by Claire McNab
I got the impression she'd taken an instant dislike to Westholme, though with Fran it was hard to tell. She didn't look on anyone with much approval.
On the other hand, Rich Westholme was giving Fran, and her bosom, the glad eye. "Call me Rich. And you are...?"
"Not available."
He laughed, apparently thinking she was joking. "Good one. No, seriously, what's your name?"
"Fran," I said. "She's our office manager."
"Watch it," said Fran to me.
Rich Westholme slapped on a slimy smile. "Well, Fran, have you ever thought of being in movies?"
She directed a look at him I thought might burn his sallow face, but he continued to grin at her.
"What about me?" I said. "Maybe I've got ambitions to be in movies."
"Yeah, yeah." He didn't even bother looking in my direction. To Fran he said, "I'm casting at the moment. There could be a part for you."
I winced as Fran opened her rosebud mouth, having a fair idea what her response was going to be. With terrific timing, Melodie blew through the door at this exact instant. "Rich!" She rushed over and planted a proprietary kiss on his cheek. "You didn't say you were coming by."
"Yeah, well, I was in the neighborhood."
The phone rang. I waited to see if Melodie was intending to resume her duties, but she was too busy looping her arm through Rich's and leading him off. "Honey, you said you wanted to see where I work, so let me give you the official tour. And you'll want to hear about my audition..."
Fran said, "Dickhead."
I said, "Fuckwit."
We looked at each other. "You're all right," said Fran.
I was excited but not showing it. I'd expected we have dinner in some local restaurant, but instead we were going to Ariana's place. Bob Verritt was driving and I was playing it cool. He was negotiating the sharp bends of the ascending Hollywood Hills road with more smooth skill than I had shown this morning. Of course, Bob probably had the advantage of knowing exactly where he was going. "Have you been to Ariana's place many times?"
His long face split in a smile. "Not often, and every time it's like receiving an invitation from the queen."
"She lives alone, doesn't she?"
"Apart from Gussie."
An arrow of disappointment skewered me. Then I thought how stupid I was to have thought otherwise. Why would someone as attractive as Ariana be alone?
"Here we are." Bob pulled through an entryway into a smallish parking lot just off the road. There was room for three, maybe four cars. A barred gate began sliding across to secure the area from the road. Facing us was the door of a double garage, and I supposed Ariana's BMW was nestling in there side-by-side with whatever Gussie drove. I pictured something sporty— maybe even a Porsche.
Not much could be seen of Ariana's house from this vantage point, just a blank wall with an entrance door. "Smile," said Bob, "you're on Candid Camera!'
I looked more carefully at the entrance. "There's a surveillance camera here?"
"Don't bother looking—you won't find it. The lens is tiny."
I became aware of a deep barking. The dog wasn't hysterical, but merely well-mannered, announcing there were intruders on the premises.
Ariana opened the door, her left hand hooked into the collar of a large German Shepherd. "Don't mind Gussie. She's friendly, as long as you don't attack me."
Gussie, tongue lolling, checked out Bob, gave a quick wave of her tail to acknowledge she recognized him, then switched her watchful gaze to me. I could have flung my arms around her neck and hugged her but thought it better to be more circumspect. Besides, I know dogs well, and although she seemed friendly, her role was to guard Ariana, and I was a stranger.
Ariana stood aside to let us in. "I got Chinese takeout. I hope that's okay."
"Bonzer." I realized I'd skipped lunch. "I'm starving."
"Then let's eat first and work later."
The house was on three levels, the last being a living room that stretched the entire length of the building. Jarrod Perkins could not have had a more stunning view. Far below us the brilliant lights of the city stretched in sparkling patterns until they reached a darkness I presumed was the Pacific Ocean. How odd to think the waves of that same ocean beat upon the shores of my own country, half a world away.
I'd expected the decor of Ariana's house to be stark, perhaps with black and white predominating, like her office. I couldn't have been more wrong. It was warm, comfortable, and welcoming. The walls were pale cream, the polished wooden floors glowed with honey tints, the couches and chairs, arranged to take advantage of the view, were upholstered in a deep rose fabric.
