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Authors: Ellen Hart

BOOK: Night Vision
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Joanna's second husband, Cyril Connor, the Irish actor, had been another golden boy, but one who'd checked his brains at his cocaine dealer's front door. That marriage had lasted less than fifteen minutes. They were both paging their divorce lawyers when the limo hit the Pasadena freeway, five miles from the church. It was probably some sort of record. Joanna was deeply embarrassed, but she
was
capable of learning. After the second disaster, she nixed the marriage license thing and just slept with the Adonises.
And so, on this ordinary spring morning as she awoke from her usual fitful night's sleep, Joanna would have been surprised to learn that her life was about to take a major right turn onto a dead-end street. Living in Hollywood, Bel Air to be exact, was like a carboholic living in a bakery. The most beautiful people on earth swarmed to Hollywood like sugar ants to sweet poison. They were everywhere. Waiters. Mechanics. Department store clerks. As hard as she tried, Joanna found it impossible to maintain a “hands-off” policy. With her career in high gear, she could have just about anyone she wanted. Her sexual appetites didn't rise to the level of obsession, but clearly they weren't healthy. She knew, deep in her unanalyzed soul, that her lifestyle probably spoke loudly about spiritual emptiness. But how could her life be empty when she'd attained everything she'd ever wanted? That wasn't the way the American dream was supposed to work.
Today was a Thursday, eight days before her birthday. She had appointments in the afternoon but nothing pressing until then. Her brother, David, and his partner, Diego, had arrived earlier in the week with bags of opulently wrapped birthday gifts they'd brought for her from their home in Atlanta. They planned to stay for two weeks. They both liked to vacation in L.A. because, like Joanna, they enjoyed the view. But unlike her, David and Diego were monogamous. They seemed to be truly in love.
Joanna was happy for her brother, but seeing him with Diego always left her feeling vaguely on edge. Another red flag she scrupulously ignored. She did wonder why true love had somehow escaped her. She lived in a cocoon of constant affirmation and praise. She knew the mirror that everyone was so quick to hold up in front of her face lied, but she didn't think she was fundamentally
flawed. “Redemption” was a word that occasionally flitted through her mind, though she never gave it any serious thought.
David and Diego were staying in the small bungalow next to the cabana. It was private and yet it had most of the comforts of the main house. Joanna had picked this place after looking at only six houses. It was everything she'd ever dreamed of times twelve. It was actually way too much for one person, so because of her working-class guilt, she adopted four cats in an effort to justify her existence. It made no sense, of course. Her reality—the manicured lawns and mansions, the movie industry filled with manicured people—was surrounded by another, darker reality: a teaming, chaotic mix of L.A. ethnicity, a pot that simply refused to melt. Joanna wasn't blind. She knew there was something deeply wrong with the excess she was surrounded by, and yet she dismissed her need to examine it. Plato be damned. The excess, as some called it, was her freakin' life! The problem was, when she ignored something fundamental, it had a tendency to scream at her until she turned and faced it. And that's why, in the end, she became a sitting duck, just waiting for the right hunter to come along and pick her off.
David entered the kitchen as Joanna was making herself a pot of coffee. He looked tousled and still rosy from sleep. He had the same sapphire eyes as she did, the same sandy blond hair. His was cropped short, while hers flowed down past her shoulders and was dyed platinum.
“It's official,” said David, getting two mugs from the cupboard. He was dressed in a rumpled gray T-shirt and white running shorts. “I'm staying here. Never leaving. I'm hiring myself on as your pool boy.”
“And what will Diego do?”
“He'll sit by the pool with a cold beer and build an amazing house of cards.”
“Always the architect.”
David hopped up on the counter, waiting as Joanna poured coffee into his mug. “That's smells fabulous. What are you up to today?”
Before answering, she stepped up to the window overlooking the side garden. The old gardener, a middle-aged Japanese man, had recently been replaced by a new fellow. She hadn't really taken much notice of him, but with his shirt off and his muscles gleaming with sweat in the bright morning sunlight, she noticed him now.
“Earth to Joanna?”
“Hmm?”
“What are you looking at?”
“Flowers.”
“No, you're not.” He jumped down off the counter and moved up behind her, gazing over her shoulder. “Nice. Who is he?”
“I think his name is Gordon. He's the new man the service sent out.”
“What happened to the old one?”
Joanna turned, grinned, and poked him in the stomach. “You ask too many questions, bro. How should I know?” She picked up her mug and sauntered toward the door.
“And where would you be going?”
She threw him an innocent smile. “It's impolite not to personally welcome a new member of the staff. Don't leave, Davey. I'll be back in five.”
