All or Nothing (8 page)

Steve leaned an elbow on the stone mantel, staring into the empty fire grate. “Didn’t Vickie tell you all this?”

“I didn’t ask her.”

His eyes swung toward Al. “Why not?”

“I prefer to get my information right from the horse’s mouth.”

“You a betting man?”

“It has been known.”

There was a long silence while they took each other’s measure. Then finally Steve said, “I’m from the East Coast. Hoboken, New Jersey. My dad drove a truck. Long–haul, anywhere and everywhere across the country. I didn’t see much of him, even when he was home he was usually at the bar with his buddies. He ate dinner with them, hung out at the pool hall. He wasn’t what you might call a family man.”

“Maybe that’s why you chose that role––the suburban guy, the family guy.”

“Maybe.” Steve’s look was guarded. He sipped the coffee, staring back into the empty fire grate again. “My mom worked too. In the garment district in lower Manhattan. She left the house early, got back late. I was an only child, a kid with a latchkey around my neck since I was seven. To compensate, I guess, I worked hard at school, got straight A’s. I needn’t have bothered, neither of them seemed to care.”

Al was leaning against the window, arms folded across his chest. His eyes were fixed on Steve.

“For financial reasons, by rights I should have gone to a local New Jersey college,” Steve said, “but I wanted to get away. I wanted to be my own person.” He shrugged again. “My parents certainly didn’t care where I went, as long as they didn’t have to pay. The West Coast was as far away as I could get. I applied to several colleges. USC’s was the first acceptance letter I received––
and
they offered a scholarship, full tuition, partial board. I was too scared they would take it away from me to wait for other offers. I took it. It was hard, but working summers and nights, I managed to get through. I did well in class, graduated with a degree in electronics.

“By then I knew I could never go back east. Besides, there was nothing to go back for. I never heard from my mom, not once.” He thought for a minute then added softly, “And boy did I love California. The way the sun shone for more than two hundred days at a time and the way a sprinkle of rain had folks looking for Mount Ararat and Noah. And for the first time in my life I had friends, guys I hung with and sweet, understanding girls who knew I was too broke to take them out anywhere much except the beach or a movie.” He heaved a sigh.

“And then you met Vickie Saltzman.”

“I met Vickie.” He paced back to the tiny galley kitchen, poured more coffee, taking his time.

Al wondered what he was avoiding telling him.

“And the rest is history,” Steve said with a note of finality. But for Al the interview was only just starting.

“So tell me about Laurie Martin.”

Steve turned his back, paced into the kitchen, fiddled with the coffeepot, paced back again. “I’ve already told the police everything I know.”

Giraud nodded. “And now you’ll tell me.”

Temper flared in Steve’s eyes and Al made a mental note that the man was on a real short fuse. Was this usual? Or were the circumstances just getting to him?

“Why the hell should I?”

“Because your wife hired me to help you. No other reason.” He unfolded his arms, shrugged. “You don’t want help, that’s okay too.” He walked to the door, wondering if Steve Mallard would let him just walk out of here, knowing he might be his last hope. . . . If Steve were a betting man, then this would be an all–or–nothing gamble. And Giraud was the All in this game. There was nothing else.

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. You already know from Vickie I’d been relocated. I was looking for a house. We wanted a place with a sea view but I was having a tough time finding it. At the right price, that is. There were plenty of more expensive houses that would have done just fine––but not on my salary. I saw Laurie Martin’s picture and ad in the local newspaper, called her up, asked if she had anything I could see. We arranged to meet that evening.”

“At the Ritz in Laguna Niguel.”

Steve glanced sharply at him. “You knew that?”

“I happened to be there that evening. Saw you waiting in the bar. Saw Laurie arrive, noticed she had good legs. You said you saw her photo in the ad. I wonder, did you call Laurie because she was just another real estate agent? Or because she was a looker?”

“God damn it!” Steve slammed his mug on the kitchen counter so hard the coffee slopped over the sides. “What do you mean by that?”

Al took it in his stride. He had seen men get mad before. Often. “Just what I said, buddy. Maybe you like blondes.” He lifted a shoulder. “Lots of men do. And that includes married men.”

“Well, it didn’t fuckin’ include me.” Steve slammed his fist on the counter, this time sending the mug flying. He was on the edge of that hairspring temper again, face reddening, eyes blazing, hands atremble. “I thought you were supposed to be on my side. Aren’t I paying you?”

