Obsession, Deceit and Really Dark Chocolate Read online

  “That’s very true,” Anatoly agreed, “and eloquently stated. I wonder, do you think O’Reilly was the only one responsible for leaking the reports about your supposed infidelities? What about the reports of your previous drug use and the abortion?”

  “That was a long time ago,” Anne snapped.

  “I am well aware of that,” Anatoly said soothingly. “As far as I’m concerned your ability to kick an addictive habit is a tribute to your personal strength and courage.”

  Wow, he was laying it on thick.

  “But I was just trying to figure out if Mr. O’Reilly might have had help in his attempts to slander you.”

  “I’m sure Fitzgerald encourages his team to share any information that could potentially hurt my campaign, but I have a hunch that Mr. O’Reilly was the only one who made a career out of it.”

  “I see. And before he died…do you have any reason to believe that he was trying to expose anything other than all of your past affairs?”

  “All of my past affairs? I’ve had two. That’s it! They were a long time ago and I’ve apologized for them!”

  “Forgive me, I misspoke. I’m just trying to get a handle on how low Fitzgerald is willing to go in the name of winning.”

  Anne leaned forward and lowered her voice to a kind of growl. “Fitzgerald would do anything to win. He may like to pretend that he’s the perfect Christian, but I guarantee you he’s not a kindhearted man. If I was the one who had been shot instead of Mr. O’Reilly, Fitzgerald would have offered the gunman a job on his campaign.”

  When the interview was over, Anatoly snapped a few pictures of Anne standing next to her campaign volunteers and talking on the telephone to a nonexistent person. Unlike some people, I didn’t feel the need to play both photographer and journalist, so I stood aside as they did their thing.

  “What is this for?”

  I looked up to see a pleasant-looking salt-and-pepper-haired man looking down at me inquisitively.

  “It’s just a photo shoot for Tikkun magazine.”

  “Tikkun?” The man released a low whistle. “Impressive. I’m surprised they’re interested in a small district race.”

  “It’s an article about how political campaigns are conducted. I’m Sophie Katz, the reporter. Who are you?”

  “Sam Griffin, Anne’s husband.”

  “You’re kidding!” I shook his hand enthusiastically. “What an unexpected surprise Mr.…I’m sorry, what did you say your last name was?”

  “Griffin. Anne kept her maiden name. It’s more liberated.” There was a note of resentment in his voice. With everything I had read about Anne it seemed to me that her unwillingness to change her name was the least of his problems.

  “Do you help Anne with her campaign?” I asked.

  “She has my full support, but I’m nowhere near savvy enough to be a political consultant. I make a living as a doctor.”

  “Oh? What do you specialize in?”

  “I’m a nutritionist. Perhaps you’ve read my book, Broccoli for Life?”

  That’s right, the gas guy Johnny was talking about. “It’s on my must-read list.”

  Sam Griffin nodded and looked at his wife admiringly. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? She was born to be in front of a camera.”

  I followed his gaze. Anne wasn’t unattractive, but “beautiful” was a stretch. Then again maybe I would see her with different eyes if I didn’t suspect that she had killed a man.

  “How long have you been married?” I asked.

  “Two years.”

  “Practically newlyweds,” I said with a smile. I had uncovered news reports revealing that Anne had divorced the father of her teenage son, but I had found very little written about her latest union.

  “I think we’ll always be newlyweds,” he sighed. “She’s such a remarkable woman. I completely adore her.”

  “Really?” I quickly realized how that sounded and tried to adjust my tone. “I mean she’s obviously worthy of adoration, but most men don’t fully appreciate the women in their lives.” Like the one currently photographing your wife.

  “There’s no way to be with Anne without appreciating her. She’s amazing.”

  Sam was beginning to annoy me. I gave him a discreet once-over. He didn’t look like a freak. He was wearing a pair of dress slacks matched with a tasteful sport coat. He wasn’t buff but he wasn’t out of shape, either. He was the kind of guy who was attractive enough to show off to friends but not so gorgeous that you had to worry about him outshining you. The perfect husband for a woman who was running for office.