He snorted. “Like hell you will.”
 
Joanna hid behind a large chamise bush and watched the new gardener clean out weeds growing between the flagstones that ran along the north side of the yard. She was five foot five in her stocking feet and this guy wasn't more than a few inches taller. But he was built. His body looked like it had been chiseled from a block of cedar. His blond hair was wiry, waving slightly at the nape of his neck and falling in heavy coils over his forehead. He had a square head and a prominent cleft in his chin. Joanna wondered what he'd look like naked.
“I was curious what you'd think about my putting in some creeping thyme as ground cover between the flagstones.”
His deep voice startled her. She had no idea he'd seen her standing there. Now she was embarrassed. Stepping out from behind the bush, she said, “That sounds like it might be nice.”
“It's very fragrant. I love fragrance, don't you? 'Course, nothing beats a rose, in my opinion, but if you'd like, I could show you some landscaping ideas I have for this place. There's lots of ways to go, depending on what your personal preferences are.” He'd been crouching, but now he stood. A shaft of sunlight caught the glistening sweat on his pecs.
Joanna found herself staring at the light feathering of hair just above his waist. “What did you say?”
“Well, I mean, do you enjoy butterflies? Birds? Or, like I said, we can do plantings for fragrance. Every garden should be special, should reflect the owner's tastes. But like I said, we can talk about it.”
“Okay.”
He smiled at her. “You're Joanna Kasimir?”
“That's me.”
“I wasn't positive it was you. I mean, I knew this was your house and all, but I thought maybe you were a relative. You look better without all the makeup.”
She wasn't sure if it was a compliment or a slam. “Thanks.”
“Well, better get back to work. I wouldn't want my boss to think I was malingering.”
She realized she was grinning. “Nothing to worry about there.” She didn't want to leave just yet. “Are you from around here?”
“Me, no.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. “From the Midwest.”
“Me too,” said Joanna. “How come you ended up in California?”
He gazed up at the sky. “I don't know. Wanderlust, maybe. I got my degree in forestry a few years back. I was offered a good job, but I wanted to travel.”
“You mean you're not trying to break into acting?”
“Hello, no,” he said, his smile fading. “That's the last thing on earth I'd want to get mixed up in.”
“Not a moviegoer?”
“Nope. I like to read. And I like the outdoors. Movies and TV never interested me. Too fake.”
Joanna should have been insulted, but instead she felt her pulse quicken. This guy was for real, not some Mel Gibson wannabe. Not only was he gorgeous, but he seemed entirely content with and absorbed by his work. She could tell by his demeanor that he wasn't the least bit impressed that she was a famous actress.
Joanna didn't realize it, but she was already hooked. “I'd like to hear your landscaping ideas. What time do you usually finish up?”
“Five, or thereabouts.”
“Come up to the house when you're done. Maybe we can sit on the terrace above the pool and talk. I'll open a bottle of wine.”
He scratched his head, then stuck his hand in the back pocket of his jeans. “I, ah … I don't drink. But a Coke would be great. Or water.”
“I think I can manage a Coke,” said Joanna. She wasn't sure what she was getting herself into, but the train had already left the station. She'd just have to wait and see where it took her.
C
ordelia stood in the parking lot behind the Linden Building, hands on her hips, glaring at the luggage in the back of her Hummer. “How the hell are we going to get all this upstairs?”
Jane and Joanna looked at each other and burst out laughing. In unison they responded, “Cordelia Thorn does not
haul.
”
“That's right, children. You know me well.”
“Well, let's see what we can do,” said Jane, pulling out a couple of the smaller pieces. Right about now she could have used two or three of her beefiest busboys.
As they were dithering about who would carry what, Milan Mestrovik popped his head out of the security door. “Need some help, ladies?”
Under her breath, Cordelia muttered, “Drat. He must have been watching for us from one of his back windows.”
“Who is he?” asked Joanna, her face turned away.
“A pest,” said Cordelia. Turning to Milan with a bright, cheery smile, she said, “We can handle it, thanks.”
“No, no, I wouldn't hear of it,” he said, rushing down the back steps. He wove his way through the parked cars and made straight for Joanna with his hand outstretched. “I'm glad your flight made it here safely. Milan Mestrovik. I live across the hall from Cordelia.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Joanna, allowing her hand to be pumped aggressively.
“I'm your biggest fan,” said Milan, shading his eyes from the afternoon sun with his free hand.
“That's … nice to hear,” said Joanna.
“You probably get that all the time, but in my case, it's true.”
Everyone smiled awkwardly.