I would have loved to have had a tour of the whole house, but Ariana ushered us into a dining area adjacent to the kitchen, where we could look at the city lights while we ate.
Gussie stationed herself nearby, keeping an eye on Bob and me. I grinned at her. "You may look fierce, but you're just a big, gorgeous sook," I said. She cocked her head, considering me, then flapped her plumed tail a couple of times.
Fortunately Ariana had ordered generously. While she picked at her food and Bob ate moderately, I feasted. Takeaway from Wong's Cafe in the 'Gudge ran a pretty poor second to this spread. And just like I'd seen in the movies, everything came in delightful little cardboard containers that folded over at the top, not the plastic trays I was accustomed to.
"That was beaut," I said, sitting back with a sigh of satisfaction. "Thank you."
We moved to the living room for coffee. "I'm afraid I'm a poor host," Ariana told me. "I don't have loose tea, but I do have Twinings tea bags. Could you slum, just this once?" She almost smiled as she added, "It's not the herbal tea you so dislike."
I said I'd have coffee, but I was charmed by the offer. Almost as charmed as I was by the house, but nowhere near how much I was charmed by Ariana Creeling herself.
When we moved to the living room, Gussie came too, putting herself beside Ariana's chair. Bob folded himself onto one of the couches, and I sat beside him.
Ariana was all business. "Bob, what's the report on the Challoner case?"
He groaned. "Tracking this particular missing teenager is no piece of cake, especially when her parents are in the middle of an acrimonious divorce and blaming each other for their daughter's disappearance. Add to that the girl took quite a sum of money with her, and she's got an excellent support group. Getting information out of her friends is like pulling teeth, but I'm getting there, slowly but surely."
They discussed the runaway Cassie Challoner for a few minutes, then Ariana said to me, "Let's get to the Deerdoc situation."
"The Hummer?"
"It was an incendiary device. No details yet. Perkins made it easy, as he never bothers to lock his vehicles. The doorman of the building didn't notice anything, but it could have been planted long before Perkins parked the Hummer in Beverly Hills. When he was interviewed by the cops this afternoon, he said he had no idea who could have wanted to harm him."
"Ha!" Bob snorted. "If you included everyone Jarrod Perkins has pissed off, potential suspects would number in the thousands."
"Do you think the bomb has anything to do with the missing therapy session recordings?" I asked.
"It's possible," said Ariana. "I did my best to persuade Dave Deer to tell the police about the blackmail threat, but he insists it's got to be kept quiet."
Bob said, "You don't believe they're one and the same? The thief is the blackmailer?"
"It would be very helpful if it were one person, but I've a strong feeling it isn't the case."
Bob grinned at me. Jerking his thumb at Ariana, he said, "Always trust this one's strong feelings. She's uncanny. Spooky, even."
"Just don't call it female intuition," said Ariana. She handed us stapled pages. "Lonnie and Harriet have completed background checks of the staff. These four have been less than frank, as you'll see. Even so, Kylie, when you're at Deerdoc don't concentrate only on these people. In my experience it often turns out
to be the last one you'd expect."
"Like the butler," I piped in.
"There are butlers in Hollywood," said Bob. "The most highly prized specimens speak with that lockjaw English accent. Jarrod Perkins doesn't have one, however. His personal assistant, Sven, fills the role of butler, troubleshooter, bodyguard, enforcer. The whole enchilada."
"How do you know all this?" I asked.
"I've done work for Perkins in the past. Never again. He's an asshole of the first order."
I studied the names of those meriting closer attention: Reuben Kowalski, Randy Romaine, Kristi Jane Russo, and Oscar Sherwood.
I was about to comment if you called someone randy in Australia you would mean they were oversexed, but then I decided this would be entirely too flippant. "How about Deer's personal assistant?" I asked. "Noreen resigned awfully fast today. Maybe she's bailing before she's caught."
Ariana considered this, absently stroking Gussie's head. "Her background checks out, but you could be right. I'll have Harriet take another look at her."
