Foolproof (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 4) Read online

  Outside, the weather was fine. After the Santa Anas had subsided, the temperature had dropped to a comfortable seventy degrees. The sky was slightly hazy, but there was no hint of rain. The sun reflecting off the haze made the sky bright. Iris put on her sunglasses.

  Some people were getting into their cars to drive to the grave site, but many were walking up the steep hill. Iris walked along with the crowd, eavesdropping on conversations.

  “Terrible when a child dies before her parents,” an older woman said. “She was too young,” her companion agreed. Someone else said it was a tragedy. Another mourner blamed society. Platitudes all, and all of them true. Death was, after all, the most mundane event in the world.

  The high-pitched, nasal voice behind Iris grated like a needle scratching across a vinyl record album: “A priest decides to pay a visit to a nearby convent in a run-down neighborhood.”

  Iris glanced behind her, expecting to see Sam Eastman trailing along with T. Duke Sawyer, but instead saw T. Duke surrounded by Toni, Mick, and Today, who seemed enthralled with his story. Baines was walking a few paces behind with his hands behind his back. Iris looked around for Sam Eastman and didn’t see him.

  T. Duke went on. “As the priest walks down the street, several prostitutes approach and proposition him, shouting, ‘Twenty bucks a trick! Twenty bucks a trick!’ He’s a young priest from the country—wet behind the ears—and these solicitations embarrass him. He lowers his head and hurries on until he gets to the convent. Once inside, he asks the mother superior, ‘What is a trick?’ She answers, ‘Twenty bucks, son, just like on the street.’”

  The group laughed. Iris was annoyed. She wondered why Mick, Toni, and Today were laughing so heartily, almost as if they were trying to impress T. Duke. It occurred to her that it was the same way one would attempt to impress a boss. She was still scowling when T. Duke pulled her into the group.

  “There’s the lady of the hour. Maybe she’ll tell us her plans for Pandora.”

  Iris slowed her pace to match his. “I have some ideas, but I want to formalize them before I make an announcement.” In reality, she knew exactly what she was going to do, but refused to be nailed on the spur of the moment by T. Duke Sawyer. She would pick her time and place.

  T. Duke sucked air through his teeth. “Uh-huh. I imagine a smart girl like you would have some ideas.”

  Iris gritted her teeth, but let the patronizing comment go.

  He nodded slowly as if digesting the information. “We-ell”—he added a Texas twang to the end of the word—“you might like to have some information that’ll help you formalize your ideas.” He deliberately parroted her words. “Toni, Mick, and Today are quite interested in my plan to purchase Pandora. You may recall the offer I made Kip and Bridget the other day.”

  Iris thought, yeah, the one they dismissed because it was too low and required them to relinquish control over the company they had built from nothing.

  The sunlight’s harsh glare made T. Duke’s exaggerated features look grotesque. It occurred to Iris that even candlelight wouldn’t help his mug. He stopped walking and so did everyone else, as if on command.

  Iris begrudgingly stopped as well.

  “The offer’s still on the table, with a few modifications, naturally, due to the recent unfortunate events.”

  Baines stood next to Iris. He seemed as solid as one of the cemetery’s oaks. “I’d love to discuss it with you, T. Duke.”

  “How about tomorrow? I’ll stop by your office at ten.”

  Baines’s chest was even with Iris’s eyes. “I’ll look forward to it.” She smiled at the group. When she turned to include Baines, she spotted his unique lapel pin with its red and white stripes, like the U.S. flag, and the tiny 1x1 on a blue background in the corner.

  “Look,” Toni said. “There are those two detectives.”

  Iris turned to see Stubbs and Ortiz unlocking the doors of a dark-colored sedan. She excused herself and quickly walked to catch them. “Detective Stubbs, Ortiz… Excuse me for bothering you. I’m Iris Thorne, Bridget Cross’s friend.”

  “Sure,” Ortiz nodded. “We know who you are.”

  The detectives patiently stood and waited for Iris to tell them what she wanted.

  “I’m told you took possession of a file of letters and faxes sent to Bridget Cross from various individuals and groups who are critical of Pandora. Have you looked through it? Was there anything pertinent to the case?”

