City of War (3 page)

“Kim York, this is Mallory,” I said.

Kim stuck out her hand, and Mallory took it as if he were greeting a
marquesa
—not a half-dressed young lady with mud on her feet.

His clipped accent is as impeccable as his manners. “Welcome to the Black home, Ms. York. I knew some Yorks once. Sir Elliot and his lovely wife, Margaret.”

“I don’t believe I know El and M,” Kim answered, “but we Yorks are a reserved lot, so it’s possible we were just never properly introduced.”

I think Mallory was amused, because as he turned to go inside, he winked at me.

Kim had gaped at the house when we’d arrived, but once inside, she stopped dead in her tracks. She took in the oval foyer’s marble and murals, then looked up the thirty feet or so at the massive crystal and wrought iron chandelier suspended from a long, thick chain. After a moment, she said, “There’s dust on the bulbs.”

I laughed and said to Mallory, “Put Ms. York in the Toledo Room and see if you can scare up something for her to wear. Then let’s attend to that dust.”

“Toledo Room? Pray tell?” Kim asked.

“The previous owner had a real thing for Spanish steel.
You’ll understand when you see it. Why don’t you grab a shower and come down for a snack and a nightcap.”

As the two of them mounted the stairs, I stole another look at Kim’s long, tanned legs, and for the second time that night, I was impressed. When Mallory returned, I asked him if there was anything to eat.

“I’ll set something up in the kitchen. If I may say so, it’s good to have you back, sir. It’s never quite the same when you’re gone.”

“I take it the quake didn’t cause any damage.”

“Not unless you count the jar of pickles I dropped when I grabbed onto the counter. Other than the food, will you be needing me for anything else?”

“No, Mallory, I don’t believe so. Thank you.”

“Then good night, sir.”

I went upstairs and grabbed a quick shower and a change of clothes, then slipped some Wynton Marsalis onto the house sound system. The best jazz artist of today was just easing into something low and slow when Kim reappeared. She was wearing a long, teal silk robe with a pair of matching slippers. I hadn’t seen those clothes in a long time, and I felt the sadness well up. It always came when I least expected it. Turning a corner and catching a glimpse of copper hair. Seeing a profile in a passing car.

Kim turned to model her outfit. “You must have quite a budget for drop-ins. It only took Mallory about five minutes to come up with an entire wardrobe.”

I tried to keep my voice light. “He’s resourceful.”

Kim had pulled her still-damp hair back and gathered it with a strand of white lace. There was a matching strand tied around her neck, its trailing ends hanging down her back. I recognized the lace as the tiebacks from the draperies in the Toledo Room.

“Nice touch, the lace,” I commented.

She fingered the strand at her neck. “I couldn’t resist. It’s Alençon.”

The blank I drew must have shown, and she shook her
head again. “Made by French nuns and almost priceless. I thought the robe needed a little something.”

Looking at the way the silk clung to her, I said, “Groucho wouldn’t have been able to resist that line—especially when you threw in nuns. But I’d probably get my face slapped.” Shifting gears, I said, “The accommodations up to your standards?”

“That room is just flat-out magnificent. All those swords hanging on the walls. Very Ali Baba.” She paused. “I think everyone should have a completely unexpected place in their home, don’t you?”

“What’s yours?”

“I don’t know you well enough yet.”

It didn’t sound like she was being coy, so I dropped it. “Well, if the Mongol hordes try to take Rodeo Drive, we’ll mount our Ferraris and drive them back to Malibu.”

She laughed and saluted. “Aye, aye, Captain. By the way, I was impressed with the Vettriano over the fireplace, too.
The Letter
, isn’t it? I’m sure you know that the last time one of his originals was offered, it brought well over a million.”

“I bought it for a friend. It was her favorite.”

“Not Rhonda.” It wasn’t a question.

“No, not Rhonda.”

“Then it must have been the one in the photograph Mallory was hustling out of the room when I wasn’t supposed to be looking.”

“I’ll have to tell him he’s slipping,” I said with as much lightness as I could muster. I knew which picture it was.

We’d gone riding along the beach that morning. Mallory had packed a picnic lunch, and we stopped under a copse of trees. But each time we began a conversation, a large blue macaw above us would interrupt with loud, maniacal chatter. Eventually, we got to laughing so hard we couldn’t eat.

