Cool Cache (2 page)

The darkness was making me edgy. I wanted to go home to the light, but first I had to call Helen to let her know about the unlocked door and the missing shelves.

The chocolate had left my fingers feeling sticky. I needed to wash my hands. I headed toward the bathroom, pausing just outside the closed door. It was the only room in the store I hadn’t checked yet. Prickles of tension snaked up my spine. I told myself I was being a wuss. No one was in there. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and slowly opened the door.

A metallic stench hit me like a wrecking ball. I covered my nose to ward off the smell. Gagged. I scanned the room and saw that the paper towel dispenser had been ripped from the wall. A pile of brown towels were strewn across the floor like autumn leaves. On top of them lay the body of a woman. She appeared to be a Latina in her forties. Her eyes were open and red, her pupils dilated. Bruises marred her neck. Her right leg was twisted at an odd angle to her torso. One outstretched arm had turned a purplish color. A feather lay in a pool of blood next to the body. It was long, eighteen inches or so, and brilliant green edged in white. The light made it seem iridescent.

I stumbled out of the bathroom. Out of Nectar. Out to my car. I fumbled for the cell phone in my purse. Clenched my hands to control the trembling. Dialed 911. Then I called Helen.

Chapter 2

Helen Taggart was just leaving the Century City shopping mall when I reached her cell phone. She made it to Nectar minutes after the arrival of a patrol car from the Beverly Hills Police Department and shortly before the homicide detectives and a few members of the paparazzi who must have been cruising Rodeo Drive, looking for celebrities going commando. Before long there were more flashbulbs than at a Hollywood movie premier. After years of hosting movie stars, Eurotrash, and tourist looky-loos in its trendy shops and restaurants, Beverly Hills was used to the attention.

While his partner interviewed Helen, a male homicide detective named O’Brien questioned me in the backseat of a patrol car that smelled like vomit and urine. My clothes would have to be torched before the night was over. He probably couldn’t conduct the interview inside Nectar because it was a crime scene, but the setting he chose seemed calculated to make me feel uncomfortable.

O’Brien was a tall redhead in his midthirties with a boyish face and an attitude that was all business. He sat behind the wheel of the patrol car, staring at me under the dim overhead light. His arm was draped over the bench seat as his fingers drummed against the faux leather. The movement and the red hair on the back of his digits reminded me of a quartet of Irish step dancers.

“It stinks in here,” I said. “Can you open the door?”

O’Brien paused for a moment as if considering my request. Then he lowered the window an inch or so. The annoyed expression on his face made it clear I’d just used up all my goodwill chits. I suppose homicide detectives were trained to suspect everybody, even me, but this guy needed a Miss Manners makeover. Uncooperative witnesses sometimes ended up as dead witnesses, and since I wasn’t into police-assisted suicide, I kept my irritation in check.

O’Brien tilted his head to the side and cracked his neck, an act that must make his chiropractor rub his hands with glee. Then he pulled a small notebook and a pen from his jacket pocket and prepared to take notes.

“So what brought you to Beverly Hills tonight?” he said.

“I had dinner with a friend. I was on my way home when I saw the light in the display case. I knew something was wrong because Helen never leaves it on.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because heat melts chocolate.”

He glared at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just explaining the basic principles of physics.”

A quarter-sized flush appeared on each of his cheeks. “Did you see anybody going in or out of the store?”

I shook my head. “A Mercedes was parked in the back when I got here. Somebody was inside. I assumed it was a valet from the restaurant next door.”

“What can you tell me about the driver?”

Our breath had fogged the window glass. I fought claustrophobia by wiping away the condensation with my hand, forgetting for a moment about all the drug-resistant microbes I may have just acquired.

“The car windows were dark. I saw only his arm. No tattoos, but he was a smoker. He flipped a cigarette out of the car window just before he drove away. It’s probably still by the Dumpster, if you want to check for DNA.”

O’Brien seemed dismissive, as if he thought I’d been watching too many episodes of
CSI
.

“Did you recognize the victim?”

I shook my head. “Helen might know.”

