All or Nothing (4 page)

The ’Vette had a souped–up engine that Giraud had rebuilt himself, spending hours in his oil–stained garage, fiddling with it, tuning it, polishing it, patting it––loving it. Its four–speed heavy–duty manual transmission was still the best; the tilt telescopic steering column was one of the first of its kind, and it––and the redesigned seats––allowed room for his six–foot–four–inch frame. Add the beautiful saddle–leather upholstery––all redone to the original specs––and the refurbished walnut trim, and this was one special automobile.

Al’s childhood dream, fostered at the movies, had been to own a Corvette. Red, naturally. And hot. And now nothing––not Marla’s expensive silver Mercedes S500, not a new Porsche Carerra, not even, he bet himself, a Ferrari or Lamborghini, should he ever be in a position to afford one, which was debatable––would ever wean him from his first love.

“Loyal to a fault, that’s me,” he’d told Marla, grinning when she had complained about the low bucket seats and the roar of the exhaust. “Once I’m in love, that’s it. I’m in love forever.”

She had thrown him one of those wanna–bet looks, but there had been a trace of hope in her beautiful, long–lashed gray–green eyes. Maybe he really meant it. And not just about cars.
Al’s home was of an even earlier Hollywood vintage than the car: a 1930s Spanish stucco cottage with tall, arched windows, hardwood floors, beamed ceilings and fancy iron grillwork over the doors and windows, which, considering its proximity to the Sunset Strip, came in useful as an added safety feature in these more risky times. A terra–cotta–tiled courtyard fronted the house and also led into the separate garage at the left. A row of tall, needlelike cedars ranged down the right side––a bone of contention between Al and his neighbors, who wanted them topped, while Al wanted to keep them and maintain his privacy. And a pretty patio with an old Spanish–tiled fountain was out back.

Al’s finger was already on the remote button as he swung into the side street off Queens and slid into the courtyard. The garage door opened smoothly. He sat for a moment in the cool darkness listening to the hum of the engine, almost as precious and real to him as the beat of his own heart. He patted the saddle–leather seat lovingly, brushing off a speck of dust from the console. He almost hated to get out of the car.

It was pleasant he thought, to achieve at least one of your ambitions in life. That Monza Red Corvette had been so far out of reach for the poor New Orleans kid from the wrong side of the tracks, dreaming in the darkness of the movie house all those years ago. Now it was his and he enjoyed every moment of it.

His cell phone rang and he picked it up. “Yeah?”

“I’ll bet you fifty bucks you’re sitting in that darn Corvette congratulating yourself on how far you’ve come since you were just a poor kid dreaming at the movies.”

He sighed. “Marla, what is it about you and my Corvette? You act like I’m with another woman.”

“And that’s just the way you act with that car, like it’s a woman.”

“Aw, come on, Marla, give a guy a break, can’t you   .   .   .   ?”

“I know, I know, it’s your pride and joy. I know where I stand in your affections, Giraud. A very definite second.”

Al’s deep laugh boomed down the line. “Don’t they say everybody seeks their own level in life?”

“And I’ve found mine, you mean?”

Marla’s sigh was gusty and he imagined her, the phone propped between her shoulder and her ear, lying on a chaise in a negligee, painting her nails Corvette red––though in fact it was just as likely to be mulberry or sky–blue–sparkle, depending on her mood of the day.

“Actually, I’m at work,” Marla said briskly, smoothing a wrinkle out of her gray flannel skirt and buttoning the jacket discreetly over the white T–shirt she wore underneath. Her hair was pulled severely back in a tortoiseshell clip and she wore little round tortoiseshell Armani glasses––not because she needed them, but because today she was playing the role of the Intellectual Lady Professor. “I have a lecture in two minutes. . . . So, what did Bulworth say?”

Al grinned. So much for the negligee and painting her nails––Marla was into her private eye role. “Just as we thought. There’s no doubt Laurie Martin was abducted––and very likely killed. And Steve Mallard was probably the last man to see her––though he claims she never showed.
And
he’s Prime Suspect Number One.”

“He’s either Prime Suspect
or
Number One Suspect, Giraud.” Marla was a stickler for semantics when she was practicing law.

“Yeah, well, this guy is both. He’s hot––too hot to touch yet. There’s no body, no evidence and therefore no arrest. He’s still at his job in San Diego. Meanwhile his wife and kids are at the family home in Encino.”

