope, Tender Trust, and Starry Knoll, Forest Lawn Hollywood Hills has its own brand of serenity. Besides, it’s the only real estate in Los Angeles County where you can move into a star-studded neighborhood and pay less than the cost of admission to Disneyland.
The sky looked more like Seattle than L.A.: overcast, gray, and threatening rain—funeral weather from central casting. I took Forest Lawn Drive from the freeway, past a Griffith Park equestrian event, to the front gates and got a map from the guard kiosk. I continued past the two-story colonial mortuary, through a large ornate wrought-iron gate, and past sweeping lawns dotted with drying bouquets and heart-shaped Mylar balloons. I stopped near a hearse and a long black limo that were parked along the road in an area called Hallowed Grove. I didn’t see any groves, hallowed or otherwise, just a few spindly sycamore saplings, but in the scheme of things, Milton Polk’s final resting place wasn’t such a bad spot.
I hadn’t been to many funerals, and I wasn’t looking forward to this one. Still, I wanted to look my best, so before getting out of the car, I checked to make sure that there were no sandy paw prints on the only black dress I owned—a little cocktail number with sequined spaghetti straps that I’d funeralized with a dark pullover sweater. Unfortunately, when I surveyed the crowd, I noticed that nobody else was wearing black, not even Mona Polk. Obviously, I had a thing or two to learn about L.A. funeral couture.
About twelve people milled around a canopy that sheltered the raised casket. Most looked like Polk’s contemporaries, men and women in their fifties and sixties, with the exception of a sullen-looking teenage girl who looked as if she’d mistaken this for a come-as-you-are party. Too bad no one wore name tags at these events. I looked around the fringes of the crowd for guys with buzz cuts, speaking into hidden microphones with Quantico accents, but I came up empty.
Harold Amberg was there with his wife, whom I recognized from the photo in his office. There was no sign of Wade Covington. Everyone looked under control except Francine, who was boo-hooing into a hankie under the glaring eye of a man who, I assumed, was her loving spouse. He was short and wiry with a deeply lined, angry face. If a Hack ’n Frizz hair salon ever opened up around here, he’d be their poster boy.
I stepped carefully across the spongy grass, dodging flat markers packed so closely together there was barely room to maneuver. Nearby, a family squatted around a grave, burning something that could have been incense but didn’t smell like anything in Pookie’s collection.
Mona stood at the edge of the group, looking pale but otherwise intact. Smoldering Towel Boy was at her side. I walked over and gave her my condolences. She seemed genuinely touched.
“This is Armando Baldioceda,” she said, gesturing toward the hunk.
She pronounced his name with a Spanish accent, as if she liked the way it trilled off her tongue. I waited for her Introduction Etiquette 101 ice-breaking tagline. Something like “And did you know Armando won the Nookie Decathlon three years in a row?”
That never came, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. “Are you a member of the family, Armando?” I said, trilling the r in my head.
He didn’t answer, just batted his eyelashes.
“I’m not sure he understands you,” she said. “That’s why he’s staying with us, to learn English. I’m teaching him, but it takes time.”
I felt like saying, “Yeah, and now that your husband’s dead, you’ve got all the time in the world.” Since I’d been dredging up all that old high school Spanish, I offered Armando a “mucho gusto en conocerle,” and hoped I hadn’t just asked for a double dry nonfat cappuccino.
People were coming over to Mona to pay their respects, so I wandered off, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. Finally, I spotted Madie sitting alone in one of the chairs near the casket, her red hair aglow even in the gloomy light. A lightweight green raincoat concealed her nurse’s uniform. When she saw me, she waved and maneuvered her way through the mourners, bringing with her the scent of lilies and roses from the graveside floral arrangements.
“I didn’t expect to see you here.” She sounded surprised but also relieved.
“Who are these people?” I asked.
&n
bsp; “I don’t know. Well, of course, I know Dr. Amberg and his wife, and Mrs. Polk. And Francine.”
“Is that Francine’s husband?”
She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I can’t believe he’s here.”
“Why? Doesn’t he like funerals?”
