by Dianne Emley
Iris put on the denim shirt and buttoned it over the contraptions she was wearing. She unzipped her jeans and tucked in the tail.
“We’ve anticipated that.” Weems crooked his fingers at a man who brought over a box. From it Weems took out a wig of long, brown hair. “Ever wonder what you’d look like as a brunette, Iris?”
Iris began tying up her shoulder-length blond hair with the bobby pins an agent handed her.
“Mr. Hughes,” Weems continued, “my guess is Douglas Melba will come alone. Dean Palmer is nothing more than Lazare’s flunky. Lazare wouldn’t count on a drug addict to pull off a deal like this.”
Iris looked in a hand mirror that an agent handed her. She swung the long hair over her shoulder and gave Garland a vampish look, trying to lighten his mood. “Peel me a grape, darling.”
He was not amused.
An attractive young man entered the room.
Weems held out his arm to welcome the newcomer. “Iris, this is special agent Don Vinson. He’ll be posing as your boss’s expert. He’s carrying tools to examine the fox to make sure it’s genuine.”
Melba had squawked when Iris, posing as Margo Hill, had called him and said she’d be bringing someone to authenticate the statuette. Melba was eager to close the deal and went along.
They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Iris introduced Vinson to Garland.
Weems pulled out a chair and sat facing Iris, their knees almost touching. He pressed his palms together as if in prayer. “Okay, Iris, you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” She didn’t know how she’d feel when she was facing Melba, but felt surprisingly calm right now.
“You can have a stiff drink when it’s over.” Weems smiled.
“I’m gonna need one.”
“So what happens after Melba takes the briefcase of money and gives Iris the fox?” Garland asked.
“We follow the money to the bad guys,” Weems looked at his watch. “It’s six o’clock. Let’s get you and Don on your way.” He extended his hand to Iris as she stood. “Good job.”
“Thanks. I’ll feel better when it’s over.”
Weems turned to Garland. “Mr. Hughes, why don’t you drive over with me? You can watch from our communications center, so you won’t have to wait to find out that everything went fine.”
“Thanks,” Garland said. “I’ll wait for Iris at her house. She’ll be nervous enough without me there.”
Iris was privately relieved, as Garland knew she would be. She’d only worry about him worrying about her.
Garland and Iris looked into each other’s eyes with an intensity that almost made her lose her nerve. She gave him a light peck on the lips and a hug. “See you soon.”
“See you soon,” he repeated, reluctantly letting her go.
On the drive to Pasadena in a nondescript American sedan, Iris nervously chatted with Don Vinson about nothing of any significance.
It was twilight when Vinson pulled up in front of Greentree. Through the windows, Iris saw that the bar and restaurant were busy with people dressed as if they’d come from work. With Vinson wearing a sport jacket and tie, she felt underdressed, something she hadn’t thought about when selecting her attire. She shrugged it off. This was one occasion she was glad she’d chosen practicality over style.
Vinson took a claim check for the car from a valet while Iris pulled a heavy briefcase from the backseat. Vinson took it from her and opened the restaurant’s glass door.
Across the bar at the entrance to the dining area, the host looked up at them from behind a podium and smiled with practiced congeniality. “Good evening. Welcome to Greentree.” He looked crisp and fresh, as if he’d just arrived for his shift.
“A table for three by the window,” Iris said.
“Do you have a reservation?”
Iris gave Vinson a panicked look. No one had mentioned a reservation to her.
“Margo Hill,” Vinson answered. “For eight o’clock.”
The host ran his finger down a large schedule covered with handwriting. “Of course. Would you like to wait in the bar until the third party arrives?”
Iris shook her head. “We’d prefer to go to the table now. Please show our friend to our table as soon as he arrives.”
The host ducked his head, indicating he understood and handed two menus to a waitress who’d appeared at his elbow. Iris and Vinson followed her to a table set for four next to a window facing the street. They sat opposite each other. The waitress handed them menus and gathered the extra place setting.
Iris opened the menu, scanned it without seeing a thing, then closed it. She removed strands of synthetic hair from her cheek and smoothed the wig with both hands.
