by Lois Greiman
“What if you said you’d consider taking him back if he went to couple’s therapy?” I asked.
“I don’t think he’d do it.”
“Then you don’t have to take him back, do you?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. I closed my eyes and chastised myself in silence. If Mom heard about this, she’d be on the first plane west.
“But I . . . I love him.”
“Then you have to decide whether you’re willing to put up with his infantile cr—” I stopped myself judiciously. “You have to decide what you want, Holly. It’s up to you.”
There was a long pause. I waited. “There’s, um . . .” She cleared her throat. “There’s something else.”
Her tone sounded funny. I felt a premonitory tingle of trouble along the arches of my feet. “What?”
“I’m pregnant.”
I remained absolutely mute. Unable to speak. My brothers were morons. My brothers were adolescent. But there was one thing they’d consistently done right—they’d failed to procreate. It had been like a miracle. But now . . .
“So, see?” Her voice was even softer than usual. “That’s why I have to just . . . accept him as he is.”
Something inside me—good sense maybe—insisted that I keep my mouth shut. But it opened anyway. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” I said. “That’s what his ex-wives always did.”
The conversation lasted another thirty minutes. I hung up feeling kind of queasy.
I spent the rest of the day waiting for the phone call that would banish me from the family, smoking, and searching for clues about Jed and Lopez.
Mom didn’t call. I smoked half a pack of Slims, and I found nothing on either criminal. There simply wasn’t enough information.
But I had to find Solberg. If my conversation with Holly had taught me one thing, it was that the little geekster wasn’t as bad as he could be. True, he was as irritating as hell and not good enough to breathe Laney’s air, but at least he hadn’t gotten her pregnant and skipped town. In fact, he hadn’t even tried to sleep with her. Maybe he really loved her. And maybe he was really in trouble. And maybe, proba-bly even, that trouble was somehow tied to NeoTech.
I had to find out. That much was obvious. Perhaps it wasn’t so obvious that I should drive back to Hilary Pershing’s house, slither through her yard like an egg-hungry weasel, and try to sneak a peak through her window again. But I was planning to do just that, because someone had embezzled from NeoTech, probably the same someone who had caused Solberg’s disappearance. And wouldn’t it make sense if that someone made considerably less money than her fellow employees?
At 11:42 I sat in my car down the street from her house. My palms were sweaty, but I had my flashlight and stool and I was determined.
At 11:47 I made myself leave the sanctuary of my Saturn. The street was dark. My shoes sounded loud against the blacktop. Pershing, like ninety-five percent of L.A.’s paranoid populace, had erected a metal fence around her property, but by this point in my investigative insanity, it was little more than a nuisance. After a minute I was on the inside, carrying my stool and slinking along the side of her house. I could hear my own breathing in the darkness. If I didn’t start jogging again soon, I was going to die of cardiac failure long before anyone got the chance to shoot me.
When I had reached the window in question, I stood with my back pressed to the rough stucco of the house. All was quiet. It was now or never.
I positioned the stool, stepped onto it, and switched on my flashlight.
“Turn it off,” ordered a voice from behind.
I froze like a Fudgsicle, nerves cranked up tight.
“Did you hear me?”
I switched off the flashlight and tried to look behind me, but something poked me in the back.
“If you turn around I’ll shoot you. Swear to God.”
“Hilary?” My voice was shaking.
“Who are you?”
It was Hilary. I didn’t know if that should make me feel better or worse. I guess when someone has a gun pressed to your spine, the assailant’s identity isn’t of utmost importance.
Ideas were whirling through my head like water down a toilet. I caught one and spun it out.
“I’m a cop, Hilary,” I said. “And I know the truth.”
“You’re not a cop.”
“I am.” Sweat trickled between my breasts. “Officer Angela Grapier. Precinct twelve. My partner knows I’m here, Hilary. Frank’ll be meeting me in a couple minutes.”
“Get down from there.”
