Traffic was moving and this was good. This was always good. It had been a happy time for California drivers ever since the state had raised the speed limit. The price of gasoline crept up a short time thereafter, which made drivers cranky all over again. Eventually, the prices had slowly come back down. All was again well in the kingdom.
Iris had negotiated the downtown maze of freeway overpasses known as the 4-level and was traveling westbound on the 10 at a fast clip. She was driving with the Triumph’s top up in an attempt to save her hairstyle, but the Santa Ana winds still found ways inside. There was a gap in the rear of the ragtop where a fastener had broken, and a space above the driver’s-side window where it didn’t make a clean line with the top of the frame. Errant strands of her shoulder-length blonde hair flew into her mouth and eyes. She sang along with a melancholy Bruce Springsteen ballad on the radio as she picked at her lips, trying to dislodge hair stuck to her lipstick. The ballad was about loss and seemed appropriate. Before she’d left the office, she’d been interviewed over the telephone by a police detective regarding Alexa Platt.
She didn’t have much to tell him. She hadn’t seen or spoken to Alexa for several weeks. The last time was when Iris and her group of women friends had got together for what they called “girls’ margarita night out.” The conversation consisted of their usual round-robin dishing and bitching. Alexa was the same as always: pretty, stylish, funny, bold. She had talked to Iris about a creative dispute she was having with her husband over the movie they were making, but it wasn’t anything over which Jim Platt would have murdered his wife. From what Alexa said, she and Jim were always arguing over something. That was their style.
“Do you know Jim Platt?” the detective asked her.
“I met him once at a charity function. I doubt if he’d remember me. Alexa had promised to host a Melrose Place party at their new house in Calabasas for the girls.” Iris attempted to confirm some information gleaned by Liz Martini’s well-connected husband, Ozzie. “I heard there’s not much evidence at the crime scene. No skin under Alexa’s fingernails, no fibers…just a large, blood-stained rock.”
“That’s correct.”
“Is the groundskeeper a suspect? Bridget Cross told me he gave her and Alexa the creeps.”
“We’ve talked to him,” he cryptically responded.
“Hmmm. He’s still walking the streets so I assume you don’t have enough evidence against him.”
“That’s correct.”
“Sounds like the perfect crime.”
“Either someone was very smart or very lucky.”
The interview with the detective had put Iris behind schedule. She was in serious danger of being late to meet Bridget and Kip Cross at T. Duke’s Sawyer’s office—a facility that he called San Somis. Iris wasn’t certain whether San Somis was a homage to or a rip-off of William Randolph Hearst and his oceanside castle, San Simeon. Clearly, T. Duke viewed himself in the same league. She had heard and read a lot about him and was eager to finally meet the man.
Iris drove the 10 across the city to the west side. There she took the 405 north and drove almost to the end of the San Fernando Valley where she caught the 118, the Ronald Reagan Freeway. Driving west, she passed the Reagan Library and neighborhood after neighborhood of neat, tile-roofed, mission-style houses in earth tones of putty and ocher hunkered right up against the freeway. An occasional mini-mall or school broke up the landscape.
After ten miles, the houses became sparse and shoddy, the landscape again grew flat, and ragged industrial parks sprouted. In Somis, the 118 ended. Iris traveled past rows of fruit and vegetable crops and groves of citrus trees. Acres of cultivated flowers created a patchwork of purple, green, orange, and yellow. Produce stands dotted the street corners. Farmworkers stooped in the fields.
There was a stop light at Division Street, and Iris turned left. She looked for something resembling a castle or mansion but saw nothing but low, drab industrial buildings landscaped with straggly boxwoods, overgrown clumps of bird-of-paradise, and dirt. The wind had free rein here. Dust devils twirled. A tumbleweed rolled down the street.
After deciding she must have made a wrong turn, Iris saw a building faced in black marble. There were no identifying markings or insignia other than the street address in small brass letters next to a glass door. It was surrounded by a large manicured lawn and neat flowerbeds, the brilliant colors appearing extravagant in the plain surroundings. Clumps of trees with cement benches under them dotted the lawn. Curiously, no one sat there even though it was lunchtime. Iris concluded that no one wanted dirt blown onto their bologna sandwiches. It still seemed odd to her that there was nothing human to detract from the ominous black building that reflected the surroundings in its shiny surface.
