About Face (22 page)

Again her horror seemed real. But still she didn't look up.

I stood. “I guess I'll see you at the service for Rod this afternoon.” I waited a few more seconds for some last offer of information. It didn't come. “Thanks for meeting me here. I don't think you can help, but thanks anyway.”

I started to walk away. “Bill!” she called. “Give me a chance. I'll try to find out some things. I'll tell you whatever I can.”

I waved to her and left.

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Once upon a time, I was not so hard-hearted. I'd learned some lessons from the dot-com binge, lessons I'd never been forced to learn in my relatively benign corner of the film world. I'd also learned lessons from having a friend fatally poisoned by a protein engineered into her food. There are good people and there are bad people, but most are in between. The question is which way they will go. Kim struck me as an in-between, but on the edge. She genuinely was upset about Rod, but she wouldn't say why or what her true connection was. Maybe a gentler approach, playing along with her game, would have drawn her out. Usually I'm willing to do that, if only because the game tells me a lot. But my patience for phony identities and simulated motives had run out. Rod had agonized about falling under the spell of Alissa's glamour. I wanted no more glamours cast over me.

I still had time to see Erika before the memorial service. I dialed her cell number from my car. To my surprise, she picked up herself. My number showed on her caller ID, she explained. I asked her about getting into Alissa's apartment. She didn't answer directly, but named a corner and said to be there in half an hour. The tone of her voice told me she'd been hoping I wouldn't call.

She wore jeans and a sweatshirt. A felt hat was pushed low on her head. When she pulled it off in the car, I held back my gasp. Her description of the streaks of white hadn't prepared me for this. It was an act of vandalism, a defacement, as if the vandal
wanted to erase her identity. Worse, Erika's body language said that he had succeeded. She slumped in the seat, eyes down. Her hello was listless.

“Erika, I am so sorry. I'm going to do everything I can to fix this.”

“That's all right. I have a dermatologist now. I'd just as soon you stay out of it.”

“Are you sure you want to go to Alissa's apartment?”

“No. But I'm going to do this one last thing for you. Then I want out.”

“I'm sorry I put you at risk.”

She shook her head. “Don't apologize. You showed me Trisha's true colors. Having lunch with you was not such a big violation of the rules. I hope you nail them good. But don't call me again until you do.”

I waited a few moments before saying, “It would help if you'd come to the police with me and file a report on the attack. Tell them about Brendon, too.”

“I didn't see who threw that stuff in my face. And Brendon was just trying to find out where Alissa was.”

“Then tell them how SG spies on their clients. We could go to the DA's office.”

She shook her head harder and clenched her jaw, biting back tears. “Isn't what already happened to me bad enough?”

I decided not to tell her the news about Alissa. We drove in silence to the Granada. I'd stowed some optical equipment in my Scout this morning: a DV camera, a still camera with a zoom, and a pair of high-powered binoculars. I parked a block down from the apartment building and climbed on top of the jeep with the binoculars. The roof was good and firm; I'd done plenty of shooting from its perch. I scanned the street for a solid
ten minutes and saw no sign of the brown Mercedes. We'd have to take our chances if there was someone else. I walked Erika in under a large umbrella, though the rain was not yet coming down.

She had befriended the manager's young daughter last year. Erika had been locked out and the girl had been able to produce a key. Now Erika would knock lightly and call the girl's name. If the manager answered the door, we'd be out of luck.

I waited down the hall and out of sight. Erika's voice came in soft, lilting tones. My hopes rose. A minute later, she arrived with the key. “The manager takes a nap after lunch,” she said. “Open the door fast. I'll run the key back down before he wakes up.”

We took the stairs two at a time. I unlocked the door. While Erika returned the key, I stepped inside Alissa's apartment. There was a rank, metallic smell. I followed it into the bedroom. Neat red drops were outlined vividly on the tile floor. I bent to touch one. It was fairly dry. The drops led to the bed. I checked under the crumpled covers, but there was nothing there. A drip on the box spring caused me to lift the mattress. Buried beneath it was a paring knife covered with blood, the same color as the blood on the floor. I rushed into the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom. There was no body.

