Cool Cache (19 page)

“Yeah, like that.”

“No. I’m a business consultant. My office is small, just three rooms. But I don’t necessarily want to talk to businesses like mine. Any of your clients will do. I’m just interested in things like honesty and reliability.”

“We’re both of those things.”

“I’m sure you are,” I said, “but I’d like some independent confirmation.”

The door behind me opened. I smelled French fries. I turned to see a man standing on the threshold, wearing an olive uniform with JAY-CEE JANITORIAL SERVICES embroidered on the pocket. He was struggling with a large box filled with paper bags that all sported the golden arch emblem of McDonald’s. He and the clerk exchanged a few words in Spanish before he disappeared down the hall with the box. Whatever he said to her had made her frown.

“Is something wrong?” I said.

“No. Hector just wants me to help him carry stuff in from the truck.”

“Go ahead. I don’t mind waiting.”

“No. Our customers come first. He can do it alone.”

“Are you having a party?”

“Not really. There’s no place to eat around here. Whoever isn’t busy goes out for food. Hector gets mad when it’s his turn.”

“Then maybe you’d better help him.”

She hesitated. “You sure it’s okay?”

“I’m sure.”

Hector returned from the back offices. She said something to him and the two disappeared into the dust and noise. They wouldn’t be gone long. Hector’s truck was probably parked in the lot off the alley. I hurried to the ledger on the desk and saw columns of names, invoice numbers, and dollar amounts. I grabbed the scratch pad and the chewed pencil from the counter and began flipping pages and jotting down names, but I soon realized names alone wouldn’t help connect Lupe Ortiz with her clients.

There were several file cabinets lined up by the wall. I opened drawers until I came to one that was full of personnel files. Lupe Ortiz’s name was written on one of the tabs. Inside was an evaluation sheet listing the clients she serviced, including Nectar. The list gave no indication of which days she cleaned any of the businesses. Under various columns that read
punctuality, neatness,
and
honesty
were letter grades. Lupe had earned all A’s and B’s in every category. There were no incident reports, no complaints. Nothing that indicated Lupe was a thief. If she had been, somebody would have caught her at it in the ten years she’d worked for the company. Somebody else was responsible for Helen’s missing chocolates.

There was no copy machine in the lobby, so I jotted down as many companies and contact names as I could until I heard voices outside the door. My heart pounded as I stuffed Lupe’s report card back in the file and closed the drawer. I ran to the other side of the counter, arriving just as the young woman appeared with a tray of sodas. I opened the door for her, breathing deeply to calm my nerves.

She thanked me and took the tray to the back room. When she returned to the lobby, I grabbed the brochure from the counter.

“Look,” I said, “you’ve been very helpful, but I don’t want to interrupt your lunch. Tell Mr. Rocha I’ll call him tomorrow.”

She looked stricken, as if she’d made a bad decision. “Okay. You’re sure you’ll call back?”

“Of course.”

I felt guilty lying to her, but I didn’t want to waste any more time. I had to get the list of Jay-Cee clients to Charley so he could call on them one by one until he found the person who had given Lupe Ortiz the chocolate pot.

Chapter 23

Beverly Hills was on my way back to the office, so I decided to stop at Nectar to tell Helen that Roberto Ortiz had been killed in a drive-by shooting. When I arrived, she was scooping up chocolate from her marble tabletop and molding it into egg shapes. Her reaction to the news was muted. Cumulative stress was beginning to make her look wasted. One of her fingernails was broken and jagged, and the circles beneath her eyes looked like the dark side of a crescent moon.

“I got another of those two a.m. calls last night,” she said. “I unplugged the telephone, but I can’t take this much longer, Tucker. I’m so tired.”

“Charley’s still looking into your missing inventory, and I’m trying to find out who gave Lupe that chocolate pot. I finally got a list of clients from her employer and—”

Helen smashed the chocolate egg onto the marble in one angry splat. “Please don’t tell me you have another stupid theory about Lupe Ortiz’s death. I’m getting sick of listening to you rag on and on about it. So far I don’t see much progress in Charley’s investigation. As for you, you’re supposed to be marketing my business, not wasting time solving crimes that have already been solved.”

