"Strawberry daiquiri, darling. I guess I'm in a tropical mood." Her voice was husky, inebriated.
She kissed me again, harder, began undulating against me. I closed my eyes, sank into the boozy sweetness of the kiss. She moved away from me. I opened my eyes, saw her peeling out of the red dress, shimmying and licking her lips. The silk caught on her hips, gave way after a tug, then fell to the floor, just a flimsy orange ribbon. She stepped away from me, gave me a look at her: braless, in black garter belt, mesh stockings, and high-heeled shoes.
She ran her hands over her body.
In the abstract it was X-rated comedy, Frederick's of Hollywood, a lampoon. But she was anything but abstract and I stood there, transfixed.
I let her strip me down in a practiced manner that excited and frightened me.
Too nimble.
Too professional.
How many other times?
How many other men? Who'd taught her—
To hell with that. I didn't care—I wanted her. She had me out, in her hand, kneading, nibbling.
We embraced again, naked. Her fingers traveled over my body, scratching, raising welts. She put my hand between her legs, rode my fingers, engulfed them.
"Yum," she said, stepping back once more, pirouetting and exhibiting herself.
I reached for the light switch. She said, "No. Keep it bright. I want to see it, see everything."
I realized that the drapes were open. We were standing before the wall of glass, top-lit, giving a free show to Hollywood.
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I turned the light off.
"Party pooper," she said and kneeled before me, grinning. I put my fingers in her hair, was engulfed, spun backwards into a vortex of pleasure. She pulled away to catch her breath, said,
"C'mon, the lights. I want to see it."
"In the bedroom," I gasped. Lifting her in my arms, I carried her down the hall as she continued to kiss me and stroke me. The bedroom lights were on, but the high windows afforded privacy.
I sat her down on top of the covers. She opened like a book to a favorite page. I got on top.
She rounded her back and drew her legs up in the air. Put me in her and rocked her hips, holding me at arm's length so she could stare at the piston merger of our flesh.
Once, she'd been married to modesty; there'd been a quickie divorce....
"You're in me, oh, God." She pinched her nipples, touched herself, made sure I watched.
She rode me, withdrew me, took me in hand, rubbed me over her face, slid me between her breasts, wrapped me in the soft tangle of her hair. Then got under me, pulled me down hard, and tongued my anus.
A moment later we were locked together standing, her back to the wall. Then she positioned me near the foot of the bed and sat on me, staring over my shoulder into the mirror above the dresser. Not satisfied with that, she pushed me off her and pulled me into the bathroom. I realized why right away—tall, mirrored medicine chests on two walls, mirrors that could be pulled out and angled, for sideviews, backviews. After arranging her stage, she sal on the cold tile counter, shivering and goose-bumped, put me in her again, darted her eyes.
We ended up on the bathroom floor, she squatting over me, touching herself, tracing a vaginal trail up and down my chest, then impaling herself again.
When I closed my eyes she cried out, "No!" and pried them open. Finally she lost herself in the pleasure, opened her mouth wide, and panted and grunted. Sobbed and covered her face.
And came.
I exploded a second later. She extricated herself, licked me hard, and kept moving, slamming herself down on the tile, using me selfishly, climaxing a second time.
We staggered back to the bedroom and fell asleep in each other's arms, with the lights still on. I slept, woke up feeling drugged.
She wasn't in bed. I found her in the living room, hair pinned up, dressed in tight jeans and a tank top—another new look. Sitting in a sling chair drinking another strawberry daiquiri and reading a psych journal, unaware of my presence.
I watched her stick a finger in the drink, pull it out coated with pink foam, and lick it off.
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"Hi," I said, smiling and stretching.
She looked up at me. Her expression was odd. Flat. Bored. Then it heated and turned ugly.
Contemptuous.
"Sharon?"
She placed the drink on the carpet and stood up. "Okay," she said. "You got what you wanted, you
scummy prick. Now get the fuck out of here. Get the fuck out of my life—get out!"
I dressed hurriedly, carelessly, feeling as worthwhile as a scab. Rushed past her, out of the house and into the Rambler. Hands shaking, I started the car and hurtled down Jalmia.