I did so, slowly, joints stiff, not daring to turn. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Hilary. You’re in trouble, but I can help you.” Or hit her in the face with my flashlight and run like bloody hell. “Put the gun down. We can talk. I know about you and Solberg. I know he . . .”
But there was a thud and a moan behind me.
“Hilary?”
“I love ’em.”
“Ummm . . . Can I turn around?”
“I love ’em so much. Don’t take ’em away from me.”
I turned slowly, the hairs on my arms prickling. She was on her knees. A short-handled broom lay on the grass beside her.
“I know I’ve done wrong.” She was scrunching her fists up against her chest. “But I can’t let ’em go to just anyone.”
“Ahhh . . . Is he inside?”
“They all are. All of them.”
My mind blinked and struggled. “All of . . .”
“My cats. All my cats. I know I have too many. City ordinance and all that. I know. But they’re like family. Damn Solberg for turning me in.”
“Ummmm.” Now, here was a weird turn of events. “Where’s Solberg?” I asked.
She looked up. Her face shone with tears in the uncertain light. “How the hell would I know? That snotty little worm. What does he care how many cats I have? He’s known about ’em for years. All of a sudden, he’s some goody-two-shoes. Says I should get rid of ’em. Like they’re trash or something. I coulda killed ’im.”
“Did you?”
“What?” She blinked. “Of course I didn’t kill ’im. What would happen to my babies if I was in jail? I confronted the nasty little mongrel, but he just walked out.”
My mind was buzzing. “Walked out of where?”
“His room in Vegas,” she said, and scowled. “It was twice the size of mine. That bastard Black has always favored ’im.”
Okay.
So I could cross Hilary off the short list. She was as nutty as a granola bar and as bitter as hell, but she hadn’t killed Solberg and stored his rotting body in her spare room. Instead, she had stored forty-seven cats. Apparently, Solberg had known about them and threatened to tell City Hall. She’d retaliated by promising to remove his balls if he did. That’s when he thought it prudent to leave his room. It was also when Elaine had called.
Anyway, I took one look at all those cats, told her she had six months before the Los Angeles Police Department came down on her like a ton of farmyard waste, and fled the premises.
“But I live in Irwindale,” she said, which was an excellent point, but I was already out the door and halfway to my car.
The next morning I drove up to what I referred to as Wilderness Point again and spent a zillion hours watching the two houses on Amsonia Lane. Tiffany had come and gone and come and gone. Neither Solberg nor Mr. Georges, the esteemed barrister, had shown so much as a wilted tail feather.
Later, I did some digging into Tiffany’s past. I didn’t even discover a speeding ticket. Which, in the end, only made me more suspicious. I mean, what kind of person doesn’t speed? Certainly not anyone who’s lived in Los Angeles for more than an hour.
I dropped my head onto my desk and considered committing caloric suicide, but once I’d wandered into my kitchen and surveyed my culinary domain, I realized I was going to have to concoct another means of doing myself in, as there were only a few spears of broccoli and half a bag of spinach leaves with which t
o terminate myself.
I ate a broccoli bush while I stood in the open door of the refrigerator. Memories rampaged through me. How had Jed and Garlic known I would be at the Safari? Had they been the ones to call me in the first place, or had it really been Solberg? Maybe they had tapped his phone, but I didn’t even know if that was possible with a cell. So perhaps someone had overheard my truncated conversation with the Geek.
But who—
The answer popped like bubblegum into my head.
Bennet.
My stomach dropped at the thought.
Had Bennet known it was Solberg on the phone? Had he sent the goon duo to question me? Had he meant to have them kill . . . ?
But no. I was being ridiculous. Bennet was attractive and had eyes that twinkled like . . . some sort of body of water. He couldn’t possibly have done such a thing. Besides, he couldn’t have heard Solberg’s words. So he’d have no way of knowing where I was going. . . .
Unless he’d followed me.
The idea spiked the hairs along my arms and neck.
