The Secret of the Villa Mimosa (24 page)

“Yeah,” Zacharias agreed wearily. He sat sullenly, and Mahoney could tell he was thinking it over. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Benedetti watching through the window, but he made no sign. He waited for Zacharias to speak.

“Ya promise to get me off?” Zacharias said finally.

Mahoney spread his hands and said quietly, “Zacharias, you know I can’t promise that. But if you tell us the truth, I can promise you a fair hearing, and
I’ll do what I can for you. See if maybe we can go for a plea bargain, a reduced sentence.”

“Yeah. Well, she asked for it, didn’t she?” Zacharias demanded, suddenly belligerent. “She fuckin’ asked for it, man. Ya know how it is….”

Mahoney signaled Benedetti, and a couple of minutes later he came in with a stenographer carrying her notepad. Benedetti put another cup of coffee in front of Zacharias and turned on the tape, and Mahoney pushed the package of Marlboros across to him.

“Tell us, man,” Mahoney said tiredly, “so we can all go and get some sleep.”

Mahoney was due in trial court at two; the case was a typical Saturday night domestic homicide. Several months before the woman had shot her husband through the head as he slept drunkenly in his bed in a sleazy tenement they called home. When Mahoney got there, three kids, all under the age of seven, had been huddled in a corner of the only other room, their heads hidden under a filthy blanket so they couldn’t see what had happened. They were covered in bruises, and the mother was just sitting helplessly on a broken rocking chair, crying quietly, with the gun on her lap. The neighbors had called the cops, and Mahoney had been first on the scene.

Her husband had knocked the kids around once too often, she had told him somberly, and then she’d found out he’d been abusing them sexually. Her own face was a mess as she looked bleakly at him: a blackened eye, a bloody mouth, teeth missing. He had been beating her up for years, but when he had started on the kids, that was the end for her. The neighbors confirmed her story, and when he looked at her cowering kids, Mahoney’s sympathies were with her. He was sure that the jury’s would be also. He just hoped the judge would go easy on her.

He hated the courts, hated hanging about waiting
until it was his turn to be called. After giving his evidence that afternoon, he waited around some more until it was over. Later he paid a visit to the ME at the city morgue to see if he had gotten around to cutting open the bloated body fished out of the bay the previous night and if there were any bullet holes or if the corpse had been drunk and just fallen in. Or if there was any evidence that he had been maybe hit over the head first and been dead before he hit the water.

Afterward he dropped into Hanran’s bar and found some of the guys who’d just finished their shift downing a beer and bitching about the day’s events. He sat up at the bar and ordered a Bud Light. “D’ya ever wonder why we do this job?” he asked wearily. “Are we masochists or what?”

“The ‘or what’ is about right,” someone replied gloomily. “Who else but a bunch a jerks would do a job like this? My wife complains she hasn’t seen me in weeks. I walk in the house, and my kids look at me like they don’t know me. I tell ’em, ‘Hey, look, I’m your daddy. Ya know, the guy who goes to work and brings home the bucks.’ ‘Yeah, baby,’ my wife says, ‘real
big
bucks.’ Jeez, Mahoney, I ask ya, is it worth it?”

Mahoney thought of Zacharias, safely behind bars two blocks away and the nineteen-year-old avenged because he and Benedetti had done their job. He thought of the relief on the woman’s face that afternoon when the judge had acknowledged the intimidation she had suffered and the fact that she had been protecting her children. He had given her a year suspended, and she had walked free with her children beside her. Mahoney would bet it was the first time she had been able to hold her head up in years without fear of being smacked in the face.

“I guess it’s a good job,” he said with a pleased grin. “On the good days, that is.”

“You look as though it’s been a long day, Mahoney.
What ya doin’ here anyway? I thought you were on the midnight shift this week.”

“Yeah. I guess I just forgot to go home.” Fatigue washed over him in a sudden wave as he allowed himself to remember he hadn’t slept for twenty-four hours. He said good-bye to his buddies and slowly drove home to snatch a few hours before the next shift began.

He was standing under the power shower, letting first hot, then icy water spray him from every angle in an attempt to revive himself, when he heard the door phone buzz. He stepped from the shower and wrapped a towel around his loins as he walked to the phone.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Mahoney? It’s Phyl Forster.”