Iris parked the Triumph on the street and was glad to see Kip’s butter yellow Ferrari nearby. There were no other cars. A long, gently rising staircase led from the sidewalk to the front door. She ascended the stairs which were arranged in a pattern of three steps followed by a long flat walk, then another three steps. On each side of the stairs was a shallow reflecting pool surfaced with small, irregularly cut mosaic tiles in bright shades of blue, gold, and green. The sunlight shimmered on the water, which was dotted with leaves and debris scattered by the wind. Where the three steps ascended, the pools were elevated as well. The water babbled as it ran down. Birds, which seemed to have abandoned the rest of the bleak neighborhood, sang from the trees.
At the building’s entrance, Iris tried to pull open the heavy glass door and found it locked. She noticed a button set in a brass plaque to the left of the door and pressed it. She didn’t hear any response to the buzzer, but momentarily, something in the door metallically clicked. She again pulled the door. It opened.
She walked into a large room that was several stories tall with pearl gray marble floors and brilliantly white walls. A ramp carpeted in pale blue extended around each wall and slowly rose three stories until it reached closed double doors of dark wood. Lit display cases were set in the walls along the ramp. They appeared to be full of objects, but Iris didn’t pay too much attention to them. She was mesmerized by the antique cars. The entire ground floor was covered with spit-and-polish perfect cars. There was no one around.
Iris wandered among the cars, ogling the Lamborghinis, Rolls Royces, Cadillacs, and Bugattis. There was a collection of small sports cars with Alfa Romeos, Austin Healeys and even an early Triumph.
“Ma’am?”
She hadn’t seen the tall, good-looking, twenty-something man enter the area. Perhaps he’d been standing there the entire time watching her. She was glad she hadn’t touched anything.
“Miss Thorne?”
She walked purposefully toward him, her pump heels resounding sharply and, she hoped, authoritatively. “Yes, I’m Iris Thorne.” She extended her hand. “And you are…?”
He hesitated momentarily before taking her hand, as if surprised that she had initiated physical contact. He shook her hand briefly but firmly. “Baines.”
Something in his bearing and the formality of his speech suggested a military background. He wore a navy blue suit, a crisp white shirt woven with fine blue lines, highly polished black shoes, and a small enameled pin of the U.S. flag in his lapel. He was clean-cut, with a closely shaved jaw and fair hair cut so short, his scalp showed through. His pale eyebrows and eyelashes were almost invisible. He had a squat nose and a small mouth that was fixed in an expressionless line. Everything about him was unremarkable, except for his eyes. These were deeply set and a clear, icy blue.
“The Crosses have arrived. T. Duke is completing some business and will be with you shortly.” His voice echoed in the large room. “The elevator is this way.” He gestured toward the far side of the building. He was wearing a large signet ring on his right hand. Affiliations seemed important to him.
“Can I go up the ramp?”
He seemed dismayed that she had suggested an alternative. “Of course.” He extended his hand in the direction of the carpeted ramp and waited for Iris to begin walking. Once she did, he followed a few paces behind.
She looked back at him as she walked on the plush blue carpet, finding his formality amusing. “Is Baines your first or last name?”
“I prefer to be known as just Baines.”
“Are you a bodyguard or something?”
“I’m T. Duke’s driver.”
“Just Baines is just the driver? You seem like a capable guy. I bet you do more for T. Duke than just drive.” She smiled broadly at him. It had no effect. “A man like T. Duke must have made a few enemies.”
“I drive, ma’am.”
“I bet you used to be a police officer. A Secret Service agent, maybe?”
“No, ma’am.”
Iris walked a few more steps and again turned. “You an Army man, Baines?”
“Marines, ma’am.”
She’d suspected that Baines would refuse to be misidentified.
“Look at this stuff!” Iris arrived at the first display case which was full of brightly painted porcelain miniatures of ladies’ shoes. There were fancy slippers, high-buttoned boots, and high heels, all daubed with gold paint. Three other cases contained more of the same.
Beyond the shoes were several cases of porcelain carriages, each with a driver holding reins of fine gauge chain, leading a team of porcelain horses. After that, there were cases of delicate china plates, cups, and saucers. Then there were teapots. Then dolls with fragile glass faces and real hair, dressed in period costumes. Then toby jugs of all sizes.
After that, came the Disney memorabilia. Dozens of Mickey Mouse figures crowded several cases. Also on display were Donald Duck, Goofy, Snow White, and so on. After that, there was Coca-Cola memorabilia, followed by case after case of Depression glassware, followed by cheerful cookie jars and salt shakers of the 1940s and 1950s. There were pillboxes, makeup compacts, and antique toys. It was an entire museum—too much to absorb.
