Our food came, and George Rowe said, “But how dead is he, really?”
I liked his frankness. I smiled, fascinated.
He ate his sandwich in eager guy-bites, but used his napkin and chewed and swallowed before speaking.
“Since I came back from Brazil,” he said, “I’ve been attending the trial. I guess you’ve seen me in the seats. It seems to me you have a special relationship with Eileen Tenaway. She trusts you. I believe Gary Kwan is using you to prepare her to testify.”
A bite of cinnamon toast went sideways in my throat and I asked the waitress for water.
I asked him, “How would you know that?”
“Well,” he said, “you’re meeting with her in the lockup, and that’s one of the things paralegals do, they prepare witnesses. You are spending quite a lot of time with her.” He saw the look in my eyes and shrugged. “I wasn’t spying on you, just looking into things.”
“Well, yes, I am helping her prepare,” was all I said.
He went on, “My investigation for Fenco is a whole separate thing, legally, from the murder trial. So it wouldn’t be a conflict if you could help me know for sure if Richard Tenaway is really dead. If he’s dead, I can go on to another case. If not, there’s money in it.”
“For you?”
“For Fenco, first, of course. I suppose I’d get a bonus. And there could be a reward for you.”
“Not that I’m terribly interested in money, but how much?” He smiled. “I can’t say. It would be a percentage of anything recovered. Ten or twenty percent.”
“I see.” My mind, suddenly mathematically agile, calculated that ten percent of twenty million is two million.
“Usually,” he added, “only a small fraction gets recovered.”
“Oh.”
He drank three cups of coffee during our meeting. I accepted one refill. We agreed that the mugs made the coffee taste better: thick porcelain, with the cheerful Hot-n-Tot logo splashed across them in red. I finished my buttery, fragrant toast.
George held himself easily but carefully, hands relaxed, fingers curled, like a boxer a little afraid of his own power to hurt.
We talked about Richard Tenaway. I said, “He must be, or have been, a man of great charisma.”
“Oh, yes,” said George Rowe. “Everyone fell in love with Richard—women, men. He was handsome, but most of all he knew how to manipulate people so they didn’t even know he was doing it. I think he might have stolen money from his own company, but the people at Gemini are being very quiet about it. Even I can’t find out exactly what went on.”
I smiled in spite of being nervous, waiting for him to tell me what he wanted me to do.
He said, “All I know is, they’re really mad at him over at Gemini.”
I told him my main job was to work on Eileen’s murder rap and asked, “Are you sure that’s not connected with Richard’s disappearance?”
He tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling for a while. He drank some coffee. “Might be. Padraig McGower won’t talk to me anymore.”
“Yeah? I wonder about him. Like, is he really a benign family friend? Maybe he’s just faking being nice. Eileen seems to feel he’s on her side, though.”
George Rowe said nothing.
“Well,” I asked, “how can I find anything out about Richard Tenaway? It’s not like I can ask Eileen point-blank if she knows anything.”
“Of course you can. If the opportunity presents itself.”
“And you want me to create the opportunity.”
“Yes. You’re becoming girlfriends, right? She trusts you, right?”
“I don’t think she trusts anyone. I’m useful to her, that’s all.”
He nodded. “There’s got to be some way you can lean on her, or—”
“Trick her.” This came out in spite of myself.
He quirked an eyebrow and smiled.
Suddenly I felt out of my depth. “I don’t know about this, George. Really. I don’t want to jeopardize my work with Eileen.” It was fine for me to be curious about all this gnarly stuff below the surface, but now that I was supposed to actually be a player, I got scared. “I’m not sure I want to—”
“You know, it doesn’t take much looking to find out certain things.” He leaned forward, resting his arms lightly on the table. “I’m surprised nobody in the press has bothered to research you.”
I looked at him. “Oh, God.”
“I guess you’re too uninteresting to them, just a paralegal.”
Sweat sprang out on my palms. He knew I was a fake! I mustered indignance. “I can’t believe you would threaten me. And Gary.”
