Move to Strike

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  “So the autoradiograph showed that the sample of blood they took from the sword might not have been Nikki’s blood?”

  “Not exactly . . .”

  “Tell me about the allele they found in this one sample,” said Nina, frustrated. “I never heard of an allele, but I have a bad feeling I’m going to have to become an expert.”

  “Each person inherits two alternative forms of a gene, one from each parent,” Ginger said patiently. “Those alternative forms are called alleles.

  “There are usually two alleles for simple traits, such as eye color, blood type, etcetera. In this case, there was an unusual third allele found on the sample they discovered that did not match Dr. Sykes’s patterns. It did match Nikki’s. The pattern is somewhat rare but doesn’t specifically pinpoint her as the other person who bled on that sword. It’s a suggestive but not damning finding.”

  “Hmph. Experts,” Sandy said.

  “It could well be her blood,” Ginger continued. “It’s likely to be her blood, since there is this uncommon similarity. But if I was a police forensic technician I wouldn’t be able to testify with a reasonable degree of scientific certainty that it was her blood.”

  “Great!” Nina said. “They still haven’t placed her inside the house, then.”

  “Let’s make sure we get Daria’s blood tested. Or maybe it will turn out to be the blood of someone the samurai killed four hundred years ago,” Ginger said, eyebrow arched. “That’s about how old that sword is. You know, they say the samurai sword carries the soul of the samurai in it. And sometimes the souls of those the sword killed.”

  “It must be crowded in there,” Sandy said. They all looked at the picture of the old sword again. Handsome, with a gilt handle and hilt, it lay curved on the floor next to Dr. William Sykes’s bleeding body, glinting and wicked-looking.

  Still too many damn cars, Paul thought at ten o’clock as he set out on the freeway to do the alibi check. By God, he planned to charge Nina every dime she owed him for this wasted time. This environment was working on him, and he didn’t like the feeling. Nina would never move to Carmel to be with him, never give up a goddamn thing for him, but she was still lodged like flak in his ass, a constant aggravation. A mile before his exit onto Santa Monica Boulevard, he found himself jockeying for position with a Caprice driven by a young man wearing a Dodgers cap and the florid, warped look of a driver who is permanently enraged.

  The car attempted to zip in front of Paul twice, got blocked, dashed into the lane alongside attempting to pass, gave up and tried one last time, scraping Paul’s fender very slightly. The scratch finally did it, forcing Paul to drop back. Once settled into the coveted position in front, the death driver slowed to a crawl, his middle finger prominently positioned in the rearview mirror as a victory sign, his mouth open in a laugh.

  There was only so much a man could take.

  Paul knew about control, knew how to impose it.

  He hoped he scared this bastard Caprice.

  Pulling out from behind and up beside the car, he swerved close. Good thing he had accepted the rental car insurance for a change. Something must have told him it might come in handy. The Caprice never flinched.

  So, stronger measures.

  He gave it a tap on the mirror. The mirror shattered. So did the one on his rental.

  He watched his fellow driver’s face contort, but not for long, because he was accelerating, speeding up, feeling gloriously in control of his vehicle and of the situation. With a jerk, he swung left and regained dominance.

  The Caprice limped along behind.

  He looked in the rearview mirror. The Caprice was dropping back. Another car took its place.

  He was grinning like a baboon. He felt like a baboon. The more intelligent, human part of him was asking, what was that all about? Because just for a second there, he hadn’t cared if he hit the other car, hadn’t cared if he killed himself asserting his rightful place in the line. I thought you were going to pay more attention, he told himself, and stopped grinning.

  He decided to forget it and turned his thoughts to the upcoming interview. Nina just wanted to be sure that Beth Sykes wasn’t part of her case. Beth had been in LA visiting a friend the night her husband and son died, fine—but Nina had instructed him to double-check at an early stage. Anyone could concoct an alibi.

  She was getting more suspicious and more aggressive from case to case. When she had moved to Tahoe, she had been an appellate lawyer who had a way with words and a problem with inexperience. The hard knocks she had taken since would have sent some lawyers scurrying for a way back into appeals work, but Nina was a fighter. Now she was smart and tough, not just smart. With some wonder, Paul thought, she really is dedicated. She’s in it for the long haul.

  He hadn’t thought she would last.

  Jan Sapitto lived close to Beverly Hills in West Hollywood. Her high-rise condo would command quite a view on a day that had a view. Unfortunately, the fog had sneaked in with Paul, and her tall windows looked out upon featureless murk.

  Before going up to the seventeenth floor, Paul cornered the doorman. Slipping a bill into the man’s willing hand, he asked about the weekend of Bill Sykes’s death. Had she had a female visitor that weekend?

  The doorman remembered Beth Sykes’s arrival. She had gone up with Jan late Thursday night. He didn’t remember her leaving, but said high traffic in and out on weekends made it impossible to keep track of every tenant and visitor.

  So far, Beth’s alibi held up the way most alibis did— shakily.

  A medium-size woman with bow-shaped lips painted a flamboyant fuchsia, Jan Sapitto wore a tight knit shirt with tight jeans and a snug apron with a logo in the shape of a rose that said, “Faux Foods.” Long, frizzled golden hair blew down her back, except where she had tucked a silver clip in the shape of a butterfly.

