Vinnie started talking into the washcloth.
Jack pinched the edge but didn’t pull it out. “But here’s the deal. You can tell us the truth—and I mean the whole truth—and it will buy you some really good favor with us later. Or you can not tell us and we’ll hand you over to the Dutchman who will be happy to take care of it. Which one?”
Vinnie gave his answer to the washcloth. Jack still didn’t pull it out.
“And make it fast,” he said. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
Chapter Forty-three
It was 2:47 when I rode the service elevator up to the Sky Bar.
Two Ninjas rode with me.
The buffet tables were gone, the shutters lifted, the black lights turned off. The wrap party was over and the public had been allowed inside. On the dance floor, a bleary couple swayed together although no music played. At the large windows, where coral-colored clouds streaked a sky that was neither dusk nor dawn, a valiant middle-aged couple pulled all-nighters, sipping coffee drinks. I stared at the mountains across the silver sea. The rock looked black, but the crowns were backlit by a sun ready to rise again.
I nodded, the way Geert would. The Ninjas moved silently.
Bar closing, they told the passengers on the dance floor and at the windows. Move along, folks, nothing to see here.
I watched from a spot protected from sight by a half wall near the elevator. The remaining movie people sat at the bar, ducks in a guilty row. Sandy, Larrah, Milo. Next to Milo, a pretty brunette half his age gazed at him with a star-struck expression. When the Ninja approached, Milo started to argue about having to leave.
I walked over as the Ninja led the brunette away.
“Too late,” Sparks said, rising from the bar stool to leave. “They just said the bar’s closing.”
I picked up a stool and placed it beside him and his wife. At this hour, the blond actress looked strange. Ravaged and skeletal, her pale hand clutched the drink in front of her. A short skirt displayed her long bare legs and a gold starfish anklet.
“I have a surprise for you.” Reaching into my pocket, I dangled the fake blue jewelry. It wasn’t a bracelet. That’s why it seemed large even on Claire’s wrist. “Is this yours?”
She glanced at her husband before answering. “No.”
I laid it on the bar. Jessie stood across from me, behind the counter. If he was tired from the long shift, it didn’t show. His alert brown eyes followed the Ninjas when they returned to the bar. They would ask him to leave next.
“Coke, please?” I asked, before he left. “No crushed ice.”
“Yes,” he said.
Yes.
Jessie said yes tonight each time Vinnie ordered a Long Island Iced Tea, extra sweet. The highball combined sour mix, triple sec, vodka, gin, tequila, and rum—with cola, so it resembled real tea. “Extra sweet” meant extra cola, enough to cover the taste of alcohol. Claire sipped one while she peered into Vinnie’s palm and discovered several odd intersections on his lifeline. She drank a second “iced tea” while reading his aura—gray, she informed him. And when he leaned over the table, whispering in her ear, Claire was ready. Claire wanted love; Vinnie wanted that pink stone. And now the bracelet. His lucky night. Claire had already complained to him about the noise next door to her cabin. My cabin was now her cabin. Which meant Vinnie could search for the stones from Judy Carpenter’s jewelry box.
Benitoite and Neptunite. Each stone worth tens of thousands of dollars.
Finders keepers.
On the bar Larrah’s pale hand inched toward the jewelry. And a strange expression came over her face. Some idea was trying to cinch down on her brain. But her forehead muscles only quivered, paralyzed by botulism toxins. All that Botox now made her look like an inebriated puppet.
“You’re sure,” I said. “That’s not yours?”
She nodded.
“Absolutely sure?”
“Leave her alone,” Sparks said. “She’s drunk.”
“So’s Milo. But he can tell me about breaking into your mansion.”
Jack was right. Drunks, they surprise you.
Milo gave a slow turn of his head. With his shoulders hunched, he reminded me of a turtle. The green eyes glanced first at Sparks. Catching the producer’s expression, the movie star let a smile blaze across his face.
Then he laughed.
“Milo,” I said, “don’t even bother.” I was too tired for this many games. “Vinnie already told us how it worked.”
