by Dianne Emley
Iris saw a younger version of herself in Lisa, although she had been much more brash and rough around the edges. “How much do you think your sales would increase with an assistant?”
This caught Lisa off guard. “Umm…Forty percent.”
“You’ve got a full-time assistant. But at the end of six months, I expect a forty percent increase in your production.”
Lisa’s eyes brightened. Iris knew what she was thinking. She was glad she’d won but was wondering what she’d got herself into. “Thanks so much, Iris. I won’t let you down.” She nearly bumped into Liz Martini as she left. “Thanks, Liz. I mean, sorry.”
“What was that all about?” Liz plopped in one of the chairs facing Iris’s desk and crossed her legs, hiking her already short skirt well up her thighs. No demure ankle-crossing for Liz.
“She’s getting her own sales assistant.”
“You’re being magnanimous today.”
“It’s good to be king.”
Liz tossed the folded newspaper she was carrying on Iris’s desk. On the front page was a color photo of the Greentree restaurant with a coroner’s van and police officers in front.
Iris glanced at the paper and handed it back to Liz.
“Rita Winslow and Fernando Peru,” Liz read from the article. “Weren’t those the people who were involved in your…” She was mindful of the open door and the big ears in the suite. “Russian business deal?”
Iris went to the filing cabinet and took a few dollars from her purse. “I’m craving a gooey, chocolate chip muffin.”
They left the suite and got in the elevator, which was empty. The elevator doors closed and Iris spilled the beans. “Todd Fillinger is alive.”
“What?”
“I’m almost certain of it. It all fits together and it’s the only thing that makes sense. He had his former best friend, a guy named Mike Edgerton, murdered in his place. Todd grew a beard and lost weight so he’d resemble Mike. Close enough anyway. Todd counted on there being so much blood and terror that I wouldn’t look too closely at the man who was gunned down on the hotel steps. He must have instructed the assassins to make sure to shoot Mike in the face. It worked. If it hadn’t been for Rita Winslow’s jealous rage over Fernando Peru, I would have never have found out. That damned Weems.”
“Who’s Weems?”
Iris rolled her eyes. “I haven’t even told you about that yet.”
Liz planted a hand on her hip. “You’ve lost me. Todd Fillinger wasn’t murdered but he made it look like he was?”
“Todd needed to disappear big time. I think that Todd got into trouble with a powerful drug lord in France, a Corsican named Enrico Lazare. He must have stolen money from Lazare or something because Lazare came gunning for Todd in Paris, in this café where Todd used to hang out. Todd escaped, but one of the café’s owners was shot and killed. Todd fled for London where he stayed with his buddy Fernando Peru in the house of Peru’s sugar momma, Rita Winslow.”
The elevator opened onto the busy lobby. The worker bees rushed into the car before Iris and Liz had a chance to exit. Liz waited until Iris squeezed out from where she had been pushed into the corner.
“Some people,” Iris complained after she’d made her way through the crowd.
In the coffee shop, they both bought muffins. They sat at a table where Iris continued her tale. She talked while eating the gooey top off hers.
“Todd stayed in London for two years. After that, he went first to Prague and then to Moscow. I think that Lazare tracked him down and gave him an ultimatum or Todd got a tip that Lazare was closing in. Todd had to disappear again. When he stumbled across the Czarina’s fox, he got an idea. What better way to disappear than to make everyone believe you’ve been murdered? If you can settle old scores at the same time, better still.”
“What grudge did Todd have against Mike Edgerton?”
“Mike stole Mona, Todd’s first true love, from him when they were all in college. And there’s me.”
“How did—”
Iris put her hand out, stopping Liz from going on. “Don’t look directly at him, but there’s a man sitting over there who followed us from the lobby. He’s watching us.”
Liz ran a hand through her hair and looked over her shoulder. “The one with glasses and the newspaper?”
“Yes.”
“Iris, you’re being paranoid.”
“Let’s find out. Let’s go outside.”
