There was no copy machine in the lobby, so I jotted down as many companies and contact names as I could until I heard voices outside the door. My heart pounded as I stuffed Lupe’s report card back in the file and closed the drawer. I ran to the other side of the counter, arriving just as the young woman appeared with a tray of sodas. I opened the door for her, breathing deeply to calm my nerves.
She thanked me and took the tray to the back room. When she returned to the lobby, I grabbed the brochure from the counter.
“Look,” I said, “you’ve been very helpful, but I don’t want to interrupt your lunch. Tell Mr. Rocha I’ll call him tomorrow.”
She looked stricken, as if she’d made a bad decision. “Okay. You’re sure you’ll call back?”
“Of course.”
I felt guilty lying to her, but I didn’t want to waste any more time. I had to get the list of Jay-Cee clients to Charley so he could call on them one by one until he found the person who had given Lupe Ortiz the chocolate pot.
Chapter 23
Beverly Hills was on my way back to the office, so I decided to stop at Nectar to tell Helen that Roberto Ortiz had been killed in a drive-by shooting. When I arrived, she was scooping up chocolate from her marble tabletop and molding it into egg shapes. Her reaction to the news was muted. Cumulative stress was beginning to make her look wasted. One of her fingernails was broken and jagged, and the circles beneath her eyes looked like the dark side of a crescent moon.
“I got another of those two a.m. calls last night,” she said. “I unplugged the telephone, but I can’t take this much longer, Tucker. I’m so tired.”
“Charley’s still looking into your missing inventory, and I’m trying to find out who gave Lupe that chocolate pot. I finally got a list of clients from her employer and—”
Helen smashed the chocolate egg onto the marble in one angry splat. “Please don’t tell me you have another stupid theory about Lupe Ortiz’s death. I’m getting sick of listening to you rag on and on about it. So far I don’t see much progress in Charley’s investigation. As for you, you’re supposed to be marketing my business, not wasting time solving crimes that have already been solved.”
I knew she was under stress, but I was taken aback by her anger. I remembered her ex-husband’s warning that Helen had a dark side. I wondered if I was seeing it now.
“Helen, I’m not your employee. You’re just one of my clients, and in case you’re worried, I charge you only for the time I spend on Nectar’s marketing plan. Here’s the deal. Eugene is missing. I think his disappearance is related to your shop and maybe even to Lupe Ortiz’s murder, so I have to investigate all theories, stupid or not.”
Helen bit her lip as if that might prevent the tears from cascading down her cheeks. It didn’t work. Exhaustion was making her hysterical.
“Missing? Why didn’t you tell me? I just thought he was busy with his mother and didn’t have time to call. I have to do something. Maybe I should organize a candlelight vigil or make up some fliers.”
I did a mental eye roll. “That’s not necessary. Charley and I have it covered. Look, why don’t you stay with Dale tonight? Maybe you’ll get some sleep there.”
“He’s having his house painted. He doesn’t want me to come over. Says the fumes will give me a headache.”
That was unfortunate. If Dale Ewing wasn’t around to soothe Helen’s anxiety, she might fall apart. If she did, all of the feature articles in the newspaper and all of the chocolate symposiums I could organize weren’t going to save Nectar.
I didn’t know who was behind those late-night telephone calls, but Helen’s ex-husband was a prime suspect. I left the list of Lupe’s customers and a note of explanation on Charley’s desk at the office, and headed to Irvine to confront Brad Taggart.
Chapter 24
An hour later, I was cruising toward the entrance to Taggart’s office building when a new Mercedes passed by. Taggart was driving. I did a U-turn and followed him, noting the license plate on the car. It wasn’t a dealer advertisement, which meant it wasn’t the Mercedes I’d seen at Nectar the night Lupe Ortiz was murdered—unless the plate was new.
