Below the Line

by Howard Michael Gould

  He thought now about how she had upended all that by dragging him into Alastair Pinch’s murder case and her own mess. He’d made it through, had maybe even grown. But this comfort he was able now to take in Lorena—physical comfort, emotional comfort—was that growth? Or only compromise masquerading as growth?

  Was it even possible to sustain a connection to another person and still honor his private canon, or did coupling one’s life to another’s axiomatically create damage? At bottom, wasn’t that the question this moment was about?

  If, instead of surrendering to the pleasures of Lorena’s bed, he had kept the vows he made to himself and stayed on his mountain, would Victor Ouelette be dead? Would Stevie Rose’s life be at least a little less troubled?

  Indeed, wasn’t the very point of reclusion to avoid even having to ask himself questions like that ever again?

  Plus, apart from those elemental questions, the toxic mystery still hung over their table, the one he really didn’t want to face: whose bed had Lorena been in all afternoon, while he had been sleeping in hers?

  He played with his mushroom confit while he worked through all that, to nothing like a resolution.

  Lorena said, “What are you thinking?”

  Waldo said, “Nothing.”

  SEVEN

  She didn’t ask again. Lorena beat him to the check and they went down to the garage and all the way to her house without a word. Willem was watching television in the living room when they arrived, beach volleyball. Lorena clomped past without acknowledging him. Waldo half raised a hand, fractional apology for his girlfriend’s hostility. Another turn he’d never have predicted.

  Lorena rummaged through her bureau, then went into her bathroom and closed the door. Waldo took his toiletry kit from his backpack and waited. The bed, which he’d rushed from in the hustle to meet her at the restaurant, was still unmade.

  The bed. From that first week, sex had been their essential expression of every emotion: after success, it was celebration; after grief, comfort; after jealousy, reclamation and reassurance. Even the night he heard about Lydell Lipps, they’d made love twice. They’d never discussed it afterward and it astonished him to recall, but at the time it made all the sense in the world. Now the possibility of a second sexless night loomed like a second night without language.

  Lorena emerged from the bathroom in a stoplight of a nightgown he’d never seen, plaid blue flannel with a schoolmarmish white fringe at the collar. She grabbed the comforter by two corners and flapped it to straighten it, then crawled in underneath. She took her phone and checked her email or pretended to, ignoring him. He’d always been mystified by her ability to hold on to anger over nothing—a trait that, in calmer moments, she’d acknowledge with a self-joshing snicker as her Latina prerogative—but this took it to a new level. Which one of them had lied, for God’s sake, about where she’d spent the afternoon? Waldo took his toiletry kit into the bathroom, peed, washed, and brushed his teeth. When he returned, the lights were off and she had the comforter clutched around her. Waldo lay down in his clothes atop the bare sheet.

  He couldn’t imagine staying here after tonight. But where else could he park himself in town, until he cleared himself of Ouelette’s murder? That silly hotel in Santa Monica? Probably not: it’s faux-eco offenses aside, his modest investment income needed to be carefully husbanded. And what would the days even look like? Could he imagine getting on well enough with Lorena to keep working together? They’d slipped back into the old place, the bad place, and this time he didn’t feel like working to fix it.

  “She did it.”

  It took him a few moments to find his way onto her page, to realize she was saying that Stevie Rose had killed Ouelette.

  “She steered us to him, to set us up. Then she killed him.”

  He knew he shouldn’t respond, that if he let that line of conversation continue, she’d end up provoking him into calling her on her lie and then the fight would be on. He didn’t want it. He just wanted to leave quietly in the morning and figure out the rest later. But he couldn’t help himself; the obvious illogic was too much: neither Waldo nor Lorena had motive to kill Ouelette, and any suspicion Stevie drew toward them would just lead straight back to her. “Why would she do that?”

  “Because she’s fifteen.”

  Waldo frowned in the dark but he held his tongue; he could feel her stumbling toward his detonator and he didn’t want to help her find it.

  “Remember that,” said Lorena. “She’s fifteen.”

