Eventually, Finn pulled up to the edge of the roundabout, parked and took a moment to get the lay of the land. The house was sprawling. The long wall facing him was white and windowless which was not a surprise. Hillside property was built to take advantage of the city views not for curb appeal. What made this house unique was that it was land rich and instead of being built vertically on a patch of land it spread horizontally over the hill.
Finn got out of the car and closed the door. Had he worn a tie, he would have adjusted the knot before asking entrance to such a grand home. Instead, he gave the tape covering the gash in his jacket's sleeve a good rub so that he looked respectable. Somewhere among all the trees a breeze blew; it carried a bird's twilight song to him. Finn basked in the stillness, enjoying the sounds of nature, until he heard a sound even more beautiful to his ears – that of a soccer ball being kicked by someone who knew how to do it. Instead of going to the front door, Finn went toward the sound of the ball.
Off the drive, his boots sunk into a grass as soft as a down pillow; grass that looked like a cloud of tiny shamrocks. Turning a corner, he saw that the main house was connected to a mother-in-law unit by a narrow structure. The grass ran right up to the door of the back unit and upon it was a good looking boy – almost a man – kicking a soccer ball in front of a practice goal. Back and front, he went, twisting a knee, raising a foot.
Finn stopped to admire his form as he popped the ball on his back foot and then, knees bent and body low, executed a perfect step over. He went through his paces, picking up speed in a way that told Finn he was aware he had an audience. Finn couldn't fault him for showing off. If he had ever been that good looking or talented, sure wouldn't he have been arrogant as all get out? Finn was about to speak when the boy set himself up for a Rabona, wrapping his one leg around and going for a cross shot with the other; a fine move until he turned suddenly and caught the ball with his laces, and sent it flying like a bullet at Finn's head.
In that split second Finn saw the boy's expression. He was a mean little bastard who intended to do harm. While Finn hadn't a malicious heart, he was quick to respond and no less expert. He caught the ball, dropped it and sent it back at the boy's knees so fast the surprise took him down as much as the force of the kick.
"Goddamn. Shit," the boy howled. "You bastard, you could have broken my knee."
His reaction was a bit much but Finn let him go on. When he decided his foul words were in danger of offending Mother Nature herself, Finn walked across the soft grass and stood over him.
"If I'd wanted to break your knee I would have, boy. Next time, look at your opponents face before you go after him. That will tell you if you're up against it. Come on now."
Finn put out his hand, offering his help. The boy fumed but finally let Finn haul him to his feet.
"No harm, then," Finn said, even though the observation was unnecessary.
This boy was a strong buck. Not as old as the detective first thought, but even more handsome up close. His blond hair was bright and shining, his face clean-shaven and square jawed. He must cut a fine figure on the field and have a passel of beauties waiting for him when the game was done.
"I'm looking for Sharon Stover—" Finn began only to be interrupted before he got the words fully out.
"I'm Sharon Stover, who in the hell are you?"
Finn turned around, a smile on his face, an introduction on his lips. His smile faltered and faded, the introduction was never made. Behind him the boy gave a short cruel laugh and went to collect his ball. It wasn't often that Finn was at a loss for words or that embarrassment tripped him up, but this was one of those times.
Standing in front of him was a beautiful and unusual woman. Her hair was short and as blonde as the boy's. Hers was long on the top and swept back from her forehead in a high wave but the sides were shaved like a soldier's. Her cheekbones cut across a perfectly oval face. Her mouth was generous and her eyes narrow and cat-like. Sharon Stover's shoulders were broad, her breasts heavy, her stomach flat and her hips narrow. She had the physique of an athlete but an athlete as flawed as the young man behind Finn was perfect. This woman stood squarely on one foot, her long leg muscled and slim, but her other leg was gone. Strapped to her upper thigh was a golden blade, curved and strangely sexy.
"Detective O'Brien." Finn said. "LAPD."
"Oh, crap."