“We met once before,” continued Milan, apparently oblivious to everything but his single-minded desire to talk to Joanna.
“We did? I'm sorry, I meet so many people—”
“That's okay. It was in L.A. At a political benefit.”
“Right,” said Joanna. “Right.”
Still holding on to her hand, Milan said, “I first saw you in
Cry of the Nightingale.
You were stunning. But my favorite movie of yours is
All the Kings of the Earth.
You were beyond breathtaking in that one. You should have won the Academy Award.”
“Thanks. I thought so, too.”
Jane had the distinct impression that the man was pulsating—vibrating like a tuning fork. In his double-breasted business suit, he looked like an Eastern European opera impresario. Barrel-chested. Dark bushy eyebrows. Heavy Slavic features. Dark goatee. Flamboyantly styled longish black hair that puffed over his ears like wings.
“You're very kind to offer to help us with the luggage,” said Joanna.
“I'll take care of it all,” said Milan, finally releasing her hand. “Just head on upstairs. Don't give it another thought.”
Fifteen minutes later, true to his word—and thanks to the dolly he'd borrowed from Athena's Garden—Joanna was all moved in.
“I'd offer you something to drink but—” She smiled wistfully. She spread her arms to what she assumed was an empty kitchen. “Some water?”
“Another time,” said Milan, staring hard at her. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off her. “I'm single,” he blurted out, “not that that means anything, I suppose. I'm sure you have someone special waiting for you back in Idaho—or Hollywood. But if you'd allow me—”
He took one of her small hands in his big, meaty ones. “You are … so lovely.”
Joanna blushed. Laughing, she said, “I'll call you when I'm having a bad day.”
“You do that. Promise?”
“Yes,” she said. “I promise.”
“I know you like wine. I read that in an interview you did with
Redbook.
Music to my ears.” He kissed his fingers. “Actually, I'm a wine wholesaler. I don't mean to blow my own horn, but I'm an expert of some renown. If you'll allow me, I'd like to send up a case of my finest, including some rare cognacs.”
“I don't know what to say,” said Joanna.
“Just say yes,” said Milan, beaming at her.
“Well, sure. I'd love it.”
“Done. Expect the delivery this evening. Now, I know flying is tiring. I'll leave you to rest. But I expect a full report on the wines—what you like, what you don't like.”
“Of course.”
He kissed her hand. “And please,” he said, looking up at her with his puppy-dog eyes. “You're always welcome to come upstairs to my loft.”
“Thanks.”
With one last rapturous look, he swept from the room.
Cordelia took a deep, cleansing breath and sank down on the couch. “I'm sorry about that, Jo.”
“No,” she said. “He's charming. A little starstruck, but charming.”
“Everybody in the building can't wait to meet you.”
“I suppose you get used to it,” said Jane, perching on the edge of one of the velvet couches. When she'd visited Joanna over the fourth way back when, nobody around Sandpoint had acted like she was a goddess. They seemed to take her presence in stride, respect her need for privacy.
Joanna sat down next to Cordelia. “All this hoopla is one reason I love my place in Idaho. It's hard to leave.”
“Oh, come on. You love all the attention,” said Cordelia, kicking off her shoes. “Who doesn't love being adored?”
“It's not that simple for me,” said Joanna, her expression losing some of its usual buoyancy.
Apparently realizing she'd stumbled into sensitive territory, Cordelia slipped her arm around Joanna's shoulders. “You okay?”
“I'm not sure how to answer that. A week ago I would have said I was fine, but—” She hesitated. “I don't suppose either one of you might know a good private investigator.”
Jane and Cordelia exchanged glances.
“Actually, I do,” said Jane. “He's an ex-cop. A good friend.”
“How come you need an investigator?” asked Cordelia, moving in a little closer.
Something on the floor behind Jane caught Joanna's attention. She sat forward. “What's that?” She pointed.
“What?” said Jane.
“That package behind your chair.”
Jane turned to look.
“Oh, that,” said Cordelia. “It came for you this morning. A gift from one of your zillions of fans.”
Joanna stood. “Jane, would you open it?”
“Me? Okay.” She picked it up and stripped off the paper. Underneath was a bouquet of pink roses. “How beautiful.”
Joanna recoiled. “Is there a card?”
“What's wrong?” asked Jane. Her eyes strayed to Cordelia, who looked every bit as thunderstruck as Joanna.
“Please,” said Joanna. “Just read the card.”
Jane pulled it free. “It says:
‘Welcome home to Minnesota, land
of ten thousand lakes and a hundred
thousand lunatics. Hope you're
laughing because I sure am. Can't
wait to see you!'”
