Secondhand Stiff (21 page)

twenty-three

With the police shutting
down the Santa Ana auction, I wasn't quite sure where we might find Kim and Tiffany—or, more importantly, just Tiffany. I wanted to find out if she was involved in this or how much she knew. Was she blinded by love for Kim Pawlak or was paternal love blinding Buck Goodwin? It was difficult to say, but I felt confident that Buck believed with all his heart that Tiffany was not in the loop about the drug trafficking at the auctions. And who knew how much Kim Pawlak was involved. Was she a soldier or a general in the setup? Did she have Red killed and try to kill Buck or was someone else calling the shots?

Greg and I got our van out of the college parking garage as fast as possible just in case Fehring shut the place down in her hunt for Eric van den Akker. She would expect us near the Comfort
Foodies
truck and might be relieved to not find us, or she could worry that we were off pursuing another lead on our own. We drove several miles away from the campus before Greg pulled into a busy mall parking lot. Along the way, we'd discussed my thoughts and questions about Kim.

“I'm wondering,” Greg said after pulling the van into a spot between two high-profile SUVs, using them for cover just in case Fehring had patrol cars on the lookout for us, “about the timing of Kim becoming a half owner in Acme Auctions.”

“The woman who told me that said it was recent. Do you think Red would have sold it to her if she was mixed up in a drug trafficking business?”

“No, I don't. I'll bet he found out about the illegal stuff just after she became his partner.”

Greg shifted in his seat. “Makes you wonder how many other auction houses might be involved or if it's just this one.”

I nodded. Greg was right. It could be the drug traffickers had their fingers in several auction services, not just Acme. “Here's a thought. What if Red and Tom weren't murdered by the drug guys but by another auction house wanting in on the action?”

Greg blew out a gust of frustrated air at the thought. “For now, let's just focus on who and what we know.”

I nodded in agreement and kept the hamster wheel inside my head moving on our track.

Greg looked out the window, watching a young woman pushing a stroller from her car toward the mall entrance. “But if Kim is deeply involved in this mess, do you really think Tiffany would miss that?”

I shrugged. “In spite of her tough-girl appearance, Tiffany's pretty young and she's in love. Haven't you had relationships where you knew something was wrong but chose to ignore it?” I myself was remembering a man named Franklin Powers whom I almost married years before I met Greg. Franklin was a manic depressive given to bursts of violence. I ignored it in the name of love until I simply couldn't any longer and broke off the engagement two months before the wedding. “I know I have.”

“Yes,” Greg agreed, rubbing my arm with affection. I'd told him about Franklin when we started getting serious. “We all have.”

“I think the question is how much does Tiffany know or suspect, and if she's involved herself.”

“I hope for Buck's sake she's not involved at all.” Greg started up the van. “So what's the plan?”

“Give me your phone.” I held my hand out. “If I call and get the same woman, she might recognize the number and my voice.”

Greg handed me his cell phone, and I placed a call to Acme Auctions. The same woman answered, and I tried to change my voice up a bit, which is another skill I lack.

“Hi,” I said as soon as she answered. “Is Kim Pawlak in?”

“Why are you asking?” the grouchy woman asked.

Ah, geez, I really should have had a story ready. The Acme receptionist may not be Miss Congeniality, but she didn't strike me as stupid either. I decided to get snotty back and see if she'd back down. “I don't think that's any of your business.” I paused and gave off a very audible and inpatient sigh. “Look,” I said to the woman, “I'm a friend of Kim's and she told me to call her. Said it was very important. End of story. So is she there or not?” I held my breath, waiting to see if my plan worked.

“No, Ms. Pawlak is not in at the moment.”

“How about her assistant? She said if she wasn't there, I should talk to her assistant. Oh gawd, what's her name? Tanya? Terri?”

“Tiffany.”

“Yes. Tiffany. Sounds like some blond bimbo from Beverly Hills. Kim always did have a secret fancy for girls like that.”

