Текст книги "The Hell Yo "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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Not that the basic tenets of Satanism weren’t startling all on their own. There were a

few commonsense rules like not complaining about stuff you didn’t need to subject yourself

to, but there were more troubling recommendations, like When walking in open territory,

bother no one. If one bothers you, ask him to stop. If he does not stop, destroy him.

Say again? Was that symbolic destruction, or magical destruction, or a practical

application like slicing and dicing classmates?

“Did you know he was a devil worshipper?” Velvet inquired, after we had hung up on

our fourth journalist that day.

No need to ask to whom she referred. “No,” I said shortly. Naturally she would be

curious about her forerunner, but I didn’t want to discuss Angus like he was past tense –

jailed and the key thrown away.

“Did he ever talk about…stuff?”

“No.” That seemed a bit curt, so I added, “He wasn’t a gabby guy.”

“Did he work for you a long time?”

“Not quite a year.” And his predecessor had been murdered. I was going to have to take

another look at the benefits package I offered my employees.

“I used to know a girl involved in that stuff.”

“Good friend?”

“No,” she murmured. “It’s hard to get close to people like that.”

“Why do you think that is?”

She laughed. I’d never heard her laugh before. It came out unexpectedly shrill. “I don’t

know! They don’t want to be close to other people. They don’t need them.”

“It’s a lonely way to live.”

“Being alone is not the same as lonely.”

“That’s true.” I handed her the list of reserved and requested books that had arrived

with that day’s shipment. “What finally happened to your friend?”

She shrugged inside her navy cardigan. “Nothing. I lost track of her. Do you think

What’s-his-name is guilty?”

“No.”

She smiled. She had small, white teeth – like milk teeth. “But you never know, do

you?”

“No,” I said, eyeing her plump back as she turned away with the list. “You never do.”

* * * * *

Friday morning I had a call from Bob Friedlander.

“I need to see you right away. Can you drop by the hotel?” He sounded sober and a lot

more reasonable than the last time we’d spoken. Still I was wary.

“Maybe this afternoon. We’re busy this morning.”

“It’s important that we talk. It’s about Gabe.”

“Shouldn’t you call the police?”

He said hastily, “It’s not like that. I just thought you’d be interested. Why don’t you

come for lunch?”

I glanced at Velvet and the line at the counter. “I can’t do lunch. I can try for later.

Maybe around three or so.”

“Okay, that will work. I’ll see you then.” He put the phone down with a clatter.

An instant later the phone rang again. I picked up.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Guy inquired in that lazy semi-English accent. I

heard the smile in his voice. And there was an answering smile in my own.

“Working.”

“Would you like to drive out to Oliver Garibaldi’s house in Pacific Palisades? Maybe

stop for lunch?”

As far as I recalled there was no actual rule against mixing meals with sleuthing in the

Boy’s Official Guide to Detection.

“Sure.”

“Be sure to bring that photo of the sigil left on your doorstep. Oliver is interested in

seeing it.”

“Will do.”

“I’ll pick you up around ten tomorrow.”

I cast a guilty look at poor Velvet, innocently ringing purchases at the register. The

sleuthing was becoming an obsession. Not only was it cutting into all my free time, I was

actually putting it before my livelihood.

I was pretty sure that it didn’t boil down to wanting to see Guy again.

I replied, “It’s a da– deal.” Then I couldn’t help asking, “By the way, has Betty Sansone

shown for class?”

“Certainly.”

“Didn’t the police interview her?”

“I have no idea.”

“Was she there on Wednesday?”

“You sound surprised. Why shouldn’t she have been?”

Always eager to practice my diplomatic skills, I said, “I figured she might have been

worn out from murdering her pal the night before.”

Dead silence.

Finally Guy said briefly, “Well, she’s an excellent student. I imagine she doesn’t cut

class regardless of how little sleep she gets.”

“The fast track for success.”

“I appreciate that you prefer to believe that my classes are full of psychopaths and devil

worshippers.”

How had we got off onto this? How many times had I heard Jake state that it was

crucial an investigator kept his own feelings and beliefs to himself when dealing with

potential witnesses? Knowing this, I still said, “I think the subject matter may attract certain

people for the wrong reasons.”

“I see,” he said dryly. “Knowledge should be reserved for the chosen few?”

“I didn’t say that, but you can’t be unaware that on occasion this stuff has influenced

more than a few unbalanced kids.”

“Here’s the part where you bring up Joseph Fiorella and his mates.” Guy sounded

bored.