Erika saw the wild look in my eyes when she returned. “What is it?”

I took her into the bedroom and lifted the mattress. “Oh my God!” she said.

“This knife is from Rod's kitchen,” I said. “He owned a set of these. Alissa doesn't. The blood wasn't here before, either.”

Erika's brow wrinkled. “But how did—”

“The knife was planted. It had to be. Alissa wouldn't put a bloody knife from Rod's kitchen under her own bed.”

“Of course not, but—have you been in here before?”

I stopped short. The helpless expression on her splotch-marked face made me tell the truth. “I broke in from the balcony a couple of weeks ago,” I admitted. “Rod was worried about Alissa. We wanted to find out if she was still alive.”

“That was
you
. . . . Oh my God, I can't believe it!” She rushed to the door.

“Erika, wait.”

She wouldn't look at me. She stood in the open door as if fearing an attack.

“Don't go outside alone, Erika.”

She shut the door behind her. Some other time I could reflect on the irony of having deceived her the same way I'd accused everyone else of doing to me. For now I needed to complete my search of the apartment and keep an eye on Erika as she left the building.

The clothes that had been strewn around the apartment were now picked up. I found them tossed into the closet and stuffed into bedroom drawers. I checked Alissa's desk for signs of recent activity. A lack of dust on the computer keyboard told me it had been used. I booted the computer, then looked in the bathroom and kitchen. They seemed the same as the last time I was here, except I didn't recall a pot sitting on top of the stove before. And the message board had been cleaned.

I looked at my watch. Five minutes had passed. I called Erika on my cell phone. She didn't pick up. I slipped a piece of paper between the lock and the doorjamb and ran downstairs. A taxi was sitting in front of the gate. Erika must have stopped in her own apartment, because she was shoving a box into the back seat.

“Erika,” I gasped through the iron fence, “let me explain.”

Her expression was cold. “I wouldn't stick around, Bill. You never know when the manager will show up.”

That sent me racing inside again. I did a system search on files that had been modified in the past week. The results showed that files had been opened as recently as yesterday. I opened her email program. But the folders had been cleaned out. Incoming, outgoing, even the folder of deleted messages. Whoever had done the cleaning had been thorough. They'd probably swept the hard drive, too. I'd need sophisticated software to dig up the deleted files.

If Erika's threat about the manager was real, I had no time for more snooping. It wasn't worth the risk. I shut down the computer and got out of there. Once I was safely back in the Scout, I dialed the police and left an anonymous tip to look for a bloody knife in Alissa's apartment.

The memorial service
for Rod took place at an Episcopal church in the Valley. I was a bit rumpled for the occasion, having rushed over from Alissa's apartment. I'd brought a jacket to throw on over my shirt, but Mike and the other business types were in dark suits. Three Sylvain men were there, along with Connie and Ronald Plush, Ellen Quong, and a large contingent from Algoplex. I hadn't seen Wes yet. Rod's mother was up front. Mike rose to deliver a eulogy, one that brought tears to his own eyes but had one too many sports metaphors for my taste.

I didn't think anyone from Silicon Glamour would dare show, but there was Gary, in the back, as we filed out. I pushed by the exiting mourners to get to him. He crossed the pew to the left-hand aisle of the church. It felt odd to break into a run in this refined, slightly aloof atmosphere, but I cut across another pew and intercepted him. He tried to sidestep me. I turned and caught sight of Kim's streaked hair. She must have hidden behind a column during the service. Now she was hurrying to the porch exit.

“Out of my way,” Gary said, reaching a hamlike hand in my direction.

I stepped back lightly. “Don't try it here.”

“Who was that woman?” Gary asked.

“What woman?”

Gary let out a disgusted sigh. He looked uncomfortable in his clothes. His bursting chest squeezed the lapels of his blazer back into his armpits.

“Are you the best SG could send?” I said. “I suppose you're presentable, compared to those other two muggers.”

