Christietown (21 page)

Damn. Missed him.

Life lesson of the day: the early bird catches the worm.

I was just about to leave, dejected in general (about nailing
Ian and/or Dov for the murders of Liz and/or Silvana) and in particular (about the four-plus dollars I’d wasted on parking) when the
other
elevator chimed, signaling that its doors were about to open. Eschewing my usual calm, I took a flying leap and crash-landed behind the unmanned security desk.

“Like I give a damn!” yelled the person exiting the elevator into his phone. “You better have your story worked out by the time I get there. I’m on my way.” As he stomped out of the building, I heard the faint but now-familiar echo of Hebrew curse words.

Mr. Personality himself.

I couldn’t have timed it better, except for the crash-landing part. I pulled myself up to standing, checked my Bakelite bangles for damage, yanked my sweater back into place, and smoothed down my houndstooth skirt with the kick pleat. It was a miracle it hadn’t split at the seams. It was fragile. Okay, and too tight. But you don’t find vintage clothing in my size all that often.

I stepped into the elevator.

“Hold the door, please,” said a guy wearing a tool belt. He pushed ten. “Nice day,” he added, adjusting his hammers.

“Love this time of year,” I said. “Lots of work being done in the building?”

“Oh yeah. Twelve is the only floor we’ve gotten done. We’re working on the rest of ’em.”

We stopped at ten, but the doors didn’t budge. “Elevators are a little temperamental,” he said, pumping the 10 button up and down. The door shuddered open. “Guess I gotta deal with that tomorrow,” he said, groaning. “You have a nice day.”

“You, too.”

The penthouse was next. The doors opened onto a bright
and expansive space with huge windows and breathtaking views of the ocean. The far-right wall was painted the color of flesh and branded with the letters “SP.” Avi Semel and Dov Pick. Looked like they were sadists as well as control freaks. Underneath stood a brushed-aluminum desk with a complicated-looking phone. There was no receptionist in sight.

I wandered over to the waiting area, and sat down on a woven black leather couch that cut into the back of my knees. Then I got up and walked over to the windows. The waves were crashing against the shore. People on Rollerblades were whizzing along the bike path. It was like watching a silent movie. I tore myself away, peering into one, then another, then another of the glass-walled cubicles lining either side of the cavernous space.

The place was a ghost town.

“Ian? Where are you?” I said out loud.

The phone started to ring. One, two, three times. Then whoever it was hung up. This was no way to run a business. Mr. Keshigian’s secretary always answered on the first ring.

At the rear of the space was a large office enclosed on all sides by freestanding walls of glass. Nice metaphor. Nothing to hide, my foot. There was a glass door cut into one of the glass walls. I looked around again. Nobody was there to stop me, so I swung it open.

I wasn’t snooping.

I was passing the time.

Inside was a glass desk with two black leather chairs, one on either side, and a bottle of Windex poised below it. On top of the desk were glass card holders, one containing Dov’s business cards, the other Avi Semel’s.

No phones. No computers. No fax machines.

These guys were Blackberry types.

No, there was nothing in the office—nothing you’d give a second look to, that is, except maybe that big old filing cabinet in the corner.

If it was locked, that would be the end of it. I’d leave.

It was unlocked.

As I glanced back toward the waiting area, which was still deserted, I remembered the corollary to the life lesson of the day: people who trespass in other people’s glass houses get stones thrown at them. Then I forgot it.

The top drawer was heavy. Limited-liability corporation fil
ings, workers’ compensation claim forms, property tax receipts, insurance waivers, blah, blah, blah. I closed that drawer and opened the one below. I was getting ready to dive in when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a body in one of the cubicles.

A live one, with a Louise Brooks bob and a phone up to her ear.

I was about to go for the tried-and-true tactic of crouching down like a hunted animal but then, from out of nowhere, she looked up and starting waving and smiling at me. Who was this person? I didn’t know this person. I waved and smiled back because being polite is always a good policy. Now it was her turn. She pointed to her overflowing trash can in disgust.

Ah.

I understood.

I was the cleaning woman.

I shrugged and went around to the other side of the desk to get the Windex. Tough luck, sister. Take a number. Everybody knows the boss gets preferential treatment. It’s a long, hard road to the executive suite.

