by Taylor Smith
“Guns or butter, the eternal dilemma,” Paul mused. “Some people might wonder why we’d even bother to consider an aid package now, when the timing can only help the ambitions of this thug who hates us. But,” he said, answering his own argument, “I guess it’s a case of better the devil you know than the one you don’t. What about the Russian divisions massing in the south? Did Kidd demand they be rolled back?”
“That would be a logical quid pro quo, wouldn’t it? And nobody’s ever accused Shelby Kidd of being illogical.”
“Okay, thanks. That’s helpful,” Paul said, sounding as if he was taking notes. “Are the meetings over?”
“The bilateral ones. Both sides have retreated to their corners. Zakharov and Kidd are scheduled to be on the Queen Mary tomorrow evening for the opening of the Pacific Rim conference.”
“So where does that leave you?”
“Cooling my heels, for a pleasant change. I just filed my last report. As far as work’s concerned, looks like I’m outta here.” She’d returned to the Federal Building after the luncheon to let Geist know that the offer had been made, and that Belenko hadn’t run screaming in panic from the room. But neither had Yuri jumped at the opportunity to become a traitor for hire. If Belenko contacted her again, she’d let Geist know. Otherwise, the ball was now in the DDO’s court.
“Can I buy you dinner?” Mariah asked. She owed Paul that, at least, and probably some honesty, too, about why she’d turned him down. And why it might be time for them to consider cooling it.
“I was hoping you’d be free,” he replied. “In fact, I already asked somebody here to make dinner reservations for me. I’ve got a table at Spago for eight o’clock. Is that going to be okay?”
“I suppose so.” She would have preferred somewhere quieter, but the timing was good. Eight o’clock gave them enough time for a good talk before she had to leave for the airport to meet Lindsay’s flight. “Last-minute tables at Spago,” she added. “Pretty impressive. I guess that’s one of the perks of being a big-time TV personality.”
The tease fell flat on its face. Paul’s response was distinctly irritated. “You’ve got plenty of name recognition of your own, Mariah, if you’d just lighten up about it. Your father couldn’t have been all bad. Don’t you think it’s about time you cut him a little slack?”
She frowned. “Excuse me? Where did that come from?”
“Forget it. Look, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk at dinner, all right?”
“That’s fine,” she said, adding a conciliatory note, “I really do appreciate your going to bat on the beach-house thing, Paul.”
He exhaled heavily. “I’m just trying to help. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“I know that. I’ll see you at eight. Meantime, break a leg with Zakharov, okay?”
“See you later.”
She hung up the phone and replaced it on the night table, then sat back, trying to decide what to do with the hours between now and then. There was the car to be picked up. And, come to think of it, she should probably call down to the front desk to make sure they knew she’d be staying one more—
“Oh, damn it all to hell!” She smacked her thigh angrily. She’d forgotten to tell Paul she’d changed Lindsay’s flight, and that she was coming in tonight instead of tomorrow. Although, she thought grimly, maybe that was a conversation just as well had over dinner, too. But there was no way she was going to have Lindsay stay in a hotel room by herself while she and Paul spent another night together, especially after the way Lindsay had reacted to finding him there in the first place. Breaking that news to Paul was just going to be insult added to injury, though. The best thing to do was pack her things and call down to the front desk to line up a double room she and Lindsay could share tonight, and leave this room to Paul. Then, while the bellhop was moving her bags, Mariah calculated, she could run out and pick up the rental car.
She slid off the bed and headed for the bathroom, and started stuffing her cosmetics and toothbrush into her flowered toiletry bag. She was on her way out with it when she stopped dead in her tracks. Frowning, she turned back to let her gaze wander slowly over the bathroom. It was spotless, not a thing interrupting the impeccable sheen of the marble countertop, except for the tray of bath samples and plastic-wrapped glasses that the maid had left when the room was cleaned. Her Speedo was still draped over the shower rod, where she’d left it after her morning swim. Mariah returned to the room and slid open the mirrored closet door. Her blue, rip-stop nylon dress bag hung from the rod next to the cobalt blue mandarin number she’d worn to the Arlen Hunter reception, plus another couple of backup dresses she’d brought along, just in case. On the floor were her shoes. The bigger suitcase she’d packed for the beach was on the luggage rack in the room.