Only when I was back on Hollywood Boulevard did I take the time to breathe.
But breathing hurt, as if I'd been poisoned. I wanted suddenly to destroy her. To leach her toxin from my blood.
I screamed.
Entertaining murderous thoughts, I sped along dark streets, as dangerous as a drunk driver.
I got onto Sunset, passed nightclubs and disco joints, smiling faces that seemed to mock my own misery. But by the time I reached Doheny, my rage had faded to gnawing sadness. Disgust.
This was it—no more mindfucks.
This was it.
Remembering had plunged me into a cold sweat. Follow-up visits. She'd followed herself up too. With pills and a gun.
On THURSDAY morning I called Paul Kruse's university office, not really knowing what I was going to say to him. He was out, the department secretary had no idea when he'd be back. I looked up his private office in the phone book. He had two: the one on Sunset and the one he'd leased for Sharon. No answer at either. Same old song— I'd become virtuoso at playing it. I thought of calling the airlines again, didn't relish handling more phone abuse. My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door—a messenger with a check from Trenton, Worthy and La Rosa and two large, gift-wrapped packages, also from the law firm.
I tipped him and after he left I opened the packages. One held a case of Chivas Regal, the other a case of Moet & Chandon.
A tip for me. As I wondered why, the phone rang.
"Did it get there?" asked Mal.
"A minute ago."
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"He-ey! Perfect timing or what? Don't drink it all in one place."
"Why the gratuity, Mal?"
"Seven-figure settlement is why. All that legal talent got together and decided to divvy up."
"Moretti too?"
"Moretti especially. Insurance company's putting in the biggest chunk. He called a couple of hours after your depo, didn't even bother to play hard to get. After he tumbled, the rest crashed like dominoes. Denise and little Darren have just won the lottery, Doctor."
"I'm happy for them. Try to see that both of them get some help."
"Being rich should help, but sure, I'll push her. By the way, after we settled on a figure, Moretti asked for your number. He was very impressed."
"Flattered."
"I gave it to him."
"He's wasting his time."
"That's what I figured. But it wasn't my place to tell him to shove it. Do it yourself. I imagine the new you will enjoy it."
At one o'clock I went out and made another try at grocery shopping. In the produce section my cart collided with one pushed by a tall auburn-haired woman.
"Oops, sorry." I disengaged, moved aside, and edged over to the tomatoes.
"Sorry myself," she said cheerfully. "Gets like the freeway in here sometimes, doesn't it?"
The market was nearly empty but I said, "Sure does."
She smiled at me with even white teeth and I took a closer look. Late thirties or well-preserved early forties, a thick shag of dark hair surrounding a roundish, pretty face. Snub nose and freckles, eyes the color of a choppy sea. She wore denim short shorts that advertised long, tan, runner's legs, and a lavender T-shirt that did the same for high, sharp breasts. Around one ankle was a thin gold chain. Her nails were long and silver; the ones on the index fingers had been inlaid with diamond chips.
"What do you think of this?" she asked, handing me a
canteloupe. "Too firm to be ripe?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Just right, huh?" Big grin, one leg bent and resting against the other. She stretched and the T-shirt rose up, exposing a flat, bronze tummy.
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I turned the melon in my palms and knocked on it a couple of times. "Just right." When I handed it back, our fingers touched.
"I'm Julie."
"Alex."
"I've seen you here before, Alex. You buy lots of Chinese vegetables, don't you?"
A shot in the dark—and a miss—but why make her feel bad? "Sure do."
"Love that bok choy," she said as she hefted the canteloupe. Placing it in her basket, she turned her attention to half a pineapple wrapped in plastic. "Mmm, everything looks so good and ripe today. Yum."
I bagged some tomatoes, selected a head of lettuce and a bunch of scallions, and began to wheel away.
"Lawyer, right?"
I smiled and shook my head.
"Urn, let's see... architect."
"No, I'm a psychologist."
"Are you really? I love psychologists. Mine helped me so much."
"That's great, Julie." I began pushing my cart away. "Nice meeting you."
"Listen," she said. "I'm on this one-meal-a-day cleansing diet, just lunch—lots of complex carbohydrates—and I haven't had it yet. I'm famished. There's a pasta bar up the block. Would you care to join me?"
