Killer Commute (10 page)

The seagull on Jeremy's roof took flight and Charlie savored the
whumping
sound of his wings.

Charlie choked on a potato chip when Jeremy Fiedler's red Ferrari came slowly down the alley, paused at the back gate, and drove on.

CHAPTER 13

W
HEN
CHARLIE
WALKED
the few steps back to her house, Leroy Gonzales was pinching dead blooms off the plants in one of her flower boxes.

“Leroy, did you take care of the broken trunk on Mrs. Beesom's sentry palm?”

“
Si.
Hall in thees place needs much help.”

Boy, you can say that again. Something weird about a guy named Leroy talking pidgin, though. But an even bigger surprise waited inside.

Kate Gonzales was having a personal chat with Tuxedo. And an even bigger surprise than that—Tuxedo was paying attention. Charlie did not understand the conversation because it was in Spanish. Kate spoke softly, waving a finger in front of Charlie's nemesis. Both knew she was there but ignored her, and Charlie would not have dared interrupt.

Tuxedo Greene might be a royal pain in the ass, but Kate Gonzales was a legend in her own time. Tuxedo perched perilously atop a pile of stacked junk mail on Charlie's dining room table, looking down at the legend who spoke with her voice and with her index finger. That cat followed the movement of that finger back and forth for entire pages of foreign script, and when it and the voice stopped, the cat reached out and brought the finger to his face and bit it.

The feline and the house cleaner stood that way forever. The magazines and pleas from hard-up banks—companies who could go under without Charlie's fee for usurers and all the other crap she tossed these days—trembled. Hell, most of those poor companies needing her so badly could afford glossy. It was a wonder how that slippery pile stayed upright with an impressive-sized tom on top.

The bite had not been a hard one like he would have delivered to Charlie and then run off, but Tuxedo continued to hold on to Kate's finger with one paw. Finally, Kate laughed low in her throat and looked away. The devil cat moaned warning and leapt into her arms as the plastic wrap slipped from under him and the whole pile tumbled to the floor.

Kate Gonzales, the legend, turned to look at Charlie over Tuxedo's head, the smile still on her lips. “Cone-grat-u-lations, Sharlie Greene. You haff made thee top of my list.”

*   *   *

Officer Mary Maggie Mason arrived as Charlie was enduring the telephone run-around trying to get a hold of J. S. Amuller to tell him about Jeremy's Ferrari. So she hung up and told the woman cop instead.

“You can hear again. What did the doctor say?” was the out-of-context response.

“Said I was to see a specialist and come to terms with the probability of permanent hearing loss. Test results aren't back yet. What about Jeremy's computer? Was it really encrypted?”

“Results aren't back yet. So where did Mr. Fiedler keep this Ferrari, and how do you know it was his?”

“I don't. It's just that it was red. Have you to talked to Kate yet?”

“Kate who? And did this doctor know that your hearing had returned for a while before I took you back to the hospital last night?”

“I didn't tell him, did you? And Kate was Jeremy's cleaning lady.”

“Jeremy had a cleaning lady? Why didn't you tell me that?”

“I told J. S. Wouldn't he have written it in a report somewhere? What does J. S. stand for?”

By now they were out at the back gate. There was no red Ferrari in the alley, but Charlie had seen Jeremy's there any number of times. He had a special key to the lock and would drop off things or little girls at the back gate. He never left the car there for long, though.

Officer Mary Maggie drooped, tucked her hair behind her ears. “I haven't had time to read the reports. We got a backlog of homicides and victims' families demanding the justice they got coming. You know, you help me out of a little bit, I just might tell you what J. S. stands for. I could use a little fun. It'll be months, maybe years before Fiedler's computer comes back from the FBI. And the lab tests, too. Everybody's swamped these days. So where did Jeremy keep this Ferrari?”

“In a garage somewhere, not too far away. He'd drop off a sweet young thing at this gate and take off to park the Ferrari and maybe ten minutes later he'd arrive on foot and let himself in the front gate.”

“This is the screwiest setup. I just can't believe he lived here with three women and a teenaged girl and nobody got curious about his comings and goings.”