“Does Helen Taggart have any enemies who might want her dead?”

I was taken aback by his question. In the short time I’d known Helen, I’d pegged her as a chronic nurturer. She was president of her condo association. She made chocolate centerpieces for the garden club’s annual fund-raiser. She showered people with attention and gifts. I’d found ample examples when I’d gone through Nectar’s financial records—a new Baume & Mercier watch for her assistant manager’s birthday, and gift certificates at Neiman Marcus for all her employees. She’d once given me a twenty-minute course on how to roast and skin hazelnuts when all I’d asked was “Why are they so shriveled?” Sometimes Helen got touchy, especially when she didn’t feel appreciated, but that didn’t put her at the top of anybody’s hit list. At least I didn’t think so.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You’ll have to ask Helen that question.”

“I’m asking you.”

O’Brien must have missed the training that taught detectives to establish rapport with a witness, because he stared at me with smoky-blue eyes that were cold with suspicion. A moment later, I heard knuckles tapping on glass.

O’Brien’s partner, wearing a yellow hooded raincoat, stood outside the cruiser. Detective Gatan was slim and exotic-looking. She seemed more like a woman who sprayed perfume on a paper strip at the Nordstrom half-yearly sale than a homicide detective investigating a murder in a rain-soaked alley in Beverly Hills.

O’Brien leaned over and opened the door. Gatan slid into the passenger seat with the fluid grace of a woman who knew she turned heads. As she pushed the hood off her sleek black hair, a drop of rain slid down her broad nose and disappeared into the folds of her suit jacket.

“The owner IDed the victim,” she said. “Lupe Ortiz. Forty-six. Married. Four kids. She cleans the store five nights a week.”

“Just what we need,” O’Brien said. “Another domestic violence case. I wish these people would settle their beefs on their own turf instead of spoiling a perfectly good night on mine. Does Taggart know where we can find the husband?”

Gatan looked as if she was anticipating trouble. “I didn’t ask her.”

O’Brien narrowed his eyes. “Strike one. Go get her.”

Detective Gatan waited for what seemed like a long time before shoving open the car door with a tad more force than necessary. I felt like shoving something, too. O’Brien was out of line for a lot of reasons, least of which was his assumption that Lupe’s husband was the only suspect. It was too early in the investigation to close every door but one.

A few minutes later, Gatan returned with Helen in tow. The two detectives sat in the front of the patrol car. Helen climbed into the back with me.

Helen was somewhere in her fifties, with soft brown hair, which she kept styled and sprayed to perfection between once-a-week appointments at a Beverly Hills salon. Her figure was expanding with middle age but she made the best of it with well-cut clothes that camouflaged any flaws. The double strand of pearls she wore was a remnant of a past life she could no longer afford to maintain. At least the necklace disguised the loose flesh below her chin. I didn’t want to look at it, because it reminded me of the ghost of sagging necks yet to come.

Helen was what my grandma Felder called high-strung, and at the moment, she looked like Mount Vesuvius ready to blow. Her lipstick was smeared and her nose was red from crying. Identifying Lupe Ortiz’s body must have triggered a range of emotions, from sorrow to apprehension. No surprise. Nectar wasn’t a lark for her. It was her life. She must know death and chocolate were a hard combo to spin even for an experienced marketing expert like me.

“What time did Mrs. Ortiz get to work?” O’Brien said.

Helen dabbed at her nose with a shredded tissue. “Around six. She has a key, but I usually stay at the store until she gets here just to make sure she’s okay. Lupe was always telling me how much she appreciated that. Today I had to leave at five thirty for my hair appointment. Then I drove directly to the mall. I was supposed to get together for dinner and a movie with my boyfriend, but he called at the last minute to say he had to work and couldn’t make it. I skipped dinner and went to the seven o’clock showing of that new Nicole Kidman movie. I had some popcorn and called it a night.”

“Did Mrs. Ortiz usually leave the door open while she worked?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Helen said. “Maybe.”

O’Brien began tapping his fingers again, but it was hard to separate that sound from rain that was pelting the roof of the cruiser. “Other than you and the victim, who else has a key?”

