All or Nothing (28 page)

He took another slug of the bourbon as he heard Pearson open the front door and greet milady with his “Good afternoon, madame, I trust you had a pleasant day.”

“I sure did, Pearson,” Beau heard Loretta say. “But now I’m exhausted. Would you please have tea sent up to my room. And the newspapers––ironed of course.” She couldn’t abide creases and newsprint that came off on her fingers.

“Of course, madame, right away. The Earl Grey tea I assume, madame?”

“You assume correctly,” she said already on her way up the stairs.

Beau stood behind his door, listening until he heard her go into her own room and the door close. He breathed again.

So madame was exhausted from lunching with the ladies, was she? Well then he might have to plan a little exhaustion himself, say tomorrow, in Dallas. Yes, a little visit to Dallas was definitely in the cards. He took another swig of the bourbon as he dialed the blonde’s number and arranged an assignation.

That would be Pearson on the stairs, taking madam’s tea tray and the newspapers. He listened for the tap on the door, heard her tell him to come in, heard him leave.

Then, “Oh, Pearson,” she called in that loud twang Boss had always claimed belonged on a Texas hillbilly, “has the mail arrived yet?”

Pearson informed her that it had and she instructed him to bring it up to her room.

Beau had no interest in the mail. All it would be was bills and more bills that Loretta, anyway, would take care of. She did have her uses, but since she was the one spending all the money it was only right she paid them. If she ever found out about the blonde she would take him to the cleaners. He would be finished. But unlike other prominent men, he knew how to keep his mouth shut and so did the blonde. No hiding behind office doors for him, just a nice discreet little apartment, a monthly stipend and some fun sex between consenting adults. Now, who could object to that?

Beau sighed as he slumped into the cushions of the red damask sofa that were so downy they billowed up on either side of him. He took another gulp of the bourbon, staring moodily out the window. He couldn’t wait to get to Dallas, he would catch the early morning flight and would be gone before Loretta even knew it.

He had just settled into a doze when a sound like a rocket blastoff ripped through the house, jolting him yelping from the sofa.
“Jesus Christ, what happened?”
he screamed, running for the door.

Smoke billowed from the place where the tall double doors leading to Loretta’s room used to be. Pearson came pounding up the stairs, a look of alarm on his usually impassive face.

It took a fuckin’ explosion to get the old goat to unfreeze his face, Beau thought as he stepped over the heavy double doors that now lay in the hall and stood in the entrance to Loretta’s wrecked room.

He could see her lying on the peach floral chaise surrounded by the shattered remnants of the Spode tea service and other expensive broken bric–a–brac. One arm dangled like a puppet’s at an odd angle, dripping blood onto the floor. The thing was, though, there was no hand on the end of that arm.

Beau turned and vomited neatly into the Chinese export vase on the console, while Pearson backed away and dialed 911 from the upstairs phone.

Whatever had happened, Loretta Larson Harmon certainly never knew it.

Al and Marla were dining
à deux
at Tra Di Noi, a cozy little Italian bistro in Malibu, tucked away in a corner where Marla felt they could smooch unobserved and where Al, with the ex–cop’s instincts, felt more secure with his back against the wall. Not that he was expecting anything to happen, it was just the way he was. Besides, this was law–abiding Malibu where they said the cops were so bored the only high they got was issuing traffic citations and keeping a watchful eye on the paparazzi who stalked the local movie stars.

The decor was Malibu funky, like any little place in Tuscany might be, the staff friendly and the food good and plentiful. Marla’s favorite was the spaghetti bolognaise and she sucked in a strand now, cheeks hollowed, slurping happily while Al tucked into a massive veal chop.

“You’ve got to taste this,” he said appreciatively, cutting a piece and holding the fork to her mouth. Even biting into a forkful of veal Marla looked sexy, especially in the skinny white tank top and tight blue jeans she wore tonight, and with her multiblond hair tumbling around her face in wispy curls in a new style she had adopted. The tank top said
NAUGHTY
on it. He alone knew how naughty she was and it made him grin just thinking about her.

“Know what? You look beautiful tonight,” he said, polishing off the last of the veal.

“Mmm.” Her mouth was still full but she leaned across and kissed him anyway. “So do you,” she mumbled, “notice anything about me tonight?”

He inspected her up and down. “New hairdo? I like it.”

