“Exactly what time was that?” Tony asked.
“Around ten. She hit me, and I hit her back. Then I took my Bernini and some other things that the banks have no right to — an Escher, a Dalí, a Cartier clock — and I drove home.”
Back at the crime scene, Alex had guesstimated that Haven had died sometime around midnight. The damage to her skull had been significant, but choking on the poisonous tanning solution had been the ultimate cause of death. If Susan had a witness to corroborate her timeline, she’d still be guilty of assault but she might be off the hook for murder.
“Can anyone confirm what time you came in?” Nola asked, hoping the answer might be ‘no.’ ”
“Yes,” she said, vastly relieved. “Marta helped me unload the car. She’s polishing ramekins; I’ll go get her.”
Tony took hold of Susan’s arm. “You’ll stay here. I’ll go get Marta.”
He started toward the hall, then looked back at Nola in utter confusion.
“Kitchen,” Nola said.
“Right, of course, ramekins.” He continued out, no closer to understanding but at least headed in the right direction.
“Polishing the silver, sounds like a dinner party,” Nola said, marveling at Susan’s cold-blooded ability to segue from bashing in heads to throwing a fête.
“I’ve invited a few friends over to celebrate getting my Bernini back. I suppose now I’ll have to cancel.”
Nola nodded. “It’s probably wise, you know, in case we have to book you for murder.”
In a flash, Susan’s anger was back. Even dead, Haven was still vexing her. “Everything would have been fine if that little twat had just stayed at the Biltmore like she was supposed to. Tell me again, I forget, what kind of rat poison did I shove down her throat?”
“How did you know the poison was forced down her throat?” Nola asked.
“Because the only things that anorexic little whore swallowed willingly were Vicodin and old man cum.”
“Holy smokes!” Nola said with a jolt. “I get where all this righteous anger is coming from, but take it down a notch, okay? There is one lady in the room.”
“You don’t get anything,” Susan hissed. “You’re not half smart enough to know shit about my life.”
“Wow. Thank you for that, because it’s going to make this sooo much more fun.” Nola pulled out her cuffs and spun Susan around. “Susan Gillette, you’re under arrest. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
Susan was angrier than Nola had ever seen her, and that was saying something. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Your partner’s getting my alibi from my maid.”
“It’s your alibi for murder. I’m arresting you for the assault and burglary, which you’ve already confessed to. Of course, later we may still tack on murder; meanwhile, you have the right to an attorney, if you can’t afford one . . . Oh, but why bother with that? It’s a pretty moot point, right girlfriend?”
Tony came back with Marta, who had to hide a smile when she saw her snooty boss in handcuffs. She confirmed the time Susan had arrived home with the stolen loot. “I know because I had to turn off Jon Stewart to help her carry all her things inside,” Marta said, simultaneously confirming Jon’s universal appeal.
“There. You see?!” Susan spat out.
Susan would have to spend at least one night in county jail while she waited to get a hearing in front of a judge. Nola pitied the poor matrons who’d have to pat her down and coax her into a jumpsuit. While her boss was locked up, Nola hoped Marta would eat her dinner party food, try on her clothes, and sleep in her presumably sumptuous bed. Whatever she was getting paid, it couldn’t be enough.
Being that it was wealthy Montecito, a patrol car arrived about thirty seconds after Tony called. Shoving Susan in the back of the cherry top made Nola feel good all over. The days were finally turning crisp, the birds were singing in the trees, and aside from three unsolved murders and having a date that night with a too-perfect man, everything was feeling very warm jammies.
Forty-Five
In spite of Bryan being too handsome, sexy, and smart, Nola wasn’t totally nauseous at the thought of having dinner with him, but getting dressed for the date was proving problematic. Every dress, skirt, and sweater in her closet had a prior bad-date association. There was finger-guns guy, obnoxious vanity-license-plate guy, magic-penis guy. . . (David Isaacs’s magic penis was like a phallic skeleton key, effortlessly opening up every female he bedded with awesome result. But then, over breakfast, he’d chatter endlessly about his exciting life in dentistry, and like a faulty porcelain crown, the spell would be broken.)
Nola was trying to ignore all the past date associations and focus on which outfit best displayed her assets while simultaneously hiding her liabilities when the doorbell rang. Throwing on a robe with no romantic history at all, she went out to the living room to answer it.
Nancy looked like she’d been rolling a Ken-size boulder uphill all day, but somehow she managed a smile.
“Hi. Sorry if I’m bothering you again.”
“No. Not at all,” Nola said. “You okay?”
“Working on it. I just wanted you to know I almost called him this morning, then I saw my bookcase still in pieces and remembered his breakup tweet, and I knew you were right. He’s not really in love with me, and he never will be.”
“Sorry, Nance.”
“He wanted to see me when he came to get his car, but I wouldn’t let him up.”
“Oh, that’s tough, I know.”
“He tried to make a joke about me being his ‘tweetheart.’ The sad thing is . . . a week ago, I would have laughed at it.”
“Well,” Nola said with a sigh, “on the bright side, not laughing at his not-funny jokes is the first step to recovery, so congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Nancy said. “You look great — are you lip plumping?”
