steps and said, “Come on inside where we can talk privately.”
We followed him to the top of the stairs where he paused. “Gentlemen, this is Tiffany Vargas.” He leaned into her like he was sharing a secret, and said, “These are the lawyers Stanton recommended.”
She broke out of her trance and smiled at us. There was a glow to her smile, both innocent and mischievous. It was a face that took you in and held you hostage. I could see why a sixty-year-old man—or any man, for that matter—would want her. But why she would want him was an open question. I took her small, soft hand and she nodded at me as she shook. She looked like every stunning blonde model I’d ever seen in a magazine, and yet, she looked even better in real life. You could convince yourself that women like that didn’t really exist in the world, until you saw one, and then you were ruined forever.
She said, “I’m sorry. I’m still in shock. My husband wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t deserve this.”
I didn’t know what to say. Neither did Jendrek, but I caught him smiling at me. He was reminding me that he’d been right, that she was the wife, and he was awfully damned proud of himself. It was a good guess. Tiffany Vargas could have been in her early thirties, but she’d pass for a buxom twenty-two-year-old in anyone’s book. That she had been married to an old guy like Vargas seemed a shame. But she was still young.
She sank back into her trance, looking out over the driveway and the hedges, but seeing none of it. We left her at the top of the stairs and followed Ed Vargas into the house. We stepped into a massive great room with twenty-foot ceilings and a Mexican tile floor. The far end of the room was all windows that looked out over the city. It was a clear day, and you could see all the way to Orange County, if you were interested in looking at it.
The house, still littered with the remains of a large party, had the aura of a hurricane about it. There were cups and ashtrays and bowls of food on the coffee table in the center of the room and along the bar that stood to one side. The obviously expensive rugs were littered with stains and paper. Near my feet was a devil mask with a footprint on it. A loft space overlooked the main room, but the air was heavy despite the open layout.
Ed Vargas stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the area. “It happened about 11:00. This place was packed. The party was really going.” He shook his head. Anger flushed his face. “There were cars everywhere outside. It was obvious there was a party going on. We’re gonna sue the shit out of these people. I want to bankrupt the city. What the fuck were these guys thinking? Getting called on a noise disturbance? Going around the side of the house instead of just coming to the door? What kind of bullshit is that?”
Jendrek and I stood and listened. Neither of us tried to answer the question. Ed’s words echoed in the large room, bouncing off the tile floor and lingering in the air. It was the first hint of emotion I’d gotten from him. He caught himself and stifled it, trying to keep himself under control.
Then he turned and went through an entryway that led into a wide corridor. “You might as well see where it happened,” he said. We followed.
As I left the great room, I noticed for the first time that a young woman had appeared at the rail of the loft and was staring down at me. She wore black gym shorts and a T-shirt that hung over her large breasts like a sheet draped over furniture. She smiled down at me with a glow much like the young widow’s. It was as if beautiful women were being cloned somewhere in the house. But her expression was strained, the smile forced, like she didn’t know how else to look, even with the tragedy still fresh in the room. Her eyes followed me. I felt something tug inside me as I followed Jendrek down the hall.
Ed stepped into a room on his left and said, “This is where they were.”
“Who’s they?” Jendrek asked.
“My dad and Pete Stick, a costume guy we work with. Pete’s an old friend of my