‘It’s not dirty!’ Derek Williams protested. ‘You know, it wouldn’t kill you to cheer up every once in a while, Andrea.’
The waitress raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Look around, Derek. You show me where it says “service with a smile”.’
Williams laughed loudly, an open-mouthed guffaw that shook his out-of-shape body like a giant jello. Andrea was his kind of girl. The kind who made single parenthood on eight bucks an hour funny.
‘A bachelor is a man who never makes the same mistake once!’ He blurted out the punch line. ‘Come on, admit it, sweetheart. That’s funny. I got another one for you too.’
Andrea rolled her eyes affectionately, tossing two menus down on the table.
‘What’s the definition of alimony?’
She started to walk away.
‘The high cost of leaving!’ Derek called after her retreating back.
That last joke was true enough, as Derek Williams knew to his cost. His ex-wife (witch, she-devil), Lorraine, was wringing him out like a wet dishcloth in the courts right now. Derek felt like a desiccated lemon who was somehow still being squeezed, long after the last drop of juice was gone.
‘I’m a private detective, Your Honor,’ Derek had pleaded at their last hearing, representing himself. (A mistake, but needs must.) ‘I’m not a lawyer or an investment banker or a silicon … computer … one of those San Francisco guys. I can’t even spell Palo Alto.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that,’ the female judge had replied, looking anything but sorry. Damned feminists. ‘But I trust you can spell J-A-I-L, which is where you’ll be going if you miss one more maintenance or child support payment to Ms Sloane.’
Ms Sloane. That irritated the crap out of him. Lorraine had gone back to her maiden name after the divorce, and had even had it added to their son’s birth certificate by court order. Hunter Sloane-Williams. What kind of a pretentious, dumbass name was that for an eight-year-old boy? Or any boy, for that matter? Lorraine was clearly dead-set on raising him gay. Not that Derek had anything against gays, if you were gay. But Hunter … aw, who was he kidding? He didn’t know shit about Hunter. Lorraine was right on that score at least. ‘You never spend any time with him, Derek. You wouldn’t know what to do with joint custody, and you know it.’
‘Mr Williams?’
Startled, Derek sat upright and promptly spilled scalding coffee all down his crisp white shirt. ‘Motherf—’ he cursed under his breath, pulling the burning, wet material away from his skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Andrea sniggering from behind the counter.
‘Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!’ The pretty, professionally dressed brunette looked aghast. ‘Was that my fault?’
‘No, no,’ Williams winced, dabbing at himself ineffectually with a handful of paper towels. ‘Not at all. I was miles away. Daydreaming. Actually, it was more of a nightmare. Day-mare. You must be Dr Roberts?’
‘Nikki, please. And thank you for agreeing to meet me so early.’
The woman extending her hand in Derek’s general, coffee-soaked direction was even better looking in person than she was on TV, where he’d seen her several times since the ‘zombie killer’ story made it into the mainstream media. Dr Roberts had called him at midnight last night, no doubt expecting to leave a message, but Williams had picked up and the two of them had had the beginnings of a conversation about her ‘predicament’. Half-cut on home brew and not at his sharpest, Williams had nevertheless agreed to meet her at the crack of ass this morning, partly because he desperately needed the money a new client might bring in, and partly because of the genuine desperation in Nikki Roberts’ voice.
In Williams’ experience, genuine desperation could usually be translated into up-front fees. Already familiar with the murder case, thanks to the breathless news coverage of Lisa Flannagan’s relationship with Willie Baden, twenty minutes of internet research into Dr Roberts’ own background told him the rest of what he needed to know. Lisa Flannagan’s shrink was a renowned West Side psychologist and the widow of a prominent doctor. In other words, this particular damsel in distress was seriously loaded. Nikki’s call was the ker-ching moment Derek Williams had been waiting for, the fee that might just keep him out of J-A-I-L. He hoped he hadn’t ruined his chances by spilling coffee all over himself like a freakin’ toddler.
As it turned out, Nikki Roberts’ own nerves were such that she seemed barely to notice his. Sliding into the booth opposite him, she pulled out a crisp manila envelope and handed it to him.