I whistled to myself as I spritzed Windex on Dov and Avi’s desk. Then I waltzed around the room, whistling and spritz
ing, until I was back in front of the filing cabinet. I cast a glance over at Louise Brooks, who was back at her desk. Then I reopened the bottom drawer, and that was when I hit the jackpot.

These were the Christietown files.

Plus, a huge section on Dusk Ridge Ranch.

I pulled out a promotional folder. It had a gold DRR embossed on the cover, and inside, a sheaf of papers detail
ing the fabulous lifestyle you’d be able to have if you plunked down half a million plus to live at Dusk Ridge Ranch. Brand-new schools with state-of-the-art digital production studios for your little Spielbergs, custom-designed parks with horse trails and rock walls and amphitheaters, your own fire station.

DRR.

I looked up with sudden recognition.

Dr. R.

There was no Dr. R.

Oh, my god.

It was Dusk Ridge Ranch—DRR—that had failed to per
form.

This was all about Dusk Ridge Ranch.

Christietown had nothing to do with it.

Frantically, I looked for more.

There I stood, lost in the files, oblivious to where I was, when I heard a strange man’s voice.

“I told Dov it was only a matter of time,” he said.

C
HAPTER
3
4

vi Semel strode into the office like he owned the place.

Which, of course, he did.

I was pretty sure he knew I wasn’t the cleaning lady, but I picked up the bottle of Windex just in case.

“What exactly are you doing with that?” he asked.

Preparing to blind you. Or to use it as a projectile.

“Nothing,” I said.

He trained his eyes on mine. His, being brown, were domi
nant. “So why don’t you put the bottle down?”

I gripped it tighter. “I don’t know.”

He moved slowly, like a big-game hunter. But I was no Bengal tiger. More like a wildebeest. We are scary only in packs. “It’s all right,” he murmured, taking the bottle out of my hands.

A person would have reason to wonder why I let him do that. Maybe because of his lilting voice, so unlike Dov’s bark. Maybe it was the eyes. Nervously, I glanced over at Louise Brooks’s cubicle.
Now
she disappears. And I hadn’t even had a chance to take out her trash.

Avi leaned against the desk. “You were looking for the key, weren’t you?” Before I could respond he said, “Dov was devas
tated when you left.”

Dov hadn’t looked devastated.

“He’s not very verbal about his emotions,” Avi went on, “but he was in real pain, trust me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, utterly baffled now.

“Yeah, well.” He shook his head. “Look, this isn’t fair. I know who you are, but you don’t know me.”

Oh, I know you better than you think. I know about the dry-cleaning business, the first wife, the nanny, the poisoned wells. I eyed his cell phone. I wanted to call Gambino. I wanted to tell him everything.

“Why don’t we make it official?” He cleared his throat. “I’m Avi Semel and you’re Valentina. Do you mind if I smoke?”

Valentina? I shook my head.

He leaned back against his desk and pulled a silver lighter from the pocket of his neatly pressed Levi’s. He squinted as he flicked the lighter, then took a long drag of his cigarette. He had what in the old days they used to call an elegant throat. Mine was tight with fear.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Avi said with a laugh. “I’m telling you the truth. But I have to say, you’ve got rotten timing. You had to pick that day to mess with Dov’s head, Christietown’s grand opening.” He laughed again. “Everything that could’ve gone wrong that day did. And when you threw the key to his house in his face, well, it cut like a knife. Now you want him back and he’s not even here.”

Valentina.

Valentina, who wants Dov back.

Valentina, who is not the cleaning lady.

Valentina, who had to be Dov’s lady friend, the Gina
Lollabrigida look-alike, the one with the boobs out to—well, you get the idea. I looked down at my sweater in mute wonder, then came to my senses and folded my arms across my chest.

Now it becomes clear.

Valentina dumps Dov. As a parting gesture, she throws his house key in his face. He loses it somewhere, which is tough luck because it means that when she comes crawling back, he won’t have it to give to her.

Dov sees me snooping around at Christietown. I stu
pidly mention a key. He can’t even bear hearing the word. He assumes—erroneously—that Ian has blabbed to me about his broken heart and sent me on a search for the unmentionable key. That’s why he’s so angry.

Okay.

The key had nothing whatsoever to do with the murders of Liz and Silvana.

Fine.

But the papers I’d just found in the filing cabinet sure as hell did.

Mariposa and McAllister couldn’t ignore me this time.

