Dating is Murder (31 page)

“On a fait une réservation pour huit personnes à neuf heures, je crois,”
he said.

My heart was pounding. I was in the wrong movie; I needed the one with subtitles. My face quivered so badly I nearly—

“Et le menu?”
he said. “What have you for us?”

I’ve never been to Africa. I know nothing about Africa. Except—

“Frog,” I said.

“Les cuisses de grenouille?”
he said, frowning. “This is not typically local.”

“Au contraire,”
I said. “The West African goliath,
Conraua goliath,
is native to Cameroon. And happens to be the largest frog on earth. Which I am honored to have in my kitchen. As I am honored to have you in my kitchen.”

“How will you prepare it?”

“I had considered an
amuse-bouche
in puff pastry, but as the goliath is thirty centimeters, snout to vent, his legs are the size of . . . forearms. He’s now a main course.
À la maison Maizie.
A little garlic, a bit of flavored oil. Voilà”

He nodded. He smiled. His window went up. He drove forward.

A movement from across the street caught my eye. The film crew had moved out of sight of the black cars, but I was close enough to the gate to see them run silently across the street, to our side, a hundred feet north of the gate. Dozens of them. Every one with guns drawn.

Car One’s doors opened and men got out, five of them, and walked back to Car Two. They opened the doors of Car Two, driver’s side and passenger’s side. Frito called to me, his accent heavy. “Mrs. Quinn,” he said, with a gesture. “The gate, please. Close.”

There was a movement, and a sound like a crack, like a tree limb breaking.

I hit the ground.

People piled on top of me like I was a football.

41

I
t was three
days later.

I pulled into a parking lot in Woodland Hills, the north end of a dog park. I rolled down the windows and checked my watch. Almost noon. Twenty-four and a half shopping days till Christmas.

“We’re early,” Joey said. “By six minutes. Even with you driving.”

I’d picked up Joey at a car dealer’s in Oxnard, on my way home from Santa Barbara. Joey had sold the BMW. The paparazzo-plumber’s dent had shown Elliot the wisdom of unloading his car before his wife could add more miles or damage. We’d been listening to a news update of planes grounded in Honolulu, damaged by volcanic ash. I turned off the radio.

“I’m nervous, Joey,” I said. “Why would I be this nervous?”

We waited.

Four minutes later a Range Rover pulled into the lot, drove past us, and parked six or seven empty spaces away. Nobody got out.

One minute after that, another car showed up and parked near the entrance. Joey whistled. “Nice wheels.”

“It’s the cheap Bentley,” I said.

“Ready?” Joey said.

“No,” I said.

The passenger door of the Bentley opened. Annika Glück stepped out. She was slight, not twenty years old, brown-haired, apple-cheeked. She was pretty, but what you noticed first was the radiance of her expression.

I opened my door and started to call to her, but she was already running to meet me, and as small as she was, the force of her nearly knocked me over when she arrived.
“Ich kann nicht glauben dass ich hier—”

I hugged her back, smiling so hard my face felt stretched. How tiny she was, hardly bigger than Ruby, my almost-stepdaughter. I could feel her ribs shaking through her leather jacket and I was about to tell her I didn’t understand German, but then I realized she was crying and that whatever she was saying wouldn’t be any more coherent in English.

A door of the Range Rover opened, then slammed shut.

Annika looked up, and went silent. Her clutching relaxed; then she let go of me.

Grammy Quinn climbed out of the Range Rover on the driver’s side. Lupe was already out of the car, reaching into the back seat, speaking Spanish. Emma Quinn jumped to the ground, holding Lupe’s hand. Then she turned and saw us.

Annika gave my arm a squeeze and walked toward the little girl. Emma looked back at Lupe, who said something in Spanish. Then Emma turned to Annika again, and stared.

Annika reached her and dropped to one knee. “Hello,
Mausi.
Shall we go to the swings?” Her accent was slight. Emma nodded and turned away, arms folded, legs marching toward the playground. Annika followed.

How had I ever believed this girl to be a depressed, drug-abusing teen? It had been so easy for Maizie to plant the evidence and to plant the story in my head. She’d have done the same for anyone who came looking for Annika, but she got lucky. She got me. Ms. Gullible.

I looked back at the Bentley. Simon Alexander was leaning against it, watching me. The last time I’d seen him was three nights ago, outside the Quinn house. When the shooting had stopped, he’d picked me up off the ground, found me a blanket, plied me with brandy, and told Agent Shepphird to drive me home. Then he’d left town.