  “I read it,” Detective Stubbs said. The bright sunlight highlighted the deep pores of her skin. “The people at Pandora can have it back. I didn’t see anything of interest.”

  Iris said, “I was told that some of the letters were pretty strong.”

  “Some were,” Stubbs said. “But there wasn’t anything worth following up on.”

  “You’re aware that Kip Cross believes he was framed for his wife’s murder.” Iris looked from one detective to the other.

  Ortiz impatiently drummed his fingernails on the hood of the car.

  “Yes, ma’am, we are,” Stubbs said, unsmiling.

  “According to Brianna Cross, the murderer was wearing a Slade Slayer full-head mask.”

  “And Kip Cross couldn’t have done that?” Stubbs asked.

  “Why would he?”

  “You don’t know why a criminal would wear a disguise?” Stubbs exchanged a smirk with Ortiz.

  Iris persisted. “After taking care to disguise his face, why would Kip leave bloody footprints in the type and size of shoe he’s known to wear?” She exhaled with frustration. “What about Alexa Platt’s murder? Have you considered that there might be a connection?”

  “There’s an obvious connection. Both women knew Kip Cross.”

  “Look, Kip’s attorney, Tommy Preston, thinks that with Brianna Cross’s eyewitness testimony, the D.A. may let Kip go tomorrow because of lack of evidence. If that’s the case, someone else murdered Bridget.”

  Stubbs listened with a disbelieving look on her face. “That’s what Preston said, huh?” She jabbed a well-chewed fingernail in Iris’s direction. “Kip Cross and only Kip Cross murdered Bridget Cross. If the D.A. doesn’t prosecute, it’s for one reason only—he’d rather take a dive than risk losing another high-profile case. L.A. is getting a reputation for being an excellent place for wealthy, powerful men to murder their wives and get away with it.”

  “But what if Kip didn’t murder his wife? Doesn’t their daughter have a right to know the truth?”

  “I’m sorry about the child, but it is what it is. Good afternoon.” Stubbs got in the car’s driver seat and Ortiz climbed in the passenger side.

  Iris again started walking up the hill. She reached the grave site, which was on the crest in the shade of a tall oak tree. People were quietly standing, waiting for the hearse to arrive followed by the limousines carrying the family. When the cars were spotted leaving the chapel parking lot, everyone watched them slowly wend their way up the hill and park one behind the other by the curb.

  Out of one limousine exited Natalie and Joe Tyler, followed by two of their sons and their wives. Out of another came the third son, his wife, and Bridget’s grandmother.

  The crowd grew hushed as Kip Cross exited the last limousine, accompanied by two police officers.

  T. Duke said, “Good Lord have mercy.”

  Today moaned, “Ooh la la. Kip Cross the man.”

  Toni gasped, “I don’t believe it. How dare he!”

  Iris turned to see Summer Fontaine on Kip’s arm, wearing a short, tight, low-cut, black dress that provided a tantalizing view of her gravity-defying breasts.

  Photographers called, “Summer! Over here! Summer!”

  Kip refused to be photographed and pulled the side of his jacket up to cover his face. Summer wiped a tear from her cheek with a black-gloved hand and gazed at the cameras. Her expression was mournful but her eyes gleamed.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “It was cut up to here, down to there, and her tits were somewhere o
ut in Orange County. It was un-freaking-believable.”

  Iris and Liz stepped closer to the counter as the line at Jammin’ Juice moved through.

  “She’s certainly enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame,” Liz commented. Her short and tight white suit was decorated with silver grommets and appliqués that would have been fitting for Elvis at Vegas. “I tape some of the talk shows and soaps so I can watch them when I get home, and Summer Fontaine is everywhere. This week alone she was on Sally Jessy Raphael and Geraldo.”

  “What does she talk about?”

  “Nothing! I think people just want to look at her. She loves talking about all the plastic surgery she’s had to make her look more like Pamela Anderson. Then the before and after shots go up and…” Liz shivered.

  Iris studied the extensive menu on a wall of the colorfully appointed shop that was in the lobby of McKinney Alitzer’s office building. “What to have? Peach Pleasure or Citrus Ecstasy. Hmmm… The Powersurge looks good.”

