City Of Mirrors: A Diana Poole Thriller Part 20

"He was right. I would have." Tears rolled down my cheeks.

"Don't do that, only drunks cry in Kiki's." He handed me a c.o.c.ktail napkin.

"The blackmail, not being able to pay, not being able to tell me, maybe that caused his heart attack."

"You don't know that." He held his empty gla.s.s up toward the bar.

I watched Kiki give another okay and wondered what his cut-off number was for Ryan. Or did it just make Kiki feel important. "You can stop paying Parson," I said.

"He'll find a way to use the pictures."

"What can he do to me now? Take Colin away from me? Ruin my career? Make me hate my mother? The most horrible possibility has been accomplished. Colin's dead. And she won."

"Diana, when are you going to let her go?"

"Colin wasn't true to himself. And he wasn't true to me. But you were."

"I did it for both of you."

"I'm going home. Do you want a ride?"

"No, I'll walk."

"Don't drink too much." I leaned over, put arms around his shoulders, and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Ryan."

He shrugged in my embrace. The martinis had dimmed his intelligent eyes.

Gathering my purse and phone, I slid out of the booth and stood looking down at him. "Tell Parson to call me when he wants his next payment. That is if he, or his lackey, don't kill us first."

It's always depressing to leave a bar and walk out into the daylight, but this time it fit my emotional state perfectly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

The tether that held me to Colin had snapped completely and I sat in my car not knowing what to do with myself. I couldn't go home. What would I do? Stare at Colin's Oscars and my mother's urn? Christ. How could she? And I'd been trying to find a way to love her. I decided to go grocery shopping. I drove further up the coast to Ralph's Market in the Malibu Colony Plaza.

Filling my cart with Lean Cuisine, a lot of wine, and the antidote coffee, I thought of Beth Woods telling me that lonely women don't have alibis for the early morning hours. And Celia realizing her life, which she had so carefully structured, gave her no support. And I'd been clinging to eight years of my past for support.

A blond actress I knew from various readings where we'd been up for the same roles pushed her cart toward me. I stood riveted by the freezer cases. Seeing me, she immediately ducked down another aisle. Had she seen me with the urn on TV? Or didn't she want me to see her doing something as humdrum as shopping for dish soap? I caught my reflection in the gla.s.s of the freezer door. An un-tethered, abandoned, frightened, forty-year-old child in the clothing of a confident actress. Okay, so it wasn't the urn or her own concerns that made her turn away. It was the expression on my face.

On the way to the cashier I tossed a California Wrap, a kind of healthful gourmet burrito, into my cart.

Now with a bag of frozen swill wedged onto the pa.s.senger seat of my car, I was forced to go home or it would defrost.

In the kitchen, I put the food away and poured myself a very large gla.s.s of white wine. Taking a few gulps, I opened Colin's office door. I gazed at the computer, the mementoes, the books, and the empty chair that was turned toward me, always waiting for me.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" I threw the wine at the chair and watched the chardonnay run in rivulets down its tufted-leather back and eventually drip off the edges of the seat. "Why her? Why?"

I slammed the door.

Standing on my deck watching the sun make a fiery red dramatic exit, I ate the California wrap. Swallowing it back with my tears, I thought of my mother, Colin, and me sitting out here one summer afternoon drinking Margaritas and chatting about which famous star was better at shooting a gun. Colin had said it was James Cagney. I went for Clint Eastwood. My mother had chosen Bette Davis.

"She killed men while wearing a mink coat and holding a handbag," she said. "And Davis was always walking downstairs toward her male victim, arm straight out, gun unwavering." She'd extended her arm, her hand, imitating a gun, and said in a deadly voice, "Bang. Bang. Bang."

Colin laughed. "No, it's got to be Cagney. When he shot a gun, it was as if he were dancing."

Then I said, "Bette Davis's mother wanted everything her daughter earned. If Bette got a new mink, her mother had to have one too." I looked off across the ocean. "I wonder if that also included her daughter's husbands and lovers."

Turning somber, Nora stared down at her gold-sandaled feet, her blond hair falling across her face. "I need another drink." And even though her gla.s.s was full, she went into the kitchen.

I'd closed my eyes against the sun, a.s.suming she'd interpreted my comment about Davis and her mother as Diana not wasting any chance to attack her. So sure of the one person I loved, it had never occurred to me that I'd spoken a truth. Or had I intuited in some deep primal place the truth all along: that my own mother had known what Colin's naked body had smelled and tasted like.

"Diana?" The sound of my name jolted me back to the present. I recoiled back into the shadows of my house.

"It's Heath!" The voice called out louder.

One of the last men I wanted to see. Wiping my tears away, I stepped forward and peered down. Looking up at me, Heath stood on the beach, the wind blowing his dark brown hair, and his graying temples almost silver in the dimming light. "I rang your doorbell. You didn't answer." He wore an expensive suit jacket, jeans, a white shirt open at the neck, and lug-sole shoes too heavy for the sand. He was a man who belonged on cement.

"I can't hear it when I'm out here on the deck," I shouted back.

"We need to talk."

"I'm busy."

"The pool man at the Bel Air house got shot."

My muscles tightened. "What does that have to do with me?"

"I know you were there."

"I'll give you ten minutes."

Inside the house, I sat down on the sofa. Legs apart, Heath stood in front of the fireplace, my ghosts on the mantel lined up behind him. He moved toward me, placing a wrapped piece of candy on the table.

