Thugs and Kisses (9 page)

I was still pondering what Sally had said last night, that sometimes people like Donny do deserve to die, when I received a call from Carl Yates asking me to come to the small, private conference room on the next floor. Woobie was growing rapidly and had recently expanded, taking over half of the floor just above our main floor. Grabbing a yellow pad and pen, I told John I was going into a meeting and headed for the elevators.

The evening before, Carl had decided two things: one, that the firm would file a missing person report; and two, that I would focus my time on finding Michael Steele, attorney-at-large. Carl had ended our conversation by saying he would run things past a couple of the other partners and give me the final word this morning.

Arriving at the conference room, I found the door shut. After a soft knock, I was admitted by Carl. He motioned me in and closed the door after me. Seated at the small conference table were Marc Boer and Katherine Brown. There are four name partners at Woobie: Wendell Wallace, my old boss who is now retired, Carl Yates, Katherine Brown, and Marc Boer. There are a few other partners, as well, such as Steele; but make no mistake, these top remaining three rule the roost and are quietly referred to amongst the employees as the Holy Trinity.

The Trinity greeted me with solemn faces as Carl asked me to take a seat.

“So, what’s going on?”

The question came from Kelsey over a lunch of pastrami on rye, fries, coleslaw, and iced tea at Jerry’s Famous Deli. The sandwiches are so large at Jerry’s that we were splitting one. Joan, our other usual lunch buddy, was grabbing lunch back at the office while reviewing documents.

“Nothing,” I replied while heaping coleslaw on my half of the sandwich. “I still haven’t heard from Greg.”

“I’m sorry, Odelia. Truly I am.” She looked over both her shoulders and leaned forward in my direction. “But I was asking about the office. I came by your office this morning to see how you were, and that temp, John something or other, told me you were in a meeting upstairs.”

“I’m in meetings all the time—part of the job.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. But Ani told me you were meeting with the Trinity.”

Ani Markarian was Carl’s secretary. “Ani should know better.”

“It’s about Steele, isn’t it? Is he dead? Have a breakdown? In rehab?” She prattled on while holding a fry in her hand like a pointer. “I always thought he was on something—too nasty not to be.”

I rolled my eyes. “Steele is not on drugs. He’s too much of a health nut.”

“Hmm, you’re right.” She bit the end off the fry like it was the head of an enemy. “Then my vote’s for a nervous breakdown.”

I took a bite of sandwich and studied Kelsey while I chewed. She was my friend, but I also knew the Steele matter was not to be discussed throughout the office. The party line would be that he was taking some unexpected but unavoidable personal time to handle family matters. But I knew Kelsey would never buy that. Like me, she’d been around Woobie too long to swallow fish stories whole.

“Truth is, we still don’t know what’s happened to him, but that’s not what you’ll be hearing.”

She chuckled. “Typical.”

I put down my sandwich and wiped my messy hands on a napkin. “Please, Kelsey, go along with whatever stories are fed to the staff. It’s important.”

She looked into my face a long time —studying me, probing my brain without permission. “They have you looking into it, don’t they?”

With a sigh, I surrendered and confessed. “Yes, they do. The firm is filing a missing person report with the police. Then I’m to contact all his friends and family and see if I can turn up any information.” I took a long drink of iced tea. “The firm has a valid reason to keep this quiet. Please don’t say anything to anyone.”

“Don’t worry, pal, I won’t, but only for your sake, not Steele’s.” She picked up her sandwich. Just before taking a bite, she said, “You’re not going to end up in any danger, are you?”

“Danger? Sheesh, you’re as bad as Greg about this stuff.” But looking at Kelsey, I could see she was worried. “Trust me, Kelsey, all I’m doing is making a few calls to his gym rat buddies and talking to a few long-lost relatives. How dangerous can that be?”

Kelsey chewed and swallowed. “For a normal person, a day at the beach; for you, life-threatening.”

Instead of going back to the office after lunch, I retrieved my car from the parking garage and headed for Laguna Beach. At this morning’s meeting, I disclosed to the partners that I had a key to Steele’s home, as well as his office passwords. They asked me to take a run by his condo if no one had heard from Steele by noon. They had read my mind. Before leaving for work this morning, I had fished Steele’s key out of its hiding place with the idea of doing just that.