What if it was Bennet who had embezzled money from NeoTech? What if Solberg found out and called to . . . warn me?
The idea of the wriggly little Solberg trying to save me instead of attempting to crawl into my pants sent my head spinning, but maybe the time he’d spent with Elaine had changed him. It was possible. Pershing had said he had known about her cats for years, but only now warned her to do the right thing. Maybe it was the same with Bennet. Maybe Solberg knew he was embezzling, and warned him to come clean before it was too late. Maybe Bennet had threatened Solberg. Maybe Solberg had been lying low ever since, but came out of hiding when he found out I was involved.
Then again, there was no way to positively identify the voice on the phone. It may not have been Solberg at all. That fact made me feel a little better. If the truth be told, I wasn’t sure which would be worse—owing Solberg or being murdered by Bennet.
Actually, neither option sounded that great, which made learning as much as possible seem prudent.
After several minutes of brain-shattering thought, I called the Safari. A man answered on the second ring.
“Hello,” I said, and hoped to hell I had remembered our waitress’s name correctly. “May I speak to Grace, please?”
“Grace?” said the voice, then, “Hey, hurry up with the soup. If it’s not cucumber, we serve it hot.” He was back on in a minute. “Grace Hyat?”
Hyat. I scribbled the name onto a scrap of paper I’d fished out of recycling. “Yes,” I said.
“Damn it!” he cursed. “I said sautéed, not charbroiled.” Whoever I was talking to was in serious need of public relations training . . . or a rabies vaccination. “What do you want?” Probably both.
I was feeling more empathy for Grace by the minute. I was also dead sure Cujo was not about to allow me to talk to his browbeaten waitress for anything less than a court order, but I gave it a try anyway. “I’m her cousin, Jules Montgomery . . . from Fresno. I’m only in town for a couple hours, and I was hoping to—”
“She’s busy,” he said, and hung up without another word. You gotta like a man who doesn’t draw out the good-byes.
I didn’t bother changing clothes before hopping into my Saturn and driving to the restaurant. It seemed to me there was no time to waste.
The Safari was hopping with the mealtime crowd. Apparently, America had whetted its appetite at Thanksgiving and saw no reason to stop gorging anytime short of Christmas.
Maybe I would have been wiser to wait, but I had no way of knowing when Grace would work next, or if she’d survive the rush.
I caught a glimpse of her serving a table of eight.
The hostess approached me with a notepad and a million-dollar smile. Or maybe about five grand. My parents hadn’t given a lot of thought to dental care. I’d first seen an orthodontist about eighteen months ago. He had trotted out a list of necessary procedures as long as a fishing rod and told me the cost of his services. I had opted to continue eating instead.
“Your name?”
“Chrissy,” I said, “but I’d like to wait for a table by the window up there.” I pointed to where I’d seen the harried Grace.
She gave me a pitying look. I wasn’t sure if it was because she’d glanced at my attire and decided I was homeless, or because I was obviously deranged. “I’m afraid that might be quite a wait.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m dieting anyway.”
She gave me a smile with less wattage, scribbled a note in her ledger, and moved on to the couple next to me. They had a fractious toddler with a runny nose and a gleam in his eye that promised to wreak havoc on their dining experiences for the next fourteen years.
Meanwhile, I jockeyed my way toward the fake-leather bench near the door, not wanting to miss my opportunity should someone be called into the inner sanctum.
It took almost half an hour before a stretch of vinyl opened up. I wiggled my butt onto a corner and waited some more. The general populace, I noticed, was considerably better dressed than me. In fact, the toddler had me beat, but at least I didn’t have a snotty nose that I habitually wiped on my sleeve.
Forty-five minutes had passed by the time I was led to a table.
I ordered a hot water with lime in concession to my growing waistline and my dwindling finances. They never charge you for hot water. I’d learned that during my pregraduate days, when I’d considered McDonald’s a four-star restaurant.
