“Agent Cauble, what have you got?” Weems asked a dark-haired female agent wearing a navy blue pantsuit who approached him in the hotel lobby.
“Rooms three thirty-one and three thirty-three are registered to Enrico Lazare.” They both starting walking toward the elevator. Iris followed.
The staff and patrons of the hotel were already alarmed by the events at Greentree Restaurant—many faces were pressed against the lobby windows—before Weems arrived in his bloody clothes. People whispered among themselves and kept their distance.
“Son of a bitch,” Weems spat. He punched the elevator call button and paced back and forth, his hands on his hips.
Cauble continued filling him in on what she had found out. “Lazare registered last night around nine. The front desk clerk who signed him in is due to start work in half an hour. Hopefully we’ll get some information from her. We haven’t found anyone who saw a man entering those rooms or who can describe Lazare.”
“What about the garage? Anyone leave in the last half hour?”
The elevator doors opened and Iris barely slipped in behind them before the doors closed. They didn’t seem to notice that she was there.
“We’re checking it out now,” Cauble responded.
“How did Lazare pay?” Weems asked.
“Cash. Each room was three hundred dollars a night for two nights.”
“Lazare paid in cash yet he registered in his own name,” Weems said. “Strange. Like he didn’t want us to trace him but he wanted us to know he was here.”
The doors opened on the third floor and Weems barreled out into the corridor. The doors to rooms 331 and 333 were open. They entered 331.
The room looked undisturbed. The bathroom soap was still wrapped, the bed was unwrinkled, the drapes were closed, and the air was stale and warm.
Weems stomped through an open door that adjoined the next room. Iris and Cauble followed.
This room had been occupied. The bedspread was creased. The bathroom had been used. The drapes and the sliding glass door to the terrace were open. On a desk near the terrace were a half-empty jar of macadamia nuts and an empty miniature bottle of Absolut vodka from the mini bar. Ice was melting in a glass and in a plastic ice bucket printed with the hotel’s logo.
Weems ordered, “Don’t touch anything.”
Although the command was general, Iris suspected it was directed at her.
“Cauble, get someone up here to fingerprint these rooms.” Weems roamed around like a dog marking new territory.
Cauble took out a cell phone and punched in numbers.
Weems walked onto the terrace, his hands still on his hips. His shoulders rose and fell as he sighed deeply. “Iris,” he said without turning. “Is this where you saw the mystery man?”
“I believe so.” Iris caught sight of herself in a mirror over the dresser and remembered that she was still wearing the wig. She hooked her fingers under the cap near her forehead, peeled it off, and started pulling out hair pins, dropping them into a wastebasket.
Cauble ended her call and said to Weems, “They found out from Melba how the deal was supposed to go down. Palmer told him to go to the front desk at seven-thirty and ask if there was a message for him, Melba. He picked up an envelope with the key to room three thirty-one. That’s where the fox was going to be left.”
Weems crumpled a stick of Juicy Fruit chewing gum into his mouth. He held his hands in front of him, looking at Fernando Peru’s drying blood. “Keep talking. I’m going into the other room to wash up.”
Cauble moved to the doorway that joined the two rooms. “Then Palmer told him to disappear until eight o’clock sharp when he was to walk north on Raymond Avenue to Greentree. Before he reached the restaurant door, he was to look across the street at the hotel. Lazare would be standing on a third-floor terrace and give him a thumbs-up if the deal was good and a thumbs-down if it wasn’t.”
“What do you mean, ‘if it wasn’t?’” Weems came into the room again. His hair looked damp and freshly combed.
“If something was wrong. If he saw the thumbs-down, he was to get out of there fast and go back to San Francisco and wait for Palmer to call. If it was a thumbs-up, he was to go in the restaurant, verify the money was good, and give Margo Hill the key to room three thirty-one. Her associate, Vinson, would go to the room and make sure the fox was there and then he’d call her at the restaurant. Then Melba would take the case of money and drive to the L.A. Airport, parking structure four, top level, and wait there for someone to pick it up.” Cauble made a noise of dismay. “Something got really fucked up.”
“Thumbs down. What spooked Lazare?” Weems gave Iris a piercing look, his jaw noisily working the gum.
Iris started to set the wig on the dresser when Cauble took it from her. She scratched her scalp with both hands and combed her hair with her fingers.
Just then, a male FBI agent entered the room with a young Asian woman. She was wearing a hotel uniform of a red blazer and black slacks. A brass name tag was pinned to her lapel. She was clearly unnerved.
The agent introduced her. “This is Jeannie Cho. She registered these two rooms yesterday evening to Enrico Lazare.” He handed Weems a hotel ledger card that bore Lazare’s signature.
“Miss Cho,” Weems asked gently. “What do you remember about Mr. Lazare?”
She held her hands by her sides, trying to maintain a calm, professional demeanor. “He was tall. I’d say around six feet. Clean-shaven. I couldn’t see much of his hair because he was wearing a ball cap, but it was dark brown. He had on sunglasses.” She tried to avoid looking at Weems’s bloody clothing and focused on his face.
“Did he speak with an accent?”
“Yes. It was hard to tell what, maybe French. Something European. He didn’t say much. He wanted the two adjacent rooms for the night. I tried to chat with him about the weather and such but he didn’t seem to want to talk so I dropped it.”
“Was there a logo on the ball cap?” Weems asked. “Was it a team cap?”
She frowned as she searched her memory. “Lakers. That’s right. I asked if he’d seen the game last night. He said it was great.”
“In a French accent, he said it was great.”
She nodded.
“Show her that photo of Lazare.”
The desk clerk looked carefully at the fuzzy photo Cauble handed her of Lazare taken at the wedding. She shrugged. “It could be him. I can’t really tell.”
