The Promise: An Elvis Cole and Joe Pike Novel (6 page)

I
TOOK OUT THE KEY
and the envelope with the alarm code, and rang the bell. I tried to look startled when the woman opened the door.

“Oh, hi. I didn’t expect anyone to be home.”

“Yes? May I help you?”

She had a slight Spanish accent and soft voice. Late forties, maybe, with gentle eyes.

I glanced past her as if trying to see inside.

“Amy isn’t here, is she? They told me she was out of town.”

The woman smiled, agreeable.

“No, she gone. She go last week.”

This fit with what Meryl told me, but still surprised me.

I flashed the key, holding the envelope so the housekeeper could see the Woodson Energy Solutions logo.

“Okay, right. That’s why they gave me a key. Eddie Cole. I work
with Amy at Woodson. They sent me to get a report Amy forgot to bring back.”

I edged closer, but she didn’t move.

“I’m sorry. Miss Amy did not tell me.”

I nodded, smiling to tell her no one expected her to know.

“That’s okay. She told Meryl where she left it. On her desk upstairs, she said. A blue binder from the Navy. We need it at work.”

I moved closer and flashed the envelope again. I didn’t care about the binder. It was an excuse to make conversation.

She took a step back.

“Where you say it is?”

“Upstairs in her office. I’ll know it when I see it.”

“I can show you.”

“That would be great. Thank you so much.”

I stepped past her and offered my hand. When I unload both barrels of charm, it’s an awesome display.

“I work for Meryl. What’s your name?”

“Imelda Sanchez.”

“Imelda, you’re the best. I’ll be out of your way in a second.”

I held her hand longer than necessary and turned to admire the house.

“What a beautiful home. I’ve never been here before, did you know? Immaculate. You do a wonderful job.”

Imelda beamed.

“It’s not so hard. Miss Amy likes it clean.”

I was friendly and chatty as I followed her up the stairs and Imelda Sanchez was friendly and chatty back. People give what they get. She was also in no hurry for me to leave. The house was so clean there was nothing for her to do.

“How long have you worked for her, Imelda?”

“Six and a half years this May, two days a week.”

“Even when she’s away like now?”

“Oh, yes.”

She paused outside the office and touched my arm as if letting me in on a secret.

“This house don’t need to be cleaned. She let me come so I don’t lose the money. She a nice lady.”

“Yes, she is. Everyone at the office loves her.”

We moved into the office but didn’t go farther.

“How long will she be away?”

“She pay me for three weeks, but she might be home sooner.”

“She told you she might be home sooner?”

“Oh, yes. She say she come home as soon as she can.”

Interesting. Amy had given her housekeeper a time frame. Her leave-of-absence email included no time frame.

“Well, I hope she enjoys her vacation, however long she’s away. She deserves it.”

Imelda frowned thoughtfully and wedged her hands on her hips.

“She on the business, I think. She not on vacation.”

“She told you she was going away on business.”

Imelda nodded.

“Yes. She sometimes go for the business.”

“No kidding? She say where?”

Imelda’s frown deepened and left me worried I had stepped over the line. She would shut down in a second if she grew suspicious.

I made a sly grin and leaned closer.

“It isn’t business, Imelda. Rumor is, she went away with a friend.”

Imelda stared at me and her smile blossomed more brightly than before.

“She did not say.”

I wiggled my eyebrows and grinned.

“A man friend.”

Imelda’s smile turned into a giggle, so I grinned even wider.

“We think she has a boyfriend. You know anything about it, Imelda? Amy have a man-type friend?”

She blushed, and her blush screamed Meryl Lawrence was right.

Imelda seemed almost shy when she answered.

“I think this maybe could be.”

“Have you met him?”

She waved a hand.

“Oh, no!”

“Did she tell you about him?”

She knew something and wanted to gossip so badly she squirmed.

I nudged her again.

“C’mon, Imelda, you’re killing me! We’re dying to know. Don’t hold out on me.”

“A man give her roses. I see the card.”

I hadn’t seen flowers anywhere in the house.

“Was this before she went away?”

“Oh, yes. The week before last. They died. I put them out.”

“But you saw the card?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What was his name?”

She thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“I don’t remember. I just so happy a man give her flowers. I hope he nice. She been so sad since Jacob died.”

“I hope he’s nice, too, Imelda.”

Imelda brightened.

“I save the card for her. Get your report and I show you.”

I picked up the blue Navy binder and followed her down to the dinette table at the end of the kitchen.

“She didn’t say, but the vase is so pretty she might want to keep it. I put the card with it here so I don’t forget.”