‘I wasn’t sure where to start, so I put a few notes together,’ she explained. ‘I need your help, Mr Williams. The police … well, as I explained last night, they’re really not making any headway with these murders.’
‘If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, Dr Roberts. Nikki.’ Williams leaned back, feeling more confident. Setting the envelope to one side he said, ‘I’ll take a look at this later. For now, why don’t you tell me in your own words what’s been going on?’
Nikki took a deep breath, surreptitiously using the pause to take stock of Williams’ appearance. Overweight. Sallow skin. Slow physical reactions. Yellow in the eyes. She swiftly put him down as a drinker, probably a divorcee, and struggling financially. Then again it didn’t take Einstein to figure that out. Not many wealthy professionals at the top of their game chose to conduct their breakfast meetings at I-Hop.
But, she reminded herself, Williams had outstanding reviews from past clients, as well as a reputation for being willing to push limits, legally, to get the evidence he needed. More than once he’d been in trouble with the courts. It was exactly the sort of risk-taking, get-it-done attitude Nikki was looking for.
‘Like I said, I’m not sure where to begin.’
‘Try the beginning,’ Williams said, beckoning Andrea back over to the table. ‘I’ll have the bacon platter please, sweetheart, with a stack of pancakes on the side. And for my friend?’ He looked at Nikki.
‘Oh, nothing, thank you. Just coffee.’
‘She’ll take the toast and eggs,’ said Williams. Then, turning to a bemused Nikki, ‘You need to eat, honey. Whatever’s going on in people’s lives, if they’re calling me, there’s stress involved. You need to eat and you need to sleep, period.’
It was presumptuous and bombastic, but at the same time endearing, perhaps because it was so kindly meant. Nikki found herself instantly warming to Derek Williams.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘If I’m starting at the beginning – the real beginning of all of this, for me – I guess that would be: My husband had an affair.’
Valentina Baden said a silent prayer of thanks as her G6 touched down at Cabo San Lucas International Airport.
Valentina wasn’t afraid of much. Ever since her sister’s disappearance almost five decades ago, Valentina had learned that there were few things in life she couldn’t survive if she put her mind to it. But her irrational fear of flying remained a constant. Friends insisted it must be the lack of control that bothered her. Perhaps they were right? It was certainly true that in the rest of her life, Valentina kept a tight grip on the reins, from her marriage, to her family to her business decisions and personal relationships.
She’d achieved everything she’d set out to during her time in LA. Showing up unannounced at the Missing offices downtown, she’d demanded to be shown the status of all the charity’s outstanding cases, as well as a detailed breakdown of the last six months’ accounts. Ever since the IRS had started sniffing around their foreign income sources, Valentina had become obsessive about checking the reporting personally. Very few people in the organization understood the full, true nature of their ‘work’, and the profound need for secrecy. Thankfully, Willie was too lazy and self-absorbed to pay his wife’s pet project much mind. But the IRS were a different matter. Willie had shut them down this time and paid off the LA police. But no one knew better than Valentina that they couldn’t afford a next time. Not ever.
It pleased her to watch her staff scur
rying around like frightened ants whose nest had been kicked over, scrambling to appease their queen. Charities, she reminded them, should be run to the same, exacting standards as for-profit businesses, and that meant results. She prided herself that, in Missing’s fifteen-year history, only a handful of the cases they’d taken on remained unsolved. There was Ritchie Lamb, the toddler who went missing in Turkey on a family vacation, almost certainly snatched by child traffickers, who sadly they’d never been able to trace. And Charlotte Clancy, the au pair girl whose disappearance had so deeply, and publicly, tugged at Valentina’s heart-strings because it happened in Mexico City, where she’d lost her sister María all those years ago. She could almost feel a photogenic tear rolling down her cheek at the memory. But in the vast majority of Missing’s cases, they were able to provide families with closure. Even if, as in Brandon Grolsch’s case, the news they had to break was not good. Those sorts of results only came from constant vigilance and consistent best efforts, qualities Valentina encouraged in her employees through a deft use of both carrot and stick.
