Thirty-Four
The cute valet at Long Boards handed Monica the keys to her Boxster and mouthed “holy shit” to his buddies back at the stand as they watched her climb in and drive off down the bumpy pier. The sulky brunette was out of their league and out of their lives. Caught up in imagining all the pornographic things they’d like to do to her, they failed to notice the little black T-bird that was hot on her tail.
Nola had been waiting in the parking lot for a little over an hour. She’d expected Monica and Ken to leave together, but it didn’t really matter. The telltale gold cuffs made Monica the one to follow. She tailed the Boxster up Garden Street onto the 101. Monica took the exit to Isla Vista and cruised to a stop in front of a faux-Hawaiian apartment building where Nola used to party back in the day.
Nola parked the T-bird a discreet distance down the block and watched Monica disappear inside the building. She’d give her enough time to get in the elevator or climb the stairs before going in herself to read the mailboxes and have a talk with the manager. She was reaching for her cell to call Tony when her passenger door swung open.
“Nice night for a stakeout,” Tony said as he sank into the seat beside her.
“Jennifer Love Hewitt! You scared the hell out of me! You’re lucky I was reaching for my phone and not my Glock. What are you doing here?”
“I was about to go in and check on Kyle’s alibi buddies when I saw you stealthily pull up. What are you doing here?”
“Ken wouldn’t give up his source, and just as I’m running out of bluffs, his girlfriend Monica shows up wearing gold Ana Khouri cuffs.”
“Seriously? I actually have to score one for the fashion police?”
“Yep. Her accessories prove she’s an accessory.”
“How long have you been working on that?”
“Most of the ride over, and yeah, not my best work,” Nola said, scrunching up her nose, disdainful of her own joke.
“Handy that all of our suspects live in the same building,” Tony said cheerfully.
“Actually, Jillian Crawford, Monica’s mother, who, by the by, is also Ken’s boss at the Reader, mentioned that Monica lives in her guest house, so she’s probably just here to visit her crew.”
“Okay. How ’bout we go do the same?”
“Guns drawn, kick in the door, Guy Ritchie–style?” she asked hopefully.
“Or we could just knock.”
Thirty-Five
Ian opened the door on Tony’s second knock. He was drinking a glass of OJ that reeked of cheap gin. Nola and Tony held up their badges and backed him into the room. Tony spotted Kyle on a stained futon on the floor, sipping his own gin and juice.
“Hey, Kyle. We were just in the neighborhood, so we thought we’d drop by. Love what your friends have done with the place — sort of early American tenement, am I right?”
The shock of seeing Tony made Kyle’s G&J go down the wrong way, and he launched into a coughing fit.
“You okay there, buddy?” Tony said, picking up a glass-blown bong, still smoldering, on the cardboard box they were using as an end table.
Nola asked Ian his name and thought she heard “Ian,” but he was so high and drunk, she couldn’t be sure.
Alerted by the noise, Monica and Malcolm entered from the bedroom. Both of them were carrying beers and wearing the same shade of Bobbi Brown lip stain.
“Hey, Mon, sorry to spoil your hookup,” Nola said before turning to the young Orlando Bloom at her side. “Ian’s present and accounted for, so I’m guessing you must be Malcolm.”
Malcolm sipped his beer like two cops in his living room weren’t no thang and casually asked Monica, “You know her?”
“She was interviewing my ex lov-vah at Long Boards,” Monica said, snarkily. “What’s up, lady? Did he get mad that I dumped his sorry ass and send you out to find me?”
A large pizza box showed up at the open door in the hands of a scruffy Serbian man wearing a hat that said Sal’s. “You the ones ordered the pizza?”
“Yeah,” Tony said, taking the box from the delivery guy. “How much do we owe you?”
Tony paid the man with some cash lying out on the grubby kitchen counter, making sure to add a nice tip. The kids watched in sullen silence as he opened the box and grabbed a slice of sausage and peppers.
“Hope you don’t mind me jumping in on this. I’m effin’ starving. Anybody else? You might as well. You’ll only get crappy vending-machine food down at the station.”