  She’d found it. He said, stonily, “Where were you today?”

  “Newport Beach. I told you.”

  “After that.”

  “Here. In bed.”

  “How long did you sleep? This ‘nap’?”

  “Fuck are you interrogating me for?”

  “I’m just wondering when you got here. Two o’clock? Four o’clock? You were late to the restaurant—”

  “I finished in Newport Beach around one thirty,” she snipped. “I stopped at In-N-Out and had a Double-Double and a shake. You going to give me the lecture again about the cows and the methane?”

  “Just answer my question.”

  “I got here about three thirty. I’ll take a polygraph, if you want.”

  “Bet you’d pass, too.”

  “Fucking A, I’d pass, because it’s true. What the hell is your problem?”

  “I was here.”

  “You were where?”

  “Here,” he said. “In this bed. I couldn’t sleep last night, so when I decided to stay in town, I came back here for a nap. Willem let me in.” She was quiet, caught. He said, “You’ve been seeing someone else, right? This whole time.” When she still didn’t answer, he said, “I knew it.”

  “No—”

  “Somebody you were already involved with before you came up to see me the first time, right? Another fuck buddy.” It was exactly the same old, bad place. “I was thinking maybe it was your husband, but—”

  “Waldo, stop. I was the one who suggested the understanding, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Understandings—which last until they don’t.”

  Neither of them spoke. Did he even need to hang around L.A.? Let someone else figure out Ouelette. The cops didn’t have anything real on Waldo. It would get solved or it wouldn’t. Wasn’t his problem. Fuck it. L.A. was over; this was over. Time to get back to his woods and get back his balance. His peace.

  Finally, Lorena said, “I got pantsed.”

  “What?”

  “This isn’t what you think. There isn’t anybody else. It was my case in Newport Beach. I got totally pantsed.” She turned on the light and sat up. “I got an email from this woman, had some questions about marital surveillance. Rates, confidentiality, wanted to know everything before she gave me her information. Sometimes it’s like that, and you never hear from them again.”

  He listened, jealousy abating, as Lorena told him the rest of the story. After a few days of emailing, her prospective client had agreed to a phone call, placing it from a blocked number. The woman was distraught, frightened of her rich, powerful, abusive husband. She was sure he was spying on her—thus all her secrecy—and particularly terrified of what he’d do to her if he found out she was hiring a PI. In fact, she was afraid even to call from California; she waited until she was in the Berkshires, where she was visiting family.

  Late in that first conversation the woman identified herself to Lorena as Brenda Wax. Her husband, Roy, she said, had founded a toy company and made a small fortune. Brenda was sure that Roy, who’d stayed home in Newport Beach, was cheating on her while she was away. If she could get proof positive, she’d pull the trigger on a divorce. Without that, she feared Roy’s attorneys would clobber her in the settlement. Lorena told Waldo that that was a common fear among wealthy women who came to her, especially ones who grew up without f
amily money of their own.

  Lorena had asked Brenda for a thousand-dollar retainer. Brenda’s response was that time was of the essence and that if Lorena would put it at the top of her pile she’d make it five thousand up front—and that if her divorce lawyer determined that Lorena found sufficient evidence against Roy, she could keep the whole retainer even if she hadn’t used it up.

  Waldo said, “So, what—you nail him and she stiffs you?”

  “I’m not that stupid. I’m not going to start until the money clears, not with all that out-of-town stuff. High bullshit potential, right? But while I’m waiting, I do check out the rest of what she gave me and it’s all good: Roy, the company, everything. Then two days ago the money drops, PayPal. So yesterday I start tailing the guy. Morning, he goes from his house to the office, and at lunchtime he’s riding the Matterhorn.

  “First I’m thinking, maybe the whole Disneyland thing is smart: second-rate tourist hotel, no chance he’s running into anyone from the country club. Anyway, jackpot: blonde, slightly washed-up, a little too much dress for the middle of the day. On camera, clear shot, dwarf-fucker’s checking in with his hand on her ass.”