"What's this?"

"Your mint from the Red Pepper Restaurant in Camarillo. Two of them came with the check. I ate mine. That's yours. It reminds me that you and I should be more truthful with each other."

"Really? You go first." I leaned back and crossed my arms.

He returned to his spot before the fireplace. "In Santa Barbara I held on to your cell phone because I knew if you had it you'd do just what you did ... call a cab so you wouldn't have to drive back with me."

"Why was it so important I drive back with you?"

He ran a finger down the ridge of his battered nose. "To see that you got home safely."

"And?"

"And I needed information."

"Who told you I was at Binder's?"

"I can't tell you. But I know Parson's men were following you. Your turn. What happened at the pool-supply store?"

"I haven't lied to you. I haven't abducted you. I haven't threatened you."

"Parson is a man out of control." Urgency filled his dark-chocolate eyes. "His daughter has been murdered. One of his men got killed and another is very p.i.s.sed off. And you don't want Rubio p.i.s.sed at you, Diana."

"Is Rubio the guy with the tattoo?"

"Yes."

"Too late," I said.

"Christ."

"I may have broken his leg. Unintentionally."

"You really don't know the people you're dealing with, do you?" His voice rose with anger. "You can criticize me for what I did in the military while you run home and sit here smug and secure in your little make-believe Hollywood bubble ..."

"The same bubble you get paid to keep intact for a lot of ugly people."

"I need you to tell me what you found out at Binder's and why one of Parson's men ended up dead. And I need it to be the truth."

I thought of Pearl, who had stolen a key so she could go back to hooking. An old man who loved her. Ryan, who'd had s.e.x with Jenny Parson not knowing who she really was, and who had protected me and Colin by paying Parson off all these years. "I can't."

He let out an exasperated sigh. "Are you trying to save your friend Ryan Johns?"

I sucked in my breath. "Why do you ask?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "A DVD was mailed anonymously to my office this afternoon. It was Ryan Johns and Jenny Parson having s.e.x."

"Did you give it to Parson?"

"No. I locked it in my safe. n.o.body has seen it but me. But that doesn't mean whoever sent it didn't send a copy to Parson. I recognized the purple velvet sofa. It's the same one that's in Bella Casa. Talk to me."

I needed time to think. I needed to talk to Ryan before I even thought of turning him over to Heath.

"Your ten minutes are up."

As I started toward the front door to let him out, he stepped in front of me, blocking my way. "Guilty or innocent of Jenny's murder, Ryan Johns is in real danger. And he's probably not the only one."

"I can't say any more."

The sound of a sharp pop, like an exploding arc light on the set, filled the room. As I looked toward the deck, where I thought the noise had come from, Heath grabbed my shoulders. There was another quick pop and my feet were no longer under me. He was pushing me down. I landed on my back on the floor with him on top. My breath slammed out of me. And then there was nothing, only an eerie silence.

"What happened?" I gasped.

"Somebody just tried to shoot you. I guess Ryan isn't the only one in danger."

My permanent chill sliced through me. "Maybe he was aiming for you."

A hint of a grim smile. "Keep down." Quickly getting to his feet, he stayed low, took a gun from a holster on his belt, and crept toward the deck door.

I rolled onto my stomach and then up on my hands and knees and stared at two jagged bullet holes in the pane of my sliding door. Fissures radiated from the holes like giant, icy spider legs. I felt as fractured as the gla.s.s.

Heath glanced over his shoulder at me. "Stay here."

Holding his gun in one hand, he reached out with the other and carefully slid the door to the side. As he did, the gla.s.s broke into shards and clattered onto the floor. The damp ocean air billowed in as he ducked out onto the balcony and crouched behind the wicker chair. We both froze in our positions, waiting. Then the roar of a motorcycle, its tires squealing, came from the walkway between my house and Ryan's. I jumped to my feet and ran out on the deck. Heath was already bounding down the stairs. I was right behind him.

With Heath in front of me, we sprinted up the path to the front of my house. The biker had disappeared into the traffic, but not before I glimpsed the back of his bomber jacket and his white helmet.

"I guess Rubio didn't break his leg." I was out of breath.

Heath whirled around, facing me. "You finally ready to talk?" Headlights from the highway spread across our faces.

"Take me to Kiki's bar," I said. "Ryan's there."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

It was seven o'clock and the bar was two deep. Over the din of conversation the Beach Boys sang in high-pitched voices about surf, cars, and girls. Instead of Ryan in the center booth there was a young long-haired celeb with great cleavage and the aging record producer Bobby Sanders. Heath followed me over to see Kiki, who was still on his stool at the end of the bar, coffee cup in front of him and a swizzle stick hanging from the corner of his mouth. His nappy peroxided hair covered his head like a badly knitted cap.

"Did Ryan leave?" I asked.

"He's in the back room, sleeping it off."

I sighed with relief. "I've come to take him home."

"I'm glad you care about him. He's a good guy. Come on." Kiki slid off the stool. His legs were bowed as if he'd once been a cowboy instead of a surfer. He pulled himself up to his full height of five foot two, and we followed him through the bar and past the restrooms.

Kiki opened a door to a storage area filled with c.o.c.ktail-napkin boxes, extra hurricane candleholders, and other necessities for the bar. In the middle of this was a narrow cot covered with a Bird of Paradise print quilt. Next to it was a table with a hula-dancer lamp. The cot was empty.

"Where is he?" I asked.