“Why, were you their teacher?” I shot back.

Fourteen-year-old Joseph Fiorella and two of his friends had murdered – and then had

sex with – a fifteen-year-old girl with whom Fiorella was obsessed. They had claimed they

were inspired by the heavy metal band Slayer and that they had to make a virgin sacrifice to

Satan in order to get their own band on the road to success.

After an affronted pause, Guy said in more normal tones, “As you’re no doubt aware, in

the Fiorella case the blame is being placed on the band and their nihilistic message. Which is

not to say that in other circumstances an instructor or a local church mightn’t as easily be

made the scapegoat by a grieving family.”

“Look, for obvious reasons I don’t want to see the First Amendment undermined. This

is a different issue.”

“Is it? Well, it should be no surprise to hear that the cops agree with you. I’ve had a

couple of interviews with that son of a bitch who was investigating Zellig’s death –”

“His murder,” I interrupted.

“What?”

“Tony Zellig was murdered. He didn’t just die in a car accident or from natural causes.

Someone butchered him and buried him in a park.”

“Yes, someone that the cops believe I inspired and possibly influenced, whether

deliberately or not.”

And the Zellig kid’s fate had been the same as Karen Holtzer’s – and who knew how

many others. But I didn’t say that. I felt my popularity index dropping fast as it was. Oddly

enough, I regretted that.

“But regardless of what you or the police or the school administration think,” Guy

continued in that chilly voice, “I believe that the examination of the occult is valuable for

many reasons, including the fact that it encourages kids to challenge their dearly held knee-

jerk assumptions about the world they live in. Knowledge is power.”

“Yeah, but does everyone need to know how to build an atom bomb?”

“Perhaps if everyone knew how, no one would make them any longer.”

“Or maybe we’d blow ourselves into oblivion.” This was stupid. I was arguing with Guy

the way you argue with potential – scratch that. I reminded myself that I was not trying to

get to know Guy; he was a source of information. He was a lead. It did not matter what he

thought or I thought. I said, trying to mollify, “It’s not that I disagree with you, I just think

there’s a certain responsibility that goes with sharing this information.”

“I agree – which is why I’m taking you to see Oliver.” He added curtly, “I hope I don’t

regret it.”

I hoped not too. I was very much afraid that Guy had at least one friend who did not

deal well with betrayal – whether real or imagined.

* * * * *

It was getting close to four o’clock by the time I made it over to the Biltmore,

negotiating crowded streets decked with gnarly fake holly boughs and giant silver bells. Even

the pawn-and thrift-store windows in the surrounding streets sparkled with colored

Christmas lights. Skid Row putting on its holiday finery.

While Bob did not exactly look rested, he looked like he had paused long enough to

bathe and ingest something solid. He was dressed, and other than a nervous tic beneath one

eye, seemed pretty normal.

“How about a drink?” he suggested as I sat in the chair I’d occupied the last time.

“Not for me, thanks. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on tonight.”

“Right, me too.” He gave me an uncertain smile. “I have to apologize for Wednesday. I

realize I said a lot of crazy things. I’m not used to drinking like that. It was the stress.”

“Sure, I understand.”

“When I remember what I said…” He laughed, a ghostly echo of a funhouse laugh. “It’s

embarrassing.”

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed. Like you said, you were stressed about Gabe.”

“Yes,” he said eagerly. “I’m sure I alarmed you, too, with my…my wilder accusations,

which is why I wanted you to know that it’s okay. Everything is okay. Gabe is fine.”

“He is?”

He nodded, smiling, the tic beneath his eye beating away. “I got a postcard from him

this morning.”

“You’re kidding.”

Maybe that wasn’t the right response. His smile slipped. “No. Here, I’ll show you.” He

rose, went to the desk and picked up a postcard, which he handed me.

I opened my mouth to mention the possibility of fingerprints, but it seemed pointless

now. I took the postcard gingerly and studied it. Malibu Beach at sunset, sure enough. I

glanced at the back. The postmark was Malibu, dated yesterday. I considered the

handwriting. I’d seen enough of Gabe Savant’s writing the night of the signing to recognize

what superficially looked like his bold, erratic hand.

Sorry, Bobby. I need some me time. You’ll see me when you see me. G.

“Is this his handwriting?” I asked Bob.

“Of course!” There it was again, that high-pitched, slightly unsteady laugh. “Of course,

it’s his. This is exactly like Gabe.” He got up, as though he couldn’t handle sitting still one

minute longer and slopped himself a drink from the bottle on the table.