There were no other personal items anywhere. No battered leather shaving kit in the bathroom. No size twelve men’s Cole Haans on the closet floor. No monogrammed shirts in the pale blue Egyptian cotton that punched up the color of Paul’s eyes when he sat before the cameras, seducing the country with that easy charm, making men trust him and women lust after him. All of his things were gone. He had done more than line up the beach-house keys while she was gone. He’d packed his bag and moved himself out, lock, stock and calfskin flight bag.
Mariah shut the closet door and sat down on the edge of the bed, stunned. Was this how a drifting affair ended? It was a nasty surprise, psyching herself up to back gracefully away from this arrangement of theirs, only to find out she’d been beaten to the punch.
Her relationship with Paul had been stormy at the outset, warmer later, but always vaguely unsettled, picking up intensity from time to time, only to drop off again as one or the other or both of them got too busy to tend to it properly. Relationships had to be nurtured if they were to grow strong. Otherwise, they just withered on the vine. But there had never seemed to be enough time to nurture theirs. Maybe not enough enthusiasm, either.
Now, evidently, the attraction between them had finally worn so thin it had reached the breaking point, the separate-vacations thing just the final rub. And, perhaps, that’s what this dinner he’d planned was about—why it was going to happen in that most public of all Los Angeles restaurants. After all, if there was one thing Paul hated, it was noisy melodrama. Hadn’t he once confided—only half-jokingly, now that she thought about it—that a crowded venue was the best place to terminate a relationship? He should know. Before she’d gotten involved with him, she’d seen Paul Chaney run through more than a few of the ambitious, self-sufficient women he seemed most attracted to—the kind who’d be loath to make public spectacles of themselves in high-profile places—so it was only to be expected that he’d have the art of the clean split mastered by now.
There you have it, she thought. Here she was, having second, third and fourth thoughts about what the hell she was doing, and all the while he was getting ready to dump her. Mariah sat in the quiet room, taking the pulse of her reaction. She was irritated, not so much that he’d moved himself out without telling her as by the sneakiness of his unilateral withdrawal. Although, to be honest, wasn’t that what she’d just been planning herself? Yes, she thought indignantly, but only because of the Lindsay factor. She was sorry she’d hurt his feelings, but on the other hand, Paul should have asked whether it would be all right to barge in on her vacation, instead of simply presuming.
In any event, it was ending. Was she distressed? No, she decided, not really. She even felt a hint of exhilaration at her impending freedom. Now that she’d figured out what was going on, she could have done without the dinner date. Still, to be fair, he was preoccupied with work, and he had come through one last time for her. She could at least grant him this, if that was how he preferred to shut things down. They’d part on friendly terms, and she’d survive. And, on the plus side, she thought, at least she didn’t have to worry now about lining up another hotel room.
She glanced at her watch. Three and a half hours till dinner. It was too nerve-ra
cking to sit in the hotel room and wait. She’d go and pick up the rental car. Then, if nothing else, she could always follow the time-honored tradition that when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.
That was what she did. After picking up the car in Westwood—a fire-engine red Mustang convertible, she decided, making an impulsive last-minute switch from the staid, midsize sedan she’d originally reserved—she drove to the Beverly Center and spent an hour and a half browsing luxury shops and trying on clothes. At Saks, she bought a new bathing suit for the beach, sandals and a straw hat. And then, on impulse, a short, sleeveless dress in a soft, turquoise silk that skimmed her body like a custom-made cocoon.