Marla frowned, thinking about it. “I didn’t get bad vibes from him, though, I mean the couple of times we saw him, he looked like a regular guy. . . .”

“Don’t they all?” Al was wise to the ways of abusers and wife beaters, child–support dodgers and con men. And killers. “Meanwhile, it sure looks as though he was cheating on his wife––and with Laurie.”

“Mmm, absence doesn’t appear to make the heart grow fonder––at least in this case,” Marla admitted. “But surely he should have the benefit of the doubt.”

Al shook his head. That was Marla the attorney talking. “He’s getting that benefit right now. Until they find a body, that is.”

“Or until they find Laurie Martin alive and well and just taking a break in some Mexican resort.”

Al gave up. “Have it your way, honey.”

“Meanwhile, what are we gonna do about that poor woman?”

“Which woman, hon?” Al glanced at his watch. He had an appointment with a client in ten minutes back at his office on Sunset.

“Vickie Mallard. The wife.”

“Beats me . . . listen, I’ve got to go. There’s a client waiting. I’ll talk to you later, Marla, okay?”

“Okay.” Marla checked her own watch. Jeez, she was late too––and those darn kids would never let her forget it. She hurried down the shiny corridor to her class, unaware of the turned heads and admiring grins. Not even tailored gray flannel and glasses could diminish Marla’s sex appeal.

Nevertheless, her mind was not truly on her class. The unknown Vickie Mallard lingered at the back of her mind like a bump on a log––she just couldn’t stop wondering about her and her children. Was Steve Mallard a philanderer? Maybe. Was he a murderer? Perhaps. But Marla didn’t think so.

As soon as class was dismissed, she was on the phone to the San Diego Police Department and Detective Bulworth. After a few minutes of schmoozing, she had the number of Steve Mallard’s attorney and she lost no time in getting him on the phone.

“Mr. Zuckerman is on a call, ma’am. Can he call you back?” The secretary gave her the high–pitched, singsong reply she must give to everyone except important clients, Marla thought, irritated.

“No, he can’t call me back,” she snapped, “and the name is Cwitowitz.
Ms.
Marla Cwitowitz. Attorney. Tell Zuckerman I’m calling about Steve Mallard.”

There was stunned silence for a couple of seconds, then a series of clicks, and then Joe Zuckerman got on the line.

“Ms. Cwitowitz? You want to talk to me about Steve Mallard?”

“Yeah, it’s about your client. The fact is, Mr. Zuckerman, I saw him. A couple of times. With Laurie Martin.” She heard Zuckerman’s indrawn breath, pictured him as an older guy, gray–haired, an estate lawyer, not a criminal one. Probably a friend of the family who had dealt with their affairs for years.

“The fact is, Mr. Zuckerman, that not only am I an attorney but I’m also a private detective.” She crossed her fingers, rolling her eyes heavenward as she lied. After all, it was almost true. Or it would be before the day was out. “My partner, Al Giraud, and I happened to be in the bar at the Ritz–Carlton in Laguna Niguel at what appeared to be your client’s first meeting with Laurie Martin. . . .”

She described the meeting, and their later sighting of the couple drinking champagne at the Hotel La Valencia in La Jolla.

“I just wanted to tell you, as Mr. Mallard’s attorney, that despite the champagne it seemed to me a business relationship. I mean, there was no touching, no holding hands, no eyes linked across the table. . . .”

“I get it,” Zuckerman said patiently. “But how does this help my client, Ms. Cwitowitz?”

“It might not help him much, but it might very well help his wife,” Marla said abruptly. “It was her I was thinking about.”

She left her home phone number and Al’s number in case Zuckerman needed to get in touch, and said good–bye, wondering doubtfully whether she had done the right thing and if Vickie Mallard would give a damn at this point who had seen her husband with Laurie Martin. Probably half the world had claimed to have seen them together by now.

Shrugging, she packed up her black leather Prada tote and drove slowly home. Vickie Mallard and her daughters were still very much on her mind.

She was in Brentwood, driving in the usual mass of traffic past the infamous Bundy Drive, scene of the O.J. murders, when it occurred to her. What if she were wrong? What if Steve Mallard was guilty after all?

One week later there was still no trace of Laurie Martin and the case was driving Detective Lionel Bulworth crazy.

