They-like the D.S.A stakeout team-were not expecting Shadway to arrive
at his headquarters, but they were hoping to identify one of the
real-estate agents operating out of the office. As the afternoon wore
on they saw several people entering and leaving the premises, but one
tall, thin woman with a Betty Boop cap of black hair was the most
noticeable, her angular storklike frame emphasized by a clinging
flamingo-pink dress. Not pale pink, not frilly pink, but bold flame-hot
pink. She came and went twice, both times chauffeuring middle-aged
couples who had arrived at the office in their own carsvidenfly clients
for whom she was tracking down suitable houses.
Her own car, with its personalized license plate-REQuEFN, which most
likely stood for Real Estate Queen-was a new canary-yellow Cadillac
Seville with wire wheels, as memorable as the woman herself.
“That one,” Julio said when she returned to the office with the second
couple.
“Hard to lose in traffic,” Reese agreed.
At 4,50, she had again come out of the Shadway Realty door and had
hurried like a scurrying bird for her car. Julio and Reese had decided
that she was probably going home for the day. Leaving the D.S.A
stakeout to its fruitless wait for Benjamin Shadway, they followed the
yellow Cadillac down First Street to Newport Avenue and north to Cowan
Heights. She lived in a two-story stucco house with a shake-shingle
roof and lots of redwood balconies and decking on one of the steeper
streets in the Heights.
Julio parked in front as the pink lady’s Caddy disappeared behind the
closing garage door. He got out of the car to check the contents of the
mailbox-a federal crime-in hope of discovering the woman’s name. A
moment later he got back into the car and said, “Theodora Bertlesman.
Apparently goes by the name Teddy, because that was on one of the
letters.
They waited a couple of minutes, then went to the house, where Reese
rang the bell. Summer wind, warm in spite of the winter-gray sky from
which it flowed, breathed through surrounding bougainvillea,
red-flowered hibiscus, and fragrant star jasmine. The street was still,
peaceful, the sounds of the outside world eliminated by the most
effective filter known to man-money.
“Should’ve gotten into real estate, I think,” Reese said.
“Why on earth did I ever want to be a cop?”
“You were probably a cop in a previous life,” Julio said dryly, “in
another century when being a cop was a better scam than selling real
estate. You just fell into the same pattern this time around, without
realizing things had changed.”
“Caught in a karma loop, huh?”
A moment later, the door opened. The stork-tall woman in the
flamingo-pink dress looked down at Julio, then only slightly up at
Reese, and she was less birdlike and more impressive close up than she
had been from a distance.
Earlier, watching her from the car, Reese had not been able to see the
porcelain clarity of her skin, her startling gray eyes, or the sculpted
refinement of her features.
Her Betty Boop hair, which had looked lacqueredeven ceramic-from fifty
yards, now proved to be thick and soft. She was no less tall, no less
thin, and no less flamboyant than she had seemed before, but her chest
was certainly not flat, and her legs were lovely.
“May I help you?” Teddy Bertlesman asked. Her voice was low and
silken. She radiated such an air of quiet selfassurance that if Julio
and Reese had been two dangerous men instead of two cops, they might not
have dared try anything with her.
Presenting his ID and badge, Julio introduced himself and said, “This is
my partner, Detective Hagerstrom,” and explained that they wanted to
question her about Ben Shadway. “Maybe my information is out of date,
but I believe you work as a sales agent in his firm.”
“Of course, you know perfectly well that I do,” she said without scorn,
even with some amusement. “Please come in.
She led them into a living room as bold in its decor as she was in her
dress but with undeniable style and taste. A massive white-marble
coffee table. Contemporary sofas upholstered in a rich green fabric.