Death Takes the Cake Page 14

  “You’d have been a prosecutor’s dream and a defense nightmare.”

  “That’s an unfair stereotype. I would have been objective, giving my opinion on the evidence alone.”

  “Maybe,” he said, “but in your heart you’d have been pro police.”

  I couldn’t deny that, even though I knew there were a few “bad guy” police among the thousands of decent men and women who put their lives on the line for a not-always-grateful public.

  As we inched our way along First Street, I saw by the building numbers that we were getting close to our destination.

  “There’s a parking lot on the corner.”

  “Lots are for wimps,” NDM said. “I’ll find a place.”

  “Street parking down here is a fantasy. The joke is that grandfathers spin tales to their children’s children about the day they found an open space.”

  “Aha!” Up ahead, we spotted a black Cadillac pulling away from a meter. NDM zipped the Masarati into the rectangle scant inches behind the departing vehicle.

  “Forget the ‘luck of the Irish,’ ” he said. “I’ve got the luck of the Sicilians. And there’s almost an hour left on the meter.”

  “Miraculous.” My tone was wry, but I was amazed that he’d found a space so close to our target.

  Mazzone Bail Bonds was on the ground floor of an old five-story building that had, so far, escaped being razed and supplanted by a modern office high-rise or condos. His window facing the street was clean, and the sign was clearly visible, but the glass was latticed with iron security bars.

  Through the bars I saw a man with slicked-back hair and a short, round body balanced on his knees and right elbow. He was scrubbing hard at a two-foot section of carpeted floor in front of and just to the left of the desk. It was awkward work because his right hand was in some kind of a brace.

  NDM said, “That’s Frank.”

  Obeying instructions on the brass plate above the outside bell, NDM rang.

  Frank Mazzone glanced at us through the thick glass, threw a handful of used paper towels into a trash bag, and struggled to his feet. He moved around to the far side of his desk and pressed a concealed button. We heard a buzz that unlocked the exterior door.

  NDM pushed it open and we were inside a kind of cage about three feet deep. When the outside door closed behind us, and the heavy glass door directly in front of us clicked, NDM pushed that one open.

  Inside at last, my first sensation was that the sealed office behind the double doors reeked of alcohol and—much worse—the contents of someone’s stomach. I must have flinched at the odor, because Mazzone took an aerosol can from a bottom drawer and began to spray around the area he’d been cleaning.

  “It’ll smell better in a couple minutes,” he said. “I just told a prospective client that I don’t go bail for drunk drivers. As a parting gift, he threw up.”

  Replacing the can, Mazzone gestured with his braced right hand. “Sorry, can’t shake. Are you Mrs. Carmichael?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry about your hand. What happened?”

  “Broke my trigger finger. Excuse the expression. Trigger finger—it’s a medical term.” He flashed a cheerful grin at NDM. “Hey, D’Martino—what kind of a society have we got that’s letting you run around loose?”

  “A democracy.”

  “Yeah, well, no system is perfect.” Mazzone tied up the trash bag tightly, tossed it against the wall behind his desk, and gestured toward the two matching wooden chairs that faced it. Other than his leather wing chair, they were the only places to sit in this sparsely furnished office. The one decorative touch in the room was a large mural of vintage Wanted Posters that covered the rear wall.

  Frank Mazzone took his seat and we took ours. “So, what’s the story on your dentist friend?”

  Briefly, I gave him the basic details: that Bill met Regina Davis, had a couple of lunches and a dinner with her, that she tried to get him to have an affair with her but that he resisted.

  “I saw her picture in the paper.” Mazzone made a clicking noise in the side of his mouth. “He’s a stronger man than I would have been.”

  I let that pass. “When Bill said no to her, she threatened to tell his wife that they’d been having an affair. That’s the motive the police are hanging their case on.”

  Mazzone shook his head. “Pretty weak. Does he have an alibi?”

