All or Nothing (25 page)

She wore a curly blond wig and a nice pink–flowered dress that first Sunday morning, with a wide–brimmed straw hat, white sandals and a white handbag. During the service she kept a discreet watch on the worshipers, discarding mentally those men who, though old, were more vigorous, as well as several old women who, had they only been male, would have been perfect targets. Statistics were against her in her quest: they said men died at a younger age than women.

After the service, she introduced herself to the Reverend Isaiah Light as Miss Maria Joseph.

“I’m new to the area, Reverend,” she said, giving him her shy smile. “I’m from Florida originally and my family have always been devout Baptists. Now I plan on becoming a regular member of your flock.”

The Reverend Light had fat jowls and gray hair and he beamed a welcome. “Always glad to see a new face, and especially such a   .   .   .” For a second or two the reverend was lost for the right word. . . . “For such a
charming
one,” he finished gamely.

She gave him that shy smile again and he said, “Why don’t I introduce you to some of our members? They’ll be glad to welcome you too, and to offer any help you might need. I know relocating is always difficult, unless of course you have lots of old friends here?”

“Actually, no, I don’t have friends,” she admitted, sounding as wistful as she knew how. “I’m all on my own. That’s why I came to you. I knew that church would be a good place to meet people and start my new life.”

“So, here’s Ethel and Murray Levitch.” The reverend grabbed hold of a passing couple. “Say hello to our newest church member, Ethel. Miss Maria Joseph recently moved here from Florida, and knows no one.”

Murray and Ethel were in their seventies, nicely turned out in golf–clubbish attire, kind–eyed and smiling. They bid her welcome and mentioned she would have to make a point of attending the monthly church suppers, held regularly on the last Tuesday of the month. That way she would meet all the church members and was sure to make friends real soon.

“Next Tuesday is all planned,” the reverend added jovially. “Why not come along and meet some more of our members? I’m certain they’ll give you a hearty welcome.”

It was that easy.

She was there on Tuesday, alright, for the church supper, wearing black this time, with just a touch of pink lipstick and the string of cultured pearls Boss Harmon had given her, as well as the snake ring from John MacIver that she never took off. It had become part of her personality. The coiled snake with its tail in its mouth symbolized her cleverness at wriggling out of danger, her ability to become someone else, and to keep a secret.

That Tuesday night she retained her shy demeanor and her smile, not pushing herself forward, and waiting to be introduced. But she made sure she met everyone, especially all the men. There were one or two who looked likely prospects. She felt that old buzz of excitement. Things were definitely looking up. And this time she would make sure she became a millionaire.

Meanwhile, money was dwindling fast. She had paid cash for the old Acura. Then there was the security deposit and two months rent on the apartment and the cost of equipping it. Plus a whole new wardrobe. To say nothing of motel and living expenses for the past couple of months. She needed a job.

It was too risky to attempt to go back into real estate yet. Maybe next time––but then she wouldn’t need to work next time, would she? She was going to be rich. Still, you never knew, she might want to keep her hand in, might want to become even richer. After all, she enjoyed what she did.

In the meantime, she took a job as a waitress at the Mansion Bar & Grill in Oakland. She hated it but it paid the rent and expenses, and she got free food––plus she always made sure to take a bit of steak or a burger for Clyde, who waited patiently in the car in the parking lot until she had finished her shift.

Of course she looked quite different when she was working. Then she was the Maria Joseph with the short dark hair and the heavy glasses and she didn’t smile much at the customers. Didn’t see the need for it, really, most of them left a tip anyway, they were just so used to doing it. Waitressing was tough enough without having to be pleasant about it.

She was biding her time, starting to feel safe again, and things were going her way. Old Morgan Davies, age eighty–five, was already raising his hand and smiling eagerly at her when he saw her in church on Sundays.

Morgan was a widower––he had told her his wife of fifty years had died two years ago and that he had missed her every single day since.

“Of course you have,” she said, patting his hand comfortingly. “Why, I’ve missed my mother and father like that ever since they were killed in the auto accident down there in Florida. And that was years ago now.”