“He’s really tall, isn’t he?” Joey said, from inside the car. “Good luck.”

I glanced back at Lupe and Grammy Quinn waiting by the Range Rover, then walked across the parking lot to the Bentley, gravel crunching under my sneakers. I stopped before I reached him, leaving four or five feet between us. “Hello, Simon.”

“Hello, Wollie.”

I nodded toward the playground. “So she’s okay? Annika?”

“She’s fine. Excited to be here. Thawing out from two weeks in Minnesota.”

“And her mother?”

“Touring Beverly Hills at the moment, with Esterbud. So far, the mother likes Minnesota better. I don’t share her enthusiasm.”

I watched the progression to the playground halt, while Emma and Annika made the acquaintance of someone’s dog. I glanced at Simon. He was watching me. I looked away.

“Annika hitchhiked to Santa Fe,” he said, “where an au pair named Dagmar lent her bus fare to Minneapolis. Where Marie-Thérèse and the Johannessens, her host parents, not only took her in and believed her story but brought her mother over from Germany and kept it to themselves until they saw on the news that Maizie Quinn had been indicted. Trusting people, Minnesotans.”

“Congratulations on Big Fish,” I said. It had made the front page of the
Los Angeles Times,
Vladimir Tcheiko, drug lord, recaptured. A shining example of cooperation among several branches of federal and local law enforcement agencies.

“Condolences on
Biological Clock,
” he said.

The show, to no one’s surprise, had gone under.

I nodded. “I think I was really only in it for the health-care coverage. Now I have to go find a real job.” I looked at my feet. “Would you have voted for me? In the contest?”

“No.”

I looked up. “That’s awfully . . . unequivocal.”

“Think I want to see you pregnant with another man’s child?”

“Oh. Well, put like that . . .” I didn’t mention the show’s disclaimer, how none of the contestants were required to have sex.

My brush with celebrity, in any case, would never have rivaled Maizie Quinn’s. Even recovering from head wounds, Maizie was telegenic, especially against a backdrop of adultery, drugs, and murder. The Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department expressed confidence in getting a conviction for murder one, but Maizie’s defense team hinted at extensive pretrial motions, ensuring her airplay well into the next TV season.

“You’re not getting any better at returning calls, are you?” he said. “Three days, Wollie?”

“I was catching up on sleep. I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you to say ‘Stay away from Maizie Quinn’?”

“No. You don’t discuss an operation with a civilian.”

“See, that’s what I love about the federal government. That spirit of openness.”

Simon turned suddenly, looking at my car. “That’s Joey, isn’t it? Wait here.” He walked to it and talked to Joey through the passenger window. They shook hands. Then he reached into his pocket and handed her a set of car keys.

My heart started to pound. I thought I’d been doing well, but now I saw I’d overestimated my composure. Simon came back to me, his long stride slow and relaxed. My heart beat faster. “What was that all about?” I said.

“Joey’s going to drive my car to her house. I’ll pick it up later. Come on, let’s walk.”

“How will you get to Joey’s house? To pick it up?”

“I have an agent standing by, for Annika, when she’s finished.”

“Oh.” My heart rate returned to normal.

“This creates an interesting problem, though,” he said. “I’m in violation of FBI regulations prohibiting a nonagent from driving an agency car. I’ve never done this. No agent does this. It’s like giving up your gun.”

I stared at him.

“Now,” he said, “if I catch a ride with Agent Beggs in her Chevy Monte Carlo, Agent Beggs is going to wonder why. I can’t lie. I can’t ask her to lie. This violation could come to light. I could even be unemployed by the end of the day.”

“Unless?” I said.

“You give me a ride. It’s all in your hands.”

My heart rate sped up again.

Twenty yards ahead of us, Emma and Annika reached a grassy area, just outside the playground fence. They’d been walking with space between them, but now Emma reached up for Annika’s hand. Annika caught her around the waist and lifted her off her feet and swung the little girl around, then turned her upside down. Emma screamed with joy.

I don’t understand why a loss of equilibrium should make someone happy. I don’t like dizziness. But maybe if your world is changing beyond recognition, seeing it upside down helps. Maybe being upside down does something beneficial to your heart. I asked Simon.

“Not really,” he said. “The baroreceptor system notes changes in arterial blood pressure and tells the brain to adapt, compensating for forces exerted outside the body. But I don’t want to bore you with physiology. Or physics.”

