Killer Karma

13

Cole watched them leave. As much as he needed to keep working on Razor, he also wanted to see what happened here after Lamper reported to Flaxx. A glance into Bookkeeping caught Lamper shooing the women out of his office — Hayes and Quon looking relieved, Gao disapproving — and reaching for his phone. Cole hurried in, moving close enough to the phone to catch Flaxx’s side of the conversation.

Lamper blurted, “Donald, I just found out that Sara- ”

“Who?” Flaxx sounded distracted. Cole pictured him signing letters or checking e-mail while he listened.

Lamper frowned. “Sara Benay, one of my girls here in Bookkeeping…the one those Homicide detectives are looking for. She was having an affair with Inspector Dunavan!”

“What!”

Flaxx’s surprise disturbed Cole. If Sara were forced to talk the way she claimed, Flaxx should know all about Sara and him.

“Tell me about this affair.”

Lamper gave Flaxx a detailed report of Hamada’s visit.

Impatient sighs came over the wire, but Flaxx never interrupted. At the end, Cole was even more surprised to hear a chuckle.

So, clearly, was Lamper. He stared at the phone. “Didn’t you hear me? Sara’s sleeping with Dunavan and she worked on my account files last week!”

“Earl, Earl.” Flaxx’s voice oozed like honey. “I understand your concern, but there’s no need for it. I have every confidence in your accounting passing muster with someone like her. And if she did stumble on…”

Cole mentally held his breath. Come on, come on. Make an incriminating admission.

“…irregularities…”

Irregularities? Oh, very cute. No help at all. Cole grimaced.

“…that gadfly Dunavan would be bugging us again, not Homicide. And if she is shacking up with him, no so-called evidence she thinks she’s found for him is any good in court.”

Cole blinked. Interesting. Flaxx talked about him in the present tense. Was that for Lamper’s benefit? Or was it possible Flaxx knew nothing about his shooting?

“Whatever the story is with this Bennet woman…” Flaxx said.

Lamper frowned. “Her name’s Benay.”

“Whatever. It has nothing to do with us. So you forget about it and enjoy the day. You’ve certainly made mine, Earl my man! Way to go!”

Lamper sat up straighter, beaming.

If he had a tail, it would be wagging in ecstacy, Cole reflected. He patted Lamper on the head. “Good dog, Earl.”

Then leaving Lamper reaching up to his hair with a startled look, Cole raced for Flaxx’s office. He wanted to see Flaxx’s real reaction to Lamper’s report. Bursting through Flaxx’s wall, he felt a zing down his spine. The cheerful voice on the phone had been replaced by a grim-faced Flaxx punching an in-house number into his phone.

“Get in here.”

Cole sat on a corner of the desk to see who came.

When the door opened, he straightened in surprise. A woman strolled in — mid to late twenties, wiry, a model’s bones, short-cropped blonde hair, junior exec skirt and jacket. She seemed familiar, although he could not remember seeing her around here before. Maybe her long, thin hands reminded him of his daughter Renee’s? No…it was something about her face.

She settled into a chair, crossing her legs. “So…what’s giving you a wedgie this morning?”

Cole cocked a brow. Interesting. A junior exec with attitude, and Flaxx just frowned. Someone else had been less tolerant, though. Bruises on her left cheekbone and jaw showed under her makeup. Recognition clicked. She had the same jaw line as Flaxx, and similar eyes…despite hers being baby blue and his an improbable aqua. How were they related? Both his daughters were younger.

Then Cole remembered that when he went to Razor’s ex-wife Jessie at the Chronicle for dirt on Flaxx, her information included a half-sister twenty years Flaxx’s junior, the product of Papa Flaxx’s trophy marriage. Cole dug into his memory for the name. Iris? Irene? No, Irah…named, according to gossip Jessie had, for the trophy wife’s own dear Daddy because they thought she was going to be a boy.

“My headache,” Flaxx said, “is cops! This place is starting to crawl with them. It was bad enough with that bastard Dunavan hounding me. Then we got the arson cops, then homicide cops because of that firefighter. Now…” His nostrils flared. “Well, I’ve just had to sooth Earl because today he had a new set of homicide cops asking questions.” He gave her a terse version of Lamper’s report on Hamada’s visit.

Cole listened with growing dismay. Listening to Flaxx, it was clear he knew nothing about Sara disappearing or the supposed affair until Lamper told him. Making it unlikely he knew about the hit, either. Which meant he never ordered it.

So who did?

A rising heart rate caught his ear. He stared at Irah. She appeared to be listening calmly, not even surprised at the story about Sara and him. But mention of the security tape had sent her heart into a jog.

Mental flags shot up, bells jangling. Cole came off the desk and over to the chair. “Were you here?” He did not remember seeing her among the group leaving, though the only faces of interest at the time were Gao’s and Sara’s. “Did you sabotage the tape?”

