Who Do, Voodoo?, page 8
“Not funny, Liz. This complicates everything,” Dave said.
“Why?” I said. “Because I found Sophie’s body or because I was with Nick?”
“I can’t go into it right now,” Dave said. “Pratt’s waiting for me.”
I glanced at Pratt, watching us from outside Robin’s door. “She asked me to meet her at the Northeast station this afternoon,” I said. “Will you be there?”
“I doubt it.”
He left to talk to Pratt. I brushed past them and entered Sam and Robin’s suite. Robin’s outer office was empty. Hearing voices beyond Sam’s open door, I peered inside.
Sam was behind a wide glass tabletop desk; the view behind him spanned the city to the ocean. Gold records and framed photographs of him with celebrities covered the walls. The scent of baked goods drifted past the door. Off to the side, Buzzy Lacowsky idled near a glass conference table cluttered with bagels, donuts, and a half-eaten coffee cake. Robin waved me in while the group inside continued talking.
Two men in business suits sat facing Sam’s desk. The younger one said, “She shouldn’t go to the station without counsel.”
Sam looked at Robin. “Call Ralph Barnes. Tell him I want him to meet you there. And don’t say anything until he arrives.”
“I don’t need a lawyer,” Robin said.
“Just call him,” Sam said.
I said to Robin, “Why do they want you to go there instead of questioning you here?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” Robin turned to the men in front of Sam. “Guys, this is my friend Liz Cooper. She found Sophie last night. Liz, meet Paul Dunbar, our chief litigator. Next to him is Mike Gold, our contract attorney, and that’s Buzzy Lacowsky, who I think you’ve met already.”
“Hello,” I said. Two lawyers and a publicist. Someone had called in the troops. I looked past them, at Sam. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” he said.
The older man, Paul Dunbar, said to Robin, “Don’t offer the police any information about Sam. He’s not involved in this.”
“I know,” Robin said. “I assume they want to hear what happened at the party.”
“You two must have had one hell of a fight,” Buzzy said, forking a bite of coffee cake. “I’m sorry I missed it. Sophie made a spectacular scene of herself when she broke into the artist’s lounge, screaming that you were after her.”
My stomach went sour. Would Buzzy repeat the same thing to the police? Did he? Was that why Pratt wanted to question Robin at the station?
“I think it may be wise for Robin to take a few days off and work from home until the police clear this up,” Paul Dunbar said. “Let’s keep this distanced from the agency.”
Sam nodded. “Good idea. The press won’t be able to ambush her.”
Buzzy shuffled behind Robin and draped his arm around her shoulder. “You could use a few days at the spa and some leisurely shopping, couldn’t you, lovey?”
Robin brushed him off and looked at Sam. “I’ll do whatever you want me to do, but I want you to be sure of one thing: I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know,” Sam said. “You can work from home. Lulu will answer the phones here and refer the press to Buzzy. We’ll stay in touch. Nothing will change. Find out when Sophie’s funeral will be and send flowers.”
“From you?” Robin said.
“From the agency.”
“Are you going?” Robin said.
“No. Sophie knew how I felt about funerals. I’ll grieve on my own.”
Detective Pratt appeared at the door. “Mrs. Bloom? Are you ready?”
I followed Robin to her office. Pratt went out in the hall, talking on her cell phone. Dave must have left. I didn’t see him.
“I’m sorry about lunch,” Robin said to me. “I’ll call you this afternoon.”
“No problem.” I lowered my voice. “Sam’s so composed. I thought you said he was frantic about Sophie.”
“That was last night when I called him,” Robin said, quietly. “This morning after the press started hounding him and the police and the lawyers showed up, his priority became keeping scandal away from the merger.”
Sam walked out of his office and said to Robin. “You know none of this is personal. I believe you and trust you more than anyone. This will blow over, and we’ll get back to normal in a few days. If there’s anything I can do to help . . .”
“I know, Sam. Don’t worry.” Robin watched him go back inside and close the door. She said to me, “Normal? Sophie puts a curse on me, and here I am, leaving my job like she wanted, for who knows how long.”
