Pushover (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 5) Page 6

  He dispassionately watched her with two fingers pressed against his lips.

  She stood in the center of the room. “What happened here?”

  “Curious,” he said finally. Without uncrossing his legs, he reached under the corner of the mahogany desk.

  Within seconds, there was a quick rapping on the door; the fresh-faced young man opened it.

  Markov gazed out the window, his head turned away from Iris as if he were deep in thought. After a moment, he returned his attention to her. “Yuri will show you out.” He stood and extended his hand. “Thank you for your visit, Miss Thorne. It has been very enlightening.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Iris sat in the Metropolis Hotel’s posh bar, nursing her second vodka tonic and eating salted pistachios. She wanted to get rip-roaring drunk, to blow herself into a fuzzy fog, but with the way things were unfolding in Moscow, she didn’t dare. She was homesick for a glass of California Chardonnay, which she would sip while sitting in her backyard in her Adirondack chair, gazing at the Pacific Ocean that changed its colors like a mood ring.

  A German businessman in a group at a nearby table kept shooting glances at her, the stares lingering longer the drunker he became. She’d turned down their offer to join them, but this man seemed to think that her refusal didn’t really mean no. Several Korean businessmen were looking her way as well, despite her denim and hiking boots and limp hair, flattened by the dampness in the air. She was the only woman in the bar who was not accompanied by a man. The other women there—waif-like things in expensive furs and trashy dresses—were on the arms of men. She looked out the window at where Todd had fallen and counted the hours until Garland was to arrive.

  He was flying in the next afternoon. He’d been on the phone to everyone, pulling every string he had to spring her and promised that he’d have the situation resolved by the end of the week.

  She felt oddly calm about the whole thing. Garland was involved now and he’d take care of it. It had taken her a while to shrug off the desire to micro-manage everything in her life. But once she’d learned to trust him, she’d found it was easier when two shared the burden. Garland was coming to Moscow, and he would take care of things.

  She was more preoccupied with the question of Todd and what had happened to him. She thought about herself and the dippy period of her life when she’d almost married a man she hardly knew. She had wanted Todd so badly that she’d fooled herself into thinking that they didn’t need to know each other longer. They were soul mates, kindred spirits who already understood each other on a deeper, more profound level, making the details trivial. It seemed silly now. Much had changed for her in five years. She’d changed. Todd hadn’t. He was still running, searching. They had intersected at a point where she had been running too. She could have told him what she was thinking. It would have been the decent thing to do. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve any of it.

  She downed the last of her drink and raised her glass in the direction of the waiter. He nodded at her. She dragged her finger through the salty residue left by the pistachios and licked it off to the undisguised salacious interest of the German. She was tipsy enough not to care.

  She was relieved to see the group of German men start to leave. Her fan lingered, weaving on his feet, his features lax from too much alcohol. The booze had also laid bare any façade that might have disguised his true motives. Iris scowled at the table top, avoiding eye contact. His friends pulled his arm and managed to drag him away. She relaxed.

  The waiter brought her drink. “Were you able to find my cigarettes?” she asked.

  “Sorry, no. When the hotel tobacco shop didn’t have them, they called a bigger store. No one has heard of this brand, True.”

  “I guess low tar and nicotine cigarettes are not popular in Moscow.”

  He smiled. “No, they are not.”

  “Can I order a sandwich that I can take to my room?”

  “Certainly. I’ll have something prepared for you.”

  She examined the bill and slowly calculated a hefty tip for him, not fast with numbers even when she was clear-headed. The waiter spoke to someone who approached the table. When she finished settling her tab, she looked up to see the double chins and barrel chest of Detective Davidovsky. The waiter picked up the check and quickly exited.

  “Detective Davidovsky,” Iris said. “What a surprise.”

  He flipped her passport onto the table in front of her. “Thank you for your cooperation in the Todd Fillinger murder investigation. We have all the information we need from you. You’re free to leave Russia.”

  Iris opened her passport to her grinning photo. She repeated his message to make sure she’d heard correctly. “I can go home?”

  “Yes, you are going home.” He stood with his hands straight by his sides.