Weems smoothed his crew cut with his hands as he walked across the room. “Thank you, Miss Cho.” He was again looking out the open sliding glass door that led to the terrace.
Jeannie Cho tentatively looked at the other agents in the room while stepping backward toward the door. When she reached the doorway, she turned and quickly left.
“What about the garage?” Cauble asked the other agent.
“Haven’t found anything—”
“A frog who likes basketball?” Weems interrupted, turning from the terrace. “I think our buddy Lazare is just pretending to be French.”
“What spooked him?” Cauble asked. “Maybe he recognized one of the agents. Maybe he saw Peru.”
Walking again onto the terrace, Weems leaned against the railing and peered at the restaurant across the street. “But Peru came in the back, through the kitchen. Melba had already left before Peru entered the dining room.” He faced the room, resting against the railing, and studied Iris.
“Of course it was me,” Iris said. “If Dean Palmer was in this room, that wig wouldn’t have fooled him. Once he saw it was me, he knew something was up. I warned you about that, but you—”
“Why are you two standing around?” Weems flicked his hand in the direction of the two agents there. “Find out where that fingerprint guy is, check on Peru’s status, and see about the local cops.”
Soon, Weems and Iris were alone. She stood with her hands clasped behind her back. He again leaned against the terrace railing, chewing the stick of gum. “Palmer isn’t in L.A. He’s in San Francisco. Agents have been tailing him for two weeks.”
Iris frowned.
“Lazare wasn’t spooked because he recognized our agents. He recognized you.”
She hiked a shoulder.
Weems went on. “You know Lazare. Why are you holding back on me, Iris?”
“Bullshit,” Iris spat. “If that’s what happened, maybe Palmer or Todd Fillinger showed him a picture of me. I’ve never seen Enrico Lazare. I’ve been one hundred percent honest with you from the get-go. You, on the other hand, have lied to me from day one.”
“Don’t tell me you’re sore about Fernando Peru? I told you I had an informant.”
“Fernando told you everything that Winslow and I talked about at the Peninsula Hotel, didn’t he? That’s how you found out what happened. You sent Fernando to my house that night. You sensed I was wavering in helping you to buy the fox, so you told him to come over and pour it on about how much Todd Fillinger loved me, to punch my guilt buttons about poor Todd, didn’t you?”
“Just doing my job, Iris. Aren’t you being just a tad emotional about the whole thing?” He smugly held his arms open. “After all, we both have the same goal here.”
“You manipulated Rita Winslow. You knew she was insanely jealous of Fernando. You led her on, told Fernando to suggest that maybe he was double-crossing her after all, hoping she’d crack. You played her, just like you played me, and it unfolded just the way you wanted it to. She gave you a reason to take her out. Finally you got revenge for Buenos Aires and Greg Kelly.”
Weems blinked.
Now Iris became smug. “Rita Winslow paid me a little visit earlier today and told me some things about you, Roger.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me, huh?” she shouted. “Winslow is dead and Fernando is shot full of holes because of you.”
“You’re not going to shed any tears over that squirrelly old Winslow bird, are you?”
“I bet you’re not going to shed any tears about Fernando Peru either. Used him up and threw him away.”
Weems eyes narrowed. “Fernando was not supposed to get hurt. He’s a good man. He’ll pull through this, and after he’ll head for Miami where he has a girlfriend and a little girl. They’re what made him decide to turn on Winslow. She was a lunatic when it came to him. He’d tried to leave her before, and she’d stalked him all over the world. He was afraid for his woman and child. I’m very sorry about Fernando Peru, but he’ll make it and he’ll finally be free of that lunatic Rita Winslow.” He gingerly touched the dried blood on his clothes. “I’m not as callous as you think I am, Iris.”
She leaned against the desk and absently picked up a paper cocktail napkin that had been folded into accordion pleats. She stared at the cocktail napkin, turning it in her hand.
Turning to face the street, Weems said, “The fox is still out there.”
Glancing out the window at Weems, she pressed the folds of the napkin back into place and slipped it inside a pocket of her jeans.
Weems came back inside the room. “Lazare and Palmer will still try to unload the fox. If they’re smart, they’ll wait things to cool down, but I think they’re more greedy than smart.”
Iris looked at the cocktail glass on the desk.
Don Vinson entered the room, his face grave. “Roger, Fernando didn’t make it.”
Weems pressed his lips together and nodded. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll catch you later.”
After Vinson left, Weems rubbed his hands over his face, leaving them there for a long time. When he finally pulled them away, Iris was looking at him with disdain.
“Iris, I need you more than ever. You can draw Lazare out. Tell him Todd gave you information.”
She watched him dispassionately.
“We can get the fox and Todd’s murderer.”
Quickly unbuttoning her blouse, she pulled it off, ripped open the Velcro fasteners on the Kevlar vest, shrugged it off and flung it on the bed as hard as she could. She yanked off the adhesive tape that fastened the listening device to her, bundled the device in her hand and threw it, missing the bed and hitting the floor. She buttoned her blouse again, not bothering to tuck it in.
As she headed out of the room, Weems grabbed her arm. “Iris please, I need you. Do it for Fernando.”
She jerked away. “Screw you.”
She had reached the sidewalk before she realized she didn’t have a ride home and that her purse was in Weems’s office. Standing in the street arguing with a Pasadena police officer who was trying to keep him from the scene was Garland. Iris couldn’t remember ever being so glad to see someone in her entire life. She ran and leaped on him. He twirled her around.
“They reported the shooting on the news and said a woman had been killed. I was so worried, Iris.”
“It was Rita Winslow.”
“My Lord.”
“Fernando’s dead too. The fox is still missing. But I’m all right.” She repeated it as if to convince herself. “I’m all right.”