The Innocents Club

by Taylor Smith

  “It is. That’s the switch right there on the back. I don’t know, maybe it was malfunctioning.”

  Scheiber frowned. A heavy glass lay on its side on the deck next to the tub, all but a drop or two of the contents spilled out. “You got a picture of this?” When Eckert nodded, he picked up the glass and sniffed. “Smells like the Glenlivet, all right. Got a couple of evidence bags?”

  Eckert walked over to a case by the door and pulled out a Ziploc and a paper bag. Scheiber nodded appreciatively, slipping the glass inside the plastic bag, taking care to seal in the few remaining drops of liquid. He then took a few scrapings off the deck where the glass had spilled and put those in the paper bag. He labeled the bags and set them aside.

  “Better take the towel, too,” he told Eckert, nodding to one of the wicker lounge chairs. A white terry bath sheet lay across the striped padded seat.

  Walking around the deck a couple of times, then zeroing in on the tub once more, Scheiber looked for any sign that there might have been a struggle. Like maybe someone had overpowered the guy and held him under until he drowned in order to—what?

  Livermore had said there was two hundred dollars in Korman’s wallet. There was an expensive-looking stereo system downstairs, and at least three televisions that Scheiber had seen—one downstairs, one in the den, one in the bedroom. The art on the walls was all original, decent quality from what he could tell. Albert Jacob Korman was obviously no pauper. Who knew what else of value was in the place?

  But there was no sign anything had been taken. No sign anything had happened here except the guy decided to have a drink, soak his old bones and take a nap on the bottom of the tub.

  “Okay, enough is enough,” Scheiber said. “I want to get a better look at the body. Let’s call in the coroner so we can haul the guy out of there.”

  “You thinking—?” Eckert ventured.

  “I’m thinking it’s too nice a day to stand around here any longer than we have to,” Scheiber said. And I’m thinking I’m missing something.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sleeping with the wrong man isn’t all that difficult, Mariah thought. The lonely fog of night masks a lot of doubt, and need has a way of strangling resolve. Waking up with the wrong man is another matter. The cold glare of morning is pretty unforgiving.

  She studied Paul over the rim of her coffee cup. He was reclined on his side, one elbow sinking into the mattress. When the room-service waiter had knocked on the door, Paul had slung the loose top sheet around his waist. Lean and well-muscled, he had not an ounce of fat on him. The sheet looked like a toga at half-mast. The waiter had cast sidelong glances as he set down the breakfast tray. Mariah was reasonably certain Paul had been recognized, but he seemed completely unselfconscious.

  She lay opposite him now, also propped on one elbow, the remains of breakfast on the tray between them. A couple of Romans at an orgy.

  No toga for her, though. The thick hotel robe was wrapped around her, her wet Speedo hung out to dry on the shower rail. Sixty laps in the downstairs pool had gone some way toward easing the nervous thrum in her spine, but she still couldn’t shake the feeling she had no business being there. She wanted to call Lindsay. And Frank. But not with Paul around.

  This was only the third time since she and Paul had been seeing each other that they’d been able to spend an entire night together. Normally, she ended up having to rush home to Lindsay. The unfamiliarity of it all—was that why she was still waking to morning-after regrets? Or was there a deeper message here about their compatibility—or lack thereof?

  Or was it just that being with Paul reminded her of David—and the attack on her husband and daughter that had been meant for her? If it hadn’t been for Paul’s investigation, she might never have learned the truth. Was that it? Deep down, did she resent Paul for dredging up those memories and the guilt she still felt over David’s death?

  “What are your plans for today?” Paul asked.

  “I have to check my morning mail packet over at the Federal Building,” she said vaguely, praying there’d be no follow-up messages from DDO. “And I have a few calls to make. What about you?”

  “I’ll be over at the network doing my homework. Your friend Belenko said there was a window this afternoon. If the Zakharov interview looks like a go, I have to make sure we’ll be ready to roll.”

