Hex on the Ex (22 page)

Nick finished his call with, “We’ll be right there.” He turned off his phone, smiling.

“Right where?”

“Vic Walkowiak came through. Some guy named Weisel will talk to us about the pamphlet for cash.” Nick took his keys out of his pocket. “Let’s go.”

“Where? I have to meet Jarret at seven.”

“We’d be able to walk there and still get you to dinner on time,” Nick said. “Weisel works a mile from here.”

N
eon beer logos, discount offers, and “CAlottery” signs filled the windows of the liquor store on the southwest corner of Moorpark Street and Whitsett Avenue. We parked behind the store and crossed the small lot to the rear entrance.

Liquor bottles in every label, shape, and size lined the wall behind a long counter stacked with boxes of gum, jars of candy and jerky above, and cigars and cigarettes below. A lone customer paid for his twelve pack of beer at the register near the front door. Nick and I wandered along the refrigerated cases on the wall then through the wine aisles until the customer left.

“I’m Nick Garfield. Are you Weisel?” Nick said to the clerk at the register.

The long-necked, hook-nosed clerk furtively scanned both entrances and the security mirrors up in the corners. Apparently satisfied, he nodded at Nick. “Yeah.” Then he ran his eyes over me. “Who’s she?”

Be polite. We want information.
I smiled. “I’m Liz. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your first name.”

“Everyone calls me Weisel. Did you bring the money?” he said with a hushed tone.

“Let’s talk about the pamphlet first,” Nick said.

“Which pamphlet?”

“Can we cut the intrigue? I’m interested in where you got the pamphlet you sold Vic.” Nick put a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “A nice, simple exchange.”

Weisel reached for the bill and I spotted a tattoo on the
back of his hand, an inverted pentagram with a goat’s head in the center. He pocketed the cash and said, “I got the pamphlet from a customer.”

“You can do better than that,” Nick said.

“A woman.”

“Her name? A description?”

“Never got her name. She comes in to buy scotch.” Weisel curled his lips in a wry grin. “If a customer looks old enough to buy liquor and pays with cash, I don’t ask for ID—unless it’s a girl I want to take out on a date. This lady is too old for me.”

“How old?” I said.

“Like your age, maybe? Short brown hair. Flat-chested.”

The combination narrowed our odds from one in a few million to one in a few hundred thousand. Locally.

Nick pulled out another ten-dollar bill. “How did you end up with her pamphlet?” The clerk reached for the money. Nick pulled back.

Weisel turned his palm down, showing his tattoo. “She saw my tat and asked if I worshiped Lucifer. I’m not into the left-handed scene anymore, but some people see my ink and want to save my soul. They come in Saturday night for booze and want me to meet them at church Sunday morning. This lady said her old man preached a different kind of religion and wrote something I should read. Then she gives me the pamphlet. Just gave it to me, like a gift. I took it, figuring Vic might be interested.”

“Has she been back?” I said.

“I see her now and then, nothin’ regular.”

Nick gave him the second ten with his business card. “I’ll pay you twenty more if you get me her name.”

“Fifty,” Weisel said.

“Twenty-five.”

“Forty-five.”

“Twenty-five. I’ll make it fifty if she agrees to meet with me,” Nick said.

“Deal,” he said. “How come you want to meet her so bad? Are you cops?”

“The pamphlet is a classic. We’ve been trying forever to track down a tie to the author,” I said. The past three days
felt
like forever. “You can’t imagine how excited we are about talking to her.”

A customer entered the liquor store, ending our conversation. Nick and I left through the back.

I buckled my seat belt. “Some detectives we are. We didn’t even get the woman’s name. I wonder if the weasel told us the truth.”

“The weasel?” Nick laughed. “I thought Marty Feldman in
Young Frankenstein
, but you’re right—Weisel’s name suits him. If Weisel had something to hide, he wouldn’t have called me. Jarret and Forrest still top my list of suspects. Jarret had means and opportunity.”

“No motive,” I said.

