Bad Girl and Loverboy

by Michele Jaffe

  The startled bellboy took two steps backward before asking, “Are you Imogen Page?”

  “Yes.”

  “These are for you.” He shoved a large bouquet of roses into her arms. “Sign here, please.”

  Imogen walked slowly into the room and put the flowers on the table and hunted around for the card. Slipping it out of the envelope, she read: Julia want to lose another one? She turned it over and saw:

  Ha, ha. See you in five days! Can’t wait.

  Your,

  LOVERBOY.

  CHAPTER 62

  “The flowers sent to Ms. Page?” the concierge on the phone repeated crisply. “They had been charged to one of the villas, and the message was phoned in with them. Yes, Mr. Benton Arbor’s villa. About an hour ago. Good-bye.”

  Imogen hung up and looked at Benton.

  “I was here an hour ago.”

  She nodded. “But Julia wasn’t. Yet someone knew she would be coming.” She dialed another number.

  “I don’t know why I went to look for Wrightly in your room, Imogen,” Julia, half-covered in grape-seed mud, told her over the phone from her treatment table in the spa. “It seemed like the natural place. Everyone is always up there—until they get thrown out.”

  Imogen sighed. She dialed again.

  “Sure,” the FBI head of graphology told her. “I’ll have one of my guys look at the syntax of your card as soon as possible. Will two weeks be quick enough?”

  Imogen was not sure whether she wanted to throw her phone, herself, or the flowers against the wall when Bugsy came in and said, “Nice roses. Hothouse, but nice.”

  The roses went.

  Bugsy said, “I’ve got a present for you. Two of them.”

  “I don’t want any more presents.”

  “The first one comes from Metro, actually. They found a carabiner, one of those things you use for rock climbing? It was wedged behind the backseat of the taxi. And it has a partial print on it.”

  “Great. A partial print.”

  Benton looked up from the table and said, “Won’t that come in handy when we go to trial?”

  Imogen glared at him. He went back to his bridge problem.

  Bugsy said, “Okay, that might not have been so great, but you’ll like this other present, I promise.”

  “I already told you—” Imogen started to say when her phone rang. “What?” she demanded.

  “Is this Imogen Page? Of the FBI?”

  Imogen’s heart skipped. She recognized the voice from an outgoing answering machine message in Florida she had heard days earlier. “Is this Detective Clive Ross?”

  “Ex-detective,” the man corrected. “Beach bum now.”

  “I’m envious, sir,” Imogen told him honestly.

  “Don’t be. It ain’t good unless you earn it. Sounds to me, from what I’m seeing in the papers, you’re earning it pretty hard. Tough case, it looks like.”

  “Very,” Imogen agreed.

  “Don’t know if I’ll be able to help you, but I’d gladly do my best. On the answering machine you said you wanted to ask about an old case of mine. From what I’ve read, I bet it’s the Corrina Orville case.”

  “How did you—”

  “I was a detective once too, you know. Plus, the secretary in the department in Boston, Vickie? She told me you’d had the file out.”

  He’d done his homework, making sure she was legit. Imogen decided she would like Detective Ross. “It wasn’t actually the file that interested me so much as a note you made. It was in the margin of one of the pages. I’ve got a copy and can fax it to you if you want.”

  “No need. I know what it said. ‘Susan K,’ right?”

  “Yes. What did it mean?”

  “Nothing concrete, really. But that case, the Corrina Orville one? It reminded me of what happened to another girl. Susan Kellogg. I tried following it up, but didn’t get anywhere. And then I retired and—”

  “Can you tell me about the Kellogg case? I can get the file from Boston but it will take a few days and my contact there is—”

  “—probably not eager to help you,” Detective Ross finished the sentence for her. “Yep, Vickie told me that Reg came in with a swollen jaw the day after his date with you. Nice work. That boy is entirely too big for his britches.”

