Authors: Sue Ann Jaffarian
Chapter Twenty-One
THE PARKING GARAGE looked tempting...and free. It was after normal business hours so the ticket gate was up. I slowed just before making the turn into the concrete and steel structure. Straight ahead was the driveway for the restaurant's valet parking.
Contemplating, I pulled over to the curb. I hated valet parking, especially in Newport Beach. My car was a fifteen-year-old silver Toyota Camry. It was in excellent condition, but in car years, more than ready for Medicare. I had bought it new and saw no good reason to give it up now.
Valet attendants usually sniffed at me when I pulled up behind Beemers and Benzes. A forty-something fat woman driving an old, four-door family sedan did not make their night. Let's face it, this city didn't earn the nickname New Porsche Beach because of its tolerance of frugality.
But I had promised Greg.
And he was right. I shouldn't put myself in any more potential danger than I had already. Moving ahead, I pulled into the valet area directly behind a brand spanking new Lexus. While I waited my turn, I stored my cell phone in my glove compartment after making sure the lock was activated. Yes, I had brought it. It still didn't fit into my black satin evening bag, but I figured I could call Greg as soon as I left for home.
After giving my keys to a young surfer dude wearing a valet's jacket, I entered the restaurant. I saw Hollowell immediately. Sitting at a table on the edge of the dining area, he looked confident, in control, and deadly. He was dressed fashionably in a dark silk suit and white shirt with a banded collar. I bet he and Mike Steele shopped some of the same places. He smiled at me and stood up. Giving him my best coat hanger-induced smile, I headed his way, threading carefully through occupied tables. My walk was tenuous, my stomach knotted.
I gave myself a quick pep talk...silently. I sure didn't want Hollowell thinking I was the type to mumble to myself like a relative locked in an attic. Though I am. Something told me he wouldn't find it endearing, but instead a fault to be used against me as a weapon. He seemed the type.
"Well, hello, Odelia," he said, leaning forward to give me a quick peck on the cheek.
I stiffened slightly at his nearness.
"Don't you look scrumptious," he added, staring openly at my bulging boobies.
Scrumptious? Like a pastry waiting to be devoured? I murmured a thank you, sitting down in the chair he pulled out for me.
The dark elegance of his suit and the whiteness of his hip shirt set off his coloring splendidly, especially his thick salt-and-pepper hair. Looking around quickly, I took stock of the other patrons. Hollowell was easily the most handsome and successful looking man in the room.
"Would you like a cocktail?" he asked, his fingers resting lightly on my hand. In front of him was a glass that looked barely touched. I guessed it to be Chivas, as before.
"Yes," I replied with a saccharine smile, "A champagne cocktail would be nice. Thank you."
He waved a waiter over and placed my order. It appeared at the table almost instantly. He held up his glass in a toast. In turn, I held up my flute.
"To new friends and possibilities," he said, clinking his glass against mine.
Having no intention of being his friend, I didn't second the toast, but kept smiling and sipped my drink. As for future possibilities, I only wanted to toast the possibility of finding enough information to link Hollowell to Sophie's murder. But I was at a loss for a tactful opening. It wasn't like I could just open my mouth and ask why he did it. Or how? Or, tell me, John, just how many deaths are you responsible for?
Fortunately, he picked up the lag in the conversation. "I'm afraid we can't be out too late tonight. Hope you don't mind."
Without thinking, I shot a barb his way, right off the top of my head. "What's the matter, wife have you on a curfew?" Crap! I wanted to entice him into loose conversation, not cop an attitude and give away my true feelings about his creepiness.
He laughed. "That's what I like about you, Odelia, you've got moxie. A beautiful woman, high in spirit, with a sharp and intelligent tongue—can't beat 'em."
"Who, me? And here I always thought I was just a bitch."
He laughed deeply, took a gulp from his glass and continued. "No, my wife doesn't have me on a curfew. Clarice and I have an understanding."
"An understanding," I repeated. "Usually, that means the man wanders, while the little woman keeps her mouth shut and spends his money like a drunken sailor on leave."
If he liked moxie, I'd give him moxie by the mouthful. He obviously liked his word duels scrappy. It made me wonder about his sexual preferences.
