House of Smoke (48 page)

He sits back. “Do you know what they do?”

“The woman’s a high-priced call girl for sure. Mid-thirties, I’m guessing. The guy’s the same thing for women. Probably has a day gig as a bartender, bouncer. Big man, well built. He’s younger, in his twenties.”

“What’d they do?”

“Maybe ripped off a client. For big money.”

“Someone who comes here?”

“Can we talk?”

He nods.

“Very private,” she cautions.

“I’m a good sphinx.”

She smiles. It’s a comfort to be with someone who talks your talk, and who you can trust.

“Here’s the deal, Don. I’m doing some work for a prominent Santa Barbara family named Sparks. Ever hear of them?”

The name visibly jolts him. He takes a moment to recover. “Of course. Frederick Sparks is a regular here.”

“At your hotel?” She digs in her purse for her pad and pen.

“No.” He shakes his head. “He stays up the street, does his gambling there.” He leans forward. “Does what you’re working on have anything to do with Frederick’s gambling habits?”

A bulb flickers in the back of her head. “No.”

“Good, because that’s off-limits.”

Her intuition clicks in strong. “However much he’s lost, he can afford it,” she says, tossing out a line.

Don takes the bait. “It’s not a secret, is it?”

“People in Santa Barbara don’t go around talking about it, but …” She shrugs as if to say, “I know all about it.”

He nods, his face a model of a man making a call. “What the hey,” he says, “you’re family. And you’re working for them anyway, right? You’re not bullshitting about that?”

“I’m in their employ.
Verdad
.” She puts her hand in the Girl Scout salute. “They just gave me a twenty-thousand-dollar retainer,” she confides in him.

He whistles. “You must be doing some kind of good work for them.”

“I’m earning it, believe me.”

“Course, for people like that, twenty K is not serious money. Freddy Sparks’ll drop that and more on a single hand of poker. What you or I think would be a fortune might be lunch money for someone else. A Michael Jordan, for example.”

“Exactly.”

“Anyway. What about this couple?”

“I want to talk to them. At least one. The woman, preferably. Quietly, off the books. I want to make her an offer she can’t refuse.”

The woman is closer to Frederick than the man. She doesn’t quite know why she thinks that, but she feels it in her gut.

“Okay. Let’s see what we can do.”

They drive down the Strip in his car, a new Caddy Seville.

“Nice wheels,” she tells him, feeling the soft leather under her ass. “The real goods.”

“Twenty years bouncing your kidneys in a city Ford, I figure I deserve it.”

Don’s counterpart is sympathetic to her problem, especially with Don standing there next to her, rabbiing her through the process. “I’m pretty sure I know who you’re talking about,” he tells her, pulling a thick mug-type book off his shelf. “Mr. Sparks usually spends his time with Brittany, and I’m certain she was his companion the night in question. He was playing cards in a private party. She’s a show dancer and she also works select private parties. The cream of the crop, so to speak.”

“I appreciate this.”

“You’re doing us a favor. We can’t have this kind of shit going on, pardon my French.” He flips pages through the book, page after page of pictures. “Although I’m surprised at this. Brittany’s never been in trouble before. I consider her good as gold.”

“It might have been her partner, or maybe neither one. But I want to talk to her.”

“Here it is.” He points to a photo. “Is this her?”

Kate stares at the face on the sheet. It’s a Polaroid, but there’s no doubt that it’s the woman she saw at the ranch.

“It’s her.”

“What about the guy?”

“Put a pin in that. If I need him we’ll look. Right now it’s the woman I’m interested in.”

“I’ll rustle her up for you. Wait here.” He leaves them in his office.

Don turns to her. “You’re set up now.”

“Thanks, Don. I owe you a big one.”

“Don’t worry about it. Stop by my store before you leave town. We’ll have dinner. I know a great little Italian place. You’ll think you’re back home.”

“That sounds great.”

She watches his thick cop back as he walks out the door. He’s a good man, a good friend. She wishes she hadn’t had to lie to him.

Don’s counterpart returns a few minutes later, Brittany in tow. It’s her, all right, Kate is sure of it.

The woman is dressed expensively and is heavily made up, particularly for daytime. She’s no kid. Only few years younger than I am, Kate thinks. Not a life she’d like to be living, especially for a woman pushing forty.