Malcolm crossed his arms and puffed out his chin like a teenage Mussolini. “You’re arresting us? For what?”
Tony answered through a mouthful of pizza. “Underage drinking and whatever kush is in that bong. Oh, and for Ocean Spraying the Coastal Commission this morning.”
Monica looked at Nola with mock sympathy. “Sorry about your top.”
“I know you don’t mean that, but thanks for the confession,” Nola said with a wink.
“What confession? I’m talking about those little holes in your tank. Kinda tacky . . . don’t ya think?”
“Yeah, I had to wear a name tag at Vandenberg today. And speaking of accessories, I’m going to need those Ana Khouri cuffs you’re wearing. On your next crime spree, you might want to consider dressing down. Might be smarter . . . don’t ya think?”
“I’m not giving you my jewelry,” Monica replied, in the mistaken belief that she had a choice.
“Oh, c’mon,” Nola cajoled. “If you give me your cuffs, I’ll let you wear mine. Or we can all go down to the station peacefully. Felon’s choice.”
Ian and Kyle were too dazed and confused to put up an argument, but Malcolm’s outrage came flying out of the gate. “This is bullshit! You can’t just walk in here without a warrant.”
“Sure we can.” Tony held up the bong. “We had probable cause. I smelled a classic felony in the hallway outside your door. Probably why I’m so hungry.”
He took another bite of pizza as the patrol cops Nola’d radioed for earlier arrived at the door. She waved them in and grinned at the terps. “Okay, kids. It’s showtime. All of you have the right to remain silent. . . ”
Thirty-Six
As usual, where Haven went, men’s pulses beat faster. Wives and girlfriends heaved a collective sigh of relief when she finished her salad niçoise and Campari at the Biltmore’s four-star restaurant and retreated down one of the lush garden paths to her private bungalow.
As she passed the croquet lawn, she realized that in her haste to leave the estate, she’d forgotten to pack Larry’s check. It was alone and unguarded, tucked into the copy of Vogue on her nightstand. It was too risky to go back and retrieve it now. Her tormentors might be lying in wait for her to return. Or . . . they might have followed her to the hotel. They could be watching her now. Regretting her decision not to order room service, she stepped up her pace back to her bungalow. If anything happened to the check, Larry would just have to write her a new one. Thankfully, men would always be writing her checks. Women who had to earn their own money never had enough time for upkeep. It was comforting to know she’d never have to wear a hair-covering hat, hide her chipped fingernails, or go weeks without waxing. And even death threats were preferable to supermarket makeup.
As she was reaching for her key outside her bungalow door, another unpleasant thought occurred. What if her persecutors broke into the house just to trash it? If they stumbled onto the check, she’d be exposed. They could plaster it all over the internet or send it anonymously to the police. That cyanide-blonde cop would go straight to Larry, who was about as tough under pressure as an origami swan. If he confessed to the bribe and told them about her call to him the night Gus died, they’d know she’d rewritten Gus’s speech before he died. Something that only made sense if she was already planning to kill him.
Haven stood frozen at her bungalow door. She’d rather cut her own bangs than return to the estate, but there was no way she could take a chance on orange being her new black. The stakes were too high. S
he had to go back.
Thirty-Seven
Angry Susan was sitting in Gus and Haven’s great room desperately trying to think. She’d found out about the threat and the pool fire from her maid, Marta, who was married to Gus’s gardener, Rigoberto. Thankfully, the servants were the one bit of property she and Gus had managed to divide equally in the divorce. When Susan heard from Marta that Haven was moving to the Biltmore, she’d been struck with an idea.
Getting into the mansion had been a piece of cake. Gus not only used the same gate code he and Susan had used back when they were married, but he’d also hidden a spare key in a cherub’s mouth in the driveway fountain. Could the man be any lazier? she’d thought as she removed the key from the angel-baby’s marble tongue.
The alarm system had been trickier. It wasn’t their old code or a cartoon rabbit’s measurements or Haven’s minuscule BMI, which Gus had been happy to taunt Susan with at their first divorce hearing. Fortunately, when the alarm company called to check on the incorrect entries, Susan had been struck with a flash of divine clarity. When the operator asked for the password, Susan confidently said, “I got mine,” and it worked like a charm. Alarm company satisfied, she’d had free run of the place ever since.
