Unplugged (29 page)

I was on my feet in an instant, rushing down the hall. Elaine turned toward me, her face pale, her eyes too wide. Emery Black stood on the opposite side of her desk.

“Mac.” Elaine’s voice trembled, but she drew a careful breath, calming herself. “This is Jeen’s employer.”

I slowed my pace, trying to assess a dozen different nuances. Elaine looked shocky and hurt. Black looked angry but controlled. “Yes,” I said, and reached out. Black’s handshake was as hard as iron. “We’ve met.”

“I’ll get right to the point,” he said. “I’m afraid there’s been some trouble.”

I felt my gut drop. “Trouble?”

“They think Jeen embezzled from NeoTech.” Elaine’s tone was strained, her face pale.

I shook my head. “I’m sure they’re wrong, Laney.”

“I just want to talk to him.” Black’s gaze was steady on mine. “I know we can clear this up if he just contacts me. Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard from him?”

I shifted my gaze to Elaine and back. If I had ever had any doubts about her feelings for Solberg, her shattered expression would have laid them to rest for an eternity.

“I’m afraid not,” I said.

He watched me a second, then shifted his attention to Elaine. “How about you?”

She shook her head. Her eyes were bright with tears. I felt my heart crack. “No. I’m . . .” She swallowed and raised her chin slightly. “I’m sorry. I haven’t heard from him for weeks. Not since the day before he was due to return.”

He glowered at her. “Where do you think he might be?”

She never shifted her gaze from his, but pressed her fingertips to the desktop, steadying herself. “I don’t know. I thought—”

“What?” he asked.

“I thought we were really close.” She smiled a little, pulling herself together. “I guess I was wrong. But I’m sure . . .” She straightened. “He wouldn’t have stolen anything, Mr. Black. I’m sure of it.”

“I’m certain you’re right. I just need to hear it from him.” He scowled out my front door, then turned back. “The longer he’s gone, the worse it looks for him, though. But I’ll do everything I can to clear his name. Everything in my considerable power.” He paused. We waited. “You’re certain you don’t know where he might be?”

Elaine nodded. I did the same.

“Call me,” he said, and reaching into his billfold, gave us each a business card. “If you hear anything.”

The police came not two full hours later. Rivera was notably missing. The two officers who arrived were direct opposites of each other. One was old and short. The other was tall and young. Neither one of them could take his eyes off Elaine and both looked like they’d rather eat their own badges than see her unhappy. They asked their questions, took some notes, and departed, apologizing for taking up our time—the soft side of the LAPD.

I
was feeling jumpy and old by the time I arrived home. I glanced up and down the street, checking the immediate vicinity, but all seemed clear. I hadn’t seen the unidentified blue Toyota since that first spotting and no unusual cars were parked on Opus Street near my house. A black SUV passed by and kept going. I waited to see if it returned. It didn’t.

Once inside, I checked caller ID, found nothing intriguing, and rang up Electronic Universe, but again Rex wasn’t there. So I left a message similar to the last one, then called La Pyramide and asked to speak to Gertrude. They asked who was calling and I spouted some nonsense about her winning the grand prize in a mall drawing. They sounded a little dubious, but finally asked me to hold. I did.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, Gertie, this is Kathy Solberg, J.D.’s wife,” I said.

“Who?”

“J.D.’s wife!” I repeated, emphasizing the last word, before launching irrevocably into fresh, new insanity. “Listen, you floozy, don’t bother to deny it. I know you’re shackin’ up with my old man, and I know he’s a donkey’s hind end, and I know I’m the same for wantin’ him back. But here’s the deal—either you tell me where to find him or I’ll—”

“What did you say your name was?” Her voice didn’t sound quite like I expected. Maybe I’ve seen too many gangster movies, but she was a topless entertainer and I had a Ph.D. and I was pretty sure she should only be marginally smarter than petrified wood.

“I’m the woman who’s going to kick your ass,” I said, “if you don’t tell me where to find my husband.”

“When exactly did you lose your beloved?” Her tone suggested minimal interest and slight irritation.