He gave me his signature chuckle. "Sounds like you've been married."
"Nope," I said, shaking my head. "Never. But I've been hit on by many a married man with an understanding wife."
He grinned and looked at me. This time his eyes appraised me thoughtfully, completely. I could feel him weighing my worth. I took another drink. My nerves were settling, my purpose for this charade rising to the top.
"So," I said, continuing, "why can't be we out late if it has nothing to do with Mrs. Hollowell?" Inside I was relieved. I had wondered how I was going to extricate myself from his company later in the evening.
"Because," he said, leaning in, stroking the inside of my right arm with a feathery touch, "I need to get up early and drive to San Diego in the morning. There's a golf tournament. Care to come along?"
"You mean you're going alone?"
"No, not alone. With a friend. But I can take her another time."
"A friend? I'm flattered. You'd break the heart of your mistress for little ole me?" I took another drink and gazed at him over the top of my glass. It was behavior right out of a sleazy soap opera and I knew I would rot in hell for this absurdity alone.
"Say the word, Odelia. A suite at the best hotel, a shopping spree."
I hesitated, pretending to give it thought. "The word, John, is no. Sorry."
"I'll just have to ask better next time." He smiled. "You ready to order?" We made our selections and Hollowell ordered a bottle of wine to go with dinner. He would have been the perfect date if not for one teeny reason. Well, okay, many not so teeny reasons, beginning with the debris of suspicious deaths in his life, including his own son's.
"So, tell me," I began, getting down to business, "do you and Clarice have any children?"
"Awww, now why would you want to spoil a perfectly good evening talking about my family?" He covered my hand with one of his and squeezed gently, leaving it there. To the casual observer, I'm sure we looked like a comfy couple in the glow of early courtship.
"Because I want to get to know you, John," I said with a slight purr. Yep, Odelia, you are definitely going to hell.
The waiter came over with the wine just as Hollowell was about to say something. He went through the ritual of swirling a sample in his glass, sniffing it, and giving it a taste. It was a Merlot, dark as black raspberries. Satisfied, he nodded to the waiter who then served me first.
Next came our salads. Finally, we were alone again.
"You were about to tell me something," I prodded.
"Yes, seeing that you're interested." He looked at me with slightly narrowed eyes, took a bite of salad, and chewed thoughtfully. "There's a daughter by my wife's first marriage. She's in her mid-twenties, married, and lives outside Chicago. We hardly see her anymore. Also, we had a son many years ago. He died suddenly when he was an infant, case of crib death."
I studied his face. It told me nothing, a blank. He seemed neither sad nor lost in memory. His words were even and non-committal, like he was simply giving directions.
"I'm very sorry, John."
"Long time ago," he said, giving me a slow grin.
I plowed on, trying more of a direct approach. "Did you always know that Sophie had a son?"
He looked at me strangely, his eyes narrowing again, and said, "Of course, didn't you?"
"No," I admitted, wide-eyed and innocent. "She kept real quiet about it. In fact, she hardly spoke about you. Why do you think she didn't talk to me, or any of our other mutual friends, about her son? I find it very disconcerting."
Hollowell ate on. In a few more bites he was done with his salad. The waiter came over and cleared his plate away.
"I'm finished also," I said to our waiter.
The waiter was a swarthy man with gaunt cheeks, a thin black mustache, and eyes of India ink. He nodded silently and whisked my half-eaten salad away along with Hollowell's empty plate.
Hollowell took my hand again. "Honestly, Odelia, I don't know why she didn't talk about him. I didn't think it was a secret, though she never saw the boy. I can guess why she didn't tell you about me—jealousy. She was very insecure about me and other women. You do know we'd been lovers for years?"
I nodded.
"She probably thought you'd woo me away from her." He reached up a hand and stroked my cheek softly.
My first instinct was to back my face away from his touch, but I held firm.
"She was probably right."
I thought about that. The Sophie I knew didn't have a jealous bone in her body. During our friendship, I'd met several of her male friends. She didn't seem insecure about that at all.
To protect them
.
"I take it your relationship wasn't exclusive. In fact, I know Sophie dated other men."