Liz held the door open for Iris as they left, casting a glance at the man. “He’s still there, Iris.”
Standing in front of the building, Liz asked, “How did he convince Mike Edgerton to come to Moscow and pretend he was Todd?”
“Mike was unemployed. He and Mona were strapped for cash. Todd might have lured Mike to Russia with the promise of a job. Somehow Todd got Mike to stand on the steps of the Metropolis Hotel dressed in his clothes and wearing his jewelry.”
“Wouldn’t the Russian authorities have taken fingerprints off the body and found out that the dead man wasn’t Todd?”
“Todd probably paid them to falsify their reports. I can’t imagine how Todd convinced Mike to pose as him, but he was nothing if not persuasive. Maybe all it took was money. Mona suddenly had a lot of cash recently. She told a coworker that her life was about to change.” Iris grimaced. “Her life changed, all right. She was found strangled.”
Liz gaped at her.
“Todd couldn’t risk leaving her around,” Iris said. “He probably planned on killing her after he got back to the States. Ironically, poor Mike is the top suspect.”
Liz gave her a look that said she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Where’s Enrico Lazare? How did he get involved with the fox?”
“I don’t think he is. After Todd was so-called murdered, he needed an interim identity while he sold the fox. What better than to pose as a notorious criminal, someone known for his ruthlessness and his secrecy? Law enforcement doesn’t know what Lazare looks like. It worked. Roger Weems never questioned that Lazare was the mastermind behind the fox theft and Todd’s murder.”
“Who is this Weems?”
“An FBI agent who’s now having me followed. Don’t turn around. Our bespectacled friend is back.”
“Where?”
“Sitting on a planter, pretending to read his newspaper. Weems is harassing me. He wants me to see this guy. Prick.”
Iris filled her in on her history with Weems and the sting at Greentree that went awry.
Liz chewed on her long acrylic thumbnail as she listened. “Why don’t you tell Weems your theory about Todd Fillinger? At least the FBI will know who they’re looking for. Weems suspects you know more than you’re telling anyway. You’ll get him off your back.”
Iris stubbornly set her jaw. “I don’t trust him. He lied to me. Threatened to arrest me. Put Fernando’s life in danger. Not to mention my life and all the other people at Greentree that night. Even if I could convince Weems that Todd is alive, all Weems cares about is getting the fox.”
“Your only other option is to let Todd Fillinger walk away scot-free with millions of dollars when he sells that fox, after having murdered two people and used you to smuggle stolen art.”
“Telling Weems or letting Todd get away aren’t my only options.”
Liz untangled her cluster of gold and diamond bracelets with her long fingernails. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to buy an objet d’art. A small, jeweled statuette in the shape of a fox. I need to borrow your cell phone. I’m not sure if mine is tapped.”
She took her phone from her jacket pocket and handed it to Iris. “If Todd finds out you’re onto him, he might try to kill you.”
“There’s that possibility, but I think I can outfox him.”
“Do me the courtesy of admitting there’s a scintilla of revenge in whatever you’re planning.”
“A smidgen.”
When they turned to go inside the building Iris blew the man with the news
paper a kiss.
Back in her office again, Iris dumped everything out of her purse and around the lining. There were no bugs. She picked up the receiver of her office telephone and unscrewed the covering over the mouthpiece. No bug there either. She looked at her cell phone. She didn’t know what the FBI could glean from it. She used Liz’s cell phone to make a call.
She dialed directory assistance for San Francisco and got the number for the Bay City Diner. She dialed it.
“Bay City Diner,” a woman answered.
“I’d like to leave a message for Douglas Melba. This is Margo Hill. I need him to call me as soon as possible at this number.” She gave her cell phone number.
Melba called back within fifteen minutes. “Is this Margo Hill?”
“Mr. Melba, my name is Iris Thorne. Margo Hill is an invention of the FBI. I’m not a cop. I’m a citizen. The FBI is after you because of the Czarina’s fox.”
