Wendy Hornsby - Telling Lies

“No. I doubt whether she would even open the door if she knew I was coming.”

“If we’re lucky, we’ll catch her in the sack, see what she’s got.”

Paula pounded on the front door. When it was opened by a uniformed maid, Paula whipped out her police ID.

“Like to talk to Mrs. Smith,” Paula said.

“Come in, please.” The maid bowed. I will see if Mrs. Smith is in.”

The maid left us in a foyer festooned with garlands of fresh cedar and holly tied with mammoth red-velvet bows and braided gold cord. The foyer was an oval, with a staircase curving up one side, and tall polished oak doors opening off the other. There was good art on the walls, old architectural prints, and an exceptional oil portrait of the Smith family: Celeste, T. Rex, the deceased Carrie, Rex, Jr., and Paix. The overall effect was intentionally subdued; a lot of money, it said, doesn’t have to advertise.

“Holy shit,” Paula said after making a circuit. “My apartment isn’t as big as this entry.”

“We can leave now,” I said.

“We haven’t even seen the lady of the house yet,” Paula protested.

I reached for the door. “We don’t have to. I’ve learned everything I need to know.”

It was just past three-thirty when we got back to Chinatown. Mike had already staked out the wishing well. When we drove up, we saw him pacing around the plaza that fronted Broadway. I watched him stop an elderly housewife and try to question her. She did a lot of bowing, backward. She left in such a hurry that the parcels in her arms took a good bouncing.

Paula parked in the red zone in front of Sun Yat-sen’s statue. “Won’t you get a ticket?” I asked.

“Who gives a fuck?” She flexed one mega bicep for me. “I’m the police.”

“Mike says that even the mayor gets ticketed in L.A.”

“Sure,” she snickered. “The mayor gets ticketed all the time. He left his limo unattended at the airport-in front of the Tom Bradley Terminal, no less-and it got towed. But that’s the mayor. I said, I’m the police.”

She locked her truck and met me on the sidewalk. “So, where’s your squint?”

“Mike isn’t a squint,” I said. “He spent about fifteen years patrolling the streets. He’s that dear old thing in the gray suit, the one accosting housewives.”

“Gray suit?” she sneered. “Not only a squint, but a pogue.” I laughed. “Come and meet him.”

When Mike saw me, he started running for me. It was too TV. All we needed was a field of flowers and a slo-mo camera. His first words, however, weren’t greatly romantic.

“Shit, Maggie, where the hell have you been? I’ve had the coroner up my ass all afternoon.”

“Hi, Mike,” I said, grabbing him under the chin and kissing his face. “I want you to meet Officer Paula Ericksen.”

“Yeah,” he said with a curt nod in her direction. “What the hell happened at the academy?”

“Paula, here, bench-pressed one-eighty,” I said. “Some guy took a shot at me and somehow got himself blown up.”

He let out a lot of saved-up air and folded me into his arms. It felt awfully good. I let my head fall against his hard shoulder, made the back of my neck available for kissing, if he felt so moved. Fortunately, he did.

“Flint?” Paula said, narrowing her eyes to look Mike over. “You ever work canines?”

“No,” Mike said, coming up for new air. “My old partner does.”

“Doug?” she squealed. Truly. She even blushed a little.

“Yes,” Mike said, relaxing his hold on me. “You know Doug?”

“We were partners for a while, in Southeast. He ever tell you about busting an old hooker named Queen Esther?”

“That was my bust,” Mike said, blushing himself.

“Ohhh.” She waggled a finger at him. “You’re that Flint?”

“Everything he told you about me is a lie,” Mike said.

“Oh yeah?” Paula nudged me. “Ask him to tell you about Queen Esther. I’ll see you guys around.”

I caught her hand. “Aren’t you eating with us? I told you, Mrs. Lim is a great cook.”

Paula looked at Mike and winked. “Maybe another time.”

“What division you working out of?” Mike asked her.

“Best duty in town,” she answered, thrusting up her chin.

“Rootin’ shootin’ Newton. Never a dull watch.”

“I’ll call you,” Mike told her. “There’s a decent taco place on Tenth.”

“Lechuga’s?” she asked.

“Right.”

“Sure. I’ll meet you there. We’ll swap some lies.” She made a gun with her thumb and forefinger and aimed it at his chest. “See ya’, then.”

“Thanks for everything, Paula,” I said.

“Been an education.” She glanced at Mike, then gave me a wicked leer. “Maybe we should have waited around to get some pointers from Celeste Smith.”

“Honey,” I said, “I don’t think you and I need any pointers.”

“Got that right,” she laughed and jogged off to her truck. I liked Paula. I was sorry to see her go. Dinner at Emily’s would have been fun with the three of us. And I knew she would know when to disappear afterward.

As she roared down Broadway in her truck, Paula beat out “Shave and a Haircut” on her horn for us.

“Sweet young thing,” I said, watching her exhaust. Mike was quiet, watching me watch her. When I looked up at him, he covered my mouth with his. I lost track of everything else for a moment.

Traditional Chinese are very reticent about public display of affection. The women skittering home to start dinner all seemed moved to giggles as they passed us.

I came up for air. “Hi, Mike.”

“When the report came in about what went down at the academy, I was scared to death,” he said. “I tried to find you. Where did you go?”

“Paula took good care of me. First, I got my head sewn up. Then she drove me out to Celeste’s house.”

“What happened to your head?” he snapped.

“No big deal. The important thing is what I learned at Celeste’s.”

“What?”

“The Smiths are a lovely family. The two younger children have red hair and freckles, just like their mother.”

“Funny how that works out,” he said.

“But that’s not the good part.”

“Go ahead.”

“The elder boy, Paix, is the spitting image of Ho Chi Minh.”

“What?” Mike asked.“The kid has a long white beard?”

“No. Paix is a very nice-looking young man.” I took Mike’s arm. “He is also very Asian.”

“So? This tells you something?”

“Yes. It means Marc was not Paix’s father.”

Mike drew away to give me a narrow-eyed glare. “I’m lost. Could you back it up a little?”

“Celeste inferred that Marc fathered her son.”

“And you believed her?”

“Never. I remember what Marc used to say about Celeste. He had no interest in her. Marc could be a wild man, but he was cast in a Beau Geste mold. He believed in true love.”

“But you believed her enough to worry about it.”

“To think about the implications, anyway.” I sat on the base of Sun Yat-sen’s statue. “What Garth said about Celeste was true: she’s full of shit.”

“The things that come out of your mouth,” he tsk’ed. He quickly grew serious again. “Just watch your backside. She’s a powerful woman in this town, and she has a bad reputation for the means she uses to get her own way.”

I looked up at him. “For example?”

“I’ve heard stories.” He shrugged. “Why do you say she’s full of it?”

“She told me this sad tale about how she enrolled Paix in an exclusive preschool, but when he showed up, the place was suddenly full. The little guy, she said, had been a victim of conspiracy-someone had gotten to the school.”