The hotel man cocks an eye at Kate. She nods. “This woman is a friend of the hotel’s,” he informs Brittany, indicating Kate. “Tell her whatever she wants to know.” He looks at Kate. “I’ll leave you alone, but I won’t be far.”

“Thank you.”

He closes the door behind him, locking them in from the outside—the click of his key slamming in the lock rings loudly in the silence.

“Who are you?” Brittany asks. She’s putting up a strong front, like this is a major crimp in her schedule, which it is, but that’s not the reason she’s copping an attitude. She’s scared. She doesn’t know why she’s here, but whatever the reason, it isn’t good. She knows what happens to people who fuck up.

“That’s unimportant,” Kate answers brusquely, her cop training kicking in. “I have some questions to ask you, so please sit down.”

“What do you want?” Brittany asks, balking at the command. She stands near the door, her back almost touching the wall.

“Sit down, please.”

“Tell me what I’m here for.”

“Sit down and I will.”

The woman hesitates, trying to act tough, but she can’t pull it off. She slides into one of the chairs in front of the security man’s desk. Kate sits in the other chair, close to her. She doesn’t want a desk between them—she wants to be close enough to this woman to hear her heartbeat.

It’s a cruel thing, what she’s about to do. But getting beaten is crueler. It’s her job, her own personal stuff. The woman will be scared, but that’s all. She won’t lose her job. That’s not the point.

“You accompanied Mr. Sparks to his ranch a short time ago,” Kate begins. “You and a male companion.”

Brittany stares at her. “How do you know that?”

“It’s my business.”

“Shit.” The woman curses under her breath. Was she being watched? What the fuck was going on up there, besides the usual kinky shit Freddy has her do?

“Some valuable items subsequently turned up missing. From the ranch where you spent the night. Part of the night.”

“Say what?”

“The ranch was robbed.”

“Aw, come on! Are you accusing me of robbing that place?”

“You were there. You and your friend. As far as we can tell you were the only two who were, besides Mr. Sparks.”

The woman turns pale underneath her makeup. “I did not take anything from that house. Not even a matchbook. I swear to God.”

“For your sake I hope that’s true, because whoever did is going to go to jail. And I’m not talking thirty days in the county lockup, either.”

“I did not rob that house,” Brittany insists.

Kate looks down to make a few notations in her pad—nothing really, but it looks scary. Then she looks up, engaging Brittany in her stare, until the woman turns away.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” she says. “If you’re straight with me, this won’t go any further. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Perfectly.”

“All right.” She takes a beat. “Your friend.” Kate clicks her fingers like his name is on the tip of her tongue. “What was his name again?” She starts flipping through her notebook as if it’s written down on the page.

“Alex.”

“Right. Alex …” Again, the fake looking-up.

“Lee.”

“Alex Lee. Right, that’s the one. Tall, dark hair cut short, wearing jeans and a white pocket T-shirt.”

“Oh, Jesus. Where were you watching us from?” A sudden panic comes in her voice. “You didn’t see the pictures, did you? Freddy said no one ever saw those pictures.”

“Well, I know about them,” Kate answers vaguely.

“Oh man. If those pictures get out I’m ruined in this town. That’s like a Tijuana dog-and-pony show, that stuff.”

“They
are
pretty graphic,” Kate says, leading her on.

“Who’s seen them? Where have they been?” She slumps in her chair, her tight dress climbing to the tops of her thighs. She’s wearing hose, Kate notices, real stockings. Probably silk.

“Nobody,” Kate assures her. “Except me.”

Brittany regards her warily.

“Yet,” Kate adds.

“So is this blackmail? I don’t have any money, lady, I’m a working girl like you. I’ve got a kid to support, and a mother in a nursing home. You want money, you come to the wrong place.”

“No. It’s not about money.”

“Then what?”

“Mr. Sparks has some people who, shall we say, would like to hurt him,” Kate begins, improvising as she goes. “I don’t want to see that happen. Do you?”

“Hell, no. Freddy’s a great guy. He’s the nicest man I know.”

“What happened that night? The night you spent with him?”

“From when we got to his ranch?” Kate shakes her head. “From here.” Brittany takes a deep breath.