Steele lives in a condominium on Blue Lagoon Lane in Laguna Beach. I had never been there, but I knew the area and guessed that Steele must live almost on top of the beach.

Laguna Beach is about thirty to forty-five minutes from our office, depending on traffic; more if the freeway is tied up. Being that it was the middle of the day and not rush hour, I made it down the 73 Freeway and onto Laguna Canyon Road in good time. Laguna Canyon Road winds through a lovely rural park area, an area given to raging fires in some dry seasons, and comes out into the densely populated business district of the upscale beach town and artist enclave. Just before it reaches the web of small streets and boutiques, it passes two art areas. On the left is the location of the Sawdust Festival, which boasts over two hundred local artists during its twice-yearly art shows. On the right is the location of the Laguna Beach Festival of the Arts and home of the legendary Pageant of the Masters. My chest tightened, remembering that just a few months ago, Greg and I had attended the pageant and marveled together at the masterpieces reenacted on-stage by living, breathing subjects.

Pushing my personal grief aside, I continued, turning left onto Pacific Coast Highway. A few miles later, I turned right onto Blue Lagoon. I was not wrong; Steele did live almost on top of the beach.

I have to hand it to Steele, the man has wall-to-wall impeccable taste. Unlike his office, which is cold and austere in shades of black, white, and silver, with black-lacquered furniture, his home was warm and inviting, yet still very masculine. The flooring was travertine tile with muted area rugs in the entry and living room, and the walls were covered in textured taupe paint. In the living room was a large L-shaped leather sofa the color of a seasoned saddle, dotted with throw pillows of various earth tones and textures. Across from the sofa were two armchairs upholstered in a matching subtle print, one with an ottoman. Against a side wall was a substantial dark armoire, which probably housed the TV and audio equipment. On the walls were a couple of nice-sized paintings, and in the corners sat several large ferns. The living room was spacious and airy, with one wall a bank of windows looking out to the ocean. Peering out the window to the right, I could see tennis courts and a pool positioned a level below in a common area. This was living in style. Greg would love it.

There I go again. I must stop referencing Greg in everything I see and do.
He’s gone, deal with it
, I told myself.

“Steele,” I called out as I stepped farther into the condo. “Steele, you here?” No answer.

I found the kitchen, with its granite counters and gleaming top-of-the-line appliances. It looked like a kitchen from a model home, not a place where people cooked, mashed, and sautéed. Opening the double-wide side-by-side freezer/refrigerator, I noted that it was well-stocked with fruits and vegetables, but none looked freshly purchased. The freezer, too, was nearly full, and I smiled as I noticed several containers of Cherry Garcia ice cream. It was nice to know that at least Steele’s palate was human.

Like my place, Steele’s condo was built on two levels. The master suite was huge, with a California king-size bed and a leather headboard in the middle of it. Like the living room, the bedroom was done in earth tones with a mix of solids and prints. The master bath didn’t have a tub, just a shower, but the shower was the size of one of my clothes closets, with multiple jets and a small built-in bench, making me wonder how much entertaining Steele did in his bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, or what stylishly passed for a medicine cabinet, I found various hair gels, antiperspirants, shaving implements, over-the-counter drugs, and first-aid products.

Nothing seemed out of order or used in quite a while. There were no stray hairs in the sink or crumpled tissues in the trash. I ran my fingers around the two sinks—both were slick and shiny, like they recently had been cleaned. Even the plush towels hanging on the designer rack looked freshly laundered. I stepped into the shower-a-rama. Neatly positioned on a stainless-steel rack were tubes and bottles of shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, and a bar of soap. I checked them all and found them dry. As with the sink, I passed my fingertips along the tile and the floor of the shower—slick, not a trace of soap residue.

Back out in the bedroom, I checked the linens on the bed. They were fresh and unused. I thought about the immaculate kitchen. This home had been cleaned and cleaned well since the last time Steele had been here. I made a mental note to find out who his cleaning lady or service was and make a call.

I did a thorough check of the second bedroom and bath and found both spotless. Like me, Steele used his spare bedroom as a combination office and guest room. Like the rest of the house, it was beautifully decorated and clean.

Pulling out my cell phone, I called Dev Frye. I filled him in on where I was and what I had found. I also told him that the firm wanted to file a missing person report. I told him I’d come to his office, but he said he’d rather come to Steele’s place so he could look around.