The mention of physiology and physics made me think of herpetology, the science of amphibians and reptiles, which made me think of metamorphosis, of little tadpoles changing into frogs, learning to live upon the earth, which led to birds chirping in my head, and bunnies cavorting in meadows, signs that I’d reached the border of my brain’s tolerance for math and science and philosophy and all things cerebral. “Well, anyway,” I said. “You know what Feynman said.”

Simon looked at me, hands in his pockets. He smiled. “What did he say?”

I wrapped my arms around his waist. His eyes, blue enough to swim in, widened in surprise.

I stood on tiptoe to tell him. “Kiss her, you fool.”

acknowledgments

So many people shared with me their time, imagination, kindness, and expertise. Among them: Dr. Barry Fisher and his staff at the Sheriff’s Department Crime Lab; Gary P. Chasteen and Lori N. Schumann at the Scientific Services Bureau of LASD; the Lost Hills Sheriff Station; Tony Hernandez and Craig Harvey at the Department of Coroner; Special Agent Jose Martinez of the DEA; and the LAPD, West Valley Division and Harbor Division. You are the good guys. Thanks to Jay Renfroe, David Garfinkle, Greg Normart, and the
Blind Date
Green Team—Joel, Lance, Ron, Sean, and Greg—guerrilla shooting at its finest; to Steve “no relation” Shelley; to Dan Rifkin; to EurAuPair, which, unlike its fictitious counterpart, always answers its phone; to Natasha Gervorkyan, for the ducks, the drums, and the horses; to Janalee P. Caldwell; to Sebastien Baumann, for giving up your lunch hour to a total stranger; to Dr. Joel Batzofin and Dr. Victoria Paterno and the pharmacist at Gelson’s; to Fabrice at LaCachette; to Mike Milligan, tree person, Sarah Priest, plant person, Heike Knorz, party girl, and the Meano Man; to Karen Joy Fowler and Carolyn Clark Shoemaker; to Patty and Robert Flournoy, for friendship and love of math; to Dan Reinehr; to Judi Sadowsky; to Stefanie Pinneo, Catrina Boca, Julie Renick, Earlene Fowler, Nelly Valladares, Chuck Lascheid, and Arie Kapteyn; to Shent Nee; to Michael States; to Juli Gottlieb-Juteau; to AJ Draven, Alan Predolin, Brent Wilkening, Jesse Shelley, Dave Famili, John Whitman, Kevin Bass, Marcus Kowal, Marni Levine, Romeo Portillo, Wade Allen, Sam Sade, and especially Vivian Cannon, the nicest bunch of people you’d never want to meet in a dark alley; to Carol Topping, Webgirl extraordinaire; to Cousin Beth; to Claire Carmichael and Gregg Hurwitz, who know everything and never tire of explaining it to me; to the Wednesday Night Group: Bob Shayne, Roger Angle, Linda Burrows, John Shepphird, Jonathan Beggs, and Nick Gillott, who shared my concern over each comma and every dead body; to Agatha and Rugi, Leah, Alessandra, Lisa and Batt, Rob and Jenny, Aunt Sandy and Uncle Jim; to Wendy and Gary Tigerman; to my sisters, Mary, Ann, Dory, and Joanie, and my brothers, Andrew, Joe, and Pete. Some year, huh? To Malibu Dan, and to Mrs. Malibu, for those hours he spent reading when he could have been rubbing your feet; to Joy Johannessen:
No livnar det i lundar;
to Stacy Creamer and Tracy Zupancis, my editors, and Rachel Pace and Meredith McGinnis, who go the extra ten miles, and to Joe Blades; to Amy Schiffman; to Renee Zuckerbrot, my amazing agent; to Uli Buchta and Anja Kubertschak,
alle meine Entchen,
who spent a year in our house and will spend a lifetime in our hearts; and to Greg, Audrey, Louie, and Gia, my ongoing happy ending.

Also by Harley Jane Kozak

Dating Dead Men

PUBLISHED BY DOUBLEDAY

a division of Random House, Inc.

DOUBLEDAY
and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kozak, Harley Jane, 1957–

Dating is murder / Harley Jane Kozak.—1st ed.

p. cm.

1. Women detectives—California—Los Angeles—Fiction. 2. Reality television programs—Fiction. 3. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 4. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction. 5. Missing persons—Fiction. 6. Mate selection—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3611.O75D38 2005

813'.6—dc22

2004050225

Copyright © 2005 by Harley Jane Kozak

All Rights Reserved

eISBN: 978-0-385-51512-2

v3.0