“Hi,” Savannah replied, taking her first close look at the woman Dirk had described as “trampy looking.” And while it was obvious by her too-high eyebrows, too-pronounced cheekbones, too-plump lips, and too-bleached hair that Myrna had fought the losing battle against aging a bit too vigorously, she seemed like a nice person. Her smile—though suspiciously white and perfect—was sweet enough.
“My name is Savannah,” she said, “and I have an appointment with Mr. D’Alessandro at—”
“Savannah, like in Georgia?” Myrna asked.
“Yes. Exactly.”
“How nice. What a lovely name that is. A lot better than Myrna. Were you born in Savannah?”
“No, but my mom had a thing about Georgian names,” she replied. “My siblings are Atlanta, Marietta, Macon, Waycross, Vidalia, and so forth.”
“Cute.”
“Yes, a little too cute, but Mom’s a little... well.... About that appointment with Mr. D’Alessandro...?”
“Of course, I’ll let him know you’re here.” She picked up the phone, punched a couple of numbers, and said, “A lady named Savannah is here to see you. Okay, sure, I’ll tell her.”
She hung up and looked a bit apologetic. “Sorry, but Mr. D’Alessandro will be a few minutes. He’s on a phone call to London. May I get you a bottle of spring water while you wait?”
“No, I’m fine.” Savannah leaned her elbows on the countertop and assumed what she hoped was a casual, conversational pose. “I’m happy for the opportunity to visit with you, if you aren’t too busy.”
Myrna laid down her pen and interlaced her fingers. “No, I’m not that busy at all. If you don’t mind me saying so, I’m surprised you’re here today. There isn’t much going on, unfortunately. You are a reporter, right?”
Savannah nodded with only a twinge of a conscience pang. Thanks to Granny Reid’s strict teaching against the evils of lying—more than one trip behind the barn to dance to the tune of a willow switch—Savannah had never gotten used to telling a bold-faced lie. And in her line of work, that was a bit of a handicap.
At least now, thanks to Tammy’s creative ingenuity, she had several business cards in her purse to give to anyone who demanded one.
She figured that if you’re going to sully your soul with lies, you might as well have good props to back you up.
“I’m here to talk to Mr. D’Alessandro—and anyone else who will talk to me—about the disappearance of Dr. Du Bois.”
Instantly, a guarded look came into Myrna’s hazel eyes. She glanced down at her desk, picked up her pen and began scribbling on a piece of paper that looked to Savannah like some sort of release form.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Myrna said. “We don’t even really know for sure that something’s happened to her. Dr. Du Bois could just be... taking a few days off or...”
“Was she in the habit of doing that?” Savannah asked.
“Well, no, but I guess a person could get really tired of... you know... things... and need a break.”
“Was she tired of... things?”
Myrna’s eyes wouldn’t meet hers. “She might have been. She’d been working hard, and the last day we saw her here, she was—”
She stopped abruptly, leaving Savannah dangling on that unfinished sentence.
“She was...?” Savannah prompted.
“Well, she was a bit upset, and sometimes people need some space for a little while when they’re upset.”
“What was she upset about?”
Myrna glanced warily down the hallway. “I’m not sure exactly. She had just had a bad day, some arguments and... I’d better not say any more. You should ask Mr. D’Alessandro about it.”
“Oh, I will,” Savannah said, “but you know how men are. They always give you the Readers’ Digest condensed version, and they leave out the really good, juicy stuff.”
Myrna snickered, then caught herself and went back to scribbling on her papers. “Yes, but I don’t know if we really want Emerge’s ‘juicy stuff showing up in your magazine.”
“That’s very discreet of you. I’m sure that Dr. Du Bois and Mr. D’Alessandro appreciate that sort of loyalty on your part.”
For half a second, a look crossed Myrna’s face—sour, angry, maybe a bit hurt—then disappeared. But it was so intense that Savannah knew right away: all wasn’t well with Myrna and her employers.