  Imogen was blushing from the roots of her hair to her toes. “I didn’t mean—”

  “You kidding? All the women up there want your autograph. In fact, I already told Vickie to send you the file. But all the same I’ll give you the particulars now. It’s an old case, sixteen, maybe seventeen years ago. Sad.” He paused to take a sip of something and Imogen heard ice clinking in his glass. “Susan Kellogg was a Wellesley student, a junior. Pretty girl, at least until someone decided to strangle her and leave her floating in the Charles River. What was strange about her case, what made me think of it in relation to the Orville girl, was that both of them were killed, strangled, after sex. There was no sign of struggle or rape. And no sign of drugs. He took them home, had his way with them, then killed them, and all the while they were happy as clams. That’s not normal, you know.”

  “No,” Imogen agreed. “Did you find who did it?”

  “Never solved. We looked at her boyfriend for a while, a Harvard student, but he came up clean. The case stuck with me, though. You know how they do. And when I saw the Orville girl—” He sighed. “There was one difference. The first one, Susan Kellogg? She had a hickey. Orville didn’t. Did this new one, down where you are?”

  “I’m afraid we’re holding that,” Imogen said, feeling bad. “I know it’s been a long time, but do you possibly remember the name of that Harvard student? The one you looked at for the murder?”

  “You bet. Funny name. John Dillinger Eastly. Imagine naming your kid after a bank robber.”

  Imogen put the phone down and stood, with her hand still on the receiver, staring at the wall until Bugsy said, “Well?”

  She looked at him. “Our guy was suspected of murdering his girlfriend when he was in college. Strangled her, gave her a hickey, left her body in the water. Sound familiar?”

  Bugsy nodded slowly.

  “Who?” Benton asked. “Who was on the phone?”

  Imogen kept her eyes on Bugsy. “It would be quite a clue, wouldn’t it? If only we were allowed to act on it.” She crossed her arms. “I’d do anything to get my hands on him right now. Of course, first I’d have to find him. What do you think the chances are that he’s in his office?”

  “None,” Bugsy said, standing up from the place on the floor where he’d been picking up flowers. “He’s at an abandoned arcade on Industrial Road. The Kool Daze Fun Center.”

  Now Imogen was staring. “For real? How do you know?”

  Benton said, “What are you two talking about?”

  Ignoring him, Bugsy said, “Remember I told you I had another present? What if I told you he has groupies? The type who like to follow him around. Sit in cars outside places. They want to learn everything about him. Huge fans. Two in particular. Who would have guessed he had such a following among FBI agents from L.A.?”

  She said, “You got your friends to come up here and pull surveillance duty for kicks?”

  “You haven’t met these guys. And it’s not surveillance. They are just very rabid fans.”

  Benton cleared his throat. “Can someone please tell me what the hell we’re talking about?”

  Imogen looked at Benton like she’d forgotten he was there. “Do you know how to disable a car alarm?”

  “I don’t know what you think my job at Arbor Motors is—”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You can come,” Imogen said. “If you promise not to kill him.”

  “Who?” Benton asked, but he was talking to their backs.

  CHAPTER 63

  Bugsy parked the car across from a beige cinder-block building that had KOOL DAZE FUN CENTER with a clown face painted on the side in fading letters, partially covered
by a Dumpster.

  “Looks more like a haunted house than a fun center,” Benton said, hoping one of them would explain what they were doing there, but they just got out of the car and walked to an ice-cream truck parked a few feet up the curb.

  Now they were stopping for ice cream?

  Two guys wearing little white paper hats who looked to Benton like their combined age couldn’t be more than thirty-two leaned out the order window. One of them, sporting thick black-rimmed glasses, said, “What’ll it be, kids? We’re running a special on Astro Pops.”

  “Imogen, meet Wylie and Nate, two of the Bureau’s finest out of L.A. Wylie’s the one in the glasses. Guys, this is Imogen Page. Oh, and Benton Arbor.”

  These were FBI agents? Were they recruiting from Sunday schools now? Benton wondered.

  “It’s great to meet you, Special Agent Page,” Nate said.

  “Bugsy’s told us so much about you,” Wylie chimed in. “It’s a total honor.” Then looking at Benton. “Uh, you too, sir.”