Morgan held his hand to his ear, concentrating on the movements of her lips, and she knew that like a lot of men his age who were losing their hearing, Morgan hated wearing his hearing aid. That was okay, it made her job even easier. Bad eyesight was good too, in fact the more decrepit the better.

She laughed out loud, thinking about it, and old Morgan, bewildered, laughed along with her. Hadn’t they been talking about her parents being killed in an auto accident? Then why was she laughing? He must have missed something, darn it.

“An auto accident?” he asked.

She nodded and a sad look came into her eyes. “It was terrible. Of course I was very young, only seventeen. Their car hit the median on Highway 95. It flipped over and they were both crushed. I . . . I was the one who had to identify them. . . .” Her voice dropped to a low sigh and instinctively Morgan reached out and took her hand.

“Poor girl, poor little girl,” he said comfortingly.

Morgan’s hand felt like sparrow bones in hers, dry and hot and very definitely old. A fierce yearning hit her suddenly, and she wanted to be holding the hand of a young man, a virile young stud who would crush her to him and fuck her brains out. Instead she would have to manipulate this one to some sort of Viagra–driven ecstasy. Her stomach revolted at the thought, but then she remembered the money and everything slotted into place again.

She had her mark and was all set.

Giraud was stumped. If he had expected Laurie/Bonnie to surface, she wasn’t doing it. Nor was she leaving any clues around, either in L.A. or in her own old neighborhood of Laguna. Bulworth was still out looking for her body and now Giraud was starting to doubt himself. Maybe he was wrong? Maybe Laurie
was
dead? Maybe Steve did kill her after all and the Jimmy Victor thing was just a coincidence?

Some coincidence! He chewed on the ballpoint pen, wishing deep in his heart it was a Camel unfiltered. Of course he wasn’t wrong. Laurie was clever, that’s how she had gotten this far. By now he would bet she had a new identity, a new persona, a new look, just the way she had done it before. But finding her was going to be like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack. Meanwhile the case against Steve was progressing and trial dates were expected to be set. He couldn’t let this charade go on much longer, but he knew that Bulworth would dismiss his theory as bullshit––though the Jimmy Victor corpse might give him pause for thought.

It was a dilemma and not the sort Giraud was used to facing. He had promised Vickie Mallard he would find out if her husband was guilty or not. Now he was sure he was not, but he couldn’t prove it. Not until he found Laurie Martin.

He had come full circle again in his thoughts and he sighed, drumming his fingers on his desk. Vickie Mallard was still very much on his mind and on an impulse he left his office, picked up some roses from the florist on Sunset and drove to the hospital.

Marla was Rollerblading with the other habitués of the Venice Beach boardwalk. It was more fun than the gym, which she hated, and it kept her in shape. Besides, she could admire the muscle boys on the beach while getting full aerobic benefit, and where else could you do that?

Today she was wearing black Lycra biker shorts, a white plastic sun visor and a T–shirt that said
I DON’T DO PERKY.
Along with, of course, the requisite gloves, elbow and knee guards. Not that she ever fell, she was far too expert for that. She could practically do ballet on those in–line skates. All she needed was the obligatory little dog in a red bandanna running alongside like most of the others on the boardwalk. The red bandanna made her think of Bonnie and Clyde, aka Laurie, and she too heaved a deep sigh.

When was Giraud going to come up with something? It seemed they had been standing still for over a week now––a week that she knew must feel like eternity to Steve Mallard. There was still no word of a stolen or abandoned RV, though Giraud had his contacts in all the right places and would surely have known if anything had turned up.

And as his assistant, she should have been thinking, getting onto it, investigating things. But what things? They had it all figured out––and nowhere to go with it.

She zoomed along, expertly dodging pedestrians, children and dogs, oblivious to the roar of the ocean, the heat of the sun, the smells of hot dogs and cotton candy. She passed the stall selling miniature baseball caps for dogs, with matching bandannas––as modeled by a bored dachshund and a yappie Yorkie who didn’t seem to take too kindly to his outfit, and it brought her––full circle––to thoughts of Bonnie and Clyde.