There was definite animosity there. But with whom? One or both?
Savannah donned her most sympathetic face. “I can’t imagine that Mr. D’Alessandro is all that easy to work for. I had a boss one time that I couldn’t stand, and between you and me, Sergio reminds me a lot of him.”
Again, the look.
Myrna didn’t reply verbally, but the expression on her face said it all. Yes, Ms. Myrna definitely qualified as disgruntled.
Savannah decided to take a stab in the dark as to why Myrna might not have been all that fond of Suzette, either. “I’ve never met Dr. Du Bois,” she said, “but I know how irritating it is when bosses ask you to run frivolous personal errands for them on your own time.”
She had struck pay dirt. Myrna nodded vigorously and promptly discarded her right to remain silent. “No kidding!” she said. “Like you don’t even have a life of your own. Trips to the dry cleaners, the drugstore, the grocery store for heaven’s sake! Heaven forbid that somebody’s run out of fresh basil!”
“And some bosses will even have you go to the vet for them!” Savannah added. Might as well stoke the fire a bit. “Picking up medicine for her dog, of all things. You must just hate that.”
Just as quickly, Myrna’s demeanor softened. “Oh, I don’t mind that. Sammy’s a little sweetheart. And I love animals. It’s the trips to pick up her favorite bath gels that I resent. And having to go shopping to buy skimpy lingerie for his latest girlfriend. That I mind!”
“And who wouldn’t! Can’t Devon pick out her own garter belts, for heaven’s sake?”
Myrna’s eyes widened. “You know about Devon?”
“Oh, honey, I know just about everything worth knowin’. Being nosy is my job, and I gotta tell you, I’m very good at it.” Myrna laughed and Savannah felt a bond, a girl-connection, had been made.
She had a new friend at Emerge.
No time like the present to take this new friendship for a practice run. So, she leaned even closer and whispered, “Also, just between us, I can’t stand that Devon. She should fall down a flight of stairs and into a pit of crocodiles, as far as I’m concerned. She irritates the daylights outta me.”
“Oh, absolutely. I hate her! She thinks she’s so hot and so smart.”
“And that’s particularly irritating to those of us who really are.” Myrna snickered, then shook her head. “I don’t understand what Sergio sees in her, or any of the rest of the bimbos he dates... except that they’re young and don’t have any wrinkles or sags.”
The depth of sadness in the woman’s eyes touched Savannah’s heart. She could tell by looking that Myrna had once been a beauty. And if she hadn’t been cut, stitched, and tucked into an unnatural caricature of herself, she still might have been.
“I don’t think men like Sergio date young women because their skins are smooth,” Savannah said softly. “I think it’s because they feel more comfortable with a woman who hasn’t been around very long... long enough to figure out how little a man like that really has to offer her. Us older gals see a guy like him coming and we tuck tail and run.”
Myrna studied Savannah’s face for a moment, then said, “You aren’t as old as I am. Judging by your lines, I’d say you’re in your midforties.”
“Very good. You could work at a carnival, guessing ages and all that.”
“It’s like a carnival here. Strange characters everywhere and—”
The phone on her desk buzzed. She answered it and then told Savannah, “Mr. D’Alessandro can see you now—now that he’s finished with his call to London... which is code for ‘talking dirty on the phone with th
e bimbo.’”
Savannah flashed her a warm, down-homey smile. “Thank you, Myrna. I’m glad we had this little girl talk. Let’s chat again, soon, huh?”
Myrna returned the smile. Yes, Savannah decided, she definitely had an “in” at Emerge.
“You got it,” Myrna replied. “Good luck with your magazine story. I can’t wait to read it. But remember... don’t quote me directly on any of that.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Yeah, I can’t wait to read that story too, Savannah thought as she headed down the hall toward D’Alessandro’s office door. And if the story has a bad ending, which I think it’s going to... I want to read it in the form of an arrest warrant.