“Just my assistant manager, Kathy.”

Detective O’Brien’s long legs weren’t made for sitting sideways behind the wheel of a car. His torso was twisted. His face was in profile. A red scratch blemished his right cheek. I wondered if he’d had a shaving mishap or had run into an angry fingernail.

O’Brien made a note in his book. “Did Mrs. Ortiz have any problems with her husband?”

“There were a couple of minor issues, but I helped her work through them. After that, her marriage seemed solid. I’m sure she would have told me otherwise.”

“Any of her kids gang members?”

Helen hesitated for what seemed like a long time. I wondered why. It was almost as if she was filtering her response through some sort of politically correct colander.

“They’re just normal kids,” she said.

O’Brien stared at Helen with a deadpan expression. “Is there anybody who might have killed Lupe Ortiz to get back at you?”

Helen’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. It was as if something had cut off the air that gave power to her voice. I held my breath, hoping she could hold it together until the interview was over.

When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper. “Nobody hates me that much.”

“When you were inside the store, did you notice if anything was missing?”

“My recipes are the most valuable thing I have, but the books are still on the shelf. I checked the cash register, too. No money is missing.”

“The display shelves in the retail store are gone,” I said.

“Maybe Lupe interrupted a burglar.”

O’Brien’s frown made it clear he didn’t welcome my interruption or my theory. Either something or someone had put him in a foul mood or else he just didn’t like women.

“The shelves aren’t missing,” Helen said. “I took them down yesterday to make room for another table. All that stuff is in the trunk of my car until I can find a place to store it. Anyway, none of it’s valuable. It’s just collectibles.”

That was bad news all around. If a burglar had killed Lupe Ortiz, he’d left without taking anything except her life.

“Look,” Helen continued, “I have to take my recipes home tonight. If something happens to them I’m in big trouble.”

“Once we’re done processing the scene,” O’Brien said, “you can take anything you want.”

“How long will that be?” Helen’s voice was becoming shrill.

“We’re done when we’re done.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything. I have to know.” Detective Gatan’s lips were pursed, as if her partner’s hard-line tactics were annoying her. She turned toward Helen. “Check back with us in a couple of hours. Maybe we can release the books then. Meanwhile, I’ll make sure nobody disturbs them.”

“Helen, the police are here,” I said. “I think the books are safe for now.”

Gatan measured me with her dark eyes before returning her gaze to Helen. “I tried to call the Ortiz house. The line was busy. Does the husband have a cell phone?”

Helen shifted her gaze from me to the detective. “I don’t know. Probably. Lupe has one. It’s a gaudy purple thing with rhinestones on it. But it doesn’t matter if he has a cell phone or not. You can’t reach him. He’s in Guatemala. Visiting a sick relative, I think.”

O’Brien shifted in the seat. “The kids are home alone?” Helen moaned. “Those poor babies. I can’t believe this is happening.”

O’Brien glanced at his partner. “Call children’s services and have them check into it. They’ll probably have to take the kids into custody.”

Helen leaned forward and grabbed the back of the seat. “They just lost their mother. You can’t leave them with strangers. I know the three little ones. Lupe brought them to the store several times. Let me take them to my place.”

Detective O’Brien shook his head. “You’re not a relative. We have to go through channels. That’s children’s services. End of story.”

Helen fingered the pearls around her neck as if they were worry beads. “Lupe has a cousin in the area. I’ll get her to stay at the house until we locate Mr. Ortiz.”

A thick silence settled in the car, displacing the stench and the tension. Gatan stared at her partner as if she was searching for operating instructions on his forehead.

“Let her try,” she said to him. “What can it hurt? The kids are better off with family.”

O’Brien’s jaw muscles twitched as he pointed his index finger in Gatan’s face. “If this goes south on us, Detective, it’s on your head.”

Something about their relationship reminded me of a dysfunctional couple on aTV drama. I wondered if O’Brien’s Irish digits had ever danced over the soft brown skin of his partner’s butt.