by Lisa King
“No,” Roman said. “We’ll take her by surprise.”
Near South Beach, they parked near PacBell Stadium and walked to Martin’s condominiums, part of a mixeduse redevelopment project that included offices, shops, and condos with views of the bay.
In the pale brick and glass lobby, a security guard took their names. He called Flavia, who didn’t want to see them.
“May I please talk to her?” Roman asked.
The security guard handed Roman the phone and he spoke a few words in Portuguese. He listened briefly. “Obrigado.” He gave the phone back to the guard, who talked to Flavia and then directed them through a door to an interior walkway flanked by handsome landscaping.
“What did you tell her?” Jean said as they searched for Flavia’s number.
“That we’re friends of Zeppo’s and we want to talk about the last night of Martin’s life.”
Flavia waited for them in her doorway. She was all Zeppo had said: dark, petite, beautiful, and artificial. Her features were that uniquely Brazilian mix of Portuguese, Indian, and African, with a nose that seemed too pert for the ethnic face. She wore coral-colored leggings and a cropped white T-shirt that showed off a washboard stomach. Her high, firm breasts were too big for her small frame, and her forehead was smooth and strangely immobile. Glossy dark brown ringlets spilled out of a white plastic clip on top of her head—she’d apparently stopped straightening her hair. She was slightly sweaty and barefoot, and her dainty toes sported coral polish. Jean thought the full lips and bedroom eyes were probably hers.
“Please come in,” she said, wiping her neck with a white towel. She had a mellifluous voice and a pronounced accent. “Pardon my appearance—I’ve just finished my Pilates.”
“Thank you for seeing us,” Roman said, shaking her hand.
As Jean shook the offered hand, Flavia swept her with sharp, appraising eyes. Jean knew the look: checking out potential competition. Jean had met women like this before, for whom other women were little more than rivals in the struggle for high-powered men. She found the whole attitude rather sad, especially since Flavia, in spite of all the surgical intervention, looked to be over forty.
“I heard about Zeppo on the news,” Flavia said. “How is he?”
“He’ll be fine,” Jean said.
“That’s good. I’ve always been fond of him. Come, let’s sit down.”
The living room was decorated in bright, warm colors, with sisal mats on the pale hardwood floors. Jean chose a wicker and wood chair, and Roman sat next to Flavia on a sofa upholstered in a vivid tropical print.
Roman took the lead, apparently realizing that Flavia would rather talk to him. “I’ll get right to the point,” he said. “We know the boat that rescued Martin dropped him very near your house. Did he come here?”
“I knew someone would ask me that eventually. Yes, he came here.”
“Will you tell us about it?”
Flavia looked at her long coral nails. “It was his wedding day, so I wanted to be alone. I watched Black Orpheus, ate a pint of Häagen-Dazs dulce de leche, and drank too much brandy. When his phone call woke me up, I didn’t even know he was missing. He told me he’d fallen into the bay and wanted to change his clothes. About twenty minutes later I went down and let him in the side entrance. He was wearing nasty old gray sweats that were much too big for him and carrying his wet tux in a plastic grocery bag. He put on jeans and a sweater and shoes that he kept here.”
“What happened to the sweats?” Roman asked.
Flavia wrinkled her store-bought nose. “I threw them away.”
“Then what?”
“He told me to go back to bed, that he had to meet someone. I watched him walk along the street and turn toward the parking structure.”
“Did you see whom he met?”
“No. You can’t see inside the structure from here.”
“What time was this?”
“Around four thirty.”
“Why haven’t you gone to the police?” Jean asked.
“I’m engaged. My fiancé would hate it if he thought Martin was still in my life. I was hoping the killer would be found without my help.”
“I’m sorry, but I think you’ll have to talk to the police,” Roman said. “An innocent man has been arrested.”
“I know, Peter Brennan. I’m actually glad you came to see me. It saves me from having to make the decision myself.” She crossed her shapely legs and leaned slightly toward Roman. “They’ll be angry that I didn’t come forward before.”