Taggart drove to the Montage, an upscale resort located along the Laguna Beach coastline. I waited on the street as he rolled into the circular driveway. A young man in uniform opened the car door. The valet took Taggart’s black leather duffle bag from the trunk and escorted him inside. If Helen’s ex was staying at the Montage, his company was springing for top-of-the-line accommodations. Being a CEO was good work if you could get it. As soon as Taggart disappeared into the lobby, I pulled into the driveway, too.
The valet opened my car door. “Are you staying with us tonight?”
“No. I’m meeting a client at the bar.”
“Perfect. Allow me to escort you.”
He led me through a low gallery that opened to a lounge with a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Taggart standing at the reception desk as if he was checking in. I didn’t want him to see me, so I walked out to a balcony overlooking a swimming pool with a bottom mosaic depicting a rising sun. Rows of lounge chairs were lined up around the perimeter. Beyond the pool was a patch of lawn bordering a walking path. A few feet farther was a cliff that fell to the sea where waves broke over an outcropping of rocks just beyond the small beach.
Taggart left the reception desk and headed with his bag down a long hallway. I followed a short distance behind. He stopped at a door and slipped the key card into the slot, and went inside. I didn’t know how long he planned to stay in the room. It was possible he was in for the night. At the end of the hall I found a door leading to the grounds and made my way to the ocean side of his room, where I discovered a private patio with a couple of lounge chairs.
Through the glass of a sliding door I saw a king-sized bed looming three feet above the floor. Climbing aboard required long legs, a ladder, or maybe just two consenting adults. A bottle of champagne lolled in an ice bucket on a stand near the door. I wondered if that was standard with the room or if Taggart was expecting company. The leather duffle was sitting on the bed. A moment later, Taggart came out of the bathroom and headed for the door. I ran inside to follow him, but by the time I got to the lobby, he was gone.
I couldn’t stay all night waiting for him to come back, so I decided to have one last look around the hotel. I searched the spa area, the gift shop, the restaurant, and the lower-level meeting rooms. He wasn’t anywhere. I was about to leave when I noticed him standing near the valet station. If he drove away, I’d never be able to get to my car in time to follow him.
Moments later, an Audi convertible drove up. The top was down. The driver was a young woman with blond hair. She got out of the car and handed the valet her keys. Taggart walked over to him and began gesturing toward an area near the front door. An animated discussion ensued that put a frown on the valet’s lips. A short time later, he parked the Audi in the area where Taggart had been pointing. I remembered the day he made Charley and me change tables at the espresso shop. Taggart was used to getting his way.
The woman watched from a distance until the car was parked. She strolled over to Taggart as if she was walking the runway at a Paris fashion show. She was one of the few women I’d seen who actually looked good in a red leather jacket and matching pants. Taggart kissed her on the lips. She responded with a confident smile. She may have been Taggart’s wife, but I didn’t think so. The kiss seemed unpracticed.
He slipped his arm around her waist and guided her to the lobby bar. Before long, they were toasting each other with martinis the size of birdbaths. I found a seat in a corner that wasn’t in Taggart’s direct line of vision and ordered a Shirley Temple, because I didn’t want alcohol to dull my reactions.
It took only fifteen minutes for Taggart and his companion to finish their drinks. They must have been on a schedule, because they got up and headed down the hall toward his room. There was little doubt in my mind what they planned to d
o there. I gave them enough time to open the bottle of champagne and undress before ignoring the DO NOT DISTURB sign with a knock on the door.
From inside the room, I heard a man’s voice shouting, “Can’t you read? We don’t want to be bothered.”
I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I kept my voice as low as I could and still be heard. “I’m sorry, Mr. Taggart, but I have an urgent message from your wife.”
“Slide it under the door,” he said.
Bingo.
“I can’t. The envelope is too big to fit.”
A moment later, Brad Taggart appeared in the doorway wearing a thick terry cloth bathrobe, which he held closed around his body. I’d have felt more at ease if the belt had been tied, because what was under that robe was more than I wanted to know about old Brad. Over his shoulder, I could see a pair of red leather pants draped across a chair.
