Within ten minutes, Iris had met Louise, fixed her hair and makeup, struggled into the panty hose Louise had bought and was exiting the elevator on the twelfth floor. Holding her briefcase securely in her left hand, she opened the heavy glass doors that were labeled in raised brass letters: MCKINNEY ALITZER FINANCIAL SERVICES. After the clatter her pumps had made on the garage’s concrete and the lobby’s granite, her footsteps on the suite’s rich carpeting sounded unnervingly quiet. It also made the clatter of her thoughts that much louder. Bridget wanted a divorce and Sam Eastman was impatiently tapping his foot in her office. After such a delightful start, it was shaping up to be one hell of a bad day.
Iris turned left into the sales department and put on her game face—smiling and sporting a confident attitude. It was easy for her now. She’d been doing this a long time. A long-strided, hip-swinging gait was part of the package, but today she took small steps that made her feel like a geisha. Apart from her other concerns, she had a more immediate problem. The panty hose Louise had bought were too small. They had inched down around her hips and, Iris feared, were heading for her knees.
She walked past the bull pen—the cluster of open cubicles where the younger and lower-producing brokers and the sales assistants worked—waving and making eye contact with everyone. She passed the offices along the northern wall, home to the top brokers. She waved at Kyle Tucker and Amber Ambrose, who were at their desks there. She had walked past just about everyone and was almost home, delighted that no one was paying much attention to her, her tired lime green suit, or windblown hair. They seemed too busy. Every single one of them was on the phone, talking animatedly into their headsets. Her delight turned to concern when she sensed that no one appeared to be having a good time. Brokers were happy when they were making money. No one seemed happy.
Iris reached Louise’s desk in a windowed alcove at the end of the suite. Next to it was Iris’s corner office. Louise peered at her over the top of her half-glasses and underneath her well-sculpted eyebrows. “Good morning, Iris. You’re looking well.” She grabbed a pencil from where it had been jammed into a mound of her grayish blonde hair that she always styled into a French roll. She used the pencil as a pointer as she checked a list of numbers.
“And a wonderful good morning to you, Louise.” Iris spun into her office.
Sam Eastman was sitting in one of the two damask-covered, Queen Anne-style chairs that faced Iris’s cherrywood desk. Iris had redecorated her office shortly after her promotion was announced. Out went the previous occupant’s masculine forest greens, plaids, heavy mahogany, and dark leather. In went colors of peach, mint green, and cream, fabrics of damask and tapestry, cherrywood furniture, and lamps in crystal and brass. Her prize purchase was her desk chair of soft, cream-colored leather studded with brass grommets.
Sam was frowning and didn’t greet her before he started speaking. “I’m curious why you chose a six percent across-the-board increase.”
Sam was only in his mid fifties, but he hadn’t aged well. He was a lank-haired, thin-skinned, WASPy kind of guy who had probably been good-looking in his early years. Now, his straight hair barely covered his pinkish scalp, his lusterless gray eyes were always rimmed with dark circles, and his belly and hips had gone soft. He smiled easily, like any good salesman, but it was never reflected in his eyes. He told jokes with the best of them and talked the talk and walked the walk, but to Iris, he seemed to chafe inside his own skin. There was an edge of discontent to him that none of the smiles or jokes could hide, at least from her.
Something about Sam’s edginess compelled Iris to act impossibly cheerful around him. It was both her antidote to his subtly dour countenance and her revenge, as if to tell him, “Look at me, you SOB. You tried to stomp me down but I’m happy, happy, happy!” She was not above an occasional petty mind game.
“Good morning, Sam!” she sang. “Nice to see you.” She quickly dumped her briefcase and purse on her desk and grabbed her BUDGETS ARE FOR WIMPS mug from the top, just where she had left it the previous night.
Sam indicated the mug’s slogan. “I thought that was just a joke, but now I think it actually reflects your philosophy.”
She threw her head back and laughed as if it were the funniest thing she’d heard all week. “Be back in a flash. Just need a fresh cuppa Joe.” She winked at him and strode out of her office.
Outside her door, Louise looked up at her. Iris barred both rows of her teeth in a violent grimace. She quickly put her professional face back on before anyone else saw her and took mincing steps to Liz Martini’s office, which was directly opposite hers in the suite’s northwest corner.
Liz was talking into her telephone headset. “Look, sweetheart, you know I wouldn’t steer you wrong. This is Liz talking! Okay, kisses to the kids.” She made kissing noises into the phone. “And love to Susan. I mean, Debbie. Denise! Bye, bye.” After hanging up, she said to Iris or perhaps to herself, “If he didn’t keep trading in his wives for newer models, I’d be able to keep track of them.”