  Paul showed her his identification and she let him in. Sandy had called and prepared the way.

  She sat him down on a stool in front of a long granite kitchen island.

  “I’ll be with you in a second,” she said. “Sorry. I’m right in the middle of this.”

  “Smells good,” he said, as she rushed to the stove and lifted a lid to release a steaming aroma.

  “Cream of asparagus soup. Artichoke frittata. Mashed potatoes for the ice cream.”

  “Pardon?”

  She pointed to the table through double doors, where a glistening golden turkey, carrots, pies, and other side dishes were laid out invitingly on a lace cloth beside silver candelabra on an oversized dining-room table. For the centerpiece, a cornucopia decorated with autumn leaves spilled out bright, perfect oranges, apples, bananas, and Concord grapes.

  “Very nice,” Paul said. “But it’s only May.”

  “I’m a food designer, and sometimes we do setups months in advance. I have a studio, but the natural light’s really nice in this room for this dining-table setup, especially since it’s overcast.”

  He went back to it. “Ice cream?”

  “Oh, mashed potatoes don’t melt. It’s not all done with mirrors these days.”

  She picked up a bottle, walked over to the table, and began to spray the carrots and the turkey. “Thanksgiving, here we come,” she said. “Yum, yum, yum.”

  “Smells terrible.”

  “Looks glossier than butter.” She cast a critical eye on her handiwork. “Perfect.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Magazines. Local ad agencies. Anyone flashing a wad of bills. I’m a freelancer.” She tasted the soup and cooed with satisfaction. “This, I plan to eat. Otherwise no need to cook it.”

  “Do you know a lot about photography?”

  “Nope. I have a photographer on his way over in about twenty minutes. I move the food around. Make different displays, individual settings featuring different dishes. Add candles, fruit, bits of fern. Dry ice for that steamy effect. That kind of thing. I leave the f-stops to him.”

  “What’s this particular job?�
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  “These guys I know are trying to get a film produced. They’re putting together a series of stills in storyboard form to go along with the script to take to producers. Like a sales piece. The film’s called, ‘Declaration of Dependence,’ and it’s about this woman who has an affair with two men at the same time.”

  “French, huh?”

  She laughed. “In fact it’s written and directed by two computer geeks from Palo Alto. Anyway, one of her lovers lives in the past, somewhere around the late eighteen hundreds. I love that era, the clothes, the food, everything. I would fit right in.”

  Paul could picture a flouncy little bustle adding a voluptuous generosity to her narrow hips. Like so many women these days, Jan fell on the scrawny side of his taste. Well, maybe that was to be expected from someone who confused ice cream with potatoes. “Where does this food fit into the story?”

  “A crucial scene takes place around a big American holiday feast. The two men duke it out over the ice cream.”

  “Then I have to question the frittata.”

  “Background in soft focus. Ambience. Also my dinner.”

  “A lot to do for just a storyboard, isn’t it?”

  “They promised to use it as the proposal cover art with a credit printed right there on the front. And as with everything a freelancer does, you’ve got to believe it’s going to land you big money later or you would never kill yourself for the nickel you’re getting this time.”

  “You don’t work nine to five, I guess.”

  “Wish I did. I could use a steady income. I spend lots of time diddling with my portfolio and going on interviews, although maybe it’s time to close up that part of my life and move on. You wouldn’t believe the pressure on a woman in this town. I mean, I’m almost too old for Hollywood.”

  She didn’t look more than thirty. Since when did that become old? “What’s your age got to do with how good your food looks?”

  “First part of every job is getting hired.”

  “You’re attractive. I think you know that,” said Paul.

  She flushed prettily. “You’re going to think I was aiming for that compliment, but I wasn’t. Anyway, if I do look good, credit my surgeon.”

  “You wouldn’t be talking about Dr. William Sykes?”

  “Sure. He sculpted my nose, plumped up my weak chin, and threw in a mini-lift when I turned thirty. God, it bugged him to see a woman get those character wrinkles.”

  At thirty?! However, Paul had to admire the guy’s ability. You would never know, just by looking, how much was her real face and how much was fake. “I understand you and Beth Sykes are old friends. How did you two meet?”

  “We’re fellow desert rats. Grew up in Yucca Valley back when Beth and Daria were the Logan girls. You know the area?”

  “No.”

  “East of San Berdoo, near Joshua Tree, where hot always means hot as hell. The Logan house didn’t even have air-conditioning. Maybe that’s why we became friends. At least we had it in one of the bedrooms. Beth and I ran around together as kids. People sometimes took us for sisters, said we looked alike, which I never could see. We went with our families up to Big Bear Lake, drove too fast and raised hell when we were teenagers, then ran away looking for greener pastures. We’re both older than Daria by four years, and we stayed close. Beth grew up fast. You could say Daria never grew up.”

  “You see Daria?”

  “Sometimes, when I visit Tahoe. Beth stays with me whenever she comes down to LA.” Her tight cheeks pulled together as she pursed her lips. “Naturally, I’m flattered she chooses me over a hotel. She could afford to stay anywhere.”