“The investigating officers are Oscar Davila and George Hallock,” Roman said. “Will you call them tomorrow?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Who’s your fiancé?” Jean asked.
Flavia smiled proudly. “Ralph Beasley. We’re to be married in August.”
Jean raised an eyebrow. Beasley was often mentioned in the same breath as Bill Gates when people discussed fabulously wealthy computer nerds.
Roman looked around the room. “Martin must really have loved you to give you this beautiful house.”
“I believe he did love me. He wouldn’t marry me, but he gave me this condo.”
“Why wouldn’t he marry you?” Jean asked.
Flavia shot her a haughty look. “Is that any of your business?”
“Excuse my friend,” Roman said soothingly. “She’s often too blunt. We’re interested in Martin and Kay’s marriage because we think she might have had something to do with his death. Otherwise we wouldn’t be asking you painful questions. I’m sorry we’ve upset you.”
“That’s all right—you haven’t upset me.” Flavia favored Roman with a dazzling smile. Her teeth were as flawless as the rest of her. “I don’t mind saying that I fell hard for Martin. He was everything I’d ever wanted in a man, and I told him so. He said he loved me, too, but that Kay didn’t want a divorce and would cause trouble for him if he tried it. I confronted Kay and demanded that she divorce him. She said that nothing would make her happier, but it wasn’t up to her.”
“What did she mean, it wasn’t up to her?” Jean asked.
Flavia gave a graceful shrug. “She had to do whatever Martin said. He knew something about her that could hurt her in politics. Of course I was furious with Martin for lying to me. That’s when he told me that even though he loved me, he would never marry me. He said we were too much alike. That was his problem with Kay, too. You see, Kay and I knew what he was, and he didn’t like that. He needed someone he could fool.” Flavia’s face took on an odd, unhappy expression; Jean realized the woman was frowning without wrinkling her forehead. “So after the heart attack he married his little innocent.”
“Do you know what he had on Kay?” Roman asked.
“No,” Flavia said. “All the things he knew about people, and he never told me a single secret, no matter what I did for him.”
“Did he leave anything here, like papers or a DVD?” Jean asked.
“No, just clothes and toiletries. He was very careful never to leave business papers here.”
“Tell me, Flavia, were you still seeing Martin?” Roman asked.
“You mean was I sleeping with him?” She gave a sly smile. “When he came by that night I hadn’t seen him in at least a week.”
“Thank you again,” Roman said, standing up. “If you have any problems with the police, don’t hesitate to call me.” He took out his wallet and handed her a business card.
Flavia read the card. “You’re an editor? You look more like a model.” She stood, too, and gave him another highvoltage smile. She said something in Portuguese, a question judging from the inflection. Roman chuckled and they spoke back and forth. Finally he took her hand and kissed it. She showed them out with a friendly wave.
“What was all that?” Jean asked as they walked to the car.
“She wanted to know if you were my girlfriend. I told her I didn’t have a girlfriend, but I used to have a boyfriend. She was very disappointed.”
“So was I.” Jean too
k his arm. “Isn’t this great? Peter’s off the hook now. He was at Diane’s with witnesses while Martin was at Flavia’s.”
“Indeed,” Roman said.
“Ivan saw Martin make a few calls: We know he called Diane, Flavia, Frank, and presumably whoever he met.”
“Could it have been Emory?” Roman asked.
“He says he was in Las Vegas the whole weekend. What I don’t get is why Martin would call whoever it was in the first place.”
“He may have needed backup for whatever he had to do. Do you think Flavia was telling the truth about Martin cheating on Diane?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past him,” Jean said. “Sounds as if Flavia has really scored—she’s marrying someone even richer than Martin.”
“In the nick of time, too. Hers is a game for the young.”
They got into Roman’s car and he started the engine. “Where to?”
“I’m starving,” Jean said. “I need comfort food. Let’s get Thai.”
