by Lois Winston
I had just placed my order for three veggie lo meins when someone walked up quietly behind me. I must have been more strung out than I realized because I felt my pulse jump. I sensed a warm body standing just a little too close to me and my heart somersaulted.
I told myself to cool it. I was showing classic symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; racing pulse, exaggerated startle reflex, shortness of breath. A textbook case. All the beginnings of a full-fledged panic attack were there, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me.
My neurons were firing for no reason at all, and I was as jumpy as if a saber-toothed tiger was sprinting after me. A primitive fear response, but a dangerous one. I had to act fast, and nip this glitch in my brain or it would take over my life.
Then the mystery person moved in even closer. I could practically feel his breath on my back. Was it the intruder back for another whack at me? The skin on the back of my neck tingled and I whirled around, holding my straw tote bag in front of me like a shield.
I moved so fast, I nearly fell on top of him. My reptilian brain parts were in control and all rational thought had vanished. My heart pounded as I connected with a powerful male body.
“Hey, easy, there. A little jumpy, are we?”
Rafe Martino.
EIGHTEEN
I felt the breath go out of me in a single whoosh and he reached out his hands to steady me. He was looking terrific as usual, tanned and handsome in a pale blue golf shirt and khaki pants. His grip was light but firm, and I could feel the heat of his body.
“Sorry, but you startled me.” I felt like an idiot. My heartbeat kicked up a notch, and I wished I’d taken a few seconds to put on some lip gloss and drag a brush through my hair. “Ever since last night, I’m just not myself, you know?” I was talking too fast, babbling. Pressured speech, as the shrinks would say. A sure sign that I was rattled.
He nodded, keeping his gaze cool and level. “How are you feeling? You were really out of it in the ER last night. I wanted to ask you a few questions but we had another call on the west side of town. I have Officer Brown’s report on my desk.”
Officer Brown. It took me a beat to realize he was talking about Opie. “My head’s still throbbing.” I admitted. “They say I had a mild concussion and there’s not really any treatment. So I guess I’ll just have to wait it out and I may take a few days off from work.”
Rafe smiled. “I noticed they’re playing it up on WYME. Hourly bulletins.”
“I know,” I said, feeling a wash of embarrassment. “They’re laying it on pretty heavy. That’s not my doing, believe me. That’s all the fault of the news department. I guess it’s a slow day for serial killers so they’re going to concentrate on petty theft.”
Rafe raised an eyebrow. “If that’s what it was. Petty theft.”
Some other customers were crowding in behind us and we moved to a red leather banquette seat to wait for our orders. Had there really been something else behind the break-in last night? As always, Rafe was holding his cards close to his vest as Vera Mae would say, and I tried to draw him out. “The only things missing are two candlesticks I picked up at an estate sale. What else could it be?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know.” I tried to read his expression, but it was neutral, revealing nothing. We were sitting so close, I could see flecks of gold in his dark eyes and could sense the coiled readiness in his body. He always seemed watchful, alert, and I couldn’t decide if it was part of being a cop, or just his personality style.
“Why would anyone go to the trouble of breaking in just to grab a couple of candlesticks that were worth what, a hundred bucks?” His voice was low, reasonable. He spread his hands in front of him. “That doesn’t make sense to me.”
I shrugged. “It doesn’t make sense to me either, but I don’t have an answer. The criminal mind is a mystery,” I said lightly.
“Even to you? I thought you handled a lot of forensic cases before you moved here.”
“How did you—” I began and then stopped abruptly. I was living with someone the Cypress Grove PD considered a prime suspect in Guru Sanjay’s murder. So naturally he’d done a background check on me and knowing Rafe, it was a thorough one. “Yes, you’re right. I did some forensic work as part of my practice back in Manhattan.”
Rafe nodded as if this was old news to him. “I’ve dealt with a few forensic psychologists before.” I waited. There was something dismissive in his tone and I reminded myself not to show my annoyance. Maybe he was baiting me, maybe he was serious, but I wasn’t going to fall into the trap of playing games with him. I had the feeling that Rafe Martino could outmaneuver me at every turn and I was on my guard.