  “He left her at the restaurant early in the evening, drove around thinking about what a jerk he’d been, and then he signed up to take ballroom dancing lessons.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I know that may sound ridiculous—”

  “May? It’s the stupidest story I ever heard.”

  I got up. “If that’s going to be your attitude—”

  NDM took my arm and guided me back down. “Good people do dumb things sometimes. Della’s known Marshall for twenty years and believes he’s innocent.”

  “Yeah, well, guilty or innocent isn’t my call. I care about whether he’d be a flight risk if he’s charged and I bail him out.”

  “I know Bill wouldn’t run,” I said.

  Mazzone tapped the side of the computer monitor on his desk. “My silent partner, ‘Mr. Google,’ agrees with you. I checked the guy out. Pretty solid. Big house in the hills of Beverly, wife a former actress, two sons who’ve stayed out of trouble, big bucks dental practice, some movie star clients, no scandals, nobody’s sued him. You want to know where he went to summer camp, who he took to his senior prom, and what he buys on credit cards?”

  “You found out all that?”

  NDM said, “There are no secrets anymore—just information nobody’s looked for yet.”

  Frank Mazzone took a card from the top drawer of his desk, turned it over, and scribbled something. “This is my cell number. Give it to your friend and have him or his lawyer call me if he’s charged.”

  I was about to leave when Mazzone said, “If I put up bail, he better not start looking up airfares to Brazil. I’m not as nice a guy as I seem.”

  Outside in the car, NDM said, “Where to?”

  I took the cell phone out of my jacket pocket. “I won’t know until I call Liddy.” I punched in her cell number.

  Answering on the second ring, she said in a whisper, “Del?”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Bill’s in a room with our lawyer, and the criminal attorney he brought with him. John was here a moment ago and told me an assistant district attorney is on his way. What does that mean?”

  “He or she will decide if they have enough evidence to make a formal charge against Bill. From what I heard at your house, I don’t think they do.”

  “I’m praying you’re right.”

  “But just in case, I’ve got the bail bondsman I told you about ready to help. Have one of the lawyers call Frank Mazzone.” I gave her his phone number and heard her fumble for a paper and pen to write it down.

  “Got it,” she said. “But if it gets so far—a charge and court appearance—what if the judge refuses to allow bail?”

  “Don’t think about that now. Let’s go a step at a time, okay? . . . Liddy?”

  “Sorry. John says the district attorney person’s here.” I heard a catch in her voice.

  “Stay calm, Liddy. Take a few deep breaths. Do you want me to come to the station and stay with you?”

  “No. I’m all right. Really. But where will you be?”

  “I’ll go home. Call me as soon as you know something.” We said good-bye.

  NDM looked at his watch. “It’s after seven. Let me buy you dinner.”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got to go home to make food for the live TV show tomorrow night. But what if I fix dinner for the two of us?”

  “Sounds good. Your kitchen’s the best restaurant in town.” NDM started the engine and we were on our way back toward the 101 freeway.

  Back at home, Tuffy greeted us with vigorous tail wagging. Emma sailed up onto the hall table and sat down on a piece of notepaper. I ea
sed it out from under her and saw that it was from Eileen. Reading it, I said, “Eileen walked Tuffy and now she’s gone to see an artist friend who’s helping her with package designs for the fudge meeting.”

  I started toward the kitchen, with NDM and the pets following.

  NDM said, “What kind of meeting?”

  “Eileen’s a business major at UCLA. She came up with the inspiration that I should be in the mail-order fudge business and she talked Mickey Jordan into backing it.”

  “It’s a good idea,” NDM said. “You’re building name recognition, and you’re better looking than that man who got rich making chocolate chip cookies.”

  In the kitchen Tuffy settled onto his thick pad beside the refrigerator, and Emma soared up into the box I’d fitted with soft towels for her on the ledge beneath the window.

  Before I had a chance to figure out what to make for dinner, the phone rang.

  “I hope that’s Liddy,” I said.

  It was. Her voice was breathy with excitement. “They’re letting Bill go home!”