  “Sam!” Anne waved at her husband as Anatoly put his camera back in its case. “You’re right on time for our lunch date.” She walked to his side and linked her arm through his. “It’s hard finding quality time to spend with your spouse when you’re in the middle of a campaign,” Anne explained, “but Sam and I always find a way to do it.” She batted her eyes at him. Literally batted her eyes. Who does that? But judging from the way Sam’s chest puffed up it was clear that he enjoyed it.

  “I have all the photos I need.” Anatoly crossed to my side and smiled at the sickeningly happy couple. “Thank you so much for your time.”

  “No, thank you.” Anne smiled. “I have an enormous amount of respect for your publication and I am honored to be featured in it.”

  The quintessential politician. I managed not to gag and bid both Anne and her brainwashed husband goodbye. I didn’t say a word to Anatoly until we stepped outside. “How did you find out about the interview?”

  “How many times do I have to remind you that I’m a private detective?”

  “So what does that mean? Do you have my phone tapped or something? Because it’s not like I posted my meeting with Anne on the Internet.”

  “I know you, Sophie, and I know that you wouldn’t invite me to lunch at a restaurant that doesn’t have a full liquor license unless you weren’t planning on showing up.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m not joking. You told me that you pretended to be a journalist when talking to Fitzgerald, so I put two and two together and I called Brooke’s campaign headquarters claiming that I was your photographer and needed to double-check the time of the interview. Just like that they confirmed my suspicions.”

  “Just because you figured it out doesn’t prove you’re a good detective,” I grumbled.

  “That’s exactly what it proves,” Anatoly said with a smirk. “Now that we’ve finished the interview, there is nothing left for you to contribute to this investigation. I’ll take it over from here.”

  “I told you once and I’ll say it again—I’m not leaving this whole thing to you.”

  Anatoly scowled. “Why do you care so much? Why is it so important to you that you personally investigate this?”

  I swallowed and looked away. “I’m using the experience to enhance my writing. I’m going to use this tragedy as a basis for a fictional novel that will touch people’s lives.”

  Anatoly burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re going to touch people’s lives? Sophie, don’t you read your own books? Adam Sandler movies have more depth.”

  “That is so not fair! My books are often very touching!”

  “Hardly…although I will say that some of your sex scenes may prompt readers to touch themselves.”

  “Cute. You know, you’re in no position to question my motives. At least I’m not bilking Melanie for thousands of dollars up front. And don’t tell me you’re not. I see the evidence.” I gestured to his Harley that was parked not far away. Obviously it had been fixed.

  “Melanie is the one who set the price for my services,” Anatoly said. “I told her she was offering me way too much, but she insisted. Somebody told her that ten thousand dollars is what I normally charge, and considering who I have to deal with I don’t think I’m being overpaid.”

  “Listen, Anatoly, there is no way in hell that Melanie will let you work on this case
alone.”

  Anatoly’s eyebrows furrowed. “Funny you should say that. When Melanie first contacted me, she and I agreed that you shouldn’t be involved in this. Suddenly she’s changed her mind. Why is that, Sophie?”

  “Simple, she realized that I’ve already dug up a lot of valuable information and she wants me to continue to build on my leads.”

  “I got the feeling it was more complicated than that. Tell me, why is it that during our conversations Melanie now refers to God as a ‘higher power’?”

  I bit my lip and tried to think up a response.

  “Did you tell her I was an addict of some kind?” Anatoly pressed.

  Just then I heard my cell phone ringing in my handbag. Literally saved by the bell. I grabbed it and pressed it to my ear, not even bothering to check the caller ID. “Hello?”