He sighed and looked down at the wood-grain tabletop. In a quiet voice he said, “This is nothing.”
“Well. I see.”
He looked up, alarmed. “That didn’t come out right. I mean, oh, Rita. All I meant was, I don’t consider this a threat. I’m so used to doing whatever is necessary to get the information I have to have that—ugh! Oh! I am a dunce. Not handling this well.” He touched his cupped fingers to his forehead.
I said, “What blew my cover? I mean, how do you know I’m—” I stopped. Maybe he was just trying to bluff me.
“An actress.”
God damn it.
He sat back on the leatherette seat as if to give me more space, but left his hands on the table, palms nonthreateningly up. “Nothing blew your cover,” he said in a gentle voice. “When I want someone to cooperate with me, I begin by just asking. But beforehand, I do a little homework just in case I need some—leverage. Your name, conveniently for you, doesn’t come up on an Internet search, because you haven’t been in any feature films. But your occupation is stated in your divorce papers.”
“What!”
He passed his hand over his coffee cup against the waitress’s carafe. “I thought you were somebody who might be able to help me because of your proximity to Eileen Tenaway. But that’s where I found it out. Before I go into a meeting with anybody, I do a few routine document checks.”
“Document checks?”
“I have access to specialized databases.”
“Oh.”
“When I found out you were an actress and not a paralegal, I guessed what Gary hired you for.” He smiled. “He’s a smart lawyer.”
“He is smart.”
At last George Rowe said, “Look, here’s a promise. Even if you don’t help me, I promise I won’t expose you. All right?” His eyes were hopeful. “I don’t want to ruin my reputation.”
“Or mine?”
“Or yours.”
“Hm.”
He looked down at the table again. “I guess I wanted to show off to you a little.”
I suppressed a smile and made no comment. He licked his lips. The awkward moment passed, and I thought we were finished talking. But he took something out of an envelope he’d brought with him.
“Knowing your real line of work, I want to ask you something about this.” He laid down a photograph of a man lying on a stretcher or table.
I picked it up and looked at it, then at him.
George said, “Is that man dead, or just acting like it? Can you tell?”
How strange. I picked up the picture. Then I almost dropped it. “Is this Richard Tenaway?”
“It’s him. It’s supposed to be proof that he’s dead, besides a death certificate signed by a Brazilian doctor. I tried to talk to the person who took the picture, but, uh, had no luck.” He glanced into the far distance, then returned his gaze to me.
I studied the picture. “Well, he sure looks dead.” I held it up to the light and slanted it away from the glare. Even in that condition, Tenaway was strikingly handsome, with perfectly balanced features that stopped short of prettiness. “If he’s not dead, that means he’s got some makeup on. The gash looks real. But I suppose it could be real and still he wasn’t dead. Somebody did something to his hair. His expression is good—the slack mouth, the eyes not quite closed.”
I loo
ked at George. “Why does this picture mean anything? Even if it’s a fake, it’s still not proof the guy’s—”
“The picture is proof of nothing. But if you think it’s faked, I’m going to go back and be more aggressive in finding and questioning the photographer. See, if Tenaway’s alive, he’s probably got at least one set of forged travel documents. And likely whoever took this shot did the documents too.”
“Well—” I stopped and looked some more. As genuinely dead as Richard Tenaway seemed, there was something very slightly off about him. Not that I was an expert on corpses, but I did play Juliet in college. In case you haven’t actually seen the play, she lies there for a really long time after she’s dead.
What was the problem here? The pallor was right, the overall limpness was right. His eyes looked a little sunken, even. But—
I said, “May I show this picture to one friend?”
Chapter 17 – The Corpse in the Photo
When I got home it was close to ten o’clock and Daniel was asleep on the sofa in front of the TV. A new show about an autistic Salvadoran immigrant with a talent for stand-up comedy was on. The autism forces the Salvadoran to deliver his gags with his back to the audience, and that’s what makes it so funny.