Eat your heart out, Media Man, she thought, taking perverse pleasure from the reflection in the dressing-room mirror. There was no need to don sackcloth and ashes for the occasion of being publicly dumped, and this was about as far from mourning garb as it was possible to get. The summery color set off the glow her skin had already acquired after only a day and a half of walking in and out of golden California sunshine. Her gray eyes took on the turquoise cast of the silk, and her hair had never seemed so blond. At the service desk, an obsequious sales associate pointed out a matching silk shawl in an abstract print of turquoise shot through with bits of silver.
“Good. Perfect for the disdainful fling over the shoulder,” Mariah agreed, tossing it onto her pile of purchases. The saleswoman gave her a puzzled smile.
Returning to the hotel with just a half hour to spare, she left the red Mustang with the valet at the front door, ran upstairs, showered and dressed, taking a little extra time to punch up her makeup.
“Let him wait,” she muttered.
The effect must have been what she was hoping for, because the white-haired doorman—the same one who’d watched her comings and goings the previous night—and the young valet tripped over each other in their competitive haste to hold open her car door and study her legs as she slipped behind the wheel. Not bad for the mother of a teenage daughter, Mariah thought, grinning at their flushed faces in the rearview mirror as she pulled away.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jim Scheiber flipped open his ID at the front desk of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. “I’m looking for one of your guests,” he told the conservatively suited woman who’d approached him with a smile. “I know she’s staying here, but I’m not certain what name she’d be registered under.”
It was after eight-thirty. He’d planned to run up to L.A. earlier, but at the thought of holiday-weekend traffic, he’d decided to stop by his house to have supper with Liz and the boys, after all, and wait out the rush hour. Big mistake. By the time he got onto the 405 freeway, it was gridlocked from San Diego all the way up to Malibu with a series of major and minor accidents, the Fourth of July fracas off to a typically early start.
Diverting to alternate routes had turned out to be a slow, frustrating competition with a few million other savvy locals who’d had the same brilliant idea. The entire Southland freeway system had been transformed into a vast, red sea of brake lights that not even flashing lights and a siren could have navigated at anything over a snail’s pace. Rather than fight it, Scheiber had opted to go with the flow, doing the only sensible thing he could, under the circumstances, which was to tune the car radio to the oldies station, groove to the Beach Boys and relive his misspent youth.
The woman behind the hotel’s long wooden front desk studied his badge briefly, then looked up at him. She seemed puzzled, but her practiced smile barely fluttered. “You’re looking for a guest, but you don’t have a name?” The gold acetate badge on the lapel of her black suit said her name was B. Latham and that she was the hotel’s Assistant Manager/Client Services. She was a streaky blonde, middle-aged and well tended, but without the surgical stiffness he so often saw in women whose self-confidence had been killed by the city’s Barbie-doll culture.
Despite all his years on the LAPD, this was only the second time he’d ever ventured into the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Built in the 1920s, it was a local landmark, with a reputation established on discreet but meticulous service, fabulous facilities and an illustrious clientele. Walking through the heavy front doors, Scheiber’s shoes had sounded boorishly loud to him as he crossed the Italian-marble floor laid out in an intricate mosaic design. The hushed lobby was filled with fantastic floral displays, massive antique tables and overstuffed couches that a small child would disappear into. The smell of the place put him in mind of beautiful women, subtle colognes and thick bill-folds.
“I know this woman’s maiden name,” he said. “I’m just not certain that’s what she goes by. Or, for that matter, if she’s even checked in under her own name. For all I know, she could be with here with a husband.”
“Well, Detective, why don’t we give the name you’ve got a shot, and then go from there?” Ms. Latham proposed, indulging him. Her fingers were poised over a computer keyboard. “What is it?”
“Mariah Bolt.”
Her hands dropped. “Oh, well, that’s an easy one. She’s definitely a guest here.”
“You’re sure?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely. As a matter of fact, you’re the second person in the last twenty minutes to ask for her. She’s not in, though. If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll be sure she gets it.”
“You’re sure she’s not in, without even calling up?”
“Yes. I saw her leave about a half hour ago.”