“Ms. Goodwin is here,” the woman said with a voice so sharp I got a paper cut in my ear, “but she's on the phone right now. May I take a message?”

“How about voice mail?”

Without another word, the woman slapped my call into voice mail. I heard Tiffany's recorded voice telling me to leave a message and phone number and she would return the call as soon as possible. I didn't leave a message.

“Tiffany is there,” I said to Greg after I ended the call and handed him back his phone. “And Kim is not.”

“Nice job, sweetheart,” he said with a grin. “Now where to?”

I smiled at my husband and looked up Acme Auctions on my own phone. Even before I gave him the address, he was pulling out of the parking space.

Acme Auctions was located in Norwalk, back in the direction of Bellflower. We were certainly getting around today, but at least everything was fairly local and nothing was sending us off into Los Angeles proper, where the traffic would be worse.

The address brought us to a very small strip mall on the corner of Pioneer Boulevard and Lindale Street. There were only four businesses on the premises—Acme Auctions, a tax service, a liquor store, and a dry cleaners. Acme was sandwiched between the tax service and the dry cleaners. The parking lot for the businesses was tiny.

“Look for a back alley when I go around the corner,” Greg told me.

“I don't see one.”

“Good. That means she'll have to go in and out through the front. Too bad we don't know what Tiffany drives.”

Greg went around the block. Once we were back at the small shopping plaza, he pulled into the lot by the dry cleaners and parked in a space on the end that gave us a good view of the front of Acme and an easy exit if we needed to pull out quickly.

I glanced at the clock on the van's dash. “It's only twelve thirty,” I noted. “Feels like it should be two or later.”

“That's because we ate lunch at eleven,” Greg chuckled. “We're going to want dinner by four.”

“Let's just hope she didn't leave for lunch while we were driving here. If she hasn't, we might be able to snag her on her way out.”

“My guess,” said Greg, “is that Acme doesn't get a lot of walk-in traffic or have a lot of employees. Might just be Tiffany and the receptionist in there. If no one comes or goes soon, we might want to go in.”

A few minutes later, we saw the door to Acme open, and a woman with gray hair pulled back into a ponytail walked out. She had her purse hooked over one arm and was holding a small box. She headed straight for a dull brown sedan parked in front. A second later she was pulling out into traffic.

“I'll bet,” Greg said, leaning toward me, “that's the receptionist, and she's heading somewhere for lunch.”

I agreed.

“If we can't get anything out of Tiffany, we should try to crack that nut. Didn't you say she sounded very unhappy the first time you called?”

“More like she was disapproving of the new situation.” I really didn't want to face the receptionist, especially now that I'd gotten a glimpse of her stony face. A bluff on the phone is one thing; in person, I doubted I could keep it up.

“Did you notice,” I said, “that she didn't lock the door when she left? That means someone is still inside. Hopefully it's Tiffany and she's still alone.”

As soon as the woman was gone, Greg and I left the van and made our way to Acme. The décor inside was clean but sparse. The reception area also served as the main office area. A bank of old-fashioned, mismatched filing cabinets lined one wall. A big year-at-a-glance calendar was posted on another. Many of the date blocks were filled in with places and times. The front desk looked to be command central. I quietly moved around the desk to take a look. The bulletin board posted on the wall to the right of the desk was blank except for a few memos, but from the fading on the cork, it looked like until recently it had been covered with photos. There was a desktop computer, but it was old.

I heard someone talking. It was muffled but clearly a single voice. I looked to Greg, who pointed behind me. In the back were two closed doors leading to offices. The doors were wood inset with frosted glass. To the side was a solid door with a sign on it designating it as a unisex restroom. Next to the bathroom door was a counter with a copy machine and a coffeemaker. Under the counter was a small fridge.

I checked the phone on the front desk. There were several buttons evidencing several phone lines or extensions, but only one was lit. I looked from the phone back to the closed glass doors. The office on the left was dark, but lights were on in the one on the right. I started moving for it. Greg caught up to me. Since we didn't know for sure that Tiffany was behind the closed door or what her involvement was with the drug scheme, we approached carefully, standing to the side and not directly in front of the glass. The voice sounded normal and businesslike, and it was Tiffany. A second later, the call ended.

