James Conway - In Cold Blonde

Had Eric Templeton somehow come between Ernesto Sian and Syd? Was he a client? Had he met her professionally?

If Ernesto Sian kept his girls drugged up, Syd could have overdosed. If an ambulance was called, Eric Templeton could have responded.

Travis looked up the number for Fire Station 82, called them and asked where they take drug overdose victims. They told him St. John’s Hospital.

All Travis had to do now was find someone who knew someone at St. John’s who would be willing to check the admittance files for the last quarter of 2003. If Syd Curtis had been brought in by Eric Templeton, he’d found his connection.

Travis glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. Probably too late to follow up tonight; it would have to wait until morning. In the mean time, he owed his client an update. He picked up his phone and dialed; he was sure Anne would be fascinated by the new revelations about the increasingly mysterious Syd Curtis. Travis already had discovered enough to get Syd kicked off the police department — lying on your Academy application was cause for immediate dismissal.

But there seemed to be much more; Syd was a runaway, possibly a hooker and corpses littered her past.

Just the kind of dirt Anne was hoping for.

Anne heard her phone vibrating in her purse but decided to ignore it. Ryan had just walked in and she didn’t want to give him the impression that anyone or anything was more important than he was.

“Hey, Handsome,” she said getting up and hugging him. She kept it businesslike, no genital grind, hopefully that would come later.

“Trader Vic’s,” Ryan said, sitting down. “I can’t believe you picked Trader Vic’s. I think I’m still hung over from that crazy night.”

Trader Vic’s was a Polynesian-themed waterhole and restaurant famous for lethal drinks and pupu platters. It was attached to the Beverly Hilton until a few years ago when the hotel relocated and downsized Trader Vic’s to a poolside lounge. But the garish decoration remained, as did the delicious but deadly Tiki Bowl, Singapore Symphony and Rum Giggle.

Ten years ago Ryan and Anne came to Trader Vic’s to celebrate their engagement. They ordered a Scorpion Bowl, a vicious concoction of rum, fruit juice and brandy, served in a bowl with a flower floating in the middle. The drink is so big it’s served with four straws, so a party of four can share it. Ryan and Anne liked it so much they ordered another, and then a third.

By then they had invited everybody in the restaurant to their wedding, led a boisterous rendition of the Macarena, and to cap off the evening, made love in the middle stall of the men’s bathroom. Anne’s orgasm was so loud that Ryan and Anne got a standing ovation from the crowd as they walked back to their table.

“We had fun, didn’t we?” she asked with a naughty smile.

Actually, the next morning Ryan was completely embarrassed by their behavior. He thought they’d been silly and obnoxious. In fact, he was surprised the other patrons had put up with their nonsense. But over the years Ryan had seen other we’re-so-in-love-we can’t-stand-it couples make complete fools of themselves in restaurants and Ryan now understood what was going through the other patrons’ minds: Look how crazy in love those two are, I remember feeling like that, God I miss feeling like that.

“We did have tons of fun,” Ryan said, smiling warmly at the memory. “But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stick to beer tonight.”

Anne laughed. “Fear not, my Scorpion slurping days are behind me, too.” And as if on cue, a waitress arrived with a vodka tonic for her and a Michelob draft for him.

“I hope you don’t mind but I already ordered our drinks.”

“Not at all, thank you,” Ryan said.

“My pleasure.” They toasted and drank. Anne was pleased; she’d chosen Trader Vic’s not for the drinks but for the memories, and from the wistful look on Ryan’s face, it worked.

It more than worked. In fact, Ryan had spent the drive over to the Beverly Hilton convincing himself that he was going to keep his relationship with Anne strictly business. He was in a relationship with Syd. Though he had feelings for Anne, she was the past. Syd was the future. But looking at Anne now, remembering those heady days, his resolve was melting. Could you be in love with two women at the same time, he wondered.

And then he found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss Anne again.

Stop it! You’re here for business he scolded himself. “So,” Ryan said. “I don’t have a lot of time; anything I need to know before the big presentation tomorrow?”

Like a fly fisherman stalking a wily bass, Anne felt Ryan slip the hook. No matter, she knew time was on her side. “Okay, first things first; how much of the thirty-four million do you want to put in the foundation?”

“Funny you should mention that,” Ryan said. “When I first agreed to take the money, I thought I’d put all the money in the foundation. But the more I think about it, the more I think I should keep some of it for myself.”

“I agree completely,” Anne said. We’re going to need a few million to live on, she thought. But she said, “Once the money is in the foundation, you won’t be able to use if for personal use. So if you put, say, half the money in the foundation to get it going — seventeen million dollars is an incredibly generous initial donation by the way — and kept seventeen million for yourself, that would enable you to take time to assess your personal needs, and if you decide you want to donate more to the foundation later, you can.”

Seventeen million was a lot more than Ryan had considered keeping. But Anne was right; he could always donate more later. “Tell you what,” Ryan said. “Let’s start with a twenty-million-dollar donation; it just sounds better, you know, giving away more than half. That still leaves fourteen million for me, but I’m sure I’ll donate most of it to the foundation later.”

Not if I have anything to say about it, Anne thought. But she said, “Excellent idea. And the press will eat it up.” She dropped her voice imitating a newscaster, “Cop donates tens of millions to charity.”

“I’m really not comfortable with the media,” Ryan said. “They’re not exactly a detective’s best friend.”

“But they’ll be the foundation’s best friend. The more people who know about the foundation, the more people you’ll be able to help.”

Ryan was very uncomfortable with his face all over TV, magazines and newspapers. A natural modesty was one reason, but there was also a nagging concern about the tow truck driver. He could see Ryan on TV, remember him, remember losing his own Lotto ticket and realize the money is really his.

It’s still not too late, Ryan thought. Once he took the money, he’d committed fraud. For the rest of his life he’d feel guilty about it. For the rest of his life he’d be worried about a phone call from the tow truck driver.

Anne saw the sudden concern wrinkle Ryan’s forehead. She knew what that meant; he was worried about something, and for a righteous man like Ryan it could only be one thing. “Stop it,” she said.

“Stop what?”

“Stop over-thinking it, Ryan. You’re worried about the tow truck driver, aren’t you?”

Ryan nodded.

“First of all, he probably doesn’t even remember buying the damn ticket much less losing it. Second of all, even if he did, there is no way he would have remembered you. You were standing in line behind him. Third of all, even if he did remember you, he didn’t see you pick up his ticket, because if he had, he would have asked you to give it back. And finally, there is no way he could know whether you bought your own Lotto ticket. He can’t prove anything. He has absolutely no legal standing. Plus, remember, if you don’t take the money, nobody gets it. You’re going to do wonderful things with this money, Ryan. So, relax. Enjoy Fate’s fickle finger.”