“You don’t believe that,” I said.
“I don’t? Sam thinks I need a lawyer. This is out of control.” Robin took her briefcase from behind her desk and packed it with papers.
“They can’t force you to go to the station,” I said. “You’re not a criminal.”
“I know. Paul Dunbar told me to cooperate, so I agreed. And your brother was very nice about the request.”
I shook my head and held up a hand. “No. Don’t be taken in so easily. Dave’s nice to everyone, including criminals, when he needs them to cooperate. And Paul Dunbar’s job is to protect the agency, not you. You do everything else Sam tells you to do. Please don’t let this be the one time you don’t. Call the lawyer.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I’ll call him on my way across town.” She shut the briefcase and pulled her purse from the drawer.
“Mrs. Bloom?” Detective Pratt was at the door again.
“Sorry. I’m coming.”
I followed Pratt and Robin to the lobby, where Dave sat on the couch waiting.
Lulu was at her desk, on the phone. “I gotta call you back,” she said. “I have to talk to my boss.”
Robin gave Lulu instructions and then got onto the elevator with Pratt and Dave.
“Where did you say that exercise class was that you like so much? I might try it,” I said to Lulu.
“Hissy Fitness on La Cienega,” she said. “The morning class is at six. You have to come. It’s amazing. You’ll love it. Getting into shape for that hunky guy you were with last night?”
“He’s just a friend,” I said, walking toward the elevator to avoid more questions. “I need to work off the junk food I’ve been eating for the past week.”
As the elevator closed in front of me, I smiled. Lulu was right about Nick.
Chapter Twelve
I wanted, no, needed the meat-loaf sandwich. Outside on Camden Drive, I walked toward the burgundy awnings of the Brighton Coffee Shop, the oldest coffee shop in Beverly Hills. I sat on a stool at the end of the counter and ordered the special on sourdough bread with an order of fries.
I pictured Robin at the police station, explaining why she and Sophie quarreled. Robin would tell the truth, no matter how odd an argument over tarot cards sounded. Robin was the worst liar I knew. Back in high school, when the freshmen set off the fire alarm before our chemistry final, Robin blabbed to the first teacher who confronted us.
A half sandwich filled me up, but the fries were too perfect to leave—well-done and crunchy. I was dipping the last one in ketchup when I heard him.
“Hey.” The word came out in a long, nasal tone and dragged into two syllables. Buzzy Lacowsky slipped onto the stool next to me, grinning.
I grinned back.
He set his cell phone on the counter. “Eating alone or waiting for someone?”
“I was supposed to have lunch with Robin,” I said.
“Too bad for her,” Buzzy said. “I hear the food in jail is crap.”
“Not funny,” I said.
“Not joking. They’re going to try and arrest her. The police asked me three times if Robin followed me and Sophie out to the parking lot or if I saw her when I came back to the party.” He patted my hand. “She’s lucky I didn’t tell them e-ver-y-thing. Sophie hated Robin. I hope Robin didn’t follow Sophie into the parking lot.”
I pulled back. “What are you saying? For God’s sake, Robin didn’t kill Sophie. You were the one who left the party with Sophie. What happened when you got her outside?”
The waitress stopped for his order and brought him a soda.
He took a long draw through the soda straw. “Like I told the cops: I left Sophie at the curb with her girlfriends. She was pissed as all hell, rambling all kinds of drunken shit. And she called Robin a thief. She said she took her spell book.”
I stared at him. “Spell book?”
He smirked. “You really don’t know?”
“Tell me,” I said.
“Our little Sophie sold spells on the side from her granny’s voodoo book. Five hundred bucks a pop and guaranteed to work.”
“How do you know that?” I said.
He finished his drink and signaled the waitress for a refill. “I knew Sophie before she met Sam. She and her friend Nola were regulars on the party circuit. There was always talk about her voodoo vibe.”
“What’s a voodoo vibe?”