Without a word, Iris came inside, closed the door, and ducked behind it, out of view of the miniblind-covered window that overlooked the suite. She set her empty mug on the corner of Liz’s desk.
Liz crossed herself and said, “Oy, what a day!” Her father was Italian Catholic and her mother was Russian Jewish and Liz found it expedient to claim both religions. She looked curiously at Iris, who had hiked up her skirt and was struggling to pull up her panty hose.
Iris precluded any comments. “Don’t ask.”
Liz opened an aerosol container and, with a sweeping gesture, sprayed the contents on her face. Several gold and diamond bracelets sparkled on her tiny wrist. She was in her middle forties but looked younger. She was five foot eight and slender—downright skinny if the truth be known. Liz adhered to the Duchess of Windsor’s philosophy that one could never be too rich or too thin. She’d denied ever having plastic surgery, though the office scuttlebutt had it that she’d at least had breast implants. It was hard to reconcile her C-cup-sized breasts with her size 2 hips.
Her hair was long and dark brown. Today, she wore it mounded on top of her head with tendrils dangling here and there. She had big brown eyes and full lips on an impish face. She always dressed in the latest fashions and as flashily as her clientele. Liz was married to Hollywood superagent, Ozzie Levinson. Ozzie managed his A-list clients’ careers while Liz managed their money. They got them coming and going.
Iris, struggling with the tight nylon, slithered too close to Liz who sprayed her face. Iris blinked wildly. “Wha…?”
“Sweetheart, it’s just mineral spray. You’ve got to rehydrate your skin or those Santa Ana winds will turn you into a prune in no time. It’s got amino acids or collagen or something. Whatever it is, it’s fabulous.” She spoke in a low, confidential tone, darting a bright red, manicured fingernail at Iris and frowning with concern as if she really cared about Iris becoming wrinkled. Maybe she did and maybe she didn’t. Liz treated everyone and every issue as if it were of the utmost importance. It was a style that helped her produce many millions a year in sales and earn millions in commissions. She was Iris’s prize pony. And the best part was, Liz and Iris had been friends for years before Iris recruited her from a competing firm.
“Plus one of my clients sells this spray.” Liz shrugged. Her phone rang. She gave the device a fatigued look and didn’t answer it.
“What’s going on?” Iris asked.
“Market’s down five hundred and ten points.”
Iris’s jaw dropped.
“It was down eight hundred. It’s rebounded a bit. The phone’s been ringing off the hook. I’ve spent all morning telling my clients to not worry, to hold tight, let’s not panic sell, it’s just the correction the analysts predicted…”
“Let’s hope so,” Iris said. “You want to have lunch today?”
“Sure!” Liz exclaimed enthusiastically as if she’d never heard a better idea.
“I have to get back to my office.” Iris started to leave, then remembered the excuse she’d used to get away from Sam. She retrieved the coffee mug and opened the door.
“Isn’t that your friend and her little girl?” Liz got up from her desk and stood in the doorway. “Isn’t she precious? Hi, sweetheart.” She opened and closed her hand at Brianna. “What a cutie.”
Brianna ran across the suite, dangling her rumpled Pocahontas doll upside down, and flung herself onto Iris’s legs. “Hi, Aunt Iris!”
“Hi, sweetie. I’m so glad I got to see you today.”
“I’m going to Grandma’s house.” Brianna was dressed in a pink cotton dress covered with white, stenciled stars.
“How nice!” Iris exclaimed.
“Honey, leave Aunt Iris alone. She’s working.” Bridget Cross had been chatting with Sam Eastman in Iris’s office and now stood in the doorway. She was wearing a light gray wool, gabardine pantsuit and a silk satin blouse. It was about the most formal attire she owned, and she hated getting even that dressed up, preferring to conduct business on the tennis court or golf course. She was busy, with little time for frills. And she was practical.
Iris noticed that the years of sun were starting to take their toll on Bridget’s skin. Under the fluorescent lights, it looked prematurely wrinkled.
“You’ve met Sam,” Iris said as she greeted Bridget with a hug. Bridget was the only person Iris knew who had more energy than she did. Today however, she looked tired and worn. Iris assumed it was because of her problems with Kip. Her concern must have shown in her face because Bridget offered an explanation, though not the one she expected.
“Alexa Platt’s missing. I’ve been beside myself with worry.”
“What happened?”