This week in LA had mostly called for the stick. Within an hour of her arrival, Valentina had summarily sacked her accountant and both his assistants.
‘If you want something done properly, do it yourself,’ she’d complained to Terry Engels, the LA office manager, as the hapless accounts team cleared their desks – the second team to do so in less than two years. ‘The last six months’ files are a total shambles. I’ll sort them out myself while I’m here and then appoint someone new to take over.’
With the finances back under her own beady eye and a fire lit under the rest of Missing’s LA employees, Valentina had had ample time to attend to her other business. Namely, making sure that certain people knew that she was watching them – no one made a fool out of Valentina Baden – and that outstanding issues of a business nature with some troublesome Russians were resolved to her satisfaction. On the last day she’d even squeezed in a hair appointment and a trip to Neiman Marcus, in case Willie should get suspicious. Besides which, Cabo might be heaven in most respects, but from a retail perspective one’s options were limited.
So as far as Valentina was concerned it had been a very successful trip, and the break from Willie’s constant, cloying presence and growing paranoia about his new partner had restored her sanity. All they needed now was for the furor over Lisa Flannagan’s murder to die down and the irritating Dr Nikki Roberts to crawl back into her hole so that the media could move on to the next story, and life would stand a chance of returning to something close to normal.
‘Thank God you’re back.’ To Valentina’s astonishment, Willie had come to meet her on the tarmac. He looked terrible; pale and disheveled in a repellent velour jogging suit like some dying Floridian retiree. And his breath smelled. ‘He hasn’t returned my calls in two days!’ he blurted nervously to his wife. ‘Two days! He’s clearly angry.’
‘Who’s angry?’ Valentina asked, as one of Willie’s minions stepped forward to take her suitcase.
‘Who do you think?’ Willie snapped at her.
‘You mean Rodriguez?’ Valentina sighed.
‘Of course Rodriguez!’ Willie snapped. ‘We should never have gotten involved with him. This stupid deal—’
‘Is going to make us a fortune,’ Valentina reminded him calmly, laying a red-taloned hand firmly on his thick arm. ‘You have to calm down, Willie. This isn’t a good time to lose your nerve. Men like Rodriguez can smell weakness like a shark can smell blood. Believe me, I know. I grew up with men like him, remember? Things are different here.’
‘I know all that,’ said Willie.
‘Then act like it,’ said Valentina. ‘You’ve done your part, and you’ve offered him fair terms. If he’s angry about it, too bad.’
‘Too bad?’ Willie gulped down air, opening and closing his mouth like a stranded fish. ‘Too bad? Valentina, don’t you know what he’s capable of? What all these damned Mexicans are capable of? He’ll kill me. He’ll kill us both. Slit our throats in our beds.’
Calmly, Valentina climbed into the back seat of the Bentley. She waited for the chauffeur to drive away before replying.
‘Speaking as one of those “damned Mexicans”,’ she regarded her husband archly, ‘I can assure you you’re wrong. Naturally I know what Rodriguez is capable of. I’ve had dealings with him over Missing, remember?’
‘That’s a goddamn charity!’ shouted Willie. ‘It’s not the same! He doesn’t have skin in the game.’
That’s what you think, thought Valentina, but she kept her reflection to herself.
‘The point is, you’re right, he would kill us both in a heartbeat if it served his purposes to do so. But it doesn’t. He needs you, Willie. He needs your presence in LA, he needs your network, he needs the legitimacy you give this. You’re holding a lot of cards here, my love. All you need to do is play them.’
Willie opened his mouth to say something else, but Valentina held up a hand imperiously.
‘I’m tired now, my darling. It’s been a busy few days. If you want to talk more, we’ll do it at dinner.’
She closed her eyes.
‘Should I call Rodriguez again?’ Willie asked, unable to contain himself.
Her eyes still closed, Valentina responded coolly. ‘Absolutely not. For God’s sake, Willie. Please try to grow at least a tiny pair of balls.’
With an effort, the chauffeur stifled a giggle.
They drove on.