Without another word she turned around and walked away. There was nothing for Finn to do but follow.
***
While Emanuel was at his dinner with the Mayor of Los Angeles feasting on lobster and steak, while Rada waited beside the car for him doing without supper, while Finn was in the Hollywood Hills, Oliver was in Little Ethiopia. Ten minutes earlier he had been in front of The Mercato, his hoodie up as he lingered at the curb. Oliver noted the time when he had seen the cook leave. He checked the time again when he saw the owner leave. The restaurant was closing up early but that didn't surprise him. Oliver doubted they had much business since Emanuel showed up. Once the two men were gone, Oliver strolled down the block and around to the back.
Now he was in the pitiful excuse for a parking lot behind the strip of pathetic stores and restaurants. He lounged in the shadows, shoulder against the dumpster, softly humming a little tune of no particular melody. He kept his eye on the backdoor of the restaurant, waiting patiently for the girl to come out as he knew she would. She was such a dutiful little thing, working for her parents, the last to lock up, looking so innocent. She was also a fine liar. He would bet a year's pay the parents didn't know who their daughter ran with and the trouble they were stirring up. Then he reprimanded himself for thinking ill of those women. If there weren't people who made trouble in this world, there would be no need for him to keep them in line. Supply and demand. That's how the world worked. And tonight the lovely Hali was going to be both his work and his pleasure.
Just as Oliver's imagination kicked in, the door opened and she appeared as if on cue. He melted into the deep dark of the bushes and bin. She was in such a hurry that she let the screen door close before the big plastic bag she carried cleared it. He heard her swear, saw the trash fall out of the bag and Hali bend to gather it all up. When it was set right, she held the trash bag high, watching her step as she went down the stairs and across the parking lot. At the dumpster, she swung the bag and let it fly over the top. Using her arm to push a stray hair away from her face, she turned toward the restaurant only to pull up short when Oliver stepped from his hiding place.
"Hello, Hali, my love."
He eased back his hood and gave her a good look at him. That was all it took for the girl to understand the trouble she was in. She broke left and Oliver blocked her. She went right, but he was too fast. His arms went out to corral her. Left. Right. Desperately she tried to evade him. Oliver chuckled. When she opened her mouth to scream, Oliver lunged. He caught her around her middle and pulled her into him. He clamped his other hand over her mouth.
"Better if you just relax, girlie."
Oliver pulled up hard under her rib cage and knocked the breath out of her. Still she fought, trying to slow him down by dragging her feet as he pulled her across the parking lot and up the stairs. Oliver ripped open the screen door so hard that the cheap frame cracked. He kicked the inside door open with his foot, swung her into the small hallway and turned her around.
"Lock it," he whispered.
Hali twisted and turned but Oliver's playful mood was gone. He bit her hard on the ear, his teeth going through skin and cartridge. She screamed against his hand and he loved the sound of it almost as much as he loved the taste of her blood on his lips.
"Shut up and lock the door," he hissed into her mangled ear. He took his hand away from her mouth and shoved her forward. "Lock it and then we're going to have a little chat about your friend Sharon."
A tremor shot through Hali's body. Too frightened to cry, her hands shaking as she took hold of the door, she pushed it and simultaneously threw the deadbolt.
Pulling her closer, Oliver used her as a shield when he turned to see what she was looking at. All he saw was the curtain moving. Dragging the girl with him he ran down the hall and burst into the dining room, furious to find out they were not alone. But when he saw who had been keeping the girl company, Oliver smiled. Now he was sure to get the information he wanted.
It was almost too easy.
CHAPTER 25
"Want a drink?" Sharon Stover was behind the bar pouring herself a bourbon on the rocks. She added a splash. Finn shook his head.
"No, but thank you."
"Got it." She twisted her lips as if she found his refusal amusing. "You're on duty. I always thought that was something you only heard in the movies. Good to know Hollywood gets something right."
"We do our best to live up to the hype, don't you know," Finn answered.
"The accent's a nice touch."