In a flash, Taggart’s expression transitioned from angry to confused, to angry again. “You.”
“Yeah. Me.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Reconnaissance. Can I come in?”
“No, you cannot come in, and if you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call security.”
He tried to close the door, but I blocked it with my foot.
“Here’s what I think,” I said. “You won’t call security, because it might get loud. That’s bad for you, because, if I’m not mistaken, you’re in a hotel room with a woman who isn’t your wife. Call me crazy, but I doubt the current Mrs. Taggart would be thrilled by the news.”
Behind him, I saw a woman’s arm reach out and grab the leather pants and pull them out of view.
“What do you want?” Taggart said.
“My assistant has disappeared. I want the truth this time. Has Eugene Barstok contacted you?”
“You seem to have an unhealthy curiosity about my appointment calendar. Too bad it’s none of your business.”
“My business, police business, whatever.”
He smirked. “The police aren’t interested in me.”
“Not now, but you never know what might pique their curiosity.”
“What are you after? Money?”
“Nope. Just information. I want to know where Eugene is.”
“Why should I tell you anything? What’s in it for me?”
“Here’s what’s in it for you, Brad. You tell me what you know about Eugene, and I won’t tell your wife where you were tonight.”
A flicker of uncertainty ghosted across his face. “My wife already knows where I am.”
I chuckled. “Seriously, do I look like the sort of person who would believe that crap?”
The sliding glass door rolled opened and a woman in red leather slipped through the opening onto the hotel grounds, bumping into one of the patio chairs in her haste to leave.
Taggart glanced over his shoulder, noted the situation, and turned back to me. “I told you. I’ve never heard of this Eugene character. As for my private life, you can’t prove anything.”
“The burden of proof is on you, Brad. Tell me where you were last Thursday night.”
He glared at me. “I was here.”
“With Leather Pants?”
“Her name is Lisa.”
“Do you and Lisa come here every Thursday?”
His smile was smug. “Sunday. Tuesday. Thursday. I come with Lisa as often as I can and wherever I can.”
“Jeez, Taggart. You’re still a newlywed and you’re already cheating on your wife. Why bother to marry if you want to play the field?”
He shrugged off the criticism. “What can I say? I’m easily bored.”
“Will Lisa corroborate your alibi?”
“See, there’s your problem. I don’t need an alibi.”
“Actually, Brad, you need a couple of them. One for Thursday, the night Lupe Ortiz was murdered, and one for last night, when your ex-wife got another one of those late-night hang-up calls.”
“I didn’t kill anybody. And as far as those calls are concerned, we’ve discussed that already. Why would I waste my time calling Helen?”
“Because you’re a control freak. You had your life all planned out. When the time was right, you were going to leave Helen and start a new life with wife number two. But she screwed up the plan by hiring a forensic accountant to find all the money you’d squirreled away. I think that stuck in your craw.”
His eyes narrowed into slits. He put his hand on the door as if he planned to slam it in my face. “This conversation is over. Get out.”
“I’ll leave, but I suggest you stop harassing Helen, or I’ll make a few calls of my own—to the police.”
“I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.”
“Don’t mess with me, Taggart. Phone companies keep records and don’t say it was your daughter who made those calls. She isn’t going to commit perjury to save your sorry ass. Keep playing this game and things could get ugly. It could even make the newspapers. I suspect your company won’t be impressed by the negative publicity. Your wife won’t be, either. Or Lisa Leather Pants.”
He stared at the door for a long time before responding. “Okay, so I might have called Helen a few times. I probably forgot about the time difference. I didn’t want to disturb her sleep, so I hung up.”
“But you won’t call her again. Right?”
Taggart’s jaw was clenched so tight I thought I heard one of his molars crack. “Right.”
Then he slammed the door. As predicted, it was loud. I decided to leave before somebody came to investigate. I picked up my car from the valet and made it back to Culver City by three.
