Perfect Sax (13 page)

Dexter said, “Well, well, well. We have a good trait in common, then. Count that as my first. Then as to the other four: I am loyal. I love my sister. I don’t do drugs. Anymore. And I’m pretty talented at starting fires in fireplaces.”

“That must come in handy,” I said with admiration.

“It does. I also played tennis sort of professionally.”

“So that’s six things you are good at,” I said, adding them up.

“Well, if I’d been
really
good at tennis, I might have done a little better on the circuit, but I can hit the ball around.”

My salad was wonderful, and Dexter insisted we taste each other’s dish. His polenta was very good, but not, I
thought secretly to myself, as good as my own. I would have to cook it for him someday.

“Now your worst traits,” Dex said, unable to hold back a grin.

“No way.”

“You must. You said you’re honest. Prove it. I want your three worst qualities.”

I tried not to blush as he made a great show of refilling my wineglass yet again, the better to loosen my tongue, I gathered.

The waiter removed our plates and brought on the main courses. The aroma of garlic and basil and white wine rose from my steamy plate of pasta. It looked wonderful and I suddenly realized how hungry I had been. Dexter declared his pork loin to be perfectly cooked and the waiter retreated.

“Okay,” Dex said, getting back on topic. “I’ll show you what a good sport I am. I’ll go first. My three worst traits.”

I paused with a forkful of short, hollow penne noodles almost to my lips.

“First, I don’t have a job.” Dex spoke lightly, but I suspected not much escaped his notice as he confessed his sins. “Second, despite my extremely prestigious education, I don’t have any skills with which to acquire a job.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Yale. Philosophy major. Played tennis and skied.”

“Minored in girls?”

“You apparently know me much too well,” he said, putting down his fork and meeting my eyes. “Alas, no great job market there.”

“No. And what else?”

“And third, and worst of all, my trust fund is almost completely obliterated. I could blame the market, which as you know has been terrible, but against all the good advice in the world, I’ve been leaning rather hard on the principle. Eventually,
it will run out. My family had money at one time, or so they tell me, but at present, they are pretty much broke. All except Zenya, thanks to her jerk husband, Bill. He’s got bucks. But not me. In other words, Maddie, I don’t have any money, or ambition, or goals.”

“That’s sad,” I said, filled with wine and sympathy. “Isn’t there anything in life that appeals to you?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I like sports. I like photography. I like you.” He smiled.

“Have you ever done anything with your photographs?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever tried to sell them?”

“No. I used to take lots of pictures when I was playing tennis. I haven’t done much recently.”

“Okay. If I was in charge of your life, I’d suggest you call a few of your friends who are still playing professional sports and get passes to their events. You take some pictures, and if you like how they turn out, you sell them. Simple, huh?”

He gazed at me across the table. “So I guess your three worst traits are, you have no problem with meddling in sensitive areas, you can get a little bossy, and you have the extremely annoying habit of being right.”

“That pretty much sums me up,” I said, wondering if I had offended him.

“No wonder my sister was so keen on my meeting you,” Dexter said. “Say, not to be nosy…”

“Nosy? You?” I laughed. “After demanding to know my best and worst traits. That’s ridiculous.”

“Well, thanks. I have been kind of curious about what was going on at your house last night. The cops. The body in the bedroom. Can you fill me in?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “Long. And I don’t understand most of it. Just a sad event. Remember, when you rescued me last night I told you I had lent my car to a young woman
who worked for me? She came to my house to return my car. We don’t know exactly what happened, but while she was there she got shot. The police are thinking she may have interrupted a burglar. It’s all just horrible.”

“That is tough,” he said, putting his large hand over my hand.

“I want to help in some way, but I can’t figure out what to do. I’m thinking, maybe her boyfriend could use a little help. I’ve never met him. I was going to see him this evening, but that was before I ran into you.” I put my hand to my temple. I was getting a headache.

“This wasn’t something I should have brought up. I’m sorry, Madeline,” Dex said quietly.

“No, no. It’s okay. I am suddenly feeling exhausted,” I said. “I need to get some sleep, if you don’t mind driving me back to Wesley’s.”

Dexter Wyatt didn’t even ask for the bill. He just casually threw two hundred dollars onto the table and stood up. “Let’s go.”

“Sorry to spoil your night,” I said as we walked to his car, parked out front.

“No, I understand,” he said. “You have a lot on your mind.”

“I do. I have to go see this dead girl’s boyfriend tomorrow. And then, I am still hung up on old boyfriend.”

“The cop?”

“Yeah.