I knew she was under stress, but I was taken aback by her anger. I remembered her ex-husband’s warning that Helen had a dark side. I wondered if I was seeing it now.

“Helen, I’m not your employee. You’re just one of my clients, and in case you’re worried, I charge you only for the time I spend on Nectar’s marketing plan. Here’s the deal. Eugene is missing. I think his disappearance is related to your shop and maybe even to Lupe Ortiz’s murder, so I have to investigate all theories, stupid or not.”

Helen bit her lip as if that might prevent the tears from cascading down her cheeks. It didn’t work. Exhaustion was making her hysterical.

“Missing? Why didn’t you tell me? I just thought he was busy with his mother and didn’t have time to call. I have to do something. Maybe I should organize a candlelight vigil or make up some fliers.”

I did a mental eye roll. “That’s not necessary. Charley and I have it covered. Look, why don’t you stay with Dale tonight? Maybe you’ll get some sleep there.”

“He’s having his house painted. He doesn’t want me to come over. Says the fumes will give me a headache.”

That was unfortunate. If Dale Ewing wasn’t around to soothe Helen’s anxiety, she might fall apart. If she did, all of the feature articles in the newspaper and all of the chocolate symposiums I could organize weren’t going to save Nectar.

I didn’t know who was behind those late-night telephone calls, but Helen’s ex-husband was a prime suspect. I left the list of Lupe’s customers and a note of explanation on Charley’s desk at the office, and headed to Irvine to confront Brad Taggart.

Chapter 24

An hour later, I was cruising toward the entrance to Taggart’s office building when a new Mercedes passed by. Taggart was driving. I did a U-turn and followed him, noting the license plate on the car. It wasn’t a dealer advertisement, which meant it wasn’t the Mercedes I’d seen at Nectar the night Lupe Ortiz was murdered—unless the plate was new.

Taggart drove to the Montage, an upscale resort located along the Laguna Beach coastline. I waited on the street as he rolled into the circular driveway. A young man in uniform opened the car door. The valet took Taggart’s black leather duffle bag from the trunk and escorted him inside. If Helen’s ex was staying at the Montage, his company was springing for top-of-the-line accommodations. Being a CEO was good work if you could get it. As soon as Taggart disappeared into the lobby, I pulled into the driveway, too.

The valet opened my car door. “Are you staying with us tonight?”

“No. I’m meeting a client at the bar.”

“Perfect. Allow me to escort you.”

He led me through a low gallery that opened to a lounge with a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Taggart standing at the reception desk as if he was checking in. I didn’t want him to see me, so I walked out to a balcony overlooking a swimming pool with a bottom mosaic depicting a rising sun. Rows of lounge chairs were lined up around the perimeter. Beyond the pool was a patch of lawn bordering a walking path. A few feet farther was a cliff that fell to the sea where waves broke over an outcropping of rocks just beyond the small beach.

Taggart left the reception desk and headed with his bag down a long hallway. I followed a short distance behind. He stopped at a door and slipped the key card into the slot, and went inside. I didn’t know how long he planned to stay in the room. It was possible he was in for the night. At the end of the hall I found a door leading to the grounds and made my way to the ocean side of his room, where I discovered a private patio with a couple of lounge chairs.

Through the glass of a sliding door I saw a king-sized bed looming three feet above the floor. Climbing aboard required long legs, a ladder, or maybe just two consenting adults. A bottle of champagne lolled in an ice bucket on a stand near the door. I wondered if that was standard with the room or if Taggart was expecting company. The leather duffle was sitting on the bed. A moment later, Taggart came out of the bathroom and headed for the door. I ran inside to follow him, but by the time I got to the lobby, he was gone.

I couldn’t stay all night waiting for him to come back, so I decided to have one last look around the hotel. I searched the spa area, the gift shop, the restaurant, and the lower-level meeting rooms. He wasn’t anywhere. I was about to leave when I noticed him standing near the valet station. If he drove away, I’d never be able to get to my car in time to follow him.

