All or Nothing (14 page)

Marla was deliberately late. He’d known she would be and he propped up yet another bar, drinking an icy–cold Asahi beer––his favorite after Samuel Adams and quite different––dry and crisp as opposed to syrupy and smooth.

Heads turned as they always did when Marla strode into the restaurant. Her blond hair was pulled back Spanish–flamenco–dancer–style in a knot at the nape of her slender neck. Delicate tendrils drifted around her oval face and she had on the small round Armani tortoiseshell glasses––only they were sunglasses this time. Marla always complained that the angle of the sun at Typhoon bothered her––until it had set, that is. She wore a long black skirt and a soft white linen shirt rolled at the sleeves and shiny black Tod’s flats. Tonight she looked, Al thought, like a very tall ballerina.

As always, she threw her arms around him and kissed him soundly. “Missed you,” she murmured, gazing into his eyes through her darkened lenses.

“Missed you too, hon.” He unwound her arms from his neck, aware of the grins of the other people at the bar.

When they were seated at a table near the window he ordered her a vodka martini and himself another Asahi. She stared out the window at the sleek little Eagle jet streaking by. “When are we going to make enough money to afford one of those, instead of having to take flights via Atlanta?”

“I guess maybe when
you
get to be as good as
I
am at my job.”

She heaved a genuine sigh. “I hated today. I got exactly nowhere.”

“I think maybe I can tell you why you got nowhere.”

Her gray–green eyes popped open in surprise. “You mean you sent me on a wild goose chase? You
knew
I would find nothing. And here I was hanging out in hospital corridors all day. I still smell of Lysol, even after a shower. . . .”

“Marla, Marla, let me tell you what happened.” She sipped the martini while Al filled her in on the Jimmy and Bonnie Victor situation. And the little dog named Clyde.

“Bonnie and Clyde,” she said, astonished.

“You got it, honey. The bad girl and boy of the thirties.”

“You think Bonnie is Laurie Martin?”

He nodded. “That’s just what I think.”

“So why did she change her name? I mean, she didn’t kill her husband. They said she tried to save him, dragged him out of the burning trailer. . . .”

“I don’t know why she changed her name, but I’m willing to bet it’s because she had something to hide.”

“But her papers, social security, driver’s license, credit . . . it’s all in the name of Laurie Martin.”

“Unfortunately, honey, these days that’s not too difficult to arrange. All you have to do is go downtown, drive along Alvarado Street and you’ll be offered anything you want. From phony green cards to phony driver’s licenses and phony social security. All it costs is money––and not too much of that.”

“Al.” She frowned as she thought about it. “What if they never find her body?”

“Then Steve Mallard gets away with it. But I have a hunch that a woman like Laurie, aka Bonnie, was by nature a devious soul, one who always covered her tracks even when there was no apparent danger. It was just second nature to her. Why don’t you check those blood banks again tomorrow, Marla. See if anyone named Bonnie Victor donated blood. It’s a wild card, but you never know.”

“Why would she risk donating blood, though? I mean, why bother?”

Al shrugged. “Perhaps seeing her husband die like that made her aware of the need for blood in emergency situations. Maybe
her own
emergency situation one day. Why does anyone give blood?”

“Same reason,” Marla agreed.

They nibbled on the miniature ribs and fried calamari, picked at the sweet–flesh catfish and devoured delicious green beans in some kind of sauce, while Al told Marla about the motel outside Panama City and the bars. “You wouldn’t have liked it, hon,” he concluded.

“You know me so well,” she mocked, getting up and heading for the ladies’ room.

While he waited for her, Al watched the aircraft gliding gracefully onto the runway. He thought maybe Marla had a point. When was he gonna make enough to afford one of those things?

The call from Lister came just before six
A.M.
Marla groaned sleepily, covering her ears with her hands and wrapping her long legs around Al to prevent him from moving.

“Let it ring,” she moaned, “it’s too early.”

“Honey, nobody’s getting out of bed to call me at this time of the morning unless he’s got something to say.” He wrestled away from her and picked up the phone.

“Giraud, they’ve found the body.”

He recognized Ben Lister’s voice. “Where?”

“Cadaver dogs sniffed it out. Near the bottom of a canyon, farther away from where they were originally searching. The terrain’s difficult, it’ll take a while to get her up. Plus, after all this time––and with the rain––who knows what state she’s in.”

