The Manipulated (Joe Portugal Mysteries) (25 page)

“I’ll be around here. I’ve got a couple of clients who like this kind of crap.”

I grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing tray and wandered toward the back. There were six or seven people checking out Samantha’s work. One was a short, amazingly fat man wearing a caftan. He saw me. His eyes lit with recognition. “It takes a bug …” he said.

“To catch a bug.”

“I
love
those ads.”

He was some indeterminate blend of black and white and maybe a couple of other shades. His brown hair was cut short except for one thin braid that grew from the center of his hairline and was pulled back over his shoulder. He had a soul patch and eyeglasses with mother-of-pearl frames. Behind them one eye was green and the other blue.

I introduced myself and he did the same. I didn’t catch his name and I didn’t care. I said, “You like her work?”

“It’s excellent,” he said. “Simply excellent.”

“Reminds me of Hopper,” I said.

“Really? I don’t see that at all.”

“Samantha told me he’s an influence.”

“Really?” He inspected the nearest painting, the penny-pitching one. “Yes, yes, I see it now. The use of light and shadow.”

“Of course.”

“You know her, then?”

“I’ve made her acquaintance several times.”

“I’ve only met her briefly,” he said, smiling. “Through a relative.”

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Come, tell me. We art aficionados shouldn’t have any secrets.”

“Oh, all right.” He came closer. He smelled of chocolate. “See that man over there?”

I followed his eyes. They led to someone tall, dark, and if-I-were-a-woman-I’d-fuck-him handsome. “I see him.”

“My nephew Emilio. Not really much for art, but likes openings, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“The women, my boy, the women. Just look around. There are dozens of beautiful women here. If I weren’t so damned fat I’d be after them myself. The one in the green, for instance. What I wouldn’t give for a night in the sack with her.”

“That’s my wife.”

“Oh.
Oh
.” A giggle. “No offense intended, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure. Come on, this sounds juicy.”

“It is, it is. Emilio met Samantha at an opening some weeks ago. They went back to his place and, you know …”

“Did the deed,” I said.

“Yes. They did the deed.” He came closer, looked around furtively. Now I smelled coconut on top of the chocolate. “She was awfully good in bed, Emilio told me. So he went out with her a few more times. Then he grew tired of her. You know, Emilio has so many women throwing themselves at him. He met someone else. Samantha’s turn was over.” He came even closer. His face was within inches of mine. Now there was almond in the mix. He was the world’s biggest Almond Joy.“The poor girl, she didn’t take it very well. She’s a fine artist, but upstairs …” He tapped his forehead.“A little cuckoo.”

“What makes you say that?”

“This won’t go any further, will it?”

“I swear on my mother’s grave—” Sorry, Mom. “I’ll keep the secret as well as you did.”

“Well … the poor girl … she started stalking him.”

“She didn’t.”

“He spotted her twice. He had to call her and tell her to stop.”

“And did she?”

“He thought she had—he didn’t see her for weeks—and then he caught her one more time. By that time he was tired of the new one too. He met someone at a cocktail party, and they left together. Poor Samantha was at the party too.”

“Poor Samantha.”

“He could tell she was upset, but, after all, what was he supposed to do? And it had been several weeks.”

“So what happened?”

“They went back to his place, and were, uh …”

“Doing the deed,” I said.

He smiled. I wanted to smack him one. But after he finished the story.“Yes. They were doing the deed, and Emilio heard a phone go off right outside his bedroom window. So he pulled out and ran over to look. And there she was.”

“Samantha.”

“Yes,” he said. “She was watching the whole thing. Which, if one stops to think about it, has a certain kinky attraction, doesn’t it? Where are you going?”

Emilio stood surrounded by a bevy of female admirers. “I need to see you a minute,” I said.

“Do I know you?” He had an accent. It was thin, vague, and fake.

“You’re about to. Ladies, would you excuse me?”

“Mister, who do—”

I dropped my voice. “LAPD. You want to do this the easy way or the hard way?”

Impersonating a cop always does the trick. “Ladies,” he said. “Will you excuse me?”