It hadn’t taken long to locate most of the objects Gus had cheated her out of in the divorce. One by one she’d loaded them into his rolling Gucci trunk: the Escher woodcut, the Cartier clock, the framed letter from Dorothy Parker to George S. Kaufman full of bitchy little comments about Helen Hayes. But she’d been unable to locate the real prize, the object she valued most in the world. She’d spent two hours going up and down the stairs, in and out of every room, and her failure to find it was making her frantic.
Gian Lorenzo Bernini was a child prodigy already setting the Baroque world atwitter when he’d sculpted the exquisite little bronze that had stolen Susan’s heart.
Looted from a private collection by the Nazis, the lithe male nude had quietly passed from owner to owner under the oblivious nose of the stolen art division at Interpol. Susan had purchased it from a dealer in Zurich in a hush-hush transaction conducted in cash. Rather than show it off downstairs, she’d placed it on her bedside table. A beautiful man to say goodnight to as opposed to the braggart oaf she’d married. It had remained there till the night Gus presented her with divorce papers. Realizing it was gone, she’d confronted him, screaming, but he’d just laughed. He didn’t even bother to deny he’d taken it. He didn’t have to. She’d purchased it illegally, so he knew she was powerless to get it back. The thought of him smirking at his cleverness every time he looked at it had haunted her ever since. So why couldn’t she find it? Gus would have wanted it someplace visible, a constant reminder of his triumph. He wouldn’t have hidden it in a bank vault or lost track of it or sold it at any price.
Suddenly, it hit her. Gus would never have sold it when he was rich, but he wasn’t rich when he died, he was bankrupt. Insurance companies would furnish his creditors with a list of his assets. But the looted Bernini couldn’t be insured. It would have been the only piece of artwork the banks didn’t know about. The only one Gus would have been free to sell.
For a moment, she thought she was going to be sick. Her hatred of the man was so powerful it was turning her blood to bile. But there was no outlet for her fury. The bastard was already dead. The portrait of Haven in pearls over the mantel stared down at her mockingly. Seething with anger, Susan grabbed the fire poker and slashed at the painting with all her might. She tore and ripped at it until, too exhausted to raise her arms, she collapsed on the sofa, spent.
Staring at the broken bits of canvas and wood, she tried to imagine Haven’s reaction when she came home and found her oil-based doppelganger so viciously defiled. Of course, she’d assume it was the work of the same maniacs who’d left her the death threat. She’d be terrified that they’d so easily found their way into the house. She’d feel helpless and vulnerable. Then a new thought occurred. Wouldn’t a second death threat really seal the deal? Nothing too elaborate, just menacing enough to ensure that the miserable little whore never felt safe again.
Choosing a medium for her message was a no-brainer. The mirror in Haven’s bathroom made a perfect blank canvas. Susan stood on the granite sink counter and scrawled out the words, “PREPARE TO DIE BIT,” but the lipstick snapped before she could add the “CH.” She climbed down and rifled through Haven’s vanity for another lipstick in the same color. There were a thousand shades of red, but Scarlet Letter had been too metaphorically delicious to pass up. Settling for Queen of Hearts, she was about to climb back up on the sink when her eye caught a reflection in the mirror that made her cry out. Behind her on the sunken bathtub amid a clutter of foot scrubs and pumice stones sat her precious Bernini, a loofah dangling from its gracefully outstretched arm.
It was too incredible. A breathtaking work of art reduced to a bathtub caddy. Gus had truly cast Baroque pearls before swine. She rushed to examine it. Aside from some soap scum that had hardened around the base, it was safe and unharmed. She needed something soft to wrap it in, a blanket or, better yet, the cashmere throw she’d admired in the great room. She was gently untangling the loofah when she heard footsteps in the doorway.
“Put that down,” Haven’s voice was as wicked as a stepmother.
Susan looked up into the gorgeous face that had ruined her life.
Haven smirked at the message on the mirror. “There’s a ‘ch’ in bitch. I’m surprised you don’t know that, being it’s a word that so perfectly describes you.”