“As consultants on your cases?” I kept my voice deliberately neutral.
“The State brought them in. Sometimes the prosecutors like to bolster their cases by including some psychological twists about the criminal mind. So the shrinks get on the stand and try to tell the jury why it’s plausible that this particular suspect could have committed this crime. Or if they’re working for the other side, they tell you why the suspect couldn’t possibly have committed the crime. You hear both opinions in the same courtroom about the same case. It’s mind-boggling.”
I could feel my blood pressure inch up a tic when he gave a dry laugh. “Is that so?”
Rafe went on, clearly on a roll. Or a rant. “Since they’re hired guns, they say whatever they’re paid to say. They do a lot of tests and some mumbo-jumbo and make a few hundred bucks an hour. And then they file a thirty page report that no one ever reads. It’s a racket.”
“The reports are called psych evals,” I said mildly. “Psychological evaluations.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” he agreed. “psych evals. Our file cabinets are full of them. After a while, they all start to sound alike. And some of the profiles I’ve seen are really over the top. You find out that a serial killer likes peanut butter and drives a Subaru. Some meaningless facts that could apply to millions of people. It’s just useless information that any wingnut could dream up.”
Wingnut? If Martino was trying to bait me, he was getting nowhere. I knew I had to stay focused so I could work the conversation around to Lark and see if he had any new evidence. “It doesn’t sound like you have much respect for my profession.” I tried to match his low, calm voice and kept my face expressionless.
“Psychology is no match for police work.” His tone was blunt. “Psychobabble theories can’t match hard evidence. And most of these forensic types have never had to get their hands dirty at a crime scene.”
He was right on that one.
Compared to CSI investigators who have to deal with grisly sights like bodies floating in the Everglades and people riddled with bullet holes, forensic psychologists have a cushy life. We can sit in an air-conditioned office doing personality tests and clinical interviews while they’re out sweating in the field. We can charge a hefty fee for our services, whether we’re doing our evaluations, writing our reports or testifying in court. And Rafe was right. We get paid upfront and we never get our hands dirty.
There’s a lot of mental stress involved, especially in the court, where we’re grilled by the opposing attorney, but at least nobody shoots at us.
The server at the counter called my Lo Mein order then and I turned to Rafe. I decided to take a chance and blurt out what was really on my mind; was Lark just a person of interest or a prime suspect? I took a deep breath and plunged in. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
“Is there anything new on the investigation into Sanjay’s death?” As soon as the words were out, I had the sinking feeling he wasn’t going to give me anything. A long beat passed between us while I locked eyes with him.
The restaurant suddenly seemed hot and noisy and I had the mother of all headaches. They called my order a second time, and I stared at him. Who would blink first? I had the feeling Rafe could outwait a jungle cat.
“We’re still moving along and looking
at all the evidence,” he said finally. “I hope you’re planning on filling me in if there are any new developments.”
“Of course I will.” Any new developments? Did he expect me to get hit over the head again? Or did he expect me to magically solve the crime? He’d told me over and over to stay out of police business. Plus the fact he equated forensic psychology with mumbo-jumbo. Hardly likely he’d want me as a consultant on the case.
“You and your roommate. We’ll be talking to her again soon. You be sure to tell her that, okay?” He gave me a long look, his dark eyes cool and shuttered. We both stood up then and the veiled threat in his husky voice was unmistakable, running like a dark undercurrent just beneath the smooth surface.
I knew it, he had set his sights on Lark, like a hungry tiger stalking a gazelle at a watering hole. I gave a tight nod and walked to the counter, his words sending prickles up my spine. I could feel his eyes drilling into the back of my head and I willed myself not to turn around. As far as Rafe Martino was concerned, the Cypress Grove PD already had their man.
Or in this case, woman.
