Follow Her Home (10 page)

Lori sat with her back to the wall, facing the baked goods, and I had a decent view of her rear profile, one small ear, and the tip of her nose saying hi from beyond her mess of chestnut-tinted curls. She rested her upper back against her chair, lower back floating in a slight slouch. Her shoulders pointed up, pinched toward her neck, as she gripped the sides of her seat, twiddling her thumbs on the wicker. She had her legs crossed, the hem of her dress hiking up to show off warm, sunny thighs, and she tapped the heel of the burdened foot on the tile under the table. She was the damnedest fidgeter I'd ever seen.

I turned to Diego. “I'm seeing this right, aren't I?”

Across the glass-topped table behind an oversize coffee mug, staid as stone in a crisp, ironed shirt buttoned to the gills, sat William Cook. I eased tense toes off the brake and let the car melt back onto Melrose.

*   *   *

Iris was the first subject of my surveillance. In the weeks following our confrontation, I spied on her in an attempt to solve the mystery that had torpedoed into our lives. It was a loose surveillance—Iris only left the house a few times, and when she did, I was not so bold as to follow her. The thought occurred to me, of course, and if I could have gotten away with it, I have no doubt I would have attempted a tail.

Instead, I took every chance I had to pick up any clues she left in our home. I rifled through her desk, her backpack, and all her drawers. I hoped to find a diary, or love letters, something solid and incriminating that would give me the answers I needed. Once, she forgot her cell phone at home, and I spent over an hour culling through her texts and contacts.

I found nothing suspicious, and this lack of romantic remnants struck me as strange, even tragic. Love leaves mementos, I knew, and Iris was the type to hold on to them. While I found nothing mysterious in her belongings, I did find a birthday card and some sweet notes from Paul, and an origami crane a boy had made for her in the fifth grade. She was a hoarder of keepsakes—the top drawer of her desk was littered with movie-ticket stubs.

When a few thorough sweeps yielded zero evidence of a relationship I knew to exist, I realized that the lack of a trail was in itself a clue. As was, it occurred to me, Iris's demeanor. She had never been secretive with me, but now, all at once, she was hiding the very identity of someone who had hijacked her life.

Because it had been hidden from our mom and, it seemed, the world outside our bedroom, I had treated Iris's pregnancy as if it were her big secret. In one sense, it was. But Iris had been open with me about the pregnancy, and had asked me to go with her to the clinic. Her secret was her relationship with the father, of which the pregnancy was both a side effect and a solid proof.

Iris had never been shy about discussing Paul or her other numerous crushes and admirers. But since she started dating Paul I hadn't heard a breath about another boy. Her new paramour wasn't just someone our mom wouldn't approve of—he was someone whose very existence had to be hidden from me.

Iris was sixteen. If she was dating a truant or a drug dealer, she would have mentioned him with the assumption that I would not tell our mom. This wasn't a bad boy—whoever it was had no business seeing a sixteen-year-old girl. If I was right, I was looking at a new category—not boys, but men. I didn't know who he was, but I, my sister's angry keeper, vowed to find out. I was eighteen years old, and I guess I thought I was pretty smart.

*   *   *

I turned onto the next side street and stopped the car. I was breathing heavily.

“That looked a lot like a wealthy white law partner getting weekend breakfast with a hot little Asian employee under half his age.”

He nodded and cringed. “Poor Luke.”

I was in a mood to spit and seethe, but I remembered I wasn't the one this discovery would really hurt. “Poor Luke,” I echoed.

Paranoia aside, it looked like there was some substance to Luke's hunch. There it was, skank and scandal all. William C. Cook, midfifties, founding partner of Stokel, Levinson & Cook, employer of two hundred attorneys at the downtown office and hundreds more in Newport, San Francisco, Chicago, New York, London, and Tokyo, father of one son with his first and only wife, gallivanting about town with Lori Lim, early twenties, potential drunk, alleged promiscuous scamp.