“No apparent motive. Forrest had a definite motive if he caught Laycee cheating on him,” Nick said. “Forrest knew the combination to Jarret’s garage, so he had means. The only piece missing is opportunity. How did he track Laycee to the house?”

My phone rang. I held up a finger. “It’s Oliver.”

I
clicked my phone on and said hello to Oliver as Nick turned out of the liquor store parking lot toward my house.

“Sorry, kid,” Oliver said. “I was in court when you called. I just hung up from Pratt. She’s been after me all day to bring you in for an interview—left me four damn messages. The woman can hound worse than my ma, and that ain’t pretty. I told her you’d be at the station tomorrow at eleven.”

“Tomorrow?” I panicked. “Aren’t you leaving town tonight?”

“Change of plans after I got your message,” Oliver said. “I get what Pratt is up to—she wants to embarrass you by hassling your neighbors, friends, and anyone else until you come in. I wish I had something to distract her. So far McCormick got zilch on Forrest Huber.”

“Nick and I found an interesting piece of information off
Herrick Schelz’s visitor list at the Indiana State Prison. His daughter lived five miles from Jarret’s hometown.”

“That
is
interesting,” Oliver said. “And I guess you called the prison all by yourself and they gladly gave you the list? Man, those Midwest folks are cooperative.”

“We may have had some outside help.”

“What a surprise. The next time you have a family crime powwow on this case, invite me,” Oliver said.

“How did you—?”

“Kitty Kirkland told me all about your bent for solving murders.” Oliver’s tone shifted to grave. “I’m warning you—be careful where you poke, kid. A twisted sicko murdered once, the second kill will be easier. What kind of trouble are you into tonight?”

“I’m having dinner with Jarret. I want him to explain why he put me in the middle of this mess.”

“Don’t go. Meet me at my office tomorrow at ten and we’ll drive to the station together. You know how to reach me before then.”

I turned off my phone and released a deep sigh.

“Start from the top,” Nick said as he stopped the car in my driveway.

“Oliver and I are meeting Carla at the station at eleven.” My throat knotted with apprehension. “The plumber is coming tomorrow as a favor. Now I have to cancel. What if Carla decides to hold me? What about my clients on Monday? What about Erzulie? My house? My…”

The lump in my throat escalated into a burn behind my eyes. Without warning, tension from the past three days poured out in tears streaming down my cheeks.

Nick got out of the car. He walked around to my door, coaxing me out with a gentle hand, then led me into the house. Leaving me sniffling with a box of tissues in the living room, he came back with a glass of water. “Drink this.”

Puffy-eyed and spent, I took a sip.

“Pack a suitcase,” he said. “You and Erzulie are spending the weekend with me. I have a working shower and bathtub. I’ll meet the plumber here in the morning and stay while you’re at the station.”

“You don’t have to take care of me,” I said.

“I don’t have to.” He stroked my hair. “I know you’re tough. I love that about you. But when you’re vulnerable and you let go like this? Try to stop me.”

Erzulie hopped on the couch between us and nudged my hand with her head.

“See?” Nick said. “Even she agrees with me.”

I blew my nose, laughing. “I’m pretty sure she just wants her dinner.”

Nick trailed me into the kitchen. As I pulled a green can of seafood stew from the cupboard, he said, “Before Oliver called, you were going to tell me how Forrest Huber could have tracked Laycee all over town Tuesday night.”

Erzulie hopped on the countertop and watched me peel the lid off her can of food. “Laycee never went anywhere without her phone. Forrest knew her password. All he had to do was log into her mobile account and click on ‘Find My Phone.’ A GPS map opens to the phone’s location, down to street level. He didn’t have to leave his hotel room to locate her.”

“And this works for any phone?”

“Pretty much. One of my patients calls it the Cheater-Beater. You know my password. Try it. Find me.”

I set Erzulie’s food on the floor and refreshed her water while Nick typed into his phone.

He held up the satellite map with a blue dot on the roof of my house. “There you are. Outstanding. Tell me—how can you be so certain Forrest knew her password?”