Figuring it was looking for a handout, she kicked off her shoes and stood on her saddle to offer it a banana chip. Our antagonist wolfed it down and squawked for more. I
snapped the picture just as she looked back at me. The copper-haired girl and the blue macaw. Two hours later, she would be dead.

“French lace and Scottish artists. You’re full of surprises,” I said to change the subject.

“I just read a lot, that’s all. Is that it? Just plain Mallory?”

“No, but I’ve never heard anyone call him anything else.”

“It’s appropriate somehow. Subject change. If you don’t mind my asking, just how the hell tall are you?”

“You have any questions you get tired of?”

She grinned, “Like, Can I borrow twenty till payday? That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

“Let me guess, hoops.”

“You only say that because I have a good jump shot.”

That made her laugh again, and I decided it was a sound I could get used to.

“Actually, I swim.”

“Ah, a contrarian.”

“I was just better at it, that’s all. But you can’t be my size and not have had someone stick a basketball in your hands, so once upon a time, I did play. It’s a terrific sport played by some of the best athletes in the world, but the shoe jackals have seduced an entire generation of gullible kids into believing that the ticket out of desperation is through a playground instead of a library.”

“And what do you
really
think?”

I smiled. “You asked, you got.”

“Remind me not to ask if I look fat in this robe. Hey, what have you got to eat in this palace? I’m ravenous again. And I could use another glass of that Plump stuff. It was almost as good as sex.”

“Mallory said there’d be something in the kitchen. Take a left through the dining room, and I’ll fetch another bottle of orgasms.”

3

PlumpJack Gets You to Toledo

Mallory had done his usual stellar job: Jerry’s Deli pastrami on onion rolls with sides of coleslaw and potato salad. The only thing people in laid-back L.A. tend to be passionately myopic about—other than the interminable Lakers/Clippers debate—is their deli. Factors, Nate & Al’s, Junior’s. Pick one, get an argument. Jerry’s may not be the Carnegie or the Stage, but for my money, it’s as close as you’re going to get on this coast. And the one on Beverly Boulevard across from Cedars-Sinai is open until 4:00 a.m., which in itself is cause for celebration in a city that rolls up the sidewalks after
Wheel of Fortune
.

While we ate, we small-talked, and after a couple of glasses of wine, I saw Kim start to relax. When we’d wiped the last dabs of mustard off our mouths, she said, “I’d kill for a cigarette, but as you may have noticed, Capt. Black, I came aboard without pockets. Is it too much to hope for that amid all this wretched excess there might be a Benson & Hedges? Or are you one of those California assholes who starts coughing and yelling cop if they see something being fired up that isn’t a joint?”

“Actually, I’d like a cigarette too. And my position on
tobacco is pretty much my position on everything that’s legal—and a few things that aren’t. It’s none of my business what you do. I only smoke two or three times a month, but if I wanted to go through four packs a day, as long as I’m not doing it in a nursery school, it’s between me and my butane salesman. I can’t help you with Benson & Hedges, though. When I want a cigarette, I want to taste it. So it’s English Ovals or nothing.”

“Bring ’em on.”

“I should warn you, they’re not filtered.”

“Then it’ll be like when I used to sneak my stepfather’s Camels.”

“Okay, let’s sit outside. I’ll turn on the pool lights.”

It was a beautiful night. Warm and full of stars. We sat, had another glass of wine and smoked. I let her get back to the events of the evening on her own.

“Dante and Tino,” she said. “Who the fuck ever figures you’re going to be kidnapped at Ralphs?”

“When did it happen?”

“About 5:30 this afternoon. The one on Olympic behind the Fox studios. Instead of doing what I usually do, which is park in the open lot in front, the sun was still really hot, so I pulled into the parking garage underneath and took the elevator up. I was in the salad aisle when this woman walked up and said, ‘Excuse me, miss, but is that your silver Mustang downstairs?’”

Kim stopped, seemed to falter. “Jesus, it’s like I’m watching a movie in my head.”

“Sometimes that happens. It’s why it’s usually better to tell a story instead of just answer questions. Now close your eyes and freeze-frame on the woman. Tell me about her.”