After giving Dev Steele’s address, I checked out the rest of the condo, opening closets and drawers, making sure someone still lived there. All looked in order. While there were few personal items downstairs, upstairs in both the master suite and office were framed photos. Some were of Steele in tennis togs with friends, others in ski apparel with other people. A couple of photos showed Steele with the same pleasant-looking woman. She looked about his age and had very long hair and a handsome face with strong features. In both photos they had their arms wrapped around each other. I wondered if this was Karen Meek.

While I waited for Dev, I sat at the desk in the guest room and went through some of the drawers. Everything was organized much as Steele kept things at the office. On the desk was a leather portfolio. Inside were recent billing statements from various utilities and credit cards. I sifted through them and found nothing unusual; they just appeared to be waiting to be paid. On the left side of the portfolio was a plastic sheet with windows for business cards. Inserted into the various windows were cards for a dentist, doctor, health club, and other services. In one sleeve was a card for a company called Melinda’s Maid Service. I pulled out the card and put it in my pocket. Tucked behind it was a card for a company called Let Mother Do It. There was no address, just a simple card with a phone number under the name, maybe another cleaning company. I slipped the card out and put it in my pocket too.

I had just done a thorough search of the patio and garage when Dev Frye arrived. I let him into the condo and guided him to the dining table. From his inside coat pocket, Dev produced some forms. I sat down with him, and together we filled out the necessary information, which included a physical description of Steele, car make and model, present address, last known location, and other personal information. Dev told me that the Newport Beach police would put a description out over the wire to law enforcement agencies throughout California, such as the Highway Patrol, and would fax a copy of the report to the Laguna Beach, Ojai, and Santa Barbara police. They would be on the lookout for a car fitting the description of Steele’s Porsche, but because there was no proof of foul play, beyond that there would not be any ongoing investigation.

I was torn about whether or not I should tell Dev that the firm wanted me to investigate on my own. The task had, after all, become part of my job description. In many ways, it was grandfathered in by my usual duties to look after Steele. The investigation had even been given its own internal billing number, and I was to post all the time I spent on finding Steele to that matter. The client was the firm, and the matter name was entitled Missing Link. The project title had been Katherine Brown’s idea. I always did like that woman.

As usual, I took the middle road and told Dev that the firm wanted me to contact Steele’s friends and see if any of them knew anything. He just stared at me, his face unreadable. When he did speak, I was surprised.

“That might not be a bad idea.”

“Really?” I said, leaning forward. “I was sure you wouldn’t be in favor of it at all.”

Dev smiled slightly. “Calling a few of Mike Steele’s friends seems harmless enough and might get us some leads. You never know. Besides, maybe this Steele thing is just what I need to keep your nose out of the Oliver matter.”

My mind flashed back to the night before. Over the last couple of brownie sundae bites, Sally and I had made a pact—she would help me find Steele, and I would help her find Donny’s murderer. Unbeknownst to Dev, my nose was already stuck into the middle of the Oliver matter. After all, promises made over chocolate and ice cream are nearly sacred.

“What makes you think I have any intention of sticking my nose into Donny’s murder?” I tried my best to sound surprised and innocent.

Dev stared at me again, making me think I still had a bit of tell-tale hot fudge on my lip. “Like I said, Mike Steele’s disappearance should keep you out of trouble, especially if your law firm is insisting you work on it. But you have to promise me one thing.”

I looked at him, waiting for him to present the deal and wondering if it would be something I could honestly accept.

“You have to promise me, Odelia, that if you learn anything useful from his friends, that you will tell me immediately and not go off on a wild goose chase by yourself.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Piece ’o cake.”

“That’s not what I asked you.” He stared at me again, and I stared back, my nose twitching with mild irritation.

“Okay, okay, I will share anything I learn from his friends with you.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” I parroted.

The gravity of the matter hit home even harder when Dev asked for a current photo of Steele. In anticipation of such a request, I had printed out a copy of Steele’s firm biography. At the top of the bio was a formal head shot of Steele, taken last year when the firm updated its website and all attorney bios.

Before handing it to Dev, I looked down at the handsome, intelligent face, and my stomach turned at the thought of Mike Steele being on a milk carton—of sorts. It is one thing to joke and tease about such things, but when it becomes a real possibility, the laughter is cut short like a soundtrack that is abruptly unplugged.

It’s like telling Donny Oliver to eat shit and die, and then he does.