“You’re absolutely right,” I said to Avi, “I’m here because of the key. I made a mistake. I understand that now. I was too hasty. All I really want”—here I’m stifling a sob—“is my old life with Dov.” But later. After I got out of here. I picked up my purse and moved toward the door.

“Dov will be so pleased to hear you say that. And look,” Avi said, pointing toward the waiting area, “here he comes. You can tell him yourself.”

My head whipped around. Oh, shit. And there was no back door.

We locked eyes, Dov and I, and his scowl went from medium to full burn.

He stormed into the office. “What the hell is she doing here?” he asked, throwing his cell phone onto the desk. It skipped across the glass like a stone on the water.

“Cool it, Dov,” said Avi. “She’s here about the key.”

“The fucking key?”

“Show some respect,” said Avi.

Dov struggled to stay calm. He turned to me and said between clenched teeth, “What did I tell you about that key? I told you never to mention it again. Maybe you didn’t hear me.”

“I heard you,” I said.

Avi came around and shook Dov by the shoulders. “What is wrong with you, man? You get everything that you want and you’re still not happy. You need help.”

“I’m leaving,” I said, daring to be bold. Valentina was bold.

“Well, if you don’t want her anymore, I’m throwing my hat into the ring,” said Avi, leering at me.

“I never wanted her,” said Dov coldly.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

I was standing in the doorway now. Louise Brooks had returned to her desk. That made her a witness.

“Good-bye,” I said. “I have a hair appointment. Extensions, color, the works.” Valentina had fabulous hair. I’d seen it. “I’m leaving now.”

To my amazement, neither of them stopped me.

Legs shaking, I waited for the elevator and when the doors opened, I tumbled gratefully inside. It took me a few seconds to remember that I had to press a button if I wanted to go anywhere. I pushed Lobby. Nothing happened. I pumped it up and down, like the guy with the tool belt had. Still nothing. Good thing I didn’t have claustrophobia. I loved being inside small, closed spaces with possible killers on the other side.

I pressed two.

Nothing.

Three.

Nada.

Four.

Four must have been the magic number because the elevator suddenly started to move, but too bad for me, didn’t go very far before jerking to a stop. I waited for the doors to open like they were supposed to. I should have known better. I picked up the emergency phone, but all I heard on the other end was dead air. I pressed the O for operator. She was out to lunch. I pushed the big, red button that said STOP, because it was either that or scream. Then I screamed.

“Help! I’m stuck!”

Did I really want Dov and Avi coming to my aid?

“Help!”

This place was sorely understaffed.

“Help me, somebody! The elevator isn’t moving!”

This was a nightmare. I looked up and saw a hatch I could squeeze myself through, like they do in the movies, although I was baffled as to what exactly a person does once she makes it into the elevator shaft. Crawl to safety? Where would safety be? What if the elevator decided to move with me perched on top of it? I’d be squished beyond recognition. I studied the seven-foot walls. How was I supposed to get up to the hatch in the first place? I hadn’t thought to bring my suction boots. I pushed Lobby one more time, just for the hell of it, and by some miracle the doors decided to slide open, halfway between the tenth and eleventh floors. I hitched up my houndstooth skirt and with no small amount of effort climbed up to the eleventh floor, where I fell out, beyond relieved.

High heels or not, I was walking the rest of the way down.

The stairwell was on the far end of the space. I picked my way across the raw concrete floors, crawling with red and black wires like veins and arteries. This place had a long way to go before it was ready for tenants. The elevators were death traps. The floors were a mess, the walls were unfinished, the windows were holes in the wall with sheets of plastic hanging over them. You could hurt yourself on all the sharp metal lying around. And what was this, tucked into the corner? Looked like a homeless encampment. And no wonder. There was no security around here. Any Tom, Dick, or Cece could just sashay right in. I peered over the top of the cardboard wall and saw:

1. A hot plate.
   
2. A cracked teapot.
   
3. Some teabags.
   
4. A copy of
   Death on the Nile
   .
   
5. A grubby backpack.
   
6. A crumpled guayabera.
   

Jesus Christ.

It was Ian.

He was hiding.

And he’d read enough Agatha Christie novels to know that the best place to hide is in plain sight.

I walked down the stairs to my car, got the flowered com
forter out of the trunk, walked back into the lobby, frowned at the elevator, and walked back up the ten flights. I folded the guayabera neatly, and laid the comforter down next to Ian’s things.

I thought he might need it.

I imagined it got cold up here at night.

C
HAPTER
3
5