by K. A. Tracy
Sam put her backpack in the bottom desk drawer and locked it before answering. There was a time, in the not too distant past, when she would have responded to such patronization with a road-rage level of anger. But getting upset took too much energy, was too indulgent, and wasn’t nearly as satisfying as cutting people off at their knees.
“I don’t use a spiel,” she responded calmly, stepping around him. “I find reporting much more efficient. You should try it some time.”
Sam went into Marlene’s office and sat on the window ledge by the corner of her desk. “You never told me Steve used to work crime here. When did he stop?”
“What difference does it make?”
“None, if he stopped a year or two ago.”
Marlene got up and shut her office door. She walked back and leaned against the front of her desk, speaking quietly. “Mind you, the paper didn’t cover that much crime when I got here because they were a much softer publication. And there wasn’t the gang crime like we now have in some parts of the Valley. But the old man’s sons who hired me want to make the paper a contender, God help us. I decided we could maybe get noticed if we took an in-depth look at crime in the Valley, if we made that our specialty, and I originally gave Steve that plum.”
Marlene looked out the window, “He was all right, but what he wrote just didn’t…grab me,” then brought her gaze back to Sam. “That’s because he’s lazy and wants to phone it in. He wasn’t giving me what I wanted, and I was trying to figure out where to go from there when you called, said you were moving, and here we are.”
“Except he thinks he got shoved aside to make room for me.”
“He was shoved aside,” Marlene conceded, “but that was going to happen regardless. Look, even if I hadn’t already decided he was better suited covering the Shriners’ convention, am I going to have you doing sports? Please. I know you said you needed a break from the blood and guts, which is why I figured I’d give you enough time to get settled in, chase away a few demons, and then get you back doing some serious work. I mean, how many old folks’ bingo scandals can you really stomach?”
Sam looked at the carpet. “Yeah, well, you’ve got a point there.”
“Don’t let Steve’s sour grapes get to you. You haven’t cost him anything. He’s done it all by himself.” She walked around her desk and eased back into her chair. “So, where are we?”
Sam updated Marlene. “The obvious scenarios would be: a drug deal gone bad, he welched on loans, or he just got rolled. My biggest issue at the moment is finding some background on Rydell. I finally have some promising leads thanks to Alison. I’ll also check with the police to see if they’ve found any relatives.”
Marlene stood and stretched, “Sounds good. Just put together whatever you have on Thursday then keep working on it for a follow-up story if you think there’s enough to warrant it.”
The office had thinned considerably by the time Sam walked back to her desk and called home.
“Ms. Perry’s residence.”
“You really haven’t been answering the phone like that, have you?”
“Of course not…because nobody else has called. Don’t you know anybody here?”
“Not really.”
“And to think, I knew you when you were popular—way, way back when. So, did you do anything fun today?”
“You have no idea. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner. But I’ve got some stuff to do here first. Is an hour okay?”
“An hour? I better start getting ready. Oh Scarlet, whatever shall I wear?”
“If you dare touch the curtains, I’ll kill you.”
“Even I’d be hard-pressed to make anything fashionable out of vertical blinds.”
Sam hung up smiling. She actually hadn’t realized how much she missed having company until he showed up. Maybe Joe was right; maybe she was getting too used to being alone.
“So, on that cheery note…” Sam logged on to her computer and opened Nate’s email that simply said, 4 Rosman Road, Cattle Hill. Nate never sent more information than necessary.
She called Veronica Flowers, who ran another investigative service—Sam liked spreading the work around. Veronica’s voicemail picked up, saying she was gone for the day but to please leave a detailed message.
“Hi Veronica, it’s Sam Perry. Could you please get me a current phone number and listing for 4 Rosman Road, Cattle Hill, Tennessee? And while you’re at it, could you get me the phone numbers of the nearest neighbors? Thanks.”
Sam could have looked in a cross directory herself, but that would exclude any unlisted numbers, and she was pressed for time. Sam couldn’t remember it ever taking so long to track down next of kin.
She retrieved a new memory key from her bag and wrote EK on the outside of it. She plugged it in and downloaded Ellen’s vital statistics from IMDb.com onto it. Next, she connected an external hard drive to her computer that contained California’s voter registration list. A contact she made while doing a series of articles on voter fraud several years earlier sent her an updated list every January. And every January Sam treated the source to a night out at Matsuhisa, LA’s top sushi restaurant. It was $300 well spent because the list gave Sam a quick and easy way to locate current home addresses, privacy laws be damned.
She picked up the phone and called Nate, waiting for the message machine to pick up. “I’m going to send you some names via email. I need all past known addresses for them, plus any vital stats you can come up with.”
She located Phil Atkins’ listing and copied down his address. Then she did a search for Lena Riley. She was surprised to see it was Ellen’s home address. A live-in personal assistant? “That’s so Hollywood.”
She referred back to the IMDb page and typed in her last entry: William and June Konrad. Indio. Deceased.
Sam wasn’t sure why she was spending her time, or the paper’s money, on digging into Ellen’s background, but something she said nagged at her.
Maybe I saw some of myself in him, someone trying to rise above the cards they were dealt in life.