Vinnie told us three times. Start to finish. Twice in my cabin, a third time in Geert’s office. It all began more than a year ago, when Judy started begging Sandy Sparks to make a sequel to Milo’s most successful movie. She insisted work would save their marriage. But Sparks didn’t want to make the movie. He told me as much, sitting in the hot tub that Tuesday morning after we found her body. Milo, he said, wasn’t exactly box office gold.
But Sparks had another reason: he was broke.
I picked up my Coke, sipping. Ninjas had taken Jessie and now they stood as sentries. One blocked the exit ramp to the upper deck. The other guarded the elevator. I took another sip. Sugar, bubbles, caffeine. I could get through this.
I could.
“So Milo and Vinnie broke into your house,” I said, turning to Sparks. “They took the usual. Electronics, computers, your wife’s best jewelry. But all that was a cover. They came to steal your benitoite. That irreplaceable collection of benitoite. What’s it worth now, a million six?”
For once, Sandy Sparks made no nervous gestures. “I heard your mom went crazy,” he said. “Must run in the family.”
I smiled, officially. “The way collecting runs in your family?”
In Geert’s office, as Vinnie told us the facts again, Jack started an Internet search. As a producer, Sandy Sparks didn’t have much press in the entertainment magazines. But four years ago he loaned his benitoite collection for an exhibit at San Jose State. His alma mater. Home of the Spartans. The mascot on his baseball cap and boxer shorts, the campus that sat just north of the San Benito mountains, with those singular mines. His obsession with the mineral began in college, when he first heard about how rare and unusual it was. His collection grew with his income, and when he loaned it to the school, its estimated value was $1.4 million. But benitoite was very special. With each passing year, it increased in value: nobody could make more.
“You filed an insurance claim on the benitoite,” I said. “LAPD told us. But like your dad, you’re a true collector. And collectors don’t like to sell, like your dad won’t sell any of his matchbooks. It’s hard letting go.”
Reaching into my pocket again, I set the pink stone on the bar.
Claire’s supposed third eye.
Sparks couldn’t take his eyes off it.
“In exchange for making the robbery look real, Vinnie got money. Milo got his sequel. And Judy came on as co-producer. But Judy was more clever than you.”
In the quiet bar, these people hung on my words. So silent, that I heard the service elevator brush open. When I looked over, Geert was coming around the half wall, pushing a large trash can on wheels.
I took a deep breath. Fresh horses. And I was tired.
“All that stolen benitoite was supposed to come back to you. File the claim, keep the stones. What a deal. But Judy knew you. And she knew you didn’t want to make the movie. If you decided to back out, her marriage was really over. So she kept some collateral. And with it, she kept you over a barrel. Now you had to make the movie. Or she could report you for insurance fraud.”
Geert stood behind us, the trash can at his side.
“Smart woman,” he said. Woman no longer sounded so derogatory, though the same could not be said for her home state. “Smart, even from Caw-lee-for-nee-ya.”
In no hurry to explain the trash can, he probably would have liked me to continue. String it out. Leave the lid on. But even with a clean bag inside, the trash can must have stunk. I reached over, plucking off the lid.
Sparks jumped. “What the—”
Jack stood up, grinning. “How you doing?”
He wore the black jacket from Martin Webb’s closet. The motorcycle jacket supposedly worn by Brando. But I doubted that; I doubted everything about these people.
“Milo,” Jack said. “Help me out of here, would ya?”
But the action star was as wooden as when he was onscreen. “Where . . .” He struggled for words. “Where did you get that?”
“This?” Jack looked down at the studded leather. “You like it?” Since Milo wasn’t helping, Jack reached over and placed his hands on the actor’s wide shoulders, pulling his leg behind him. “I hate to tell you this, man. I like you. But your buddies killed your wife.”
“Now hang on,” Sparks said. “You think her suicide looks weird, and you might have a point. Something does seem a little off. But if anybody killed her it was Milo.”
Milo was breathing through his mouth. The green eyes had their usual marbled-glass quality, but beneath the vitreous surface something was cracking.
