All or Nothing (6 page)

Max and Irina were married in a secret wedding ceremony, something that made both mothers happy. Then they had left on their dangerous escape route out of the Iron Curtain, knowing they would never see them again. It had been a long, hard road before America opened its welcoming doors to them and granted them citizenship, and before Max’s entrepreneurial side came to the fore and made him, within ten years, a real estate mogul.

Max Cwitowitz had sold half of Beverly Hills plus a good portion of Bel Air and Brentwood in the forty years he had been in business, and in the process had made himself a tidy fortune. His hope had been that his only child, Marla, would take over the business from him. “Cwitowitz and Daughter” had a nice ring to it. But right from being a babe in arms, Marla had had a mind of her own. Most parents had to push their kids into law school––Marla had actually demanded to go there.
And
she had graduated magna from UCLA, then with a masters in law. And now, she was studying for her doctorate as well as teaching at Pepperdine.

And now––she also wanted to be a private eye.

Marla wanted it so bad, it hurt.

She opened Al’s front door with her own key, called out, “Hi, honey, I’m home,” giggling as she took a sip of the coffee. Costa Rican did not taste too great cold and, pulling a face, she wandered into the kitchen, left the paper cup on the counter and drifted off in search of her man.

Al’s home was about as spare and masculine as it got. No cushions on the brown leather nail–head–studded chesterfield; no flowers on the glass–topped iron coffee table; no rugs on the shiny hardwood floor. It was clean, though, she had to concede that to him. Manuel Vargas’s cleaning crew came in weekly and left the house looking as though no one lived there. Not a towel unrolled, not a pillow creased, not a dish in the sink. Windows gleamed, floors shone and the bedspread was unwrinkled.

Al was not home and Marla flung herself on that unwrinkled gray linen bedspread and stretched out, arms over her head, wondering where he was. She kicked off her shoes then sat up and removed her jacket, unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it. Peeling off her T–shirt, she walked into the chrome and black bathroom, took a quick cool shower and wrapped herself in Al’s gray flannel bathrobe. She wished he didn’t have this thing for gray––except for work––although it was kind of fashionable this year. Still, it didn’t do much for a woman’s complexion––especially after she had washed off her makeup. Sighing, she added a brushload of black mascara, dusted apricot blush over her slanting cheekbones and on her eyelids, then added a touch of Tenderheart gloss to her full lips. She spritzed herself with Hermes 24 Faubourg, sniffing appreciatively, then drifted back to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Evian and a glass and walked back to the master bedroom. Actually, there were only two bedrooms and the other, smaller one, Al used as an office.

She clicked on the TV, surfing until she found KTLA, the local channel with the news from ten to eleven each night. Leaning comfortably against Al’s gray pillows, she sipped the chilled Evian and waited for her man to come home.

It was almost eleven when she heard the growl of the Corvette over Roland Galvan describing tomorrow’s weather––basically more of the same, this was L.A., after all. Then the sound of the door opening and Al’s light, quick footsteps on the wooden floor. Al always moved quickly, he was a man in perpetual motion. “As though,” she had complained, “you always think you might be missing something.”

He’d grinned at her, that Machiavellian grin that lifted the corner of his mouth and his left eyebrow in a way she found
sooo
sexy and said, “Honey, life’s too short to miss any of it. Especially when you’re around.” And he had taken her in his oh–
sooo
–strong arms and––just like in a romance novel––had carried her to his bed.

God, how she loved him. Now she gave him a radiant smile that lit up her whole face as well as her fabulous gray–green eyes that told him just that.
“Well, well, look who’s sleeping in my bed, Grandmama,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans and that grin on his face. He was wearing an old white Pepperdine T–shirt she had given him so long ago the logo had faded to a grayish blur. He liked it better that way.

“You’re mixing “Little Red Riding Hood’ with “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.’” Her eyes swept him up and down. “Whatever happened to private eyes who looked like Don Johnson? You know, in pastel linen Armani suits with a holster under the armpit? The kind with the smooth line of talk who took a girl somewhere glamorous for dinner and a vodka martini before taking her to bed.”

Al shrugged. “Beats me. I guess times have just changed, is all.”