“And I have a bad feeling about some papers I dropped off today. No one was home, so I decided to leave them at the door. Now I’m thinking that wasn’t the best idea.”

Dex touched a button on his key chain that unlocked the doors to his car. But before he reached down to open the passenger door for me, he turned and put his hands on my shoulders. “You need some sleep. In the morning, everything will look a lot better.”

“I hope so.”

“You’ll see. The problem with the girl and her boyfriend. The papers. Me.”

“You have been great. I mean it. You’ve been fun.”

“I get that a lot,” he said, with a sly smile. And then, standing out on Melrose Avenue with very little traffic, he pulled me gently toward him and kissed me. His lips were soft and light. I was tense but his body felt good, holding me close. By the second kiss, I had sort of given up much resistance. Why struggle to understand things that were beyond me? If I could just stay in the moment, I was fine. More than fine. I was hoping for a third kiss, but Dex pulled back and kissed me on the forehead instead.

“So when you get this cop out of your system,” he said, “can I see you again?”

I had the strangest thought. I suddenly wondered if Big Nick would approve of this new guy in my life. More, I figured, than he’d approve of a married cop.

I
looked at the small clock on the bedside table. Seven-thirty. Eight hours of sleep, I calculated. Quite decent.

After a quick shower, I decided to let my hair dry naturally to save time. I’d deal with the wild, electric-socket ringlets later. I pulled on some khaki capris and a clean, white T-shirt, and found my way out to the tiny kitchen. Wes was preparing French toast.

“One or two?” he asked me as he began dipping thin slices of his home-baked bread into the egg mixture.

“Just one, thanks.” I picked up the kettle of boiling water from the range and poured it into a mug over a humble tea bag. Wesley had already brewed himself a cup of estate-grown English Breakfast tea, but he kept a stash of Lipton’s just for me, knowing I often preferred my morning cup of tea plain and simple and familiar. “I had a big dinner.”

“How’d that go?” Wes asked, raising his voice slightly to be heard above the sizzle as he put rich, egg-soaked slices of bread onto the hot griddle.

“Fine,” I said. “Okay. Pretty good.”

Wes adjusted the gas burners, using just one-hundredth of his conscious brainpower, keeping the other ninety-nine hundredths focused on me, an expectant look on his even features, waiting for more.

“He’s terribly cute. But I’m not sure I can take another mistake in the boyfriend department.”

“Mistake? What’s wrong with him? You know, Mad, my mother used to tell us, you can just as easily fall in love with a rich man as a poor man.”

“My mother said the same thing!” We smiled at each other. “Only problem—the horrible sledgehammer of power I observe some rich men wielding over their women.”

“Oh. Good point.”

“Some of these women, Wes. It’s like they are always worried they aren’t cute enough, or thin enough, or young enough, or whatever. And I think the money does that to them. They realize their rich old husbands can always go out and get younger, cuter women.”

“Well, then. Down with rich men,” Wes said, amused.

“But on the other hand, it turns out that Dexter isn’t rich.”

“Really? Score one for him, then. So what’s the problem?”

“I may still be in love with Honnett. I don’t know.”

“It will all sort itself out,” Wes said, serving me a perfectly cooked slice of French toast. I sprinkled a quarter of a teaspoon of powdered sugar over it and joined him at the tiny table for two in the corner.

“Glad you aren’t trying to stay thin to please some rich guy.” Wes eyed my meager plate and smiled.

I got his point. “I think this is different. I’m single. I may not know what the hell I’m doing in the ocean of romance, but I still need to keep the bait fresh.” I forked another small bite of French toast. “Mark my words. Someday, when I’m happily married to my soul mate, who loves me for all the right reasons, I may just let this whole body of mine go straight to hell.”

“I’ll rejoice in your happy fatness.”

“But until then…” I pushed the plate away.

Over our breakfast, Wes informed me that while I had
been out, Detective Baronowski had returned my many calls. He’d thanked us for dropping off the copies we’d made of Grasso’s paperwork but didn’t act like it was some great big lead. Wes sensed the detective didn’t think there was much to go on there. We’d done our duty, at least. And while Baronowski had remained tight-lipped about his investigation into Sara Jackson’s death, he had asked Wes for more information on Sara’s boyfriend. Unfortunately, we knew very little about most of our temporary waitstaff, so Wes couldn’t be much help. Baronowski did confirm that we could get back into my house on Whitley, as their investigation there was complete. That was a good thing, since we’d already been back there last night. On the disappointing side, the cops would need to keep my car for a few more days. Their forensics people were pretty backed up.

