All or Nothing (3 page)

He laughed too. “Then thanks, Laurie, for saving me from yet another lonesome evening.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

She put her elbows on the table, leaning close to him. Steve couldn’t help noticing the curve of her breasts where the blue lace fell so seductively away. He thought Laurie Martin was an intriguing combination: sometimes so demure and professional, and sometimes so downright sexy it gave him a jolt. Her eyes burned with a kind of restless energy when she looked at him.

“Better luck next time,” he said hopefully.

“Trust me, Steve. I won’t let you down.”

She stared meaningfully at him and Steve felt himself grow hot. He thought of his wife, probably dining with the kids at Burger King right this minute. Somehow, Vickie seemed a long way away.

Two weeks later, Marla was reclining in the bathtub, up to her little pointed ears in Robert Isabell’s Calla bubbles with a matching fragrance candle permeating the steam for good measure. Her blond hair was in huge pink Velcro rollers and a green pore–cleansing mask tightened her face in a viselike grip. She surely hoped it was firming everything up because otherwise it wasn’t worth the agony.

It was her night to “wash her hair.” Meaning the one night each week she insisted on keeping for herself to catch up on all the little maintenance tasks a woman needed if she were to keep in tip–top shape. It was also a night when she liked to slop around in her white terry robe and the old bunny slippers that she’d had since she was fourteen and would never part with. They kind of went with the hair rollers and the eyebrow tweezing and reminded her of slumber parties and girlish gossip. Which was the other thing she did, on the phone while sipping a healthy glass of milk instead of a vodka martini, and munching on SnackWell’s in place of the childhood Oreos.

It made for a very satisfying evening and also served to increase Al Giraud’s eagerness to see her. He had already called several times to say: a) that he was missing her; b) to tell her he was having a drink with a client at the Chateau Marmont; c) to say he was thinking of dining at Mr. Chow and was she sure she couldn’t come, and d) to say he had changed his mind. He hadn’t fancied Chow’s alone and was at La Scala on Cañon Drive in Beverly Hills––a place her parents used to frequent years ago––if she decided she wanted to join him.

Unlike Al, who always had music blasting in his car or at home, Marla was a TV news addict. She had a TV set in every room, including the bathroom, because she hated to miss anything. Not that anything much happened, just the usual shootings, earthquakes, floods, fires, rockslides and freeway mayhem, with the occasional celebrity wedding, movie premiere or gossip to leaven the dross. Now her eyes fixed on the photograph of a woman that flashed on the screen.

Missing from her home in Laguna Beach,
the newscaster said,
real estate agent Laurie Martin has not been seen since last Friday. When she failed to show up for work and could not be contacted at her home, her boss called the police. Her car, a metallic–gold Lexus 400 is also missing. Police are asking if you have seen this woman, or her Lexus, license plate number
LAURIEM,
to contact them at the following number.

The last time Laurie Martin was seen was when she left the office on Friday afternoon to keep an appointment to show a house. Apparently when the police went to check, the door to the house was open. Miss Martin was the only person with the keys so she had obviously arrived there. The police are now questioning the client to whom she was supposed to show that house.

Bubbles floated onto the taupe marble floor as Marla shot bolt upright. She leapt from the tub, flung a towel around her still bubbling body and grabbed the phone.

Al was munching his way through a veal picatta with a side of spaghetti bolognaise––good old–fashioned Italian food that hit the spot when a guy was dining alone––when his cell phone rang. Annoyed eyes glared his way as he answered guiltily. “Yeah, Al Giraud.”

“Al Giraud.” Marla’s voice was muffled, she had forgotten the green face mask and her mouth was practically cemented together. “Listen, it’s her. On the TV . . . she’s disappeared. It must be him. . . .”

Al could tell she was excited, but she certainly wasn’t making any sense. “Calm down, Marla, and talk rationally. What’s wrong with you, anyway? You sound as though you’ve got lockjaw.”

“And I darn well nearly have. It’s this face mask. Listen, bum, it’s on the TV. The real estate woman from the Ritz and La Jolla, remember? Yeah, well, she’s disappeared. The police are looking for her, and they are questioning the man she had her last appointment with before she disappeared. What do you bet it’s him?”

Al smacked a hand to his head, groaning. Marla the detective was on the case again. “Marla, I’m in the middle of dinner. What’re you talking about?” Exasperated, he wound spaghetti around his fork, the phone glued to his ear.

