All or Nothing (20 page)

He heard the pop of a champagne cork and walked into the living room.

Marla was putting a large tray containing the Greenblatt’s chicken, the asparagus and the champagne onto the huge glass coffee table. She glanced up at him. “Looking your best, I see,” she said mischievously.

He had forgotten he was naked. He did an about–turn and came back a minute later wrapped in the black terry robe she had bought specially for him. Or at least he hoped she had bought it for him and it hadn’t been a lover’s “prop” here for the convenience of the man of the moment. He sighed, you never knew with Marla. But Marla was definitely a one–man woman now and he was glad that man was him.

Marla was back in her Harlow cream satin, but most of the red lipstick was gone and her eye shadow had smudged, leaving silvery traces over the yellowed bruises. There was a pretty flush to her cheeks and a sparkle in her gray–green eyes.

“You look adorable,” he said, snatching her to him.

“And you still have the phone in your hand,” she said, moving pointedly away. “Champagne?”

“Why not?” He accepted the glass and went to sit beside her on the sofa.

“Fascinating, what happened in Gainesville,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “I’d forgotten all about Gainesville.”

“Well, with your life being so exciting and all, the kidnapping, I mean, and a mom who wants you to marry an orthodontist, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, so what happened in Gainesville?”

“Seems little Bonnie Hoyt was a hellion, into everything, drink, drugs. . . .”

“Sex and rock ’n’ roll,” she finished for him.

“You got it.”

While they ate the chicken he told her about young Bonnie’s problematic youth and how she had run away at seventeen to go live with a marine in Pensacola.

“Jimmy Victor,” she said, chewing on a chicken wing, then wiping her fingers delicately on a sheet of paper towel pulled from the large roll she had brought in from the kitchen.

“Yeah, Jimmy, I guess. And then her parents––decent, God–fearing folks who never missed a Sunday at the Baptist chapel and who had scrimped and saved to pay off a short–term mortgage because the most important thing to them was to own their own home––tried to stop her. They took off after her––got themselves killed in an auto crash on the highway en route to Pensacola.”

Marla stopped chewing. “No kidding.”

“Darling Bonnie inherited the little house and sold it right away. Just took that money and ran.”

“Oh . . . my . . . God .   .   .” Marla put down the chicken, suddenly sickened. She took a gulp of the champagne, looking at Al over the rim of the glass. “You don’t think   .   .   .   ?”

“What d’
you
think?”

“I think she killed her parents.”
Marla took another good slurp of the cold champagne.

“Quite a gal, huh?”

“It’s odd, how she profited every time somebody close to her died . . . she got the house––or the money from it––from her parents; the Buick from Jimmy; and she got ninety–year–old Boss Harmon’s money too, or a good part of it. Next thing she was planning on marrying MacIver. She’d already taken him for quite a bit, judging by the Rodeo Drive clothes and the flashy diamond ring.”

“Plus whatever MacIver gave her to help out her mythical “sister’ with the “sick kid,’ as well as the nonexistent “children’s Christmas charity.’”

Marla’s eyes bugged as she stared at Giraud, looking, he thought interestedly, like a couple of poached eggs in her Harlow face.

“Our Laurie/Bonnie is a serial killer,” Marla said solemnly. “And she kills for gain.”

He grinned at her, that sarcastic little grin that lifted one corner of his mouth and his left eyebrow and usually irritated the hell out of her, but now she was pleased.

“You finally got it, honey. Laurie Martin, aka Bonnie–Hoyt–Victor–Harmon, is one bad lady.”

The phone rang. Both pairs of eyes swiveled to the table where it lay, trembling with noise. Then Al’s met Marla’s inquiringly.

“Answer it, Mr. P.I.,” she said.

“It’s two–thirty
A.M.,
Marla,” he said lazily. “Who do you think could be calling?”

“So answer it and find out, why don’t you?” she said as though it had never been a problem between them. She poured more champagne, hearing Al’s exasperated sigh.

“Nah . . . it can wait ’til morning . . . office hours, y’know what I mean.”

By now she was burning with curiosity. “Damn it, Giraud, answer, it’s driving me crazy.”

He shook his head, drumming his fingers nonchalantly on the arm of his chair.