“Laycee was a technical klutz. Forrest bought and set up all of her equipment, including her passwords.”

I went upstairs, packed for the weekend, and brought my bag to the door as Nick coaxed Erzulie into her carrier with ease. Sure. Whenever I brought out the carrier, she dove under the bed. Nick merely picked her up, scratched her head, and slid her into the cage. He carried her out to the car without so much as a whimper and then returned for my suitcase.

We shared an awkward moment at the door—nothing like sending off my boyfriend before I got ready to meet my ex.

“Do you have cat food?” I said, unwilling to let him go yet.

“I’ll pick some up.”

“Should I call you when I’m done?”

“Just come over.”

“Want me to bring you dinner?”

“Don’t bother.” Nick pecked me lightly on the forehead and turned to leave.

I pulled him back and into my arms for a kiss he wouldn’t forget. A lot of groping. A lot of promise.

He came up for air, chuckling. “What was that for?”

“To hold my place,” I said.

“Right here.” Nick tapped his heart. Then he paused before he left. “Be careful what you say to Jarret. I don’t trust him.”

I shut the door behind him and used the half bath downstairs to freshen up. Then I headed upstairs to solve the wardrobe dilemma. What to wear? Though I couldn’t care less about impressing Jarret, dining at the Daily Grill required an upgrade from my grubby T-shirt and jeans. I twirled and pinned my hair off my neck in a knot. Lipstick, the porcelain-and-pearl earrings Nick gave me last Christmas, a red linen shift, and sandals. Good enough. Better than good enough.

The Daily Grill, located on the second-floor balcony of a small mall at the intersection of Laurel Canyon and Ventura Boulevard, was a five-minute drive west into the cool purple and golden red sky behind the evening sun. Cars jammed the mall’s street-level parking lot. Apparently everyone in Studio City had come out to dodge the stifling heat or to kick off the weekend. At six fifty-six, I found a space in the underground lot and rode the outside escalators up to the second floor.

A small crowd waited outside the revolving glass door to the restaurant. Jarret, in a white shirt, khaki pants, and black sunglasses, waved me over to a table at the farthest end of the patio dining area. As I approached, he stood and pulled out a chair for me.

“I’d rather not sit out here in the heat,” I said. “Let’s get a booth inside. We’ll have more privacy.”

“This is private,” Jarret said, sweeping his hands at the empty tables around him. “Look around. There’s no one out here.”

“Exactly. No one is sitting out here because it’s too hot. I’d like to eat inside.”

“It’ll cool off as soon as the sun goes down.”

In less than two minutes, our egos tangled in the dance familiar to both of us. Jarret refused to lose; I refused to give in. Compromise wasn’t an option, never was. At the beginning of our marriage, our quarrels ended with makeup sex. Toward the end of our marriage, Jarret ended every argument by slamming the door behind him as he left. He made a mockery of my psychology training by goading me into childish behavior. We knew each other too well. This time, I wouldn’t care if he left.

I turned toward the entrance. “It’s already cool inside.”

He mumbled a curse then followed me through the revolving door into the restaurant’s din. Dishes clattered and conversations echoed through the early twentieth-century décor of high ceilings and low wooden booths. We stopped at the dark wood lectern near the door and waited for the hostess.

White-coated waiters bustled from the kitchen carrying large black trays of food. Diners filled tables and booths, surrounded by windows framing a view of the flats of Studio City and the mountains beyond. In the noisy bar area to our left, a strapping bartender poured drinks for patrons mingling shoulder-to-shoulder.

Jarret shuffled from foot to foot, gazing over the dining room. “Where the hell is the hostess?”

“Take off your sunglasses. She’s coming down the center aisle,” I said.

A pretty, salt-and-pepper-haired hostess in a black pantsuit
carried an armful of menus through the restaurant toward us, smiling. “Was there a problem with your table?”

“My wi—we decided to eat inside instead,” Jarret said.

She stacked the menus on the side of the stand then scanned the reservation book. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cooper. I only have patio tables available right now.”