Not A Girl Detective (26 page)

“I’ll take that wine now,” he called.

Clarissa’s name sprang to mind. She was upset that

morning. Or maybe Nancy did it, to make her mother

look bad. I didn’t know.

“Do you have red?”

“Bad Chianti.”

“Sounds good.”

I came back out with two glasses. “I ordered a large

pepperoni and olives. It’ll be here in half an hour.”

Breathe. Edgar’s painting of Grace Horton is in shreds and you just lied to the police, but you still have to breathe.

“King’s a good detective, I have to give him that,”

Gambino said, unbuckling his holster.

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“Can you put that thing in the closet? I don’t want to look at it.”

“No problem,” he said, taking off his jacket as he

walked down the hall. “But he treats everybody like

shit.” I heard the water running in the bathroom. Then Gambino came out wiping his face with a towel and sat down next to me. “What King was really pissed off

about was me. I should’ve called him that night. It

should’ve been his case from the beginning.”

“When did Lasarow and Dunphy show up in L.A.?”

And why did Dunphy choose that particular moment to

mention the painting?

“I don’t know. But when I realized the three of them

were headed over here, I thought I’d better come

along.”

“Thank you.” I leaned over and kissed him. I had to

pull myself together here. “Your five o’clock shadow

becomes you.”

“I’m not ready to go there yet, Cece. What about this painting? When Lasarow told you it’d been trashed, you looked ready to jump out of your skin.”

I took a sip of wine. “I did?”

“Yup.”

“Time marches on, but his powers of observation are

undimmed.”

“Let’s hear it, Cece.”

I took another sip. “That painting meant a lot to a lot of people.”

“Like who?”

“Well, Edgar, for one.”

“What did it mean to Edgar?”

“I don’t know exactly. Give me that towel.” He handed it to me and I folded it up and put it on the coffee table.

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“Who else?”

“That girl we saw perform last night. Nancy Olsen.

The painting was a portrait of her grandmother, the

original model for the Nancy Drew covers. For her, it meant family history.”

“And?”

“And then there’s me. It mattered to me.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to understand the woman in it. Now I don’t

think I ever will.” I shook my head. “Can we change the subject?”

“Sure.”

It was quiet for a few seconds.

“So. Tell me how your case is going.”

“It’s going nowhere fast.”

“Can you be more explicit?”

“You really want to hear this?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” I moved closer to him.

“Two good-looking young men, no criminal records,

no mob ties, nothing. Solid citizens. They’re found

pumped full of bullets inside a burning car on a quiet side street in a residential area. No gangs, no drugs.”

“What, then?”

“The one thing these poor suckers have in common

is Tiffani Lowrie.”

“Who?”

“Tiffani Lowrie. She and her identical twin sister,

Brandi, were Playboy models in the early nineties.”

I rolled my eyes. “What do people expect when they

name their children Tiffani and Brandi?”

“Those aren’t their real names, Cece.”

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“Whatever.”

“Playboy models attract stupid men. Like this bogus

Wall Street trader, came from a family of Iowa pig

farmers. He was behind a major hedge fund scam.

While he was riding high, he fell for Tiffani. Gave her houses, cars, millions of dollars’ worth of jewelry. The feds caught up with him eventually, and when they

found out where the money went, they wanted it back

so they could reimburse the poor fools this pig farmer had conned. Tiffani informed them she had no knowledge of any fraudulent business dealings and they

could go screw themselves.”

“Poor girl earned her keep the hard way.”

“No doubt, but legally she had no claim to it. Eventually, she handed over the items she said she still had, but there were a few key omissions.”

“Is that where the dead guys come into it? The solid

citizens?”

“Yup. They’d fallen under her spell, too. An out-of-

work actor and a doorman at a nightclub. Not exactly a brain trust.”

God, they sounded like Jake and Andrew, poor fools.

Was Bridget really in love with Andrew? Why would

Andrew have hurt Jake? Could Jake have been black-

mailing Andrew about the old days? Was Andrew hid-

ing him so he could keep tabs on him?

“They were trying to sell seven hundred thousand

dollars’ worth of jewelry for Tiffani that night.”

“So the buyers killed them and kept the money and

the jewels?”

“And torched the car to cover up their tracks. That’s how it’s looking, at least.”

“What about the Wall Street guy?”

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“In federal prison in Pensacola, Florida.”

“And Tiffani?”

“Rock-solid alibi.”

“You sleep with the right person and you’ve got a

rock-solid alibi.”

“She was at a church dance.”

“Please.”

“I’m not kidding,” he said, laughing. “There were

close to a hundred people there. A little Unitarian

church in Yucaipa. She made the punch.”

“The Nancy Drew books are full of twins and look-

alikes pulling fast ones. Maybe it wasn’t Tiffani that night. Maybe it was Brandi.”

He slapped his forehead. “Now why didn’t I think of

that?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Yes, I’m kidding you. She was out of town.”

I was reaching for a pillow to hit him with when the

doorbell rang.

“Saved by a pizza.”

Out of town. Who knows what that means? Was

someone with this out-of-town twin every second? You

can go from out of town to in town pretty quickly. This was the age of flight, after all. Had anybody checked the punch bowl for fingerprints?

Fingerprints. How could I have forgotten about fin-

gerprints?

I was going to get Andrew’s fingerprints.

How hard could that be? And then they could be

checked against the second set on Jake’s suicide note, and when they didn’t match, well, then Bridget could

have her boy toy back.

Unfortunately, Andrew was AWOL. How was I going

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to find him? Maybe I didn’t actually have to find him.

