All or Nothing (34 page)

He saw the gleam of tears on her cheeks and gently wiped them away. She was crying again. She cried quite a lot and the doctors assured him it was a good thing, that somewhere inside she was responding to some stimulus. And now, when he took her hand, she squeezed it, though the pressure was slight because, despite daily physiotherapy, her muscle strength was diminished.

He squeezed her hand in reply and said, “I hear you, Vickie. I know you’re trying to come back to us. I know it, baby. Just keep on trying and soon it will work. Keep on, sweetheart. We need you. Mellie and Taylor are waiting for you. We just want to take you home, darling, that’s all.”

With an effort Vickie squeezed his hand again.

HOME, Vickie thought. That magical word. It triggered memories of their first small apartment in Studio City, with just the two of them and somehow they were always in bed, couldn’t get enough of each other. Then Taylor came and they moved into the little house with the big backyard in Tarzana, already thinking about schools and nervous as hell about handling the slippery little scrap of humanity that was their daughter. And then Mellie came along, and a couple of years after that her father helped them with the down payment on the new house, where they had chosen everything from the color of the tiles to the style of the faucets and the pattern of the berber carpeting. They had opened champagne that first night in their new house and family and friends had shown up to celebrate, bringing gifts of plants and ceramic cookie jars and baskets of fruit and everybody had had such a good time. Especially the two girls. They had run around, wild with excitement, showing everybody who was interested their rooms––”My own room,” each girl had said proudly, since before this they had shared a room.

HOME. That magical place of safety and security. That place of routine chores, of cooking meals and cleaning up, of making sure the girls got ready for school in time and sending them off on the school bus with lunch in their backpacks, and waiting for them to come home in the afternoon.

HOME. The place of quiet nights alone with Steve, watching a video when the girls were in bed, of having friends over or leaving the girls with a baby–sitter whom she knew well and trusted, but still she got nervous. “Like a mother chick,” Steve used to tease her. “They’ll be alright without you for a couple of hours, Vickie,” he would say. “Let it go, just enjoy yourself.”

But she had always had that niggling little doubt in the back of her mind, no matter how good the dinner or the show. Were her babies alright?

HOME. With her girls and her husband. That’s where she needed to be.

Opening her eyes was like lifting a heavy weight but somehow she managed it.

Steve held his breath as he looked at her, not believing what he saw. “Vickie.” He clasped her cold, thin hands in his. “Vickie, I’m here, baby, look at me, I’m here with you. It’s going to be alright, you’re alright. . . .”

Vickie’s eyes looked even bigger now in her pale, emaciated face.

She said only one word to him.
“Home,”
she whispered in a rough little voice that was almost a sigh.

But that word was enough.

Giraud’s shoulder was strapped up. It would take a while for the torn ligaments to mend, and maybe even necessitate athroscopic surgery. But he had no time for that now. He was on a roll, and he was out to get Laurie Martin. He remembered with a grim smile how it had felt when his beloved Corvette had spun through the air and his beloved Marla had cried out that they were going to die.

He figured that Laurie had wanted rid of that old blue Acura so fast she had headed for the nearest dealership and traded it in for the black Ford pickup that had pushed them off the road and over the cliff. And now he was determined to find that dealer.

He was on the outskirts of Oakland in the area near the Reverend Witty’s church, driving down what might be termed Motor Mall, past acres of car lots tricked out with jolly–colored bunting and balloons and sharp–suited salesman waiting to snare potential customers. Stickers promised bargains, no down payments, low interest rates, lease or purchase, and every new vehicle gleamed with the kind of polish it would never see again once it hit the real road of life. But Giraud was looking for used car dealers.

Still, he slowed as he passed the Chevrolet showroom, his eye caught by the glittering display of brand–spanking–new–model Corvettes. His mouth fairly watered just looking at them. On an impulse, he stopped and took a look.

“Pretty snazzy automobile.” Your friendly salesman was at his shoulder quicker than you could blink.

“Yeah. I just lost mine,” Giraud said regretfully.

“Too bad.” The salesman’s grin was wide, Giraud’s loss meant his gain. “Stolen was it, sir?”

“Nope. Totaled.”