“I’m on my way. I’ll check with Bulworth en route and get back to you.”

Giraud was already throwing on his clothes. Marla leapt out of bed and grabbed hold of him. “Wait, wait, what’s happened?”

“They’ve found the body in a canyon. I have to get over there right away.”

“I’m coming with you.” She stepped into her underwear, dragged on the black skirt from last night and pulled his gray Russell Athletic sweatshirt over her head. She heard the rain drumming on the roof and groaned. A remote canyon in the pouring rain. Great.

In no time they were back at Santa Monica Airport, only now they were climbing into the chartered four–seater Cessna Al had arranged over the car phone, looking back at Typhoon as they soared into the sky on their way to San Diego and Laguna. There was, Al said, no time to lose.

The rain was coming down in a solid sheet, giving the fire rescue services a blurred ghostly image, like deep–sea divers in their helmets and boots. It had been several weeks since Laurie’s disappearance and the body was by now badly decomposed, adding to their difficulties.

“It’ll take the guys forever to scrape up the pieces,” Bulworth muttered, pacing the rim of the canyon like a sergeant major directing maneuvers.

Marla, in a shiny licorice–black slicker and a matching fisherman’s sou’wester, gulped, trying not to think about what he had just said. The cadaver dogs had done their duty and were warm and dry in the back of the K–9 Division wagon, and she only wished she could join them.

“They’re coming up,” Bulworth yelled, and the guy from the coroner’s office started up his wagon and edged closer, ready to take away the remains for autopsy, and the PD photographers switched on their lights and focused their videos and still cameras. Laurie Martin was about to star in her own version of a Hollywood B–movie.

Even in a body bag the smell of decomposing human flesh saturated the air as the rescue squad finally hauled it over the edge. Marla’s stomach did an about–turn and she gritted her teeth, willing herself not to throw up.

You’ll never live it down,
she warned herself,
you’ll shame yourself as well as Giraud
and
in front of Bulworth and that toughie Pow! Powers and all those brave guys out there with nerves and stomachs of steel. Giraud will never let you work with him again. . . .

Al was standing near the coroner’s wagon, speaking to Bulworth. He stalked back to her through the mud, looking at her through the sheet of rain.

She raised her eyebrows. “What now?” she asked in a voice that trembled.

“I vote for a cup of coffee,” he said grimly, leading the way back to the rented Explorer.

Hot strong coffee in a steamy–windowed Starbucks put Marla’s stomach back on normal and she breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“You did great, honey.” Al reached out and patted her hand gently. “That was definitely not pleasant. I shouldn’t have allowed you to come with me.”

“What? And miss that plane ride?” She managed a wobbly grin. “Was it our girl, Giraud?”

“The body was too far gone to be sure who it was. They’ll do an autopsy later today. They’ll have to go on dental records, check the DNA with the blood in the car.

“Meanwhile   .   .   .” He fished the cell phone from his jeans pocket, took out Marla’s list of blood banks and dialed the first number.

She sipped the coffee, burning her throat and listening to Al’s conversation.

Finally, he clicked the End button. His eyes met hers. “Got it in one,” he said quietly. “Bonnie Victor donated blood two months ago.”

“Then we can check it right away,” she said eagerly.

“Not so fast, hon. That batch of plasma is on an oil tanker bound for Hawaii.”

Her eyes opened even wider. “Then is anyone trying to get the darned stuff back?”

“You betcha,” Al said, already calling Bulworth. “
Even as we speak,
baby.”

They spent the night at the Ritz in Laguna Niguel, the same place where they had first seen Laurie Martin with Steve Mallard.

Only now, Marla thought uneasily, Laurie was just a mass of rotted flesh. And Steve Mallard was hiding out from his wife and family––and the police.

The rain still poured, lashing the windows in an early tropical storm recently downgraded from Hurricane Dora but still giving Baja and the southern California coast a touch of its fury. White–caps dotted the surging tide and it was definitely the kind of night for a cozy fire, a good bottle of red and some comfort food. The Ritz provided all that––and then some.

Snug in their suite, wrapped in the hotel’s white terry robes, Marla and Al sipped Mondavi Cabernet Reserve in front of the fire, feasting on char–grilled steak and garlic mashed potatoes, waiting for the phone to ring. That is, Al feasted on the steak. Unfortunately, Marla’s thoughts were still on Laurie/Bonnie in the body bag and she picked at the mashed potatoes, wondering if she would now have to become a vegetarian.