“Are you okay?”

He swung on me, nearly spilling his drink. “Of course, I’m okay! Everything is fine

now. I wanted you to know so that you wouldn’t keep” – he swallowed – “worrying. I

mean, it’s awkward, of course, to cancel the book tour now. But there was only the Pacific

Northwest left anyway. I mean, they’ll get over it. The main thing is that Gabe is A-okay.”

“That’s great news,” I agreed courteously. “So you don’t actually know where he’s

staying?”

“I don’t need to know.” He tossed his drink back. “So, I want to thank you for all your

help.”

“I didn’t actually do anything.”

“Well, for your concern, then.” His smile was plastered back in place – plastered being

the key word.

“Will you be leaving soon?” I inquired.

“Leaving?”

“You don’t live here, do you? You’re not local?”

“I – no, I live in New York. And yes, I will be leaving. Shortly. I have to wrap up a few

loose ends, then I’ll be flying home. This weekend, in fact.”

I rose, offered a hand. “Good luck, Bob. I’m glad it all worked out.”

He stared at me, his expression calculating. “Thank you. And you’ll…”

He didn’t finish the thought. I said curiously, “I’ll…what?”

He shook his head, said brightly, “Take care of yourself!”

“I’ll do that,” I said.

Chapter Sixteen

If Gabriel Savant was sitting on a beach in Malibu sipping mai tais and enjoying some

me time, I was an NHL first-round draft pick. I wasn’t sure why Bob Friedlander felt like he

had to convince me his meal ticket was safe and sound, but I wasn’t buying the postcards

from the edge act.

What I didn’t understand was why Bob pretended to.

I was still turning this over in my mind when I stopped at Vons on the way home to

pick up a few essentials, including a couple of steaks on the off-chance that Jake might drop

by one evening. The tabloid headlines at the checkout counter reflected the public’s

perennial fascination with space alien babies, miracle pets, and celebrity indiscretions. By

next week, Angus and Wanda would be hitting the stands.

Unless Savant’s body had turned up by then.

If he wasn’t dead, I didn’t get Bob’s distress. Unless Savant was being held for ransom.

I’d seen enough crime films to know that kidnappers always wanted their targets to hide

what was going on from the police, but I wasn’t the police. I wasn’t involved at all. Okay,

maybe I’d shown a little curiosity, but it’s not like I was investing any time or effort in Bob’s

problem. I had enough problems of my own.

Bob was still scared, I thought, going into the dry cleaner’s, but there had been another

emotion in play that afternoon. What was it? Suspicion? Yeah, maybe. I tried to remember

my first impression of Friedlander the night of the signing. Quiet and mild-mannered. But

what else? I thought back. Friedlander had struck me as smart, aware, and apologetic. Clearly

he was under no illusions where Savant was concerned. He was used to cleaning up Savant’s

messes, used to apologizing for him. Maybe tired of it?

I picked up my dry cleaning and headed for the local carwash, running this over in my

mind.

He was frightened, he was wary, and he was…guilty?

* * * * *

I expected to find everything closed by the time I got back to Cloak and Dagger Books,

but when I walked in the side door I found the lights on and an extremely uptight Velvet

waiting with a couple of guys. Judging by their suits and ties, I thought they might be

plainclothes cops.

“They said they needed to talk to you,” Velvet said defensively, in answer to my

surprise. “Can I go?”

“Yeah, you can go,” I said, and go she did, banging out through the back.

The foremost guy, a tanned fifty-something with a gray buzz cut and a Batman tie,

introduced himself as Luke Best, one of the legal investigators working for Angus’s defense

team.

I set the grocery bags on the wooden counter. We shook hands. My mind was going a

million miles a minute, but I tried not to let any of my alarm show on my face.

I didn’t catch his partner’s name, but he was a bit younger, lankier, with a superb

haircut and no superhero fixation.

“We want to verify some facts about Angus’s employment,” Best said with a smile I

didn’t trust. “This is a nice place you have here.”

“Thanks,” I said. “What did you want to ask?”

“Are we keeping you from putting your groceries away?”

“They’ll keep.” The personal items Jake left lying around wouldn’t fill a shoebox. But I

didn’t want to take a chance. I didn’t want these two upstairs.

Best and his partner exchanged glances. Then Best proceeded to ask the basics: how

long had Angus worked for me, how much did I pay him, what kind of employee was he, did

we socialize, blah, blah, blah.