It was past ten o’clock when Derek Williams finally pulled out of the I-Hop parking lot and headed for his office, a mere eight blocks away on Centinela. If you could call the poky, windowless, twelve-by-eight cell he rented by the month an ‘office’. Above a busy auto shop, where the guys downstairs had been known to make more in an hour than Derek did in a week, Williams’ room was one of six rented out to independent businesses. One was leased by loan sharks, another by a down-at-heel lawyer named Alan Clarkson with whom Derek had struck up a wary friendship, and a third to a very affable pimp named Fabrizio. The fourth office was currently empty, and Williams’ nearest ‘neighbor’ at the end of the row was a woman from Phoenix who made bead purses and necklaces that, as far as Williams could tell, she never even attempted to sell. It was Sad Sack City, no question. But it was dirt cheap, safe enough, and the internet connection was reliable, which was pretty much all Derek Williams asked of an office these days. That and a bunch of friendly guys downstairs with tire irons, in case any of his clients ever got nasty.
Not that he anticipated that in this case. Not from the client herself, anyway. After three full hours in Dr Nikki Roberts’ company, Derek had emerged in possession of three important new pieces of information.
The first was that he stood to make a LOT of money here, if he played his cards right.
The second was that fate had handed him a rare chance to put one over on his old enemy, the Los Angeles Police Department.
And the third was, taking this case would mean putting himself in real and immediate physical danger.
Ironically, it was the third fact that gave him the biggest thrill of all. It had been a long, long time since Derek had put himself out there. Since he’d been on the edge, taking real risks, living on adrenaline like he used to in the old days, B.L. (Before Lorraine). He hadn’t realized until this morning’s conversation with Nikki quite how much he’d missed it.
Dropping two Alka-Seltzers into a large glass of tap water – last night’s heavy drinking combined with this morning’s bacon-and-syrup fest had not helped his digestion – he eased his ample backside into the creaky faux leather of his desk chair, stretched out his short legs, and downed the unpleasant mixture in one gulp. Then he pulled an old-fashioned notepad out of his desk drawer and began writing. He started with the familiar, shorthand bullet points he always used after the first client meeting, at the beginning of every case. But soon his prose was flowing, his observations filling page after page.
Nikki Roberts was a fascinating
woman, and the mystery she’d presented him with was even more unusual than she was. In fact, the way Williams saw it, it was two mysteries, as he explained carefully when he charged Nikki double his usual fees.
‘There’s your husband’s affair. You want to know who the lady was, how they met, all of that stuff?’
‘Right,’ said Nikki.
‘So that’s case one. And then there’s these murders, and the threats against you. You want me to find out who’s behind them. Basically to do the LAPD’s job for them?’
‘Precisely.’
‘And that’s case two.’
Nikki hadn’t batted an eyelid, writing Derek out a check on the spot for a month’s full-time work at double his usual rate, plus a generous expenses allowance. Williams was starting to like this lady more and more.
He quickly ascertained that it was the husband’s affair that would prove to be the biggest cash cow here. Not least because that case was all his – presumably the LAPD didn’t give a shit who Dr Doug Roberts had or hadn’t been banging – and why should they? Which meant that, theoretically at least, Derek could drag that investigation out longer. Like all PIs, adultery was the bread-and-butter of Williams’ business, and he thanked the Lord daily for all the sinners out there in West Los Angeles.
The homicide cases were more complicated. On the downside, there was always a chance that the useless LAPD would catch this so-called Zombie Killer or at least make an arrest soon, before Derek’s first month’s money was spent. On the other hand, according to Nikki, they’d achieved diddly squat so far and weren’t taking the threats against her seriously. No one seemed to be following up on the SUV driver who’d tried to run her down, or on the witness who’d saved her life. Nikki’s faith in the police was so low at this point she hadn’t even bothered to show them the email threats against her, but instead brought those directly to Williams.
Another excellent sign. The more evidence he had, the better his chances of getting to the finish line before LA’s finest.
Yup, all in all, this had the makings of quite an assignment.
Sidney Sheldon's the Silent Widow Page 16