~*~
Pugsley raced to the door to meet me when I arrived home ten minutes later. He was so excited to see the aromatic bag from Charlie Chan’s that he jumped straight up in the air, all four feet off the ground, just like a Hollywood stunt dog.
“Very impressive, Pugsley,” I told him, “but you have to wait your turn. There’s a steamed pot sticker for you, if you behave yourself.” He gave an aggrieved yip but followed me into the dining area, his chunky body quivering with excitement. Puglsey is a foodie with eclectic tastes, but anything from Charlie Chan’s sends him into canine nirvana.
I glanced at Mom, who looked flushed with excitement and was humming a little tune under her breath. She had a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary look on her face and I knew something was up. But what? The three of us were crowded around the Ikea table and Pugsley was sitting at Mom’s feet, glancing up at her adoringly. Mom waited until Lark had dished out the lo mein and egg rolls before she dropped the bombshell.
“You’ll never guess what I did today!” she said, clasping her hands together dramatically. She was wearing enough thin gold bracelets to outfit a gypsy and they clanked together like temple bells when she raised her arms. Lark sent me a sympathetic look. It was obvious that Mom was up to something and Lark knew where the conversation was headed.
“Okay, I’ll bite. You called Donald Trump and asked him out to lunch?” I said innocently.
“Oh, don’t be silly. He’s got that sweet young wife, Melania, he wouldn’t be interested in an old broad like me.” She paused, thinking. “Well, he might be tempted, maybe, but not seriously interested. There’s a difference, you know. At this stage of my life, I need a man who’s ready to make a commitment.” She gave Pugsley a tiny corner of her egg roll. “Use your imagination, dear. I’ll give you a hint. It fulfills my craving for something exciting and adventurous.” Exciting and adventurous? She gave Lark a saucy wink.
I was stumped. “Stephen Spielberg called and he’s offering you the lead in his next movie? Woody Allen invited you to Michaels for an evening of jazz? You’re replacing Kelly Ripa on Live?”
“No, no and no.” Mom flashed me a sly smile. “You’re on the wrong track. Think hidden talent. Think of something I’ve never done before.”
I give up,” I said, helping myself to a hefty serving of brown rice. My mother has always had a rich fantasy life along with an obsessive interest in show business. I had no clue what she had gotten herself into this time, but I had the prickly feeling that whatever it was, it didn’t bode well.
Mom leaned across the table, and lowered her voice as if she was about to impart a military secret. “I did some sleuthing today.”
“Sleuthing?”
She nodded in my roommate’s direction. “We all have to step up to the plate to help Lark, honey. I know you’ve been doing your best, but let’s face it, Maggie, this investigation is going nowhere. Lark is still the key suspect in Sanjay’s death, so I figured it was time for me to get into the act. I did some snooping around.” She paused. “And I seem to have a real talent for it,” she said with a note of surprise. “I’m a natural.”
“A natural,” Lark piped up. The corner of her mouth quirked in a smile.
Mom turned to Lark. “Did I ever tell you I played a private investigator once? It was on a Lifetime movie, just a small part. But you know what they say, there are no small parts, just small actors.”
“Oh, no,” I groaned. “Mom, what did you do?”
“Well, it all happened by accident. Serendipity, you know?” Her eyes were bright with excitement and I had to steel myself for what I feared was coming. “That nice young man next door, Ted Rollins? I saw him out on the porch and I just had to go over and introduce myself and admire his garden. I asked him how he managed to grow those beautiful pink hibiscus bushes he has in the front of the Inn.”
“And then?”
“And as luck would have it, a rather stern looking woman came rushing down the front steps. It seems she’d been part of Sanjay’s entourage and she’d left some papers in the lobby.”
“Stern looking?”
Mom nodded. “She looked like a female version of Boris Yeltsin. And with no fashion sense at all, I regret to say. She was stuffed into an absolutely dreadful navy blue suit that made her look like a Weiner schnitzel. With a matching pillbox hat, can you imagine?”