Kate listens as Brittany talks, interrupting her only when she comes to the end of the card games. “How much did Mr. Sparks lose?” she asks.

“About one hundred forty thousand, I think it was.”

Jesus. One night.

“How did he take it? Losing that much money?”

Brittany shrugs. “About the same as he always does. No big deal.”

“He loses more than he wins,” Kate continues.

Brittany nods. “Yes. It’s not that he’s not a good player,” she explains. “He is. But he isn’t quite good enough for the company he keeps. The difference is small, but over time it has a definite impact. These men he plays with are piranhas—they smell blood, they’ll strip you to the bone.”

Kate thinks a minute before asking her next question. “How long have you known Frederick Sparks?”

“About ten years. We’re old buddies, Freddy and me. He always requests me. I’ve made good money taking care of him over the years.” She shakes her head. “Those pictures. All those years of those pictures. He promised me they’d never be seen. That they were for him, his own private collection. And I believed him. Shit!”

Ten years. Most marriages nowadays don’t last ten years.

“And he usually lost,” Kate continues. “At gambling.”

“He’s lost more than he’s won,” the woman answers judiciously. “Thank God he’s so rich. A mortal man would have gone bust years ago with those kind of losses.”

“How much?”

Brittany shrugs. “Millions. Tens of millions. I don’t know. A fortune. Several of them.”

And his ranch foreman is caught smuggling a multi-million load of grass onto his dock. What an interesting coincidence.

She changes the subject. “At the ranch, that night,” she begins fresh. “Describe the scene.”

“Fucking. Sucking. Front and back. The usual stuff. What Freddy always goes for.”

“You and him and the third party. Alex.”

Brittany shakes her head, almost laughing out loud. “No way.”

“How do you mean?”

“Freddy doesn’t fuck.”

Oh?

“What does he do?”

“He watches. And he takes pictures.”

“The infamous pictures,” Kate says.

“Yes.”

“And watches.”

“You got it.”

“You and Mr. Sparks make love privately. Out of camera range.”

Brittany shakes her head again. “I’ve never fucked Freddy.”

“In ten years of knowing each other this intimately you’ve never made love?”

The woman nods. “He just watches. That’s his whole bag. I came on to him plenty of times, too, before I got the message. I guess he’s saving himself for his wife. He’s a damn nice man,” she says, almost ruefully. “I hope she appreciates him.”

E
VERY TIME SHE CATCHES
her reflection in the mirror she cringes. Is that really me? Is that who I am now? She knows she will heal, that in time the scars will fade, that no one else thinks she looks as bad as she herself does; but that doesn’t help now. She tries to think of her face as a badge of honor, a testament to guts and steely resolve, but that doesn’t cut it, either. If it’s any kind of testament it’s to laxness in keeping her guard up, in thinking she was hotter than she really is. A testament to ego, and all the stupidity that comes from that.

Macho, macho, macho woman. As tough as the guys. Yeah, right. Even if that’s true, so what? Big fucking deal. What is it you have to prove, girl?

That’s what the mirror is telling her, every time she catches herself in its stark honesty.

She’s overreacting, this morning more than usual, because she’s driving up north to see her kids. They haven’t laid eyes on each other since she got busted up. They wanted to—Julie would’ve driven them down, she pleaded with Kate to let her, but Kate flat-out would not let them see her looking like she did in those first terrible weeks. Their relationship is already tough enough without having to absorb another emotional wallop.

This past week the girls have been on the phone with her almost every night. It’s as if her pain has passed from her to them, bringing them back together. They miss her, they could feel her anguish through the wire, traveling through three hundred miles of their collective unconscious. They’re her blood, they’ll understand. If nothing else good comes out of this, getting tight with her daughters again might make it better, at least in that one small area.

She throws her suitcase in the backseat of the Rooster, fills the tank at the cheap gasoline station on De La Vina, kicks off her shoes, jams her bare foot down on the accelerator, and heads north, up Highway 101. Her gun, loaded, is in the locked glove box, within easy reach.

Past Lompoc the hills widen, start rolling, the classic central California look, scrub oak and eucalyptus and high grass. The air is fresh, smelling of dozens of native plants borne in the breeze. She’s lost in space, drifting, like the pollen rushing by her windshield.