The card was under the vase. It was a pale blue rectangle with the name of the florist embossed on the edge and a handwritten note from the man who sent the flowers.

Here’s to the start of a beautiful friendship, Charles.

Original. A play on the famous Bogart line from
Casablanca
. It wasn’t a proclamation of undying love, but it didn’t have to be.

The florist was a place called Everett’s Natural Creations.

“He gave her roses?”

“Oh, yes. The dark roses. They were so lovely.”

“Were you here when they were delivered?”

“Oh, no. I only here the two days.”

I studied the card for a moment, then took a picture of it with my phone.

“The ladies at work will need to see this to believe it, Imelda. Everyone is going to be so happy for her.”

I pretended to be happy, too, but I wasn’t. I felt sad. Meryl Lawrence was right about a man, which meant she might be right about everything else.

I watched Imelda tuck the card beneath the vase, then followed her out with a binder I didn’t need. When we reached the door, I looked back at Jacob, watching from the wall.

“Did you know him?”

She stared at the picture.

“Oh, yes. He very nice. Like his mama.”

“Good. That’s good to hear. You’ve been very helpful, Imelda. Thank you.”

She didn’t look happy about it when she turned from his portrait. The smile was gone and now her eyes were troubled.

“Sir? Please do not say I tell you about the gentleman.”

I gave her an encouraging smile.

“You didn’t. I found the card when I looked for the binder.”

She nodded, but didn’t look any less worried.

I stepped out into the sunshine and heard the door close.

Everything about Amy Breslyn was Top Secret. Even her flowers.

T
HE
E
LVIS
C
OLE
D
ETECTIVE
A
GENCY
was on the fourth floor of a four-story building on Santa Monica Boulevard. A man named Joe Pike owned the agency with me, but his name wasn’t on the door. His choice, not mine. Pike doesn’t do doors.

The office was outfitted with a desk, a couple of leather director’s chairs, a small refrigerator, and a balcony with a nice view across West L.A. to the sea. The Pinocchio clock on the wall always looked happy to see me. His eyes swiveled from side to side as he tocked and he never stopped smiling. I thought he might get tired, but he didn’t. His faith was admirable.

I put the yearbooks and photographs on my desk, and found a message on my voice mail.

“Mr. Cole, this is Detective Stiles from last night. I’m sure you remember. We have a few more questions, so would you pretty please call to arrange a time?”

Pretty please.

Stiles had left her message at 7:28 that morning, only a few hours after I signed my witness statement. I expected Carter to make another run at me but not on the first morning after.

I wondered if they had Lerner. Maybe Stiles had spoken with him and Carter knew I was lying. But maybe not. Carter wasn’t the type to bother with a courtesy call. He would break down my door.

The Information operator found a Thomas Lerner listed in the 747 area code and two Tom Lerners in the 310. I called the 747 number first and got a man’s recorded voice mail. I left a message, asking for a callback even if he was the wrong Lerner. Another voice mail answered for the first 310 Lerner, but I had better luck with the second. I knew by the age in his voice he wasn’t the right Lerner, but at least a human being answered.

“Mr. Lerner, I’m calling on behalf of Jacob Breslyn. Jacob was close with a Thomas Lerner. Would that be you?”

“I’m Tom Lerner. I’m not a Thomas.”

“Sorry. Would you have a relative named Thomas Lerner? He would be in his late twenties. A writer. He lived in Echo Park a few years ago.”

“Well, now, I don’t think so. My uncle might have been a Thomas, but he’s been dead for years.”

So much for calling.

An Internet search showed ninety-seven Tom or Thomas Lerners in the United States, three of whom resided in the Los Angeles area. These were the three I called. Searches for ‘Thomas Lerner writer’ showed nothing on the Internet Movie Database, the membership of the Writers Guild, or various bookselling websites. If Thomas Lerner was writing, he wasn’t having any better luck with it than I was having with detecting.

I opened the material I had about Amy Breslyn and studied her picture again. She didn’t look like a person who would embezzle four hundred sixty thousand dollars, but people can fool you. She looked like a sad version of someone’s marshmallow aunt: a kindly woman, slightly out-of-date, who wore sensible shoes and minded her own business.

I went out to the balcony and studied the view. Most days, I was lucky to see the water, but the hotels and condominiums at the edge of the earth were vivid with morning light, and the peak of Catalina Island was sharp, twenty-six miles to the south. It took a storm to give the world clarity.

I stepped back inside, opened a bottle of water, and tipped the bottle at Pinocchio.