Bridget twisted her hands one inside the other as she relayed the events of the previous afternoon. She and Brianna were the last people who had seen Alexa before her disappearance. “I should have waited until she got safely under way. I would have, except Brianna and I were late.”
“Don’t blame yourself.”
“You’re talking about that movie director’s wife, Alexa Platt?” Sam interjected, hating to be left out. “I heard about it on the news coming over here. You’re friends with her?”
“Alexa did some graphic artwork for Pandora early on,” Bridget responded. “Then Jim Platt hired her as art director on one of his movies. They married shortly thereafter.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Iris offered. “You know Alexa. She probably dashed off to Two Bunch Palms on the spur of the moment for an aromatherapy massage, completely oblivious to the chaos she’s created.”
“Iris, you know the Platts as well?” Sam eagerly asked.
Bridget, consumed by her own concern, inadvertently ignored him. “And not tell Jim?”
“I know Alexa casually,” Iris vaguely explained to Sam, reluctant to reveal anything, however innocuous, about her private life to her boss. Any tidbit of information was a potential weapon. Returning her attention to Bridget, she said, “Alexa probably did tell Jim. He’s going in a zillion directions these days. He probably forgot.”
“Alexa didn’t mention anything yesterday, but,” Bridget added ruefully, “I sort of monopolized the conversation.” She grew thoughtful. “There was this weird groundskeeper guy in the park who was giving us funny looks. You know how certain people can give you the creeps?”
“I’m certain he was harmless,” Iris said reassuringly. “People who work alone like that tend to be a bit odd sometimes.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I’m sure Alexa will turn up.” Iris was trying to be optimistic but realized her comment seemed to imply Alexa wouldn’t be walking out from wherever she was under her own steam. It was, if she was honest with herself, what she secretly felt.
“And I’m surprised to find out you’re also friends with the Crosses, Iris.” Sam surged ahead with his own agenda.
“Since college,” Iris tersely answered.
“I read an article about Pandora Software in Time the other day,” Sam said to Bridget. “And you and your husband are on the cover of Wired magazine this month.”
“The information age has elevated computer programmers to the ranks of rock stars,” Bridget said. “Kip and I even get fan mail. Who would have thought?”
Iris put her hand on Bridget’s arm. “She’s being modest.”
Bridget stroked her daughter’s hair and frowned as if she’d lost her train of thought. “I picked up the material you prepared, Iris. I’ll read it at home. I’ve got to get Brianna to her grandma and myself to the office. We’re releasing the first two levels of Slade Slayer’s newest adventure tonight on the Internet.”
“It’s called Suckers Finish Last, right?” Sam laughed.
Bridget nodded wryly. “Our core audience is males, thirteen to twenty-two.”
“Is Pandora still privately held?” Sam asked.
“Not for much longer, I hope. Iris is helping me set up the initial public offering. She’s been in contact with your firm’s investment banking division about underwriting it.”
“You have?” Sam smiled at Iris with surprise, but he didn’t look happy.
Iris nervously raked her hair with her fingers. She didn’t think she needed to tell Sam about every deal she was into, but that was apparently what he expected. “I’ve talked to some people in I.B. about it. It’s just in the planning stages at the moment. Be quite a coup for us to bring an initial public offering into this branch.”
“When were you planning on bringing me into the loop on this?” Sam was still smiling.
“Sam, there isn’t anything to talk about yet.”
“We’ve really just started the process,” Bridget interjected, sensing she’d got her friend into trouble. “We have a meeting with our investor tomorrow.”
“You’ve got some venture capital invested in Pandora?” Sam asked. “Whose?”
“USA Assets. It’s a group headed by T. Duke Sawyer,” Bridget responded.
“T. Duke Sawyer?” Sam exclaimed. “You don’t mean T. Duke the Liquidator?”
“He doesn’t like to be reminded of that nickname,” Bridget said.
Sam seemed impressed by the company Bridget kept. “He’s in the high-tech arena now? He was one of the big corporate raiders of the eighties. I remember when he did a hostile takeover of that food conglomerate, Consolidated Products International.” He smiled dreamily at the recollection. “He dismantled CPI, sold off the pieces to the highest bidder, threw thousands out of their jobs and made a fortune. Of course, CPI was his most ambitious takeover. There were dozens of mom-and-pop outfits he gobbled up. He was worth a fortune,” Sam said with awe.
“Until the indictments came in,” Iris said. “He was found guilty of tax evasion and securities fraud.”