“Didn’t I just
tell
you? It’s the real estate woman we saw in Laguna. She’s gone.”

He swallowed the spaghetti. “Skipped off with the client, you mean.” Marla’s exasperated sigh buzzed in his ear.

“And you call yourself a private eye. No, you dope.
She
is missing, so is her car. Police are inteviewing the last client. She was supposed to show him the house.”

“Interesting.” He cut the veal picatta carefully, took a bite. “What d’you want me to do, Marla?”

“Oh.” She had thought he would know. He was the P.I. “Well––shouldn’t we go to the police, or something. Tell them what we know   .   .   .   ?”

“And what exactly do we know, sweetheart?”

She thought about it, nonplussed. “Just that we saw them together, their first meeting. That we saw them again a couple of weeks later––and they were definitely not looking at pictures of houses. It was a date.”

“The poor sap probably has nothing at all to do with it. You want me to get him into trouble with the cops?”

“Al! The woman is missing. She’s been abducted, maybe murdered.” Her voice quivered a little on the word. “I think we have to say something.”

He guessed maybe she was right. “Tell you what, I know a detective down in Laguna. I’ll give him a call, find out exactly what the scene is, decide what to do.”

“Al?”

“Yeah?” He gulped ice–cold Peroni, his favorite Italian beer.

“You’ll call me right back, won’t you? Within the next ten minutes.”

He sighed. Marla was a determined woman. “I’ll do that, sweetheart.”

“Al.”

“Yeah?”

“Why is it I don’t trust you when you call me sweetheart?”

He grinned. “Probably something to do with instinct, honey. You like “honey’ better?” He was laughing as she rang off and he dialed the number of Detective Lionel Bulworth of the San Diego Police Department.

Detective Bulworth was a large man, six eight and built, appropriately, like a bull. He wore size seventeen shoes, a size fifty shirt and a comb–over. He had twenty years’ experience on the job, was bright and affable––except when he confronted the guilty. Then he was the meanest man on the planet.

He took Al’s call. “How’re y’doing, Al?” His huge feet were planted on his desk, and he leaned back in his chair, swaying gently, a balancing trick he had perfected over the years.

“Good, Lionel. How’s the wife and kids?” Al had joined the Bulworths’ backyard barbecues several weekends and was considered a friend of the family.

“Pretty good. Zack’s flunking his grades, Jill’s into nose rings and Tod’s––well Tod’s too young––yet. Apart from that, all is well. And you? Still with the sassy Marla?”

“Yup, still with her. I don’t think she’s letting me off the hook that fast, y’know what I mean? Trouble is, I’m not sure if it’s my body she’s after, or my job.”

Al grimaced painfully as Bulworth’s big laugh bellowed down the line. “Still intent on becoming a detective, huh?”

“She’s hanging in there. And listen, this is her latest thing. She just saw a report on the local newscast about the missing Laguna woman. Laurie Martin. The thing is, we kind of know her . . . not exactly
know,
but we’ve seen her around a couple of times. And both times with the same guy.”

Bulworth knew about Laurie Martin. Everyone did. Not too many women went missing in high–priced, refined Laguna. It wasn’t exactly the playground of the young and dangerous. Retired and staid was more like it.

He made a few notes as Al explained their encounters with the real estate agent and her client. “What’s the guy look like?”

“Medium height, five–tenish, light brown hair, brown eyes, probably late thirties. Thin build. Kind of tired–looking, I thought. Or maybe
weary
is a better word.”

“Giraud, you’ve just described our prime suspect.”

“Well I’ll be darned, then Marla was right. Maybe I should give her that job after all.”

“Maybe you should. The client, Steve Mallard, called us. His story is that Laurie Martin was looking for a house for him. She called Friday afternoon, said she had found the perfect house. She told him it was urgent, said someone else was interested and they would have to move fast. He arranged to meet her there, at five–thirty after work.

“When he got there she wasn’t around. No sign of her car, a metallic–gold Lexus. He waited half an hour then he tried the door. Found it was open. He took a look around, liked the house and tried to call her on his car phone. All he got was her answering machine. He called her pager, but again no luck. And that, my friend, is Steve Mallard’s story.”

“And foul play is suspected.”