“He doesn’t like Dr. Polk, and the feeling was mutual.”
“Yeah,” I said. “The guy looks like a piece of work, all right.”
My comment must have jarred Madie out of her candor, because she blushed and quickly changed the subject. She went on to tell me that Dr. Amberg had decided to use Polk’s office as a storage room, and asked if I could pick up his personal effects—about four boxes of them, she thought. Her tone was apologetic, as if she considered banishing Polk’s things before he was properly buried a sacrilege of some sort. I agreed. Nonetheless, I told Madie I’d drop by later in the afternoon to collect the stuff.
Of course, Dr. Amberg could do whatever he wanted with the office space. His practice was completely separate from Polk’s. They shared only rent, and lately, Amberg claimed to have paid all of that. But it was interesting that he hadn’t waited until Mona made her decision about selling. I guess Amberg already had Dr. Polk’s patients, so the floor space they stood on to pay his fees was a mere formality.
“Who’s the guy with Mrs. Polk?” Madie asked. “Her bodyguard?”
Her comment startled me, but it was an interesting observation. It was possible Mona needed protection. After all, her husband had been murdered. I couldn’t imagine why, but maybe she thought the killer might come after her as well.
Armando hadn’t left Mona’s side once since I got here, and at the moment his hand was resting protectively on the small of her back. I considered the possibility that he’d graduated from some touchy-feely school of bodyguarding, but that’s not what it looked like to me. It looked as though he had the hots for her—and vice versa.
I don’t know why I had a bee in my bonnet about the possibility that Mona Polk was cheating on her husband. I was no prude, and Milton Polk was no angel. Maybe Mona was just teaching Armando English as she claimed, but to me their behavior smacked of an intimate relationship. If so, flaunting it at her husband’s funeral seemed like a cheesy thing to do.
The minister had just begun ahem’ing and motioning the crowd toward the chairs when I heard a car door slam. I turned to see Detective Kleinman getting out of a blue Crown Victoria. When he spotted me, he smiled. Goodie, I thought. He wasn’t mad at me anymore. He’d traded the houndstooth jacket for a more formal blue suit. I wasn’t exactly ready to invest in matching underwear for our first date, but from a distance he didn’t look all that bad. Then my head cleared, and I realized that he wasn’t here to see me. He was a cop and was probably at the funeral hoping the killer would be there, too. That thought was enough to scare the bejesus out of me.
The eulogies were mercifully brief but more poignant than I expected. A dozen people had taken time out of their busy schedules to be there, but that wasn’t many when you considered Milton Polk’s fifty-plus years of bonding opportunities. From what I gathered, at least one person, Kenny Chalmers, may have come to gloat rather than grieve over his death. Maybe there were others.
Kleinman stood at the edge of the pack, listening attentively. If he was watching anyone in particular, he was subtle about it. I, on the other hand, wasn’t subtle at all. I scrutinized every single face in the crowd until I thought everyone looked like Jack the Ripper.
When the formalities were over, Kleinman made a beeline for Mona Polk. Fine. Let him ignore me. I wanted to corner Francine, but Kenny looked like a handful, so I waited for the guy to take a potty break, to mingle, to anything—but he stuck to her like gum on a theater seat. I considered throwing him a piece of meat so he’d get distracted and leave her alone.
I wouldn’t have been surprised if Francine was trying to avoid me. Irene Borodin must have told her by now that someone, maybe an insurance investigator, had been at Sunland asking questions about those phony-baloney claims. If she’d cooked up that insurance scam, she must be sweating blood by now.
Kenny had his hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet, looking as if he was antsy to leave. Francine seemed dazed. She was holding a single red rose in her hand and staring at the casket.
I spoke just loud enough to get her attention. “Francine, we have to talk about that patient chart I found the other day. The one we discussed. It’s important. I think you know why. Can I speak to you in private?”
The look of terror in her eyes told me that her answer was probably no. “Please leave me alone,” she said in a frantic whisper.
Kenny bullied his way between us. “Who are you?”
“I worked for Dr. Polk,” I said casually, offering my hand. “Tucker Sinclair.”