He had completely forgotten she had left a message on his answering machine that said she was back from Paris and was coming around to pick up the cat unless he called her and said it was not convenient.

“Come on up, Doc,” he said. “But I warn you, I’m not dressed. Think you can stand it?”

“I’ll try, Mahoney,” she said acidly.

“I missed you,” he said as she stalked through the door, looking as beautiful as he remembered. Maybe even more so. “That new?” he asked admiring the red cashmere blazer she was wearing over a white T-shirt.

“I bought it in Paris.”

“I see you took my advice. About the color.”

“How do you know it was
your
advice I took? And not someone else’s?” She grinned cheekily at him. Coco came running with that loud Siamese yowl that bore no proportion to its size. Phyl picked her up and hugged her.

“Watch out for the cat hairs,” he warned. “She’s shedding like crazy.”

“I don’t care. I missed her.”

“And me? Ya miss me, Doc?” He grinned, hitching up his towel.

“I see your sartorial sense hasn’t improved, Mahoney,”
she said scathingly. “You still don’t know how to dress for a lady.”

“You caught me on the hop, Doc. I worked late, and I forgot about your message.” He swept her a low bow and waved her into the room. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Forster. Please, make yourself at home while I attempt to make myself more presentable.”

Phyl drifted across to the windows. They were wide open, and the night breeze was blowing in. She leaned her elbows on the sill and gazed at the big ship, probably a liner, crossing the dark bay, its lights sparkling like extra stars. Mahoney’s two enigmatic Siamese sat like bookends, each one on a corner of the window ledge, sniffing the breeze that ruffled their fur. The fat cushiony tabby snoozed contentedly on the back of a chair, legs dangling like a leopard up a tree after a good meal. Pavarotti’s beautiful voice singing the old Italian songs drifted into the night, and something delicious simmered on the big steel stove. Phyl smiled as she turned to look at Mahoney. She liked it here. It felt like home.

He was wearing a pair of blue running shorts, a T-shirt with the name Machonachies Gym, and old sneakers. “At least I chose blue—to match my eyes,” he said, catching her amused glance. “Don’t complain, Forster. It’s hot tonight, and besides, I’m tired.” He walked to the stove and checked the pasta. “Speaking of tired, Doc, are those shadows I see under your eyes?”

“They only match those under yours,” she said, her chin jutting defensively. “I just got off an eleven-hour flight from Paris. How the hell do you want me to look? At least I have an excuse.”

“Me too,” he said, “but we won’t go into it. Mmm, I thought for a minute there I might have to get jealous. Thought maybe you’d met another guy….”

She sighed, refusing to be goaded. “Thanks for looking after Coco for me, Mahoney. I was wondering if
you would mind having her again, just for a few days, this weekend.”

“Sure.” He didn’t ask any questions, just poured her a glass of wine and began serving the pasta. They sat at the table, and he passed her the chunk of Parmesan cheese and the grater.

“Don’t you want to know where I’m going?”

“Sure. Where are you going, Doc?”

“Oh never mind,” she said perversely.

“The pasta’s good,” she admitted after a while.

“Sorry, no gourmet touches tonight. Just garlic and fresh Parmesan.”

“And homemade tagliatelle.”

He shook his head. “Forneau’s deli. It’s better than mine. So, tell me about Bea. Sounds like the coincidence of a lifetime, her stumbling across the Villa Mimosa.”

“Don’t you believe in fate, Mahoney?” she asked.

“Yeah. I do. And I also believe in coincidence. I might not catch too many killers if it were not for the coincidences. And you’d be astonished how many ‘coincidences’ show up on the computer when you run the evidence through it. As Sir Thomas Browne said in
Religio Medici
, ‘Surely there are in everyone’s life certain connections, twists and turns which pass awhile under the category of Chance, but at the last, well examined, prove to be the very Hand of God.’” He grinned at her. “You could say
coincidence
is a way of life with me, Doc.”

“I prefer to think of it as fate. Anyhow, here’s another murder for you to think about.” She told him the story of Marie-Antoinette Leconte, and her husband, and what the old French journalist had seen.

Mahoney finished his pasta and leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine. “Ya know, you’re a very pretty woman,” he said inconsequentially.