  “Sophie, is that you? It’s Johnny, as in Fitzgerald’s Johnny. Wait, that sounds wrong. I didn’t mean anything by that—I’m not Fitzgerald’s Johnny, I’m your Johnny. Wait, that sounds bad, too…”

  I squeezed my eyes closed. This was almost as bad as talking to Anatoly. Almost, but not quite. “Johnny, are you calling because you set something up with Maggie Gallagher?”

  Anatoly raised his eyebrows at the name and I gave myself a mental slap for clueing him in on a lead.

  “Um, yeah, I mean no. Maggie’s being really squirrelly about being interviewed. I asked Fitzgerald if he would talk her into it and he said he’d try. I don’t really get that. Fitzgerald’s the boss, he shouldn’t have to try. He should just tell her to do it and then she would. She works for him. It doesn’t make sense to me. Does it make sense to you?”

  “Not really,” I admitted. Just then a large truck went by. I turned my back to the street to avoid getting dust in my eyes.

  “Was that a car?” Johnny asked. “Is this your cell phone? You didn’t tell me this was a cell phone number. That’s great! That means I can reach you even when you’re out! Do you even have a home phone? Because a lot of people just use cells these days.”

  “I have a home phone number, too,” I admitted, secretly glad that I had only been stupid enough to give him one of my numbers. “If you haven’t been able to get me an appointment with Maggie, then why are you calling?”

  “I wanted to invite you to a party. Do you like parties? Who doesn’t, right? I’m having a dinner party on Thursday night. It’s a housewarming party to celebrate my recent move to El Cerrito.”

  “Who else did you invite?” I did not want to go to this party, but if Eugene’s coworkers were going to be there, I probably should.

  “Lots of people, friends, people from work. Rick’s gonna be there and I think he’s going to ask Mary Ann. Did you know they talk on the phone all the time? And I think they went out to dinner again, too. They’ve really hit it off. Maybe we could do another double date in the city sometime.”

  Anatoly was studying me, clearly trying to piece together the conversation from my end of it.

  “You want to have dinner with me again?” I purred, purely for Anatoly’s benefit.

  “Yeah, of course!” Johnny gushed.

  “I see, well I think I can make it to your place on Thursday. I’m kind of in the middle of something right now, but I’ll call you back and get the details.”

  “Great!”

  “Yeah, great. I’ll talk to you later, Johnny.” I hung up and grinned at Anatoly.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “That was a man who is head over heels in love with me.”

  “And you’re meeting him at his place?”

  Was that concern in his eyes? Jealousy, even? Oh, this was too good. “He’s cooking me dinner.”

  “Maggie Gallagher is Fitzgerald’s media person. How does this Johnny person know her?”

  Oops, I had forgotten that he had overheard that part, too. “Johnny is Fitzgerald’s personal assistant,” I confessed. “He’s really nice and not just a little bit cute and he loves me.”

  “Just how far are you planning on going in order to get information about Eugene?”

  I held up my hands as if trying to physically grasp what I thought he was implying. “Do you actually think I’m planning on sleeping with some guy just so I can get a little more information about Eugene and his former life? Is that seriously what you think?”

  “I think that murder investigations are very dangerous and that you are risking your life just so you can make me angry. I think that you are capable of doing some very stupid things.”

  “Let me explain a few things to you. When I sleep with a man, I do so in order to get off, not to get information. Secondly, one of the stupid things I’m capable of is solving the stupid cases that you can’t!”

  Anatoly took a step back. “Excuse me?”

  “Let’s face it, Anatoly. You stink at your job. Once upon a time you were determined to figure out who killed Alex Tolsky, but I’m the one who figured that out. Granted, I didn’t work it out until the killer was actually standing in front of me and threatening my life, but that’s still more than you can say.”

  “I would have been able to figure it out if you hadn’t had me thrown in jail for a crime I didn’t commit.”

  “Now you’re just making excuses,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “I’m a better detective than you and I’m not walking away from the case.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “Never bet against me, Anatoly. You will always lose.”