“I can't either, Officer Mason. Mrs. Beesom was always nosing around. We could ask her, but I think she's taking her nap now. I wonder if my lab reports will take months, too.”

*   *   *

“Oh, a meestery. I luff a meestery,” Kate Gonzales exclaimed from the stepping stool she'd hauled up to Charlie's room where she swiped tons of crud off the top of the door moldings. “Thees house will take a few visits to bring hup to snuff, you know?”

“That's fine,” Charlie said quickly, already impressed with the way the windows and mirrors sparkled. “So Jeremy didn't pay you in cash?”

Officer Mary Maggie, stonewalled because Kate refused to go over to Jeremy's until she'd cleaned Charlie's house, paced and glowered, her expressive face convoluting in uncoplike expressions of impatience.

“He pay hevery six months. He pay ahead. I am going to miss poor Meester Fiedler very much. His company pay my company. It go right into my account in thee bank.”

“What was the name of his company?” Officer Mason came to a halt.

“Fiedler Henterprises.”

“Well, finally we've got something. What's your bank?”

“HHTP of thee Pacific.”

The cop pulled out her cellular and stepped into the hall.

“Did you ever see any checks with that company name on them?” Charlie asked. “Or cash lying around?”

“Mr. Fiedler very tidy. Nothing left around and Hi don look in desks and drawers. The young ladies leave things out, but not heem.”

Kate had streaks of gray in dark hair wadded into a knot on the back of her head, dark eyes full of mischief, and a sure and easy posture that wasted no energy on unnecessary or clumsy movement. She sort of flowed around the room, plastic bags tied to the belt loops of her jeans offering up cleaning rags and spray bottles that left the odor of oils and vinegar like a salad on the air instead of chemical cleaners. It was hard to gauge her age—Leroy had to be well into his thirties, and there were lines in her face, but her skin glowed, and before she left she hauled a heavy-duty vacuum upstairs and down with little effort.

Charlie wrote her a check on the glossy empty tabletop in the dining room and wished she'd gotten someone in sooner. Kate Gonzales accompanied Officer Mason over to Jeremy's. When they returned, appearing the best of friends, Leroy had his mother's vacuum and mops and bags of rags and cleaners stashed in the back of his pickup.

Charlie and the cop watched them drive off from the ruin of a security gate. “It was nice of you to be patient with her. You could have pulled your official rank.”

“Sometimes it's easier to get what you want with honey. That's why I'm here right now instead of J. S. He's about to blow his toupee.”

“Detective Amuller wears a rug?”

“No, but he will by tomorrow if he keeps pulling his hair out over this case.”

“Officer, I think you need to talk to Libby. If you can win over the legendary Kate Gonzales, you might stand a chance of keeping J. S. from doing something stupid that will make my daughter clam up for good.”

“That's also why I'm here.”

“Are you up to meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy?”

“You cook?”

“Libby works at the diner tonight. Gets off at nine. How about it?”

“The L. B. Diner? I haven't had Jell-O in months. You're on.”

“Detective Amuller thinks I'm the murderer, doesn't he?”

“Look, you and Betty Beesom were the only two people in this little group of domiciles when Fiedler was killed. You are both prime suspects but you look a lot better than Betty. Help me find some other people in Fiedler's life we can add to the suspect list. He's a known nubiphile and your own daughter lives here and it never occurred to you to worry about it. He's dead and you now have a cleaning lady many people would kill for. I've seen her stuff. She even likes pets. And thirdly, if we're counting, you're the one coming up with all the false leads here. If you're guilty, we're going to nail you. If you're not, we got to know that, Charlie.”

“Ohmygod, there it is.”

“What? There what is?”

“The Ferrari—get the license number, quick. My eyes aren't that good.”

A red Ferrari had cruised by the compound as they parried and sped up when the driver saw them.

“What, mine are?” But the woman cop was out in the middle of the street staring after the disappearing vehicle, pulling out her cellular.

Charlie said, “There was a license plate but it was—”

“Smeared with mud. Old ploy. See you at the diner at seven for meatloaf.” And she was in her black-and-white with the sirens blaring and off down the street, leaving Charlie to turn back to the scary fact that her fortress was unprotected, and her hearing could leave the country forever at any moment.