“Your wife is paying me. But don’t get me wrong, I am on your side. And because of that I need to know the truth. So why don’t you just tell me what happened. Straight from the shoulder. I’ll take it from there.”

Steve began to pace the floor. His face was contorted with grief––or was it fear? Al knew he was cracking. This was confession time, alright. If the guy had anything to confess   .   .   .

“Laurie was friendly, enthusiastic on the phone,” Steve said finally. “She said she knew exactly what I needed and was sure she would find it. We arranged to meet after my workday, in the bar at the Ritz–Carlton. I happened to have been out there for a meeting earlier that day and she had been to look at some properties in that area. She had taken care of business, though, and showed me particulars of a lot of houses. I picked out half a dozen and we arranged to meet the following evening to look at them.

“I was depressed by the houses we saw, none of them was as good as its photo, none of them worked out. It had been a long day, I was tired . . . I had invited Laurie to join me for dinner at a nearby café. We talked . . . you know how it is, two people geting to know each other. She knew I was married, of course, and I showed her photos of my wife and my two daughters. She was very complimentary, said how pretty they were. And she showed me a picture of her dog––a little black mutt in a red bandanna she called Clyde.”

He paused and Al said, “So how was it?”

“How was what?”

“The dinner, you know, how did you two get along?”

“It was pleasant. We got along okay, I guess. But I still didn’t have a house. I remember when she was getting into her car I said to her, “Better luck next time.’ And she replied, “Trust me, Steve. I won’t let you down.’”

“You saw her often after that,” Al said, picking up the story.

“We looked at a lot of houses.”

“And you also had dinner?”

“Sure, we had dinner, drinks––part business, part pleasure. She was attractive, good company. Mostly we talked about California, the real estate game, possible houses. . . .”

“So Laurie had found you the perfect house?” Al paced the small cabin, he was dying for a cigarette, why had he ever let Marla talk him into quitting. . . .

“At possibly the perfect price.” Steve was slumped in a chair by the empty fire grate. He looked exhausted.

“So were you two, like y’know . . . an item?” Al was less direct than Marla.

Steve’s eyes took his measure. “You want to believe that, nothing I say will make any difference. Oh, sure, maybe I shouldn’t have asked her to dinner, lunch, whatever, but I was lonesome and she was there. But that’s all there was to it.”

“No sex?”

“No sex.” His voice was firm. He had answered these questions a hundred times before.

“How about you and Vickie?”

Steve was on his feet, eyeball to eyeball with him, mad as hell. Al did not flinch. “Y’gotta come clean, buddy,” he said softly. “I’m working for you, remember? You don’t tell me the truth, we don’t get nowhere.”

Steve groaned, closing his eyes. “Just leave me alone, why don’t you? I’m tired. And I’m sick of denying it.”

“Then maybe you don’t have to anymore.” The suggestion was in Giraud’s soft southern drawl, the temptation, the relief––of the truth. . . .

Their eyes locked.

“Go to hell, Giraud. I didn’t do it!”

Violence flickered between them in the silence. Then Giraud moved away. He walked to the door, turned, stood watching him. “And your wife, Steve?” He repeated the earlier question.

“Vickie’s great.” There was a break in Steve’s voice as he turned away, retreated to the chair by the empty fire grate. He looked like a man beyond hope now. Or perhaps, Al thought, beyond redemption.

“Things were good between us. It wasn’t the throes of first love––we’ve been married twelve years––but still good, you know. We suited each other.”

Al noticed his use of the past tense. On the surface Steve Mallard seemed a pleasant, easygoing, nice–looking guy. But as history had proven, so were a lot of killers. Was he guilty? Al didn’t have that crawling gut feeling that said yes––but only time would tell. One way or the other.

“Pity about the house,” he said casually. “It sounded perfect.”

Steve shrugged. “What the hell. We probably wouldn’t have gotten it anyway. Laurie said someone else was interested and we’d have to act fast.”

Al’s ears pricked up. “Someone else? Like who?” He knew Marla would have made him say “like whom” but he’d been brought up different.

Steve shook his head wearily. “She didn’t say. I thought it was just a real estate agent gimmick to keep the price up. . . .”