  Behind the counter, a young man wearing a cotton handkerchief tied pirate-style around his head and assorted rings and studs through his eyebrow, cheek, and circling each ear fired off customer orders to a row of smoothie technicians behind him who were manning an army of blenders.

  Liz jutted her hand in front of Iris as if to stop her from stepping in front of a speeding car. “Don’t, hon. The Powersurge kept me up all night.”

  “Anyway, the funeral was awful, for more than just the usual reasons,” Iris said. “There was Sam-I-Am having a tête-à-tête with T. Duke, Pandora’s people tagging after T. Duke like homesick puppies, Baines glowering at me like he wanted to slit my throat, Summer Fontaine acting like the headliner at a totally nude club, and the police patiently listening to me like I was some kid who’d lost her mommy in the supermarket. At least they said they’d return that file of letters. I think there’s a whole dimension to Bridget’s murder that the cops are ignoring. I’d love to talk to Alexa Platt’s husband, but he won’t return my phone calls even though I told his secretary that Alexa and I were friends.”

  “Ozzie knows him. He can set you up.”

  “Ozzie?”

  “Hon, Jim Platt is Ozzie’s client. Besides, Ozzie knows everyone in Hollywood. But beware. I’ve heard Jim Platt is a self-important prick. He went from working behind the counter in a video store to being the hottest director in town and he doesn’t wear his fame gracefully.”

  Liz placed her order. “I’ll have a Purple Rain with bee pollen, one hit of oat bran, two of protein powder, a dash of wheat grass, and hold the fro-yo.” She turned to Iris. “I’ll get Ozzie to set you up with him.” She hurriedly turned back to the counterman and blurted, “Are the carrots organic?”

  “Of course,” he said with the attitude of a top chef being quizzed about the freshness of his fish du jour.

  Liz breathed a sigh of relief.

  Iris ordered next. “I’ll have two parts cranberry juice, one part kiwi, a splash of orange, a few strawberries, a glop of nonfat fro-yo and a hit of protein powder.”

  “Which one is that?” Liz asked as she searched for Iris’s concoction on the menu.

  “I call it the Ice Princess. It’s off the menu.”

  “Oh, Iris. You are so L.A.”

  Iris brought the smoothie back to her office, first peering into the cubicle of Rick, the broker whose Slade Slayer game had scared Brianna. Today, his computer monitor sedately displayed stock quotes.

  “Hey,” Rick called after her. “Suckers Finish Last—how do you win? I’ve played lots of games and I know all the tricks, but I can’t figure this one out. Think you could get Kip Cross to give me a hint?”

  “I don’t think so. He won’t even tell the staff at Pandora.”

  “The buzz among my friends is that if you can figure out how to win Suckers Finish Last, you’ll find out who murdered Bridget Cross.”

  “Does the fact that the game might have been played out in real life make it more interesting?”

  “Heck, yeah. My friends are buying it like crazy.”

  “Do your friends think Kip murdered his wife?”

  “Sure. But it only makes playing the final level more tantalizing. It’s sort of like, what was in Kip’s mind when he was designing this?”

  Iris returned to her office, waving at Louise as she passed. She leaned back into her soft leather chair and drew the last of the smoothie through the straw, letting it make a rude noise. Toni had told her that Suckers Finish Last was selling beyond their wildest expectations, possibly resulting from the hook with a real-life murder. Maybe T. Duke was right. Maybe virtual violence had spilled over into the real world.

  She lobbed the empty plastic cup into a wastebasket, picked up the telephone, and dialed the research department.

  “Hi, Darcy. Iris Thorne. Look, when you have a second, could you please dig up any information you can on 3-D Dimensions? It’s a computer-games company that was started by a guy named Harry Hagopian. I believe it was privately held before being bought out by the Sawyer Company, maybe last year or the year before. Hagopian died last year in a car crash—a solo spinout—on the Fifteen going through the Mojave Desert. See what you can find on that. Also dig up anything you can on a venture capital firm called USA Assets. The firms they invested in, what happened to the firms afterward, the principal players, and so on. Thanks so much.”

  She ended the call and dialed another number. The phone on Louise’s desk just outside her door began ringing.