Meanwhile, in San Diego, Bulworth was pacing the shiny gray corridor outside the coroner’s department, gulping bad coffee from a Styrofoam cup, waiting for the results of the autopsy taking place behind closed doors. He was permitted inside the room, but he didn’t have the stomach the pathologist had. A body was one thing. Remains were quite another.

Not so, Pow! Powers. She was in there, doing her duty and enjoying every minute of it because every minute brought her closer to arresting Steve Mallard. Homicide was Pow’s game and she never got over the thrill of pinning the right crime on the right person. It was, she felt, something she had been born to do and she watched, fascinated, as stomach contents were extracted, weighed and evaluated; and fragments of rotted flesh––sliding from the bones––were examined and numbered; and jaws inspected and photos taken of the teeth and dental work.

But still she wasn’t prepared for the end result.

It was two in the morning when the call finally came from Bulworth.

Marla was sleeping on the sofa, her head in Giraud’s lap, and she stirred uneasily. They had been up since six the previous day and even Giraud was beginning to experience what felt like jet lag.

“Giraud,” he answered softly so as not to disturb her.

“Okay, so prepare yourself for this one,” Bulworth said grimly. “The body is not that of Laurie Martin.”

“And how do we know that without checking the blood, the DNA?”

“Because, my friend, this body is a guy. A male Caucasian, age around forty.”

Al whistled, disappointed, and Marla came suddenly to life. Like a pet dog answering his master’s whistle, she thought, instantly awake. “What’s up?” she asked as Al put down the phone.

Al told her.

She stared blankly at him. “So what happens now?”

“I guess we just have to keep on looking. Meanwhile, they are going to have to check out the dead man’s DNA, his hair, blood, body fluids, skin, prints––if there are any left––to try to identify the guy. As well as check the missing persons records.” He frowned impatiently. “It’ll all take time. And meanwhile, we are no further along.”

“There’s still Laurie/Bonnie’s plasma on the tanker heading for Hawaii,” she said helpfully.

Al had temporarily forgotten that and now he smiled, lifting an eyebrow the way she loved, deep blue eyes gazing into hers. “You’re right, Marla Cwitowitz, Assistant P.I.,” he agreed, kissing her. “And there’s also the fact that Bonnie Victor took off immediately after her husband’s funeral. And the next place the Buick Regal surfaced was in Falcon City, Texas.”

“Which is where you’re going next,” she said resignedly. “I might have known it.”

The deep silence of night settled over Vickie Mallard’s little house. She strained her ears, listening. Even the usual annoying roar of the freeway would be welcome, but tonight it was only a distant whisper. Suburban San Fernando Valley was sleeping. All except her.

She switched on the TV. Not that there was anything she wanted to watch, even if she could concentrate on a program––which these days she couldn’t because her own gigantic problems crowded into her mind eclipsing anything and everything else. Still, it provided background noise. She couldn’t stand the silence. Just couldn’t take one more lonely night.

She took another shower, her third that evening, put on a clean T–shirt, a pair of flannel boxers and the terry bathrobe with the pink hearts on it that Steve had bought her last Valentine’s Day, tying the sash with a vicious tug as she remembered him.

Since she had gotten the court restraining order, the newshounds had been forced to keep their distance, and now at least the neighbors had stopped complaining. Her girls were still with her sister. They were getting along okay, hanging out with their cousins and attending school. But they were heartbreakingly different children, subdued, all joy gone, keeping close to the house and rarely venturing out after classes. Vickie saw them every day, of course, but boy, how she missed them. Missed knowing they were tucked up in bed in their rooms at the other end of the hall; missed their squabbles; missed Taylor’s “What is there to eat in this house, anyway?”; missed Mellie’s whining about wanting the next Beanie Baby, or whatever   .   .   .

Steve’s new lawyer, Ben Lister, was tough. And so was Al Giraud, though personally she would rather deal with Ms. Marla Cwitowitz. She still didn’t trust Giraud somehow. She didn’t know about men like him. It was Marla who kept her informed, Marla who had told her that tempers and frustration were simmering at the SDPD. And that Lister wouldn’t let the cops talk to Steve anymore. “If they had any concrete evidence against Steve,” Marla had said, “they would have arrested him by now.”