  “Oh.” She slipped the passport into her backpack on the banquette next to her. “Great. Well, I guess I can finally enjoy my visit to Moscow.”

  “There’s a direct flight to Los Angeles leaving in four hours.”

  “My boyfriend’s arriving tomorrow. Now that everything’s resolved, I’d like to see some of the sights.”

  Davidovsky said more pointedly, “You are leaving for Los Angeles in four hours. I will wait while you gather your belongings and escort you to the airport.”

  Iris rose behind the table, with a foot on the floor and her knee on the banquette. “Wait a minute. First you won’t let me leave. Now you won’t let me stay. What gives?”

  “You’re interfering in a murder investigation.”

  “Interfering? Because I tried to see Nikolai Kosyakov? Because I found out that someone was shot in his office?”

  “I’ll wait in the lobby while you pack your things. You have half an hour.”

  Iris slid from the booth, hooking the strap of her backpack over her shoulder. “Fine. No problem. But I’m not leaving until I get Todd Fillinger’s remains.”

  “Remains?”

  “His ashes. I’m taking them to his sister. Is that all right? Dean Palmer is making the arrangements. You’ll have to ask him when they’ll be ready.”

  Without a word, Davidovsky walked to the bar and gestured for a telephone, which was promptly set in front of him. He watched Iris as he made a call.

  Before long, he returned to her. “Dean Palmer will meet us at the airport with the urn.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After the airplane had crossed the desert, greater Los Angeles leapt from the darkness like a bogeyman from underneath a child’s bed. The lights upon endless lights brought tears to Iris’s eyes. It was her hometown. As the plane made its descent into LAX, she took in the landscape of houses, backyards, and dots of blue from swimming pools illuminated in the night. Separate lives, tiny stakes in this arid landscape, cobbled together by a web of streets and freeways, powered by gasoline, tire rubber, and dreams. Land’s end. Making it here wasn’t a guarantee of making it anywhere else, but few care.

  It was 10:00 p.m. when Iris, gritty-eyed, climbed off the plane and walked through an almost deserted terminal. She’d carried the urn on the plane with her to ensure there was no luggage screw-up. It was taped inside a tall, corrugated cardboard box and was heavy. She held it cradled in one arm. In her backpack, she’d folded the brief articles about Todd’s murder that she’d found in Moscow’s two English-language newspapers. Neither of them said much nor mentioned her name, for which she was grateful.

  She’d asked the Russian businessman sitting next to her on the plane whether there was any mention of the murder in the Russian newspaper he was reading. He found a small piece about it which he read to her. The article said that Todd had been waiting on the steps of the Metropolis Hotel for an American friend, but no name was given. Good. All she wanted to do was put the incident behind her.

  She had suspected she’d have some trouble getting through customs with the urn. She was escorted out of line and sent to a small, glass-walled office where an African-American man in a
brown uniform asked her to remove the urn from the box.

  As Iris opened the box, she tried to explain, sensing she was being somewhat incoherent. She’d slept little on the plane and her body clock was haywire. “A friend of mine was murdered when I was in Moscow. I’m taking his ashes, which are in the urn, to his sister, Tracy. His name was Todd. Todd Fillinger. Tracy, the sister, lives in Bakersfield.” Her sentences were short and simple. It was the best she could manage.

  The customs agent helped Iris pull the urn from the box. “Huh,” Iris said with surprise when she saw it. It was antique brass and gently curved with a round lid and a broad base. “This is really nice.”

  The officer soberly looked at her. “Haven’t you seen it before?” He held the urn under a high-intensity lamp on the table and slowly turned it.

  “No. A consul officer from the U.S. Embassy in Moscow told me that the embassy was going to purchase an urn.”

  He pulled a pair of latex gloves from a box and put them on.

  She winced as he opened the urn. “He said it was the least they could do for the family.”

  “They find out who murdered your friend?”

  Iris coiled her lips with disgust as she watched the officer probe the ashes with a metal rod. Soft gray material clung to the rod and the light caught the particles that were released into the air. She tried to breathe shallowly, fearing she’d inhale them. “No. It was a Mafia hit. He refused to pay the Mob protection money.”

