Naked Came The Phoenix

Chapter Four

DETECTIVE VINCE TOSCANA SURVEYED the scene. A bunch of people who were already too beautiful, standing around a beauty spa that had more marble than the Vatican, and all the people were covered with mud. In fact, they had paid good money to be covered with mud. Vince didn't get it. Back home in Philly, if some knucklehead threw mud on you, you wouldn't pay him for it, you would break his face, no. question. You would have to break his face just to save yours, and you both would be better for it. Vince had learned that lesson from the boys on the corner, which is where he learned every lesson that mattered in life.

Vince sighed inwardly and wished, not for the first time, that he had never moved out of the city. He didn't belong in Virginia. There wasn't enough graffiti. Strangers greeted him on the street. People said "please" and "thank you" like it was going out of style. And now the mud people. It was crazy. But Vince loved his wife, Mary Elizabeth, who was from here, and so he had transferred, even though he was pushing sixty, two years from retirement, and the farthest south he had ever lived was a brick rowhouse on South Street.

And though Vince liked his fancy new house with the plush lawn, he often felt like the only Italian in the Confederacy. By day, he would find himself yearning for a steaming cheese steak and a growing crime rate. At night, his dreams were filled with the happy honking of congested traffic and the screaming of police sirens. He woke up relaxed when he had his recurring dream, the one where the cabbie cut him off and then cursed him out for it. Vince Toscana was homesick.

But now he had a job to do, and Vince loved his job almost as much as his wife. He flopped his tie over his shoulder, hitched up his khaki slacks, and eased onto his good knee beside the muddy body of Claudia de Vries. Vince suppressed his sympathy to serve his profession and appraised the lovely woman, now lifeless, with a critical eye. The medical examiner would determine the time of death for sure, but the pallor of the body and the tension in the facial muscles told Vince that rigor mortis had set in but not disappeared, so the murder was probably committed late last night. Plus the lady wore a fancy cocktail dress, like the kind his wife would wear at night. Then Vince noticed something strange. Down by the woman's manicured hand, the filmy dress concealed an object behind it, formless as a shadow.

Vince slid a ballpoint from his breast pocket and edged the cocktail dress away from the hand, exposing the article clenched in its death grip. What the hell was it? Vince leaned closer. The hand held a piece of clothing that looked for all the world like a skimpy bathing suit. He probed it with his pen, ignoring the surprised murmuring of the mud people behind him.

The swimsuit was made of white jersey, with some sort of bright gold pattern, and Vince couldn't tell without disturbing the suit if it belonged to a man or woman; it could have been either a man's suit or the bottom half of a woman's bikini. Vince wouldn't touch the suit until it had been photographed in place, so he had to settle for eyeballing it from the other side of the body. A swatch of material bulged through the corpse's thumb and index finger. A big yellow dot. A polka dot.

"An itsy-bitsy, teenie-weenie, yellow polka-dot bikini," Vince said aloud, almost involuntarily, as the song sprang instantly to his mind. He heard more murmuring behind him, which he disregarded as his thoughts returned to the body.

What did it mean? Was it a clue? Did the color matter? Did the dead woman rip it from the killer? Or was it presented to her, in some sort of confrontation, as proof of an affair? Perhaps she was just doing her laundry at the time she was killed? A bathing suit? Vince could feel the mud people hovering over his shoulder at the discovery. "Please, step back," he said. He waved them off as politely as possible, not wanting the scene contaminated more than it had been, until he heard a well-bred snort.

"I assume we can leave now," a woman's voice said, and Vince squinted over the top of his bifocals at a broad who had introduced herself as Hilda Finch. She was a definite number for her age, but too high-rent for Vince's taste. Next to her stood her daughter, Caroline, who managed to look pretty even with mud covering her clothing and a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. She looked confused at the sight of the suit, as if she hadn't seen it before, or was too young to know the song, and Vince made a mental note.

"Mrs. Finch," he answered, "you don't have to stand here, but please wait for me in the front room, with the others. I will want to ask you some questions. For example, do you recognize that bathing suit in her hand?"

"Questions?" Hilda Finch peered down her small nose at Vince. "Detective, we don't know anything about this matter. Caroline and I simply discovered the body. That's the extent of our involvement."

