Obsession, Deceit and Really Dark Chocolate (12 page)

“Lots of people, friends, people from work. Rick’s gonna be there and I think he’s going to ask Mary Ann. Did you know they talk on the phone all the time? And I think they went out to dinner again, too. They’ve really hit it off. Maybe we could do another double date in the city sometime.”

Anatoly was studying me, clearly trying to piece together the conversation from my end of it.

“You want to have dinner with me again?” I purred, purely for Anatoly’s benefit.

“Yeah, of course!” Johnny gushed.

“I see, well I think I can make it to your place on Thursday. I’m kind of in the middle of something right now, but I’ll call you back and get the details.”

“Great!”

“Yeah, great. I’ll talk to you later, Johnny.” I hung up and grinned at Anatoly.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“
That
was a man who is head over heels in love with me.”

“And you’re meeting him at his place?”

Was that concern in his eyes? Jealousy, even? Oh, this was too good. “He’s cooking me dinner.”

“Maggie Gallagher is Fitzgerald’s media person. How does this Johnny person know her?”

Oops, I had forgotten that he had overheard that part, too. “Johnny is Fitzgerald’s personal assistant,” I confessed. “He’s really nice and not just a little bit cute and he
loves
me.”

“Just how far are you planning on going in order to get information about Eugene?”

I held up my hands as if trying to physically grasp what I thought he was implying. “Do you actually think I’m planning on sleeping with some guy just so I can get a little more information about Eugene and his former life? Is that seriously what you think?”

“I
think
that murder investigations are very dangerous and that you are risking your life just so you can make me angry. I
think
that you are capable of doing some very stupid things.”

“Let me explain a few things to you. When I sleep with a man, I do so in order to get off, not to get information. Secondly, one of the
stupid
things I’m capable of is solving the
stupid
cases that you can’t!”

Anatoly took a step back. “Excuse me?”

“Let’s face it, Anatoly. You stink at your job. Once upon a time you were determined to figure out who killed Alex Tolsky, but I’m the one who figured that out. Granted, I didn’t work it out until the killer was actually standing in front of me and threatening my life, but that’s still more than you can say.”

“I would have been able to figure it out if you hadn’t had me thrown in jail for a crime I didn’t commit.”

“Now you’re just making excuses,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “I’m a better detective than you and I’m not walking away from the case.”

“Want to bet?”

“Never bet against me, Anatoly. You will always lose.”

“That’s because you cheat.”

“All’s fair in love and war.”

Anatoly took a step forward and he tilted his head to the side. He studied my face with the attention of a sculptor being introduced to his next model. “Funny,” he muttered, “I don’t think this is about war.”

For a moment there was total silence. Sure, we were standing on the sidewalk and cars were driving past and the wind was rustling the trees that lined the street, but all of that faded away as I tried to absorb what he had just said.

And then he turned around, walked to his newly repaired Harley and drove off.

This is why I hated Anatoly. He would drop these little bombs and then walk away without dealing with the emotional chaos he had just created. Did he just tell me that he loved me? Was he just messing with my head? A comment like that needed to be immediately followed by a serious discussion or sex, but to say something like that and then just hop on a motorized phallic symbol and ride off wasn’t acceptable.

“I’m done with this,” I said aloud. “I’m done with obsessing and overanalyzing every comment. I’m just done.”

A woman pushing a toddler in a stroller walked by just as I finished my mutterings. She gave me a frightened look and a wide berth. I guess people on the streets of Livermore didn’t talk to themselves as much as those on the streets of San Francisco.

I sighed and started for my car. I would show Anatoly up and then I would wash my hands of him. I didn’t need him or his ambiguous endearments or his hands, which were strong and just a little rough…. There had been one time when he had lifted me up with one hand while the other one gently worked its way up my shirt. God, that had felt good. Would it be so awful to let those hands touch me again?

Yes, it would. I jumped in the driver’s seat of my car, eager to get home and take a cold shower.

The first thing I noticed when I got home was the folded-over piece of paper taped to my front door.