And Jeremy wasn't here to know who to call to fix the gate.

CHAPTER 14

LIBBY
SERVED THEM
Southern-fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy instead of meatloaf. This place was so bad it was sinful and thus crowded, but Charlie and the woman cop had Jell-O anyway. “You want meatloaf, you got to get here by six. We're famous for it. Hey, Mom, you still hearing? Means I better get home tonight on time, right?”

“How can anybody with three zits that size sashay her little butt around like she owns the joint?” the cop asked, turning in the booth to watch the sashay hustle down the aisle to the kitchen door.

“Well, she's young and blond and this is Hollywood,” Charlie offered ruefully, and sat back at the sudden change in Officer Mason's expression.

“That's it. It's been driving me nuts. I knew I knew your face from somewhere. I guess I expected you lived in some mansion in Malibu or some place. It's not your name so much as—your face has been around.”

“What are you talking about?” But Charlie knew. She always felt the one place she was safe was in Long Beach. You can't be anybody if you live here.

“You're Mitch Hilsten's girlfriend. I feel so dumb.” Mary Maggie Mason slapped her forehead and then had to readjust her glasses. “Jesus.”

“You had my DNA info on your computer and not that?”

“As we both know, modern technology is not perfect.”

“I'm beginning to think it's a nightmare. But I'm just his friend, not his girlfriend.”

Mitch Hilsten, superstar, was still successfully overcoming the female preteen craze for pasty-faced adolescent-looking twentysomethings. Mitch Hilsten was a fair actor, classically handsome, midforties. Charlie'd had untold fantasies about him in her own teens. Through a series of impossible events, which were becoming standard in her life, she ended up spending some time with him at the most vulnerable time of her month. In fact, a couple of them. Libby hated him and the publicity. Charlie just wished he'd get over it.

“Is he really as aloof and moody as he seems?” Officer Mary Maggie gazed off into some remembered fantasies of her own.

“Actually, he's quite sensitive and friendly.”

“That smile and those eyes. He doesn't take his teeth out at night or anything?”

“No, but they're capped. Officer Mason, don't mention him around Libby, okay? We want her cooperative.”

As it turned out Libby was quite cooperative on her own.

The diner was long and narrow, with booths and tables spread out to either side of a sizable semicircular counter complete with bar stools and foot rest and revolving-glass pie displays. The carpet was threadbare, the decor in pastel shades of green and pink. The waitpersons wore shorts all year round and T-shirts with L.B.D. lettered on front and back.

Charlie's daughter slid her green shorts and pink L.B.D. shirt into the booth beside Charlie and good-naturedly admitted to the policewoman that she didn't really know more than two of Jeremy's girls, and one of those only by sight. They were the only two who went to Wilson. She'd just been torqued at Detective Amuller. She didn't know Tanya's last name but had walked home from school with her one day, and Tanya had confided that Jeremy let her use his computer. “And she said it was encrypted.”

“He never made any sort of advances toward you?” Officer Mason asked. “Like squeezing your bottom, wanting to hug a lot, or sit close and put his hand on your thigh?”

“Never touched me. He was usually helpful and he could fix things, knew what repairman to call if he couldn't. He was good at geometry and stuff, would most times help me out. I never felt like I knew him very well, but I'm going to miss having him around.”

Officer Mason leaned forward, leveling a squint through her eyeglasses that reminded Charlie of Tuxedo's intense bird or bug focus. “What's this ‘usually' and ‘most times' all of a sudden? It's always been good old dependable, reliably unchanging Jeremy with you guys.”

“Well, sometimes he'd be grouchy. Hey, sometimes I get grouchy, right, Mom?”

“I don't remember him being grouchy very often. Distracted maybe. Self-involved at times.”

“How would you know, you're never home. And when you are, your mind's still at work.”

“All you have to do,” Charlie told the officer, “is check for Tanyas on the class lists at Wilson.”

“Maybe it was Tony,” Libby said and left to find Charlie a styrofoam doggie box for the half of her dinner she didn't eat.