Maybe I could get his prints off some personal possession of his, like a toothbrush or a piece of clothing. But then I’d have to get into his apartment, which was a designated crime scene, and that was a big no-no. Maybe

Bridget had some of his stuff at her place. Oh, she was not going to like this.

“Here you go, babe.”

“That’s some lethal dose of pepperoni.”

“At least you’re going to die happy.”

I looked up at him, dizzy with the heady scent of rendered pig. If it weren’t for a few unsolved crimes, yeah, I could die happy right now. But I’d die happy later.

First, I had to make sure Bridget was going to die

happy, too. All I had to do was exonerate her Peter

Frampton look-alike lover—with or without her help.

2 9

Turned out I got Mitchell’s fingerprints instead,

which wasn’t entirely beside the point if they could get Andrew off the hook. There was also Mitchell’s generally unpleasant demeanor to consider. As per Nancy

Drew, the culprit is invariably the one who racks up the most negative adjectives, and if you asked me, Mitchell Honey was nothing if not one big negative adjective.

The way it happened was a bit convoluted. I called

Bridget first thing the next morning to discuss my plan, but she, too, had gone AWOL. No answer at home, no

answer at work. But the fact that the store was closed on Tuesdays precluded the need to panic, at least for the moment.

Meanwhile, all that talk about the ex–pig farmer de-

tained in a Pensacola, Florida, prison reminded me of a certain felon closer to home. I decided to pay another visit to Asher Farrell’s gallery, to pump Melinda for some details about her boss.

By ten-thirty the place was already crowded, mean-

ing that there were three tattooed hipsters in baggy

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shorts prowling around. It must’ve been that rave re-

view in the
Times
that brought them in because it sure wasn’t Melinda’s people skills.

“Good morning!” I said cheerily.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, leaping to her feet. “Good

morning!” Her hair was askew and her cheeks were

flushed. She stepped out from behind the desk to greet me with three catalogs in one hand and Asher Farrell’s leather folio in the other. She looked panicked. “Back so soon?”

“The show really stuck with me. I wanted to see it

again.”

“Did you enjoy the catalog? Oh, dear!” The folio had

slipped out of her hand.

“Are you all right?” I bent down to retrieve it for her.

While I was down there, I cast my eye over today’s

date. Asher Farrell had back-to-back appointments un-

til five, starting with Mitchell Honey in (I looked up at the clock) less than half an hour. Too bad. I was not prepared for Mitchell Honey.

“Thanks,” she said, taking back the folio. “I’m fine.

It’s just so early for clients. Usually I have a while to get things organized.”

I glanced over at the three young men, all of whom

were wearing Von Dutch trucker hats. “They’re

clients?”

“They run an alternative space in Hollywood. Their

dad is actually the client. They’re kind of like scouts.”

“I see.”

She made her way over to them and passed out the

catalogs. They shot out their hands without taking their eyes off a photograph of two prepubescent models having their makeup done. You wish.

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“I did enjoy the catalog,” I said. “Very provocative

essay. But comparing Lari Uklanski to Rembrandt,

isn’t that a stretch?”

“The handling of shadows, that’s all. Anyhow, you’re

doing great!”

“What do you mean?”

“The dyslexia.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay, then. Why don’t you look around? I’ve got to

take care of a few things.”

“Can I ask you a quick question?”

“Of course.” I followed her over to the front desk.

“I have a friend who’s in the market for a Salvador

Dalí print. Does Asher handle things like that?”

“It’s interesting you should mention that.”

“It is?”

“Yes. And no, I’ve never known him to handle any-

thing by Dalí.”

“Why is it interesting?”

“Dalí ’s interesting, that’s what I meant.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. “So you’re saying no collectors have popped up lately looking for something by Dalí?”

“Not as long as I’ve been here.”

So much for the theory that all Asher and Mitchell

were doing was helping Edgar with his shopping needs.

“How long has that been?”

“Two years.”

“And you would definitely know about it if someone

had popped up?”

“I would definitely know about it.”

“Of course you would. You run the show around

here, I’m sure.”

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“That isn’t true,” she said, looking down demurely.

“But Asher can find anything. Maybe you want to talk

to him when he gets here. He’s busy today, but I’m sure he can squeeze a good friend like you in.”

Speaking of good friends, Mitchell Honey had ar-

rived, twenty minutes early. I couldn’t exactly hide.

“Hello there.” I gave him a little wave.

“Ms. Caruso. Yet again.”

“Do you two know each other?” Melinda asked

brightly.

“We’re ex-lovers,” I said. “Just kidding.” Just then I noticed the unopened bottle of Perrier sitting on

Melinda’s desk, and—what can I say?—inspiration

struck.

“Do you mind if I wait for him in his office?”

Mitchell asked Melinda.

Before she could say yes, I swooped upon the small

green bottle, wiped it down with the dangling sleeve of my sweater, and without letting it touch my skin,

shoved it into Mitchell’s left hand.

“You look really thirsty!” were the words I heard

coming out of my mouth, on the tail end of which I

snatched the bottle back and dropped it into my purse, directly on top of a wad of Kleenex. “Actually, I’m the one who’s dying of thirst here! And I love Perrier! I’m going to guzzle it on the ride home, if that’s okay with everyone!”

“Ms. Caruso,” Mitchell said, inhaling deeply. “Oh,

forget it.”

He retreated to the back, fuming, no doubt.

“It is important to keep hydrated,” Melinda said

cautiously.

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walk out of Asher Farrell Fine Art with Mitchell’s fingerprints. He already thought I was crazy, and Melinda was hardly about to pluck the bottle out of my purse. I was actually going to do this.

“Our next show is going to have a water element,

speaking of water. The artist has been saving her tears for the last eleven months. She keeps them in glass

beakers in her apartment in Brooklyn.”