  I nodded at NDM, mouthed Liddy, and said into the receiver, “They’re letting him go—that’s wonderful. What happened?”

  “I didn’t hear the conversation, but our family attorney said the criminal lawyer he works with convinced the prosecutor—a woman—that she needed a stronger case against Bill or he’d humiliate her in front of a judge.”

  “That’s encouraging,” I said, making my voice bright. I didn’t want to deplete Liddy’s happiness, but I knew that the police didn’t like having a suspect released. They’d keep investigating. John would look for other suspects, but I was sure that Hugh Weaver would concentrate on Bill.

  Liddy said hurriedly, “We’re going home now. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She hung up.

  Replacing the receiver, I said, “They’re letting Bill go.”

  “You must be relieved.”

  “For the moment, but we both know he’ll be under suspicion until they find the real murderer.” I opened the refrigerator door and surveyed the contents. “Let’s see what I can make us for dinner before I have to cook for the show tomorrow.”

  NDM leaned against the sink. “Don’t you have an assistant to do that for you?”

  “Mickey offered, but it wouldn’t be honest. I’m on camera and say that I’m making the dishes, so I’ve got to make them all.”

  “Truth in advertising,” NDM said.

  “Don’t mock it.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I guess I’m jealous because in my profession I don’t get a lot of people telling me the truth. It’s refreshing.”

  His lips curled up in a wry smile. It made my pulse rate jump. Much to my embarrassment, that smile sent a surge of longing through my body.

  He took a step toward me. “Are you blushing?”

  “Absolutely not,” I lied. “It’s the kitchen . . . heat.”

  NDM advanced another step. “You’re standing in front of an open refrigerator.”

  On erotic autopilot, I moved toward him. Before I could form a thought we were in each other’s arms. As we kissed, NDM reached past my head and closed the refrigerator door. He whispered, “I’ve missed you.”

  I’d missed him, too. Every muscle in my body was responding to the pressure of his mouth and the touch of his hands.

  22

  In the privacy of my bedroom we made love. Too hungry for each other to waste time in foreplay, release for both of us came in moments.

  NDM was embarrassed at the speed. “Sorry about that. Give me a few minutes and I’ll make it up to you.”

  “I know you will,” I said.

  We held each other, the length of our bodies pressed together. As we lay in that postcoital glow, our breathing synchronized. Soon, I felt a slight stirring against my thighs. Our lips met. Dreamily, we kissed and caressed, and NDM more than made up for his first quick explosion.

  I awoke a few minutes after midnight, lying next to NDM, feeling wonderful. I had no idea what was going to happen with the two of us, except that I knew I would not accept being just one of the women in his life. Tonight was either a lustful slip on my part, or a prelude to a monogamous relationship. Only time would answer that question.

  While I luxuriated in the warmth of sensual satisfaction, I came fully awake. Real-world problems intruded and I thought about Reggie’s murder. Other than random acts of violence, the answer to who killed another person lay somewhere in the tangled skein of human relationships. I could only name a tiny fraction of the people in Reggie’s life. John, with or without his partner’s help, would make sure the police investigated those closest to Reggie.

  But there was something I knew that the police didn’t: Reggie had tried to blackmail Iva Jordan. She had gone so far as to have Iva investigated by a private detective. Iva had seen the report, so first thing in the morning, I would call Iva to get the name of that detective. It was a place to start.

  Feeling energized, I tried to ease myself out of the circle of NDM’s arms without waking him, but when I got out of bed he opened his eyes.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I still have display food to make for the show tonight. You may remember that you interrupted me last night.”

  He smiled. “You didn’t object.”

  “Object? I helped you disrupt my schedule.”

  “Can’t you cook in the morning?”

  “There are some other things I have to do,” I said.

  NDM rose on one elbow and looked at the glowing numbers on the bedside clock. “I’d better go. I don’t want your neighbors, or young Eileen, to guess what a wild woman you are, luring unsuspecting men into your silky web.”