He bent down for a close look at Irah’s bruises. One advantage to being a ghost, he reflected. It let him come inches from her face while she remained oblivious.

The bruises looked recent, no more than a few days old. The bells started clanging. She also had scratches on her wrists, just visible under the edges of her jacket cuffs. Sara’s message said: “The bitch tortured me into telling her everything. She held my- ” Remembering the anger mixing with Sara’s fear, Cole expected she had clawed at the restraining hands.

He jerked back upright. Damn. He needed another look at that tape.

Irah’s lack of reaction finally registered on Flaxx. “Is this old news to you?”

“No.” Her heart slowed. “I’m just not surprised about Benay and Dunavan. I’ve overheard her and her cronies in the break room. A cop is someone she’d go for. I’m disappointed at her lack of company loyalty, though.”

Flaxx’s eyes narrowed. “So you didn’t know she was shacking up with Dunavan?”

Hers went wide. “Not until now.”

Cole frowned down at her. Could he be wrong? If she caught Sara, surely she would have told Flaxx.

Irah pursed her lips. “It must have been great sex to turn her. Maybe Dunavan has the same staying power in bed as he does for trying to pin burglary and arson on you.”

Flaxx sucked in an sharp breath…only to release it an exasperated sigh when a corner of her mouth twitched. “Damn it! Why are you always yanking my chain?”

She shrugged. “A girl’s got to have some fun.”

“Didn’t you have enough for a lifetime in L.A.?” Flaxx grimaced. “I keep hoping you’ll grow up.”

What was it Jessie told him about Irah? Mommy wanted to make her a beauty queen like herself, but the trophy daughter ended up with more appearances in juvenile court than pageants. Due to stunts like taking off in Daddy’s Ferrari at age twelve and leading the CHP and assorted other law enforcement agencies on a forty mile chase down Highway 280 at speeds nearing 150 miles an hour. According to Jessie, at sixteen she ran away with a waiter at the country club. Daddy Flaxx finally said to hell with her after he spent a small fortune having private detectives locate and bring her home, only to have her run off again to the boyfriend.

Now, apparently, the prodigal had returned. Not necessarily as penitent as the Biblical one. Cole wanted to know a lot more about her.

Her expression went contrite. “I’m trying, Donald…really. Is that all you want with me?”

“Not quite. I want you to find this bookkeeper. I want to know how much she found out…and just to be safe, how much it will cost to give her amnesia.”

Irah nodded.

“And…” Flaxx’s voice turned to a snarl. “…think of a way to get rid of these cops…especially Dunavan. I want him the hell out of my life!”

Cole turned back to the desk and leaned across it toward him. “Ain’t gonna happen, dogshit. I’m out of my life, but you’re unfinished business, too, so while the first job is finding Sara and putting that situation right, I’ll also keep working on taking you down.”

“Dunavan may not be a problem anymore,” Irah said. “I hear he’s disappeared.”

Cole listened for her heartbeat. It remained steady.

Flaxx blinked. “Heard how?”

She lounged back in her chair. “It was a big topic Saturday night in my favorite cop bar.”

Flaxx’s neck reddened. “What the hell were you doing in a cop bar!”

That interested Cole, too.

“Spending a…” Her eye brows wiggled. “…stimulating evening checking out the shortarms of the law. It isn’t fair for you to have all the fun screwing the cops.”

Flaxx closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

Cole grinned. She knew just how to yank that chain.

By the time Flaxx opened his eyes again, however, she had wiped her expression clear of amusement and sat straight and sober in the chair. “If Dunavan does show up again, I’ll make sure he’s in too much trouble to bother you. I’ll file an assault complaint against him…pretend to be Benay and say he attacked me.”

Flaxx perked up. “Will they buy it?”

“Me as Benay?” She snorted. “No sweat. As for the cops turning up here…you know you don’t have to see them unless they have a warrant. I’ll tell Gina to notify you, no matter who they ask for, and you can decide if they’re welcome.”

Flaxx considered that for a few moments, then nodded. “Do it.”

Cole walked out with her and up the hallway to Gina’s desk…where she included herself in the instructions — “Notify both Mr. Flaxx and me.”

Now where? She headed back down toward Flaxx’s office, but turned at the side hallway leading to the emergency exit. Cole knew where she had to be headed. Now the stepchild office made sense. Flaxx created a job for her and shoe-horned in an office where he could.

“Where he could,” Cole found on following Irah into Asset Management, looked like a converted storeroom…windowless, steel shelving along one wall, neutral walls, utilitarian carpet, stock office chairs, and a steel-and-laminate desk like those in Bookkeeping. A few certificates and photos hung on the walls. A stepchild office indeed. What did Flaxx expect his asset manager to do in here?