"True. In the last few years, I encouraged her to see others. I'd been trying to break it off with her, but she wasn't happy about it. The relationship had run its course, but she kept calling me, inviting me over. Very sad."
...he sort of popped in.
Caught Sophie by surprise...
Made her mad...
He was lying. Looking me straight in the eye, holding my hand, he lied to me. And he was good at it. As smooth and as cold as vanilla ice cream, the expensive stuff. He surrendered no hint of conscience or hesitation. He could have been telling the truth. There were a lot of things about Sophie I was obviously in the dark about. But Greg had known the same Sophie I did. So had Marcia and Peter Olsen. Only Hollowell's story wasn't fitting.
Fortunately, the entrées arrived just as I was about to say too much. I concentrated on my grilled salmon and steamed asparagus, using the time to plot a new course. I decided to dig in a different direction.
"You said last time
you
suggested the web site to Sophie. May I ask why?"
"Money, mostly." He hesitated. "You do know that she worked for me for a long time?"
"Yes," I answered, "but I only learned that recently."
"A few years ago, we started going our separate ways, doing less business together. But after years in one company, she didn't want to start over at another. Besides, she liked it, the web site. And was good at it. Have you seen the site?"
"Yes, I have." I thought about the photos posted in the Members Only section. "John, are you the man in the photos on the site? The one having sex with Sophie?"
He stopped eating and leaned back in his chair. He looked at me in silence for a bit, only opening and closing his eyelids every once in a while. The action reminded me of a lizard sitting on a rock, it was easy to make the leap to the reptile family.
Finally, he said, "Why are you so curious about me and Sophie, Odelia?"
I shrugged. "Just nosey, I guess. I feel, now she's gone, that I really didn't know her very well. It's hard for me to understand what drove her to suicide."
He looked at me again in silence, his face still a blank page, except for his eyes, which were busy evaluating. "Do you have any idea what Sophie did for my company?"
"She was a computer consultant."
"Yes, initially she was a computer consultant." He gave me his sly grin. "Later, she was a consultant who used her computer."
He paused, moving closer to me before speaking.
"Her title was Acquisitions Consultant," he told me in a low voice. "But in truth she was the company whore."
...
Hollowell's private whore
.
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and put down my fork. My appetite hadn't been good all evening. Now it was totally gone.
"I don't understand," I said. "You and she were together, weren't you?"
"Yes, we were. But she also worked for me." He took a bite of his salmon and chewed slowly, thoughtfully before continuing.
"After she came down here from Santa Paula, I spruced her up, bought her clothes and had her learn about the finer things. She was so incredibly sexy." He paused and smiled, more to himself than to me. "I'd take her to business meetings and show her off. Now don't get me wrong, she was extremely bright. She'd listen and understand everything discussed. But her real job was to close the deal."
He finished his meal and pushed his plate aside. The waiter materialized to take the plates away and to pour us some more wine. I took a big gulp.
"You know as well as I do, Odelia, that many men love the bigger beauties like Sophie and yourself." He said it with a half-grin, half-leer, his eyes grazing my chest. "So did many of my business associates, especially the foreign ones. They just adored Sophie; her looks, her brains. They lusted after her in a big way. It was her job to make sure they had no doubts about doing business with my company. Sometimes she did the convincing during pillow talk."
"You pimped her?" I asked, trying to keep disgust out of my voice. Anger was rising inside me along with stomach acid.
He chuckled. "Not really. It was her choice. If she didn't like a man, she wouldn't sleep with him, of course. But she'd still attempt to flirt and woo him into signing the deal. I paid her a monthly retainer, a handsome amount. She also got bonuses after the deals closed.
"A few of these men saw her regularly afterward. They gave her expensive gifts, jewelry, trips. They'd fly in from Brussels, London, even from the Middle East, and do business with me, monkey business with her. It wasn't like she was turning tricks on a seedy sidewalk. She kept them happy, which made me happy. Most were married, of course."
"Of course," I echoed. "And, no doubt, to skinny women who looked good in society photographs."
Hollowell put his hands up, palms outward. "Hey, I didn't make the rules, only played by them."
I wanted to slug his lights out, and was astonished by my self-control.