“Sophie put on an esoteric air. Liked to hint about her secrets. She came off as the New Orleans chick who knew stuff. One night, a few weeks ago, I asked her. She swore me to secrecy, then sold me a voodoo money spell.”
I snickered.
“Oh, don’t laugh, honey. The spell worked like a charm. I picked up three new clients.” He muffled a burp with his hand and smiled like a Cheshire cat.
“Did you tell Sam?”
Buzzy swept his eyes around the crowded restaurant like a spy worried about eavesdroppers. His words came out slow. “Sophie told me not to. If I told on her, she swore I’d be cursed.” Then he sat back and grinned. “Besides, I’d never talk to Sam about shit like that. But now that Sophie’s dead, I don’t see any harm in bragging a little. So, do you think our friend Robin took the spell book?”
“Of course not. Why would she do that? She didn’t know Sophie sold spells,” I said. “Five hundred dollars is a lot of money. What happened if the so-called spells didn’t work? Do you get your money back?”
“I just told you—they did work,” Buzzy said. “Sophie told me another one of her friends bought a love spell and met a guy on the Internet a week later.”
“So she said.” I rolled my eyes. Nice scam.
Buzzy sat back, folding his arms in front of him. “You don’t believe.”
“No, I don’t. But it doesn’t matter what I believe. Who do you think killed Sophie?” I said to him.
“An ex-boyfriend? A mugger? Robin? How should I know?” He shrugged and picked up his ringing cell phone.
I paid the waitress and left. I had just enough time to drive all the way across Hollywood to the station for my meeting with Detective Pratt. As I turned my car east on Santa Monica, my cell phone rang. It was Nick. Was that a little thrill I felt at the sound of his voice?
“I just finished my class,” he said. “How are you?”
“Right now I’m concerned about Robin. She might be a suspect in Sophie’s murder. Detective Pratt called me in for another talk. I’m on my way to the police station now. I have a lot to tell you.”
“I want to hear everything.” I heard him take a breath. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
I thought of his kiss last night and smiled. “Yes, I’d like that.”
“Good. Me, too. I’ll pick you up at seven. Don’t get yourself into any trouble before then.”
“Darn,” I said. “I was planning on making a huge scene at the station. But, okay, maybe I’ll hold back. Because you asked.”
“I don’t ever want you to hold back. Just make sure you’re free for dinner.”
When I hung up, the phone rang again.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, switching lanes to avoid the bus ahead.
“Did you hear the news? Sam Collins’s girlfriend was murdered at the Greek Theater last night,” Mom said. “Isn’t Sam Collins Robin’s boss?”
“Yes.” I winced. Did I tell my mother the truth? If I didn’t and Dave beat me to it, she’d never forgive me. “Mom, Nick Garfield and I found the body. It was awful.”
She gasped. “Oh my Lord. I knew something was wrong. I knew it. I read stress in the cards this morning when I asked if there was a resolution for Robin’s trouble. The Eight of Swords appeared. It’s fear, Liz. Robin’s imprisoned in fear.”
Imprisoned wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “I don’t need a tarot reading to understand that Robin’s anxious,” I said. “She’s at the station, being questioned this afternoon.”
“You said you and Nick Garfield found the body,” Mom said. “What were you doing with him?”
I find a dead body, and my mother would rather hear about why I was with Nick. I stopped at a traffic light. “We were at the concert together.”
“I thought Nick had a girlfriend,” Mom said. “What’s wrong with you? You shouldn’t be dating attached men.”
The french fries and meat loaf swelled in my stomach. I felt nauseous. Nick had a girlfriend? He didn’t act like he did.
“Our tickets were a thank-you to us from Robin for finding the tarot cards,” I said. “Robin and her daughter were at the concert, too. It wasn’t a date.”
Just like tonight wasn’t a date—Nick and I were simply having dinner together.
“Be careful,” Mom said. “Nick Garfield gets around.”
“Nothing to be careful about. And what makes you think he has a girlfriend? He didn’t mention one to me,” I said, clenching the wheel.