“Aaah,” Sam said. “Typical T. Duke—he struck a deal, paid some fines, served a few months in one of those country club prisons, and did some community service, ladling soup at a homeless kitchen or something.” Sam shook his head with amazement. “T. Duke the Liquidator…I’ll be damned. How in the world did you get connected with him?”
Bridget looked amused. “Many times I’ve asked myself that same question. Actually, he approached us. He’d read about Pandora and essentially brought us a check.”
“I’d love to meet him. We get this IPO going and I imagine I will.” Sam glanced at his watch, slipped Iris’s salary figures into a manila envelope, and handed the folder to Louise. “These are fine, Iris. Louise, would you be kind enough to FedEx these to New York, please? I’ve got to run.” He shook hands with Bridget and quickly left, patting Brianna on the head as she played with her doll on the carpet outside Iris’s door.
Bridget turned to Iris. “So that was the boss from hell?”
“That was Sam-I-Am.” Iris grimaced. “I can see this one coming. I land the Pandora IPO for the firm’s investment banking division, all of Pandora’s initial stock offering will be sold through my branch office, and Sam Eastman’s going to take credit for it.”
“I’m sorry if I blew it for you by mentioning it.”
Iris shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He would have found a way to get his claws into it somehow.”
“Guess I’m finished here.” Bridget slipped the thick envelope she’d picked up from Iris into her leather backpack, one strap of which she slung over her shoulder. “I’ll meet you at T. Duke’s office in Somis at ten o’clock tomorrow.”
Iris glanced outside the door where Brianna was happily singing to herself and ignoring the rest of the world. “Kip called me. He told me about the big D.”
Bridget frowned and angrily looked across the room.
“You caught him with Summer?”
Bridget flicked her hands as if feeling frustrated and powerless. “That was the last straw, Iris. Finding him with the nanny’s not the half of it.”
She responded to Iris’s shocked expression. “Oh, yeah. There’s been more than Summer. And that’s not even mentioning our money problems. Spends it like there’s no tomorrow. He keeps saying we’re rich. I tell him, we’re only rich on paper. Everything we get I plow back into the firm to expand operations and hire new people. That’s why I accepted T. Duke Sawyer’s offer of five million in venture capital. Kip fought me on that because he didn’t want an outsider involved in Pandora. But then what does he do with the money? Spends most of it on that Ferrari and that mansion and on chasing around. I fudged the financials I prepared for T. Duke’s group to try and hide it. Everyone’s telling Kip he’s God and he believes it.”
Iris sat in one of the Queen Anne chairs. “He’s still furious that you want to take the firm public.”
“I can’t get him to see that we need the money to build the firm. Plus we paid our employees in stock options. They’re ready to realize the investment they made in coming to work for us.” Bridget raised her hands. “But Kip sees himself losing control over Pandora. Other than me and Brianna, Pandora is the most important thing in his life. Sometimes I think it’s the most important. But I own sixty percent, Kip owns twenty, and USA Assets now owns twenty. Bottom line, it doesn’t matter what he wants.”
“I still can’t believe you had to force him to put even twenty percent of the company in his name.”
“He wanted me to own all of it. Typical Kip. Naive. Trusting, I guess. Well, I never thought we’d get divorced either.”
Iris remained quiet for a long time. She had tears in her eyes when she looked up at Bridget. “I’m so sorry. I really am.”
Brianna came into the office. “Are we going?” She noticed Iris. “Why are you crying, Aunt Iris?”
Iris, still sitting, held the child tightly. “Just thinking about something sad. You’re getting so big. You get bigger every time I see you.” She looked past Brianna at Bridget. “I forgot to tell you. I picked up the keys to my house.”
“Wonderful, Iris! I’m so happy for you. I knew it was the perfect house for you the first time I saw it.”
Iris held Brianna away from her. “And this little girl can come see me all the time and maybe even spend the night.”
“I want to!” Brianna jumped.
“We have to go,” Bridget said.
“Keep your chin up, kiddo. See you tomorrow.” Iris looked curiously at Liz on the other side of the suite.
Liz was clutching the door of her office as if she needed it for support. When she caught Iris’s eye, she began walking slowly across the suite toward her. After a few steps, she leaned against one of the bullpen cubicles and began sobbing.
Iris ran over to her. “What is it?”
Between sobs, Liz said, “I just heard about Alexa. Jim Platt’s people called Ozzie.”
“She’s missing,” Iris ventured.
“They found her—”
Bridget silently approached them.
“—in a ravine in Coldwater Canyon Park. Her head was bashed in.”