  The officer tapped the urn all over with the rod. “You never saw this urn empty?”

  “That’s correct. You can call the Embassy in Moscow. The consular officer’s name is Dean Palmer.”

  He pressed the lid back on the top then picked up the urn between both hands. “Wait here.” He left the windowed booth, closing the door behind him.

  Iris rested her elbows on her knees and her head between her hands. “Am I ever going to get home?” Her stomach loudly rumbled with hunger. “Am I ever going to have a decent meal again?”

  After several minutes, the officer returned with the urn. He slid it back into the cardboard box and refastened the tabs of tape.

  “Did you dump it out?” Iris asked.

  “X-rayed it.” He handed her the box. “Let me give you a tip. Never accept a package from a stranger and never take such a package on an aircraft.”

  “Never again. On my word.”

  “Welcome to Los Angeles.”

  Iris loaded her suitcase, the box containing the urn, and the portfolio with Todd’s photography onto a luggage cart and headed for the exit. A small group of people was waiting for the arriving passengers just beyond the glass doors separating the customs clearance area. Iris wove past them, her eyes focused on the doors that led outside, when a woman holding a hand-written sign caught her eye. On the square cardboard in block letters was IRIS THORNE. For a moment, Iris thought that Garland might have ordered a limousine for her which didn’t make sense because he knew she’d driven her car to the airport.

  The woman, wearing a V-necked T-shirt printed with the L.A. Clippers logo and cut-off jeans that dangled loose threads of fabric from the unfinished edges, wasn’t dressed like a limo driver. Her streaked blond hair was combed into a high ponytail which was held by a bright yellow scrunchie on the crown of her head. She scurried over when she saw Iris peering at her.

  “Iris Thorne?” she asked, holding the sign higher between both hands.

  “I’m Iris Thorne.”

  “I’m so glad I didn’t miss you. I waited and waited. Oh, I’m Tracy Fillinger, Todd’s sister.” The woman’s eyes and nose were red as if she’d been crying.

  “Tracy? Well, hi. What a surprise. I, ah…How…?”

  “Dean Palmer told me the flight you were on and I thought I’d meet you and save you the trip to Bakersfield.”

  “That’s very nice. You didn’t have to that. It wouldn’t have been any trouble for me to drive to Bakersfield.”

  “I wanted to. You’ve already done so much for Todd. I can’t thank you…” She pulled a crumpled wad of tissues from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.

  “It must have been a terrible shock for you.” Iris patted her bony shoulder. She was very thin.

  “It hasn’t really sunk in yet.” She sniffed and looked at Iris’s luggage on the cart. “I don’t want to keep you. You must have had a long day.” She pointed to the rectangular box. “Is that the urn?”

  “Yes. Look, I have some things of Todd’s that I took from his apartment. Would you like to have a cup of coffee or something? I have a letter he was writing you before he—”

  “I’d like to, but I have kids at home. The neighbor’s staying with them. If I could just take the urn.”

  Iris squatted to pick up the urn and warned Tracy as she handed it to her, “It’s heavy.”

  Tracy held it like a baby against her shoulder. “Wow, it is heavy. Thanks again.” She quickly turned to leave.

  “I’ll call you about these other things of Todd’s.”

  “Sure, yeah,” Tracy said over her shoulder.

  “Wait!” Iris fumbled in her purse and found Todd’s watch wrapped in a tissue. “This belonged to Todd.”

  Tracy slowly returned. Her eyes brightened when she saw the timepiece. “Thanks.” She plucked it from Iris’s hand and again sped toward the exit.