Grace arrived with her childishly embellished notepad and an apparent headache. Maybe I was wrong about her head, but my own was beginning to throb. I think it was the toddler.
She still wasn’t wearing a wedding ring and her expression was weary behind her professional façade. As far as I’m concerned, waitresses should be canonized at the earliest possible opportunity. “What can I get for you?” she asked.
I didn’t waste time on preliminaries. Instead, I put a twenty-dollar bill on the table and caught her gaze. “Do you remember me from last Friday night?”
She narrowed her eyes a little as if wondering why the hell she always got the weirdos. “You left early,” she said. “I believe you were with a gentleman.”
“The scumbag,” I said, and made sure I added a nice dash of vitriol.
Her eyebrows were perfectly groomed. They rose in twin arcs.
“He’s the first guy in three years I introduced to my son,” I said. I’m not a liar by nature. Well, okay, maybe I am, but I was sure Grace didn’t care if I gave her the real story. I was also sure, judging by her degree of fatigue, that she’d empathize with my fictional maternal situation. “Little Tony loved him like a father.”
She was still staring.
I gave her a scowl as if she was slow on the uptake. “Bastard’s cheating on me.”
“Ohhh.” She nodded, cocked a hip, and let the notebook drop to her side.
“I got a call from a friend while I was here last time. She’s been sick every day of her third trimester, but she was really bad this time. Hacking up her lungs. She had to go to the hospital. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t just let her go alone. Her rotten husband was nowhere to be found.”
She nodded again. I felt a spark of something between guilt and pride and sisterly camaraderie.
“So I hop in my Saturn and take her to Huntington. And meanwhile Tony’s idol is steppin’ out with his ex.”
I shook my head and gazed out the window. I would’ve liked to have been able to conjure up a few fat tears, but it was no use. In lieu of the moisture, I bit my lip and scrunched my face. “I hope I’m wrong. For little Tony’s sake.” I zapped my attention back to her. “But I owe myself the truth.” I took a deep breath and straightened my back bravely. “That’s why I came to see you. ’Cuz I gotta know. Did anyone meet him here after I left?”
She thought back for a moment, then shook her head slowly. “No,” she said. “He rushed right off after you did.”
“Rushed off?”
“Within seconds. When I came back with your orders, he apologized, dropped a hundred on the table, and took off.”
“He didn’t eat his . . .” I paused. “A hundred . . . dollars?”
She shrugged. “He might be a bastard, but he’s not a cheap bastard. It works that way sometimes.” She scowled. “Believe me. Anyway, he didn’t ask for change or anything, just charged out of here. In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t see him in the parking lot.”
Why was he in such a hurry? I wondered wildly, but I remembered my little Oscar-winning performance and continued on. “I bet he went to her place, then. Couldn’t wait another second. Did you happen to remember which way he headed?”
She exhaled a laugh. “You kidding? Half the time I can’t remember my own name.”
I got a burger at In-N-Out because I could. Wendy’s is better, but you can find them anywhere.
Once home, I checked my answering machine.
Mom’s voice filled the room, telling me to call her. I didn’t. The next message was from my optometrist. The last was a hang up. I checked caller ID. It had been someone from E.U., whatever that . . .
My brain cells popped into order. Someone had called from Electronic Universe. I dialed the number with spastic fingers.
A man answered on the second ring.
“Yes.” I felt breathless and tense. “This is Christina McMullen. Someone called me from this number.”
There was a moment of silence, then, “What was it in regards to, ma’am?”
“I’m not certain.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid—”
“Rex,” I said before he could hang up. “I think it was Rex. Is he there?”
There was a pause before he said he’d check, and did so. In a minute he was back on the phone. “I’m sorry. Rex seems to be gone for the day.”
“But he was there earlier?”
“I’m not sure actually, and we’re just about ready to close up for the evening. You’re certainly welcome to call back tomorrow.”
“Can I get a message to him?”