I was starting to relax when he said, still friendly and easy, “Angus says you paid him

quite a bit of money to disappear.”

I blinked. “You can spin that a couple of ways,” I said. “The truth is, he was scared, and

I thought it would be better for him to get away for a couple of weeks. He couldn’t afford to

go on his own, so I gave him the money.”

“This is when the whole Devil-worship issue arose?”

“Angus had been getting threatening phone calls for a week or so. He’d mentioned

having problems with former friends. He didn’t go into a lot of details, and I admit I didn’t

pay close attention. I didn’t take it seriously at first, but he got more and more…rattled.”

Either Best had already heard this, or he wasn’t interested in back story. “A ‘Christmas

bonus,’ you told him, although you had never given him a Christmas bonus before.”

“He didn’t work for me last Christmas.”

“You never gave him any kind of bonus.”

I didn’t bother to answer that.

“Eight hundred dollars is a nice chunk of change. You’re that successful?”

I wasn’t unsuccessful, but I ordinarily wouldn’t have doled out that kind of cash. Not

that I was the cheapskate Jake had on occasion suggested, but I didn’t throw money around.

I’d never given Angus any kind of raise after I’d made him a permanent employee, so I’d

figured it evened out. He couldn’t have gone far on two hundred bucks, and I had wanted

him out from underfoot. I had blithely thought I would drop a word in the right ear, and the

whole mess would blow over. Well, I’d been wrong – not for the first time.

How did I explain all that to Joe Friday?

He didn’t wait for me to explain, apparently believing he had scored with his last

question.

“How well do you know the detective who discovered the body?”

“Jake Riordan,” his partner put in suddenly.

I thought, here it comes. Meanwhile, the entire damn neighborhood knows we’re

sleeping together. I said noncommittally, “I know him.”

“You’re friends, right?”

“We’re friends,” I said.

“Good friends? You’re gay, right?”

I said steadily, “Jake disapproves of my lifestyle. But we’re friendly.”

Best gave a kind of chuckle. “In fact, you see each other a couple of times a week. You

vacationed together last spring in the High Sierras, right?”

I felt the pulse beating hard in my throat and hoped it wasn’t visible. I had it on

authority that when I got nervous, it showed. That’s the downside of being a normally

honest person.

“Not exactly. I ran into trouble up there. Jake helped me out. I’m not following what

this has to do with Angus.”

“Well, you never know what’s going to prove useful,” Best informed me, reminding me

of what Gabe Savant had said shortly before he disappeared on his “stress break.” “Sometimes

the least likely lead turns out to be the key to the entire case.”

“What made you call Riordan?” Vidal Sassoon chimed in. “Gordon asked you to pick up

his mail, didn’t he?”

“Jake wanted –”

“Jake?” repeated Best.

I slapped my forehead. “Damn, you caught me!” I gave him a disgusted look. “Didn’t I

already confess to being friends?” It wasn’t a great idea to get shirty with these two, but I was

starting to lose my temper despite my good intentions.

“Touchy, touchy,” Best murmured, making a note. Several notes – which I guessed was

supposed to worry me. The other flatfoot snickered. “You were saying?” Best inquired of me

with ultra politeness.

Apparently both sides had decided I was going to be a hostile witness.

I said, “Jake wanted to talk to Angus about a couple of unsolved murders that he

believed might be tied to the Satanic underground. He thought Angus might have heard or

seen something, since he was apparently on the edge of that scene. Beyond that you’d have

to talk to Jake.”

“Oh, we intend to,” Best informed me.

* * * * *

I let the investigators out, locked the doors, went upstairs to call Jake on my cell phone.

He picked up on the third ring.

I said, “Can you talk?”

“No.”

“Call me when you can.”

“Fifteen minutes.” He rang off.

Thirteen minutes later my cell rang.

I didn’t waste time on chitchat. “I just had a visit from a pair of legal investigators

working for Martin Grosser. I could be wrong, but the impression I get is that Angus’s

defense is going to throw a lot of mud in a lot of different directions in hopes of establishing

reasonable doubt.”

“Translation?”

“They show undue interest in our…us.”

Silence.

He had to have realized that was a danger. I said, “Angus has told them that you’re over

here a couple of times a week. He also told them about last spring.”

“How would Angus know about last spring?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said impatiently. “If you’ll remember, you asked him where I’d

gone when I left town. For another, I probably mentioned some of what happened up there.”

I felt a sudden rush of resentment. “I don’t advertise my personal life, but I’m not used to

conducting it like an undercover operation either.”