  “That’s because you cheat.”

  “All’s fair in love and war.”

  Anatoly took a step forward and he tilted his head to the side. He studied my face with the attention of a sculptor being introduced to his next model. “Funny,” he muttered, “I don’t think this is about war.”

  For a moment there was total silence. Sure, we were standing on the sidewalk and cars were driving past and the wind was rustling the trees that lined the street, but all of that faded away as I tried to absorb what he had just said.

  And then he turned around, walked to his newly repaired Harley and drove off.

  This is why I hated Anatoly. He would drop these little bombs and then walk away without dealing with the emotional chaos he had just created. Did he just tell me that he loved me? Was he just messing with my head? A comment like that needed to be immediately followed by a serious discussion or sex, but to say something like that and then just hop on a motorized phallic symbol and ride off wasn’t acceptable.

  “I’m done with this,” I said aloud. “I’m done with obsessing and overanalyzing every comment. I’m just done.”

  A woman pushing a toddler in a stroller walked by just as I finished my mutterings. She gave me a frightened look and a wide berth. I guess people on the streets of Livermore didn’t talk to themselves as much as those on the streets of San Francisco.

  I sighed and started for my car. I would show Anatoly up and then I would wash my hands of him. I didn’t need him or his ambiguous endearments or his hands, which were strong and just a little rough…. There had been one time when he had lifted me up with one hand while the other one gently worked its way up my shirt. God, that had felt good. Would it be so awful to let those hands touch me again?

  Yes, it would. I jumped in the driver’s seat of my car, eager to get home and take a cold shower.

  The first thing I noticed when I got home was the folded-over piece of paper taped to my front door.

  I pulled it off and examined it. It was written with letters cut out individually from magazines and said, My private life is my business. Stay out of it or else!

  It was signed with a child’s sticker depicting the Pink Panther.

  Unlike the phone message this was clearly a threat, but for the life of me I had no idea what I was being threatened with or why. And how had this note gotten on my door? My building consisted of three flats, and you needed a key just to get into the lobby. The people who lived on the bottom floor were out of town (as they always were). That just lef
t Nancy on the second floor and me on the third. I glanced toward the stairs and considered stopping by her apartment to ask if she had admitted anyone, but then quickly thought better of it. Nancy and I didn’t get along…at all…and the reality was that if someone rang her place and told her that they wanted to leave a threatening anonymous message on my door she probably would have buzzed them right in. I stared at the note again and then finally let myself inside.

  Mr. Katz greeted me by swishing his tail in my direction before disappearing into the kitchen. I got the hint, but my cat would have to wait a few minutes for his meal.

  I crossed to my phone and dialed Marcus’s cell.

  “What’s up, sweetie?” Marcus asked. “Have you turned Anatoly into an alcoholic yet?”

  “I got another message from Darth Vader, at least that’s who I think this is from—but this time the message is in written form,” I said slowly.

  “Darth Vader wrote…hold it, are you talking about the Darth Vader who left the message on your machine?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Shit, so what does it say?”

  “The note just tells me to stay out of his private life or else.”

  “That’s all it says?”

  “Yep. The message is spelled out with letters cut out from magazines.”

  “My God, it’s like a bad 1980s TV drama. How do you know it’s from Vader?”

  “Because there’s a picture of the Pink Panther on it.”

  “Steve Martin?”

  “No, not Steve Martin, the animated Pink Panther, the one they always show during the opening credits. It’s in keeping with his last cat comment.”

  “I see,” Marcus breathed. We were both silent for a moment and then Marcus broke in again. “I take it back, I don’t see at all. Have you been sticking your nose into the personal affairs of the Pink Panther? Does this relate to the last movie? And if so, are you Beyoncé?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m nowhere near blond or curvy enough. Should I call the cops?”

  “And tell them that Darth Vader had teamed up with everybody’s favorite bumbling French detective to send you a message?” Marcus asked.