CHAPTER 41
The doorbell woke Jean the next morning. She looked into the guest room for Roman, who’d slept at Beau’s with her last night, but he was already gone. She went downstairs warily as the bell rang again, alert to the possibility that the press had found her. She didn’t think Setrakian would be dumb enough to come in by the front door.
Jean looked through the peephole to see Diane holding a newspaper and looking angry. Jean unlocked all the locks and let her in. “What’s the matter?”
“Zeppo is all over the front page,” Diane announced, handing her the paper and storming past her into the house.
Jean read the paper. The headline on the front page below the fold said “Shooting Victim Was Cheswick Ripper Suspect.” She’d already seen the old photos—Zeppo in handcuffs and one of a smiling Sarah.
“Well, fuck,” Jean said, walking slowly to the kitchen as she read. “We were afraid this would happen.” She looked at Diane. “Why the hell are you so pissed?”
“Are you telling me you knew about this?”
“Yeah, I knew. I also know it’s a crock.” Jean sat down at the kitchen table.
“How do you know?” Diane demanded, sitting across from her.
“It’s simple: I know Zeppo.”
“And based on that reasoning you got into bed with a man who may have raped a woman and stabbed her to death. One of these days you’re going to misjudge the wrong man.”
“Excuse me, but aren’t you boffing the suspect in your husband’s murder?”
“I’ve always known Peter was innocent. I’ve never trusted Zeppo.”
“Martin knew all about it and he believed Zeppo.”
“What? He never said anything to me.”
“I thought you were getting used to the idea that he had a lot of secrets from you.”
“Don’t try to turn this into an indictment of Martin,” Diane said.
“Get off my back, will you? I’ve got to worry about Zeppo now, not your paranoia.” Jean took a breath. “Listen: I know you’re behaving like this because you’re worried about me. But I do know a few things about men, and Zeppo’s innocent.”
Roman came in the back door and looked at the paper. “I see you’ve discovered that Zeppo’s deep dark secret is no longer secret. I must say, Jean, this goes beyond anything I suspected.” He noticed their angry faces. “What are you two fighting about?”
“Diane’s pissed because I’m sleeping with a killer.”
“Zeppo’s no more a killer than you are, Diane,” Roman said. “I’ve been reading about the trial on the Net—it’s an infamous case of sloppy small-town police work. By the time the pros from Boston homicide were called in, it was too late.”
Jean told them what she knew about it. “The worst part came later—his family saw to it that he spent two years in a mental hospital.”
“Does Zeppo know who the killer is?” Roman asked.
“He thinks it’s his father.”
Roman raised an eyebrow. “I’m beginning to understand his problem with authority figures.”
The phone rang and Jean answered. “I just heard about Zeppo on the TV news,” Peter told her. “Did you know all this?”
Jean braced herself for another lecture. “Yes, I knew. I found out the day before you and I broke up.”
“That’s why you slept with him, isn’t it?” Peter said, but he wasn’t angry. “The whole thing’s in character for you—using sex to show you believed him.”
“I’m sorry, Peter. I hope you see why I didn’t tell you anything.”
“Yes, I do see. In any case, that’s behind us now. I’ll do what I can to help him. And thank you for finding Flavia Soares. Pfeiffer expects the D.A. to drop the charges against me by the end of the day.”
“That’s great, Peter. Hey, will you talk to your girlfriend? She’s over here pitching a fit. She thinks Zeppo’s a deranged sex killer because it says so in the paper.”
“I might have believed it myself a few days ago. But the paper also says I’m a greedy, cuckolding, backstabbing murderer. I’ve got a whole new perspective on the police and the media. Let me talk to her.”
Jean handed the phone to Diane and joined Roman at the kitchen table for coffee.
“Flavia phoned me this morning and asked if I’d take her down to the Hall,” Roman said. “I said I would—that way we’ll be sure she goes.”
Jean poked him. “She hasn’t given up on you yet, huh?”
“I’m sure she has. But unlike you, she needs male support in difficult moments.”
“I’d better get over to the hospital and tell Zeppo before someone else does,” Jean said.
