Naked Came The Phoenix (8 page)

Caroline reddened slightly, then cleared her throat. "No, but I think my mother's right, Detective. As the wife of a congressman, I probably shouldn't be speaking with you, at least without talking to my husband first. I have to think about the press, for his sake."

This Vince didn't like. The daughter had information, he could tell. "A woman has been murdered here, ma'am. You may have information that can help me bring her killer to justice. In fact, the murderer may still be among us, right here, in the spa." At this, the mud people recoiled in offense, but Vince ignored them. It was homicide that offended him, not honesty. "You're not gonna talk to me, Caroline? With human life at stake?"

"I can't," she answered, her forehead wrinkled with conflict.

"You may be putting all of these people in danger."

"I know, but-"

"If you have information for me, that puts you at greatest risk, do you understand that?"

Caroline looked torn, but her mother showed no ambivalence. "I'll leave the name of our attorney for you at the desk," Mrs. Finch said. Then she turned and walked off, dragging her daughter away as if she were a small child leaving a petting zoo.

Watching them go, Vince decided that Hilda Finch was the type of person who didn't care about others in the least, not even about her daughter. People like that, they were the most dangerous of all.

Vince had arranged to use a spare conference room in the spa for questioning the witnesses, which suited him fine. He didn't believe it would be real productive but it was procedure, and he'd have to make a record anyway. He could interrogate these characters on their home turf, which he hoped would put them at ease, and the room was nicer than the Ritz. Who knew what would happen? A black granite table, round as a black hole, dominated the room, which was otherwise completely white. Black leather chairs ringed the table, and as soon as Vince sat in one, the pain in his knee disappeared. The chairs were called something-
ergonomically correct
, Vince remembered, and figured he might ask for one of these babies for Christmas. They made his ergonomics feel better.

He eased back in the chair as a uniformed cop ushered in the first of the mud people. He would see them in no particular order, but they had been kept separate by the uniforms, per directive. The first witness was a young model named Ondine, one name only, if Vince had heard her correctly outside. She was gorgeous but so skinny she needed emergency ravioli. Vince watched with concern as she crossed legs thin as spaghettini and all but disappeared into the cushy chair. "I'm Detective Toscana. Can I get you anything?" he asked on reflex. "A drink, or maybe a meatball sandwich?"

The model set her puffy lips. "
I
cannot answer that question on the grounds it might incriminate me," she answered, with a straight face, and Vince didn't understand.

"What?"

"My lawyer told me not to talk to you. Also my manager, Chris Lund? He said to pound sand." She got up instantly and walked out the door with a speed surprising in the malnourished.

Vince rubbed his forehead. It was going to be a long morning.

Vince waited while his next interview, a man who looked a lot like George Hamilton, sat down opposite him. It was Raoul de Vries, the husband of the dead woman, and he didn't look unhappy enough at being suddenly single. Vince was instantly suspicious. The spouse was always the prime suspect. He leaned over the table toward Dr. de Vries. "My name is Detective Toscana, and I'm very sorry about your loss, sir."

"Not as sorry as I am. And that concludes this conversation." Dr. de Vries leaped to his Gucci loafers.

"Huh?"

"I will not discuss this matter further, on advice of counsel."

"But, Doctor-"

"You heard me," DeVries said and left even faster than the model, owing to his normal caloric intake.

Vince sat a minute in the glossy, quiet room, suddenly cheered. He was getting so much crap, it almost felt like home.

Vince straightened in his wonderful chair at the appearance of King David, who strode through the door as if he were taking center stage. Vince had never heard King David's music, but he knew that the kids were wild for him. The rock star sat in the chair with such a theatrical flourish Vince was tempted to ask for his autograph, even though he didn't like anybody who would name himself King, on principle. It seemed vaguely sacrilegious. Plus what do you call him for short?

"King?" Vince began, taking a flyer. "I'm Detective Toscana." The rock star laughed softly. "You don't really think I'm going to answer your silly questions, do you?"

Vince drummed his fingers and stared at his empty pad until the door opened and Howard Fondulac, the Hollywood producer, entered the room. The producer didn't even bother to sit down and stood inside the door only long enough to announce:

"I take no meetings without my lawyers."