Bonnie/Laurie couldn’t know, of course, that Giraud had sifted through her past and now knew who she was as well as what she was. And Bulworth certainly didn’t know––yet––though he had found out that Jimmy Victor had supposedly already died in a fire in Florida several years ago. The remains in “Jimmy’s” grave had already been exhumed and DNA and dental tests were being done to try to identify the true victim of that fire. Marla was wondering who it could be too, when she was hailed loudly.

“Hey, miss, ma’am, stop right there please.”

She heard a bike racing behind her and swung around in a perfect curve, skating backward. “You mean me?”

“I sure do.” The bicycle cop propped his machine against some convenient railings and took out his book. He was young, blond, suntanned and muscular in black biker shorts like hers and a white polo shirt with
POLICE
written across the back in dark blue. And he wasn’t cracking a smile, though Marla gave him her best.

He also had ice–green eyes and Marla bet when he smiled he had a perfect set of all–American–super–straight–California–white teeth. He was, in short, to die for.

“So? What’s up?” she asked conversationally.

“You are aware that there is a speed limit on the boardwalk for bladers. And you, ma’am, were exceeding that speed limit.” He indicated with his pen the sign that said plainly
BLADERS 5 M.P.H. VIOLATORS WILL BE FINED $50.

“Aw, come on,” Marla said jokingly, as he began to write busily in his book, “you can’t be going to give me a ticket for Rollerblading!”

“That’s the law, ma’am.” He was solemn as the pope and as unhumorous as Kenneth Starr.

“There’s no way you could have known how fast I was going,” Marla fumed. “And anyhow, how could I go faster than five when there are all these pedestrians?”

“Exactly, ma’am.” He handed her the ticket. “Maybe next time you’ll keep within the law.”

Marla snatched the ticket and inspected it. “I’m going to fight this in court,” she said angrily.

“I wouldn’t advise it, ma’am. I have a record of your speed right here, and I was riding behind you and clocked fifteen m.p.h. on my odometer.”

He adjusted his silver helmet and was already climbing back on his bike. “Take care, ma’am.”

She stared after him as he cycled away. His fine–tuned muscles moved rhythmically and a small patch of sweat stained the white shirt between his shoulder blades.

Quite a hunk, she thought with a sigh.

Her cell phone rang. “Hello?” she said, skating moodily back in the direction of Santa Monica, where her car was parked.

“Oh, it’s you, Mom. And no, I wasn’t expecting anyone else. Well, actually, yes, I was. No, not a boyfriend, Mom, business.” She wiped the sweat off the back of her neck with a small hand towel she carried. “You’ve met
who
?” She groaned loudly as she heard the answer. She might have known it.

“Mom, I don’t care
how
eligible he is, I’m not interested. And yes, I am still going out with that lout––I happen to like him. A lot.” She laughed at her mother’s next remark. “I don’t know who I inherited my bad taste from. I hate to think. And no,
Mom,
I am not available for dinner at the Ivy tomorrow night. Or any other night with
Mr. Right.
Okay?

“Good try, Mom.” She grinned as she pushed the End button. The phone rang again immediately and she sighed, thinking it was her mother again. But it was Al.

“Marla?” he said.

“Of course it’s Marla. Who do you think would be answering my cell phone?”

“I’ll bet fifty bucks you’ve just been talking to your mother,” he said.

“How did you know?”

“Because when I rang a couple of minutes ago your phone was busy, and you always sound snippy when you’ve been talking to your mother. She trying to set you up again?”

“Of course she was.” Marla sighed again.

“Ever think maybe you should take her up on it? Go out and meet one of these eligible Mr. Rights?”

“Why? So I can compare them with Al Giraud, famous ex–redneck and notorious private investigator. Nah, you wouldn’t stand a chance and I couldn’t bear to do that to you.”

“Thank God,” he said, “because I don’t think I could take it.”

Marla was laughing now. “You mean there’s a sentimental streak in that flinty heart, Giraud?”

“You bet. And it’s had me in tears already this afternoon. Marla, there’s been a miracle––a minor miracle but still a miracle. I’m at the hospital. I came over here just by chance because I hadn’t seen Vickie in a while and after all, the lady is my employer.”

“You mean you have a conscience too?” she said, laughing. Then it hit her. “What miracle?
Giraud . . . oh, you don’t mean   .   .   .   ?
“