He looked as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “Funeral’s no place to talk business. Can’t you see Francie’s not herself?”
I feigned a polite smile and did my best to ignore him. Francine looked pale and frightened as she again turned toward the casket.
I didn’t want to freak her out, so I kept my voice steady and calm. “Maybe we can talk later at the Center?”
“She’s not going to work today.” Kenny’s voice crackled with tension.
I gave him my “I wasn’t talking to you, shithead” look before turning back to Francine. “What about tomorrow? I can meet you.”
Without averting her eyes from the casket, she pressed the rose to her lips and gently placed it on a heart-shaped flower arrangement draped across the lid.
“What’s your problem, lady?” Kenny said angrily. “She ain’t going back to that shit hole, so take a hike.”
All heads turned toward us as Kenny’s words echoed in the still air. My senses were on full alert. Kenny was at least four inches shorter and twenty years older than I was, so I could take him—easy. Then I thought: Tucker! Get a grip. Funeral. Wrestling. Maybe not appropriate. Kenny was a bully, but his sentiment seemed genuine. He wanted to protect his wife. I decided to leave his knees intact but couldn’t resist one last comment. I bent over and looked at him eyeball to eyeball.
My tone was quiet but steely. “Get out of my face, or I’ll squeeze your head like a zit.”
Kenny balled his fists and puffed up like a cobra but didn’t say anything more.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Detective Kleinman’s voice sounded calm, almost lighthearted.
“Beat it,” Kenny said.
Kleinman put his hands on his hips and gave Kenny a look of quiet consternation. The gesture also allowed Kenny, and anybody else who was looking, to see the gun strapped to his chest and the badge hanging from his belt.
Kenny paled. “Sorry, Officer. My wife’s not herself. I was just taking her home.” He started nudging Francine toward the road.
Kleinman nodded but made no move to stop them. I managed to slip Francine one of my homemade business cards, but before she got to the car, I saw Kenny take the card away from her and put it in his pocket. Great. All I needed was another creep who wanted to keep in touch.
According to NeuroMed’s corporate minutes, Francine was an officer in the company, which left her vulnerable to the Center’s financial and legal troubles. And how angry would that make Kenny? From what I’d just seen, pretty darned angry. Maybe Kenny had come here today to get some kind of killer thrill from seeing his victim buried. In any event, he’d just moved up on my suspect list. I wondered if he appeared anywhere on Kleinman’s.
“Are you all right?” There was a tremor in Mona Polk’s voice as she moved toward me. She glared as Kenny helped Francine into the passenger seat of the car.
“I apologize,” I said. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”
“Don’t apologize. Believe me, I’m glad they’re gone.” The car drove away, and Mona took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her composure was back. “I’m having some people over for a buffet after the service. Will you join us?”
Her eyes conveyed disappointment, but her tone was nonchalant. “Another time, perhaps.”
Mona Polk seemed to take all of life’s disappointments in stride. I suspected that she held herself together by compartmentalizing and moving on. In any event, she gave me the key to NeuroMed and headed toward the limo. After that, the crowd began drifting back to their respective cars. Except for Kleinman. He stood with his arms crossed and his eyes boring into mine.
“You want to tell me what just happened here?” he said.
I shrugged. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, Detective, but sometimes I rub people the wrong way.”
That produced a faint smile, which was followed in short order by a cynical frown. “You’re holding out on me.”
“Wrong, again,” I lied.
“You know, sooner or later I’ll find out if you are.”
That made me a little sweaty, but I kept a genial look on my face. “Look, I wanted to talk business with Francine. Her husband objected. End of story. By the way, nice suit. Versace?”
This time his smile was committed, and it stayed on his lips for a while. “Good guess, but no cigar. It’s a Sam Kleinman original.”
I remembered him telling me that he’d been in the garment business before becoming a cop, so I asked if that was his dad.
“My uncle,” he said.
I nodded. “So how’s the investigation going?”
He paused, staring at me. “It’s going.”
“Any idea yet who killed Dr. Polk?”
“We’re working on it.”
“No big breaks in the case?”
False Profits Page 17