I muted the set and gently woke my best friend.
He sat up groggily and gave me a hug. “Hey, sweetie.”
I got him a Diet Pepsi out of the fridge and started to tell him about a police chase I’d seen on Sepulveda on the way home, but he interrupted with the single most heartbreaking line an actor can deliver: “My show’s been canceled.”
“Oh, no, Daniel!”
He slumped against my new IKEA cushions, despondent. “For a second when you woke me I thought it was all a nightmare.”
Not that it mattered, but I had to ask, “Did they give a reason?”
He rubbed his face. “What other reason is there? Ratings.”
“But I thought—”
“No. They’ve been in the crapper for weeks now. That’s all you get: weeks. Abilene Cop Shop is shut down as of this minute. No last episode, no goodbye party.”
I squeezed his arm. “Those parties are miserable anyway.”
“I know, but I can still complain about not getting one.”
“I’m very sorry, Daniel.”
He looked up. “Well, the bright side is I can give Yvonne a break and pick up Petey from daycare now. Preschool too, for that matter. At least until my agent lands me my next gig, which as you know could be never in this business.”
“Hey,” I cajoled, “be positive, huh? You’ll be working again in no time. With all your experience?”
He punched a cushion, his jaw tight. “Rita, there comes a point when experience is a liability. There’s so much fresh young chicken in this town! I see it every day!”
“OK, OK.”
“And I don’t even have a boyfriend to come home to!”
“OK, Daniel, honey, dear. Hey. Dear one.”
He calmed down and drank his pop.
I said, “I have to say I’m a little surprised you’d want to spend yet more time with Petey. I was thinking I ought to try to hire—”
“Don’t you dare.” He gripped my shoulder. “I need him. I’m not kidding, Rita. He’ll keep me occupied, between trips to the unemployment office. He’ll keep me sane. I just hope your gig doesn’t end soon, whatever the hell it is.”
“Mm, yeah.”
The muted TV showed the credits for the Salvadoran autist show, then a news teaser about the Tenaway trial. Daniel’s eyes caught the screen, which featured a snip of Gary Kwan talking earnestly into a picket fence of microphones. I feigned disinterest. Daniel, gazing at the screen, started to say something, then stopped himself. He sighed.
“What, hon?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Not a damn thing.”
We hugged tight, then he went home.
I peeked in on Petey and found him asleep. The blind was up and the window halfway open, and because there was no screen, a few bugs had strayed in from around the security light over the fire escape. You don’t see many mid-rises with fire escapes, but I’d looked for one because of Petey. After all, you can’t expect to jump from the fourth floor. In the dim light I saw a Starbucks cup on the windowsill. I picked it up, took it to the kitchen, and found two cigarette butts and a dead moth floating in the dregs of a latte.
I couldn’t believe Daniel had been smoking in Petey’s room. Granted, he’d been upset tonight, and nicotine helps. But I’d asked him not to smoke in my apartment.
I pictured him sitting on the bed reading Goodnight Moon, one arm holding Petey and the book, the other fanning smoke out the window.
As I carried the cup to the sink, something jiggled in the back of my mind. But I was tired, my head filled with George Rowe. I threw away the cup and phoned Yvonne.
Waiting for her to pick up, I glanced at this week’s LA BackChat, which Daniel had left splayed on the footstool. A small headline said, “Bad stars for Gemini?” The item quoted an unnamed (but terribly reliable!) source saying the company was on the verge of going into receivership, and wouldn’t that put a crimp in Padraig McGower, the surviving founder and current chief executive?
I told Yvonne she was off the hook for picking up Petey, due to Daniel’s misfortune, but I wanted another favor.
“Now what, babe?”
“Can I come over tomorrow before dinner?”
“Absolutely.”
Don’t you just love a friend like that?