Iris and Baines had walked up two stories in silence. She finally spoke. “Must be nice to be rich, huh?”
“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”
“This is a side of T. Duke I didn’t expect. Teapots and porcelain slippers. Very interesting.”
Baines didn’t respond.
They’d almost reached the top of the landing and the set of tall wood doors. As she went up, Iris trailed her hand against the steel railing that bounded the ramp, looked down at the antique cars three stories beneath them, and glanced at the examples of conspicuous consumption packed inside the display cases lining the walls.
“I understand why someone might want an Aladdin-style teapot manufactured by Hall for their collection,” Iris continued, playing it through. “I can even see owning one in each color they were made in, but buying every single one in existence is another game altogether. My impression is that T. Duke Sawyer isn’t content to have some of something, he has to have it all.”
There was silence behind her.
Iris didn’t really think he’d respond. To herself Iris considered how T. Duke’s acquisitiveness was reflected in his attitude regarding Pandora. Bridget had told her T. Duke had been extraordinarily intrusive in Pandora’s affairs, acting as if he owned much more than 20 percent of the firm. She’d confessed to Iris that she now regretted having taken USA Assets’ money—even though she’d never let Kip know that.
This meeting today was a courtesy call to inform T. Duke of Bridget’s plans to take Pandora public. Of course, she could take the firm public without Kip or T. Duke’s blessing. She owned 60 percent of the stock. Kip and USA Assets owned 20 percent each. Bridget expected T. Duke to support her plan. Why wouldn’t he? It meant a nice return on USA Assets’ money.
One of the double doors at the top of the stairs opened unexpectedly, startling Iris. Through it walked a tall, leggy, pretty woman with long, blonde hair. She was wearing a well-made pink suit that was suggestively short and snug; a hint of ample cleavage was visible between the lapels. Her makeup was model-perfect and dramatic for the middle of the day. Oddly, her lips were unadorned, without lipstick.
She walked in her high-heeled, do-me shoes to the wood-paneled elevator near the double doors, pressed the button, then turned to look at Iris and Baines. She slightly parted her lips, reached out her tongue, and touched the depression above her top lip. The gesture was frankly sexual. Her eyes were smug.
Iris glanced at Baines, who was still two paces behind her. His face remained immobile, but his eyes sparked.
The elevator doors opened. The woman got in, faced front and bit her bottom lip. The doors silently closed.
“T. Duke’s secretary?” Iris ventured, although she doubted the woman’s skills had anything to do with word processing.
He ignored her question and held open one of the double doors.
“Thank you for the tour.” Iris stepped through the doorway. “Tell me, what kind of a guy is T. Duke to work with?”
Baines’s eyes shone. “He’s an inspiration. It’s an honor to work for him.”
“I doubt Holly Free would have shared your opinion.”
Baines stared hard at her.
“You must know who Holly Free is.” Iris didn’t wait for a response. “I read all about her and T. Duke in a Business Week article I found on the Internet. About six years ago, T. Duke was having a little party in a Las Vegas hotel suite. Before the night was over, Ms. Free, who made her living as a prostitute, ended up flying off a seventeenth-floor balcony. She didn’t have a soft landing. T. Duke’s twenty-three-year-old son, Randall, was convicted of manslaughter.”
Baines voice was even but tinged with anger. “Randall Sawyer was a drug addict and alcoholic. He was stoned out of his mind that night. That girl made some comment he didn’t like and over she went.”
Iris continued, “Randall Sawyer later claimed he took the fall for his old man. He had a lot less to lose by the scandal than T. Duke did. Randall wasn’t expected to serve more than eighteen months at the most. Ended up serving five years.”
“Randall got all the time that was coming to him. His father was not about to help him get off scot-free.”
“People wondered whether Randall was T. Duke’s hired gun.”
“T. Duke Sawyer does not have hired guns.”
“You’re sure about that, Baines?”
“Positive.” He continued holding one of the heavy double doors open.
Iris looked at his lapel pin. It was then she noticed that instead of stars on a field of blue, there was this insignia: 1x1.
“T. Duke is one of the finest people I’ve ever met.”
“You’re not mad at me, are you, Baines?”
“No.”
“I wondered, because you stopped calling me ma’am.”
“No, ma’am.”