“Oohhh!” She snatched up the phone. “Hello? Oh! Hi, I’m fine thanks, how are you? You’re looking for Al? I’m not sure he’s available right now, Detective Bulworth, a private eye like him has to get his beauty sleep, you know what I mean?”

She was laughing as Giraud grabbed the phone from her. “Ignore all that, Bulworth,” he said. “It’s just a woman scorned kinda thing, y’know what I mean?” He glared balefully at Marla and she flounced to the window, showing, he noticed, quite a lot of gorgeous leg where the Harlow satin was slit to the thigh.

“Yeah, I told her it had to be important if you were calling at two–thirty
A.M.
––which means it had better be, Bulworth my friend, because if not, then I’m in a hell of a lot of trouble.”

He listened for a long time, saying nothing. “It didn’t, huh?” was his first comment, and Marla swung around, all ears.

“No shit,” he said again thoughtfully, and she stalked back toward him. She stood close, her ear practically glued to his, trying to catch the other part of the conversation.

“Well, thanks, Bulworth, for the info. Sure. I’ll get back to you.” Al clicked off the phone and lay back against the cushions, staring thoughtfully up at the ceiling––coved and twelve feet high. Marla’s father was not a real estate mogul for nothing.

“What?”
she demanded, looming over him. “
What
did Bulworth say?”

“Oh, you know, nothing important––not at two–thirty in the morning.” She punched him hard in the gut and with an
ouff,
he bent double. “Jesus, Marla, what did y’do that for?” he gasped when he’d finally caught his breath.

“Because you deserved it, you jerk,” she said calmly. “So now tell me what Bulworth said.”

He gave in.

“Bulworth got Bonnie/Laurie’s blood back from the oil tanker in Hawaii. It did not match the blood in the Lexus.”

It was not what she had expected to hear and she stared blankly at him. “Then whose was it?”

“Jimmy Victor’s.
He
was the guy found in the canyon. He’d been shot with a bullet from a .40 Smith and Wesson handgun.”

“Oh . . . my . . . God .   .   .”
She sank onto the sofa, stunned. “But Jimmy died ten years ago in the Florida trailer.”

“Seems he didn’t.” Al searched in the pockets of his robe for the pack of Camels before he remembered he didn’t smoke anymore.

“Then who did?”

He stared at her, irritated. “Marla, why do you have this annoying habit of asking the obvious?”

“If it’s so obvious why didn’t
you
ask?” She glared back at him.

“Because I already have the answer.”

She got up then, stepped closer to him. Her eyes were wide with astonishment. “You
do
? Then
who,
damn it?”

“Someone else,” he said, dodging her next blow and laughing.

“No, seriously, Giraud,
who
died in the trailer fire?” Marla still didn’t get it.

Nor did Al. “Some poor unfortunate. The guy was burned beyond recognition. My guess is Bonnie thought it was her husband. Turned out she was wrong and ten years later Jimmy shows up to haunt her. Blackmail her, more likely.”

Al was up and pacing, stringing the story together as he went. “Steve said she told him she had another appointment to show the house that same afternoon. That could have been Jimmy.”

“Oh, my God!” Marla brought her hands up to her face in horror as she realized what had happened. “Laurie killed him. She killed Jimmy at the house because he was blackmailing her. And she knew Steve Mallard was coming at five–thirty to take a look at the same house.
She framed Steve.
”

“Damn it, Marla, give me a cigarette, won’t you?” Al drummed his fingers impatiently on the tabletop.

She ignored his request. “So what happened next?” She was like a kid with a bedtime story.

Sticking his hands in the pockets of his robe, Al started pacing again. “My guess is she shot him in the car, then drove him to the canyon and dumped him. Then staged her own disappearance, knowing Steve Mallard would be implicated.”

“And that of course the police would believe he’d killed her. The blood on the seat, keys still in the ignition, car doors open . . . her condo abandoned . . . it all pointed to an abduction and possible murder.” Marla was excited. Then she stopped suddenly in her tracks. She stared blankly at Al.

“But then why did Steve try to kill Vickie?”

“He didn’t. Someone else was at the house that night. Marla, don’t you remember anything at all about your attacker? Come on, hon, I know it’s difficult, but just search your mind. How tall? How strong? His build . . . his––
or hers
  .   .   .”

Marla stared at the floor, casting her mind back through the fog of concussion and fear to that terrible night. She bit her lip, flinching as she remembered it was still sore, thinking hard.