I pulled it off and examined it. It was written with letters cut out individually from magazines and said,
My private life is my business. Stay out of it or else!

It was signed with a child’s sticker depicting the Pink Panther.

Unlike the phone message this was clearly a threat, but for the life of me I had no idea what I was being threatened with or why. And how had this note gotten on my door? My building consisted of three flats, and you needed a key just to get into the lobby. The people who lived on the bottom floor were out of town (as they always were). That just left Nancy on the second floor and me on the third. I glanced toward the stairs and considered stopping by her apartment to ask if she had admitted anyone, but then quickly thought better of it. Nancy and I didn’t get along…at all…and the reality was that if someone rang her place and told her that they wanted to leave a threatening anonymous message on my door she probably would have buzzed them right in. I stared at the note again and then finally let myself inside.

Mr. Katz greeted me by swishing his tail in my direction before disappearing into the kitchen. I got the hint, but my cat would have to wait a few minutes for his meal.

I crossed to my phone and dialed Marcus’s cell.

“What’s up, sweetie?” Marcus asked. “Have you turned Anatoly into an alcoholic yet?”

“I got another message from Darth Vader, at least that’s who I think this is from—but this time the message is in written form,” I said slowly.

“Darth Vader wrote…hold it, are you talking about the Darth Vader who left the message on your machine?”

“That’s the one.”

“Shit, so what does it say?”

“The note just tells me to stay out of his private life or else.”

“That’s all it says?”

“Yep. The message is spelled out with letters cut out from magazines.”

“My God, it’s like a bad 1980s TV drama. How do you know it’s from Vader?”

“Because there’s a picture of the Pink Panther on it.”

“Steve Martin?”

“No, not Steve Martin, the animated Pink Panther, the one they always show during the opening credits. It’s in keeping with his last cat comment.”

“I see,” Marcus breathed. We were both silent for a moment and then Marcus broke in again. “I take it back, I don’t see at all. Have you been sticking your nose into the personal affairs of the Pink Panther?
Does
this relate to the last movie? And if so, are you Beyoncé?”

“I don’t think so. I’m nowhere near blond or curvy enough. Should I call the cops?”

“And tell them that Darth Vader had teamed up with everybody’s favorite bumbling French detective to send you a message?” Marcus asked.

“Yeah, it doesn’t exactly scream emergency situation.”

“Hardly.” He paused before adding, “This is just more evidence that the person responsible for all this is Anne Brooke.”

“I don’t know, Marcus. I’m not even sure this has anything to do with Eugene or politics.”

“Of course it does. The note is a bit harsh, but the picture of the animated character softens it a bit. It’s a vague threat bundled inside a mixed message…sounds just like a Democrat.”

I rolled my eyes. “Goodbye, Marcus.” I put the phone back in its cradle. Better to hang up on him than admit he was right.

8

Without the lies I am uncomplicated and uninteresting. My bullshit gives me depth.

—C’est La Mort

I SPENT THE NEXT MORNINGDOING MORE INTERNET RESEARCH ON ALL
the players. I had started by gathering information on Fitzgerald, Brooke and the top members of their teams. They were nothing if not consistent in their behavior. It seemed that when Fitzgerald wasn’t speaking at some pro-life rally he was in church praying for a more homogeneous and intolerant world. Brooke, on the other hand, was all about the seven deadly sins. But really, who wasn’t? Spend one afternoon of lying around eating Oreos, fantasizing about Brad Pitt in a toga, and you were guilty of three. The problem was that Brooke always took things a step too far. She didn’t just drool over the eighteen-year-old kid her former hubby had hired to paint their fence, she actually slept with him.

I ended up spending much more time reading about Anne than Fitzgerald. Not just because I thought she was likely to be Eugene’s murderer, but because she was much more fun to research. Which article would you rather read? “Fitzgerald Urges Teens To Practice Abstinence” or “Brooke Dirty Dances With Distressed Foreign Dignitary”?

I was actually printing up the latter article when my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Sophie, it’s Melanie. Is this a good time?”

