Death in a Wine Dark Sea

by Lisa King

  “What about Zeppo and me? Are we still going to get busted for withholding evidence?”

  Hallock blew out a cloud of smoke. “Probably not. I can’t see bothering with it. Now I know why you didn’t report the attempts to run you down. I thought you were a couple of real flakes. You were protecting Zeppetello’s ass. Or should I say Van Vleck.”

  “Yeah,” Jean said, her tone apologetic. “It didn’t do much good, though, did it?”

  “You can’t keep a thing like that quiet once you’re involved in a crime, even if you’re the victim. I called a detective I know in Boston. The thinking in the BPD is that the kid got screwed. For different reasons, everybody hated the way it came out—the investigating officers, the D.A., the judge, the jury, the family, everybody but the defense attorney. A lot of police academies nowadays use Van Vleck as an example of how not to do things, right along with O.J. and JonBenet Ramsey.” He shook his head. “It galls me to see a case like that, where the police work is so bad they’ll never find the truth.”

  Jean was pleasantly surprised by Hallock’s reaction. “Did you talk to Rivenbark today?”

  He stood up and took a final pull on his cigarette, grinding it out on the pavement. “Don’t push it too hard. I’m not going to tell you all the department’s business. The D.A. has scheduled a press conference for Tuesday morning. Buy a paper on Wednesday.”

  “I’ll do that,” Jean said. “Thanks, Inspector.” She went back into the hospital and used Zeppo’s cell to call Roman. “Hey,” she said, “I just talked to Hallock. He says we’re not going to be charged with withholding evidence.”

  “You two are pals now?”

  “He’s being very reasonable about Zeppo.” She told him what Hallock had said. “How did things go with Flavia?”

  “When I left she was batting her eyelashes at Oscar Davila. Television has found you, by the way. The cretin on Channel 7 referred to you, Diane, Peter, and Zeppo as a ‘four-sided love triangle.’ ”

  Jean laughed. “God, I’ll be glad when this is over.”

  She hung up and mused about Zeppo for a while, then scrolled through his saved numbers, looking for Gwen Lansing, his Goth friend. Jean pushed dial.

  “Hi, Gwen. This is Jean Applequist.”

  “Hey, I’ve been reading all about you. And Zeppo—what a shocker.”

  “Do you think he did it?”

  “No way. I’ve met a few guys who got their kicks knocking women around, and Zeppo’s nothing like them. Anyway, now I know why he made up all that crap about his family.”

  “Good, I’m glad you’re with me on that,” Jean said.

  “Heavy about Peter Brennan.”

  “They’re going to drop the charges. We found a witness who saw Martin alive after Peter supposedly killed him.”

  “If I were a guy, I’d stay as far away from you as I could. Look what happens to your boyfriends.”

  “This is a first, believe me. Listen, will you visit Zeppo? To show people trust him?”

  “Sure. I can get over there this afternoon. How about five o’clock?”

  “That would be great. He’s at S.F. General.” Jean gave his room number.

  “See you then. I’ll be the one in black.”

  ZEPPO’S NEW room looked like every other hospital room Jean had ever seen, except for the uniformed officer Hallock had stationed outside his door. She brought Zeppo up to date, explaining that they wouldn’t be charged with withholding evidence and detailing Simon’s airtight alibi and her conversation with Kay.

  “Sounds like Kay’s getting nervous,” Zeppo said.

  “By the way, I have to go to work for an hour or so today.”

  “You’ll be back full time on Monday, won’t you?” Zeppo said. “I guess life has to go back to normal sooner or later. Even my life. They’ll never let me into U.C. Davis now—they’ll find out I made up my high school records.”

  “You could always go to a community college and then transfer to a U.C. as a junior.”

  “Yeah, but I felt good about getting into a decent school without my family’s help.”

  Jean glanced at the wall clock. “Shit, I have to go. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She kissed Zeppo goodbye and dashed down to the front entrance, where Kyle waited at the curb in his blue Mini Cooper. “Now tell me everything,” he said without preamble.

  Jean recounted the story as they drove across town to Opera Plaza. “So there you have it,” she said. “We messed up, but it could have been a lot worse.”

