Evening Bags and Executions (16 page)

I got out and opened my trunk. All kinds of things accumulated in there. I scrounged around and found a pair of flats that I had no memory of buying—maybe one of my breakup fog purchases that never made it into my second bedroom—along with a quilt my dad had insisted I keep in there when he'd given me a roadside emergency kit not long ago, after my car had broken down on the way to Las Vegas—long story.

I changed my shoes, grabbed the quilt and Subway bags, and set up lunch on a nearby picnic table beneath several tall, shady trees. Just as I was spreading the quilt over the bench—no way was I roughing it while wearing my awesome gray business suit—Shuman walked up.

Yikes! I hardly recognized him.

He had on black pants, T-shirt, a hoodie, and CAT boots. A black baseball cap was pulled low on his forehead, almost touching his wraparound sunglasses. What little of his face I could see was covered with a full beard.

This wasn't the Shuman I knew. Not at all.

I was scared. Scared about what he was doing, what he might do, and what it might turn him into.

I was kind of scared for myself as well, thinking what I might do to keep that from happening.

“I brought lunch,” I said.

He didn't sit down. Instead he threw both arms around me and pulled me full against his chest. He buried his nose in my hair and held on as if his life depended on it. I wrapped my arms around his waist.

We stayed like that for a long time, then slowly Shuman released me and stepped back.

“Thanks for coming, Haley, for meeting me,” he said. “I—I just . . . I just needed . . .”

“I'm glad you called me,” I said, and I truly meant it—which was totally unlike me but there it was.

“I had to—” Shuman pressed his lips together, then forced himself to go on. “I had to tell somebody what really happened with Amanda.”

C
HAPTER
17

S
human was about to lose it big-time.

“Sit down,” I said. “We'll eat, then talk.”

He didn't say anything, but allowed me to guide him around the picnic table. He dropped onto the bench. By the time I unrolled our sandwiches, opened bags of chips, and screwed the tops off our bottles of soda he'd pulled himself together. He ate everything; I didn't have much of an appetite.

“Let's walk,” Shuman said.

We dumped our trash and strolled into the park. The gently rolling meadow was shaded by tall trees. A little stream meandered over rocks worn smooth by the water. Birds chirped.

I realized why Shuman had wanted to meet here. It was quiet, peaceful. Whatever he intended to tell me about Amanda was too painful to talk about in a public place.

“Amanda and I broke up,” Shuman said.

I froze and touched his arm, stopping him next to me. This was the very last thing I expected to hear him say.

“It was what she wanted,” Shuman said. He gulped hard. “And I—I went along with it.”

“I don't get it,” I said. “You two seemed so solid.”

“That's what I thought, too,” he said. “We had some differences, but I was okay with everything. I mean, I could live with them. You know?”

I knew exactly.

“She was so special in so many ways,” Shuman said. “My days could be grim sometimes, and she was always my bright spot.”

We started walking again.

“I guess she wasn't okay with some of our differences,” Shuman said. “She wanted to work in Boston. She asked me if I'd go with her. I didn't want to leave my job here. So she said maybe we should end things.”

I pictured the two of them having that last conversation, saying those things to each other, making that decision. It made my heart hurt.

“That must have been a tough decision for you two. Really painful,” I said. “But I guess it was the right thing to do.”

The word exploded out of Shuman. He laid his hands on my shoulders and leaned closer.

“No, Haley, it was wrong, all wrong,” he told me. “I shouldn't have gone along with what she wanted. I should have fought for our relationship, for us. But I didn't fight her on it. I was stunned and hurt, and she seemed so sure it was the best thing. I let it happen, Haley. I just stood there and let it happen—and look how it turned out. Look what happened to her.”

“Are you blaming yourself for Amanda's murder?” I asked.

He dropped his hands from my shoulders and shook his head. “If I haven't agreed to the breakup, I might have been there that night. I might have stopped it.”

I shook my head. “No. You can't think that way.”

“Maybe she could have stopped it,” Shuman said. “I keep thinking that she might have been distracted, not paying attention to her surroundings because she was thinking about me, wondering why I'd agreed to ending our relationship, why I'd let her go so easily.”

“This isn't your fault,” I told him.

“I could have stopped it. I could have saved her.”

“You don't know that,” I said.

He gazed off across the park, his jaw clenched, his lips pressed together.

“There's only one way to make it right,” he said.