  “I’m impressed. You do work fast. This will be quite a coup if you land this just as Zakharov’s named to the premier’s post.”

  “Just a lucky break. I happened to be in the right place at the right time. First thing Belenko wanted to know was whether the interview would air right away. It’ll get picked up by satellite, so I imagine their people will make sure it gets rebroadcast over there. Probably figure it’ll help raise Zacky’s profile while he’s making his bid for the job. I’m sure that’s the only reason they’re agreeing so quickly.”

  “He’s using you, you know.”

  “Oh, no, Mariah! You think so?” He clutched his chest with one hand, backhanding the other to his forehead. “I feel so dirty!”

  “Oh, you cheap slut, you,” she said dryly.

  He grinned and wedged himself into the pillows, back against the headboard, lacing his hands over his washboard stomach. “It won’t be a love fest, believe me. Zakharov is reputed to have carried out some pretty ugly maneuvers to clear his way to the top. I’m in no great rush to help a thug like that cement his hold on power. By the time I’m through with him, his people may want to jam that satellite signal.”

  “Sounds like your plate’s full today.”

  “Uh-huh. But I’m still planning to pick up the beach-house keys later. How about if we meet for dinner?”

  Well, that answered one question, she thought. It didn’t sound as though he had any plans to fly home today. “Let’s see how the day goes,” she said.

  A frown creased his forehead. The man was an expert interviewer, and he knew a stall when he heard one. “You had a call from Frank Tucker, I noticed.”

  “You listened to it?”

  He shrugged. “The voice-mail light was flashing when I got in last night. I thought it might be my producer getting back on this interview. When I realized the message was for you, I left it on the system.” He started pushing toast crumbs around his empty plate. “What does he want?”

  She hesitated, loath to bring up the business of Chap Korman and the UCLA prof’s bizarre allegations about Ben. Paul was a little too enthusiastic for comfort on the subject of her father. If it hadn’t been for his and Lindsay’s horror at the idea, she might have given in to her first instinct and thrown out those moldy papers when she’d found them in her flooded storage locker. She wished she had. Look what a headache they were turning out to be.

  “It’s just a work thing,” she said.

  “I thought he was out of the picture.”

  “Who? Frank? What do you mean, out of the picture?”

  “I thought you two weren’t working together anymore.”

  “We’re not. It doesn’t mean our paths never cross. He was doing some research for me yesterday.”

  “I see,” Paul said. The way he said it, it was hard to tell just what it was that he saw. “So how is old Frank these days?”

  “Doing a little better. A long way from being back in the swing of things, though. I worry about him. He took his son’s death awfully hard, and he doesn’t really have anyone to share his grief—except Carol, I suppose, but she’s busy with her new baby and a toddler. Frank being Frank, he wouldn’t want to burden her, anyway. Steven was her twin brother, after all. She’s got her own mourning to deal with. She says Frank comes around for the occasional dinner and puts up a good front, but he still looks like a guy who’s been hit by a freight train. It’s the same thing at work. He’s just going through the paces. Disengaged.”

  “Have you been seeing a lot of him?”

  “At work, you mean?”

  He shrugged. “There, or on your own time.”

 
“Not really.”

  “Not really? So you have been seeing him?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, it’s just that I don’t seem to see you that often, and…” He looked away for a moment. “Look, I know it’s nobody’s fault that we so rarely seem to be able to find time to be together. My schedule’s crazy, and you’re busy, too, between your work and Lindsay.”

  “That’s right. So what does it have to do with Frank?”

  “His girlfriend walked out on him, right? He’s on his own now?”

  “So?”

  “Come on, Mariah! It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? I’ve seen the way Tucker looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching. And I can’t help wondering sometimes whether you’re looking back.”

  “Why would you say a thing like that?”

  “Why are you so defensive?”

  “I’m not!”

  “Yes, you are. Your hackles went up the minute I mentioned his name.”