“That obvious, huh? Nothing like slathering a little bee venom on your lips to show a guy you’re trying too hard.”
“A new guy?”
“Yep. He’s a way-too-handsome-for-me soldier I met up at Vandenberg yesterday. I have no idea what to wear. Come and help me stare down the closet of indecision.”
She was shimmying into her Calvin Klein with the fitted bodice that only had slight guy-who-insisted-they-sing-the-Mariah-Carey/Ol’-Dirty-Bastard-“Fantasy”-remix-during-the-karaoke-portion-of-his-cousin’s-wedding associations when the doorbell rang again.
Nancy was a ball of curiosity. “Is that him?”
“No, we’re meeting at the restaurant. Would you mind going to see who it is and, if possible, get rid of them?”
“I’m on it.”
Nola was already having second thoughts about the dress when Nancy returned with a breathless announcement. “It’s him!”
“What!”
“He must have misunderstood you or something, ‘cause he’s here, and even with the soldier haircut, he’s super-cute. Oh, and he’s wearing a green army T-shirt and camouflage pants.”
“Camouflage pants?”
“Yeah, you’re a little overdressed.”
“A little? I’m wearing more mascara than Lady Gaga.”
“Who cares what he’s wearing? He’s hot. And I’m totes loving the age thing.”
Nola was so busy slipping out of her dress that it almost blew by her . . . almost. “What age thing?”
“Um, nothing, you know, I just think it’s cool.”
“Nancy, what are you talking about?”
“He just seems a little younger than you . . . it’s no big deal, younger guys date older women all the time now.”
Nola saw a woman in a lilac bra and matching thong gaping at her in horror and realized she was staring at her own reflection in the closet mirror. “You think he looks younger than me?”
Finally, she had it. Definitive proof that all the creams and peels and concealers and exfoliations were just worthless charges on her credit card. Bryan was at
least seven or eight years older than she was, but to Nancy’s objective eye, she was practically robbing the cradle. It no longer mattered if she moisturized at night or maintained a proper thigh gap, she was showing her age like overhead lighting. The battle was over; the wrinkles had won.
“Exactly how old, and please be honest, do I look to you?” Nola asked.
“Around thirty-five . . . I guess . . . Oh God, are you like twenty-nine or something?”
“No, you’re right — well, close enough. But he still looks younger to you? By how much?”
“I don’t know . . . ten years maybe?”
“Holy crap, Nancy, who did you let into my house?”
“A really cute soldier who said he was here to see you.”
“Did he say his name?”
“It’s Indian, Ro something.”
Early twenties Ro Kodical. Nola was so relieved she could have cried. “Oh, thank God.”
“I’m so sorry, you said a cute soldier.”
“No, no. You didn’t do anything wrong. Ro’s not my date, but I do need to talk to him. Would you mind keeping him company while I jump into some jeans?”
“Sure.”
“He was pretty badly wounded in an attack in Afghanistan, so you might want to avoid asking if he’s ever been in combat, stuff like that.”
“Oh gosh, that’s horrible. And here I am crying about my stupid boyfriend shit.”
“Well, your stupid boyfriend was a shit, it’s allowed.”
Nancy started out, then turned back. “Does he have a girlfriend?”
“I don’t know. Why, ready to rebound?”
“He just seems kind of sweet.”
“I only met him yesterday, but I got the distinct impression he is. You better get out there, I don’t want him to bolt.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t let him out of my sight,” Nancy said as she hurried out to play hostess.
Nola slipped into pants and a sweater as quickly as she could, fearing Ro might have a change of heart and take off. But her fears were groundless. When she came into the living room, he was deeply engrossed in a conversation with Nancy about their shared love of Game of Thrones.
“Hi. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Ro leapt to his feet as though she was his commanding officer making a surprise inspection. “I’m sorry to just drop by, ma’am. I should have called. I was down on the beach trying to make up my mind and. . . ”
“Relax. At ease. It’s fine, really. Sit down. Can I get you something to drink?”
Nancy popped off the sofa. “I just offered him a Coke.”
“Oh, sorry,” Nola apologized. “I don’t have Coke.”
“I do.” Nancy chirped. “I’ll just run to my apartment and get it.” Ro tried to protest, but Nancy assured him it wasn’t any trouble, she was happy to do it. Judging by the smile on her face, she meant it.
Like any red-blooded American girl who works out and survives on vegetable fumes and toothpaste, Nancy’s ass looked great in tight jeans. And like any straight, red-blooded American male worth his salt, Ro couldn’t help but watch her walk away.
When she was out the door, he turned back and saw Nola was watching him watch. People caught standing naked by a window were less embarrassed.
“It’s okay, she thinks you’re cute too,” she reassured him. “She told me so back in the bedroom after she let you in.”
Surprised by Nola’s candor, Ro was lost for a response. Nola helped him out by filling in the silence. “I’m not trying to set you up or anything. She’s just been through a bad breakup, so it’s probably too soon. I just thought you might enjoy the compliment.”
Ro’s eyes swept the floor. “Thank you,” he said shyly.