  “It’s what I’ve been telling you all these years—don’t let your gonads rule your life. Although your sex life sounds a hell of a lot more exciting than mine.”

  “I can do without that kind of excitement.”

  They left the car with an attendant and took the elevator up to the second floor. The building seemed empty. Kyle unlocked the door to Wine Digest’s office and led the way to the conference room, where color slides were spread out near a light box.

  “Here they are,” he said. “They’re good, just really fucking late. Next time I’m going digital no matter what.”

  “I’ll find my notes,” Jean said.

  “You want some coffee from downstairs?” Kyle asked.

  “Sure,” she said. “The usual. And can you get me one of those cheese croissants?”

  “No problemo.” Jean heard the deadbolt turn behind Kyle.

  Jean’s cubicle was at the far end of the room. She booted up her computer. Might as well check her email. More than two hundred messages awaited her. As she scrolled through them to see if any were urgent, she sensed someone come into her cubicle. “Hey, that was fast.” She turned her head. The man behind her was Armand Setrakian.

  CHAPTER 42

  Jean jumped up from the chair and backed away from him. “Kyle!” she shouted. “Call 911!” No answer.

  Armand took a step toward her, flexing his big hands, blocking the doorway so she couldn’t get past him. “Now you’ll get what you deserve, bitch,” he said.

  “That was you in the cars, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah. But this time it’ll be up close and personal.”

  “You think you can rape me?”

  “I know I can, but I won’t. A woman like you would get over that. I’m going to give you something to remember me by.” He reached into his back pocket and brought out one of the sculpting tools Jean had seen in his barn—a wicked-looking short-bladed knife with a piece of cork stuck on its tip.

  “You don’t scare me, asshole.”

  Setrakian pulled off the cork and dropped it. “I’m really going to enjoy this.”

  “Kyle, help!” No answer. She steeled herself—she was on her own.

  As he lunged for her she tried to go around him, but he caught her by the arm and forced her back until she lay half on the desk, scattering books and papers. He used his weight to hold her down, the edge of the desk hard against her lower back. He brought the knife up and moved it toward her face. She grabbed his right wrist with both hands, using all her strength to push him away, but it was no good—in a moment he’d cut her. The grin on his face was feral and malevolent. “Every time you look in the mirror, you’ll think of me, bitch.”

  Suddenly Armand seemed to levitate off her. “What the fuck!” he exclaimed.

  Jean righted herself and was astonished to see Ivan pull Armand out of the cubicle by his ponytail. Armand slashed at his attacker, but Ivan brought the edge of his hand down hard on Armand’s wrist and the knife fell to the carpet. Ivan released the ponytail and Armand spun toward him, fists up. Ivan hit him in the stomach with a sharp right jab and kneed him in the chin when he bent double. Armand crumpled to the floor. Ivan grinned at Jean, rubbing his fist. “You OK?”

  “Yes, thanks to you,” she said gratefully. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Following you. I heard your boyfriend was out of action, so I thought you might want to go for a boat ride.”

  “Well, I’m flatter
ed.” She looked at Armand, who hadn’t moved. “He’s not dead, is he?”

  “Nah. Do you want him to be?”

  “No, that’s OK,” she said quickly. “Look, I need to sit down. Come tell me how you got here.” She and Ivan went into her cube and sat.

  “I followed you from the hospital. I wanted to talk to you alone.” Ivan gestured at Armand. “This guy unlocked the office door and went in after the other guy left. When I heard you yelling I came in.”

  Armand groaned, and Ivan rose and knelt next to him. He rolled the semiconscious man onto his stomach, and tied his ankles and wrists together with a beige phone cord from Jean’s office. “Who is he?” he asked Jean. “Why’d he want to cut you?”

  “Armand Setrakian. He’s pissed because I told a reporter that he keeps attacking women.”

  Ivan nodded. “Oh, right. The sculptor. Want me to break his fingers?”

  Jean thought about it. Tempting, but she decided against overkill. “No, really, you’ve done enough. Thanks anyway.”

  Kyle arrived carrying a cardboard container that held two coffees and a small white bakery bag. He stopped short when he saw the tableau outside Jean’s cubicle. “Whoa! What the hell?”