  “Because he’s my oldest and dearest friend. You know that. You’ve known it right from the start.”

  “Yes, I guess I have,” he said. Then he exhaled heavily. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound like I’m doubting you. But as for Frank—well, it was one thing when he was still with Patty. I’ve got to believe she finally figured out the lay of the land, though. That’s probably why she left him, don’t you think? And if he’s starting to come around now, Mariah, it’s obviously for one reason only.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I was the one who got in touch with him. I told you, he was doing some research for me. There was something I needed done, and he was the best person to do it. So would you just lay off him?” She felt annoyed and protective. But why? Frank was a big boy, and hardly needed protecting from the likes of Paul Chaney.

  His long, tapered fingers drummed the mattress. “I’m sorry,” he said finally.

  “Why are you acting like this?”

  “I don’t know. Insecurity, I guess.”

  “Hmmph!” She doubted he’d ever had an insecure minute in his life. His clear blue eyes crinkled at the corners as a small smile—sheepish? apologetic?—crept over his face. She was meant to do something here, Mariah supposed. Lean over and kiss him? Brush away his worries, tell him they were groundless? Oh, Paul, how could anyone take your place?

  Instead, she tightened her robe. “Anyway, I’ll follow up with Frank later. The first thing I want to do this morning is phone Lindsay.” She slid off the bed and reached back for the breakfast tray. Time to get this show on the road.

  “She called,” Paul said.

  “What? Lindsay called? When?”

  “Last night, around nine.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just remembered. It was too late for you to call her back by the time you got in, anyway.”

  She put the tray on the table. “Her message isn’t on the system anymore. What did it say?”

  “There was no message. The call came just as I walked in the door. I talked to her.”

  Mariah stared at him, icy dread slicing through her middle. Oh, hell! Lindsay knew he was here.

  “Like I said,” Paul said quickly, “I was fielding calls from my producer and researcher. When the phone rang, I thought it was one of them, so I picked up.”

  “How did she sound?” Mariah asked. Stupid question. She could just imagine how Lindsay would react to finding Paul sharing the room after she’d gotten thumbs-down on her own bid to come.

  “A little surprised,” he said.

  The understatement of the year. Mariah slumped down onto a chair. “No kidding. Damn!”

  “I guess we should have warned her I might be here?”

  “Well, yes, perhaps we should have, but I could hardly do that, could I, since I didn’t know myself. Oh, hell, Paul! She’s going to be furious. She wanted to come with me and I said no. Now she’s going to think it was only because of you.”

  “Only me.” Again with the improbable insecurity.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Actually, no, Mariah, I don’t. Why is this so awful? Surely she’s figured out by now that you and I are more than just casual acquaintances. Or has she? I mean, do you talk to her about me? About us?”

  “Us? Paul, I’m not even sure about us. I told you after David died that I needed to go slow.”

  “Could we possibly be going any slower? Do you hear me complaining about the fact that I’m lucky if I see you a couple of times a month?”

  “You can’t only blame me for that. You said yourself, your schedule is even busier than mine.”

  “I know that,” he conceded. “But even when we are together, I’m never sure you aren’t wishing you were somewhere else. Like when I showed up at the museum last night. That was more than surprise I saw on your face, Mariah. You were annoyed. You didn’t want me there.”

  She puffed up her cheeks and exhaled heavily. “That’s not exactly true. I really appreciate that you came to offer moral support, knowing I’d probably be running into Renata. But I was distracted. Nervous about Renata. Watching for a Russian I was supposed to be chatting up, worried about how that was going to go.”

  “Yuri Belenko? The guy you left the museum with?”

  “We left separately,” she said, frowning at him.

  “Yeah, but I saw you over the balcony, getting into a car with him downstairs.”

  “Score one for the investigative reporter. Just tell me you’re not going to start feeling insecure about that, too.”

  “I’ll overlook it. I know it was business.”