"I understand, but we will need a formal statement as part of our investigation." Vince rose to his feet with difficulty. His knee hurt more, down South. All this clean air, and nobody had shot at him in a year. And it hadn't escaped his notice that Mrs. Finch didn't answer his question about the bathing suit. So much for Southern hospitality. "The department likes to do a thorough job, Mrs. Finch."

"That is not my concern, Detective."

"See what I mean?" Vince ignored her and gestured to the door, where an army of techs in blue jumpsuits and white booties entered, carrying stainless-steel cases of crime detection equipment. Their appearance had nothing to do with anything; Vince was stalling Hilda Finch with his Crime Scene 101 lecture. She was an obvious suspect and he didn't want her going anywhere. "These people, they'll gather the physical evidence from the crime scene. It will give us clues as to the killer. Your statement can help us, too, Mrs. Finch. The department would appreciate it."

"Detective, you can't be serious, detaining me. Don't you know who I am?" Hilda Finch fixed a cold gaze on Vince. "I am the owner of this spa, and my daughter Caroline is the wife of a very important person, a United States congressman."

Vince nodded, no-nonsense. "In my book, if you two found the body, that makes you both important people. I have to talk to you about the circumstances of this homicide."

Next to her mother, Caroline looked confounded. "Aren't you curious?" she asked. "I mean, about how Claudia was murdered?"

Vince looked from one woman to the other, waiting for the answer but acting casual. It wasn't easy to act casual around such classy people, and Vince wasn't a casual man to start with. In fact, Vince hated casual. Casual meant nothing mattered, and to a detective, everything mattered.

Hilda Finch batted her eyes, recovering quickly. "Of course I'm curious, but I'm not morbid. I refuse to stand here, gaping like some fool at a car wreck. I trust Mr. Toscana will tell us what we need to know." She glanced at her jeweled Rolex. "Besides, I have an appointment in fifteen minutes. We can chat after that." She turned away from a startled Caroline, and Vince didn't need twenty-five years' experience to figure that this was the first the daughter heard about any appointment.

"Appointment, Mrs. Finch?" Vince asked. "No problem. I can accommodate you. Normally I would examine the scene first, then talk to witnesses, but we'll talk now. Then you can get right to your appointment."

She pursed thin but glossy lips. "Detective, I will not be delayed. I have a business to run, and the next few hours are critical to its success. I'm sure the word is already out on what happened. There is much to do to make a smooth transition."

Vince decided to let her go. She could run, but she couldn't hide. Joe Louis had said that, or was it Cooch, from the corner? "Suit yourself, Mrs. Finch. If I need you, I will subpoena you."

"Send it to my attorney, Detective." Mrs. Finch took her daughter's hand more rudely than necessary. "My daughter and I are leaving right this minute."

"Why your daughter?" Vince glanced at Caroline, who looked like she wanted to cooperate. "She doesn't have an appointment, or a spa to run." Vince addressed the daughter directly. "Do you?"

Caroline reddened slightly, then cleared her throat. "No, but I think my mother's right, Detective. As the wife of a congressman, I probably shouldn't be speaking with you, at least without talking to my husband first. I have to think about the press, for his sake."

This Vince didn't like. The daughter had information, he could tell. "A woman has been murdered here, ma'am. You may have information that can help me bring her killer to justice. In fact, the murderer may still be among us, right here, in the spa." At this, the mud people recoiled in offense, but Vince ignored them. It was homicide that offended him, not honesty. "You're not gonna talk to me, Caroline? With human life at stake?"

"I can't," she answered, her forehead wrinkled with conflict.

"You may be putting all of these people in danger."

"I know, but-"

"If you have information for me, that puts you at greatest risk, do you understand that?"

Caroline looked torn, but her mother showed no ambivalence. "I'll leave the name of our attorney for you at the desk," Mrs. Finch said. Then she turned and walked off, dragging her daughter away as if she were a small child leaving a petting zoo.

Watching them go, Vince decided that Hilda Finch was the type of person who didn't care about others in the least, not even about her daughter. People like that, they were the most dangerous of all.