The shrill ring of the phone split the silence. Steve Mallard leapt as though he had been shot, then just stood there staring at it. On the fifth ring Al picked it up.

“Yeah. Oh, hi, Mrs. Mallard, it’s Giraud. Yeah, your husband’s right here. You wanna talk to him?” He was about to hand the phone to Steve when Vickie Mallard said something. He drew in a deep breath, still looking at Steve. “Well, I’ll certainly tell him that, Mrs. M. You wanna talk to him yourself? No? Okay, I’ll pass on the message.”

He put down the phone. “They found Laurie Martin’s car on a remote canyon road. There’s blood on the backseat. The police are pretty sure they’ll find her body in the canyon, they’ve sent in the tracker dogs, got deputies combing the area.” He didn’t take his eyes off Steve. If the man had looked terrible before, now he looked worse. Al noted the vein throbbing in his temple, the bulging eyes, the clenched fists. Steve was a man on the very brink . . . maybe on the brink of that remote canyon, reliving the events that had created his hell. “You sure you don’t want to tell me about this?” he said softly. “I’m on your side, buddy, remember?”

Steve slumped into the chair as though his legs would no longer support him. Tears brimmed and he put his face in his hands. “There’s nothing to tell,” he said between sobs. “Nothing   .   .   .”

Al walked over to him, stood silently watching. “You’ll need a different attorney,” he said finally. “Zuckerman’s not going to be able to deal with a murder case. I’ve got somebody I can recommend. Name of Lister. Ben Lister.” He wrote down the name and telephone number, tore off the sheet and placed it on the table next to Steve. “I’ll give your wife a call too, tell her about Lister. He’s a good man. If anybody can help you, he can.”

Steve lifted his head. “You’re leaving?”

“’Fraid so, buddy. Gotta get back to the real world. Don’t worry, though. I don’t think you’ll be alone for long. My guess is you can expect company within the next hour.”

“Company?” Steve’s face was blank.

“The cops, buddy. Detective Bulworth and his men. No doubt they are going to want to take you in for questioning at this point.”

“But they can’t . . . you can’t leave me here alone. . . .”

He was panicked, frantic as a hooked fish. Giraud took pity on him, and besides he really didn’t want him to do anything crazy like make a run for it.
Or kill himself   .   .   .

“So I’ll wait with you. It shouldn’t be long. Maybe I’ll have that cup of coffee now.” He wished he had a cigarette.

Bulworth didn’t waste any time. He arrived at the cabin via helicopter and the local sheriff’s squad car.

“Stephen Frederick Mallard, we are taking you in for questioning in the abduction and disappearance of Laurie Martin. You have a right to remain silent and the right to have a lawyer present at all times.”

Steve Mallard just stood there, his shoulders stooped and his arms hanging limply, as though he were already facing his executioner.
“I might have guessed I’d find you here,” Bulworth said to Giraud. “And no, the body has not been found yet. But it will be. And soon.”

But Al was already on the phone to Ben Lister, explaining the situation and his own role in it. The attorney promised to meet them and Al promised that Steve would say nothing until he got there.

Al knew he would have to work in conjunction with Lister in order to gain access to any evidence. Lister’s law office had a computer that would keep tabs on everything going down at the SDPD regarding Steve Mallard and Laurie. The attorney could also gain him access to Laurie’s home and to her office where he needed to check Laurie’s file on Steve, though he knew the cops had gotten there before him. Still, if he got lucky he might come across something they hadn’t noticed.

As they took Steve Mallard away in cuffs, Al wondered whether he had killed her.

Marla was waiting for Al when he got back from Arrowhead. “You were there,” she said accusingly. “I saw the whole thing on TV. Bulworth looking like a stuffed lobster, so pleased with himself that he’d caught his man . . . Steve Mallard arrested. . . .”

“He’s not arrested. He’s being detained for questioning.”

“That means they don’t have the body yet.”

Al grinned. “And how are you too, honey . . . thanks for asking . . . it’s been a rough day. . . .”

“Don’t bullshit me, Giraud. Why didn’t you call me, tell me you were going to Arrowhead? I wanted to come with you. I could have helped.”

Al took off his shirt, and flung it over the edge of the brown leather chesterfield. “Not this one, you couldn’t.” He’d kicked off his sneakers and was already stepping out of his pants.