As far as fathers of friends went, Mr. Cook scaled to attractive. My summer at Stokel, I noticed that female employees dropped into his office with improbable frequency. Mr. Cook gave Luke his height and his poetic green eyes. His hair grayed handsomely, thick and regal. But wrinkles besieged his forehead and crows had stamped the skin around his eyes. Age eroded what had been a chiseled jawline, and slackened what had been a tighter waistline. I thought it was gross that girls wanted him seven years ago, and he hadn't become any more desirable in the interim. Lori, on the other hand, wore youth and beauty like others wore skin.

I wanted to punch something, but I settled for gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. “God, Mr. Cook and Lori? That's so disgusting. So, so disgusting. How can he do that to his wife, his family? And to a young girl like that? I don't care if she's consenting. She can't know what she's consenting to. She can't.” I heard my voice crack.

Diego gave me a searching look and opened his mouth but closed it again. He knew without being told who was on my mind.

“I know she isn't Iris, Diego. She isn't a child, and for all we know she is loving the presents and the attention.” I hesitated long enough for him to interject.

“But?”

“But obviously, I can't help but make the association. Lori and Mr. Cook getting coffee in that cute little bakery—that only ends in disaster. I know she isn't my sister, but I get this feeling like I want to save her. Like you'd want to save anyone, from a tornado, or from a monster.”

Diego gave my shoulder a warm squeeze, and I noticed then that it was tense to the point of twitching. He talked to me in a soothing voice that was almost patronizing, like he was coaxing someone to come down from a ledge. “But we don't know that anything's going on. We don't know.”

I exhaled. “No, we don't know. But I think it's safe to assume that we know better than Mrs. Cook where her husband is right now.”

“You're probably right about that.”

“And it's not just the affair. If he is seeing Lori, and the man in my trunk was an employee who had feelings for his mistress, Luke's dad could very well be a felon.”

“That would be a hasty conclusion, don't you think?”

“True, but the fact that he's in there with her right now increases the odds he's in something deep.”

He bit his lip and leaned back in his seat. “So what do we do?”

“I want to swing by Buttercream when they're not there anymore. Other than us, the people in there are the only ones we know have seen the two of them together.”

“And Luke?”

“There's no reason to run to him if we're going to find out she's asking for tax advice.” I wanted corroboration before reporting news that would ruin Luke's family. “How long would it take for you to have breakfast with your mistress?”

“If I had to guess, at most two hours?”

“That sounds reasonable. And it gives us time to get me a new phone. I need a cigarette pretty badly, too. What time is it now?”

He looked at his watch. “Just after ten.”

We headed out to the Verizon store at the Beverly Connection on La Cienega. I struck a Lucky and smoked it in the parking lot until it almost singed my fingertips. When that was done, I reported my phone lost and treated myself to an iPhone with a brand new number. It was black and sleek, and it had Internet. It took me a few minutes to get used to the keyboard, but I managed to get a notice up on Facebook: “New phone number. Let me know if you heard from my old one after midnight last night.” I decided to keep my new number close to my chest. I knew the numbers I needed by heart. I could do without announcing my direct line to the world.

It was a little after eleven, so we drove through the In-N-Out on Sunset and ate cheeseburgers in the parking lot. At 11:45, we headed back to the bakery. When we arrived, the clock read 11:52
A.M.
, and there was no sign of either person of interest in the bakery. “So what's the game plan?” asked Diego.

“We're just going to probe one of the workers about Lori and Mr. Cook. She stands out, and maybe even more so with an older man of a different race.”

“Probe?”

I tried to remember Marlowe's approach, which often involved small bribes of unsavory characters. I thought I could be more subtle in a cake shop. “Yeah, nonchalant, sort of.”

Diego shrugged. “Okay. Should I come in?”

“Maybe you should stay in the car. I'm just going to pretend I'm buying a piece of cake, and I don't want you looking all serious over my shoulder.”

He frowned. “Fine. I'll wait in the car.”

I parked at a meter, fed it a quarter, and sauntered in. The place was small and busy, but the counter was empty. I walked right up to it, and a skinny black cashier with implausibly wide eyes and an even wider grin stood ready to take my order.