She swung out from behind the bar, pausing for Finn to get a good look at her. Sharon knew everyone needed at least one good look and it cost her nothing to oblige. When she figured he was done, she raised her drink.
"It's easier to think out there on the deck."
Sharon pressed something on the wall behind the bar. They stood side-by-side – a good ten feet between them – as the wall of glass facing the city slowly retracted. From where he stood, Finn could see the headlights on the cars snaking through downtown but they were so far away he couldn't hear the sound of the traffic. While they waited for the mechanics of the wall to finish working, Sharon gave him a rundown he had not asked for but found fascinating nonetheless.
"I used to be a stuntwoman. Pretty damn good one if I do say so myself. I was supposed to run across a railroad track, fall down and the train runs over me. Easy, peasy. Lots of dough. Once the train is gone they cut and put the big money actress back down. She gets up and runs off. A miracle!"
Sharon Stover snorted at the ridiculousness of make believe.
"The director was behind schedule so he wanted it in one take. The stunt coordinator was afraid to tell him he hadn't double-checked the depth of the channel where my leg was supposed to be. He didn't tell me either. I fell on cue, the train comes and the goddamn thing shears my leg off. I knew it wasn't right the minute I fell. I should have got up. I didn't.
"So that's the leg story. The really sad thing is, the picture sucked. And then there's that."
This time she gestured to the far wall with her cocktail and the huge painting that hung upon it.
"A living color reminder of the day I was the friggin' star of my own horror movie."
She didn't look at what she was referring to, but Finn did. It was a portrait of the woman herself. The artist had captured every nuance of her beauty and every detail of what was left of her leg: the puckered, discolored skin, the incision scar, the imbalance of her body. There was a fascinating and gruesome beauty about the painting that Finn could appreciate; at the same time he was appalled. Should he suffer an injury like hers he would keep it locked away, disguised. He would grieve in private. Sharon headed for the deck, not caring what Finn was thinking and fully engaged in her narrative.
"My late husband was one of the best producers in the business. He had a great eye for things that horrified people – emotional stuff, physical horror, spiritual misery – the ghastlier the better.
"I thought he had an amazing talent until I found out that it wasn't a talent at all, he was just born that way. I was the big prize, the piece de resistance, the crowning glory of his sick obsession. I was better than any movie because he woke up with me every morning.
"Sick bastard couldn't sleep unless he had a hold of my stump. He would lick it and make me roll up my pants at dinner parties to show people how my prosthetic worked. He bought me a truckload of blades in a rainbow of colors, prosthetics with feet molded in all configurations so that I could wear shoes. I could show you, but you don't look like the kind of guy who would find that fun."
"'Tisn't on my bucket list, missus," Finn answered. "Still, it takes two to tango and it seems to me you were willing to dance to his tune."
Sharon was walking round the great pool but Finn had paused to watch her. The underwater lights cast a soft glow that bounced off the golden blade and illuminated her skin. She was wearing bike shorts that cupped her incredible bum, and a long, loose wife beater that showed off her perfect, braless breasts.
"Choice is a great concept but it doesn't have much of an application in the real world. It was live like this and let him have his way or get tossed out on my ear. You know how much call there is for a one legged stuntwoman in Hollywood?"
"Not much I imagine," Finn answered.
She pointed to a lounge. Finn sat on the edge of it. She took up a lookout post with her back to a railing that ran around the deck. The pool was between them.
"Some men get their rocks off when their women dress up like schoolgirls or cheerleaders. Frederick preferred his women to be like broken toys. His first wife was messed up, too. I'm not sure that made him bad, but it sure made him different."
"So which Mrs. Stover were you?" Finn asked.
"Number two." She shrugged as if to say she appreciated her husband's restraint. "The first Mrs. Stover killed herself right there in that pool. She was a pretty little thing; perfect on the outside and maimed on the inside. By the time Frederick got to me he didn't make any bones about how fascinating he found physical flaws. The whole psychological stuff had started to bore him."