Vince had arranged to use a spare conference room in the spa for questioning the witnesses, which suited him fine. He didn't believe it would be real productive but it was procedure, and he'd have to make a record anyway. He could interrogate these characters on their home turf, which he hoped would put them at ease, and the room was nicer than the Ritz. Who knew what would happen? A black granite table, round as a black hole, dominated the room, which was otherwise completely white. Black leather chairs ringed the table, and as soon as Vince sat in one, the pain in his knee disappeared. The chairs were called something-ergonomically correct, Vince remembered, and figured he might ask for one of these babies for Christmas. They made his ergonomics feel better.

He eased back in the chair as a uniformed cop ushered in the first of the mud people. He would see them in no particular order, but they had been kept separate by the uniforms, per directive. The first witness was a young model named Ondine, one name only, if Vince had heard her correctly outside. She was gorgeous but so skinny she needed emergency ravioli. Vince watched with concern as she crossed legs thin as spaghettini and all but disappeared into the cushy chair. "I'm Detective Toscana. Can I get you anything?" he asked on reflex. "A drink, or maybe a meatball sandwich?"

The model set her puffy lips. "I cannot answer that question on the grounds it might incriminate me," she answered, with a straight face, and Vince didn't understand.

"What?"

"My lawyer told me not to talk to you. Also my manager, Chris Lund? He said to pound sand." She got up instantly and walked out the door with a speed surprising in the malnourished.

Vince rubbed his forehead. It was going to be a long morning.

Vince waited while his next interview, a man who looked a lot like George Hamilton, sat down opposite him. It was Raoul de Vries, the husband of the dead woman, and he didn't look unhappy enough at being suddenly single. Vince was instantly suspicious. The spouse was always the prime suspect. He leaned over the table toward Dr. de Vries. "My name is Detective Toscana, and I'm very sorry about your loss, sir."

"Not as sorry as I am. And that concludes this conversation." Dr. de Vries leaped to his Gucci loafers.

"Huh?"

"I will not discuss this matter further, on advice of counsel."

"But, Doctor-"

"You heard me," DeVries said and left even faster than the model, owing to his normal caloric intake.

Vince sat a minute in the glossy, quiet room, suddenly cheered. He was getting so much crap, it almost felt like home.

Vince straightened in his wonderful chair at the appearance of King David, who strode through the door as if he were taking center stage. Vince had never heard King David's music, but he knew that the kids were wild for him. The rock star sat in the chair with such a theatrical flourish Vince was tempted to ask for his autograph, even though he didn't like anybody who would name himself King, on principle. It seemed vaguely sacrilegious. Plus what do you call him for short?

"King?" Vince began, taking a flyer. "I'm Detective Toscana." The rock star laughed softly. "You don't really think I'm going to answer your silly questions, do you?"

Vince drummed his fingers and stared at his empty pad until the door opened and Howard Fondulac, the Hollywood producer, entered the room. The producer didn't even bother to sit down and stood inside the door only long enough to announce:

"I take no meetings without my lawyers."

Then he left, his cell phone ringing.

"Pleased to meet you," Vince told the young muscleman, and tried not to notice that the man was wearing only a black bathing suit, thin as a strip of electrician's tape. Vince wondered if the swimsuit was the same type as he had found on the corpse, but didn't want to spend a lot of time staring at the young man's crotch. Otherwise the guy had biceps out his ears and nipples that seemed to be winking at him. It was scary, even for a homicide detective. "I'm Vince Toscana," he said nevertheless.

"Emilio Costanza here," said the man, and Vince broke into a happy grin.

"You're Italian? A paesan? In Virginia?"

"I still ain't talking, goombah. I know my rights."

Vince nodded, understanding.

Vince was about to give it up when Phyllis Talmadge, the psychic author, chugged into the interview room like a diesel-powered tugboat. A red-lipsticked smile dominated her plump face, and her eyes burned an intense and alert brown. Her short hair bounced as she grabbed a chair and plopped down, oblivious to its ergonomic benefits. "I know just what you're thinking!" she boomed, and Vince smiled, startled. "You should. It's your job."

"Damn straight it is." The psychic author burst into merry laughter. "You're thinking that these people are too rich for their own good. You're thinking that they have too much ego and not enough brains. Or heart. Am I right or am I right?"

Vince laughed. "Yes."

"You're thinking that, for once, you wish you had an easy interview. Someone who actually wanted to talk to you. Who could work with you. Who could put it all together into a nice, smooth story."

Vince laughed again, in wonderment. "That's exactly right."