“You must have a lot of people here. You definitely know her to see her?”
“Let’s say I made a point of knowing.”
“Why is that?”
“It would be indiscreet for me to say, Detective.” She shrugged mysteriously.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “She’s shacked up here with somebody.”
“That is not a term I would use. Our guests’ private lives are no concern of ours.”
“But she is here with someone?” Scheiber asked. Latham nodded. “Okay, look,” he said wearily, “I really don’t care about that, either, but it’s very important I talk to her.”
“This is official police business, you said? You’re not just some celebrity seeker?”
Scheiber grimaced “Hardly. I’m working a case.”
“Well, all right, then. I suppose I could tell you what I know. I turned down the last fellow, mind you, so don’t think we do this for everyone. We have a reputation to uphold, you know.”
“I really appreciate it,” Scheiber said.
“She checked in yesterday,” the woman at the desk said. “She said she’d only be here for a night or two at most, but I presume she’s staying on tonight, because she hasn’t been in touch about checking out, although we know her roommate did leave with his bags this afternoon.”
“He wasn’t registered?”
“No. He arrived alone and left alone.”
“So, just out of curiosity, how do you know he was staying with Mariah Bolt?”
“He’s a high-profile person. For one thing, he was seen and recognized by the room-service waiter who delivered their breakfast this morning. The waiter’s a young fellow and still a bit starstruck by some of our guests,” she added. A little grimace of guilt crossed her face. “Actually, it turns out my manager let this man into Ms. Bolt’s room when the gentleman said he wanted to surprise her. It’s not something I would have done, myself, mind you. We pride ourselves on personal service here at the Beverly Wilshire, but opening a guest’s room to someone else without her permission, no matter who that person may be, is a little beyond the pale, in my opinion.”
“So, I gather this gentleman friend is a powerful person?”
She shrugged. “If you equate fame with power. Of course, in this city, most people do. When word spread that this fellow was in the hotel, everyone on staff was a little curious about his lady friend, so I’d say most of us know her by sight by now.”
“What?” Scheiber asked, noticing her smile.
“Our doorman is convinced the lady is some
kind of high-priced call girl. Seems before she even got to her guest upstairs, she was out with another man last night. Then after he dropped her off, she slipped out again for an hour or two. Arturo, the doorman, thought she’d gone to turn another trick. That was before I told him the lady was the daughter of Benjamin Bolt.”
“I see. But she’s been pretty active, has she?”
“In and out.” The assistant manager’s shoulder rose and fell in a blasé, seen-it-all shrug. “Maybe just a party animal. We get a lot of those here, as you can imagine—rich people’s kids with more money than brains.”
“She strike you as that type?”
“I haven’t really spoken to her at length, but just to look at her? Not really. For one thing, she’s got to be in her late thirties, I would think. A little old for that circuit, but what do I know?”
“Hmm,” Scheiber said. “So, anyway, this high-profile person has left, and Ms. Bolt is not in her room right now?”
“As I said, I saw her leave about a half hour ago.”
“But she definitely hasn’t checked out?”
“She was dressed to the nines when she left, and not carrying luggage. I have to presume her things are still in her room. When or whether she’ll be back tonight, I couldn’t say, but her suite is covered by a credit card, so if Ms. Bolt wants to pay for a suite she’s not using…” The assistant manager’s go-figure expression said it all.
“Would you mind if I took a look at it?” Scheiber asked.
“Why?”
“Just to satisfy myself that she’s still around and will show up at some point. If so, I’ll leave a message for her to contact me. I may even hang around and wait for her. But if she’s not coming back and just hasn’t gotten around to telling you, I’d rather know about it sooner than later. As I said, it’s critical I talk to her about this case I’m working.”
Latham glanced around the lobby, but the place seemed quiet at the moment, and there were at least two other people that Scheiber could see working the front desk. “I suppose I could take you up,” she said, nodding. “Hang on while I get a passkey.”