Charley was in his office, studying the list of Lupe’s clients I’d gotten from Jay-Cee. Eugene hadn’t been in for four days, and Charley’s office looked as if it had suffered a direct hit from a category-five hurricane. Files were stacked on the floor, and wood chips from his pencil sharpener were scattered around the desktop like mulch in a fall garden. I pulled Eugene’s dusting glove from his desk drawer and started to tidy up.
Charley whistled. “I never thought I’d see you doing housework, Sinclair.”
“Treasure the moment, because you won’t see it again.”
“I stopped by Radio Shack to see what I could find out about the cell phone charger Eugene bought. The clerk remembered him coming into the store, but nothing more.”
I herded the wood shavings into a wastebasket. “Guess where Brad Taggart was last Thursday night.”
“I assume he wasn’t in a spinning class.”
“Nope. He was screwing somebody who’s not his wife.”
“No shit? How did you find out?”
I put the dusting glove back in the plastic bag. “I followed him to a room at the Montage. He was with some blonde, and they weren’t wearing clothes. He admitted to making those calls to Helen. He made up some flimsy excuse. Said he forgot about the time change.”
“Did he say anything about the kid?”
“He said Eugene never called him. I tend to believe him. He was sort of low on bargaining chips at the time.”
“There’s still Bob Rossi,” Charley said. “The guy has a criminal record for spousal abuse. Eugene knew about his parking feud with Helen. He might have gone to see him.”
“When can you talk to him?” I said.
“As soon as I contact these Jay-Cee customers.”
“Look, I have some free time this afternoon,” I said. “I can talk to him.”
“I don’t know, Sinclair.”
I returned the glove to Eugene’s desk drawer. “Don’t worry, Charley. I’ll be careful.”
Bob Rossi’s restaurant wouldn’t be open until dinner. That left me just enough time to take care of another urgent matter. Joe Deegan.
Chapter 25
I’d made a promise to Riley to discuss the rift in her relationship with her brother, and I intended to honor it. When I told Deegan I wanted to talk, he told me he’d taken the day off and invited me to stop by his house. I hesi
tated at first, wondering how I’d feel about being at his place again with its Carly McKendrick-inspired French cow plates and the baby grand piano he owned but didn’t play, but I finally agreed.
Deegan grew up in San Pedro, which he and everybody else in the ’hood pronounced San PEEdro. The medium-sized town is home to one of the busiest deep-water ports on the West Coast and a diverse, close-knit community comprising longshoremen, entrepreneurs, doctors, and lawyers from multiple ethnic and cultural backgrounds.
Deegan had overcome the pedestrian architecture of his small 1960s-style ranch house by using taupe paint on the wood siding and accenting the sash and trim with charcoal and white, a color scheme that enhanced the curb appeal and gave the place a solid, no-nonsense feel, sort of like that of its owner.
He answered the door wearing a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. Braced against his hip like a football was a blond-haired baby who looked to be around a year old. He had round blue eyes and pillow lips and wore a long-sleeved shirt and a diaper that looked as if it might blow off in a strong breeze. I was taken aback by the sight. I’d never considered Deegan father material, but watching the tenderness with which he held that baby made me realize there was a side of him I’d never seen before. A side I would never see.
“Excuse me,” I said in mock surprise. “I must have the wrong house. I was looking for a homicide detective by the name of Joe Deegan.”
Deegan glanced at the baby and smiled. “My nephew Andrew. It’s Claudia and Matt’s anniversary, so I’m babysitting for the day. Come in. We were just eating. Weren’t we, Rookie?” He threw the kid in the air, which produced waves of giggles and a string of drool.
All of my senses were on alert as I stepped inside the house. I scanned the living room, searching for the scent of unfamiliar perfume, a fashion magazine that didn’t belong, or a pair of black lacy panties forgotten between the cushions of the couch. Instead I saw the familiar bleached oak floors, black leather sectional, two sleek accent chairs, and the white sheepskin area rug beneath the glass-and-chrome coffee table. Off in the corner was Deegan’s baby grand piano.
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