When we’d cleaned up the dishes, Wes agreed to drive me to the Enterprise rent-a-car office up on Sunset. Now that my purse had been returned, I had my driver’s license and my credit cards and I could finally get myself a rental. After driving my very old Jeep Grand Wagoneer for years, I discovered I was in for a treat. Renting a new car is fun. I decided to try a Chevy Trailblazer. I selected a red one and was thrilled to realize I now temporarily possessed more cup holders than had ever been featured in my wildest dreams. I couldn’t wait to zip into the nearest In-N-Out Burger and try out every size cup of Diet Coke.

Out on the street, I felt a sudden uplift in my spirits. As I rode Sunset east, I heard a familiar beeping. My cell phone, all charged up overnight, was once again in working shape. One by one, the pieces of my world were coming back to order. I smiled.

“Hello.”

“It’s me.” Honnett’s voice sounded calm. He’d experienced his one evening of strong, barely controlled emotion
the other night. I doubted I’d see that side of him again. Something to consider.

“I’m on my way to my office,” I said. “You know, back to my house. I have got to face it, don’t I?”

“It’s still pretty soon, isn’t it, Maddie? You can’t rush things if you are feeling overwhelmed.”

“Overwhelmed, get out of town. But it’s sad. I’ll never feel good about that house again.” I was glad to be saying it out loud. I didn’t want to let Wesley down, but I was nervous. Post-traumatic stress. “I don’t feel safe there, Chuck. But it’s where I work. I need to get back to work.”

“You’ll get through it. You’re tough. Can I meet you there?”

I hesitated.

“Something wrong, Maddie?”

“Actually, I have a few loose ends,” I said. “I need to visit a couple of people. Maybe I should do that first. What’s this about, Honnett? Official business or—”

“No. I just need to see you. Things were said the other night. We haven’t talked in months. We still haven’t cleared the air, have we?”

“You mean,” I suggested into my small cell phone, stopped at the red light at Laurel Canyon, “I still haven’t forgiven you for being married.”

“Now that you put it so clearly, yes.” Honnett sounded amused. He could handle sarcasm. I liked that in a man. “Will you see me?”

“Why don’t you stop by the house around lunchtime?”

“Great.”

Great, I said to myself when he had clicked off. I looked over at the note I’d written with Sara Jackson’s address. She had lived in the Promenade Towers on South Figueroa, in downtown L.A., just a mile from the Woodburn. If I’d realized she lived so close to the party, I’d have offered to drive
her home the other night. If I’d bothered to ask her. I thought about how I had managed to know so little about my employees.

I turned onto the Hollywood Freeway and drove south, enjoying the horsepower and unfamiliar ride of the rental, then transitioned slowly to the 110, and finally pulled off on Third Street. I spotted the high-rise complex of the Promenade Towers located in the Bunker Hill section of downtown, and turned the Trailblazer into its underground parking lot.

The elevator took me to the large lobby, an impressive, two-story, marble-floored space. Beyond the lobby, through glass doors, I could see a water wonderland. Fountains and pools filled a courtyard that was sheltered by the many residential towers of the complex. There was a sign posted on the glass announcing that good apartments were still available for rent. A sign nearby boasted about the excellence of the building’s swimming pool. Another claimed
THE BEST FITNESS CENTER IN DOWNTOWN
!
ASK US ABOUT OUR STUDENT SPECIALS
!
FURNISHED STUDIOS
—$775!
PETS
!
LAUNDRY FACILITY
!

I wondered what exactly I would say to him, to Sara’s boyfriend. I knew Sara was carrying him financially. Maybe I could offer him a small gift. He might need a helping hand with the rent.

In the lobby, I went over to the courtesy desk and spoke to the guard.

“Apartment 4-2029,” I said.

“You’re here to see…?”

“I’m here to see…” It was damned awkward. I stood there for a second or two, and the guard, a tall, heavy African-American guy in his forties, began to look at me suspiciously.

“Yeah?”

“Sara Jackson in Apartment 4-2029, please.” It was fairly creepy. I had just asked for a dead woman.

“And you are…?”

“Madeline Bean.”

“You asking for Ms. Jackson?” He stared at me.

“Yes. Or her roommate. Sara’s fiancé. I don’t have his name.”

“No one going to be home there,” the man said. “You family or something?”

“No. I’m Sara’s employer. She worked for me.”

“So, you’re her boss?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on,” he said. He didn’t pick up the courtesy phone. Instead, he lumbered away, down the hall marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
.

I took the opportunity to peek over the high counter. There was a well-worn three-inch black binder. The label on the cover was peeling. It said
MASTER
. I figured it was the current listing of tenants and grabbed it while the lobby was still deserted.