The salesman’s whistle was sympathetic. “Like losing a member of the family, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so. I’ve been driving one of these myself for ten years now. You can’t get me away from it. I always say, once you’ve driven a Corvette you’ll never drive anything else.” He held out his hand. “Monty Portenski, sir.”

“Al Giraud.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off the Corvette.

“What year was yours, Al?”

Giraud ran his palm over the glossy red hood, stroking the sleek curves as gently as touching a baby. “Nineteen seventy,” he said with a sigh.

This time the salesman’s whistle sounded impressed. “A beauty, sir. You’re not gonna find the likes of her again, but the new models are even better, I can promise you that. How about we take a test drive, feel the power under the hood, the response, not to mention the comfort. “Better than ever’ is what the manufacturer claims and I can guarantee it.” He went on to mention the sensational 5.7 liter LS1 V8 engine, the 345 horsepower at 5,600 r.p.m. and the heated rear window that stored out of sight in the convertible model.

Giraud suddenly lost all willpower. He had only meant to look but now he was in the driver’s seat of a brand–new red Corvette, slinking out of the lot and down the road, past the Toyota dealership, and Nissan and Honda and Ford.

His eyes swiveled suddenly right and to the astonishment of the salesman he swung into the Ford lot and stopped in front of the glass–doored sales office.

“Al!” Monty Portenski protested. “What’re y’doin’? This is a road test, not comparison shopping.”

But Giraud was already out of the car and heading across to the corner of the lot, where an old blue Acura sat looking as out of place as a dowager at a debutante ball.

A couple of the Ford salesmen came out to check why the brand–new Corvette was being test–driven in their lot and Portenski threw his hands up helplessly. “Guy must be nuts,” he said doubtfully, watching Giraud walking around and around the blue clunker that looked about ready for the scrap yard. But now Giraud was striding back toward them, a pleased grin on his face.

“Either of you guys buy the old Acura from a lady some time this week?” He waved an impatient hand at Portenski and said, “Be with you in a minute.”

The Ford guys looked at each other. “Must have been a trade–in,” one of them said. “But I don’t know nothin’ about it.”

“Me, either.” The second guy shrugged.

By now Giraud was inside the glass–walled office, skirting the gleaming display cars, heading for the manager’s office. Fortunately, it was a slow afternoon and he was not busy.

“How can I help you, sir?” The manager got to his feet and offered his firm handshake, just to let Giraud know that you could tell a man’s character by his handshake and his was okay. Straight as dice, an honest car salesman.

Giraud took out his wallet, flashed his credentials and gave the manager, a Mr. Henry Jellicoe, his business card. “I’m working with the San Francisco Police Department on this case,” he said, almost telling a lie. “The old Acura out on the side lot? You know who brought it in and when?”

Jellicoe walked to the window and peered at the eyesore demeaning his spanking new car lot. “That thing has been there for three days now,” he grumbled. “One of our young salesmen took it in trade, but he’s been off for a while––his wife just had a baby. It should have been taken around the back into our preowned lot, but I guess he didn’t find time before the baby came. Anyhow, he’s the only one who knows about it. And why d’you want to know, anyway?”

“Homicide suspect,” Giraud said tersely, and saw Jellicoe’s jaw drop. “And I know for a fact that both the San Diego PD and the San Francisco PD have been checking area dealerships for this car. So how come you weren’t contacted. Or were you?”

Jellicoe shrugged. “I don’t recall any cop around here asking questions.”

“So meanwhile, what’s the info on the Acura?” Giraud’s fingers beat an impatient tattoo on Jellicoe’s desk.

“As I told you, the salesman is off. I don’t know anything about it.”

“Come on, Jellicoe. I wouldn’t like to think you weren’t cooperating with the police in their investigations. There has to be paperwork.”

Jellicoe heaved a sigh, glaring at the irate Corvette salesman hanging around outside the door, listening. “Of course we would cooperate with the police, it’s our civic duty. All I said was I have no personal knowledge of the matter. However, there should be some paperwork.”

He walked out of his office and Giraud followed him down the hall to another, smaller office with the name Mohammad Abid on a marker on the desk. An in tray was brimming with papers and he watched as Jellicoe thumbed rapidly through them.