Having recovered from the initial shock of being caught, Susan cradled the Bernini protectively. “Gus stole this from me, and I’m taking it back, so get out of my way.”
“Or what? You’ll bite me again?”
“I would, but I’m afraid I’d catch chlamydia.”
“Right, like anything could live in your dried up old cuze.”
Years of pent-up rage exploded like a thermite bomb. Blind with hate, Susan rushed at Haven, who swung wildly with her Birkin bag. The heavy purse caught Susan smack in the face, and the clasp ripped a gash in her cheek. The searing pain of being Birkin bitch-slapped tore away any remaining vestiges of restraint. Susan swung back, and the bronze Bernini collided with Haven’s skull with so much force that she was unconscious by the time her body hit the travertine floor. Adrenaline cresting, Susan stood triumphant over her fallen nemesis. There’d be hell to pay later, but for now she was victorious. And it wasn’t like she’d actually killed the bitch. Not like she’d fantasized all those nights she’d spent alone. The perfect C cups were still rising and falling in rhythm. In a few minutes Haven would wake up, and the first thing she’d see would be the lipstick message scrawled on the mirror. All Susan had to do was add the missing “ch.”
Thirty-Eight
The harsh lighting in Interrogation Room A was making Nola tired. She’d augmented her two-peanut dinner with a PowerBar, but her blood sugar had barely spiked. She needed a chopped chicken salad, a good night’s sleep, and a confession from Monica, stat, but none of these were seeming likely at the moment.
Across the gray metal table, Monica was looking fresh, well fed, and fully aware of her constitutional rights. She hadn’t even bothered asking for a lawyer. When Nola brought up the gold jewelry that tied her to the Super Soaker attack, Monica correctly pointed out that Ana Khouri cuffs were the rich gals’ must-have status symbol for spring, ergo there was no way Nola could swear in court that Monica’s pair and the pair worn by Wonder Woman were one and the same.
“Maybe your attacker was just some Project Runway fashionista offended by your Gap couture,” she said with mock innocence.
Nola had never wanted to play bad cop, punch-the-suspect cop so badly in her life. The snarky smiles and sarcasm were so blatantly contemptuous, she almost wished the revolution would come, so this pretty little liar could be sent down to slave in the mines. When Nola asked about Ken’s story in the Reader, Monica claimed she’d never heard of Dr. W
axman and that she didn’t have a clue where Ken’s information had come from.
“So you just took his word for it that the story was true? Isn’t vetting stories pretty much a managing editor’s only job?”
“Is it? Oh well. My bad.”
This last bit of snarkasm pushed Nola over the edge. “Look, Ms. Crawford, it’s pretty obvious that you consider yourself to be superior to me in every way. Well, I concede you are younger and cooler and far better dressed. But here’s the thing. I am smarter than both you and your Barney’s personal shopper put together. I’ve put lots of smart-ass brats behind bars, and believe me, you’re next. So here’s what I need you to do. Take a moment to count up all the things that make your life sooo much better than mine, then decide how long you’re willing to go without them. Because if you’re honest with me now about squirt guns and pool fires and all the other hinky things you and your various boyfriends have been up to, I might talk a judge into putting you on probation. On the other hand, if you keep shooting me those smug, rich-girl smiles, then trust, not only will I make sure you do max jail time: I will come and stand outside your crappy little cell with my smuggest of smiles. Then I’ll go out and have a cocktail, get a facial, take a walk on the beach, and think about you in your prison coveralls porking up on mac and cheese — jaiil food’s pretty much all carbs, I’m afraid — and I will just be loving how incredibly better my life is than yours. So you take a minute to count, then tell me what it’s going to be.”
It didn’t take a minute. Monica’s smile was smugger than ever. “I’d like to call my stepfather now.”
Next door, in Interrogation Room B, Tony wasn’t faring much better. Malcolm was sitting across from him like they were just two buds grabbing a microbrew at Freebirds. Every question Tony asked was answered by a quick lie followed by a longwinded dissertation from the student radical’s handbook.
“Where were you between nine and ten this morning?”
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