Bob gave me advice for my undercover role. The golden rule, he told me, was to avoid confrontation. "Let's say you catch someone red-handed doing something incriminating, get out of there and call security. Don't try and handle it yourself."
"In this case security's Fred Mills," I said. "He could be worse than nothing."
"You work with what you've got," said Bob.
"Whoopy-do," I said, unimpressed.
"Because you're new, no one's going to be surprised if you ask a lot of questions, but be careful not to overdo it, and always have a convincing reason for asking the question, in case you're challenged."
"I'm a natural stickybeak. How about that?"
Bob patted my shoulder. "With that cute accent of yours, I'm guessing you can ask as many questions as you like."
We spent the next half hour going through the shortlist. Reuben Kowalski had neglected to advise he had an extensive arrest record, spread over several states, for petty theft. Randy Romaine hadn't found it necessary to mention his hobby of celebrity stalking. He'd been picked up several times late at night loitering outside female stars' homes, and in two instances he'd actually trespassed. Kristi Jane Russo was an Aussie with a drinking problem she'd concealed in her job application. In Sydney she'd been involved in two serious traffic accidents, one with fatalities. Oscar Sherwood had never been charged with anything, but in two of his previous jobs considerable sums of money had mysteriously disappeared.
"These four have no idea we have this information," said Ariana. "We don't want to tip them off. After this is over, however, I don't believe they can count on continuing their careers at Deerdoc."
I looked down at Gussie, who had her head resting on her paws but her eyes fixed hopefully on Ariana. "Is she waiting for her walk?"
"I take her every night."
"But she doesn't have a yard, does she? Why don't you bring her down to the office during the day?"
Bob grinned. Ariana sighed. "I'm touched you're worried about Gussie's welfare," she said crisply. "Would it make you feel better to know I have a professional handler who picks Gussie up each weekday, along with a number of other dogs, and takes them running at a dog park?"
"It does make me feel better."
"Is there anything else I can help you with?"
She was being sarcastic, of course, but if Bob hadn't been there maybe I'd have said "Too right, there is!" and leaned over and kissed her.
Or maybe not. Okay, definitely not. But crikey, it was tempting...
THIRTEEN
I put on the car radio while driving to Beverly Hills for my first proper day's work at Deerdoc. Tarrod Perkins was still the lead news item, popping up everywhere and never missing a chance to plug his latest project, a movie called Primitive Obsessions.
Last night Tules and I had picked up some of the frenzy about Jarrod Perkins on the late TV news, and the story was still going strong this morning. In the kitchen Fran had the teev turned up high. There'd been lots of angles of the Hummer's burning wreckage, breathless theories floated about who might conceivably be responsible—Homeland Security was hinting at an Al Qaeda terrorist cell—and roving reporters shoving microphones under the noses of local residents, who had been variously shocked, horrified, or oddly pleased about the bomb blast in their exclusive area. Unlike Aussies, these people never seemed to get tongue-tied but burbled on freely as soon as the media appeared.
"They'll never eat lunch in this town again," Fran had observed. She'd taken another bite from a ghastly-looking health food bar. "Beverly Hills doesn't forgive."
"What do you mean?"
"It's not done, talking to a reporter in the street. A studio interview, though, would be okay."
I'd been given directions to Noreen's car spot under the building, where there were three floors of parking. The patients had the first floor, the doctors the second, and the rest of the staff was relegated to the bottom parking area.
I didn't have a keycard yet, so I stopped beside the attendant sitting in his little box. He was a middle-aged bloke in a creased uniform who'd quickly hidden the magazine he was reading when I'd pulled up. Without even asking my name, he raised the arm and waved me through.
"Aren't you going to ask who I am? I could be a terrorist, deadset on blowing up the building."
He gave me a long look, a bit like Ariana's specialty but not nearly as effective. "Are you a terrorist?" he finally asked.
"No."
"Are you intending to blow up the building?"
"Not today."
Weary sigh. "Then go on through."
"Do you ever ask people questions, or is it open slather and anyone can get in?"