Jane turned the card over. “That's all it says.”
“Who's it from?” asked Cordelia. “What's the name?”
“There isn't one.”
Walking unsteadily over to the wall of windows facing downtown Minneapolis, Joanna said, “Get rid of them.”
“Excuse me?” said Jane.
“What didn't you understand? The flowers! I said get rid of them! Burn them. Crush them. I want them annihilated!” She whirled around. “Call that ex-cop friend of yours, Jane. I want to talk to him.
Now.
”
 
Jane reached Nolan right away, but he couldn't make it over to the loft for at least an hour. During that time, Joanna retreated to her bedroom. Cordelia was just this side of frantic because of Joanna's reaction to the flowers and the note. She offered to make her something to eat. Food, in Cordelia's universe, could solve a multitude of problems, but Joanna said she didn't want anything. Just the PI.
While Joanna was resting, Jane and Cordelia stood in the kitchen and talked softly.
“You know Joanna better than I do,” said Jane. “I'm guessing, but I think you know something about those flowers—why they set her off. Who are they from?”
Cordelia had already taken out the slice of double-cream Brie and was in the process of cutting the baguette into chunks. Food might not make Joanna feel better, but for Cordelia, it was a cure-all. “I can't talk about it.”
“Why?”
“Because Joanna swore me to secrecy. I think you should call David. She needs him.”
“I'm not sure that's such a good idea. Apparently they haven't been in touch for a while.”
“What's going on with that woman?” demanded Cordelia. “Joanna never said anything to me about it.”
Before Jane could respond, the phone rang.
“Will you get that?” asked Cordelia. Her fingers were covered with the creamy cheese.
Jane grabbed the cordless off the kitchen counter. “Hello?”
“Hiya, Babycakes! Did you miss me?”
Jane didn't recognize the voice. “Who's calling, please?”
“Joanna?”
“No, this is Jane Lawless. I'm a friend.”
“Oh, hell,” he said, laughing. “Sorry. This is Fred Kasimir. Joanna's ex. Is she there yet? I know her plane was due in around three.”
“Mr. Kasimir, hi,” said Jane. She'd never spoken with him before. “Yes, that's right, but she's resting now. Can I take your number and have her call you back?”
“Do you know if she got the package?”
Jane felt suddenly wary. “Package?” Just because this man identified himself as Fred Kasimir didn't mean it was actually him.
“The screenplay,” he said impatiently. “I put it in the mail four days ago.”
“I don't know. She hasn't checked her mail yet.”
“Well, tell her to get on the stick! A project like this doesn't come along every day.”
“Do you want to leave a number?”
“She's got my cell, but I have to turn it off. I'm just about to board a plane. Tell her I'll be in touch.”
“I'll do that,” said Jane. “Bye.”
“Freddy Kasimir, huh?” said Cordelia, licking her fingers.
“That's what he said. He sent Joanna a screenplay.”
“Really? Fascinating.” She handed Jane a piece of the baguette with a thick smear of Brie on top.
“What if it wasn't Freddy Kasimir? I mean, it could have been anybody.”
Cordelia stopped midchew. “Boy,” she said, swallowing quickly, “it doesn't take your paranoia long to move into high gear.”
 
Shortly after six, Joanna drifted into the kitchen. She'd changed into white jeans and a light blue silk shirt. She didn't look like she'd rested at all.
“Do we have any scotch?” she asked.
“Actually, we do,” said Cordelia.
“Good woman,” she said, lowering herself onto a ladder-backed kitchen chair.
This time, Cordelia didn't ask about food, she simply set a plate of olives, cheese, and smoked salmon in the center of the table.
Jane decided not to mention the call from her ex right now, just in case it turned out to be bogus.
A few minutes before six-thirty, the buzzer sounded.
“That's got to be Nolan,” said Jane, rising and moving over to the phone attached to the kitchen wall. “Yes?” she said.
“Jane? It's me. I'm downstairs.”
She buzzed him in.
When he reached the loft's front door, she hugged him briefly, then stepped back so he could enter. Nolan was wearing a brown polo shirt, dress pants, and, as usual, mirrored sunglasses. The color of the shirt almost matched the color of his skin. Jane was always struck by how much his presence still screamed “cop.” He'd worked homicide with the MPD for sixteen years before retiring.
Joanna came out of the kitchen to shake his hand. “Thanks for coming.”
They all sat down around the dining room table.
Nolan removed a small notebook from his back pocket, then folded his hands on top of the table. “What can I do for you, Ms. Kasimir?”
Joanna rubbed the back of her neck. “How much do you know about the legal problems I had back in 1989?”

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