"You want to meet somebody with useful information, who can throw out all the irrelevant facts, highlight the ones that matter, and just get to the point already."

"True!" Vince said eagerly. Her enthusiasm was catching.

"Well, I am that person! I can answer all your questions and wrap it up for you in a neat package. Most of the time, I can answer a question in eight words. That's a trick my media coach taught me. Go ahead. Try me!"

Vince frowned. "Media coach?"

"Come on, ask me a question, any question."

Vince glanced at his notes. "Well, I do have a series of questions and we-"

"Ask me what my new book's about, for starters."

Vince shrugged. He'd play. It was nice to have a witness cooperate, for a change. "Okay, what's your new book about?"

"Using your psychic powers to change your life." The author clapped for herself, with delight. "You're amazed, right?"

"Well, yes."

"You're so easy to read!"

"I am? I mean, I am." Vince leaned over, intrigued. He had never met a psychic, but a buddy of his in the department back home had. That psychic had helped them clear a major case, a double homicide. Maybe the psychic author could help on this case. "Are you really psychic?" he asked.

"Of course. I have the sixth sense. That's why I sell so many books. I'm on the list with the latest, it's goin' on eighteen weeks. Got three million in print and my backlist is going bazoogies. I'm givin' those Chicken Soup clowns a run for their money. I'm in a very competitive business, you know."

"But you're not a businessperson. You're an author, right?"

"Same difference. For example, take my latest, Flex Your Psychic Muscles. It flew outta the stores on the lay-down date."

"Lay-down date?" Vince didn't know the term, but it sounded important, if not clairvoyant. Or literary.

"After I did The Morning Show, we went into a fifth printing. I told my publisher, who needs Oprah? Print those suckers! Hold contests! Give incentives! Co-op ads! Rebates! Post me on the Web site, bounce me off the satellite, shrink-wrap me with the Sugarbusters, do whatever it takes. Just move product!"

"You mean your books?"

"I'm following up with a video, for people who hate reading, like me. Who has the time? And who needs it, really?"

"You don't read?" Vince asked, but the author appeared not to have heard him.

"My publicist thinks we can take John Gray, hands down, if we can just get the media in LA. Nobody gets media in LA, she says. She tells me you gotta be blonde. It's a visual medium, she says, but I say, to hell with that! I'm a promotable author, even though I'm not blonde. Where is it written you gotta be blonde? Look at Faulkner!"

"Uh, well-"

"Not blond. Also Hemingway-not blond."

Vince was growing impatient. He had met felons with better manners. "But Ms. Talmadge-"

"And Papa shoulda missed a few meals, if you know what I mean. The man had a beard like my aunt, but he moved product. You gotta admit, the man could move product! He still can and he's dead! And not even blond!"

Vince halted the author with a palm. He wasn't getting anywhere, and he had a job to do. "Yes, well, I wanted to talk to you about the murder of Claudia de Vries. Where were you last evening, between the hours of six o'clock and midnight?"

The author's enthusiasm vanished in an eye blink. "Why do you ask?"

"It's my job."

"Is that what you want to talk about?"

"Yes, of course."

The author looked confused. "You don't want to talk about my books?"

"Frankly, no. I'm a detective." Vince caught himself. He hadn't introduced himself because of the way she had barged in. "I'm sorry, my name is Detective Toscana."

"You 're the detective?" The author gasped. A pudgy hand flew to her mouth. "This isn't my preinterview for The Today Show? They said they'd meet me here, at the spa. I thought the detective was next door. Wait'll I get a hold of that publicist!" She jumped to her tiny feet and plowed through the door, leaving steam in her wake.

Left alone in the interview room, Vince mentally regrouped. So nobody would talk to him without a lawyer. He should have expected as much. Rich people didn't expose themselves to risk, and they were used to layers of protection. He would have to approach the crime another way. Outside the room, the coroner would be examining the body of Claudia de Vries, and the techs would be vacuuming for fibers, hair, and other trace evidence. In a mud bath, there could even be muddy footprints. The crime scene would talk to him, even if the witnesses wouldn't. He had no time to lose.