Marla’s sigh fluttered the gray flannel robe and he walked over to the bed, kissed her firmly on the mouth then headed for the bathroom, peeling off his clothes as he went.

Marla heard the shower running. She flipped off the TV and put on a favorite CD––Sinatra and Jobim. She lay back, eyes closed, waiting.

She did not hear him approach, didn’t know he was there until she caught a faint whiff of the Issey Miyake cologne she had given him, underscored with that familiar musky male smell of him.

She ran her hands down his smooth, lean back, feeling muscles ripple under her finger. Her hands were in his dark hair, pulling his face to hers, his mouth was on hers. . . .

And then the phone rang.

Al lifted his head, looked at the phone. Looked at her.

“Al Giraud, you’re not going to answer that,” she said, shaking her head incredulously.

“You never know, I might be missing something,” he said, sliding off her and reaching for the phone.

“Yeah,” he said, watching Marla wrap the gray flannel robe haughtily around her shapely body. She lay there, arms folded angrily across her chest, staring up at the ceiling. Listening to his half of the conversation.

Her eyes swung his way, though, when he said, “Oh, good evening, Mrs. Mallard. Yeah, you’ve reached the right guy. I’m Al Giraud. How can I help you?”

Marla’s eyes were fastened on him now and they were open wide in astonishment.

Al sat, naked, on the edge of the bed. His face was serious as he listened to Vickie Mallard.

“Mr. Giraud,” she said in a quavery voice and Al could tell she was close to the breaking point. “I would like you to investigate my husband––it’s about this woman, Laurie Martin.”

“I know it.” Al turned his head, frowning at Marla. Vickie Mallard could have gotten his phone number only from her.

Marla’s eyes were still fixed on him as he made arrangements to meet Vickie Mallard at her home the next day. When he put down the phone, she sat up and grabbed his arm.

“Tell me what she said,” she demanded urgently. “Is she turning her husband in? Why are you going there . . . ?”

“She wants me to find out if her husband is innocent. Or guilty.”

Marla drew in a shocked breath. “You mean she thinks he did it? Killed Laurie Martin?”

Al paced naked to the window. He pulled back the curtain, gazing at the fountain that the birds would persist in using as a birdbath, so he was constantly cleaning off bird crap. “I don’t think she knows what to think. The media have gotten to her is my guess . . . the pressure . . . after all, it’s not easy when your husband is suspected of murder.”

Marla was out of bed now, standing next to him at the window. Opportunity was knocking and she was about to seize it. “Okay, I was the one who called the Mallards’ lawyer and told him we had seen them together. I gave him your number. I was with you that night in the Ritz bar, Giraud. I know as much about this case as you do. Legally that qualifies me to be your partner.”

“Legally?” She was bluffing her way in and he knew it. “Not even
you
could convince a judge of that.”

Marla’s mouth was set in the stubborn line he knew only too well. “Aw, come on, Giraud. Give me a break, won’t you? I can really help you on this. I’m good with women. Let me talk to Vickie Mallard, I’ll bet she’ll tell me things she’ll never open up to you about.”

“No chance, Marla. I already told you I don’t need a partner.”

She glared at him, mad as a green–eyed cat, then she flung away from him, stalked back over to the bed and dropped the gray flannel robe.

Al grinned. “I told you before, you don’t have to sleep with a guy to get the job.”

But Marla ignored him, climbing into her clothes with a speed and an economy of movement that stunned him. In minutes, she was fully dressed. She turned and looked contemptuously at him.

She was wearing a black skirt, white linen shirt and shiny black loafers, and now she knotted a black cashmere cardigan around her shoulders. Pulling her long blond hair back with a black ribbon, she did not take her eyes off him. “Chauvinist pig,” she said in a polite tone.

Al thought maybe she had a point. And Vickie Mallard might prefer to talk to a woman, especially when Marla looked like this . . . kind of preppy, well–bred, neat.

“Okay,” he said grudgingly. “You’re in.”

It was Marla’s turn to grin. “You don’t have to sleep with a guy to get the job, Giraud,” she said triumphantly, already stepping out of her skirt. “But it helps.”

When Vickie opened the door to Al Giraud the following morning, her first thought was that he was like no one she knew. She had never met a man like this. Offbeat in jeans and a T–shirt, he looked more like an over–the–hill rock ’n’ roll star than the successful P.I. she had expected.

