White Offerings (14 page)

Ari reached for her purse and opened the door, nearly running into Biz. “Oh, gosh, sorry.”

“Good morning. How’s Jane?”

“Still asleep. I’m going off to work.”

Biz leaned against the doorjamb and hooked her thumbs into her jeans pockets. “I was hoping I could convince you to help me with this investigation today.”

She shook her head, determined to distance herself from Biz. “I don’t think so, Biz. I really have a lot to do.” She brushed past her and headed for the elevator as her stomach started to churn.

Biz followed behind and touched her shoulder. “Ari, are you angry with me?”

“No, of course not.” The elevator doors slid open and Biz joined her for the ride to the lobby. “It’s just that Molly’s cop buddies saw us together yesterday and didn’t waste any time telling Molly. Now she’s really upset with me.”

“Because the cops thought we were lovers,” Biz concluded.

“Probably.”

“And that would be a bad thing.”

Ari jerked her head around to meet Biz’s amused expression. “Biz, listen to me. I love Molly. I do like your company, but if we’re going to collaborate or be friends, you can’t keep coming on to me. Otherwise, I’m not going to have anything to do with you. Are we clear?”

Biz nodded slowly. “I’m sorry.” The door opened and before Ari could step into the lobby, Biz blocked her exit. “I’m sorry if I put you in an awkward position with Molly. I didn’t mean to do that, really. But I’m going to be honest with you, Ari. I know what Molly sees in you, because I see the same things. I think you’re amazing, but I respect the fact that you’re with her. I’ll honor that. I won’t make any more suggestive comments.”

Her face softened and she offered a slight smile. “Thank you.”

Biz walked her to the SUV. “Now, I really could use your help. There are a lot of people to watch, and I’m not sure which direction is the right one. I’m leaning toward Isabel. I get a really odd vibe from her, but Aspen’s right there, too.”

Ari thought of the night before and the way Jane threw her out of the condo. “I would agree that she’s definitely at the top of the suspect list. She’s as obsessed with Jane as Isabel is.”

“Sounds like it.”

“And that orchid arrangement went untouched. It was deliberately moved to be noticed, but why put it there?”

Biz shrugged. “It could be that the stalker just wants to throw us off. Make us think it’s Isabel. I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know,” she added in frustration.

She leaned against the door, wondering if they were missing other possibilities. “Jane has slept with so many people and left their feelings in the dust. Any one of them could be the stalker.”

“I guess that would make me a suspect too,” Biz said with a laugh.

Biz’s expression conveyed nothing, and it seemed as though she had made the remark in jest, but Ari wondered how Biz felt about Jane forgetting the encounter. When Jane had told her she was hiring Biz, she made no mention that she knew the woman or that they had shared a bed. Even when Jane saw Biz, there was no recognition. Could Biz be harboring some sort of desire for Jane? Or a grudge?

“I think we can probably cross you off the suspect list,” Ari said, hoping she sounded sincere.

“Thanks,” Biz said dryly. “Seriously, if you have any time and could help me research some of these women, it would be great. I’m handling three other cases in addition to this one.”

“Okay. I’ll see what else I can find out about Aspen, and you work on Isabel.”

“Excellent.”

Biz gave her a quick peck on the cheek and walked away. Ari shook her head. Biz could turn an innocent gesture into a flirtation, and Ari couldn’t decide if she liked it or not.

After two hours of meetings with prospective clients she gained from referrals, she decided the best way to learn more about Aspen was to go to the source. For lunch she headed over to Emerson’s, the restaurant where Aspen worked. Ari had never dined there since the prices were exorbitant. Now at least she had a legitimate excuse. She waited until the noontime crowd vanished, hoping someone would have time to talk with her.