Vinson leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. “Our people are all over. Don’t look. There are two guys there and that woman and man there. And outside, that homeless guy in the doorway is ours.”
Iris shifted her shoulders beneath the uncomfortable Kevlar vest. She glanced at the terraces off the rooms of the hotel across the street. Wrought-iron railings held window boxes with bright flowers. The hotel looked small and inviting—a nice place for a weekend getaway for her and Garland. Now she wished she hadn’t let him wait at her house. She wished there was someone watching from that hotel whose sole interest was her well-being.
The waitress returned. Vinson ordered coffee and Iris ordered a cappuccino.
“Will you be ordering dinner?” she asked.
Iris handed her the menu and said they would not.
“Very well.” She spun on her heel and left, probably calculating the tip she’d lost waiting on people occupying one of her prime tables during the dinner rush.
Vinson attempted to engage Iris in conversation, but she was too rattled to focus, her nerves catching up with her. She gave him clipped responses while she scanned the street for the approach of an overweight, balding man. Weems had shown her a photo of Douglas Melba. The street lights came on.
Vinson was talking about basketball, which would not have held Iris’s attention under any circumstances, when she saw Douglas Melba walking toward the restaurant. Her heart began to pound and she nearly rose from her chair, which made Vinson stop mid-comment.
Melba was dressed completely in black. A gold chain bracelet was visible beneath the rolled-up cuffs of his shirt, and he wore a gold necklace under the V of his open collar. His pants rode low on his hips and were belted underneath his protruding belly. His hands were empty. His eyes traveled across the diners sitting next to the window, stopping when they landed on Iris.
She met his eyes through the glass and smiled tensely and nodded.
Vinson took a quick glance as well, then returned his attention to Iris. “His hands are empty. You told him you weren’t going to a second location to get the fox.”
“Guess he changed the plan.” Iris bit her lip.
Melba continued toward the front door, out of Vinson’s range of vision. Iris, sitting facing the door, could see Melba without turning her head.
The waitress brought their drinks. Iris barely noticed her. She was watching Melba, who was no longer moving toward the restaurant’s door but had stopped on the sidewalk a few feet away. He was standing stock still, looking at something across the street.
“Great, thanks,” Vinson told the waitress. He dropped a lump of sugar into his cup and stirred it.
Iris followed the direction of Melba’s gaze and saw a man standing on a terrace off a room on the hotel’s third floor. The room behind him was dark and the lights from the street and passing cars barely illuminated him.
“Iris,” Vinson warned. “Relax.”
“Wait a second, something’s…”
Vinson turned to see what had distracted her and followed both her and Melba’s gaze to the man on the terrace. The man stretched his arm into the light cast by a street lamp. With his fist closed, he turned his thumb down.
Melba abruptly turned and started running down the street.
&nb
sp; Vinson bolted up from the chair, startling the restaurant’s patrons. “Melba’s leaving,” he shouted to the undercover agents who were also out of their seats. He said into the microphone of the listening device taped beneath his shirt, “Get the guy on the third floor, fourth room from the left. He signaled Melba that the deal was a no-go.”
The agents scattered dishes and chairs as they ran from the restaurant. Diners gaped and rose from their chairs. The host rushed over and demanded an explanation from Vinson, who had stayed with Iris.
Vinson flashed his identification card and announced, “FBI. Everyone stay calm.”
The explanation didn’t satisfy the host. “What the hell—”
Vinson pushed past him, grabbing Iris by the arm, and pulling her along. She was only too willing to go. They were halfway to the door when they heard screaming coming from the kitchen in the back. Panicked kitchen workers streamed into the dining room. Someone bumped a waitress, her arms loaded with dinner plates, which hit the tile floor with a tremendous clatter, sending food and shards of china everywhere.
Fear turned to chaos when Fernando Peru staggered out, his shirt soaked with blood.
People rushed to the front entrance, pushing and shoving, knocking over chairs and tables.
“Weems!” Fernando shouted, clutching his middle. “It’s over.” He stumbled, leaving a bloody handprint on a tablecloth when he tried to steady himself. “Weems! It’s over.”