Down the hallway and to the left was a door with a brass plaque that read, “Sergio D’Alessandro, President.”
She had to admit, Sergio D’Alessandro sounded a bit spiffier than Leonard Roy Hoffman. It certainly looked better on a brass door plaque. But she’d never trusted people who changed their names as frequently as the papers on the bottom of a parakeet cage. One changed names and bird-cage papers for the same reason: because the shit was piling up.
She knocked once, then opened the door and stepped into one of the most opulent offices she had ever seen. From the China-red walls to the black lacquered furniture, the plush oriental rugs and oversized vases sprouting everything from ferns to pussy willow sprigs, the decor made her feel she had stepped into the office of the Chinese ambassador to the U.N.
But the guy sitting behind the lacquered desk was no diplomat. And not even a designer suit and a fancy name change could make him classy.
In what Gran would have called, “no account, low-down, good for nothin’” style, his eyes swept over her again, lingering on her full bust line. If she had been wearing a tight sweater, she would have forgiven a guy a fleeting glance. She had to admit, her ample bosom was an eye-catcher. But when she was doing business, wearing business attire, there was no excuse for outright ogling.
“Good morning, Mr. D’Alessandro. Ah... Sergio,” she said, fixing him with a blue-eyed laser stare that pulled his gaze upward, however reluctantly. She plopped herself down on a white leather chair and opened her purse to take out her notebook. “We have a lot to talk about and not much time. Let’s get crackin.’”
“Um, okay.” He seemed to snap out of his reverie, but he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “What have you got? Did you find her?”
She shot him a “get real” look. “Please. If I’d found her, I’d have hauled her in here with me today.”
“So, what’s the problem? I hired you because you’re supposed to be good and—”
“Supposed to be good?” She bristled. “Sugar, I’m way better than good. But you didn’t give me diddlysquat to work with.”
“I gave you the keys to her house.”
“And I was there last night, till the wee hours of the morning, working my fingers to the bone.” At least until Ryan and John rescued me, she thought. And that's none of ol' Sergio’s business. “But when you won’t tell me what I’m looking for, it’s a little hard to tell if I’ve found it.”
He sighed and leaned even farther away from her in his chair. “Well, what did you find?”
“You tell me,” she said. “To start with, does the word ‘rosarita’ mean anything to you?”
His eyes widened and his cheeks turned flushed, glowing red even under his tan. “Maybe. Why?”
Savannah’s patience snapped. “Don’t mess with me, boy. If you want me to find Suzette—and more importantly to you, your money—you’d better smarten up quick and start telling me what’s what. What does ‘rosarita' mean to you?”
“It’s a hotel between here and Santa Barbara.”
“I know that. It’s also the brand name of a line of Mexican food, and the name of a couple of hundred young ladies in this county, but I need to know what the word means to you personally and to Suzette.”
Sergio groaned and shook his head. For a long time he just sat there, his hand over his mouth, staring down at his desk. Finally, he gave up the mental battle with himself and said, “It’s where Suzette and I first made love, years ago.”
She studied his face. She had seen the same guarded look on suspects, several thousands of them, as they withheld information. “And?”
“And... we had another... more recent... association with the place.”
“How recent?”
“The night before she disappeared.”
“That’s pretty darned recent. You went there again, for old times sake or...?”
“No, not that. She sort of caught me there.”
“With another woman?”
He nodded. “Yeah, it was with another woman. Okay?”
“Who?”
“It’s not important.”
“It’s important. Spit it out, Sergio. Who were you doin’ this time at Rosarita’s when Suzette caught you?”
“I’m not going to say. I have the lady’s reputation to protect and—”
“Then I’ll just assume for the time being that it was Devon.” His mouth dropped open. “You know about Devon?”
“Oh, give me a break, Sergio. Do you think I’d know that you graduated 273 in your high school class of 275 and I wouldn’t know about Devon? What happened when Suzette found you at Rosarita’s with Devon?”