  “Hi,” Iris said, not identifying herself, knowing the display on Louise’s phone would show who was calling. “Any progress with the P.R. firm?”

  “You have a meeting with Pat Delaney of Johnson Delaney today at three. I told them you wanted to boost Pandora’s image in an effort to interest venture capital firms.”

  “Right. I need to get Pandora ready for the livestock auction.”

  “Livestock?”

  “Venture capitalists examine companies they’re thinking of investing in like they would check the teeth and hide of a steer before they buy. I need a good public relations campaign to salvage Pandora’s reputation, get the VCs interested, and also get the market excited. Any enthusiasm I can drum up about Pandora will have a significant impact on the IPO’s opening price.”

  “You’re going to follow through with taking Pandora public?”

  “That’s what Bridget wanted.”

  “People have suggested that’s why Kip murdered her. Kip says that’s why T. Duke Sawyer murdered her. Are you certain you want to put yourself in jeopardy like that?”

  “I’ve been entrusted with Brianna Cross’s financial future. That’s my primary concern right now.”

  “You’re going to have an opportunity to see how that flies with one of Pandora’s other shareholders. I see T. Duke Sawyer in the lobby. He’s with a big young man.”

  “That’s his goon, Baines. Louise, take a good look at Baines’s lapel pin, if you can. Tell me if it means anything to you.”

  “Will do. Are you ready for them?”

  “I’ve had my protein-spiked smoothie. Bring on the Lone Ranger and Tonto.”

  While Louise retrieved T. Duke Sawyer and Baines, Iris freshened her lipstick and pulled a brush through her hair, which she immediately regretted. A lot of static electricity was in the air and the brush made her hair pop and wildly fly around. She tried to pat it in place, then quickly affected a calm pose when Louise led T. Duke and Baines into her office.

  “So nice to see you under happier circumstances,” Iris lied.

  T. Duke firmly shook Iris’s hand. “Same here.”

  Baines squeezed her hand so tightly Iris had to stop herself from wincing.

  Louise inquired whether anyone would like a beverage. As she did so, she took a close look at Baines’s lapel pin. “That’s an interesting pin. Is that from some sort of a club or something?”

  Why didn’t I think of just asking about it? Iris thought to herself.

  “Yes, ma’am.” B
aines didn’t elaborate.

  Louise looked over the top of her half-glasses at the pin. “One times one?”

  Baines corrected her. “One by one.”

  “What kind of a club has that as a slogan?” Louise asked guilelessly.

  “Forgive me, kind lady, for butting in,” T. Duke interjected, his beady eyes animated, “but we’ve got a lot to go over with Miss Thorne before we leave.”

  Baines almost overwhelmed the Queen Anne chair where he was sitting. His back was ramrod straight, his face expressionless.

  T. Duke plucked at the knees of his pants before sitting in the matching chair. “Let’s get down to business. As much as I enjoy your company, Iris, business is what we came for.” He smiled, his gash of a mouth rising higher on one side.

  Iris suspected he was trying to look jaunty but it only made him resemble a rat in Boy Scout’s clothing.

  “Before we get started, I must say you’re looking lovely today.”

  Iris smiled. “Thank you.” To herself she added, You condescending SOB.

  T. Duke held his spread hands up as if he were beginning a sermon at a pulpit. “So where goes Pandora and where goes Iris Thorne?”

  Iris loosely folded her hands on her desk. “Pandora goes public. Iris Thorne takes it there.”

  T. Duke had begun vigorously shaking his head before Iris had finished her short response. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you’re a day late and a dollar short on a Pandora IPO. The market for initial public offerings has cooled. That’s exactly what I told Bridget Cross last week, poor woman. Plus Pandora’s tainted goods now.”

  “I agree the market’s cooled, but it hasn’t gone cold. It may be cold for some firms who are overvalued and don’t have a track record of profitability, but that’s not Pandora’s case. Suckers Finish Last is outselling even the most optimistic projections. We can learn something from other high-tech IPOs. Yahoo! raised thirty-five million with theirs. InfoSeek raised forty-two million. Lycos pulled in forty-eight million. Pandora may not raise as much as that, but the ducks are still quacking. The wisdom on the street is, when the ducks are quacking, feed them.”