Now that Nancy was gone, his nervousness was more evident. Clearly, it had been a tough decision for him to come. He was clenching his fists so tightly his biceps were twitching. Nola wanted to put him at ease, but there was something she was curious about. Her address wasn’t on the card she’d handed out at the interview. So how had he tracked her down?
“I really appreciate you coming to talk to me, but, just out of curiosity, how did you find me?”
“I Googled you, then I Google-mapped you,” he said in a worried voice. “I hope that’s okay?”
“Of course,” Nola smiled. “Sometimes I forget that Google almighty is up in the clouds looking down on us twenty-four-seven.”
The biceps twitched again. “I really hope no one is looking down on us right now, ma’am.”
“I promise, Ro, whatever you’ve come to tell me will remain just between us,” she said, in her most comforting voice. “Oh, and it’s really okay not to call me ma’am.”
She waited for him to begin, but he was taking a long time to buffer, so she gave him a little prod. “So, what have you come to tell me?”
“I could tell during the interview that you and your partner thought I was the leak. Even though you didn’t say so, it kept eating at me that you thought I was some kind of traitor. I guess I just wanted to explain myself.”
“Okay, first, I don’t think you’re a traitor,” she said. “So let’s take that off the table. But you’re right about one thing, we did peg you as the leak. So, tell me what happened.”
As Nola and Tony suspected, Ro had downloaded the portion of the weapons log that showed only ten canisters of SE40 arriving on base and passed it to Dr. Waxman on a flash drive. He’d chosen to go public rather than report the discrepancy to his superior officers because he wasn’t sure who was responsible or whom he could trust. Nola’s heart beat a smidge faster as she asked the obvious question.
“So, was Major Burnell lying yesterday?”
“I honestly don’t know,” he said. “I might have missed the second log entry like he said, or once the discrepancy became public, the canisters could have been returned, and the log could have been doctored. That kind of operation would be way above my pay grade.”
The idea that the Air Force might have purposely waylaid two of the canisters for reasons of their own hadn’t occurred to her before. If they had, surely the man in charge of weapons security at the base would have had to be at least tacitly involved. For all Nola knew, she was on her way to have dinner with a member of a military conspiracy, and she had no idea how to dress for that.
“So if it was some kind of operation, wouldn’t Major Burnell have needed to be in on it?” she asked.
Ro shook his head. “Not necessarily. It could have all been planned at Livermore. Major Burnell might not have been NTK.”
“NTK?”
“Need to know.”
“Well, I wish I knew, because I’m having dinner with him tonight.”
If Ro were a cat, he’d have darted under the bed. “You know the Major?” he said, knuckles whitening.
“Don’t worry, okay. It has nothing to do with the investigation.”
She had no idea if she was telling the truth. She still suspected Bryan’s real reason for asking her out was to use his sexy manfluence to get her to reveal the name of the soldier who was currently sitting across from her. She also knew that was never gonna happen.
“One more question,” she said. “Do you know if Dr. Waxman passed the information straight to Ken Levine, or was there an intermediary of some kind?”
“I don’t know. All Dr. Waxman told me was that he would get it to the press.”
Nancy knocked quickly before letting herself back in. She had a frosty Coke on ice, a new coat of lipstick, and her cheekbones looked slightly more pronounced than when she’d left. When she handed Ro the glass, the sweet spark between them was like something out of a Hallmark movie.
“Thanks, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” he said, with a shyness that made Nola ache.
“No trouble,” Nancy said. “It’s just Coke. It was nice meeting you.” Clearly she was regretting that this was goodbye.
“Wait,” Nola interjected. “Ro, before we let Nancy go, how are you with Swedish diag
rams?”
“Not following, ma’am.”
“You see, Nancy has this bookcase. . . ”
Forty-Six
Nola stood at the door of the Paradise Cafe, paralyzed with indecision. She could see Bryan inside at the bar. The Major was having a scotch, and she was having major misgivings about joining him. For all she knew, he might be part of a military cover-up. Or he might be trying to trick her into revealing a press leak. He might even be the next guy she fell head over heels in love with. It was a lot of pressure for a first date.
Any way she looked at it, there was more trouble in Paradise than she was up for. She was about to leave and call him with some work-related excuse, then follow it up with a text to Tony using some lame play on the words “Major indecision,” when he spotted her and stood up. For better or worse, the date was on.
As she crossed to join him, it occurred to her that he looked even better in civilian clothes. Not too drab, not too flashy; it had probably taken him less than two minutes to get dressed. Meanwhile, her own closet looked like a clothes bomb had scored a direct hit.
He casually kissed her cheek like they’d been dating for months and getting together for dinner was the most natural thing in the world. She ordered a no-sugar gimlet, hoping one part vodka, one part lime juice would get the butterflies in her stomach hammered enough to pass out.
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” she lied.
“Just long enough to wonder if there was some secret reason that you wanted to meet me here instead of letting me pick you up at your place.” He looked down at her hand. “You’re not married, are you?”
“Nope, no wedding-ring tan line.” She smiled. “But, as long as we’re on the topic of ulterior motives, any covert reason for this dinner invitation that I should know about?” Whew! It was kinda bald, but at least she’d put it out there.
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