He shrugged. “She was upset.”
“How upset?”
“Very.”
“Because you were fooling around with Devon or because you were doing it somewhere that was yours and Suzette’s ‘special’ place?”
“Both.”
“Does Devon know that Suzette saw you there?”
“Oh yes. Suzette got hold of a passkey somehow and broke in on us there in our room. She slapped Devon across the face and slugged me in the stomach.”
For some perverse reason, Savannah’s estimation of Suzette Du Bois rose several notches. She fought down a smile. “And this was the night before she disappeared?”
He nodded.
“You might have mentioned that to me before.”
“Like I said, I need to protect the lady’s reputation.”
“Devon is married?”
“Well, no, but...”
“I think the hide you’re protecting is your own, Sergio. And if you don’t start leveling with me, you can just kiss that money of yours good-bye.”
His face darkened, and he clenched his fists in a way that made her mentally check the Beretta in her shoulder holster under her jacket. “Don’t say that. I worked hard for that money. I have plans. I need to get it back. Now!”
She put on her calmest face and softened her tone. “Then help me, Sergio. Tell me about the money. How much are we talking about? I’m not being nosy here. I need to know exactly what I’m looking for.”
Again, she watched the mental battle registering on his face as he decided whether to trust her or not. Apparently, he thought he had to, because he said, “One and a half million dollars.”
Her heart skipped a beat and her breathing stopped. But only for a moment before she recovered herself and replied coolly, “Okay. Now we know what we’re working with. And was this money in an account, in cash...?”
“In a bank account.”
“Okay.”
“And it got stolen.”
“How, if it was in a bank?”
“It was transferred out of my account.”
“Without your knowledge?”
“Yeah. Somebody got hold of my password somehow.”
“You must have contacted the bank. What did they say?”
He slammed his fist down on the desktop. A nerve in his jaw was twitching as if it were being zapped by a Taser. “They say that I’m out one and a half million dollars. There’s nothing they can do about it, or so they say. They were happy to inform me that I was the one responsible for keeping my password safe and if I didn’t, tough luck. They told me to tell my story to the cops, not
them.”
“And did you... go to the cops?” Savannah knew the answer to that one even before he replied.
“No. I want to keep the cops out of this. That’s why I hired you. How could she have gotten my password? That’s what I want to know. I never told anybody that! Nobody!”
Savannah glanced down at the slender notebook computer lying on his desk. “Do you conduct business with that bank there on your computer?”
“Sure. That’s the best way to—” A sick look dawned in his eyes. “Do you think Suzette could have gotten my password out of my computer?”
“I have an assistant, a computer whiz-kid, who could have gotten it in about ten minutes. Is Suzette computer savvy?”
“Enough,” he said. “Enough to figure out when I was visiting porn sites and dating services while we were living together.”
“It’s possible then.”
“Oh, man. You think your money’s safe because it’s in a bank and look at what can happen.”
Savannah studied Sergio and speculated on the ways he might have accumulated one and a half million dollars of unaccounted-for funds. None were good ones. Especially for a guy who had served time for embezzlement.
Sergio wiped one hand wearily across his face. “Why were you asking me about Rosarita?” he said, suddenly curious.
“Don’t you know?” she asked.
“No. Why?”
“It wasn’t your password on your account?”
“No. It wasn’t. Why would you think it was?”
Savannah’s mental gears whirred. Don't tell all you know, she told herself. Not to a guy with half a dozen aliases, a prison record, a missing—and possibly murdered—business partner.
“I found a scrap of paper in her house. The word was written on it.”
“Why would you think it was a password?”
“The notes said, ‘Password, rosarita.' That’s why.”
Okay, so Granny Reid wouldn’t be proud. But what Gran didn’t know wouldn’t earn Savannah a trip behind the woodshed.
“So, that’s probably the password for the account where she transferred my money,” Sergio said, excited. “Do you think you can find that number for me? With that and the password, I could get my money back.”
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