“Listen, I know you were with him on the twenty-ninth. A friend of mine saw you together after your sleazy show and if you don’t—”

“Listen, Mrs. Solberg, after my sleazy show I go straight home, study for my O Chem class, sleep five hours, and hope to get to school on time. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I admit to some confusion. I mean, I was expecting her to rise to the bait, defend her chosen profession, and hurl insults mixed liberally with curse words, not tell me about her study regime.

“You’re lying,” I said. “I know he’s there, and I’ll tell you what, this ain’t the first time he’s done this sort of thing. If I was you I’d get myself on antibiotics straightaway.”

“Although I very much appreciate the advice,” she said, “you are obviously severely deranged, so I’m sure you’ll understand if I terminate this conversation.”

“Wait!” I said before she could hang up. “Are you serious? You didn’t sleep with my J.D.?”

There was a pause. “Listen,” she said. By her tone I guessed she was now profoundly irritated and completely uninterested. “I’m a chemistry major, a flutist, and a lesbian. I wouldn’t sleep with your husband if you paid me in bullion.”

“A lesbian?” Here was an interesting twist.

“Yes.”

“Does the Mystical Menkaura have any other blonde assistants who might, ummmm . . . like men?” I thought about Solberg. “Or something vaguely similar?”

“No.”

“And you don’t know a guy named J.D.? Or Jeen? He’s short and skinny, with a—”

“Jeen?” she said.

My heart stopped. “Yes.”

She sighed. Maybe thinking. Maybe wondering if she should have taken nursing classes straight out of high school like her mother had recommended. “I met a guy named Jeen a few weeks ago. He was carrying some weird gold pineapple and showed me pictures of his . . .”

“Of what?” I breathed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft yet firm. “But he showed me pictures of his girlfriend.”

“His girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Did she look like a brainy Monroe?”

“She looked like the girl in my fantasies, minus the broadsword.”

I laughed out loud, maybe with relief. Maybe ’cuz I’d lost my mind.

Gertrude was silent for a second. “Didn’t you say you were his wife?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “But I try to be understanding. What’d he do after you left him?”

There was another audible sigh. “I don’t know. Some of the girls went out with his friends, I think. But he . . . I think I might have seen him leave with another guy.”

“Another guy? What guy? How’d he look?”

“I only saw him from behind.”

“What’d his behind look like?”

“Listen, if they have facial hair, they all look the same to me. You know what I mean?”

No. “Was he short, hunchbacked, roly-poly? What?”

“He was taller than your husband, but then, so am I.”

“What color hair?”

“Brown, I think. Medium weight? Listen, I’m sorry, but I really don’t know.”

I hung in there like a bull terrier. “Did you see where they went?”

“It looked like they were headed for the lounge.”

“And you didn’t see them afterward?”

“No.”

I let the silence drag out, trying to think, but it didn’t go well.

“Say,” she said finally, “if your husband ever breaks up with his girlfriend, have her give me a call, will you?”

I
spent that evening sitting up on my lofty perch, gazing down at Solberg’s house and trying to think. Maybe Gertrude had been lying to me. But I didn’t think so. She didn’t seem the type to care enough to conjure up such a convincing fabrication.

Which meant that Solberg very probably hadn’t been cheating on Elaine. But that said nothing about possible criminal activity. Still, why would he take such a risk? It didn’t make any sense. He brought in a hell of a salary at NeoTech, and while it is true that millionaires are hardly exempt from greed, it didn’t seem likely that he would be dumb enough to jeopardize his relationship with Elaine. Then again, the word “Combot” had been encased in dollar signs on his calendar. Maybe he had some gigantic payoff at the end of the month. Maybe he thought it would be big enough to convince Laney to screw morals and run away to live in dual bliss on some deserted island.

But I didn’t think so. If Solberg was smart enough to refrain from propositioning Elaine, he was probably too smart to underestimate her.

S
ometime after seven o’clock I fell asleep with my neck kinked like a tire iron beside my headrest. I was groggy and drooling when I next glanced down the hill.

It was almost dark. But there seemed to be movement in the Georges’ backyard. I sat straighter, snatched up my binoculars, and focused. Sure enough, someone was trudging across the lawn.