“Well, yes, and thank you kindly for the compliment and for noticing––even though I did have to point it out to you. But I meant something else.”

“Okay, I give up.”

“You mean you didn’t notice that tonight I’m dressed exactly the way you are? Jeans and a T–shirt. Proper P.I. attire.”

“First of all, I don’t wear anything with spaghetti straps and the word
Naughty
written across my chest, and my jeans are not as tight as yours.”

She stroked her lean hips, grinning. “You wish,” she murmured. “Anyhow, I thought private investigators wore shiny suits and loud neckties and snap–brim hats tilted rakishly to one side.”

Al grinned. “Hon, I’m about forty years too young for that kind of gear. You’ve mistaken me for Frank.”

“Frank who?”

He sighed as he took his cell phone from his jeans pocket and dialed his number for his messages. Sometimes he forgot how much younger she was. “Marla, there is only one “Frank.’”

She ordered tiramisu with two forks while he listened to the litany of calls. When he got to the last one, his face changed. He glanced at his watch, frowning.

“That’s strange,” he said, “I got a call from Beau Harmon. About an hour ago. He sounded weird.”

“Weird?” She looked expectantly at him, then down at the luscious mound of creamy tiramisu. It was hell for the figure but it sure tasted good.

“Yeah, y’know . . . scared.”

Now she was alert. “Why is Beau Harmon calling you, anyway? I got the impression he was glad to see the back of you as well as of Bonnie.”

“He was. And so was his wife. That’s what makes it all the weirder. Unless, of course, Bonnie has reared her evil little head again.”

“In San Antonio, Texas?” Marla was suddenly excited. “With the time difference, it must be after midnight there. Why is he calling so late?”

“Something’s up. Finish the tiramisu, Marla.” He waved to Luigi for the check. “I need to get back to my office.”

They were in Marla’s Mercedes and she was driving––or at least approximating what was normally called driving, as she sipped at the cup of coffee she had insisted on picking up from Starbucks en route and at the same time punched in her own phone number with her spare hand.

“Marla,” Al said as they sped down Pacfic Coast Highway, “you have no hands on the wheel.”

She listened to her messages and took another sip, steering now with a couple of fingers of her left hand. “Sure I do. Don’t tell me you’re nervous, Giraud?”

“Yeah, I’m nervous. The thing is, Marla, when you’re driving you’re supposed to concentrate. You seem to think it’s an excuse to do three other things as well.”

“Trust me, I could do four,” she said, giving his thigh an intimate little squeeze.

“Trust me,” he replied, “in this instance, I’d rather you just drove.”

She flung him a look of triumph as she swung left onto Sunset and, foot to the floor, zoomed up the hill. “Coward,” she murmured, to which he agreed that––in this instance––yes he was.

She had to slow down, though, when the road began its series of serpentine curves through the Palisades, past the Bel Air gates, through Beverly Hills and into the Sunset Strip. She swung into the parking lot in the rear of Al’s offices and jolted to a sudden stop. “How’s that for record time?” she demanded breathlessly, applying fresh lip gloss in the driver’s mirror.

“Great.” He was already out of the car and walking up the slope from the lot to the Strip.

“Hey, wait for me. . . .” She ran after him, linking her arm in his, her long legs keeping up easily with his loping stride. “Trouble is, you’re more interested in Beau Harmon than you are in me.” She sighed. “I mean, what kind of man goes to his office at midnight on a Friday?”

“A P.I. with an urgent phone call. Get used to it, Marla,” he said as he unlocked the door.

“Oh, bullshit,” she grumbled, picking up the letter parcel that was waiting outside his office door and carrying it in with her. She set it down on his desk then perched next to it, one leg swinging, waiting while he got Beau Harmon on the phone.

“Harmon?” Beau had answered the phone himself and Giraud wondered fleetingly what had happened to the butler. He would have thought Loretta would have had him working all hours. “Yeah, it’s Giraud here. You asked me to call as soon as I could, regardless of the time. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Nothing could wake me,” Beau said, so loudly that even Marla could hear. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep again.”

“Okay, so calm down, fella, I can hear you, no need to shout. Now, what’s your problem?”

Al paced up and down with the phone glued to his ear, listening intently.