  “I’m guessing you haven’t been unsuspecting since you were old enough to tell the difference between boys and girls.”

  “No comment.” He swung his legs out of bed and reached for his clothes where he’d dropped them the night before. Tuffy was lying on top of them.

  NDM looked at Tuffy, who was awake and looking at him, but not stirring. “I’ll either have to leave naked, or move in here,” he said.

  “Come on, Tuff. The man has to be on his way.”

  Tuffy got to his feet, remained standing on NDM’s clothes for another second or two, and then moved toward me so that NDM could retrieve his things.

  A few minutes later, at the front door, NDM said, “You got me here under false pretenses. You promised dinner, then jumped me instead.”

  “I’m a terrible person, but I agree that I owe you a dinner. Rain check?”

  He gave me a tender little kiss on the lips. “I’m a very lucky Sicilian. . . . Call you later.”

  As soon as NDM left, Tuffy hopped up on the bed and settled down to sleep. Emma, who had been lying on top of the television set, stood, stretched, and made the long leap from there onto the bed. She curled up on my pillow, in the indentation made by my head.

  I pulled on a clean sweatshirt and sweatpants from the bureau and went to the kitchen.

  Tonight’s show featured “comfort foods,” two hearty dishes perfect for cold winter nights: my Grandma Nell’s Cornish Pasties and Chicken Biscuit Pie, a dish that I’d found in a book called Famous White House Recipes.

  Both of these were among the foods I’d made over the years for Mack and his police pals, and that I’d taught in some of my one-dish-meals cooking school classes. The mechanics were as familiar to me as scrambling eggs. Here in the after-midnight quiet, while setting out the various ingredients I would need, my mind was free to think about the two calls I was going to make when other people were awake.

  At nine o’clock, after several hours of sleep, two mugs of coffee, and taking care of Tuffy’s and Emma’s assorted needs, it was time to make the first call. I flipped through the telephone book until I found the number for Bill’s colleague and office neighbor, Joseph Collins, DMD. Having prepared the story I was going to tell whoever answered, I dialed.

  “Doctor’s office,” said a woman’s voice on the other end.


  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m the secretary for Regina Davis and I’m trying to get together a list of any of her outstanding bills so they can be paid. Can you tell me if she owes anything to Dr. Collins?”

  “Regina Davis? Is that D-a-v-i-s?”

  “Yes.” I watched the kitchen wall clock for a full half minute of silence.

  “She’s not one of our patients,” the woman said.

  “But I’m sure she had at least two appointments with Doctor Collins, two or three weeks ago? Perhaps she paid through insurance, or by check?”

  “There’s no one by that name anywhere in our records, but I’ll ask Doctor Collins about her. If you’ll give me your name and number—”

  “Thank you, but I must have made a mistake.” I hung up.

  Reggie had lied about being a patient of Bill’s periodontist neighbor, and therefore had lied about why she was in the hallway when she bumped into Bill. There was no doubt in my mind now that Reggie had set out to lure Bill into an affair. But with all of the attractive men in Los Angeles, why did she target Bill?

  I sat thinking about that, running my mind back over conversations I’d had with and about Reggie since she’d materialized in my life after twenty-five years. To try to organize and make sense of the bits I knew, I took a marketing list notebook from my kitchen receipt drawer. As though I were creating a new recipe, I started by listing the ingredients—here, information—that I had to work with:

  1. Reggie connived to meet Bill Marshall.

  2. When I was driving a drunken Reggie home after she’d surprised me by coming to my house, she alluded to a new man in her life, and indicated that he was married. (Bill? It must have been.)

  3. Iva said that Reggie had had Iva investigated, and then tried to blackmail her with what the private detective uncovered. (I’ll call Iva and hope she can tell me the name of that detective.)

  4. When Addison Jordan came to my house after he found out Reggie had been murdered, he told me that several weeks previously, when he was trying to sell Reggie on his TV cake contest idea, she’d asked personal questions about me. Addison didn’t have any information about my private life to give her.