The Case of the Stained Stilettos

by Smith, Melissa J. L

  What West Hollywood does not have, however, is a freeway, so the jaunt to downtown Los Angeles is enough to make a patient man cranky. A “real go-getter,” LASD Detective Frank Lawshé is not known for his patience.

  The next shift files into the LAPD squad room, and all ears are focused on a conversation down the hall. Lawshé’s booming baritone emerges clearly from Chief James Crayton’s office, loud enough to be heard by the officers.

  “Chief, not really! ‘Detective Sensible Shoes’ and me? At Dana Montgomery’s party? My parents will be there. If my mom sees me with Wilde, she’ll be mortified in front of her friends. Can’t we make a different arrangement? There must be someone else from the Sheriff’s Department you can borrow.”

  James scolds Detective Frank Lawshé. “Firstly, I will have you know that ‘Detective Sensible Shoes’ is my goddaughter. You should probably think about that before you say anything you can’t take back. Secondly, she has closed more homicide cases than any other detective in this division in twenty years. Thirdly, not only am I aware that your mother is Penelope Hunt and your father is studio chief, Bradford Lawshé, but I also know they are no longer married.”

  James continues, “I know your mother recently divorced your third stepfather, Ted Greene, to marry industrialist Brian Radabaugh, and that your mother and Mr. Greene’s latest wife, Evelyn Gaitskill, also will be in attendance. I’m aware that the studio once arranged a catfight between your mother and Francesca Wilde for the sake of publicity. You should inform Ms. Hunt that had better not happen at Ms. Montgomery’s. While I’m not usually into Hollywood ‘news,’ this is a small town, and escaping the Tinseltown gossip isn’t always easy.”

  Lawshé throws up his hands in exasperation. “Well then, I would think you could see why I can’t show up with someone that would embarrass my mother. I have spent my entire life walking the ‘public relations tightrope,’ and I don’t need any extra complications with her most recent marriage. My extended family is very jealous of the other members. If you were my mother, would you want the families of your exes laughing at your son? I’m sorry to seem so shallow. Wilde’s a great detective, but she’s not her sister or her mom. Hollywood families … we’re all about the image. That’s why I became a cop. I don’t want to waste my time living up to paparazzi images. I just want to do my job and go home.”

  “And what I’m asking you to do is your job, Detective. This assignment needs a representative from the LAPD and one from the Sheriff’s Office on this task force in order to work both jurisdictions without having to wait for backup, should the need arise,” James repeats.

  James continues, “Unfortunately, I can’t be concerned with your family politics. All I can do is request that you tell your mother, discreetly, that you have been invited to the Montgomery party as the plus-one for Dana Montgomery’s daughter, an LAPD Detective. No further information is to be shared with her, including the fact that you will be on assignment.” Standing up to his full height, James says, “So, unless we need to make a phone call to the Sheriff, that will be all, Detective.”

  Detective Frank Lawshé stands up and exits the office to greet a sea of dumbfounded officers’ faces. He hangs there for a moment, staring, then turns and walks the other way down a long hallway to the exit.

  As he is about to leave the building, he passes a row of vending machines and sees a beautiful woman standing in front of a candy bar dispenser, with her hands on her hips, frowning. The woman’s hair is swept up in a ponytail, and she is wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and Converse High Tops.

  “Lawshé! Is that you?” she calls out to the back of his impeccable suit.

  Frank turns around slowly and looks her up and down. “Detective Wilde,” he says, a study in neutrality.

  “It’s not Saturday yet. What brings you downtown in weekday traffic?” Lucienne says, dropping change into the machine. She pushes the buttons, and nothing falls.

  “Casual Friday?” Frank asks, looking at her wardrobe.

  “Basketball,” Lucienne says. “A couple of detectives and I rearrange our lunch hours to work with the Boys and Girls Club one day a week. Building a better relationship with the community and all.”

  She pushes the button on the vending machine again, and still, nothing falls. She frowns again.

  Detective Lawshé stands still, staring at her, and finally puts his briefcase on the ground and approaches the machine. He pulls a crisp dollar bill out of his pocket, feeds it into the machine, and presses a combination of buttons. As the coil frees the trapped candy bar, two chocolate bars drop to the bottom of the machine.

  “Hey, that’s great!” Lucienne exclaims as she reaches down to retrieve them from behind the plexiglass door. “Here,” she says, holding one of them out to Frank, but he recoils as if she is trying to hand him kryptonite.

  “Yeah, no thanks, I don’t do candy,” he says.

  “Suit yourself,” Lucienne says, keeping the extra bar.

  She rips into the candy bar and bites into it as she says, “So, I guess we’re stuck together this Saturday night.”

  “Looks like it,” Frank replies, dryly.

  “Look,” Lucienne says, picking up on his disdain, “I’m not happy about this either. I fought him…”

  Frank looks a little surprised. “Oh, you fought him?” he asks.

  Now Lucienne is offended. “Yes. What, did you think I would jump at the chance to pretend to be dating Detective Brooks Brothers?”

  Frank blushes and says, “Don’t call me that.”

  Lucienne smiles and goes back to her candy bar and walks away.