“You got it, buddy. And Steve Mallard is our prime suspect.”

Vickie Mallard was a petite five–two in her platform sneakers. “A little bit of a thing,” her husband, Steve, called her affectionately. Her dark hair was cut short with spiky bangs, and her dedication to the local gym showed in her well–muscled arms and trim body. She was wearing gray sweats and wire–rimmed glasses, dishing out Pollo Loco chicken and mashed potatoes for supper. The girls were upstairs in their rooms, finishing their homework she hoped, and she had rented Disney’s
Mulan
from Blockbuster as a treat after supper. The TV was blasting the local news.

Laurie Martin, the Laguna real estate agent is still missing. It’s been five days since she was last seen in her office, and police helicopters have been searching nearby canyons. Sniffer dogs have tried but failed to catch any scent. Miss Martin’s metallic–gold Lexus, license plate
LAURIEM
is also missing, but police tell us there is no sign of a forced entry or a robbery at her apartment, which we show you here. We understand a man, a client of Miss Martin’s, is being questioned about her disappearance. Apparently, Steve Mallard, an electronics company executive, had an apointment with her, to view a house the evening she disappeared.

The foil tray of mashed potatoes splattered all over the immaculate white–tiled kitchen floor. Normally a neatness freak, Vickie didn’t even notice the mess.

“Steve?”
she said out loud. “Are they talking about
my
Steve?”

“Mom, you’re talking to yourself. And there’s mashed potato all over the floor.”

Her ten–year–old daughter, Taylor, stared accusingly at her.

“It’s your father, on the TV,” Vickie said, still stunned.

“Oh, cool. Dad’s on TV.” Taylor swung onto a stool, and gazed eagerly at the set on the kitchen counter.

“No, he’s not on the TV. They were just talking about him. Could it be
our
Steve Mallard? An electronics executive, they said . . . they were asking him about some missing woman.”

“Asking Dad about a missing woman? Oh, cool,” Taylor repeated, and Vickie wished impatiently she would at least learn another adjective.

The phone rang and Taylor grabbed it. “Hi,” she said brightly. “Oh, hi, Dad. Mom said you were just on TV. Yeah, okay, I’ll put her on. Cool, Dad   .   .   .”

Vickie grabbed the phone. “Steve, what’s this all about?” Her face was anxious.

She took off the glasses and rubbed her eyes, suddenly frightened as Steve told her the tale.

“But of course you never saw her that evening?” Her voice rose at the end.

“Vickie, was that a
question
? Of
course
I didn’t see her. That’s exactly what I told the cops. And it’s the truth.”

“Of course you told the truth,” she said hastily. “I just wondered. I mean, what could have happened to her? Where has she gone?”

“How the hell should I know? But what I do know, Vickie, is I need a lawyer.”

He said good–bye and that he would call back later when he’d spoken with the family’s attorney, and that she wasn’t to worry and not to tell the kids. Vickie put down the phone. Automatically, she reached for paper towels, got down on her knees and began scooping up the mashed potatoes. A niggling little tremor of doubt churned her stomach. The Pollo Loco chicken suddenly didn’t look so good.

She fed the girls the chicken, replaced the potatoes with toasted bagels, poured herself a glass of chardonnay and sat by the phone in the kitchen, watching every newscast and waiting for Steve to call back.

The Monza Red 1970 Corvette Roadster crawled uphill in the double line of nose–to–tail traffic on La Cienega Boulevard, growling impatiently, like its owner, at the red stoplight. It edged into the right lane, cutting out a pushy BMW, swung a sharp right and gunned down Sunset, outpacing lesser vehicles, beat its way into the left lane, then up Queens Road into the Hollywood Hills.

Al grinned as he negotiated the curving road. Smooth as fuckin’ silk, he congratulated himself––or rather the car. He had found the Corvette––a wreck and obviously rolled over––in a scrap dealer’s yard ten years ago and was instantly in love. He’d bought it for only five hundred, cash, because most of its workable parts had already been stripped, and had had it towed home where he had looked after it as carefully as an invalid, nursing it back to glossy health. Over the years, it had probably cost him ten times its original 1970 selling price of almost five thousand dollars, but this was his baby, his Frankenstein, lovingly recreated in its maker’s original image until not a scar remained unsmoothed, not a toggle switch out of place, not a spoke unchromed.