She knew from the moment she crossed the threshold that the place was classy. The interior was impressive, resplendent with expensive furniture and plants tastefully displayed throughout. Emerson’s had a reputation as the premier dinner spot for yuppies and Ari’s initial reaction was that it lived up to it. Every detail from the monogrammed cloth napkins to the crystal highball glasses screamed expensive. She asked the hostess to seat her in the bar area, which was virtually empty. The bartender, a young brunette, was busy restocking after the lunch rush. Every once in a while she would glance toward the last two patrons as they nursed their drinks and watched sports on the muted TV that hung over the bar. Aspen was nowhere to be found, and Ari assumed she was in the back attending to her duties as chef.

The bartender lay a napkin down in front of her and smiled. Ari noticed her nameplate—Elsa.

“What can I get for you?”

“I’d like a glass of your house Pinot Grigio and a bowl of minestrone.”

Elsa nodded and went to place the order.

When she returned with the wine, Ari plopped down a twenty, hoping it would buy her some conversation. “So how long has this place been open?”

Elsa thought and busied her hands by wiping the bar around her. “I’d guess about three years, but I’m not really sure. I’ve only worked here for eight months.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s a job. The tips are fantastic on the dinner shift. Lots of rich folks going out.”

“But you’re not on the dinner shift.”

Elsa nodded and frowned. “Not often. That’s a seniority thing, and I haven’t done my time in the trenches. The owners are really big on rewarding loyalty.”

“Well, I’ve always heard great things about this place. People are always raving about the food.”

“And it’s gotten even better since Aspen Harper took over the kitchen,” Elsa said. “She’s an amazing chef. She changed a lot of the recipes that were only so-so, and now there’s not a bad thing on the menu.”

A waiter came by and set Ari’s soup on the bar. One spoonful of the minestrone confirmed Elsa’s opinion. “This is wonderful,” Ari said. “So I’ve read that Aspen can be a little difficult to work with. Is that true? Is she one of those temperamental chefs with an ego?”

Elsa wiped down the counter and repositioned the condiments. “I wouldn’t necessarily agree. I think the people saying that stuff are the jealous guys who are afraid of a powerful woman. Not that she doesn’t have a mean streak,” she added. “She’s not someone I’d ever want to cross.”

“What do you mean?”

Elsa nodded at the two other bar patrons as they got up and left. She looked around before she spoke. “I’m just saying that if things aren’t done right, she’ll throw a fit. She does have a temper. One time the owner suggested she change some of the ingredients to a sauce, and she came unglued. She yelled at him in front of the entire kitchen staff.”

“What did the owner do?”

“Nothing. She’s the chef, and he really didn’t have any right to question her.”

“But it’s his restaurant. Doesn’t she work for him?”

Elsa raised her index finger, as if to give Ari a lesson. “Yes. However a restaurant is only as good as your chef. If you don’t have a great chef, you might as well close your doors. Aspen knows she’s a commodity. She could leave anytime and have another job in a second. So Romero, that’s the owner, knows to keep her happy.”

“And how does he do that?”

“Lately it’s been with time off. She’s asked for a few nights and afternoons. Romero didn’t want to give it to her, but he knows better than to say no.”

A red flag went up in her mind. “Why does she want to take time off?”

“I don’t know. I think it has something to do with a woman.” Elsa leaned close to her and whispered, “Aspen’s a lesbian, and I think she’s involved with someone. The wine steward overheard her on the phone, and she was saying she was really angry because this woman isn’t noticing her. Ever since then she’s been acting kinda weird, and the whole staff suspects it’s because this woman is on her mind.”

“So the other woman doesn’t want her. Is that the problem?”

“That’s what we think. She’s been in a foul mood for the past two weeks, and I’m rather sure it’s because this lady friend isn’t working out.”

“So I take it she doesn’t deal well with rejection.”

Elsa grinned. “You’re right.”