Moments later, an Audi convertible drove up. The top was down. The driver was a young woman with blond hair. She got out of the car and handed the valet her keys. Taggart walked over to him and began gesturing toward an area near the front door. An animated discussion ensued that put a frown on the valet’s lips. A short time later, he parked the Audi in the area where Taggart had been pointing. I remembered the day he made Charley and me change tables at the espresso shop. Taggart was used to getting his way.

The woman watched from a distance until the car was parked. She strolled over to Taggart as if she was walking the runway at a Paris fashion show. She was one of the few women I’d seen who actually looked good in a red leather jacket and matching pants. Taggart kissed her on the lips. She responded with a confident smile. She may have been Taggart’s wife, but I didn’t think so. The kiss seemed unpracticed.

He slipped his arm around her waist and guided her to the lobby bar. Before long, they were toasting each other with martinis the size of birdbaths. I found a seat in a corner that wasn’t in Taggart’s direct line of vision and ordered a Shirley Temple, because I didn’t want alcohol to dull my reactions.

It took only fifteen minutes for Taggart and his companion to finish their drinks. They must have been on a schedule, because they got up and headed down the hall toward his room. There was little doubt in my mind what they planned to do there. I gave them enough time to open the bottle of champagne and undress before ignoring the DO NOT DISTURB sign with a knock on the door.

From inside the room, I heard a man’s voice shouting, “Can’t you read? We don’t want to be bothered.”

I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I kept my voice as low as I could and still be heard. “I’m sorry, Mr. Taggart, but I have an urgent message from your wife.”

“Slide it under the door,” he said.

Bingo.

“I can’t. The envelope is too big to fit.”

A moment later, Brad Taggart appeared in the doorway wearing a thick terry cloth bathrobe, which he held closed around his body. I’d have felt more at ease if the belt had been tied, because what was under that robe was more than I wanted to know about old Brad. Over his shoulder, I could see a pair of red leather pants draped across a chair.

In a flash, Taggart’s expression transitioned from angry to confused, to angry again. “You.”

“Yeah. Me.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Reconnaissance. Can I come in?”

“No, you cannot come in, and if you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call security.”

He tried to close the door, but I blocked it with my foot.

“Here’s what I think,” I said. “You won’t call security, because it might get loud. That’s bad for you, because, if I’m not mistaken, you’re in a hotel room with a woman who isn’t your wife. Call me crazy, but I doubt the current Mrs. Taggart would be thrilled by the news.”

Behind him, I saw a woman’s arm reach out and grab the leather pants and pull them out of view.

“What do you want?” Taggart said.

“My assistant has disappeared. I want the truth this time. Has Eugene Barstok contacted you?”

“You seem to have an unhealthy curiosity about my appointment calendar. Too bad it’s none of your business.”

“My business, police business, whatever.”

He smirked. “The police aren’t interested in me.”

“Not now, but you never know what might pique their curiosity.”

“What are you after? Money?”

“Nope. Just information. I want to know where Eugene is.”

“Why should I tell you anything? What’s in it for me?”

“Here’s what’s in it for you, Brad. You tell me what you know about Eugene, and I won’t tell your wife where you were tonight.”

A flicker of uncertainty ghosted across his face. “My wife already knows where I am.”

I chuckled. “Seriously, do I look like the sort of person who would believe that crap?”

The sliding glass door rolled opened and a woman in red leather slipped through the opening onto the hotel grounds, bumping into one of the patio chairs in her haste to leave.

Taggart glanced over his shoulder, noted the situation, and turned back to me. “I told you. I’ve never heard of this Eugene character. As for my private life, you can’t prove anything.”

“The burden of proof is on you, Brad. Tell me where you were last Thursday night.”

He glared at me. “I was here.”

“With Leather Pants?”

“Her name is Lisa.”

“Do you and Lisa come here every Thursday?”

His smile was smug. “Sunday. Tuesday. Thursday. I come with Lisa as often as I can and wherever I can.”

“Jeez, Taggart. You’re still a newlywed and you’re already cheating on your wife. Why bother to marry if you want to play the field?”