Unable to hear any of Beau’s conversation, Marla checked out the parcel. There was a Neiman Marcus sticker on the packet. Mmmmm, now who could be sending Al gifts from Neiman’s? The famous San Antonio couple, Loretta and Beau? From what she had heard, they didn’t sound the sort to be free with gifts. Then who? Could Giraud have a secret admirer? Or maybe she wasn’t so secret. . . . She peered at the handwriting. There was no return address and Al’s name and address were printed in block capitals. She hefted it again, scowling, jealousy gnawing at her. It was heavy for its size. She knew for a fact that Al never shopped at Neiman Marcus. The Gap was lucky to get his patronage.

“So what woman is sending you stuff from Neiman’s,” she said loudly, already inching the Sellotape from the top, glaring at him as she started to rip open the Jiffy bag.

Al was concentrating on what Beau was saying. “It was
what
?” he said, astounded. Then,
“Marla!”
he yelled, launching himself at her.

“Jesus, Marla,”
he yelled again, and her mouth dropped into an astonished “O” as he grabbed her, threw the half–open parcel across the room and her onto the floor beneath his desk with him on top.

And then she was screaming, loudly into the ear that was closest to her, but it didn’t seem to matter because the whole room was one big roar as it erupted into diamond trilliants of shattered glass and heavy dark beams and dust and orange tongues of flame, and she was sobbing and shivering under him.

“What is it? What happened?”
she stuttered as he pulled her to her feet, checked her rapidly for injuries, then led her through the burning debris out onto the stairway. Already the wail of sirens sounded along the Strip and he knew help was at hand.

“It means, Marla, that “Bonnie Harmon,’ hereinafter called Laurie Martin, is alive and well and back in business,” he said grimly.

Homicide Detective Lionel Bulworth perched his bulk uncomfortably on the edge of the small chair in the bar of the Sea Breeze Inn, Pensacola, Florida, surrounded by potted palms and a squadron of ceramic geese flying into infinity along one turquoise wall. Pow! Powers was sitting opposite him, and Pow! in civilian garb was a sight to behold, in a k.d. lang–ish black suit, a white shirt and, instead of a tie, a red bandanna knotted at her neck. The finishing touch was a pair of large tooled leather boots.

Like a gosh–darn urban cowboy, Bulworth thought, amazed. But Powers was pulling her––not inconsiderable––weight, alright. She had been out doing the legwork while he manned the phones. Now they were comparing notes over a thankfully cold beer in the small lobby overlooking a glassy expanse of ocean. Or was it the Gulf? He was never sure in Florida.

“I have here copies of Jimmy’s wedding certificate, plus the death certificate issued by the doctor who saw him after the accident. Plus copies of the newspaper accounts of the accident. And with pictures of the wife, Bonnie.” Powers handed them over to Bulworth with a pleased grin.

He looked them over, staring hard at the picture of Bonnie. “No one we know,” he said dismissively. “And it says here she did a heroic job trying to pull him out of the burning trailer.”

“Except it wasn’t Jimmy, it was someone else,” Powers pointed out.

“Right. And I’ve been onto the local PD about anyone who went missing around that time.”

“And?” She took a goodly slurp of the beer and picked up a fistful of pretzels.

“And a Gil Fearing was reported missing a couple of days after the accident in the trailer. A forty–year–old male Caucasian, around the same build and age as Jimmy Victor, lived in a downmarket apartment complex on the outskirts of town, worked occasionally on construction. When he wasn’t drinking and chasing women, that is. He and Jimmy Victor both. Our Jim turned out to be quite the boy. From what I’ve heard, any wife would have been glad to get rid of him.”

“Is that right?” Powers’s brows raised as she popped another pretzel into her mouth. “You think she killed him?”

“You betcha I do. Only trouble is nobody knows where she went from there. She just took off and nobody ever saw her again.”

“I don’t get it, she kills the husband, who turns out not to be the husband, in the trailer fire, and then years later the husband turns up dead in a California canyon. Are we missing something or what?”

“You put it so succinctly, Powers,” Bulworth said with a sigh. “We know nothing about Bonnie Hoyt/Victor except that she is alive and probably killed Jimmy in that canyon. Though what it has to do with Laurie Martin beats me.”

“Wonder what happened to
her
?” Powers said, brushing crumbs off her black suit and ordering up a second Bud Light.