“It’s a fine time,” I reassured her. “What’s up?”

“I haven’t been able to reach Anatoly today and I was just wondering if either of you were able to get in touch with that boy’s family.”

I straightened my back as I tried to make sense of her words. “That boy’s family?”

“Yes, I know Anatoly thinks I shouldn’t worry about it, but the whole thing is very upsetting.”

I felt my hands clench into fists.
What
boy? Anatoly hadn’t told me anything about this! “Anatoly’s right, Melanie,” I said slowly. “You shouldn’t worry about…um…oh shoot, what’s the boy’s name again?”

“Peter Strauss,” Melanie supplied. “And I’m not exactly worried about him, not that his death wasn’t a tragedy, but at least he’s with God now.”

Little bells started to go off in my head. Peter was the guy who jumped to his death just months after he had begun working for Brooke’s campaign.

“But I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t up all last night thinking about that letter,” Melanie continued.

“Right, the letter. Do you really think the letter was all that important?” I asked.

“You don’t?”

“I don’t know,” I said. What I wanted to do was scream in frustration. If this were a movie Melanie would have answered my question by giving me all the information I needed to know about the letter and this Peter person. Instead she was answering me with vague, two-word sentences. Of course, I could have told her that Anatoly had neglected to tell me about this, but I was afraid that if I exposed the communication problems between Anatoly and myself, Melanie would decide that she didn’t want me on the case after all. So I took a breath and tried again. “What part of the letter was responsible for giving you insomnia?”

“Every part of it!” Melanie’s voice was shaking, although it was unclear which emotion was causing the tremble. “Why would this boy be writing my husband in the first place? And what did he mean when he wrote that Eugene ‘had the power to not only destroy political careers but also his life and the lives and families of other well-meaning people’? Does this mean that Eugene had information on Anne Brooke that would have ruined her? Even if that was true, why would a twenty-two-year-old campaign worker be so distraught over that? Is this why he took his own life? Is it possible that my Eugene was culpable in the death of another person? Is that possible, Sophie?” The last sentence was more of a hysterical scream than a question.

“I don’t know. I’m sure Eugene didn’t want Peter to die, but maybe he didn’t know that Peter was the kind of guy who would jump out a fifteenth-story window in order to avoid a little scandal.”

“Perhaps,” Melanie said. Her voice had dropped a few notches in volume but it was a ways from being calm. “I do think Anatoly was on the right track when he suggested that he contact Peter’s surviving family. They may be able to shed some light on all this. Has Anatoly gotten through to any of them?”

“Not yet. They haven’t been answering their phone and there hasn’t been a machine. I’m beginning to suspect that Anatoly transcribed the number incorrectly. Could you give it to me again?”

“I never gave it to him in the first place. Anatoly said he could get it himself.”

Hate him.
“I’ll just ask him again, then. And I’ll try calling…um, I’m sorry, I just blanked out on Peter’s parents’ names.” I was getting less subtle by the second.

“Anatoly did tell you about all this, didn’t he? Because from the nature of your questions you appear to be a tad out of the loop.”

“I’m totally looped. Trust me. I’m just a little tired. Look, I really do have to get going, but I’ll get back to you with some answers really soon.”

“How soon?”

“Soon, soon. It’s my top priority, so try to relax and leave the worrying to me. Take care, Melanie!” I hung up before she could ask me any more questions.

It took me two more hours of searching the Net before I was able to track down the phone number of someone related to Peter. His obituary gave the names of his parents and a sister. His parents were unlisted, but I struck major pay dirt with his sister, Tiffany Strauss. As luck would have it she worked in the city as an esthetician at Mojo, a day spa on upper Haight that was all the rage among the seriously hip and moderately budget-conscious.

I clutched the phone in my hand and sat cross-legged on my bed. Getting in touch with this woman would be a cinch, but what was I going to say?
Hi, I think I may need to talk to you about your brother and I was hoping you could help me figure out why?
For some reason I doubted that would work.

No, the best course of action would be to book an appointment with her for one of the services she offered and pray that she liked to get chatty with her clients.