They sauntered off. I maneuvered into a spot far enough from anyone else for privacy. “Nothing to worry about, Mister … Emilio. Need to ask you a couple of questions for an investigation I’m running.”

He was, I thought, beginning to realize I ought to have shown him a badge or something. “Yes?”

“Just two, really. I understand you found Samantha Szydlo spying on your sexual activities a few weeks ago.”

“Really, this is none of anybody’s—”

“Just routine, sir. First question, what was she wearing?”

All trace of the accent was gone. “How the hell am I supposed to—”

“Think, man. People’s lives depend on it.”

“Oh, all right.” His face scrunched up. “It was that red number she had. Nice and short. It had some kind of shiny stuff on it.”

“Excellent. You’re doing a fine job. Last question. Do you remember what night this was?”

“Oh, yeah. That one I remember right off. Lot of excitement, that night. First Samantha spying on me, and then a guy I knew got killed.”

“A guy you knew?”

“Just a little. Used to run into him at clubs sometimes. We went out with a couple of the same girls.”

“Was this Dennis Lennox?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Hey, you got a badge or something you can show me?”

I looked at him. Then behind me. If he took a swing, I’d be able to step back out of the way. “No, dumbass, I don’t have a badge. I don’t need no steenkin’ badge.” I stepped over to where the clutch of women Emilio had been with was watching our encounter. “Little word of advice, ladies. You ever hear of Lidovec?”

One of them perked right up. “I saw an ad the other day. That’s for herpes, isn’t it?”

“Ewww,” said one of the others.

“Right on,” I said. And I directed a meaningful look at Emilio, who was standing there like the big dumb dope he was.

It took a couple of seconds. But this time, when the “ewww” came, it came from all of them.

I wasn’t able to get a minute alone with Samantha, and eventually Gina and I walked down the block and had a drink and some snacks at an Irish bar. When we came back an hour and a half later most of the crowd was gone. A dozen people were left, mostly clustered near the walls, looking at paintings, trying to make decisions.

Gina went to talk to one of the other artists about the piece she thought her client might like, leaving me alone to corral Samantha. When she saw me her mouth smiled and her eyes didn’t. She invited me into the back room, sat on a shiny green vinyl couch. I leaned against a desk.

“I saw you talking to Emilio,” she said. “And that slimy uncle of his.”

I didn’t say anything.

“How much did you find out?”

“Everything.”

She fingered the slick surface of the couch. “I sold four pieces tonight.”

“Congratulations.”

“Things are looking up, career-wise.”

“But not personal-wise.”

“I thought I was over all that.”

“Guess not.”

“I just … I don’t know. I didn’t even like Emilio. He was just a good fuck.”

“He said the same thing about you. At least, his uncle told me he did.”

She forced out a laugh. “It was Dennis’s fault, you know. I was still feeling crappy because he dumped me. I mean, I hadn’t even thought about Emilio since I met Dennis, but then when I saw him again at the party I got all jealous. He left with that woman, and it was like someone else was controlling me. I was so embarrassed when he caught me.”

“There’s a good side to everything.”

“And the good side to this would be?”

“Now you have a real alibi to replace your phony one.”

“Oh. That.” She rubbed her finger on the vinyl again.

“Carrie gave me up?”

“No. Mike did.”

She frowned. “I should’ve known he couldn’t keep a secret.”

“What did Carrie do, take notes on what she was watching with him and fill you in?”

“More or less. Plus I taped
Frasier
. I really like David Hyde Pierce, can you believe that?”

“So you were at that party, then you were lurking at Emilio’s. Then, I suppose, you drove right up to Dennis’s. Because I’m guessing when your cell went off outside Emilio’s window, that was Dennis, telling you he wanted to make all better.”

A hoarse laugh.“Once I ran far enough away from Emilio’s to answer the fucking phone, yeah, that’s who it was.”

“So it sounds to me like your time is covered. Which lets you off the hook.”

“Sounds like.” We stared at each other. “So what happens now?”

“What should happen?”

“I don’t know. You tell everyone I’m a whack job.”

“Why would I do that?”

“A lot of people would.”

“I’m not a lot of people. And given that the cops seem to have accepted your original story, there’s not any point to telling anyone, is there?”