“A little taller than I am. Thin, I would say, but strong. And the eyes.” She paused. “I remember the eyes clearly. I’ve
dreamed
of those eyes. . . . Dark, filled with hate . . . crazy   .   .   .” She shivered, not wanting to remember. “I felt he was evil.”

She dragged herself back from that fearful night, then looked at him, astonished. “What do you mean? Him––or
her
?”

“Think about it, Marla. It could have been a woman, couldn’t it?”

“You mean . . . 
it was Laurie
?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. When Jimmy’s body was found in the canyon, Laurie feared the police would be onto her––so she decided to kill Vickie and frame Steve Mallard––a second time. It was Laurie who called Steve in Arrowhead and left the anonymous message that his wife was in danger, knowing he would come running. Only she didn’t count on you showing up too, Marla, to spoil her plans.”

“Oh! My! God!”
Marla leapt in the air then did a kind of wiggly, joyous war dance around the room. “This means Steve Mallard gets out of jail.” She danced back to Al and threw her arms around his neck in a fierce hug that involved most of her body.

Much as he liked it, Al realized he was getting the hug under false pretenses. “Hold it, Marla.” He removed her arms from around his neck. “Steve is going nowhere. He stays right where he is.”

“
In jail?
Accused of the attempted homicide of his wife and a suspect in the murder of Laurie Martin?” Marla gave an indignant snort. “You forget I’m a lawyer, Giraud. I could get him out in a minute on this evidence.”

“Sure you could. But you won’t. Not yet.” Her brows rose over angry gray–green eyes. Al thought you might safely say she was smoldering. “Not until we find Laurie Martin.”

She thought about it, biting on her wounded lower lip as she always did when she was thinking hard, flinching again when it hurt. She felt for Steve Mallard, and for Vickie, still in a coma. She thought of their two daughters living with Vickie’s sister, of them believing their father was a murderer, of what they all were going through. It was cruel to not put them out of their misery and tell what had happened, but she saw Giraud’s point. Unless they proved Laurie Martin wasn’t dead there was still a case against Steve.

She said solemnly, “We have to find Laurie Martin. Bring her in. Dead or alive.”

Al was forced to laugh. She was like a B–movie detective.

Marla ignored the laugh. “So how do you suggest we go about proving Laurie is not dead?” She poured more champagne into their glasses, tasted it; it was warm and she made a face, took a couple of ice cubes from the ice bucket and plopped them into the champagne. It fizzed wildly in protest. She took another sip. “That’s better,” she muttered, sinking into the cushiony sofa.

“Laurie Martin has the ability to change her look as well as her identity, her whole persona.” Al was thinking it out as he talked, frowning, concentrating. “One thing that bugs me about leaving the car in that remote canyon is, how did she get away from there?”

“In Jimmy Victor’s car,” Marla said brightly.

“You mean Jimmy was murdered, then drove his own car to the dump site? Okay, Miss Logic–Lawyer, think again.”

Marla did think, and quickly. “Obviously Jimmy had a vehicle to get to the show house. I know.” Her eyes lit with excitement. “Jimmy was driving a sport utility, or a truck, an RV, or whatever. . . .”

“And Laurie hitched the Lexus to that, towed it to the canyon. . . .”

“Dumped him   .   .   .”

“Then split in the RV   .   .   .”

Giraud laughed. “Marla, did I ever tell you, you have a brilliant, logical legal mind that sorts out every angle, and that you are amazingly beautiful. And that I love you madly, even though you drive me to distraction and won’t let me have a cigarette. . . .”

She was in his arms now. “Just think of all the other things I let you have, baby,” she said, running her tongue lightly over his eyelids, over his mouth, over his ear. . . .

“So,” Al said thoughtfully. “The first thing to do is find out if Jimmy Victor owned an RV, or if he had rented one.”

“You think Laurie Martin is still driving it?”

“If she has any sense, she will have dumped it by now. But not all killers are sensible. She may just think she’s gotten away with it.”

Laurie Martin was in the process of acquiring a new identity.

The Firebird Motel in San Francisco was the sixth––or maybe the seventh––she had stayed in since she left Laguna, using a different name at each one, and she wasn’t happy about moving from cheap motel to cheap motel. The fact was, she couldn’t do anything about it until she got herself that new identity––and that’s why she was taking the train to L.A. this morning.