If I had any doubt about Shuman's intention to find Amanda's killer, the look on his face and the tone of his voice erased it.

“I know who did it,” he said. “LAPD knows. They've got an eyewitness, surveillance tape, fingerprints, DNA. Everything. There's no doubt.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Adolfo Renaldi,” Shuman said. “Amanda was prosecuting his brother Lorenzo. A couple of real scumbags. Into everything. Ruthless.”

“If the LAPD knows who he is, why haven't they arrested him?” I asked.

“They can't find him.”

“Are you having any better luck?” I asked.

He didn't say anything, so I guess I had my answer.

I'd figured that a friend of Shuman's inside the department was feeding him info on the investigation and that he hadn't backed off the case just because they'd taken his authority to do so. Looked like I was right about both.

“They'll find him,” I said. “The whole department must be looking for him. Sooner or later, they'll find him.”

“And then what?” Shuman asked. “Put him in jail so some defense lawyer can get him off on a technicality? So his attorneys can drag his case out for years? So he can live like a king in his palace if he ever does go to prison?”

I couldn't disagree with him, because I knew he was right. All of those things could happen—they'd happened in the past to other criminals. Our justice system was really great, but it wasn't perfect.

Not everybody got the justice they deserved.

Shuman straightened his shoulders and drew in a breath.

“I can't let this go,” he said. “I won't, until I make it right.”

“I understand,” I said because, really, I did.

 

All the way back to the office I couldn't stop thinking about Shuman. That look on his face, the tone in his voice when he spoke about how he should have fought for his relationship with Amanda.

Maybe I should have done the same with Ty.

I settled behind my desk in my office and saw that I had an e-mail from Annette. She liked my idea for the Hollywood birthday party for Minnie but wondered if I had any other suggestions.

Like there are
that many
themes for a dog's birthday party.

I came up with a garden party birthday celebration for Minnie, with big hats for all her guests, flowers, a wishing well, and doggie treats that resembled tea cakes.

I slumped on my desk and clicked Send. I was planning a birthday party for a dog. Was this any way to spend my day?

Maybe this event planner thing wasn't for me, after all.

Then I pulled myself together—as I almost always do—and decided it was time to tackle my major obstacle with Sheridan Adams's Beatles party: getting the Cirque du Soleil dancers to perform. I looked up the Love show in Las Vegas on the Internet, found a phone number, and after being transferred around a dozen times, reached the theater manager.

I wasn't sure she was even listening to what I was saying—just waiting for me to take a breath so she could transfer me to someone else—until I said, “And it's a charity event at the home of Talbot and Sheridan Adams. There will—”

“Talbot Adams?
The
Talbot Adams? The producer and director?” she asked. “At his
home?
”

“Yes, along with two hundred A-list guests,” I said.

“How exciting for you,” she gushed. “What a fabulous job you have.”

I saw no need to mention that I was also planning Minnie the dog's birthday party.

“Of course we can work something out,” she said.

I got her e-mail address and composed the message with all the details while she was yammering on about the Beatles, Talbot Adams, “Lady Madonna,” and blah, blah, blah.

I snapped back to reality in time to hear her ask for Sheridan Adams's e-mail address. No way was I going to give that out, so I gave her contact info for Muriel, which seemed to suit her just as well. I thanked her and hung up.

Huh. That was easier than I thought it would be, thanks to my dropping Talbot Adams's name.

I didn't think playing on someone else's celebrity was really the thing to do in life—unless it benefited me, of course.

I got on the Internet again and found the names of companies that specialized in creating celebrity gift bags for the Oscars, the Emmys, and other high-profile award ceremonies. One of them, Distinctive Gifting, jumped out at me. I remembered hearing my mom talk about the fabulous swag they'd provided for an event she'd attended with some of her ex-beauty-queen friends, so I decided to call them.

“This is Haley Randolph from L.A. Affairs,” I said, using Mom's I'm-better-than-you voice. “I'm calling regarding an event for Talbot and Sheridan Adams.”

“One moment, please,” the receptionist said.

Two clicks and a few seconds later, a woman picked up.

“Well, hello, Miss Randolph.” She had a kind of Jamaican accent thing going. “This is Tiberia Marsh. It's always good to hear from L.A. Affairs. I don't believe we've met. Are you new with the firm?”

“Somewhat,” I said.

I saw no reason to explain that this was my first event.