“Hi! Welcome to Buttercream! How can I help you today?” From the sound of his voice, I guessed he'd been in back wolfing frosting all day.

“Yeah, uh.” I realized with a short panic that my plan was ill defined. “This is my first time here and I just want like a piece of cake. Do you have a favorite?”

“Ohh.” He sparkled. “Well, we're famous for our triple berry, so if it's your first time, you might want to get that. It's bitching good. And oh, the espresso cheesecake is fan-freaking-tastic, maybe the best thing she makes.”

“I guess I'll try a slice of the triple berry. Can you box it?”

“Sure thing.” He gave me a wink and a megawatt smile. His face muscles must have been as toned as a runner's thighs.

I amped up my energy level and quit stalling. “Hey, so, was there like, a petite little Asian girl in here earlier? With curly light brown hair?”

“Is she really cute with kind of a squeaky voice?”

“Yes!” I mirrored his wide eyes and clasped my hands together. “She's like, a pop singer in Korea and I have a huge girl crush on her. My sister was in here and saw her and texted me to come, but I guess I missed her. Sad.” I mugged sad. If there was an advantage I had over Marlowe, it was that no one would peg me for a shamus—not with an alto voice and no hat. I was an Asian girl, and though not an actress, I knew a little pep and emoting would go a long way.

As I'd hoped, the cashier gave me credit. He leaned forward with a show of fascination. “Whoa, seriously? I thought she was cute.”

“What was she wearing?” I tried to sound starstruck.

“I think like a white dress with short sleeves and eyelets. Super cute. And she had a great bag too. It was this dreamy tan Prada.”

“My sister said she was with some old guy. Was it her dad, you think?”

“Is she adopted? Because she was with a white guy.”

“No, her parents are Korean.” I was getting into it. “But I wonder who that was, then. God, this is going to bother me. You don't think … did it seem like a date? Were they like, touchy?” I shuddered with big shoulder shakes and a wince, hammier than Porky Pig.

“Maybe. I don't think they were touching at all, though. I would've noticed, cause gross! He was old enough to be her dad.”

“Did you hear what they were talking about?”

“Nothing interesting. Trust me, I would've noticed.” He laughed.

I giggled, one hand covering my mouth. “Duly noted.” I paid for the cake and he handed me the box, a white cube sealed with a pastel pink sticker. “Thanks a bunch.”

“Anytime! What's her name?”

“Huh?”

“The singer. I'm totally googling her when I get off work.”

“Oh, duh.” I giggled again while I came up with a moniker. “Her name is Lorelei.”

 

Seven

I walked back to my car, opened the door, and entered cake-first. Before I was fully seated, Diego said, “I got in touch with Luke. He called me back.”

“Great. I guess.”

“I told him we had some news and he sounded very confused. Anyway, he's expecting us soon. What did you find out?”

“Well, nothing corroborative. In fact, if the guy who sold me the cake is to be believed, there was nothing about them that seemed sexual.”

“That's good. But it might be weak testimony when you consider what we have to tell Luke.”

“Yeah.” I started the car and drove toward the Marlowe.

The streetlights were forgiving darlings, reds flickering to green the moment I touched on my brakes, greens stalling their blinking ascent into yellow until I could only spot them from the corner of my right eye as I jetted through intersections.

“Hey, Song? I think someone's following us.”

“What?” My neck strained as I fought the instinct to jerk my head back with a stiff flinch. “Where?”

“See that black Mazda behind the blue Lexus, behind you in the right lane?” Pointing with his chin, he indicated the rearview mirror, where I saw a black Mazda with tinted windows.

“Shit. Are you sure?”

“It's blocked now, but the letters on the plate spell
cat
. It's a black cat. I happened to notice it while we were eating. You didn't see that guy's car this morning, did you?”

“No. Can you see a face?”

“No.”

I smirked. In a way, all this had started with a black car with tinted windows. “I'll start driving. Let's see what he does.”

I drove slowly, switching lanes now and then, and brought us to the parking lot of a Bank of America on Beverly. I stopped the car and watched as the Mazda found a spot on the curb right outside the lot. “Nice catch, Diego.”