Another sigh. "If you look suspicious, lady, I ask. You don't look suspicious."
This wasn't good enough. I'd be reporting a security breach in the parking structure. "You know Fred Mills?" I said.
"Great guy. I count him as a friend. Why?"
"Just asking."
I located Noreen's parking spot without too much trouble. It was on the lowest floor, but at least it wasn't too far from the lift. I punched the up button. By the time it arrived, a crowd had formed behind me. It seemed everyone was clutching a carton of coffee or one of those insulated mug things. I got swept up as everybody squeezed into the lift.
As the door closed, I twisted my neck trying to find the notice that gave the maximum load for this particular lift, but it was blocked by bodies. I was visualizing the horror of being stuck between floors with this lot when the door opened and everyone spilled out. There'd been total silence for the short journey, except for one bloke who'd whistled "Oklahoma" under his breath and out of tune. Released from confinement, everyone started talking as they scattered toward their work stations.
Chantelle was already at her post. "Good morning, Kylie."
"Good morning, Chantelle. What's the good oil?" She seemed to need more, so I added, "What's going on? Anything interesting?"
"Not yet. The day is young."
I gave her a big grin. I really liked this woman's attitude. In fact, when I thought about it, Chantelle herself wasn't bad at all. She had lovely dark skin and beautiful hands. And her red mouth was, frankly, alluring.
"Alluring" was the last thing that came to mind where Fred Mills was concerned. He was waiting in Dave Deer's office, bubbling with impatience. "I'm a busy man, so this briefing can only take a few minutes of my time."
"You should know the bloke at the parking entrance let me through without asking any questions."
"So what?"
"I could have been anybody. I could have had a bomb in the boot."
He flapped a hand at me. "Yeah, yeah. I'll check it out."
If possible, Fred looked even less appetizing than the last time I'd seen him, so I concentrated on the surroundings. Dave Deer's office was the max in luxury. The white carpet was so thick you could turn your ankle if you weren't careful. The paintings hanging on the paneled walls were ob
viously originals, each subtly illuminated with recessed lighting. The furniture was sleek, with lots of chrome. The desk was perfectly clear.
The office had three rich, polished doors. I'd entered through one from the main office area. Another was ajar, and I could see it led to a private bathroom. I was guessing the third door would open into a black-and-white therapy room.
I became aware Fred was speaking: "...go it alone."
"You want me to go it alone?"
This earned me an exasperated grunt. "That's exactly want I don't want you to do. I've already pointed out that you're an amateur, way out of your depth. I don't want to rush around rescuing you from situations you've got yourself into. Low profile. Say that to yourself often. Low profile."
"Low profile. Got it." I couldn't resist adding, "But Fred, if I holler...?"
A sneer of superiority distorted his upper lip. "I'll be there, little lady, I'll be there."
I didn't need to holler for help even once during the day. Dave Deer was in San Diego, addressing a mental health symposium, so I was free to wander around meeting people and getting the lay of the land.
First I went down to the entrance of the building and made myself known to the doorman, Jim, and the guard in the lobby, Malcolm. I reckoned this was a good move, so that in case I needed a favor, these blokes would be on side.
My fun discovery of the day was Irma Barber, who was at serious odds with the dress standards adhered to by the most of the Deerdoc staff. Irma was wearing khaki pants, the sort with lots of unnecessary pockets everywhere, and Birkenstocks with striped socks. Her T-shirt proclaimed chickens rule over the picture of a cartoon chook. I didn't get the point at all and concluded it was some American thing.
Noticing my fascinated gaze, Irma laughed. "As you can imagine, I'm not allowed where the public or the patients can see me. I work behind the scenes with Oscar, keeping all the office equipment humming along."
Oscar had to be Oscar Sherwood, who'd left previous jobs under a cloud because of missing money, although he'd never been formally charged. He was Deerdoc's resident techo, who, as Irma said, kept everything electronic in the office, including the computer network, working smoothly. One of his duties was making sure each therapy session had an audiovisual record, so he was automatically a possible suspect for the theft of the disks.