  Imogen shook hands with them and said, “Any activity?”

  “No.” This was Wylie. “Unfortunately, on such short notice we couldn’t get the best audio hookup, so we’re not hearing much from inside, with all the bricks, but no one has gone in or come out since last night, and no cell calls. I bet the reception in there is lousy.”

  Imogen said, “Where’s his car?”

  “Parked around the back. There are no windows, so as long as he doesn’t come out we can move around pretty freely.”

  Imogen turned to Benton, said, “You’re on,” and started across the street.

  He followed her. “Is this the part where you tell me what we are doing here, who this is, and why you want into their car?”

  “Nope.”

  But she didn’t need to answer, because he figured it out, some of it anyway, when he saw the car. Arbor Motors X37 in black with the plate PLAYBAL. “This is J. D. Eastly’s car,” he said.

  “Yes, and I think J. D. Eastly might be Loverboy.” She was peering in the windows. She turned away and said, “Damn. It’s not there.”

  “What?” Benton asked, shell-shocked by what she’d said.

  “I was looking for—”

  She was interrupted by a loud scream.

  Bugsy, Wylie, and Nate ran over from the truck. Imogen said, “It came from inside the building. Fan out. If you see any way to get in, take it.”

  She was shaking as she walked, gun drawn, around the far side of the building. She stayed near the bricks, trying to listen for sounds over the pounding of her heart. Halfway down her side she came to a door. Reaching out with her gun she tapped it. It moved. It was unlocked.

  She tapped against it harder, once, and it swung open and stayed. She listened, heard nothing, and stepped into the doorway.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She was standing at the edge of a large, windowless room. Rectangular forms, covered with plastic tarps, that from the outlines looked like pinball machines lined the wall in front of her. The wall to her left had an enlarged version of the collage on it, with the six circles painted a dark color. Next to it stood a white board with the words LOVERBOY PROFILE on it, copied from the one in her room. She turned her head to look to the right and was looking down the muzzle of a gun.

  “Special Agent Page,” J. D. Eastly said. He was not wearing his glasses and his eyes looked cold. “What a surprise.”

  Imogen swallowed. “Where is she?”

  “She? You mean, Rosalind?” J.D. shook his head. “It looks like you’ve made another mistake.”

  From behind him, Imogen heard a scream. This one was much louder.

  CHAPTER 64

  The scream was followed by the sound of breaking glass. J.D.’s head jerked toward it, and Imogen hit him with an uppercut to the jaw. Staggering, he dropped the gun and moved toward the room the screams were coming from, then stopped when Wylie and Nate came out of the door. They were carrying a boom box with them. Over the screaming came the sound of a man’s voice now saying, “Sorry, she says she is busy.” And Imogen realized what it was. The tape Leslie had made of her interview with Loverboy.

  “Turn that off,” Imogen said.

  Nate pushed a button and they were standing in silence.

  Imogen turned to J.D. “Do you always answer the door with a gun?”

  “In this neighborhood. Do you always break into private property?”

  “The door was unlocked.”

  Benton and Bugsy came in then and Benton said, “Where is she?”

  Imogen shook her head, pointed to the boom box. “I made a mistake. But search back there.”

  Rubbing his jaw, J.D. said, “When you came in you asked for Rosalind. You don’t think that I’m—” breaking off.

  Imogen turned when Bugsy and Benton came out of the adjoining room, giving her the sign for all-clear. She said to J.D., “Tell me why I shouldn’t.”

  J.D. stood with his eyes closed for a long time, breathing deep. From his posture, Imogen tasted a combination of anger, confusion, and, surprisingly, fear. When he opened them he said, “I don’t know how to explain this. You don’t understand. I’ve been going out of my mind about this. Look.” And flipped on the light.

  Imogen saw that she’d been right about the pinball machines, the collage, and the whiteboard, but had missed a skee ball layout at the back of the room. And the two dozen file boxes stacked around the edges, the smaller versions of the other collages tacked up on corkboards, and the piles of folders. An impromptu command center.