My thoughts clunked along like driftwood in my discombobulated brain. This little turn of events was probably nothing important. But as I watched, I became certain the figure was Tiffany and that she was dragging something that looked like a rolled-up carpet.

My brain cranked faster, gathering momentum. My phone was out of my purse before I knew it.

“Sheriff’s office—911.”

I swallowed my liver and found my voice. “Yes, I’d like to report a murder.”

“A murder, ma’am?” The voice was as calm as Sunday.

“At 13440 Amsonia Lane in La Canada. She buried him in her backyard,” I said, and shut the phone.

My heart was pounding as I drove down the curving slope and parked up the street from the Georges’ house.

It seemed like half a lifetime before the police arrived. And when they did, there were only two officers, cruising along as if they were sipping lattes and playing Parcheesi.

I watched them as they passed. Their lights were turning on their dashboard, but their siren was silent.

They got out of their car and converged on the sidewalk. One was tall with a basset-hound expression. The other was squat and balding. They spoke for a moment, then separated, one going around the back and one to the front door.

I sat in my Saturn, nerves cranked as tight as undies in spin dry.

Glancing up and down the street, I exited my car, trying to look inconspicuous, just a concerned citizen, wondering what was going down in the old neighborhood.

The balding officer on the porch shifted his considerable weight and switched from ringing the doorbell to knocking with his fist. He had just begun to descend the steps when the door opened. Tiffany Georges stood in a lavender bathrobe, framed by the light behind.

Even from my position on the sidewalk I could see her wide-eyed expression.

“Mrs. Georges?”

“Yes?” It was something like a question.

“I’m Officer Crevans. Can I come in?”

I assume she answered in the affirmative, because a moment later they had disappeared inside.

I strolled along toward the west, but when I passed the fence that divided the neighbors’ yards, I took a right-hand turn and shot onto Solberg’s property. A moment later I was creeping along the length of the fence line. My binoculars bumped against my boobs beneath my windbreaker and I was huffing like a lapdog in heat, but a moment later I was hidden between a fat-leafed succulent and an oleander. I crouched next to the fence and peeped between the unpainted boards.

Thirty feet in front of the Georges’ deck were the two graves, now completely filled in and mounded. Why? What was there? It looked like the hunched officer was wondering the same thing. He circled them once, then strode toward the deck just as the door slid open.

“I told you,” Tiffany was saying, “I just planted some bulbs and . . . Who’s that?” she asked. The second officer was already ascending the steps.

“This is Officer Stillman.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Like I said, we got a call.” Crevans’s voice was low, but I could make out most of his words. “I’m sure it’s a hoax, ma’am, but we’re bound by law to check it out. You don’t mind if we take a look?”

“At my bulbs?” Her tone was already loud and snippy. Either she was as guilty as sin or she’d spoken to California’s finest before. Certain officers can bring out the pit bull in a poodle.

“I like horticulture,” Cravens said. “ ’Specially daffodils. Plant any daffodils?”

Her face looked pinched as she turned toward him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“About your daffodils,” said the tall guy with the deadpan expression.

“I didn’t say they were daffodils.”

“Then what did you bury there?” asked Crevans. His shoes rapped across the hardwood deck and down the steps. Tiffany followed, her bare feet seeming to stutter along behind.

“So,” he said. His tone was casual, but his hand was on the butt of the gun at his hip. “You said you don’t know where your husband is?”

“I told you.” She didn’t turn toward him as she spoke. “He went to work, like he always does.”

They had reached the upturned soil. The two policemen exchanged a glance. Stillman shook his head in silent disagreement, as if the lie cut him to the quick.

“At Everest and Everest?” Crevans turned his gaze toward Tiffany.

“Yes,” she said, her voice clipped.

The two exchanged another glance. Maybe it was meaningful. As for me, I was about to shimmy over the fence and scream for them to dig up the damn graves and quit yakking like a couple old ladies over tea. “We checked into that before we came here, ma’am. Secretary was working late. He said he hasn’t seen Mr. Georges at work for more than a week. We’d like your permission to excavate this area.”

“Excavate.” She laughed. The sound was short and breathy, as if she’d been running uphill. She shifted her gaze toward the street and back. “That’s ridiculous. My husband would have a fit. He’s very particular about his yard.”