Jake ignored my outburst. “His defense will end up subpoenaing your phone records.

They’ll need them to support the argument that Angus didn’t have time to kill Kinsey and

still get back in time to call you.”

We hadn’t talked that much on the phone, especially not in recent weeks. A lot of the

time we used cell phones. I didn’t think Jake’s number would raise any flags, unless someone

probed for a connection. Unfortunately that appeared to be the case. I wondered where he

was calling from now. A pay phone?

I reflected that none of this would be a problem – let alone a threat – if Jake wasn’t

paranoid about our relationship. His fear of discovery was turning something innocent into a

weapon that could be used to destroy either of us.

When I didn’t answer, he asked, “What did you tell them?”

“I told them we were friends. I lied. That’s what you want, right?”

“It’s no one’s business but our own.”

I agreed with him there. I sighed. “Where are they going with this? Am I going to end

up testifying about our relationship? Am I supposed to commit perjury? Is that what you’re

expecting?”

He didn’t respond.

“Swell,” I said. I disconnected.

* * * * *

Once, when he was in an uncharacteristically indulgent mood, Jake told me I had that

peculiar blend of attitude and ability that makes a good detective, namely, I was curious,

analytical, and persistent. I liked people. I was a good listener. I was – though this pained

him to admit – intuitive. I knew a lot of useless information – tangential knowledge – that

frequently turned out to be helpful (or at least gave me material to chat up potential

witnesses).

Of course, as Jake was quick to point out, I was also impulsive, naive, and untrained,

which made me more of a liability than a help in any investigation. But since I didn’t have

Jake’s support this time, I had to rely on myself.

I spent the rest of the evening familiarizing myself with Garibaldi’s The Devil’s

Disciple. Despite the lurid glossy cover depicting Hans Memling’s Hell, the book itself was a

serious philosophical treatise on Satanism.

It is a popular misconception that Satanism is the worship or

deification of the Christian Devil. Nothing could be further from

the truth. The word “Satan” stems from Hebraic/Judaic context. It

means to oppose. In opposing the ideology of the Judeo-Christian

religion, by default we ally ourselves with the tenets of “Satan,”

which is to oppose the dogma of state recognized church. In

effect it is to rebel against the establishment and the sense of

smug entitlement that seems to characterize so many so-called

Christians.

Huh? I thought. I didn’t want to be close-minded, but this view didn’t sound typical of

club members I’d met so far.

It is true that a small minority of Satanists are theistic and believe

in a personal deity known as Satan or Lucifer, yet we reject the

notion that this concept is based upon Judaic or Christian

theology. In any case the aberrant behavior of a small sect is no

more reflective of the overall picture of Satanism than the

Plymouth Brethren were reflective of typical Christianity. The

vast majority of Satanists do not indulge in the notion of a

personal, all powerful being known as Satan. We do not ascribe to

superstitious belief in gods, demons or superheroes. In the

strictest sense, we are atheists.

So no summoning of demons to do the bidding of discontented Yuppie offspring? Were

the pentagrams and black candles and ritual daggers so much stage dressing?

I flipped through the pages. Nine Satanic Statements. Nine Satanic Sins. The Eleven

Satanic Rules of Earth. What did that remind me of?

One Ring to rule them all. One Ring to find them …

The basic tenets of Satanism seemed to boil down to a belief in the animal nature of

man – life lived in the moment, autonomy of the individual, self-help, knowledge as power,

personal responsibility, magick, and the concept of Satan.

Nothing particularly unique or original in any of that – and the whole belief in magic

weakened the idea of Satanism as a serious philosophical school of thought for me. Still, I

recognized what the attraction would be.

Outcast, outlaw, Satan embodies the triumph of the rebel

individual. Satanism is not for the herd. Satan walks alone.

So how come all these individualists dressed in black and traveled in packs?

Your demon guide waits within you. You must turn your vision

inwards; do not seek the demon outside.

Unlock your inner demon? But someone was seeking the demon outside. Pentagrams

written in the blood of human sacrifice indicated that someone was doing his or her best to

summon something more tangible – and a lot more dangerous.

Chapter Seventeen

I told myself that if I hadn’t decided to trust Guy, I wouldn’t be taking a jaunt to the

seaside with him, but in case my carcass wound up floating off Will Rogers State Beach, I

used a bar of soap to scrawl a message on my bathroom mirror: Went to see Oliver Garibaldi

in Pacific Palisades with Guy Snowden .