  “What is all this?” Benton asked.

  “My other office, sort of. It’s where I come to think.”

  Benton bent to look at one of the file boxes. “Benton ‘Fuck You’ Arbor,” he read aloud. “Nice. I didn’t know you cared.”

  J.D. said, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  Imogen was walking around, looking at the files and boxes and pads of paper with notes on them. “You didn’t like the way I was running the investigation, so you started one of your own.”

  “It wasn’t that, it has nothing to do with you, what you’re doing. I just needed—”

  “To have more control,” Imogen finished for him. “Right. No wonder you and Benton don’t get along. You are way too much alike.”

  “That’s what Rosalind says too,” J.D. told her.

  “She’s always been good with insults,” Benton said. He stared hard at J.D. “You know, she told me about you.”

  J.D. looked surprised. “She did?”

  Imogen cut in. “Later. Right now I want to know why you were listening to the tape.”

  “See if we missed anything,” J.D. said. “If I could pick out any sounds that might help.” He paused. “And also to make it real. What is happening to Rosalind. Sometimes I just—” He swallowed. “I’m having a really hard time with this. I blew it with her but I always thought I’d get another chance and now—” He broke off. “I always hoped, you know, if something happened to someone I cared about I’d be the strong one.” Glancing at Benton. “But that’s not me. Clearly, since you thought I was the one hurting her. Why? Why would you think that?”

  Imogen almost wanted to turn away, not look at this man who seemed to be shedding layers of confidence in front of them. Glancing at the file boxes she said, “Remember Susan Kellogg?”

  J.D. nodded. “Of course.” Then saying it with a different tone: “Oh, of course.”

  Benton frowned. “Why are you asking about someone J.D. dated in college?”

  “Don’t you remember what happened to her?” J.D. said. “It was while you were away, dealing with your father’s estate. She died. The police thought it was murder. They talked to me a few times, even took a dental impression. And found me innocent.” The last phrase was directed at Imogen.

  “What does that have to do with Rosalind?” Benton asked.

  Imogen said, “I suspect that she was killed by the same person who killed Marielle Wycliffe and Co
rrina Orville and who is holding Rosalind. I thought it was suggestive that the main suspect in her death was also on hand now.”

  “That’s why we’re here?” Benton asked.

  “Because of that. Because the same person has had complete access to our investigation, as well as all the people—living and dead—in it. He is conveniently unreachable ninety percent of the time, including during the hours that Marielle was killed. The security tape that would have had the killer’s face on it was checked out by ‘Pietro Bembo,’ a name he researched on the Web, and altered. And no one has ever bothered to ask him for a confirmable alibi.” She looked at J.D. “Do you have one?”

  He inhaled deeply. “Yes. But I would really appreciate it if this could be checked out quietly. I was with Marcie DeLonghi.”

  Imogen said, “Carlo DeLonghi’s wife? The mobster? The one under investigation by your department right now?”

  J.D. nodded.

  “If it got out to the wrong people you would both be dead.”

  “At least dead.”

  Benton said, “J.D., you never stop blowing my mind. What you don’t know”—turning to Imogen now—“is that Marcie DeLonghi used to be Marcie Eastly. She’s J.D.’s ex-wife.”

  Imogen was moving around the room but she stopped and looked at J.D. “You say you’re in love with Rosalind but you’re having an affair with your ex-wife?”

  J.D. clenched his jaw. “It’s a long story. I’ve been doing some soul-searching.” When Benton laughed he glared at him. Reaching for a pad and pen he wrote a phone number down, and pushed it across the table. “That’s Marcie’s number. I was with her when Marielle was killed, right before the SWAT operation, and probably most of the other times you were trying to call. We ended it. You can make the inquiries however you want, but for her sake I’d appreciate it if you could be discreet. I know she’ll be able to give you the exact times and dates of our get-togethers. They tend to correspond pretty exactly with her husband’s business trips and lawyer meetings.”

  Imogen nodded at Bugsy, who took the number and flipped open his cell phone.