“A smart, good-looking man like that must have a girlfriend. Your brother, Dave, would have told me if he’s gay. By the way, have you talked to Jarret lately?”
I gritted my teeth. “Listen, I have to go. I’m on my way to the police station. They need me to answer more questions.”
“You need to tell the police that girl who died was running around town harassing people. I’ll bet she was a member of a cult. Tell Robin and her boss to make sure that your brother, Dave, works the case. He’ll catch the killer.”
I didn’t know what was worse, letting her lecture me about Nick or listening to her choreograph the murder investigation. “Calm down, Mom. Dave’s already on it.”
“Dave didn’t tell me,” she said.
“Say hi to Daddy for me. How is he?”
“He’s fine. Oh—this afternoon I want him to take me to that shop you told me about.”
“What shop?”
“The shop where you found the tarot cards,” Mom said.
“They might have my incense. You know, my favorite brand that I can never find? What was the name of the shop?”
No, no, no. My mother couldn’t breeze into Madame Iyå’s shop and blow the story Nick and I told her. “I forgot.”
“Where is it?”
“Somewhere in Hollywood,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’ll stop there for you and see if she carries your brand.”
“Are you sure you know the brand?”
I turned left onto Sunset, then right on Hyperion. “I know exactly what brand.”
“Mystic Bouquets,” Mom said. “I want two boxes of the Moonlit Blend in the small violet-and-yellow case. Ask her if she carries Raspberry Dawn, too. Oh, and see if she has—”
That was enough for me. “Hello? Mom? Are you there?”
“Yes, honey, I can hear you . . .”
“I think I lost you,” I said. “Hello?”
“I’m here.”
“If you can hear me, I’m hanging up. Talk to you later.” I clicked “Call End,” set the phone on the seat next to me, and smiled.
Chapter Thirteen
I hated when street names morphed. Hyperion became Glendale Avenue, and when Glendale became Brand Boulevard, I was certain I was about to get lost. Following Detective Pratt’s directions, I turned onto San Fernando Road and saw a huge “Police” sign on a pole above a one-story building. Excellent. I parked and entered the LAPD Northeast Division through double glass doors.
A young officer in LAPD blue sat behind the sign-in window to the right. I took a place in line, while a middle-aged, leather-jacketed man asked the officer questions about recovering a stolen car. When he finished, I gave my name, sat down, and waited for Pratt. Thirty minutes later, she appeared and escorted me inside.
The Detective Room was as big as a tennis court and held cubicles grouped in sets of six. A few men and women, on the phone or reading computer screens, sat behind desks. Feeling self-conscious, I had an urge to explain that I was a willing witness and not a suspect, but no one looked up at us. I followed Pratt through the maze to a section at the far corner. She stopped and opened one of the two interrogation room doors on the back wall.
“We can talk in here,” she said.
The fluorescent-lit interrogation room with a metal desk and two chairs was the size of a walk-in closet. The register above us blew out hot air that smelled like burned dust. I swallowed to ease my anxiety. Nothing to worry about; I had nothing to hide.
I sat down. Pratt opened her notepad, then folded her hands on the desk and smiled. Her hair was buzzed above her ears. Sandy-brown bangs covered her forehead and brushed the top of gold-rimmed eyeglasses.
“Thank you again for coming in, Dr. Cooper,” she said.
“Please, call me Liz.”
“And you can call me Carla. I’m sorry I kept you waiting outside. It’s been a busy day,” she said. “You must know from your brother how nonstop a murder investigation can be.”
“I do. From both my brother and my father. My dad spent twenty years as a detective at Hollywood Homicide. He retired six years ago.” Oh God. Carla was trying to put me at ease, and I responded with the family history. Oh well.
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Walter Gordon. Do you know him?”
“No, don’t think I do. I haven’t worked Hollywood,” Carla said. “I’ve been at Northeast since I made detective.”
I set my purse on the floor next to me. “By the way, did Robin Bloom leave? I didn’t see her car out front.”
“Mrs. Bloom drove to the station with us. And she’s still here, waiting to complete her statement,” Carla said.