She swallowed a couple of times, seemed to work up her nerve, then closed her eyes. “Slender, maybe five-five. Attractive, but not drop dead. Black pantsuit, lime green blouse. Silk, I think.”

“How about her hair?”

“Shoulder-length. And she’s wearing a scarf. Designer.
Also lime with red geometrics. Jesus, it’s too fucking hot for a scarf.”

“Don’t get sidetracked. Concentrate on her face.”

“Sunglasses. Those ugly-as-shit Valentinos with the creepy butterflies on the temples. I call them the M. Night Shyamalan Collection.” She hesitated. “Terrible makeup choice too. She’s got olive skin, so her lipstick should be dark. Especially with the lime. But it’s bright pink.”

“Jewelry? Birthmarks?”

“Her ears are pierced, but there’s nothing in them. And her breath smells like cigarettes. Strong ones.” Suddenly, without warning, Kim burst into tears. After a moment, she got herself back under control. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“Emotional release. Healthy.”

She took a sip of wine. “After I told her I did have a silver Mustang, she said, ‘I thought I saw you get out of it. It’s none of my business, but some guy in a van ran into it, and he’s down there now leaving a note.’”

“What about her voice?” I said.

“Accented. French, but lower class. Inconsistent with her outfit.” She stopped again and looked at me. “My panties were in a bunch because I’d just gotten my car back from the body shop. Some old fart in Westwood thought the word ‘yield’ meant close your eyes and go for it and almost tore off my bumper.”

Kim was one of those people—mostly women and CIA directors—who can’t tell a story in a straight line. “What did you do?” I prodded.

“I left my cart in the salad aisle and made a beeline.”

“How long were you in the store before she came up to you?”

“Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. I was…”

I interrupted her. “Did she follow you out?”

Kim furrowed her brow, took another sip of wine and finally said, “Yes, she did. When I was getting in the parking elevator, she was walking across the front lot. Hey, her shoes were lime green too. Low heels.”

“But she didn’t get in the elevator.”

Then it hit her. “Shit, she couldn’t have seen anybody hit my car. She was parked on the upper level. What a freaking fucking idiot I am.”

“Okay, now we’ve established that there were at least three of them. Had you ever seen this woman before?”

“She looked kind of familiar, but not like I know her. More like when you see your Starbucks clerk at the dry cleaners. The face rings a bell, but it’s out of context.”

“Like someone who might have been following you earlier, but it didn’t register.”

Kim looked at me strangely. “How do you know so much about this stuff?”

I ignored her question. “Go on.”

“No, I want to know how you know what to ask. Are you a cop?”

“You’ve found me out. And this is the Beverly Hills PD safe house. But we have to be out by noon tomorrow because the chief has it reserved for a lunchtime quickie.”

She got a little irritated at my response, but that was okay. Emotion can help jog memory. I let her stew for a moment, then she calmed down and apologized. “Look, this has been the most traumatic experience of my life, and I know I’m not handling it very well. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I haven’t got a clue who you are.”

“You’re handling it just fine. And for the record, I’m just a private citizen who sometimes helps his friends. Besides, you’re the one who invited herself home with me.”

She lit another English Oval. “These are strong, but good. I need a break. Give me an example of how you help people.”

I gave it some thought. “Okay, last year, a good friend of mine, Shane Davis, a successful home builder, got a very aggressive form of leukemia. The last time we had dinner, he’d just finished running a marathon. Three months later, I was standing beside his hospital bed, and he weighed sixty-six pounds. He died the next day.

“Shane had a wife, Joanne, and four small daughters. He also had a business partner, Merle Street. When Merle realized Shane was dying, he hired a slippery law firm to rewrite the corporate records, then he looted the bank accounts, stopped paying creditors and let them force the place into bankruptcy.

“By the time Joanne called me, she’d lost her house, and she and the girls were living in a transient hotel near LAX, subsisting on food stamps. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what happened, but it was going to take years and hundreds of thousands of dollars to get it through the courts. And even after she won, what was she going to get? A judgment she’d have to try to collect on?”

Kim’s face took on a look of distress. “Are you going to tell me you killed this guy, Merle, because if you are, I salute you, because it sounds like the prick deserved it, but I don’t want to know.”