While Irah sat down at her desk, Cole checked out magazine file boxes and stacks of brochures on the shelving. A buzz ran through him. The visible brochures were all for security systems. One of the magazine files had security equipment catalogs. The rest held six years’ issues of Security Management. Flaxx had her doing something with security. Well, well.

He glanced toward her. “So I bet you have a key to-”

Then the magazine dates registered. Six years. He stared around in disbelief. She lived in this cell of an office for six years?

She might be resigned to it now. There had been no sign of irritation or discontent when she came in. She even smiled as she swivelled to her computer. Ignoring the keyboard, she picked up a game control. A punch of a button resumed a game that Flaxx’s call must have interrupted. She began blasting her way through city streets filled with thugs.

Maybe she was just happy to have a job, he reflected as he looked over the certificates. She had no high school or college diploma. These were all certifications that Irah Lorraine Carrasco had completed courses in race driving, survival, marksmanship, and self-defense. And, surprisingly, the SFPD’s Citizens’ Police Academy seven years ago.

Cole grunted. “That must have thrilled big brother.” He glanced back at her. “Is it when you started going to cop bars?”

She thumbed her controls. “Die, rat breath,” she spat, and grinned at an explosion.

Or maybe she just wanted a place to play games and, despite what she said to Flaxx, avoid growing up. While he read the certificates, she had been feverishly working the game controls and talking back to threats muttered by the thugs. She must play this game often, enough to know the various villains’ dialog. Her exchanges with them sounded almost like real conversations.

That never-never-land attitude went with the largest of the photographs. Poster-sized, it showed a teen-age Irah on a beach with a slightly older male…their arms around each other and surf boards, dental floss bikinis showing off beautiful tans, sun-bleached hair blowing in the wind. Golden children with no cares except perfecting the tan and catching a good wave.

The male must be her waiter. He had a rules are for suckers look in his eyes that raised Cole’s hackles. If anyone like that came sniffing around Renee he would-

Cole caught himself and grimaced bitterly. He would do nothing, of course…because he was not going to be there. Don’t think about it, man. Brooding over what could happen without him would just drive him crazy. He had to trust Sherrie to protect the girls. She ought to do fine, since, thank God, she would be seeing their boyfriends through the shadow of Eddie Trask.

He concentrated on the rest of the photographs to force his mind away from the subject. The line of 8 by 10's all showed Irah at play…bungee jumping, clinging like a spider to a sheer rock face, working a half-pipe on a skate board, riding a bucking bull, showing off a target with the shots all in the ten circle.

The hair rose on his neck. He stared at the photograph. Not at the target demonstrating her marksmanship but her other hand, the left one. It still held the target pistol, her thin fingers wrapped around the grip in an echo of an image burned into his memory — the shooter with his hand partially backed out of the plastic bag to display his gun.

“Son of a bitch!”

An jolt of astonishment and anger spun him toward the desk. Amid that roar, images from the shooting played in his head in machine-gun flashes. He circled the desk, comparing them to Irah. Height and weight looked right. Ditto the hands. The shooter had longer, dark hair, though, and a different voice…male…adolescent. Cole stopped behind the computer to look her in the face. It was amazing how killers, if she were one, rarely looked like monsters. He needed to see her ears. The shooter’s had no lobes. But disk earrings covered Ira’s lobe area. Maybe he could tell something from behind.

He started around for the other end of the desk…jerking to a halt as the raspy voice he recognized as one of the game character’s came out of her mouth. While he watched, she answered in her own voice, then without a hiccup, went back to the raspy voice.

Cole mentally kicked himself. The game characters had not been talking; she was. And if you’d been paying attention, numbnuts, instead of getting your back up over the boyfriend and checking out her photos, you’d have figured that out fifteen minutes ago. Being shot in the head had indeed blown his brains out.

She did voices. The three words reverberated through him to his toes and hands. He raced through the desk to behind Irah’s chair and crouched to peer at the back of her ears. When he called Sara…who answered? Someone who accused Gao of catching her. Someone who begged him to come after her but insisted he wait in the garage rather come up for her.

The posts coming through her ears barely cleared the lower edge of the cartilage. If she had lobes, they were minimal.

A jammed tape, it occurred to him, not only prevented a record of when someone left, but how many left…and in what condition.

Terror hung down in the garage.

Ice slid along Cole’s spine and surged into his gut in a new, sharper burst of fear for Sara. If he were right about Irah, there was no reason to think she would stop at killing just him. Despair and fury at himself seared him. Was he too late to save Sara from the mess he created? Had he screwed up not just by encouraging her on Monday and by missing her phone calls Wednesday but failed her by now never being able to put things right?