  Iris watched her push through the outside doors and disappear down the sidewalk. She realized she was unconsciously twisting the class ring she was wearing, the one that Dean Palmer had managed to retrieve from Todd’s corpse.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Iris was asleep in her own bed in her own house in Casa Marina, a small community spread across tall hills next to the ocean, just north of Santa Monica. The 1920s bungalow, painted yellow with white trim, was tiny, with two bedrooms and one bathroom. A wooden sunburst motif decorated the façade beneath the pitched roof, and a halved sunburst topped each of the two large front windows. The house had an ample front and backyard. The front door was reached by a meandering brick path lined with rose trees, the beds filled with seasonal flowers. The pansies she’d planted in April were still blooming in September. She’d paid dearly for the charming bungalow, much more than the size or design would indicate, because of its ocean-front location. The steep cliff at the edge of her backyard dropped straight to Pacific Coast Highway several hundred feet below. On the other side of the highway was broad, sandy Casa Marina Beach.

  The sound of the front door opening didn’t wake Iris, who was sleeping soundly in her bedroom in the back of the house. It was the footsteps, clacking against the hardwood floor, made by someone who didn’t seem concerned about keeping quiet, which finally roused her. She sat up in bed with a start. She didn’t own a gun. She’d thought about it a million times, but finally decided a gun presented more potential problems than it was worth. Instead, she kept a wooden baseball bat under her bed. Iris didn’t grab the baseball bat but stumbled out of bed and padded down the hallway in bare feet, not bothering to put a robe over her cotton jersey pajamas printed with a Western design of cowboy hats, boots, and lassos.

  “Morning, Marge,” she said to her neighbor, scaring the seventy-year-old woman within an inch of her life.

  “Good gracious! Iris, I didn’t know you were home.” Marge was standing at the kitchen sink, filling a plastic watering can. It was 6:30 a.m., and she was already dressed in a pink knit suit with a collared jacket, slim skirt, and high-heeled pumps. Every hair on her champagne-blonde do was in place. Her reedy hands were festooned with several heavily jeweled rings. One hand rested against her chest where it had flown when Iris startled her. An enameled diamond-inset bumblebee broach was pinned to the shoulder of her jacket.

  She dried her hands on a dishtowel, studied Iris with bright blue eyes, and asked, “How was your trip?” It was the polite question to ask and Marge was always exceedingly proper, but Iris wondered whether the older woman had already figured out the answer.

  “It was fine. I’m glad I’m
home.” Iris waited for Marge to ask about the American who was gunned down, perhaps even mentioning him by name, but she didn’t. Perhaps it hadn’t yet made it into the press here. Hopefully, it wouldn’t. Marge and Iris’s mother were friends and Iris was hoping to avoid her mother’s inappropriate anxiety over a situation that had already passed.

  “You’re home a couple of days early.”

  “I wrapped up my business there sooner than I thought.”

  Marge easily hoisted the full watering can from the sink and headed toward the potted ferns next to the dining room window. “Wasn’t the Hermitage just mar-velous? Didn’t you just love it?” She was enthusiastic about all the good things life had to offer and her enthusiasm was contagious.

  “Incredible.” Iris hated lying to the woman, but she wanted to put the Moscow affair behind her. If her mother got wind of it, it would live in perpetuity.

  “And St. Basil’s Cathedral?”

  “Didn’t make it there.”

  “You will.” Marge watered the ferns as she spoke. “You’ll be back. Moscow has a way of calling you back.” The older woman had traveled most everywhere and had gone in style. She’d certainly had her ups and downs, but there was one thing about Marge, she knew how to live.

  Iris smiled feebly, thinking it would be a cold day in hell before she sat foot in Russia again. “Why are you here so early?”

  “I have such a day before me.” Marge watered the ficus in the corner of the living room, her heels loud against the floor. On her way back to the kitchen, she pressed her fingertips against Iris’s arm. “You must come for cocktails tonight and tell me all about your trip. I want to know everything.”

  “I don’t know if I can, Marge. I’m going into the office today, and I might be late catching up.”

  “I’m having martinis and canapés at five as usual. If you’re around, stop over. I’ve invited Kiki and Roger from up the street. Kiki’s father is staying with them, and they want me to meet him. I told them I’m always delighted to meet an attractive man. I can use a little male interaction, if you know what I mean.” She nudged Iris in the ribs. Marge’s directness sometimes embarrassed her. “It’s been a little dull since Frosty died. But no marriage. I told Kiki, I’ve buried three husbands. I refuse to buy one more cemetery plot.”