“Fernando,” Vinson said, approaching him. “What happened?” He righted a chair. “Sit down.” He said into microphone taped to him, “Peru’s bleeding. Get an ambulance.”
“Rita shot me.” Fernando spotted Iris and breathlessly crept toward her, wincing with pain. He tightly grabbed her hand. “Rita knows. She knows.”
Someone yelled, “She’s got a gun!”
Vinson flung himself onto Iris, forcing her to the ground, kneeling beside her and drawing his gun. “Fernando, get down.”
Rita Winslow burst from the kitchen. She raised her arm, aiming her gun at Fernando who was still unsteadily standing. The remaining people in the restaurant cowered under tables.
Winslow’s eyes were wild. “I warned you, didn’t I?”
“Rita, drop the gun,” Vinson said.
“Rita, please.” Fernando was still standing, though weaving on his feet.
“Winslow, drop it,” Vinson again ordered, but Winslow didn’t comply.
Iris, prone on the floor, started crawling behind an overturned table. People close to the door made a break for it. Winslow seemed unaware of everything except Fernando.
Vinson didn’t ask her a third time. He opened fire, hitting Winslow multiple times. She went down, but not before she fired a final shot at Fernando.
Roger Weems burst into the restaurant. His face was contorted with horror.
“Are you all right?” Vinson asked Iris. After she nodded, he approached Winslow, kicking her pearl-handled gun away from her hand, which lay limp on the ground beside her crumpled body. He pressed his fingers against her neck although her unblinking stare indicated she was dead. He left her and rushed to Fernando.
Iris climbed to her feet, shaken but fine. She crept to where Weems was with Fernando.
Weems had the fallen man’s head in his lap and was holding his hand between both of his. He was muttering, “Fernando, don’t check out now. Come on, man. Hang on. You’re gonna make it.”
“Help’s coming, buddy,” Vinson said, crouched beside Fernando.
Fernando was mumbling, barely coherently. “She found out. She found out.”
“Don’t talk, Fernando,” Weems said.
“I got away to find you but she followed me.” Fernando smiled, his mouth full of blood. “Rita told me she’d never let me leave her.” He laughed and began choking.
“It’s not your fault,” Weems said. “You did a great job. Don’t talk.”
Fernando grabbed Weems’s shirt in his fist. “I’m sorry, man.”
Paramedics pushed into the restaurant, shoving aside tables and chairs. They pried Fernando’s fingers from Weems’s shirt and began cutting his bloody clothes off him. Weems stayed nearby, barking orders yet appearing disoriented. A paramedic spotted Rita Winslow and had the courtesy to cover her with a sheet.
Vinson pulled Weems away. “Roger, let them do their work.”
“Right, right.” Weems wandered outside.
Iris followed.
The street was filling with onlookers. The Pasadena police had arrived.
“Vinson,” Weems said. “Take care of the local law, will you?”
Vinson started to leave when Weems stopped him with an outstretched hand. “Why did Melba run?”
“There was a guy on the hotel terrace over there.” Vinson pointed to the terrace, which was now crammed with FBI agents. “Gave a thumbs-down.”
Weems distantly nodded. Vinson left to talk to the police. Weems looked down at his gore-splattered clothing and then watched as two FBI agents who had been posing as restaurant patrons shoved a handcuffed Douglas Melba into the backseat of a car.
Iris approached Weems and was about to speak when the paramedics pushed a gurney carrying Fernando into a waiting ambulance. Iris and Weems silently watched the van weave through the crowded street, siren blaring, lights flashing in the twilight.
He finally looked at Iris. His face was grave.
Hers was angry. “Fernando Peru was your informant?”
He sighed as if barely controlling his patience. “Miss Thor…Iris, I’m a little busy right now. There’s plenty of time to discuss this later.” He began walking across the street.
“We’re going to discuss this now.” She jogged to keep up with him. “You lied to me, Roger.”