  “We had a little attempted assault,” Jean said.

  “My God, Jean. You OK?”

  “Fine.”

  “Who are these guys?”

  “The man on the floor is Armand Setrakian,” Jean said. “Ivan here pulled him off me. Ivan, this is Kyle.”

  “Jesus,” Kyle said, putting his box on her desk. “I never should have left you alone.”

  Armand groaned again. “I’d better call the police,” Jean said.

  “Then I’m outta here,” Ivan said.

  “You’re leaving?” Jean said. “What am I supposed to tell the cops? That I did this to Armand?”

  Ivan shrugged. “Say Kyle did it.”

  “No fucking way,” Kyle exclaimed.

  “Kyle,” Ivan said, “listen up. I don’t want any trouble with the pigs for business reasons. So here’s the deal: You brought coffee, you heard her yell, you pulled him off by the hair, you gut-punched him, you kneed him on the chin. He never tagged you. Got it?”

  “Are you both on crack?” Kyle said. “He’ll tell the police you did it.”

  “Sure, but if you and Jean stick to the same story, the fuzz will assume he’s making me up so they won’t think he got his ass kicked by a little faggot like you.”

  “Ivan, please,” Jean said. She turned to Kyle. “Listen: I owe this man a lot, maybe my life, and he can’t get involved with the cops. Please, Kyle—as a favor.”

  “OK,” Kyle said reluctantly. “But you owe me big time.”

  Jean grabbed some tissues from a box on her desk and went over to Armand, who was stirring. She wiped the phone cord down as best she could. “Kyle, put your fingerprints on the cord,” she said. “Grab it, especially the knot.”

  “Smart, too,” Ivan said. “You’ve got it all.”

  “If we get away with this, it’ll be a miracle,” Kyle said.

  Armand stirred and strained against his bonds. “Untie me, you motherfucker,” he snarled when he saw Ivan. “My back is breaking.”

  Ivan leaned down and pulled Armand’s head up by his hair. Armand glared at him, gritting his teeth in agony. “Every time you take it up the ass in prison,” Ivan said, “you’ll think of me, bitch.” He stood up. “I gotta go.”

  “I’ll see you out,” Jean said.

  As they walked down the corridor, Ivan leaned toward her. “So you want to go for a boat ride?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Maybe a mustache ride? You owe me a little something.”

  Jean laughed. “I owe you a whole lot, Ivan, but you’re not really my type. Maybe Zeppo and I can come for a cruise when he’s better.”

  “It’s like that, huh? I may be older and fatter than what you’re used to, but I’ve still got a few moves left.”

  “I don’t doubt it. How about this: I promise we won’t mention you and Martin, no matter what happens. And if you ever need anything besides sex, let me know.”

  Ivan took the receipt from the Spindrift Restaurant from his pocket, wrote on the back, and handed it to her: “Ivan Gunnar” and a phone number. “If your boyfriend doesn’t pull through, give me a call.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks again.” She accepted his bear hug and didn’t complain when he patted her ass.

  “Peace,” he said as he went out the door.

  CHAPTER 43

  Jean called 911 from the conference room. Her next call was to Peter’s cell. “Peter, where are you?”

  “We’re visiting Zeppo. You OK?”

  “Armand Setrakian attacked me at my office, but Ivan intervened. Listen,” she said over his exclamations, “let Zeppo and Diane know I’m going to tell the truth about why we went to see Armand, and admit that we sent those letters. There’s no need to mention the blue box—we’ll say Martin just wanted to force him to sell the land. And don’t mention Ivan. Got that?”

  “Yes, but what—”

  “Tell Zeppo I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She hung up and dialed Roman’s cell. “Roman,” she said, “can you come to the office? I need moral support. Armand came after me and Ivan stopped him. He’s lying here hogtied.”

  She heard a sharp intake of breath. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine now, but it got pretty lively.”

  “Where was Kyle?”

  “Getting coffee.” She heard sirens. “I’ll explain later. I have to let the police in.”