“I guess not.”

“You need to get help, though.”

“Please. I’ve had help. I’ve had so fucking much help.” She giggled. It wasn’t the laugh of a crazy person.

“Get some more,” I said. “Most therapists suck. Find the right one.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have any answers for you. I don’t even have any answers for myself.” I pushed off from the table. “Congratulations, by the way. On your sales.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I owe you one.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You do.”

The worms were back that night, the giant ones that started out as guitar frets. After they’d taken over the world, they pulled ping-pong balls from a bin,and each ping-pong ball represented a birthday. It was like the draft lottery back during Vietnam, only this time the numbers were the order everyone was going to get eaten by the worms. There was a resistance movement, and Ronnie was in it, and one of the things they did was give people a drink that would make them taste bad to the worms. In my dream, she dipped a Flintstones glass into a swimming pool full of liquid that glowed green like the radium in a watch. She offered the glass to me, but I kept shaking my head, saying what was the point,because by the time the worms realized you tasted bad, they’d already have eaten you. Then someone else told me to drink it. It may have been Mike or Dennis or a dream-state combination of the two. I reached out to take the drink and a siren went off.

But it wasn’t a siren, it was the telephone, and it was back in the real world. Still half-believing giant worms were in control, I squinted at the clock. Nine thirty-something. The shower was going and, in it, Gina was singing “Livin’ La Vida Loca.”

I tracked down the phone. It was Claudia Acuna. Ten minutes later I was on my way to Lawndale.

A lot of small cities in Los Angeles County don’t have their own police forces and are served by the county Sheriff’s Department. Lawndale’s one of them. When I got there three Sheriff’s patrol cars were parked in front of the McKay house. There were also four vehicles from local television stations, a fire engine, and a truck from Termites R Us.

The house across the street was still swathed in a yellow-and-blue rubbery tent. Cops and technicians and exterminators swarmed around it. Reporters clamored for access. Neighbors looked on avidly.

I spotted Linda Madera, Claudia’s replacement, standing by the Channel 6 van. I walked over and asked if she’d seen Claudia around.

“She doesn’t work for the station anymore,” she said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Then why would she be here? Has she signed with KTLA?”

I turned away and spotted Claudia, a house or two down, talking to a man in a sport jacket and turtleneck. I walked over. She made introductions. His name was Fred Johnson. He was a detective with the LAPD. He had no jurisdiction in Lawndale, but had been sent down to check things out once the victim’s name was known.

Johnson was my age or a little less, a light-skinned African-American, rail-thin. His head was shaved. We shook hands and the three of us went a little farther down the block. I had a hunch, turned, and sure enough Linda Madera was watching us. She looked like someone had stolen her Easter eggs.

As soon as we were out of anyone else’s earshot, Claudia said, “A neighbor kid saw what happened.”

“Which was?”

“The young man’s a hero,” Johnson said. “A little boy lives over there—” He gestured at the white-picket-fenced house across the street from us, two down from the tented place.“He’s three years old. His mother goes to take a phone call, kid gets out, walks right down the street, right for the tent. Son of a bitches screwed up, there’s a little spot just big enough for a three-year-old to get in. McKay was in his kitchen across the street, sees the kid, sees the spot, runs across and after him. Never came out again.”

“The kid?”

“Never even went in. He’d gone around back or something while McKay was getting to his front door. He’s fine.”

I took in the trucks, the cops, the bedlam. I turned back to Claudia.

She read my expression perfectly.“I had the same thought. He’s feeling guilty about killing Dennis, thinks he can make amends. I don’t buy it. I think Detective Johnson is right. He’s a hero.”

“Be more of a hero,” I said, “if he’d actually saved the kid.”

That got me a matching pair of glares.

“Sorry,” I said. “Just thinking too logically.”

“My former colleagues will spin the hero version.” Claudia said. “And as far as I’m concerned, let them. Too much bad news lately. We need a hero or two.”

I took a couple of steps away, thought a bit, came back. “His father?”

“Sedated,” Johnson said. “He took it—”

“Pretty hard. I know the routine.”