“Miriam Dobosh.” I was surprised. Why was Miriam back in town?
“Yes, how did you know?”
“She was Sanjay’s right hand man. Or woman,” I amended quickly. “You spoke to her?”
“Oh yes. We had quite a nice little chat.” Mom toyed with her egg roll. “She remembered me from one of my early films, Santa Cruz Love Song. It’s always nice to run into a fan, even after all these years. I was practically a school girl when I played the part of Roselita,” she said wistfully. “I was a mere child. They were afraid it might be too sophisticated a role for me but eventually they decided I had the right look for the part. The dewy-eyed innocence of youth. A Lolita type.”
“Mom, you were forty-five years old.”
“Pffft.” Mom gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Age is just a number.” She dropped another morsel of egg roll into Pugsley’s open mouth. He was standing motionless by her chair, mouth open like a baby bird. “And anyway, Miriam remembered my work in the film. That’s the important thing.”
“She did?” Lark and I exchanged a look. As far as I knew, no one ever saw Mom’s films, much less remembered them.
“Well, I had to prompt her a little. She had a Santa Cruz sticker on her notebook and I mentioned I had once done a film set there. She told me Sanjay had held a conference in Santa Cruz last month and that she was very fond of the city. Well, the next thing you know, we were talking away like best buds. Ted brought some iced tea, and we simply bonded. We have a lot in common, you know.”
“You and Miriam?” I blinked. Surely she was kidding.
“Oh yes. You know, Maggie, now that Sanjay has ‘transitioned,’ as they say, poor Miriam is out of a job. And it seems like her whole life revolved around him and the organization. It’s not going to be easy for her to find another job at her age, you know. Especially not with the same salary and perks she was getting from Sanjay’s organization.”
I nodded. “That’s probably true, but I still can’t figure out why she told you all this.” The crazy thing is, I actually could imagine it. People are always confiding in Mom, and perfect strangers tell her their innermost thoughts and secrets. Mom has a certain knack—maybe it’s a trick all actors know—but when she talks to you, she makes you feel that you’re the most fascinating person on the planet.
“I think she felt she could relate to me on some level.” Mom shrugged. “We talked about how hard it is for women of a certain age to find employment. It’s the same for actors, you know. I mean, how many Meryl Streeps or Diane Keatons do
you see? Once you’re over forty, they send you off to the La Brea Tar Pits.”
“The La Brea Tar Pits?” Lark asked. “Isn’t that in Los Angeles?”
“It’s where the dinosaurs went to die,” Mom said drily.
NINETEEN
It wasn’t until after dinner that Mom revealed the most interesting fact about her conversation with the ever-loyal Miriam. We were lingering over cappuccino and chocolate biscotti while Lark was flipping through the real estate section of the Cypress Grove Gazette. Lark has always dreamed of owning beachfront property–a nice fantasy, but she’s never had the cash to make it come true.
“Real estate,” Mom said, tapping the paper with one of her bloodred enameled nails. “That’s what I should have invested in when I had the chance. The same thing happened to Miriam, you know,” she said vaguely. “She told me could have made a killing, if only she’d listened to Sanjay. It’s so sad. She’d be financially secure, if she’d just taken the plunge. Of course, she’s kicking herself now, but it’s all a moot point. It’s too late and now she’s hustling for another job to support herself.”
Now she had my full attention. “Do you mean Sanjay encouraged her to buy real estate?” This was the first I’d heard of this, but I wondered how a real estate deal could have related to his murder. “I didn’t even know he invested in real estate.”
‘Oh yes, he bought up properties all over south Florida. Condos, duplexes, some nice houses on the intra-coastal. Really fabulous places. She said he had a good eye for real estate. Say what you want about him, he knew a smart deal when he saw one and he wasn’t afraid to take risks.”
“How does Miriam fit into all this?”
“She found out he was buying properties and flipping them. You know, picking them up when they were about to foreclose, doing some quick renovations and selling them for double what he’d paid for them.”