“Good morning, Mrs. Mallard.” He held out his hand and she took it reluctantly. As though, Al thought, hiding a smile, she thought he might contaminate her.

They sat in the family room, she on the denim–blue sectional, he on the big old rocker that was Steve’s favorite chair, taking each other in.

Giraud was polite, soft–spoken, attractive even, but Vickie thought nervously there was an air of menace about him. Perhaps that was what you needed in a P.I., she tried to reassure herself.

“Coffee?” she suggested, suddenly remembering her hostess manners. “Or a cold drink? Coke? A beer?”

Al shook his head. “Thank you, ma’am, but no thanks. What do you want to tell me about your husband?”

She took a deep breath. She had expected to ask
him
the questions, tell
him
what she wanted. After all, she was paying him. “There’s not much to tell,” she said grimly. “Except what you already know.”

Al stroked his bluish bristled chin, looking at her. Marla had been right, she wasn’t going to open up to him about her husband. “So, tell me what you want from me, Mrs. Mallard.”

“I don’t know anything about the detective business,” she said nervously. “I mean I don’t know how it all works, what we need to do. I don’t even know who you are,” she added earnestly, leaning forward, hands clasped tightly.

“Okay, so why don’t I tell you about myself.” Al was easy, relaxed, doing his best to put her at ease. He described his background, then his business, though he never named names.

“Confidentiality is a given in my business, Mrs. Mallard,” he added, “so you’ve no worries on that score. You are the one paying me, and you are the one I account to. No one else.” She heaved a relieved sigh and he said, “I’m proud of the fact that my business boasts a ninety percent success rate.”

Her eyes flashed suddenly into his. “What happened to the other ten percent?”

“They were guilty.”

Vickie wished she had never asked.

“Okay, so Laurie Martin has disappeared––who knows where?” Al spread his arms wide to embrace the possibility that she might be anywhere in the world by now. “Was she killed? We don’t know that yet. Still, we have to admit the odds are she was. And if so, by whom?”

“That’s exactly what I want you to find out,” Vickie said tersely. He was irritating the hell out of her now and she wished she had never started this. Why didn’t he just get on with the investigation?

What Al wasn’t telling her was that if her husband was guilty there would be no hiding the facts. He would find out the truth about Steve Mallard, the man. As well as about Laurie Martin. Right now he wanted to know about Steve’s past. Marla would take care of the present.

“I need to talk to your husband,” he said. She had expected that and told him he was in Arrowhead to escape the media.

“As well as escape from himself,” she added grimly. “Steve can’t live with himself anymore, Mr. Giraud.”

Al nodded sympathetically as he made a note of the address and she gave him directions. “He’s in a tough position right now. You can bet he can’t wait for it to be over.” One way or the other, he thought, putting away his notebook. Killers were like that. Confession was a catharsis; he had even known it to bring a smile back to a killer’s face. . . .

He discussed fees with her, then hitched up his jeans and offered his hand in farewell. Vickie shook it. It was surprisingly warm––and firm too. A strong handshake. Did that mean anything? she wondered hopefully.

Al said, “My assistant, Marla Cwitowitz, will be calling on you. She’ll want to ask you some questions. Of a more personal nature,” he added as he saw the surprise on her face.

“I’ve nothing to hide.”

Al read the panic in her eyes; she was teetering on the edge of a breakdown. He felt sorry for her, it was a hell of a position to be in, wondering if your husband was a killer. “It’s okay, honey,” he said. “Excuse me,” he corrected himself quickly. “I mean, Mrs. Mallard. I’m a Southerner, I call everybody “hon,’ no disrespect intended.”

But Vickie had not even noticed. As she closed the door behind him she felt suddenly lost. As though all hope had been abandoned when Giraud left.

She sank onto the sectional and for the first time, began to cry.

Marla had dressed in what she considered appropriate private detective attire for her meeting with Vickie Mallard. Black turtleneck, short black leather skirt, black suede ankle boots with four–inch heels, an enormous and expensive steel watch that showed the time in three different continents and a large black Prada tote containing a yellow legal pad, a tiny handheld tape recorder, the latest John Grisham novel and a packet of Junior Mints, to both of which she was addicted.