“Why does it always take a storm?”

His eyes tocked, but he didn’t answer.

I returned to my desk and flipped through the yearbooks.

Like most kids, Jacob and his friends had written inscriptions in each other’s yearbooks. Since friendships overlap, the people who wrote in Jacob’s yearbook probably knew Lerner and a few might have stayed in touch. I started on the inside front cover, read the inscriptions, and noted their names.
School’s out FOREVER! We’re going different
ways, but I hope we don’t lose touch!
The senior year sentiment was predictable, but one name appeared in three inscriptions on the first page and instantly screamed for attention.
Good luck with Jennie, bro! Have you and Jennie set
the date? Jennie’s too HOT for a loser like you!
Jennie was mentioned in four more inscriptions on the next page and nine more times in the rest of the book. Then I turned to the inside back cover and found a large red heart filling most of the page. The heart had been drawn with a red marker and contained an inscription.

My J,

2 Js today

2 Js tomorrow

2 Js forever

i luv u

Your J

Jacob’s prom date might not be Jennie, but the odds were good, and she would be the go-to person to ask about Thomas Lerner. None of the inscriptions contained her last name, but I found her on the sixth page of the Seniors section in the yearbook, third row from the bottom, second face from the right. Her name was Jennifer Li.

I said, “Hello, Jennie.”

I found her again in the J-K-L section of Jacob’s address book. Jennie, with no last name, 310 area code.

Jennie would have a different number by now, but her high school number was probably her family’s home.

A recorded male voice asked me to leave my name and number. The voice didn’t identify himself by name, so he might have been anyone, but I told him I was trying to reach Jennifer Li about a high school classmate named Jacob Breslyn. I asked for a callback whether or not the man knew Ms. Li, and tried not to sound as if I were begging.

I hung up feeling discouraged. People never answered their phones. Callback was another word for frustration.

Next, I checked Jacob’s address book against the list of classmate names, and found seven possible matches. Two were still good. Ricky Stanley now lived in Australia and Carl Lembeck was a policeman in Hawthorne. Rick Stanley’s mother promised to email her son and Lembeck’s mother told me Carl hadn’t spoken to her in years.
Neither woman remembered Thomas Lerner, and only Stanley’s mother recalled Jacob Breslyn.

I gathered my notes and the yearbooks, and decided to look for Charles.

Everett’s Natural Creations was on Melrose in West Hollywood. I made pretty good time in the mid-morning traffic. The local talk radio stations were buzzing about the RPG rounds and grenades found with a body in Echo Park. A high-ranking deputy chief and a city councilman were announced as upcoming guests. They would feel the heat of justifiably concerned callers, and the heat would trickle down to Carter, and maybe to me.

I was thinking about Carter when I slipped through a yellow at La Brea and heard a horn behind me. I glanced in the rearview and saw a light blue two-door Dodge bust the red two cars behind me. The Dodge disappeared into a gas station, but the horn blower stayed on his horn and made a big show of raising his middle finger. Drama.

I turned off the radio and thought about Amy until I hit Fairfax and saw the Dodge again. The Dodge was at a light, waiting to turn. I passed in front of them. The driver was a Latin guy with high and tight hair. An Anglo with long blond hair was in the passenger seat. They looked away when I passed and waited longer to pull out behind me than they needed.

Three blocks later I stopped at a taco shop, bought an egg and chorizo burrito, and ate at a window table. I told myself I was being silly, but I didn’t like how the Dodge had waited to turn. He could have easily turned behind me, but he waited until another car was between us. Drivers in Los Angeles never waited. Other drivers ran over you.

I finished the burrito and checked both sides of the street as I got
into my car. The blue Dodge was gone. I felt better, but the same blue Dodge was behind a UPS truck in a mini-mall parking lot on the next corner. He was good, hiding behind the bigger truck, but I caught the dusty blue as I changed lanes. The driver was the same Latin male with high and tight hair. They were facing the exit, idling there in the parking lot, but they didn’t pull out after me. They let me pass. I watched the exit as long as I could, but they didn’t pull out. This meant they were working with at least one other car and as many as three.

Detective Carter had made me a priority.

The surveillance cars would not stop me unless they were ordered to stop me. Their job was surveillance. They would hang back, shadow, and report, after which task force detectives would visit the places I went, and question the people with whom I spoke. I couldn’t protect Amy if they knew I was asking about her, so the surveillance team had to go.

Slipping a multi-car rolling surveillance wouldn’t be easy, but I had a secret weapon.

I turned away from Everett’s and called a friend.

Joe Pike.