The listings were alphabetical. I had been hoping I could just look up the apartment number and get the name of Sara’s boyfriend quickly. Instead, I might have to page through hundreds of listings. I started at the beginning. Amber Alviera, Daniel Anderson, Diego Arroya…As I zipped through the index, I noticed several tenants shared the same apartment numbers. I tried to imagine three grad students sharing a studio apartment and shuddered. Maybe I was looking too quickly, nerves getting the best of me, but I couldn’t find another name that listed apartment 4-2029 aside from the listing for Sara Jackson herself.

A group of young tenants entered the lobby from the elevator that comes from the parking garage. One young woman called to her friends that she was just going to check her
mailbox as she disappeared into a room off the main lobby. The rest of them used their key cards to access the large glass door that led to the courtyard with the pool and fitness room.

At about the same time, a young man came in from the street entrance, with a small beagle-ish dog on a leash. I walked over to the glass door to the courtyard, absentmindedly rooting around in my purse.

“Cool dog,” I said, still rooting in my bag.

“Yeah. His name is Waldo.”

I smiled. “Where’s Waldo?”

“He’s right here,” the guy-without-an-ounce-of-humor said, looking blank.

I giggled. “No, it’s a joke…” I began to explain.

He stared at me, the pain of hearing a thousand “Where’s Waldo?” comments coming to the surface.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so brilliant this morning. Duh.”

Waldo’s owner had long, unruly brown hair and troubled skin. He smiled at me, though, and found his own key card in his pocket “first.”

“Here,” he said, holding the heavy glass door open for me. “What building do you live in?”

“Four.” I took a guess. Sara’s apartment number was 4-2029.

“Yeah? Me, too. I wonder why I haven’t seen you around here. I check out all the cute chicks.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” I said, walking with my escort across the landscaped courtyard. A large waterfall tumbled into a pool behind a forest of ferns. The ferns looked a little brown at the tips.

“What floor are you on?” he asked.

“What floor are
you
on?” I countered, flirting just a little.

“Nineteen,” he said. “I get a great view, but it costs extra. I am on a waiting list to get a lower floor. You?”

“I’m staying in a friend’s apartment,” I said. “On twenty.”

“So that’s probably why I don’t know you,” he said. We had reached building four and he pushed the button to call the elevator. “Who’s your friend?”

“Sara Jackson.”

“Oh, Sara.”

I couldn’t read his expression. “You know her?”

“Pretty redhead about this tall?” He held his hand up. “I know her.”

“Didn’t you two get along?”

“Oh, I like Sara just fine. She’s just out of my price range, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” We traveled up the elevator together as I thought how best to handle Waldo’s buddy. “Look, my name is Madeline. Sara and I used to work together.”

“That figures,” he said. “That makes you out of my league, too.”

“Huh?”

The elevator stopped at nineteen, but I got out and followed my new friend and his dog down the hall. He seemed embarrassed by something.

I persisted. “Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”

“Arnie Creski. But what are you wasting your time talking to me for?”

“Arnie, I have a confession to make. I am really here to see Sara’s roommate—her boyfriend, in fact. Do you know him?”

“Her boyfriend? I don’t know who you mean. Sara had a lot of boyfriends, didn’t she? Don’t you?”

“What?”

We had gotten down to Arnie’s apartment door, and he seemed to be on the retreat. I had only a few questions more and I was pretty sure he would disappear behind his door with his little dog.

“What are you saying, Arnie? Sara was a hooker?”

“Duh.”

“Really? I can’t believe that. She worked with me as a waitress.”

Arnie gave me a look like the young man had seen all that the world had to offer, and if Sara Jackson was a waitress, then he was the queen of France. “She works at celebritytype parties. With rich men. Right?”

“Wasn’t she a student at USC?” I asked, feeling the rug had been tugged a little too hard and I was in peril of slipping.

“I guess,” he said, trying to end our conversation. “I saw her with books. Now, could you just let it go? I don’t want to get the girl in trouble. I like her.”

“Arnie, you must not have heard the news. Sara Jackson died the other night. She was shot.”

Arnie’s little beagle mix, Waldo, had had enough of standing out in the hall. He wanted inside and whimpered in front of the door.

“I’ve gotta go,” Arnie said apologetically. “I didn’t know about Sara. I’m sorry to hear it. But that girl didn’t have any time for me, I can tell you that. I didn’t have any money and she just wasn’t interested.”

“And you’re sure she didn’t live with another grad student? A young man?”