  Roman showed up shortly after the emergency response crew and managed to be polite to the police. Kyle gave a statement and slipped away as soon as the police would let him, visibly uncomfortable with the admiration of the investigating officers. One of the officers assured Jean that Hallock and Davila would be notified. She remembered to phone Carol, the art director, to tell her not to come in.

  When they were finally alone, Roman looked at Jean. “Now tell me why Ivan’s name didn’t come up in your statement to the police.”

  She gave him the unedited version of recent events as she ate the croissant Kyle had bought her.

  “I never should have let you leave Beau’s house,” he said, scowling. “It’s fortunate that our troglodyte friend Ivan is so smitten with you.”

  “It’s all that muliebrity,” Jean said. “Ivan’s a bizarre creature. He reminds me of a big, dumb, cuddly attack dog. Like you with a lobotomy.”

  “In any case, he’s made my bodyguard duties considerably lighter. I’d say he’s earned his anonymity.” Roman dropped her at the hospital, with instructions to call him when she was ready to come home.

  Jean was glad to see that Diane and Peter had left; she wanted to be alone with Zeppo. He was upset when she told him what had happened but relieved she wasn’t hurt.

  “Sending those letters exposing Setrakian was pretty dumb,” Zeppo said. “Sorry you had to deal with the fallout.”

  “Hey, I’m fine. Setrakian’s the one who’s dealing with fallout.”

  “Turns out Ivan’s a pretty good guy after all.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Jean said. “Let’s just say he’s complex.”

  Around five o’clock Gwen arrived, all in black as promised. “Hey, Zeppo,” she said. “You look like a train wreck.”

  He grinned. “You should see the other guy.”

  The three of them visited until Zeppo started yawning.

  “OK,” Gwen said, standing up. “Time to let the patient rest. See you tomorrow, Zeppo.”

  Jean rose, too. “I’ll be back in the morning,” she said. “Call me if you think of anything you want.”

  “I want a shower. I want this sling off. I want a month with you on a desert island.”

  “I’ll give you a rain check.” She tousled his hair and realized he was nearly asleep. She took off his glasses, set them aside, and joined Gwen in the corridor.

  “I’m really glad you came,” Jean said
.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it. Who knew he was such an interesting guy?”

  Jean took out Zeppo’s cell. “I have to call my ride.” From the waiting area Jean tried Roman’s cell but was sent straight to voicemail. Puzzled, she called his house and Beau’s number, leaving messages.

  “That’s strange,” she said to Gwen. “I can’t find him. Now what?”

  “Let’s get a drink.”

  There were plenty of innocent explanations for Roman’s absence, and now that Setrakian was out of the picture, Jean felt like celebrating a little. “OK. Where?”

  “There’s a fun place in my neighborhood, not too far from here.”

  Jean followed Gwen to an ancient black VW bus. They drove into the Mission, parked on Guerrero, and walked a block to a small neighborhood bar. The scruffy, cheerful place held about a dozen patrons. Loud rock played on the jukebox. After a quick appraisal, Jean ruled out wine. A bartender with biker tattoos gave them draft beers, which they carried to a booth. Jean tried Roman again.

  “Still not home,” Jean said.

  “If you can’t get hold of him, I’ll give you a lift.” Gwen sipped her beer. “So you and Zeppo, huh? No wonder he was so skittish before. Is Polly right?”

  “Absolutely. That boy is seriously oversexed. But you won’t hear me complaining.” Jean lost her joking tone. “That’s what got him shot. We couldn’t wait.”

  Gwen patted Jean’s hand. “Hey, he’s going to be fine. Now that the secret’s out, he doesn’t have to lie to everyone he meets. He can make real friends.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe Hugh’s bullet will have one good result.”

  “I hate it that Zeppo almost got killed because of that son of a bitch Martin.”

  “I don’t know how you worked for him,” Jean said. “I never could have.”

  “I never had to deal with him,” Gwen said with a shrug. “He only spoke to me once.”

  “To complain about your clothes?”

  “No, he always nagged my boss about that. Martin was cleaning out his office and he came back to the production department late, when everyone was gone but me, wanting to borrow an X-ACTO knife. He didn’t know what they were called, and he got impatient when I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. He finally took one off a desk and left.”