"Love to, Julie, but I can't. Thanks, though."
She waited for me to make a move. When I didn't, her face fell.
"Nothing personal," I said. "It's just a bad time."
"Sure," she said, and snapped her head away. As I left I heard her mutter, "All the cute ones are faggots."
At six Milo came by. Despite the fact that he wasn't due back at the station until Monday, he was dressed for work—wilted seersucker suit, wash-and-wear shirt, atrocious tie, desert boots.
"Spent all day detecting," he said, after getting himself a beer and remarking that I was a good boy for restocking my cupboards. "Hollywood Division, the coroner's, Hall of Records, Building and Safety. Your lady doc's a goddam phantom, I'd sure love to know what the hell's going on."
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He sat down at the kitchen table. I settled across from him and waited for him to finish the beer.
"It's as if she never was processed through anyone's system," he said. "I had to skulk around at Hollywood, pretend to be looking at something else while I checked for any file on her.
Nothing. Not on paper or in the central computer. I couldn't even find out who put the call in the night she died, or who took it. Zilch at the coroner's too— no autopsy report, no cold-storage log, death certificate, release. I mean, there's cover-up and there's cover-up but this is twilight zone stuff."
He rubbed his hand over his face.
"One of the pathologists," he said, "is a guy Rick knew in med school. Usually I can get him to talk to me off the record, give me results before he writes up the final report, speculate about stuff that he can't put into writing. I thought he'd at least get me a copy of the report. No way.
He made a big deal out of showing me there was no report, made it clear I shouldn't ask for any favors on this one."
"Same pathologist Del spoke to?"
"No. That was Itatani. I talked to him first, and it was the same thing. The fix has come down hard and heavy on this one. I confess to being intrigued."
"Maybe it wasn't suicide."
"Any reason to think that?"
"She made lots of people angry."
"Such as?"
I told him about the patient seductions, keeping Leslie Weingarden's name out of it.
"Beautiful, Alex. Why didn't you let me know about this in the first place?"
"Confidential source. I can't give you any more details."
"Jesus." He got up, walked around, sat back down. "You ask me to dig you a hole, but won't give me a shovel. Jesus, Alex." He went to get another beer. "It's bad enough being back in Realityville, without spinning my wheels all day."
"I didn't mean to send you on a wild-goose chase."
"Honk honk."
Then he waved his hand. "Nah, who am I kidding—I didn't do it for you. I did it for myself.
Trapp. And I still don't think there's any big whodunit here. Ransom killed herself. She was a maladjust—what you just told me corroborates that."
Out on the ledge. I nodded. "Find out anything about the twin sister?"
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"Nada. Another phantom. No Shirlee Ransom in any of our files or anyone else's. If you came up with the name of that hospital you saw her at, we could search the business transfer and bankruptcy files. But even then, tracing individual patients would be a very long shot."
"I can't come up with it, because I never knew it, Milo. What about checking the Medi-Cal files?"
"You said Ransom was rich. Why would her sister be on Medi-Cal?"
"The parents were rich, but that was years ago. Money runs out. Also..."
"Also," he said, "with all the lying she did, you don't know what to believe."
I nodded.
"Lie she did, pal. Like about owning the Jalmia house. The place is deeded to a corporation, just like the real estate agent said. A management company named Western Properties that's owned by a holding company that's owned by a savings-and-loan that's owned by the Magna Corporation. I think that's where it ends, but I wouldn't swear to it."
"Magna," I said. "Isn't that Leland Belding's company?"
"Was till he died. No idea who owns it now." He drank beer. "The old basket-case billionaire himself. Now a guy like that you could see putting on a big fix. But he's been buried for... what?
Fifteen years?"
"Something like that. Wasn't his death disputed?"
"By who? The guy who wrote that hoax book? He killed himself after they exposed it, which is a pretty good indication he had something to be ashamed of. Even the conspiracy freaks didn't believe that one. Anyway, whoever owns it, the corporation lives on—clerk told me it's one of the biggest landowners west of the Mississippi, thousands of parcels. Ransom's house happened to be one of them. With that kind of landlord, you can see why there'd be a quick sale."