His gaze fixed on my discolored jaw. “You are funny, man,” he said, and lumbered back down the aisle.

I went the other way and out the porch exit. Kim was nowhere in sight. I just wanted to make sure Gary didn't find her. I went to the parking lot, then circled back around the front of the church, seeing neither of them. Mike stood at the top of the steps like the master of ceremonies. I lied politely and told him he'd done a good job. He reminded me that I was invited back to Algoplex for a reception.

I thanked him and made a beeline for the Plushes, who were standing below with the Sylvain men. Dr. Plush remembered me as the man with the camera. He asked what new film I was making. I motioned him away from the group. He'd been a hard man to find, and his greeting indicated that Connie hadn't poisoned him too much against me.

“I was thinking that Plush Biologics would be a good subject,” I said.

The doctor beamed, his cheeks broad as his tie. “It's a good time to get on board. Eternaderm will be a big, big breakthrough. I'll tell you the whole story. I still remember the moment I came up with the idea. You see, Ellen was doing gene regulation at another company and we got talking about the techniques she used. I'd long believed there had to be better
ways to treat skin. Cutting is brutal, topicals have limited effect, and peels are temporary. Speaking to Ellen, it came to me in a flash. Go directly to the genes. They'd unlock what we needed in a devastatingly effective manner. You'll be part of history, Bill. Who funds your films, by the way?”

“Well . . . the company I'm shooting does. Algoplex paid for the film on Rod.”

“Oh, hmm, I see. . . .”

“But there are other sources for documentary funding.” These days that statement sounded like a wild exaggeration, unless the doc was about sex, drugs, or terrorism. “Of course, I'd have to be more objective then.”

He spread his arms. “We've got nothing to hide.”

“How well do you know Rupert and Trisha Evans?”

The doctor got no farther than the word “Socially.” Though Connie appeared to be attending to the Sylvain men, in fact she'd been monitoring our entire conversation. Now she leaped in.

“Ronald, it's starting to rain. Shall we go?” The sky was a lowering gray, and it was indeed spitting a few drops.

“Hello, Mrs. Plush,” I said, extending my hand.

She took it, the picture of pleasantness. “Nice to see you, Bill.”

“Likewise. I wanted to tell you something. I've found Alissa.”

The smile plunged into a vicious frown. “That's impossible! Alissa is dead.”

Her exclamation caused the Sylvain men, a few feet away, to stop their conversation and stare at us. Ronald murmured, “Oh my God.”

“Really?” I said to Connie. “How do you know?”

“It was in the newspaper. A terrible thing—car crash in Arizona.”

“Which newspaper was that?”

“I don't recall. An Arizona paper.”

“You get the
Galatea Gazette
?”

“Someone
sent
it to me, Bill.” She couldn't hide the irritation in her voice, just as she had not been able to hide the frown, nor the panic when she declared so definitively that Alissa was dead.

I took a step toward the Sylvain men. “You guys knew Alissa, didn't you?”

They shook their heads quickly and in unison.

“Well, I'm just wondering how seriously your firm is tangled up with Silicon Glamour. They're going to have a lot of legal problems soon.”

The most senior of the group turned from me as if I'd never spoken. The others followed suit. Meanwhile, Connie and Ronald Plush had started down the sidewalk. I was about to follow them when I saw Wes motioning me over. He must have come late. I held up my hand to quiet him when I saw another figure behind him: Brendon. He was standing off by himself, next to a rhododendron bush. He made no secret of watching me. Nor did he move when I approached. Wes stood back and kept an eye on us.

I went up and put my nose right in front of Brendon's. His eyes held steady on me. He couldn't have been more than 22, 23 years old. He was good-looking in a UCLA-quarterback kind of way, with wide eyes, overfull lips, and a clear, creamy complexion. His light hair fell over his forehead and his jaw jutted in the manner of a little boy determined to have his own way.

I said, “I didn't know you cared so much about Rod.”

“It's not Rod I care about.” His glance shifted to the crowd around us. “Follow me.”