Sharon took a solid drink, put the glass on the railing and spread her arms wide.
"So, what has Matthew got himself into and should I be calling the lawyer before I talk to you?"
"Matthew?" Finn tilted his head.
"My stepson. I figured since you headed straight for him that's why you were here."
Finn shook his head. "I heard him kicking the ball and thought the family might be in back. I can't resist the sound of a ball being kicked about."
"A cop and a jock. Aren't you just right out of central casting." Her tease was nasty but Finn knew it was made out of habit because she didn't wait to see if he was hurt before she went on. "We're not that kind of family."
"What kind of family are you?" Finn asked.
"Normal for Hollywood," Sharon said. "My husband's dead. I got the house and the kid. I'm trustee until he turns eighteen."
"Then what?"
"What do you mean, then what?"
"I mean will he be moving on or you? Or is his birthday the day you call the lawyers?" Finn asked.
"Screw you." Sharon took a drink and this time it slammed so hard on the railing an ice cube popped out and fell into the canyon. She kept her eyes on him. "Since that's none of your business, and I'm busy, why don't you tell me what you want."
"I've come about one of your employees. A woman named Takrit. I am told she used the name Diane at work."
"And?"
"And she is dead," Finn said.
Even though the light was flattering to Sharon Stover, softening edges that were indeed sharp, Finn could still see two things: First, she already knew Takrit was dead and second, her instinct was to lie about it. She changed her mind about the lie.
"I heard."
"Who was it that told you?" he asked.
"A friend who knew both of us. Is there anything else?"
"Did this friend tell you how she died?"
"I think she jumped off a bridge," Sharon said.
Finn responded, "I believe someone threw her over that bridge."
"That doesn't surprise me," Sharon answered. "But I'm not the one you should be talking to. You should have a little chat with a guy named Emanuel Dega Abu. Ever heard of him?"
"Actually, I have," Finn answered.
"Figures. LAPD is probably falling all over themselves giving that bastard the royal treatment. Well, the LAPD doesn't know shit. You should be arresting him f
or crimes against the people. You shouldn't let him out of the country because if you do a lot of people are going to suffer. People like Takrit who suffered more than…"
To Finn's great surprise, the woman who looked like the goddess of war with her strong shoulders and her hard mouth and the shining curve of metal strapped to her thigh, could not tell him about Takrit's suffering. She turned her head and she swallowed whatever weakness had come upon her. She picked up her glass and walked past Finn.
"I need another drink."
He heard the sound her blade made against the wood as she walked toward the house. When he didn't move, she called to him.
"Come on. There's something you need to see."
***
Cori was singing along with Garth Brooks' Friends in Low Places, so she felt pretty good when she hit Fairfax. But even Garth couldn't keep the good vibes going when she saw that someone had parked by the hydrant in front of The Mercato.
"Damn civilians," she muttered. Parking control was stretched thin so they would probably get away with it and that just peeved her all the more.
She glanced at the restaurant as she drove past. The place look perpetually closed because of the blackout film on the glass door but Cori knew she still had a few minutes before they finished for the night. She swung the car left and then left again into the alley behind the building. One more left and she pulled into the parking lot behind the restaurant and parked between the lines just in case three more Angelinos had a hankering for Ethiopian food in the next ten minutes.
She got out and looked around at the property. This stretch of Fairfax hadn't seen the renaissance some of the other areas of the city had, but whoever owned this row of buildings hadn't bothered to spruce anything up in the last thirty years. The landlord should at least put new bulbs in the fixtures over the shops' back doors. The one over The Mercato's pulsed with a dim, greenish glow that was nauseating. If Cori owned this prime piece of real estate, she would pop to trim the overgrowth near the trash bin and repave the parking lot, too. They should let her have a crack at it. She would whip this place into shape for pennies on the dollar.
Foreign Relations: A Finn O'Brien Thriller (Finn O'Brien Thriller Series Book 2) Page 18