“Go get dressed. I’ll drop you on my way to Flavia’s.”
Diane, contrite and apologetic, left to meet Peter. As she went out the door the phone rang again. It was Kyle calling from the magazine. “Hey, you OK?” he said. “I saw the news.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Jean said.
“Your friend who was shot—did he really stab that woman?”
“Of course not. I draw the line at dating murderers.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were using your vacation to investigate a murder?”
“I thought we were being discreet,” Jean said. “Who knew we’d end up on the front page?”
“Look, I know I sound like an insensitive prick, but I need you to come by the office today and ID the Central Coast images.”
Jean had forgotten all about them. “But it’s Saturday. Can’t I do it Monday?”
“Has to be today. The slides came in late and Carol’s going to lay out the story this afternoon. We can’t miss the press date.”
“OK, OK. I’d drive myself down, but there are some safety issues.”
“Why don’t I drive you?”
“Great. Pick me up at S.F. General at noon. I’ll be at the main entrance.”
Jean got dressed and Roman dropped her at the hospital. Zeppo was sitting up in bed reading when she arrived. She kissed him softly. “How are you?”
“Much better. I’m moving to a regular ward today and I finally got a shave.”
She sat next to him. “I’ve got good news and bad news. Last night we talked to Flavia.” She gave him a summary of their conversation. “Roman’s taking her to see Hallock now, so Peter should be a free man soon.”
“So we got our money’s worth from Ivan. What’s the bad news?”
She laid her hand on his chest. “Your cover’s blown. The police must have run your fingerprints and someone leaked it to the press.”
He sighed and sank into the bed. “Ah, shit. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t investigated Martin’s death. Now my life is trashed and we still don’t know who killed him.”
“Once Martin was dead and they had your fingerprints, it could have happened any time. Anyway, your life is far from trashed. You have friends, money, even a car, which is more than I have. And we’re not through yet—we’ll find the killer. We found Hugh, didn’t we?” Sh
e sat as close as she could, gently stroking him, wishing she could offer more physical comfort.
“Yeah, we found Hugh. One down and one to go. And so what if a lot of strangers think I’m a psycho? Of course, my family thinks so, too.”
Jean took a walk outside to get some non-hospital air while Zeppo moved to his new room. As she turned to go back inside, she noticed George Hallock sitting on a nearby bench, smoking. “You’d think hanging around a hospital would discourage you from smoking,” she commented, joining him.
“I have a high-stress job,” he said. He blew a plume of smoke. “I just heard from Oscar—he’s got one Flavia Soares down at the Hall. Says you and Villalobos found her.”
Jean had discussed this line of questioning with Roman over Thai food the night before, and they’d agreed to leave Ivan out of it. “That’s right,” she said. “Zeppo mentioned that she and Martin were close, so we went to talk to her and got lucky.”
“You have any idea how Wingo got to South Beach?”
“No. Does it matter?”
“It does to me. I don’t like loose ends.”
“Flavia told us that Martin had something on Kay Wingo,” Jean said. “That he made her stay married when she didn’t want to. Maybe Donald Grimes was the man Martin met.”
“We’ll see. I’m on my way to talk to Soares.” He gave a dismissive wave of his cigarette. “Anyway, we looked at Kay Wingo and Grimes a long time ago. Just to keep you from pestering her, I’ll tell you that she was in Washington the night of the wedding. One of the wedding guests called her there to tell her about Wingo going into the bay, and she called Grimes and a few other people during the night to talk about it. We’ve got the phone records. No matter what you think of her politics, she still needs a motive.”
“What do you think of her politics?” Jean asked.
“She has some good ideas, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be on her if I had a reason.”
Jean decided to take advantage of his cooperative mood. “Someone also mentioned Simon Emory, the nightclub owner. Have you talked to him?”
“Yeah. Leave him alone, too—he’s got an alibi. Took all his bouncers to Vegas for the weekend. He was at a casino winning at craps when Wingo bought it.”