_____
Gary and I met at the court lockup in the morning. Mostly he talked over strategy with Eileen in his thrillingly authoritative voice, which I could not get enough of hearing. I diligently worked with Eileen, giving her feedback about her appearance in court yesterday and making suggestions for today. When Gary and I left, I said, “I really think I’m getting through to her. I feel we’re becoming...friends.” As soon as I said this, I brushed past a woman who gave off a very angry vibe. We were coming out of the elevator in the parking garage. I didn’t really see her face; her back was turned and she was looking away.
Gary gave me a reassuring smile, but said, “Watch your speech in public places.”
I am so madly in love with you, said my brain waves.
_____
My friend Yvonne was a big girl who dressed in flowing caftans which went with her flowing auburn tresses. “Flowing auburn tresses” was how her first boyfriend, age fourteen, had described her hair, and ever since she told me that, the words “flowing auburn tresses” went through my mind when I saw her. Today when she opened her door she had chosen a moss-green charmeuse caftan with some kind of magenta sash draped over her shoulders. I loved her style but would never have the guts to copy it. She had a booming, Brunhilde-type laugh, which created friends all over town. Her hands were pudgy yet delicate, with tapered fingers that worked miracles in the makeup studios of Hollywood.
Yvonne excelled in the business of making people prettier than they were, or uglier, or older than they were, or younger, lighter, darker, more Asian, less Irish, thinner-lipped, fuller-cheeked, sleepier, drunker, blotchier, bloodier, or all the way dead. Have you seen Waterflame Bayou, that up-from-the-grave flick with B. B. Ford and Cam Jeffers? Yvonne invented the makeup technique that gave the swamp zombies that convincing look of having their faces bitten by all those rattlesnakes.
She poured iced tea for us. Her tortoiseshell cat came in to meow hello. I laid the photo of Richard Tenaway on her breakfast counter. “I would be still more totally in your debt than I already am,” I said, “if you would take a good long look at this.”
She glanced at the photo, then at me.
“Isn’t this that guy?”
“What guy?”
“The diamonds guy. Tenaway. Eileen Tenaway’s husband.”
“Yvonne, I’m not sure,” I lied. “I just want you to look and tell me what your impressions are.”
She put her iced tea on a coaster. “Wait
a minute.” She left the room and returned with a large fluorescent-ringed magnifier, the kind they mount with extension arms on walls in makeup rooms and toilet facilities at studios. She plugged it in next to her toaster oven, turned on the light, and slid the photo under it.
Details popped out as she focused the magnifying lens.
She scanned the entire photograph. She looked at the background, the embalming machine, the table, and the figure lying on it. Her cat, Robert, glided between the legs of our stools.
At last she looked up and said, “It’s a fairly good job.”
I set down my glass. “What do you mean?”
“Well, this guy’s supposed to be dead, right? I mean, obviously this is a photo that’s supposed to show us a corpse. The guy’s lying on a morgue table and he looks like hell. Except for being so good-looking. Man, I could go for this guy in a big way.”
I said nothing.
She pointed out various details. “He’s got foundation on. His nose is in good focus as you can see, and that’s how I know he’s got foundation on, because I can’t see the pores on his nose, they’re filled with makeup. Whoever did the job didn’t use stark white, they used about two shades paler than his skin—I’m guessing—and a finishing coat of white powder, which gives that true-to-death gray tone. Good job. They didn’t stop at the jawline, they used it on his ears and neck and body as well—what we can see of it. The eyes are good, they darkened them not only beneath and on the lids, but all around—near the bridge of the nose and out beyond the corners. It looks pretty real. The lips, too, are well done, they’re appropriately pale—don’t they look cold?”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“That’s a good technique, most people don’t realize how the blood leaves the lips after death.”
I sighed heavily.
Yvonne looked at me. “What’s the matter?”
“I just realized something. This guy could have makeup on, but he could actually be dead. You know what I mean? The plain fact that he’s made up to look like a corpse doesn’t mean he isn’t one.”
The Rita Farmer Mystery series Box Set Page 14