Vince rose quickly to go and, in his haste, bumped into a white board resting on an aluminum easel. The easel toppled over and the white board fell off with a clatter, knocking into a closet door. Embarrassed, Vince hurried to right the easel, and as he bent over, noticed the closet door had been knocked ajar. Hmmm. He didn't have a warrant and had a lousy argument for a consent search. But if he found pay dirt, he'd go to the judge and get the warrant then come back later and "find" the stuff. Vince had no problem with the Constitution, when it served justice. He opened the closet door.

The Sharpie letters on one of the boxes read "Dead Files." Vince lifted the cardboard lid of the box and peeked inside. A lineup of manila folders, all tabbed with different names and colors. Vince, whose color coding was limited to pink for girls and blue for boys, was dazzled by the array of chartreuse, cerise, and puce. He gave up cracking the color codes and pulled out the first folder.

"Leticia Finnerman" read the name on a lime tab, and Vince opened the folder. It had the name and address of a woman who lived in Newton, Massachusetts, and who weighed exactly 112 pounds. There was a chart that contained a detailed account of everything Mrs. Finnerman had eaten for a ten-day period. Vince closed it in disgust. Not a pasta dish among them. It broke his heart. And it didn't help with the case, either.

He riffled through the other folders, and they were all similar: records of spa menus for the length of the guest's stay. Then Vince remembered the skinny model, with the legs. Ondine One-Name. Had she been here before? What the hell could she eat? Water with ice? Vince flipped to the O's and found a file. Ondine. He yanked it out and it flopped open.

But it wasn't a record of Ondine's menus. It was something else entirely. A ten-day stay, all right, but on each day, where the other guests had their food intake recorded, Ondine's chart showed a record of cash payments. The first day of her visit, which was October 31 of last year, she received $125,000, and she got $100,000 every day after that.

Vince blinked. Could it be? Did this kid get over a million dollars in ten days? But why? And from who? Whom? How much was she getting this visit, which was around the same time of year? Did it have anything to do with the de Vries murder?

Astonished, Vince looked up from the file just as the door to the conference room opened.

After her encounter with Detective Toscana, Caroline walked in a stiff silence with her mother, neither speaking until they had left the crowd at the mud baths behind and reached the flagstone path to their cottage. Caroline's emotions churned within her, as did so many questions. Why was her mother acting so strangely? Why didn't she tell the detective what she knew? And why didn't she want Caroline to talk to the authorities? She couldn't contain her thoughts a moment longer. "Mother, you told the detective you have an appointment. What appointment do you have?"

"I have things to do." Hilda Finch picked up the pace and her eyes remained straight ahead, confusing her daughter further.

"I've had a telephone installed in our cabin, for one thing. I have a business to run. The transition has to be smooth."

"Mother, for heaven's sake. It's a spa, not a country. And a murder has been committed."

Hilda Finch pivoted on her heel, her face contorted with anger. "Don't you dare tell me what to do. Or denigrate my efforts. The spa is my business, just as you have your business. I don't make jokes about your cello playing, do I?"

Caroline was stung. "I wasn't making jokes. I was just trying to understand you. This is a murder we're talking about, the murder of your friend. Don't you feel bad for her? And aren't you concerned for all of us? Why don't we go back and help the detective? What about justice?"

"Justice!" Her mother snorted. "Do you have any idea how much money this spa grosses a year?"

"Well, no."

"Swedish massages at a hundred and fifty dollars a half hour. Victorian manicures at forty-five dollars. All we do is put a foreign name on it and we charge extra."

"We?"

"Yes, we." Her mother's anger seemed to dissipate, and she leaned over confidentially. "The profit margin here is obscene, especially considering what we pay the help. I'm going to run this place even better now. I'll be more hands-on. Downsize, merge, and franchise."

"But you don't know anything about-"

"I don't? Does Mrs. Field know cookies? Does Mary Kay know mascara? Why shouldn't I have my own spa business? Who knows more about beauty than I do?"

Caroline gathered that the question was rhetorical. Her mother was the vainest woman alive, but was that a job qualification? Caroline couldn't shake the sight of poor Claudia, clutching that absurd bikini, even in death.

"With a clever accountant and some elbow grease, I'm planning to make Phoenix Spa into a chain. Breathe new life into the old bird." Her mother's eyes focused for a moment on some faraway bottom line, and Caroline couldn't take it anymore. A woman was dead and her mother was dreaming of franchising facials.