  “And you’re already shopping for O.C. office space.”

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  Next, Lorena emailed Brenda Wax in the Berkshires and Brenda emailed back that she was coming right home, taking a six A.M. flight out of Logan, and could Lorena meet her at their house at two o’clock? “All good, right? I go to the FedEx store, make some beautiful prints, head on down to Brenda Wax’s in Newport Beach, finally meet her in person, hand her the envelope, she looks at the pictures . . . and asks me who the hell I am. Turns out, the woman who hired me to catch Brenda Wax’s husband? Wasn’t Brenda Wax.” Before Waldo could react, she said, “You laugh and I’ll tear your nuts off.” He didn’t. “Anyway, this Brenda Wax swears she never heard of me, swears she never emailed me, swears we never talked on the phone. Though, of course, she wants to keep the pictures.”

  “And the other Brenda’s email—”

  “Dead before I get back to the car. Naturally. So then I go to the bank I got PayPal’d from, some pissant S and L in fucking Tustin. I tell them what happened, all they’ll tell me is the account’s empty.”

  “How’d you even get that out of them?”

  Lorena shrugged like it hadn’t been a problem. Some assistant manager was hoping to get lucky, was how. Lorena had a way of pulling those out of the air.

  She said, “I’ve never been pantsed before. Now this and Stevie, twice in a couple days? Fucked me up, Waldo, I couldn’t even call you back. I did go to In-N-Out—and by the way, I am trying to stop eating that shit. Had fries, too. And a second shake, to have in the car. I don’t know what I was thinking—two sips, I had to throw it out the window.” Waldo blanched at the image. “And then I took the wrong exit on the freeway, got halfway to City of Industry before I realized. That’s why I was late.” She stood and paced, reliving the stress. “You’re the one who’s always saying there are no accidents. How the fuck does this happen to me twice? Is someone trying to screw with me?”

  “Through Stevie Rose? I doubt it. This one probably is a coincidence.”

  “But explain Wax, even. If somebody wants to screw with him, why pick me? An L.A. detective for an O.C. case?”

  “Name of your company, maybe? Very Private Eyes? I told you: says you’re a specialist.”

  “Yeah, maybe I should change it. Maybe I’ll have to. And now I’ve got Cuppy threatening my whole business? Shit, Waldo, I’ve been trying so hard to get this thing going.” She plopped onto the bed and covered her eyes.

  Waldo said, “Hey. We’ll figure them out. Both of them.”

  “‘We’?” Her voice dripped skepticism. “‘We’re’ going back to the woods.” She didn’t take her face from her hands. Lorena distraught was as rare a sight as Lorena in flannel jammies.

  He said, “I’ll stay. Till we’ve got them both. Okay?”

  She turned, still scowling, and regarded him. Maybe he spoke too fast. What was he committing himself to? Okay, she hadn’t been with someone else, but it’s not like things were going smoothly even before O.C. blew up in her hands.

  Then again, maybe she’d turn down his offer anyway. The distress on her face—he’d never seen her like this. Could be she wouldn’t even want him around.

  She ran her eyes down his body and back up. She said, “Why are your clothes still on?”

  EIGHT

  Her voice woke him up and she was starting the day pissed. “Fucking voicemail’s full. Can’t even leave her a message.” It was a rarity for her to get up first, but here she was, ready for the world in a silk floral blouse and skinny jeans. The two misfires and Cuppy’s threats had shaken her hard.

  Waldo indicated the phone with bleary eyes. “Stevie?”

  “She’s dodging us. Can’t help the girl if she doesn’t want help.”

  “Could be she doesn’t know she’s in trouble.” Lorena snorted and kept doing something on her phone. He sat up. “Where you want to start on Wax?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t even know if the wife’s going to confront him. If she doesn’t, and we put it on his radar, we could make everything worse.”

  Waldo suggested that she call Wax’s office and, if he took the call, that she ask if he knew who she was and why she was calling. If Wax said he did, Lorena should ask to go down there and see him, then offer to work the case for free until she figured out who was looking to burn him.