“Mahoney.” Her sapphire eyes glared at him, and
he grinned back at her. “Goddammit, Mahoney, I’m telling you something
important.
About a
murder.
”

“Yeah,” he said wearily. “But there’s not much I can do about it now. It took place too long ago, and besides, it’s outside my area. More important is what happened to the kid. Johnny?”

“The father came back for him five years later. To ensure getting his hands on the inheritance, we think. Though he couldn’t get his hands on it until the boy was eighteen.”

“Or unless the boy died first.”

She looked at him with surprise. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Where did he take him?”

“To Hawaii. I’m not sure which island.”

Mahoney shrugged. “That must have been before statehood. They had their own laws then. Anything could have happened. What was the man’s name?”

“He took on his wife’s name for inheritance purposes. Her father had made it a condition of his will. He was referred to mostly as the Foreigner. No one seems to know his real name.”

Mahoney sighed. “Without a name I don’t have anything to check. There must be hundreds of islands around Hawaii. He could have disappeared very easily, without any trace, especially in those days. And many did. But tell me, did the Foreigner ever claim the rest of the estate?”

“We don’t know yet. Nick is working on it, though.”

“Nick?” Mahoney raised his eyebrows, and she laughed.

“I forgot to tell you, Bea has a boyfriend.” She described Nick and said how happy Bea was with him, though the mystery of the villa was getting to her.

“He sounds like good news to me,” Mahoney said finally. “And at least it seems our killer is not on Bea’s trail.”

“Do you think the two murders are connected, Franco?” she asked, frowning with worry.

“Doc, I’m not clairvoyant. I don’t have a single clue to go on, not even a name. In theory, and with the laws of coincidence, yes, they could be connected. In truth, I don’t know. But you had better keep me up-to-date on what else Nick and Bea uncover. Maybe somewhere in all the muddle I can find something that begins to make sense. But I wish it were not all so long ago. I deal in present-day mysteries, Doc. Not the past.”

She nodded. “It’s odd about Hawaii,” she said. “I haven’t given the islands a thought in years. Now they’ve come up in two different connections within a month. I met a guy who lives there,” she said, smiling shyly at Mahoney. “That’s where I’m going next week. He’s invited me over, for a little vacation.”

“A guy, huh? Am I gonna have to get jealous after all, Forster?”

She thought quickly of Brad’s crazy jealousy; then she laughed as she looked at Mahoney. Mahoney was so straight he would just put all his problems on the table along with the pasta, to be discussed and sorted out. Not like Brad, who had undercurrents even she wasn’t sure about.

“You met him in Paris, didn’t you?” Mahoney said.

“As a matter of fact, no. I met him on the plane.”

“So, some Frenchman has swept you off your cool little feet?” He grinned mockingly at her, and she blushed. “Don’t worry, Doc,” Mahoney said dryly. “I won’t act the cop and ask questions.”

“There’s nothing to hide,” she retorted defensively. “Anyway, he’s an American. He has an apartment in Paris. His name is Brad Kane.”

“Brad Kane?” Mahoney looked thoughtful. “Now, where have I heard that name before?”

“You’ve probably heard about the Kanoi Ranch. It’s one of the biggest in the States.”

“He owns it, huh?”

She nodded. “And I get to see it next week.”

“Lucky you,” Mahoney said, thinking of blue skies and beaches and sunlight bronzing her beautiful body. “And maybe I am jealous after all.”

“I’ll send you a postcard,” she promised, gathering up her purse and Coco. “Oh, I forgot. I have a present for you.” She handed him a bag filled with sacks of herbs de Provence and jars of spices and condiments. “From the Moulin de Mougins boutique,” she said. “It was the closest I got to eating there. And don’t ask me how I got past the sniffer dogs at the airport. I felt sure they were going to arrest me for illegal substances.”

“They can tell the difference,” he said, sniffing the sacks of fragrant herbs, pleased that she had thought of him. “Next time I’ll take you to the Moulin to eat,” he promised. “Treat’s on me.”

Phyl laughed as he walked her downstairs to her car. “That’s a long shot, Mahoney, if ever I heard one.”

“Don’t you know by now I’m a guy who always plays the long shots?” he said, leaning into the car window, looking at her.

She reached across and kissed him lightly. “Mahoney, you know what? You’re sweet,” she said.

Mahoney could hear her laughing as she drove away. He heaved a sigh and glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. So much for sleep. What the hell, he might as well show up early for the midnight shift.