  “Is she down here often?”

  “Now and then.”

  “What do you do when she’s visiting?”

  “Everything. We hit the museums, the beach, first-run movies, plays at the Ahmanson. Tahoe’s a small place, and she and Bill have lived up there for a long time. She gets stir-crazy. Of course, Chris was a big lure, too. He went to high school down here, and then to Pomona College. He was only a freshman. God, it’s terrible about Chris. I watched him grow up. He could make you laugh at anything.”

  “Was Chris why she came that weekend he died?”

  “No. In fact, I kidded her about it. It seemed like she never came anymore unless she could see Chris, but this time she promised we’d just spend some time together doing girl things. She got here late on Thursday. We shopped all day Friday and hit the beach on Saturday. I don’t think she talked to Chris while she was here. I don’t think she even knew he was getting on a plane to visit his dad in Tahoe.”

  “Do you know if Chris ever chartered a plane before on his own?”

  “I don’t know, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he had. He was a gutsy kid.”

  “So were you with Beth Sykes on the night of May eighth?”

  “We went to the Hollywood Bowl to see Shania Twain. Kicked up our heels with the other cowgirls.”

  “You two went alone?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No men.”

  “Don’t look so suspicious, Paul. Women do get out on their own in this century. Beth, she’s—she was— married.”

  “How was their marriage?”

  “How’s any marriage? Theirs lasted a long time, longer than I ever expected.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Bill was quite a catch. Fun, ambitious, smart. Had a lucrative practice, even then. I’m sure a lot of women were interested in him.”

  Paul wondered if Jan Sapitto might be among them. “You think he was unhappy with his wife?”

  “Not at all. I hope I’m not giving that impression.”

  “Did you like Bill Sykes?”

  “I did, although sometimes I think he saw himself in competition with me for Beth’s attention.”

  “Ah, a jealous type?”

  “He doted on her.”

  Once again, Paul wondered about the feeling behind her words. Wasn’t it possible Jan resented her friend’s good luck just the smallest bit? “How late did you stay out that night?”

  “Not too late. Midnight or so. Then we crashed here. Most of Sunday is missing, until the phone call came late in the day about Chris. We were sitting outside on the deck having a margarita. Beth went into shock. She couldn’t reach Bill, but she was in no shape to fly that night. I gave her Valium and put her to bed. Then the next morning, I was packing clothes in her suitcase, getting ready to drive to the airport. The phone rang again. This time it was about Bill. God! It’s so unfair that this should happen to Beth.”

  She knew who he was and why he was asking the questions, and she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he thought she had already prepared her answers before he came. Her description of spending time with Beth sounded very pat and remarkably similar to the story Beth had told Nina. On the other hand, if the women had talked about it, it wouldn’t be surprising they might use similar language. “You went up with her that morning?”

  “I did, until Daria could take over. She needed someone with her.”

  “You said Beth went into shock at hearing about Christopher?”

  “She fell into a million pieces. She adored that boy. They both did. Bill thought Chris was going to save the world. Chris didn’t even get to live long enough to let his parents down. Do you have any kids, Paul?”

  “Never got that lucky,” Paul said, but he didn’t mean it. He had never wanted kids. You loved them and they left you or died on you. It never came out right.

  “What made the plane crash, Paul? What do you think?”

  “Bad judgment, the NTSB is saying.”

  He tried to read her expression. She looked like she wanted to say something and was biting her tongue.

  He waited for it to come out. But she got herself under control.

  Paul got up to leave. “One last question,” he said.

  “Anything,” she said, and there was a question in her eyes, a little smile there just for him.

 
“The woman with the two lovers. How does she do that?”

  “You mean have a relationship with two men?”

  “I mean with men in two different centuries.”

  “Doesn’t matter what year it is, the same old excuses work,” she said. “Doing anything for lunch? Because as you can see, I love to experiment in the kitchen. It’s the place I feel most free.”

  “Thought you had a guy coming over. Your photographer.”

  “Women are so flaky, and he has a cell phone.”

  He imagined experimenting in the kitchen with her, then shut the thought down. Jan Sapitto would want much more than he could give her in one afternoon. “ ’Fraid I can’t make it,” he said, truly sorry. Walking out to his car he wondered what the hell he was doing, passing up an invitation for making whoopee on a gourmet kitchen island.

  He would drive back up north this afternoon. He wanted to make a stop in Carmel to see Susan, in addition to making an unscheduled visit to the business before heading back to Tahoe. Then he would look at the forensic evidence and police reports, interview an ex-patient of Sykes’s who had sued him, and check in with the NTSB to see how they were doing with their investigation of the plane crash.

  He got back on the freeway still smelling Jan’s soup. His stomach had settled and he was definitely hungry now. Instead of messing around in Jan’s kitchen, he was engaged in this war with traffic again.

  This infernal, everlasting traffic jam, he thought, giving in to his annoyance. A Cutlass Supreme dashed up the on ramp beside him, too close, the bastard! He put his hand to the horn and raced to beat him. As the car came close enough to breathe on he suddenly thought, shit, what am I doing? Risking my life, and for what?