Sam’s gut told her that wasn’t an idle comment although she had no clue what its significance could be. She talked to Joe about it over their first cocktail in the bar of a steak house called St. James Club. Between them was a large plate of calamari. “Somewhere there’s a thread,” Sam said. “Ellen was originally from Indio. Jeff spent a lot of time at the Crazy Girl in Indio. Maybe she used to work as an exotic dancer as a young girl, he found out, was blackmailing her—”
“And in her Armani sweat suit Ellen Konrad ran through the desert after him with a butcher knife?” Joe asked skeptically.
“Okay, that does sound like a scene out of a bad Faye Dunaway film.”
“Or a good one, depending on how you look at it.”
“True,” Sam laughed. “Besides, I confirmed she was in Los Angeles.”
“She could have hired someone,” he suggested.
“I suppose,” she conceded, not remotely believing it. “Or I could see Phil Atkins getting violent. Jeff told more than one person he was about to score big money. To me, that means either drugs or blackmail or some other illegal enterprise. People like Jeff Rydell don’t have that many legal moneymaking options, especially when their primary social haunt is an exotic dance bar.”
“So, follow the money.”
Sam nodded. Murder usually came down to a few simple human basics: love, money, sex, control. In this case she suspected it was a combination of all the above. “Money does seem to be at the heart of it. He was arguing with someone about money the night he was killed. He owed George Manuel money. He was allegedly coming into money. But of more immediate concern to the story due Thursday is simply finding out who this guy was. I suspect once I know that and what brought him here, it might be easier to figure out why he ended up on the wrong end of a boulder.”
“Maybe he was just trying to start a new life and went about it the wrong way,” Joe observed.
“Maybe.”
“By the way, how’d you like the dog’s bows?”
Sam frowned. “It was a little hard to tell since they refused to come out from under the bed.”
Joe swirled the ice in his empty drink “So, your tawdry tale from today got me thinking: why don’t we go to the Crazy Girl tonight? It sounds like a hoot.”
“Speaking of gender preferences that aren’t you,” Sam pointed out.
“I wasn’t speaking of the titillation factor—it’s so fun using that word when talking about a girlie bar—but maybe you’ll find out something interesting. Or at least check out the nighttime crowd. I can be your escort. Besides, I just love stiletto heels.”
“That’s because you don’t have to walk in them.”
Joe speared some calamari with his fork. “Says who?”
The more Sam thought about it, the more she warmed to the idea of checking the club out and getting a look at Money. Going during the day was one thing, but even she would be hesitant to go there by herself at night so Joe’s offer was a good opportunity to do some more digging.
“Okay, let’s do it. But I still need to stop by Rose’s before we go out there.”
The drinks and calamari filled them up, so they skipped ordering dinner. While Joe paid the bill, Sam took out her cell phone and called Rose again. And again there was no answer.
“Where the hell is she?” Sam stared at her cell phone with a worried look. “She said she’d be home.”
“It’s only eight o’clock,” Joe said, joining her. “You know, some people actually have social lives.”
They walked out of the restaurant into a swirl of warm air, the breeze picking up as the desert floor slowly cooled. White spotlights attached to the palm trees lining the sidewalks illuminated the fronds and gave the street a festive appearance. As they crossed the street Sam glanced up at some light pole banners promoting voter registration. Since Ellen was an overwhelming favorite among the under-forty crowd, Sam assumed Konrad’s campaign was behind the push to recruit younger voters. She wondered how receptive Ellen would really be if she had the nerve to call her just to talk.
Some of the retail shops and art galleries they passed were closed for August, but all the gift shops were open for business. Joe amused himself by walking through the aisles looking at kitschy souvenirs.
Sam led Joe to a display of snow globes and pointed to one depicting a desert diorama populated by a cowering tortoise and scraggly coyote. When shook it turned into a blur of beige. “This one’s a sandstorm. Gets you all warm and fuzzy, doesn’t it?”
Joe’s bark of laughter sounded loud in the hushed shop. “This is just too much,” he said, enthralled. “I have to have it. And they say California has no true culture.”
• • •
Back outside, Joe looked at his watch. “Since we’re waiting on Rose why don’t we go have another drink?” Joe suggested. “The cabbie today pointed out a place I want to try.”
“What place?”
“It’s over this way. Just come on.”
They cut over to Indian Drive and he led Sam to Arenas Road, home to more than a half-dozen gay bars and restaurants.
The bar was called Rafters and was the size of a warehouse. On the right were several pool tables. Two fortysomething women dressed almost identically in white polo shirts tucked into tan shorts played at one table, two young Latino men at the other.
Directly in front of the entrance was a large rectangular bar. Most of the stools were filled—all with men—and the murmur of friendly conversations and laughter mingled with music videos playing on flat-screens positioned throughout the bar. The back wall was lined with an assortment of pinball machines and video games, mostly classics like Space Invaders and Centipede.
Joe motioned Sam to follow him. “Let’s go in there.”
To the far left was another room connected by a revolving door. Above the entry a neon sign read: The G* Spot.