Ahead of her, he raised both hands in an elaborate shrug.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Agent Cauble, what have you got?” Weems asked a dark-haired female agent wearing a navy blue pantsuit who approached him in the hotel lobby.
“Rooms three thirty-one and three thirty-three are registered to Enrico Lazare.” They both starting walking toward the elevator. Iris followed.
The staff and patrons of the hotel were already alarmed by the events at Greentree Restaurant—many faces were pressed against the lobby windows—before Weems arrived in his bloody clothes. People whispered among themselves and kept their distance.
“Son of a bitch,” Weems spat. He punched the elevator call button and paced back and forth, his hands on his hips.
Cauble continued filling him in on what she had found out. “Lazare registered last night around nine. The front desk clerk who signed him in is due to start work in half an hour. Hopefully we’ll get some information from her. We haven’t found anyone who saw a man entering those rooms or who can describe Lazare.”
“What about the garage? Anyone leave in the last half hour?”
The elevator doors opened and Iris barely slipped in behind them before the doors closed. They didn’t seem to notice that she was there.
“We’re checking it out now,” Cauble responded.
“How did Lazare pay?” Weems asked.
“Cash. Each room was three hundred dollars a night for two nights.”
“Lazare paid in cash yet he registered in his own name,” Weems said. “Strange. Like he didn’t want us to trace him but he wanted us to know he was here.”
The doors opened on the third floor and Weems barreled out into the corridor. The doors to rooms 331 and 333 were open. They entered 331.
The room looked undisturbed. The bathroom soap was still wrapped, the bed was unwrinkled, the drapes were closed, and the air was stale and warm.
Weems stomped through an open door that adjoined the next room. Iris and Cauble followed.
This room had been occupied. The bedspread was creased. The bathroom had been used. The drapes and the sliding glass door to the terrace were open. On a desk near the terrace were a half-empty jar of macadamia nuts and an empty miniature bottle of Absolut vo
dka from the mini bar. Ice was melting in a glass and in a plastic ice bucket printed with the hotel’s logo.
Weems ordered, “Don’t touch anything.”
Although the command was general, Iris suspected it was directed at her.
“Cauble, get someone up here to fingerprint these rooms.” Weems roamed around like a dog marking new territory.
Cauble took out a cell phone and punched in numbers.
Weems walked onto the terrace, his hands still on his hips. His shoulders rose and fell as he sighed deeply. “Iris,” he said without turning. “Is this where you saw the mystery man?”
“I believe so.” Iris caught sight of herself in a mirror over the dresser and remembered that she was still wearing the wig. She hooked her fingers under the cap near her forehead, peeled it off, and started pulling out hair pins, dropping them into a wastebasket.
Cauble ended her call and said to Weems, “They found out from Melba how the deal was supposed to go down. Palmer told him to go to the front desk at seven-thirty and ask if there was a message for him, Melba. He picked up an envelope with the key to room three thirty-one. That’s where the fox was going to be left.”
Weems crumpled a stick of Juicy Fruit chewing gum into his mouth. He held his hands in front of him, looking at Fernando Peru’s drying blood. “Keep talking. I’m going into the other room to wash up.”
Cauble moved to the doorway that joined the two rooms. “Then Palmer told him to disappear until eight o’clock sharp when he was to walk north on Raymond Avenue to Greentree. Before he reached the restaurant door, he was to look across the street at the hotel. Lazare would be standing on a third-floor terrace and give him a thumbs-up if the deal was good and a thumbs-down if it wasn’t.”
“What do you mean, ‘if it wasn’t?’” Weems came into the room again. His hair looked damp and freshly combed.
“If something was wrong. If he saw the thumbs-down, he was to get out of there fast and go back to San Francisco and wait for Palmer to call. If it was a thumbs-up, he was to go in the restaurant, verify the money was good, and give Margo Hill the key to room three thirty-one. Her associate, Vinson, would go to the room and make sure the fox was there and then he’d call her at the restaurant. Then Melba would take the case of money and drive to the L.A. Airport, parking structure four, top level, and wait there for someone to pick it up.” Cauble made a noise of dismay. “Something got really fucked up.”