Sparks continued, “You saw what he did, choking that guy on the set?”
“It was very convincing,” I agreed.
Jack patted Milo’s shoulder. “But you can’t improvise, not when you’re that drunk. If I recall, Sandy pulled you aside right before that scene. Choking that guy was for our benefit.”
Milo stared at the producer. “You said Martin wanted me to.
You said he would calm down if—”
“Do you want to hear the rest?” Jack asked.
“I want to know where you got that jacket.” Milo looked confused, angry. Scared. The way he looked after she died and he saw the anklet. “My wife, my wife—”
He couldn’t finish.
“Webb?” Jack asked.
“That was a gift.” Milo’s face crumpled. “My wife, she was a giver. She was a giver!”
Jack squeezed his shoulder. Milo turned his face away. But his sobs were loud. Drunk and lost. His wife, the expert seamstress, had sewn some of Sandy’s stones into the vintage lining, covering the slight bulges with patches. Then she gave the jackets to Webb, a gift from the co-producer to the director. Welcome aboard.
I watched Larrah. Her large eyes drifted to the anklet.
“Go ahead, take it,” I said. “It’s fake. Your husband has the real one, somewhere.”
Geert leaned forward, his bald head shining at Sparks like an interrogation lamp. “Where is the real one?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yah.” Geert straightened, turning to me. “The wife doesn’t know about it. What did I tell you? The husband. He is always guilty.”
Larrah picked up the anklet. She rubbed her thumb over the greasy petroleum residue.
“That night,” Jack began, putting his arm around Milo, “your wife watched you flirt with the women in here. Then she went back to her cabin. Depressed and lonely. She took her Ambien, climbed into bed, and Vinnie came out of the living room closet.”
Placing a pillow over her face, the bodyguard held it there until she died. Vinnie’s original plan was to hang her body over the balcony. But Sandy Sparks had come up with a better idea. He thought. Something to throw everybody off, he insisted. And later it would bring in money. He could get his benitoite back and build a new income stream.
I turned to Larrah. She wiped her fingers on a cocktail napkin.
“I want to thank you,” I said.
“What . . . for?”
“You told me your husband always tried to do too many things at once. And you told me about your mother-in-law, that she was a pain even before the ship left Seattle. I should have been listening more closely.” When I looked at her husband, his skin was slick with sweat. “The dutiful son. You called the concierge when your mom locked your dad’s wallet in the safe. But they couldn’t tell you when the handyman would get there. You asked them to come to Milo Carpenter’s cabin first, then you would walk them down to the problem. You were having drinks in the Carpenter’s cabin. You, Milo, Vinnie. And Judy.” I looked back at Larrah. “You weren’t there.”
“I was getting a massage.” She said it desperately.
“The handyman knocked on the Carpenter’s cabin.”
Ramazan.
A shallow and cruel man devoted to gossip rags, Ramazan immediately recognized the movie star. He gushed, got an autograph, then Sparks walked him three doors down to his parents’ cabin. Ramazan opened the safe—easy, he insisted, he knew safes—and Sparks offered him a tip. But the Turk refused. It was an honor, he insisted. He wanted to help a man like Sandy Sparks. Hollywood producer. Friends with Milo Carpenter. And Ramazan confessed he, too, was a filmmaker.
“At first, I thought Vinnie was lying,” I said. “It seemed like a big risk, bringing on a stranger. And crew. But you made sure Vinnie asked Ramazan for help. Vinnie’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer and he’s awfully greedy. But he did finally figure out you were setting him up. And it was only a matter of time before you got rid of him too.”
After suffocating Judy, the bodyguard had wrapped her body in a blanket. When he heard a single knock at the door, he found the trash can, with a fresh liner, waiting in the hall. Placing her body inside, he tied the trash bag into a knot so nobody could see her and left. Minutes later Ramazan rolled it down the Highway, over to the Dumpsters. At that hour, the Highway was almost empty. And if anyone saw him, he was doing janitorial work.
He rode the elevator up to the Sky Bar.