“Gosh darn it,” he said––or words to that effect––pacing the white carpet in Laurie Martin’s condo for the hundredth time and leaving a flattened trail of size seventeen footprints in the thick pile. “The evidence against Steve Mallard is piling up. We have everything except the body.”

His assistant, Detective Pamela Powers––known affectionately as “Pammie” to her friends, and as “Pow!” complete with the exclamation mark, to her coworkers at the La Jolla PD or “Pushy” because of her powerhouse pushy ways––frowned.

“You mean another abuser is gonna get away with it?” Her lip curled scornfully. “Not if I have anything to do with it.
Sir,
” she added, as a token to the fact that Bulworth was her senior. She shoved her red hair firmly under her cap, squaring her broad shoulders. “The fucker’s guilty as hell.”

Bulworth eyed her speculatively. Sometimes Pammie’s feminist dictates got in the way of her clear thinking. “You’ve been reading too many mystery novels, Powers,” he said curtly. “And there is the small matter of a body?”

“We’ll find that, you can bet on it. He’ll make a mistake, lead us to it. That guy’s as nervous as a cornered rattler. Trust me . . . 
sir.
”

Bulworth sighed. His team had gone through Laurie’s apartment with a fine–tooth comb, every hair, every fiber, every fingerprint. Nothing. Except what belonged to Laurie Martin herself. Presumably the woman never entertained at home. Certainly not Steve Mallard, anyway. But Bulworth had wanted to check himself, just one more time. Frustration did that to you. He just couldn’t believe they hadn’t come up with anything. That there wasn’t something there, perhaps so blatantly obvious that the searching eye skimmed over it. But no such luck.

Laurie Martin lived a quiet life. She went to work; apparently did a good job; attended a local church on Sundays.

But Bulworth already had a sizable dossier on Laurie and Steve Mallard. Witnesses had come forward claiming to have seen them together having drinks; and dining in restaurants, or riding in her Lexus. There were messages from Steve on Laurie’s home answering machine, which was the old–fashioned tape kind and which she never seemed to wipe off. In fact Laurie seemed to have no private life––the only messages were those from Steve Mallard. Innocuous messages like:
“I’ll see you tomorrow at six.”
And,
“I’m getting impatient, please get back to me.”
And,
“I’ll be there at seven, better let me take you out this time.”

But they were messages that could be interpreted two different ways. To Bulworth, they sounded threatening. There was a pretty good circumstantial case already against Steve. Of his pursuit of Laurie––and perhaps her rejection of him. Like his assistant, Bulworth believed Steve Mallard had killed Laurie Martin in a jealous rage.

But there was nothing he could do about it until they came up with a body.

One hundred and thirty miles away, in L.A.’s San Fernando Valley, Steve Mallard was driving as slowly as he possibly could in the edgy traffic toward his Encino home. He was not eager to face his wife, Vickie. He did not have good news.

He had just come from another tense session at the Laguna PD. His jaw clenched remembering Detective Bulworth’s implacable face and the gimlet–eyed stare of Detective Powers. That woman looked as though she could pick him up with one hand and make mincemeat of him––and what’s more, she gave him the impression that was exactly what she would like to do.

Steve had seen enough movies, read enough Tough Cop novels, though, to know what to expect. And he knew that he had to stick to his story. Not to waver from it one iota. Because give those bastards an inch and they would make a mile out of it in a minute. God, and he used to think the police were on his side. No more, though. No. Not anymore.

The rented black Ford Taurus coughed in low gear as he crawled reluctantly home. He did not want to see his wife. He didn’t want to face her with what he had to tell her. But he had no choice.

He reran the interrogation for the umpteenth time. He had admitted he was at the house when Laurie was supposed to be there. He had told them he had waited for her outside. The front door was unlocked, they said. He told them he knew that. He had even gone in, taken a look around while he was waiting for Laurie––he liked the house, he was hoping he could afford it.

Laurie had to have been there, they persisted. How else could the door have been unlocked. “Perhaps somebody else had shown the house first,” he had said after thinking carefully about it. He had kept his wits about him, knew it was important to think carefully. . . .

They had given him that fish–eyed look. “But Laurie was the only one with the keys. And no one saw you after you left work that afternoon. . . . You were at the house––where did you go after that   .   .   .   ?”

“Back to my hotel room,” he had said. Which was the truth. “I spent the night alone in my hotel room.”