On the bright side, if Jake ever saw that message, I wouldn’t have to hear another

lecture about butting into that which was not my business.

It was sunny and unexpectedly warm for December. A great day for the beach.

Although this wasn’t a date, I took time trying to decide what to wear before settling on

black jeans and a brown camp shirt with inconspicuous black polka dots, a shirt that Jake

liked. Truthfully, I think he liked it for himself, had it come in jumbo size.

While I waited for Guy to show up, I went through the photos the girls next door had

taken the night of Gabriel Savant’s signing. Midway through the stack of candid shots –

apparently taken after the girls had a couple of glasses of champagne – I had another

brainstorm and started hunting through the desk drawers for pictures of other author

signings. I found a couple of snaps of Angus and slipped them into my Day Planner.

Guy walked into the bookstore a little after ten. He wore faded jeans, a loose white

muslin shirt, and sandals. I tried to picture Jake in a pirate shirt – or myself, for that

matter – and failed. But it suited Guy. That masculine blend of force and grace.

He smiled, I smiled. We were both slightly self-conscious, mindful of our recent

awkward phone conversation.

I gave Velvet several last-minute directions – to which she almost, but not quite, rolled

her eyes – and we went outside.

“I’m parked down the street,” Guy said, his hand resting briefly on the small of my

back as the door closed behind us.

I said, “Can I ask you something? Did you recognize the girl behind the counter?”

“I don’t think I did more than glance her way.”

“Would you do me a favor? Step inside and see if you recognize her?”

His brows rose, but he went back inside. I followed. Velvet, in the midst of making a

call on her cell phone, looked up. She clicked off and lowered her phone – which maybe

meant little more than she didn’t want to be caught making a personal phone call on my

dime.

She had seemed pleased, even sort of relieved when I’d told her I would be leaving her

to fend for herself once again. Maybe she wanted a chance to make up for sticking her nose

where it didn’t belong. Maybe she was delighted at the chance to do more snooping, but it

would be a madhouse this afternoon; she wouldn’t have time for much search and seizure if

that was the plan.

“I left my wallet,” I said cheerfully, walking back to the office. I opened and closed a

drawer, then walked back out.

“Very cool place,” Guy said sincerely, turning from a shelf as I rejoined him. We went

back outside, the glass door swinging shut behind us. “I don’t know her. Should I?”

“You’ve never had her in class?”

He laughed. “Do you have any idea of how many kids I’ve had in class over the years? I

can’t say for sure. She looks like a million other girls. Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m paranoid, I guess. She’s sort of odd.”

His expression confirmed my self-diagnosis, but he humored me. “You think she may

be involved in whatever is going on?”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty unlikely, but she did show up out of the blue.”

“You must have people applying for work all the time.”

“Well…true. Though I did catch her going through my desk.”

He glanced at me as we wove our way through the morning sightseers littering the

sidewalks of Old Town. “That’s not good.” He added, “Had you told her your desk was off–

limits?”

“No, that’s the thing. I had her scoping eBay the day before at the computer there. She

may have thought the desk was community property.”

“Possibly.” He shrugged. “What is it you think she might be up to?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea. She’s not stealing from the register; I’m watching the

receipts. She could do a lot of damage if she wanted to, but I’d know she was the culprit, and

I’d prosecute, which she has to realize.” I concluded, “I guess she could be spying on me.”

Guy grinned wickedly, eyes catching mine. “What are you doing that would be worthy

of peeping?”

I laughed, surprised to feel my face warm. “Nothing.”

“How disappointing.” He said more seriously, “Did she offer references?”

“Yes. She checked out.”

He shrugged. “Well, if you’re uncomfortable with her, why don’t you fire her?”

I’d been asking myself the same thing since I caught her with my heart meds. “Seems

unfair. Besides, do you have any idea how hard it is to get good help? Especially around the

holidays.” Especially since I kept leaving her to fend for herself while I ran off to play Boy

Detective – this morning being a prime example.

Besides, if she was up to no good, this was one way to keep an eye on her.

We reached Guy’s car. He pulled his keys out, saying, “Do you mind if we have the top

down?”

* * * * *

Pacific Palisades perches atop the Santa Monica Mountains, offering its small, affluent

community breathtaking views of the coast from Malibu to Palos Verdes. The poor people

get to look at Santa Monica and West Hollywood.

Towering palms and old-fashioned street lamps line winding roads that lead to

charming shops and cozy cottages; there’s a small-town quaintness to the place.

Top down, wind in our hair, sun on our faces, we whipped along the winding highway,