Jack gave Milo’s shoulder another squeeze. “Vinnie was sitting at the bar, telling you to go talk to your wife. Go make things right. What a concerned friend. And you left, ruining your alibi. And she was here, in the bar. Dead.”
Ramazan wheeled the trash can through the Sky Bar and out to the deck. On that cold wet night, he wore a cap, pulled down low, and left the trash can by the rail. After Milo walked out of the bar, Vinnie took care of business.
“Yah, loyal cruisers,” Geert said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sparks said, offended.
“You know where things are. Things like mooring lines.”
Milo didn’t look like an actor anymore. His face contorted, like a man. “Sandy?”
“Give me a break, Milo,” he said, laughing. “This is like a bad movie.”
“Almost as bad as Northern Decomposure,” Jack said agreeably.
When I looked at Larrah, she was draining her drink. I picked up the anklet from the bar. “Are you done with this?”
She set down the drink. It clunked on the bar. “If that’s fake, then—”
“Judy wore the real one. But Vinnie didn’t see the anklet until he was dropping her over the rail.” Those long palazzo pants, which she favored even in pajamas, rose up on her legs, the same way they did when hours later, Geert pulled her back over the rail. “Vinnie got the clasp open, then dropped it. He didn’t have time to search.” I pointed to the windows, to the sky that was neither morning nor night. “The light wasn’t great. He planned to come back the next day.”
But I found it.
I looked over at Milo. “I owe you an apology, Milo.”
For once his eyes held a genuine light. I felt a pang of sadness. That feeling of seeing someone who suddenly realizes what they threw away. Judy never told him she kept some benitoite. She didn’t want to humiliate her beloved husband, letting him know she needed that much collateral because of him.
Jack was right: Milo mourned for her.
“When I showed you the real one of this”—I held up the anklet—“you recognized it. Not from your wife wearing it. She kept it hidden from you, and it wasn’t hard. Separate beds. You barely looked at her. And she wore those long trousers. But you saw benitoite. Did you run to Sandy? Tell him the FBI knew about the robbery, the insurance scheme?”
His head dropped. He nodded like a man with an evil hangover.
“And I showed it to Sandy too, while he bubbled a
way in the hot tub. The handyman must have seemed like a brilliant inspiration. The safecracker. Ramazan could steal it from Geert’s safe—”
“Ach.”
“—and bring it to you.”
Larrah pointed at the anklet, forehead quivering. “But you said that’s fake.”
“Right.” I handed it to her. “And it belongs to you.”
“The fake?”
“Yes. He had it made for you, years ago. Apparently he doesn’t like sharing his benitoite with anyone. Your fake was with the stolen jewelry. The real one was with the benitoite. And I’m guessing all your jewelry has come back after the robbery?”
She looked around the bar. She seemed to want another drink.
Sparks laughed again. “This is incredible.”
Jack agreed. “But if you wrote movies this good, you wouldn’t be broke.”
“You’re broke?” Larrah asked.
“Vinnie,” Sparks said. “That’s your problem, right there. Vinnie told you this? The guy’s a Neanderthal. He killed her and he belongs in jail.”
“He’s going,” Jack said. “But the Neanderthal was smart enough to cut a plea deal.”
I wanted to believe the tears hanging in Milo’s eyes. Just like I wanted to believe that inscription inside the jewelry box. He called Judy his “real gem.” But he was a philanderer, they were divorcing, and only now did I understand the point. Gratitude. It was a thankyou note. Judy got him the movie, staging the robbery.
I finished my Coke, slurping down to the bottom because it had been a very long day. When I climbed off the bar stool, the Ninjas stepped forward. Jack performed the honors, taking evident pleasure in uttering the names.
“Sandy Sparks, also known as Lysander Sparks, also known as Lysander Butz, and as a kid probably known as Sandy Butz, you are under arrest for the contract killing of Judy Carpenter.”
“You’re kidding.” The smile was razor thin.
“You are also under arrest for grand larceny, insurance fraud, lying to federal and state law enforcement, transporting stolen goods across state lines—”
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