“And you're handling Talbot and Sheridan's party? My, but you must be very well respected at L.A. Affairs,” she said.

I saw no reason to mention that my job was dangling by a thread that Vanessa couldn't wait to snip.

“I'm always pleased to work with your firm,” Tiberia said. “Just tell me what you need and it will be yours.”

So far, I was loving Tiberia—even though I suspected she'd made up her own first name.

I gave her the info about Sheridan's Beatles-themed party and explained that I'd ordered the bags so all she had to do was provide the luxury items for people who probably didn't really need them.

“Sorry it's sort of last minute,” I said.

Tiberia chuckled. “Everything Sheridan does is last minute. We're used to it, as I'm sure L.A. Affairs is.”

Okay, that was weird. L.A. Affairs had worked with Distinctive Gifting on Sheridan's parties in the past?

“Don't worry, I know exactly what will make Sheridan and her guests happy,” Tiberia said. “I'll handle everything.”

“Great,” I said, and we hung up.

Whew! I was really relieved that Tiberia had taken over the whole gift bag thing, but it bugged me that I hadn't known to call her in the first place. I wondered why it hadn't been noted in Sheridan Adams's file.

Just to be sure I hadn't overlooked it I flipped through the file and reviewed the vendors listed for all the parties and events L.A. Affairs had handled for Sheridan. No mention of Distinctive Gifting.

Then it hit me—oh my God, Vanessa must have taken it out on purpose. Just to make things harder on me, to make me look incompetent in front of Sheridan, to try to get me fired.

Bitch.

I was ready to storm down the hall and confront Vanessa when my cell phone rang. Mike Ivan's name appeared on my caller ID screen.

“I've got a sample of the gift bag you wanted,” he said when I answered. “I can bring it over, if you want.”

Since I didn't think it was a good idea to have a maybe-connected-to-the-Russian-mob guy show up at L.A. Affairs, plus I didn't like to miss a chance to get out of the office, I said, “I can come by your place.”

“I'll be here all afternoon,” he said.

We hung up. I got my things and left.

There was no quick way to get anywhere in Los Angeles at this time of day, so I settled on the 101 freeway, then went south on the 110. I crept along the surface streets to my favorite parking lot on Santee Street, then hoofed it a block to the fabric store on Ninth Street, where I'd met Mike before.

The same guy who'd given me stink-eye the last time I was there sat behind the counter. He gave me stink-eye again.

I spotted Mike at the rear of the store. He was on his cell phone. We made eye contact, and a few seconds later he hung up. As I walked over he disappeared into the stock room, then came out again carrying a brown box.

“What do you think?” he asked, pulling off the lid.

I moved aside the plastic wrap and picked up the sample tote bag his designer friend had made. It was black with a red heart that had “all you need is love” stitched across it in a colorful pattern that I think was called psychedelic back in the day. The lining—crucial to the success of any handbag—had the same pattern. The fabric felt great, and the design was awesome.

“It's perfect,” I said, and put it back in the box. “Sheridan will love it.”

Mike nodded. “I can get them to you in a couple of days.”

A two day turnaround time for the hundreds of bags I needed was quick, even for one of the factories housed in the upper floors of the nearby buildings. I guess Mike was putting a rush on it for me.

“What's going on with your friend's murder? That detective's girlfriend?” he asked.

Mike and I had discussed Amanda's death the last time I was here, and I was a bit surprised that he brought it up again. Yet it didn't seem like a casual question. Mike looked troubled.

I got a weird feeling.

“The LAPD knows who murdered her,” I said. “They're—”

“Who?” Mike demanded.

My weird feeling got weirder.

Jeez, maybe I was wrong to connect with Mike again—no matter how desperate I was for gift bags so I could keep my job. I didn't know if the identity of Amanda's killer was confidential—Shuman hadn't asked me to keep it to myself—but I guess he didn't figure on me discussing the murder with a maybe-maybe-not guy from the Russian mob.

I couldn't exactly refuse to give Mike the guy's name. I just wish I knew what he planned to do with it.

Maybe I was better off not knowing.

“Some guy named Adolfo—”

“Renaldi.” Mike bristled. His chest expanded and his shoulders straightened—which was usually a really hot look on men, but this time it kind of frightened me.

“Are they sure it was him?” Mike asked.

“They've got DNA, fingerprints, surveillance footage, even an eyewitness,” I said. “Do you know this guy?”