Sam slowed down. “Joseph Sapone…what are you up to?”
He turned around laughing. “Get over yourself. We’re only going to have a drink.”
“The cabbie told you about this?”
“Or maybe I found it on lesbian.com. Just come on.”
He pushed her through the revolving door and they emerged into a completely different atmosphere. The room was half the size of the video bar, with low lighting and the scent of candles in the air. The bar and liquor shelves behind it were bathed in a soft red accent light. There were no stools at the counter. Instead, low cocktail tables with cushioned chairs were scattered throughout the rest of the room where a couple dozen women sat in pairs or small groups.
Tucked in the back corners to the right and left of the entrance were plush couches behind sheer, red netting hung from the ceiling. The draping created an illusion of privacy, even if there was none in reality. Sam watched two women kissing lazily on one of the couches.
“This isn’t so bad, is it?” Joe asked, breaking her reverie.
“It’s very nice,” Sam agreed.
“I have to go to the bathroom. Why don’t you get us a drink?”
Sam made her way to the bar aware of interested glances as she walked past, aware the attention was not unpleasant. The bartender was a very attractive woman in her twenties wearing a black T-shirt with G* Spot embossed in red on the front.
“Can I help you?” She had the smiling demeanor and the physique of a college cheerleader. Sam half-expected her to do a cartwheel in greeting.
“A Jack and Diet and a vodka tonic.”
She scooped ice into two glasses. “I haven’t seen you in here before. Are you visiting?”
“No, I live here. A friend suggested we stop in.”
“What’s your name?”
“Samantha, but people call me Sam.”
“Hi. I’m Jennifer. I like it when we get new faces.” She reached under the counter and came up with a flyer. “Here’s our schedule. We have something different going on every night. Our Sunday barbecue is really popular. It’s packed because we do bingo afterwards.”
Sam looked around. “A little dark for bingo.”
“We hold it on the outside patio,” Jennifer gestured toward a door in the back corner. Next to it was a red neon dance floor upstairs sign pointing towards some stairs. The place was deceptively big.
Sam looked over the schedule while Jennifer poured the drinks. The bar catered to a wide range of tastes: salsa dancing, pool tournaments, a movie night.
Jennifer put the drinks on the counter. “Karaoke’s another popular night.”
“Dear God,” Sam folded the flyer and put it in the back pocket of her jeans. “What is it with drunk people and singing?”
Jennifer reached under the bar counter again and this time held up ear plugs. “And it’s always the ones who shouldn’t, isn’t it?”
Sam laughed and handed her a $20, telling her to keep the change as a tip. She watched Jennifer walk to the cash register, wondering if she was gay or worked in a lesbian bar because it was preferable to Hooters. She didn’t strike her as gay, but then again, what the hell did gay look like anyway?
Sam studied her reflection in the bar mirror. Her 33-year-old body was lean and strong from years of going to the gym. While not busty, she was far from flat-chested. She stared at the face she’d been told many times was pretty although she had her doubts.
Perhaps because you’re always scowling when you look in the mirror.
Sam wondered if people assumed she was gay because she didn’t wear make-up and preferred shorts and jeans to skirts and dresses or if it was something more innate. When Joe came back they found a table and she asked him the same question.
“There are many worse things than people thinking you’re gay.”
“Obviously,” she agreed, “like people thinking I’m Republican. I’m not saying it was a bad thing; I just wondered what makes someone look gay.”
“I’ve told you; it has less to do with your lack of make-up as it does your
lack of hormonal-driven interest in men. Tonight at the restaurant our waiter was doing his best to flirt, and you were completely oblivious.”
“He was?”
“Thank you for proving my point so succinctly.”
“You know I’ve never been good at that kind of thing. I’m not wired that way. I don’t know how to flirt.”
“Oh, please,” Joe chided, “You flirt.”
“I don’t.”
“You might not bat your eyes or flip your hair, but you flirt. Your way of flirting is through humor. You can actually be quite charming when you want to be.”
Sam rolled her eyes.
“I saw you talking to the bartender over there.”
“So?”
“When was the last time you made small talk like that?”
“Yesterday with Ellen.”
“Interviews don’t count.”
Was that all it had been, Sam wondered, just an interview? The thought depressed her. “Your point being?”
“Maybe the reason you can’t find someone you connect with emotionally is that you’re looking in the wrong places. Or in your case, not making yourself available in the right places. Don’t be so stubborn; you know you’re interested.”
She scanned the room with a reporter’s eye, taking in details and atmosphere. There was no particular type in the room. The women varied in age, race, and size but most were feminine and traditionally attractive.
While Sam enjoyed people watching and felt a certain thrill being among women who loved women, she was still preoccupied by her visceral reaction to Ellen. And it wasn’t just her physical beauty; it was the tantalizing glimpse she had seen of the person inside. But she wasn’t about to admit any of this to Joe. He would think she had lost her mind finding a straight woman to pine after, especially one so clearly unattainable.
“I hear you, Joe. I’ll eventually figure it out. Or not.”
“Okay, enough about you.”
“Thank you.”
He laughed and moved his chair closer. “I’m thinking of moving to California.”