Tuesday, October 17th

3:30 PM

Molly rubbed her temples and glanced at the crumpled sheet of paper. She crossed off another name, another dead end that didn’t remember Itchy or couldn’t coherently articulate any information.
Such is the life of street people
, she thought. The hangover headache was a steamroller pressing against her skull. She hadn’t felt this bad in months—since before Ari, when she spent all of her evenings hunkered over the bar, a glass of Scotch beside her and the bottle just a few feet away. Her life was much better now. Everything was better with Ari.

She would need to think of a way to apologize tonight, but for now she and Andre needed to locate the last name on her list. Only two of the twelve contacts had provided any help at all. Penny, a young prostitute, had seen Itchy talking to some men in suits the week before. When she asked Itchy who they were, he called them his meal ticket. Another street person, Walter, recalled that Itchy had flashed a wad of cash at the St. Vincent de Paul dining hall last Saturday.

Andre leaned against their car and gazed down the street. Molly saw no one, including Rusty, the final contact. “Are you sure he lives here?”

Andre craned his neck toward the building in front of them, a six-story hotel that reminded her of Itchy’s place.

“Last known address,” she said, checking her notes. “Let’s go.” She opened the creaky door and wandered into a lobby that reeked of burning incense. She noticed the desk clerk and suspected he was the culprit. She could only imagine what smell he was trying to conceal. They approached him, and he quickly reached for a can of air freshener. Forest pine mixed with incense nearly made her gag. Still in the air was the faint trace of marijuana, which she ignored. She stared at the thin figure, whose long beard compensated for his bald head. He nervously tapped the countertop and forced his lips into a tight smile.

“We’re looking for Rusty,” Andre said.

The clerk pointed to a figure lounging in an overstuffed chair, his fedora tipped over his forehead. Molly imagined the old man was sleeping, but he’d need to continue his nap later. He was dressed in a trench coat and jeans, a bright orange Phoenix Suns jersey with Steve Nash’s number thirteen clearly visible. Several chains protruded from his shirt collar, and she imagined he kept his valuables around his neck.

“Hey, Rusty,” Andre said. He tapped the man’s foot with his notebook, but Rusty didn’t move.

“What?” he asked from under the fedora.

Molly still couldn’t see a face, but the voice didn’t match what she expected. “Sit your ass up,” she said, knocking the hat into his lap and revealing a tuft of blond hair. Her jaw dropped at the sight of a boy. He was young, his face dimpled and white. He was about five-six and of average weight. She pictured him in a baseball cap, not an old man’s hat. “How old are you?”

“I’m sixteen,” he said. He pulled a wallet from an inside pocket of the coat. “Want to see my ID?”

“Yes,” she said, snatching the worn leather billfold from his hand. She carefully studied the picture and the quality of the ID.

“That’s real. It’s not a fake,” he said.

“So why aren’t you in school?” Andre asked.

He kept his head down and wouldn’t look up. “I dropped out. I hated it.”

“Which high school?” Molly whipped the question at him, watching his eyes. He was searching for an answer, and she knew he was a liar. “Don’t bother making something up, because I would have asked you to recite your last address, and when the address didn’t match with the local high school, I’d know you were lying. Stand up.”

Rusty did as he was told, and Molly patted him down before pushing him back on the sofa.

She leaned over him and narrowed her eyes. “Now, tell me again. How old are you?”

His head fell back against the cushion and he closed his eyes. “Fourteen.”

She sighed deeply. Many runaway teens settled on the Phoenix streets during winter, but each time she interviewed one or found a child dead in an alley, she couldn’t help but think of her niece and nephew—their eyes bright with hope, their futures tucked beside them each night in their comfortable suburban beds. Rusty twirled his hat until she grabbed it from him. He looked up at her with vacant eyes, as if to say,
so what?

Andre stuck his hands in his pockets and turned to go. “You hungry?”

Rusty flashed a crooked smile. “Always.” He leapt out of the chair and was at Andre’s side in a second.

She fell in step with them and headed across the street to an Italian deli. She pulled Rusty into a booth while Andre went to retrieve some sandwiches.