  “Well, thank you for that. And do me a favor—don’t be repeating what you saw, okay? Not that it’s a national secret or anything. Both his people and mine knew we had dinner. Members of opposite delegations do it all the time, picking each other’s brains. That’s all that was going on there.”

  Paul saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. So, anyway, last night at the museum—I was nervous about Renata and Belenko, and still worrying about a fight Lindsay and I had had before I left home. When you showed up out of the blue like that, it sent me into sensory overload, that’s all.” Mariah frowned. “But I have to tell you, Paul, this is a major complication, the fact that she found you here.”

  “To be honest, she didn’t sound too happy about it,” he admitted. “It’s not the first time I’ve noticed it, either. I don’t get it. I thought she and I were buds, but I sure don’t seem to be in her good books these days. I can’t figure out what I did wrong.”

  Mariah sighed and moved over to sit beside him on the bed. When he reached out, she hesitated, then tucked reluctantly into his arms. This was an altogether new phenomenon for him, she realized. There couldn’t be many people in Paul Chaney’s life—especially females—who resisted his charm.

  A person could almost hate him. Ambitious and intensely social, he had a relaxed self-confidence and benevolence that probably came from never having been seriously thwarted. His childhood, by all accounts, had been a comfortable, middle-class affair, nurtured by intelligent, loving parents who’d managed to avoid the excesses of both over-indulgence and hyperdiscipline. His passage through life seemed to have been largely painless, the few bumps in his road smoothed out by his own hard work and basic decency. It was as if Paul Chaney lived in some easygoing parallel universe most poor fools could only dream of, Mariah thought. All very far from her own experience—which might explain why she found it impossible to relax around him. It was hard to let down your guard when you were conditioned to expect the Bird of Paradise to dump on your shoulder as it swooped in to land on the next guy’s.

  “It’s not you personally,” she said. “It’s David’s memory she’s trying to protect. She’d probably resent anyone she thought was moving in to replace him. If she’s unhappy with anyone, in fact, it’s me.”

  Paul was stroking her hair, but she tried not to be lulled. She needed to think clearly, decide how she wa
s going to deal with this new complication before she called Lindsay back.

  “Maybe this vacation will help,” he said.

  “I hope so. We really appreciate your lining up the house for us, Paul. Both of us. I mean that.”

  “Anything to up my approval rating. To tell you the truth, I was hoping to sneak away for a little beach time with the two of you.”

  Yikes. Mariah winced and pulled away from him. Beware Greek gods bearing gifts. “Are you telling me you want to join us?”

  “Only if that’s okay. Just for a couple of days, maybe? Doesn’t have to be this week, if that’s a problem, especially after the phone blooper. I could fly back out here next weekend. Or the weekend after?”

  “Oh, Paul…I’m not sure. Lindsay’s been going through a really rough time these past few months. I need some time to figure out what’s going on in her head.”

  “Alone, you mean.”

  “I think so. I’m really sorry. If that makes a difference in terms of us using your friend’s house, I’ll understand, but—”

  He shook his head firmly. “No, it doesn’t. And I understand, really.”

  Did he? she wondered.

  “Don’t give it another thought. Can we still try for dinner tonight, though? Assuming,” he added, “that I get done with Zakharov in time and you have no more Russian Joes to court.”

  “Let’s try to talk this afternoon,” she said. “Call back here when you get a free minute. I should know by then whether or not I’m done working. If I’m not, I’ll leave a message for you. We’ll try to work it out.”

  “I’ll settle for that—for now.” He stretched langorously, and then his hand fell casually to her thigh and began to stroke it. “Do we have time for one more—”

  “No, Paul, it’s late,” she protested. “You need to get moving and so do I.”

  His blue eyes twinkled. “I was going to say one more coffee.”

  “Sure you were.”

  “I was. Come on. Just one.” He reached to the bedside table for his cup.

  Mariah slid off the bed to retrieve the coffee carafe, reluctant to hang around but loath to give him the bum’s rush after he’d been so understanding.