“Yeah, I know. I let Weems think that I hadn’t found out about his sting just to see what he would do next. So is this his next brilliant move?”
“I’m not cooperating with Weems anymore.”
Melba snorted. “And you expect me to believe that.”
“I do. He coerced me into participating. He threatened to arrest me. He’s a bad man.”
“You’re wasting my time. What I should do is come down there and knock your teeth out.”
Iris spent a moment considering his comment but carried on. “Mr. Melba, I have a business proposition for you. It’s worth five thousand dollars in cash. No cops. No FBI. Just you and me.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Melba finally said, “Why should I trust you?”
“Five thousand dollars, Mr. Melba, in your pocket. Just hear me out.”
Melba didn’t hang up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
At 2:30, the end of the McKinney Alitzer workday, Liz Martini drove her Silver Shadow through the garage, passing Iris’s red Triumph TR6 parked in her reserved spot. At the exit, she slid her key card into the slot. The gate lifted and she turned right onto Flower Street. From there it was a short drive to the Harbor Freeway. Today she took it southbound instead of her usual trip north to the junction with the 101 through the San Fernando Valley on her trek to her home in the Malibu Colony.
“The coast is clear, Iris.”
Iris climbed onto the back seat from where she had been crouched on the floor and rubbed her knees.
“How are you going to get home tonight?” Liz asked with concern.
“I’ve reserved a rental car at the airport. Can you pick me up on your way into the office tomorrow?”
“No problem. Did you get the cash?”
“I went down the back stairs and out the side door to the bank. You should have seen my shadow’s face when I came walking in the front door of the building.” She chuckled. “I asked him if he’d missed me and his face got beet red.”
“Five thousand dollars is a lot of money to throw away, Iris.”
“I’m not throwing it away.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I hope I know what I’m doing, too.”
The posh Redwood Room in the Clift Hotel was a place where the only thing that had changed over the years was the menu. Steak tartare had been replaced by the more fashionable tuna tartare. The spacious redwood-paneled room, overseen by obsequious waiters, had been a meeting spot for San Francisco’s well-heeled for decades.
Douglas Melba started complaining as soon as he came in the door when the maître d’ forced a jacket and tie on him before he was allowed to enter. Melba disdainfully punched his flabby arms through the jacket sleeves and draped the already knotted tie around the neck of his knit shirt, to the amusement of Iris, who was sitting in a corner banquette, enjoying an outrageously overpriced glass of chardonnay.
Melba walked brusquely toward her, his arms constrained by the tight jacket, pulled out the chair opposite, and sat with his knees spread, his ample thighs not permitting another posture. He smelled of cigarette smoke. “I hate this fucking place. They charge an arm and a leg so you can hobnob with the city swells and be waited on by assholes.”
The comment was overheard by the waiter who didn’t bat an eye but politely asked if the gentleman would like to order a cocktail.
“Gimme a Stoly rocks.” Melba drew his hands across his remaining dark hair, which had deeply receded into an interesting line, revealing a smattering of freckles across his head. Freckles also covered his plump cheeks. When he smiled or grimaced, both of which he did frequently, his freckled cheeks became as round as apples. With his long eyelashes, he looked like a cherub gone bad. “You look better as a blonde.”
Iris didn’t know if the comment was intended to be a complement but decided it was best to take it as one. “Thank you.”
“Why did you come to the Greentree in disguise?” He answered his own question. “Palmer and Lazare know you and you were trying to get them busted. What’s your angle on this? Why were you working for Weems? You know because of that little event in Pasadena, my business is ruined. Word spreads.”
Iris couldn’t have cared less. She kept her feelings to herself and waited for him to finish.
“Plus I didn’t get shit from that deal. Palmer wouldn’t even pay for my time or airfare. What do you think of that?” He drew back his freckled lips.
“I’m prepared to give you five thousand dollars right now.”
“I don’t do business with cops or informants. I have principles.”