Then he left, his cell phone ringing.

"Pleased to meet you," Vince told the young muscleman, and tried not to notice that the man was wearing only a black bathing suit, thin as a strip of electrician's tape. Vince wondered if the swimsuit was the same type as he had found on the corpse, but didn't want to spend a lot of time staring at the young man's crotch. Otherwise the guy had biceps out his ears and nipples that seemed to be winking at him. It was scary, even for a homicide detective. "I'm Vince Toscana," he said nevertheless.

"Emilio Costanza here," said the man, and Vince broke into a happy grin.

"You're Italian? A
paesan
? In
Virginia
?"

"I still ain't talking, goombah. I know my rights."

Vince nodded, understanding.

Vince was about to give it up when Phyllis Talmadge, the psychic author, chugged into the interview room like a diesel-powered tugboat. A red-lipsticked smile dominated her plump face, and her eyes burned an intense and alert brown. Her short hair bounced as she grabbed a chair and plopped down, oblivious to its ergonomic benefits. "I know just what you're thinking!" she boomed, and Vince smiled, startled. "You should. It's your job."

"Damn straight it is." The psychic author burst into merry laughter. "You're thinking that these people are too rich for their own good. You're thinking that they have too much ego and not enough brains. Or heart. Am I right or am I right?"

Vince laughed. "Yes."

"You're thinking that, for once, you wish you had an easy interview. Someone who actually wanted to talk to you. Who could work with you. Who could put it all together into a nice, smooth story."

Vince laughed again, in wonderment. "That's exactly right."

"You want to meet somebody with useful information, who can throw out all the irrelevant facts, highlight the ones that matter, and just get to the point already."

"True!" Vince said eagerly. Her enthusiasm was catching.

"Well, I am that person! I can answer all your questions and wrap it up for you in a neat package. Most of the time, I can answer a question in eight words. That's a trick my media coach taught me. Go ahead. Try me!"

Vince frowned. "Media coach?"

"Come on, ask me a question, any question."

Vince glanced at his notes. "Well, I do have a series of questions and we-"

"Ask me what my new book's about, for starters."

Vince shrugged. He'd play. It
was
nice to have a witness cooperate, for a change. "Okay, what's your new book about?"

"Using your psychic powers to change your life." The author clapped for herself, with delight. "You're amazed, right?"

"Well, yes."

"You're so easy to read!"

"I am? I mean, I am." Vince leaned over, intrigued. He had never met a psychic, but a buddy of his in the department back home had. That psychic had helped them clear a major case, a double homicide. Maybe the psychic author could help on this case. "Are you really psychic?" he asked.

"Of course. I have the sixth sense. That's why I sell so many books. I'm on the list with the latest, it's goin' on eighteen weeks. Got three million in print and my backlist is going bazoogies. I'm givin' those Chicken Soup clowns a run for their money. I'm in a very competitive business, you know."

"But you're not a businessperson. You're an author, right?"

"Same difference. For example, take my latest,
Flex Your Psychic Muscles
. It flew outta the stores on the lay-down date."

"Lay-down date?" Vince didn't know the term, but it sounded important, if not clairvoyant. Or literary.

"After I did
The Morning Show
, we went into a fifth printing. I told my publisher, who needs Oprah? Print those suckers! Hold contests! Give incentives! Co-op ads! Rebates! Post me on the Web site, bounce me off the satellite, shrink-wrap me with the Sugarbusters, do whatever it takes. Just move product!"

"You mean your books?"

"I'm following up with a video, for people who hate reading, like me. Who has the time? And who needs it, really?"

"You don't read?" Vince asked, but the author appeared not to have heard him.

"My publicist thinks we can take John Gray, hands down, if we can just get the media in LA. Nobody gets media in LA, she says. She tells me you gotta be blonde. It's a visual medium, she says, but I say,
to hell with that
! I'm a promotable author, even though I'm not blonde. Where is it written you gotta be blonde? Look at Faulkner!"

"Uh, well-"

"Not blond. Also Hemingway-not blond."