"You know what, Mother?" Caroline snapped. "I don't know you at all. And what I'm coming to know, I don't like very much. I think we should go right back to that detective."

"I will not!"

"Then I will."

"You will not!" Her mother's eyes flared in renewed anger. "I forbid it! Douglas forbids it!"

"You can't forbid me. I eat solid food now, have you noticed?"

Her mother didn't bat an eye. "I can still forbid you, and I do. Do it and you'll hurt me, destroy your family!"

"But how?"

"I don't want a new business at the center of a murder case, and if you don't care about your own mother, think of Douglas. He loves you. He's a politician. You think he needs his wife being the star witness in an ugly murder case?"

Caroline tried to imagine it. It would be awful for Douglas. But being accused of obstructing justice could be worse. Caroline felt torn, but her mother ranted on.

"Picture this scene. Every press conference dominated by questions about you. Your name in the headlines, linked with a strangulation. And a bikini. God knows how they'll play it up, the possibilities are endless. He'll never get reelected!" Her mother drew a quick breath. "Now stop this foolishness and go to your room!"

The command struck a familiar chord. Without another word, Caroline broke away from her mother and hurried up the staircase to her room in their cottage. She was so angry and confused, she had to be alone. To think. To sort it out. To make a decision.

She threw herself facedown on the puffy duvet like she used to when she was a teenager. When was she going to grow up? Why did she still let her mother control her? She didn't know. But she had to talk to Douglas. Maybe he would tell her. She had to get him up to speed on what had happened, so he could protect himself. And what about this news, about her having a sister or a brother? Was that related to the murder? She had so many questions, so much to think about. It was all too much to process by herself. She needed help.

Caroline padded downstairs, poked around until she found the cordless phone that had been newly installed on her mother's desk, and punched in Douglas's personal number. Only she had the number; it was his wedding gift to her. She hated to disturb him at their country cabin, but she had to. He was working on a speech and always went into isolation at their cabin to write. Surely this was important enough to interrupt his solitude. She knew he would understand.

Still Caroline couldn't keep her thoughts from racing ahead. She had overheard Claudia's conversation last night. Did her knowledge put her in jeopardy? As the phone started ringing on the other end of the line, she eyed the glass sliders to the patio with new concern. The room was open to the lake. Anybody could break in. She tucked the cordless under her ear and hurried over to double-check the lock.

Good. The lock was in place. The phone was ringing. Douglas would know what to do. She loved him like crazy, and he was wonderful to her. He always seemed to have all the answers, and being married to him for the past eleven months was the best time of her life. Soon it would be their first anniversary. How would they celebrate? She would have to think of something. The phone was finally picked up. "Douglas!" Caroline said, almost breathless.

But the voice on the other end of the line was equally breathless. And it wasn't Douglas's voice. It was a woman's. "Hello?" the woman said, in almost a whisper.

"Douglas?" Caroline asked, taken aback. It couldn't be Douglas's phone. He was alone at the cabin, and nobody else had this number. "I'm sorry, I must have a wrong number."

"No, you wanted Doug? This is his phone."

Caroline's mouth went dry. Her face felt suddenly aflame. She didn't understand. Doug?

"He's sleeping, right here, but I'll wake him if it's important. Is this his office?"

Caroline couldn't answer or speak. She didn't get it. Was Douglas at the cabin with another woman? It couldn't be. He was going up alone, he'd said. He always did. Their marriage was sound, wasn't it?

"Hello? Anybody home?" breathed the woman's voice, then laughed lightly. She sounded young. Fresh. Thin.

Caroline's fingers tightened around the cordless. So Douglas hadn't sent her here for her benefit, or for her mother's. He had done it so he could be alone with this woman. It had all been planned. Premeditated. And was it the first time? Douglas always went to the cabin to work. Was this woman with him all this time? Caroline felt her heart wrench within her chest, but it wasn't pain, it was anger. Rage. Fury. She felt like exploding. For the first time in her life, Caroline felt like an adult. Like a woman.

"Would you give Doug a message for me?" Caroline asked, her voice surprisingly strong.

"Fer sure. I'll get a pencil."

"You won't need one. Just listen."

"Okay. Whatever."

"Tell that jerk I want a divorce for my anniversary," Caroline said abruptly, then pressed the button for End.