“Here it is,” he said at last, looking at the pink slip. “Nineteen eighty–eight Acura registered in the name of Maria Joseph. She traded it in as a down payment on a second–hand ninety–five Ford 150 pickup, black. Jones gave her twenty–two hundred for it––too much if you ask me, the car’s a pile of junk.”

“Yeah, sure.” Giraud could barely control his excitement. He was this close to finding his prey. “She take out a loan?”

Jellicoe frowned, reading the notes. “She paid cash. Didn’t give us her home address, said she was in the process of moving. But she left her workplace number and address. Seems Jones called them to confirm she actually did work there and got a glowing reference. She works at the Mansion Bar & Grill in Oakland.”

The Mansion Bar & Grill was your old–fashioned roadside steak house with a dark interior and red leatherette booths that had seen a couple of decades of wear from its customers’ ample behinds. A few guys were belly–up to the long mahogany bar and the smell of whiskey and draft beer permeated the room, along with the always enticing aroma of charcoal–broiled steaks.

Marla and Al slipped into a booth and looked around. There was nobody there who looked the least bit like Laurie Martin.

A young waiter with bleached platinum hair falling over his eyes like a Hollywood movie surfer stopped by to ask if they wanted drinks, and Marla ordered her usual vodka martini and Giraud a draft Bud.

“I’m not hungry,” Marla said, studying the menu.

“In case you had forgotten,” Giraud said, “you are not here to eat.”

“Oh. Well, in that case . . . I had been thinking of maybe just a salad.”

“Marla!”

She shrugged one shoulder delicately. “Okay, okay, I can take a hint.”

“That was not a hint. That was a command.”

“Yes, sir.” She saluted smartly and turned her attention to the waiter, who had returned with their drinks.

“You ready to order?” he asked, pad and pen at the ready.

“Sure. Two burgers with the works, medium–well, no fries,” Giraud said briskly.

Marla glared at him. “But you said   .   .   .” His warning glance stopped her and she slumped back against the red leatherette.

“You wanna change that, maybe?” the waiter asked her, but she shook her head.

“Whatever he says,” she said, sounding martyred.

“Damn it, Marla, you’re not gonna eat the thing anyway.” Giraud was on edge, eyes scanning the room. There were waitresses, but none who in the least way resembled his prey and he wondered if he was too late and Laurie had already jumped ship, so to speak.

His right shoulder hurt like hell every time he moved and he got even madder just remembering what Laurie Martin had done to them.

Marla sipped the martini silently. He could tell she was fuming, but this was not time for a blowup, so he kept his mouth shut and concentrated on the clientele. It was after six now and the place was filling up. It was obviously a popular local hangout and nearly everyone seemed to be a regular, greeted with a friendly “How’re y’doing” and “How’s things.” And, with the busy witching hour, came additional staff.

Giraud’s eyes narrowed as he focused on a tall, dark–haired woman clearing a table at the far end of the narrow room. The lighting was dim, just little red–shaded table lamps, and it was difficult to make her out exactly, but there was just something about the way she walked, kind of athletic, that contrasted with her frumpy, aging appearance . . . a below–the–knee skirt, heavy flat shoes, thick black stockings. Her white shirt was neatly pressed but it looked too big on her. She wore large black–framed eyeglasses and her dark hair was cut severely short in the back, almost like a man’s, falling in a jagged fringe over her eyes. She looked thin, weighted down by the clumsy shoes.

Marla turned her head, following his glance.
She was looking at the woman she had almost bumped into on the steps of the L.A. City Hall. The one with the mad eyes. The one who she had sensed was evil. . . .

“That’s her.”
Marla’s voice was squeaky with excitement and nerves.
“I swear to God it’s her.”

The dark–haired waitress had finished clearing the table. She was coming down the aisle carrying a loaded tray. She was almost past them. And then Marla spotted the snake ring, coiled around her third finger. . . .

“Oh, Laurie   .   .   .” she said, her voice soft and friendly.

The tray slid from the waitress’s hands and dirty dishes crashed to the floor, spattering steak bones and old fries and ketchup everywhere.

Laurie swung around. For a split second her burning eyes met Marla’s, then she was swinging quickly through the crowd and into the kitchen.