Vince was growing impatient. He had met felons with better manners. "But Ms. Talmadge-"

"And Papa shoulda missed a few meals, if you know what I mean. The man had a beard like my aunt, but he moved product. You gotta admit, the man could move product! He
still
can and he's dead! And not even blond!"

Vince halted the author with a palm. He wasn't getting anywhere, and he had a job to do. "Yes, well, I wanted to talk to you about the murder of Claudia de Vries. Where were you last evening, between the hours of six o'clock and midnight?"

The author's enthusiasm vanished in an eye blink. "Why do you ask?"

"It's my job."

"Is
that
what you want to talk about?"

"Yes, of course."

The author looked confused. "You don't want to talk about my books?"

"Frankly, no. I'm a detective." Vince caught himself. He hadn't introduced himself because of the way she had barged in. "I'm sorry, my name is Detective Toscana."

"
You
're the detective?" The author gasped. A pudgy hand flew to her mouth. "This isn't my preinterview for
The Today Show
? They said they'd meet me here, at the spa. I thought the detective was next door. Wait'll I get a hold of that publicist!" She jumped to her tiny feet and plowed through the door, leaving steam in her wake.

Left alone in the interview room, Vince mentally regrouped. So nobody would talk to him without a lawyer. He should have expected as much. Rich people didn't expose themselves to risk, and they were used to layers of protection. He would have to approach the crime another way. Outside the room, the coroner would be examining the body of Claudia de Vries, and the techs would be vacuuming for fibers, hair, and other trace evidence. In a mud bath, there could even be muddy footprints. The crime scene would talk to him, even if the witnesses wouldn't. He had no time to lose.

Vince rose quickly to go and, in his haste, bumped into a white board resting on an aluminum easel. The easel toppled over and the white board fell off with a clatter, knocking into a closet door. Embarrassed, Vince hurried to right the easel, and as he bent over, noticed the closet door had been knocked ajar. Hmmm. He didn't have a warrant and had a lousy argument for a consent search. But if he found pay dirt, he'd go to the judge and get the warrant then come back later and "find" the stuff. Vince had no problem with the Constitution, when it served justice. He opened the closet door.

The Sharpie letters on one of the boxes read "Dead Files." Vince lifted the cardboard lid of the box and peeked inside. A lineup of manila folders, all tabbed with different names and colors. Vince, whose color coding was limited to pink for girls and blue for boys, was dazzled by the array of chartreuse, cerise, and puce. He gave up cracking the color codes and pulled out the first folder.

"Leticia Finnerman" read the name on a lime tab, and Vince opened the folder. It had the name and address of a woman who lived in Newton, Massachusetts, and who weighed exactly 112 pounds. There was a chart that contained a detailed account of everything Mrs. Finnerman had eaten for a ten-day period. Vince closed it in disgust. Not a pasta dish among them. It broke his heart. And it didn't help with the case, either.

He riffled through the other folders, and they were all similar: records of spa menus for the length of the guest's stay. Then Vince remembered the skinny model, with the legs. Ondine One-Name. Had she been here before? What the hell could she eat? Water with ice? Vince flipped to the O's and found a file.
Ondine
. He yanked it out and it flopped open.

But it wasn't a record of Ondine's menus. It was something else entirely. A ten-day stay, all right, but on each day, where the other guests had their food intake recorded, Ondine's chart showed a record of cash payments. The first day of her visit, which was October 31 of last year, she received $125,000, and she got $100,000 every day after that.

Vince blinked. Could it be? Did this kid get over a million dollars in ten days? But why? And from who? Whom? How much was she getting this visit, which was around the same time of year? Did it have anything to do with the de Vries murder?

Astonished, Vince looked up from the file just as the door to the conference room opened.

After her encounter with Detective Toscana, Caroline walked in a stiff silence with her mother, neither speaking until they had left the crowd at the mud baths behind and reached the flagstone path to their cottage. Caroline's emotions churned within her, as did so many questions. Why was her mother acting so strangely? Why didn't she tell the detective what she knew? And why didn't she want Caroline to talk to the authorities? She couldn't contain her thoughts a moment longer. "Mother, you told the detective you have an appointment. What appointment do you have?"