  “But what if it’s me they were trying to burn?”

  “Deal with that then.”

  Lorena glanced at her bedside clock. “What time you think I can try him? Quarter to nine?”

  “Sure.” Waldo’s phone vibrated and he looked at it. “What did you send me?”

  “My shots from the hotel and the background links I found on the Waxes. Check them out while I do my makeup.”

  He pulled up her Disneyland photos first. Roy Wax had the look of a former high school pulling guard who’d started soaking in martinis back when that meant gin. Lorena had been a little uncharitable about his lunch-hour blonde, but then again, she was used to peeping north of the L.A. County line, where the bar was higher. Plus this rough run was making her harsh on everybody. At first Waldo thought there was something familiar about the woman in the photos but on second look decided she was just a common SoCal type, the kind of bland beauty who’d come to Hollywood and maybe topped out with a short run on a soap. Or could be that her mother had. Anyway, the photos Lorena managed were impressive stuff for the purpose: she’d gotten close enough to Wax to catch him squeezing a platinum card with one hand and a spongy cheek with the other.

  The first background link took Waldo to a three-year-old edition of tony Orange Coast magazine. The photo-filled feature ostensibly celebrated Brenda Wax in her role as co-chairwoman of a group called LiteracyOC but in fact devoted most of its real estate to real estate, specifically the Waxes’ recently renovated, Tuscany-inspired, fifty-five-hundred-square-foot beachfront home. Most of the photos featured Brenda posed before ocean vistas from its various rooms, but most striking was a sunset shot of Roy standing behind Brenda at the end of their private dock, his arms around her waist, both with eyes closed and smiling. Infidelities notwithstanding, the Waxes’ life was good.

  The next link, a Fox & Friends human interest feature via YouTube, laid out where the money came from: Roy Wax, it turned out, was a plushy tycoon. Though most stuffed animals were made on the cheap in third world factories, Wax had found a way to manufacture his in America—and quite profitably—by draping the enterprise in red, white and blue.

  Taking note of the massive audiences for children’s books by the likes of Rush Limbaugh and Bill O’Reilly and seeing an opportunity to expand the patriotism market all the way down to the crib, Roy Wax had lit on the notio
n of Born in America Babies, cuddly stuffed likenesses of various presidents and other national icons as infants. He started with Baby Georgie Washington and Baby Marty Luther King and, most lucrative of all, irresistible Baby Abey, the must-have toy of one glorious Christmas, complete with beard, mole and stovepipe bonnet. Later came Baby Liberty, Baby Benjie Franklin, Baby Ronnie and even a surprisingly fast-selling set of Baby Bush Twins (any resulting misconceptions to be corrected, presumably, by history teachers down the line).

  The last link, a piece in the Orange County Register, identified Roy Wax as a prominent supporter of two of Southern California’s red-district congressmen, noting that he and his wife regularly opened those fifty-five hundred square feet for their fund-raisers. Waldo recognized both the legislators as fervid hawks on immigration issues and couldn’t help wondering how many of the workers in Wax’s Born in America factory had been born in America themselves.

  But did any of this suggest anything about Lorena’s imposter? In the singular world of Orange County, as Waldo understood it from up the freeway, Roy Wax didn’t seem an outlier, just one of the many SoCal success stories who’d turned the Orange coast gold and built a conservative citadel luxuriously out of step with the rest of the state. Anyway, politicians were scandal bait, but donors generally not. So the animus against him was probably personal—maybe some friend of Brenda Wax’s who didn’t like how Brenda’s husband mistreated her, or even some other hale fellow at the club who didn’t like the way Roy took mulligans and decided to get a couple of strokes back by hiring an actress to pose on the phone calls to Lorena. Or maybe the lunch-hour blonde came with a husband.

  Or, possibly, Lorena’s paranoia was well-founded, and she was the target.

  When she came out of the bathroom, he asked, “What have you been working on? What’s the last month been like? Any unhappy clients?”

  “Not that I know.”