“I told you on the phone, I don’t work for Weems anymore. I stupidly got involved with the fox. I don’t want to go into details about how. Roger Weems threatened to arrest me and ruin my reputation unless I helped him. In my business, reputation is everything.” She reached inside her purse, pulled out an engraved silver case, slid out a business card, and handed it to him.
Melba read the card and tapped it against the table. “Got any stock tips?”
“Sure. Don’t forget that I nearly got shot that night. Weems lied to me and used me. He’s no friend of mine.”
“I still don’t believe you.” Melba flicked the card with his thumb. “I want to make sure you’re not wired.”
Iris upended her purse on the table, attracting curious glances from people at surrounding tables and a reproving look from the waiter as her belongings spilled across the pressed white linen tablecloth. A lipstick rolled onto the carpet. Melba squeezed the empty leather purse.
Iris slid from the banquette, took off her suit jacket, and tossed it to Melba. As he searched her jacket, she stood with her back to him, legs akimbo. “Go ahead.” She ignored the stares when Melba stood and patted her down with his ham fists. An older woman with a frozen hairstyle crooked her finger at a waiter who leaned over so she could speak in his ear.
Melba dropped his hands and Iris picked up her jacket, put it on, then slid into the banquette. She was gathering her belongings into her purse when the waiter came over.
“Is there any problem here?”
Melba smirked and Iris jumped in before he could speak. “Everything’s just fine. I’d like another glass of wine, please. Another drink, Mr. Melba?”
Melba made a lazy gesture toward his empty glass and the waiter hurried off. Melba asked Iris, “So what do you want?”
“I have a buyer for the fox.”
“Here we go again.”
“I have many wealthy clients, Mr. Melba. Some of them collect art. I made a discreet telephone call to one of them and told this individual that I might be able to negotiate a deal for the Czarina’s fox. My client is very interested.”
“I’ll contact Palmer and see what I can do.”
“Not good enough, Mr. Melba. I want to contact Palmer directly.”
Melba pointed a stubby finger at Iris. “You’re not cutting me out of this deal. You’re not the only one who almost got shot because of that damn fox.”
“I can’t do the deal through yo
u. The FBI is watching you. They’ve tapped your office and home. Why do you think they let you go so easily the other night? They hope you’ll lead them to the fox. I’m your last best chance to make any money from this deal.”
“If the FBI is watching me right now, they’re watching you too.”
“That’s my problem.”
“I’m not going to be cut out of the loop.”
“I can’t use you, Mr. Melba. That’s final.”
Melba drew circles on the table top with the pads of his fingertips. “So what’s the deal?”
Iris picked up an envelope from the banquette and placed it on the table. She kept her fingers on it like a chess piece move she was still evaluating. “Five thousand dollars to put me in touch with Dean Palmer or Enrico Lazare.”
Melba eyed the envelope. “All I have is the number of an answering service Enrico Lazare uses in Fresno. When I call I say I want to leave a message for Lazare. I give my name and number and Dean Palmer calls me back within twenty-four hours.”
Iris was still touching the envelope. “You’ve never spoken to Lazare?”
“Never.”
“You don’t know where Palmer is calling from?”
“No, but I think it’s a public phone in a restaurant or something. I always hear people in the background and plates and things, like a diner or something.”
“Do you have the answering service number on you?”
He raised his hips to reach into his rear pants pocket. He fished out a tiny black telephone book, licked his thumb and used it to turn the pages.
In her purse, Iris took out another business card and a pen. Melba jotted down the number in an unusually flowery hand with loops and long tails.
Iris slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder, tucked the envelope under her arm, and left with the phone number.
She returned a few minutes later and tossed the envelope on the table in front of Melba. He eagerly picked it up and pulled the wad of bills out just far enough so he could thumb through them. The more he counted, the wider his close-mouthed smile stretched. After he’d finished, he let out a satisfied sigh as if he’d consumed a good meal, folded the envelope in half, and shoved it in one of the pockets of the jacket. He pushed back his chair and stood. “Thanks for the drinks.”