Greg and I looked at each other a moment, unsure of whether to knock or barge in. What we did know for sure was that the clock was ticking. The receptionist might be back soon and the police might show up anytime, especially since drugs were found in the Santa Ana facility this morning. No doubt they would be questioning everyone at Acme about it.

Our decision-making process came to an end when the door opened and Tiffany Goodwin popped out. We both let out a little yelp of fright at the unexpected surprise. Greg was the only one not shaken.

“What are you two doing here?” Tiffany asked, recovering first.

“We need to ask you some more questions,” Greg told her. “It's important.”

“To who?”

“To you,” I answered. “And to Buck.”

Tiffany's face melted from stern into worry. “Do you know where my dad is? Is he okay?”

“He was fine when we saw him about an hour ago,” Greg told her. “But he's worried about you.” I was relieved that Greg left out the part about Buck being surrounded by police last we saw him.

Hearing Buck was okay, Tiffany's face morphed back into defiance and her eyes rolled. “Did he send you here to make peace? If so, you can just leave.”

“No,” I told her. “He didn't, but he has good reason to be concerned about you.” Before she could speak again, I quickly added, “He's not mad because you're gay. Really, he's not.”

“Yeah, right.” She put a hand on a slim hip. She was dressed all in black today—black jeans, black shirt, and black work boots, even thick black eye makeup. Only her spiky hair was light.

“It's true,” Greg added, “he's concerned about Kim, about your relationship with her. He's afraid she's mixed up in something illegal and you'll get dragged into it.”

“You mean the drug thing?” She voiced the question with casual indifference. “Go back and tell Dad to mind his own business. Kim is not involved in that. That was all Red's doing. That's why he was murdered.”

I felt my face scrunch into curiosity. “Who told you that?”

“Kim. She found out about it shortly after she became his partner. She convinced him to pull out of it, but when he tried, they killed him.”

“Did you tell the police that?”

“Kim did, or at least she's there now being questioned. They found drugs in one of the units up for auction today. She said it was time to stop trying to protect Red and clear the air. She's trying to save the business.”

The words sounded good—too good and convenient. Buck had said he'd known Red for years and that the guy was a straight shooter. “Acme belongs totally to Kim now, right?”

“Yeah,” Tiffany confirmed. “I think she owns it all now.”

Greg swiveled his chair slightly. It was something he did when he was lost in thought, like running a hand though his hair. “Tiffany, your father does not believe Redmond Stokes was mixed up in any of this. He believes Kim is the one involved. That's why he was so upset when you moved in with her.”

“He never said that to me. He just said he wouldn't let me move in with her.
Wouldn't let me!
I'm not a child anymore. I'm nineteen, almost twenty. He even threatened to lock me up to keep us apart.”

Buck, Buck, Buck.
It sounded exactly like something an upset and bull-headed parent might say.

“I think,” I said to Tiffany, “that your dad might have put it badly in his desire to keep you away from Kim. He believes she's involved in the drug scheme, not Red, but he didn't want to tell you because knowing about it might put you in danger. He's really supportive of your coming out.”

“He told us he just wants you to be happy and safe,” Greg added. “Did you know already about the drugs?”

Tiffany was looking out the front window into the small parking lot but shook her head. “Not until today. I knew something really bad was going on because of Tom's and Red's murders and the blast at my dad's store, but I didn't know what it was. Kim said it had nothing to do with us—that they were all involved in something illegal.”

“Even your dad?” I asked.

“She tried to tell me that, but it didn't sound like Dad at all. Then when his store was blown up, I started thinking she might be right.”

Tiffany leaned against the wall and slid to the floor, covering her face with her hands. “I'm so confused, I don't know what to think.”

“Didn't Ina try to tell you when she came by the night before Tom was found?”