  “See you Saturday, GQ,” she calls over her shoulder.

  If she had been looking at him, she would have seen that even exasperated, Frank really did look a lot like Greek god in a $6,000 suit.

  Chapter 18

  In West Hollywood, Carmella Crayton pilots her old sedan north on San Vicente past the basketball courts. It is late Friday afternoon, and she wishes she had time to stop off for a pickup game, but her watch reminds her to keep driving. She makes a left onto Santa Monica, driving west toward Beverly Hills, and weaves in and out of traffic until she arrives at the law firm of Luce and Wilde, where she is greeted warmly by Joseph and Ethan. As she and Joseph get reacquainted, Ethan cracks a slight smile at the sight of Carmella checking out the photo of her dad, Carmelo, with Stephen, James and Ethan dressed in basketball gear.

  “That’s one of my favorite pictures,” says Ethan. “We were quite a force to be reckoned with back in the day. It’s pretty easy to win with Carmelo Crayton as your star player.”

  “Oh, he would love to hear that. My dad tells me that the extended Luce and Wilde family members are quite good at basketball,” says Carmella.

  “We all played in college, but we were nothing like your dad. NBA All-Star twelve years in a row! And you, ‘Ms. Final Four.’ May I be so bold as to invite you to the family team?” laughs Joseph.

  “I would be honored. I’ve seen video of everyone playing. Pretty impressive,” says Carmella.

  “Is your dad playing much these days?” Ethan asks.

  “He mostly coaches now, but he’s been known to work the boards now and again. Your ‘Uncle James,’” — she holds up her fingers to show the air quotes — “aka my Uncle James, and Dad are best friends until they get on the court, coaching or playing against each other,” Carmella explains. “Dad had a great career in the NBA before he went to coach college.”

  Joseph replies, “’I’m aware. I’ve only met him once, because he was always traveling with the team. When Uncle James showed up at our pickup game with the great Carmelo Crayton one weekend, I felt like such a fanboy. Uncle James was the reason I started playing in the first place, you know. He still plays, and when he’s not, he drives Aunt Rena crazy all basketball season, coaching from the couch.”

  Carmella laughs and says, “I was trying to remember how long it has been since we’ve seen each other.”

  “You were still a
little girl, but a little girl with a mean hook shot. We’ll have to make up for not seeing you in such a long time. Are your parents still in Kentucky?” asks Joseph.

  “Yes. My dad took a coaching position there, so he’d be home more, and I went to college there.”

  “What have you been up to since graduation?” Joseph asks.

  “Well … I studied broadcasting and wound up anchoring the local TV news. I fell in love and became engaged to a police officer who was killed in the line of duty. I was doing the five o’clock newscast when they handed me a breaking news story about a police shooting. It was my fiancé. I tried to stay, but it was too painful. Aunt Rena suggested that I make a clean break and give LaLaLand a try, so here I am,” says Carmella.

  “I can’t even imagine…” Joseph says as he sees the pain in Carmella’s eyes. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Please do consider us as part of your family, just as we consider Uncle James and Aunt Rena part of ours. If there is anything we can do…”

  “You already have. I’m grateful that you’ve agreed to see me. I know you are very busy,” says Carmella.

  “So, what can I do for you, Ms. Crayton?” asks Joseph.

  “Well, since we’re family, you can start by calling me Carmella. I seem to have run afoul of Radabaugh Industries … well, not exactly. I’ve run afoul of the ‘All-Star-Party-Planner’ Paulo. No last name.”

  “Yes, we know of him,” says Joseph, derisively. “Like Cher, Sting or Prince. It takes either a brave or foolish man to list himself in such company.”

  “No doubt,” says Carmella. “I interviewed some people who used Paulo’s high-priced party planning services and I wrote about how anybody could throw a nice party using similar techniques using decorations from retail stores. Paulo got insulted, thought I was targeting his business, and threatened to use the power of Radabaugh Industries to run me out of my job, and possibly out of town. Now I’m basically clinging to my job at the paper, and I have to score a couple of exclusives, so my publisher doesn’t fire me.”

  “Let me ask you this: Was it your intention to disparage Paulo’s reputation or implicate fraud on the part of Radabaugh Industries or its subsidiaries?” asks Joseph.

  “Absolutely not.” Carmella looks surprised, but Joseph reassures her, saying, “That’s what I thought. I just had to be sure.”

  Carmella says, “I always point out that Paulo does a great job, and that everyone has fun at his parties. I also praise the Glam Ma’am and the other Radabaugh products in the swag bags that are great take-home gifts.”

  “All of that helps your case,” Joseph says.

  “I’m concerned that I’ll stop being invited to cover parties,” Carmella says. “What if they get me blacklisted all over town?”

  Joseph gives her a reassuring smile. “I believe I can help you.”

  “Oh, thank you so much. I feel better already,” Carmella says, truly grateful. “But there’s something I need to ask…”

  Joseph has seen this look before. “Does it have to do with my fee?”

  “Yes,” she says, self-conscious. “My newspaper is not paying for any legal services. They say it’s their policy, but I think they’re concerned about upsetting Brian Radabaugh. Could you have an estimate of your services drawn up to see if I can afford it? It might be cheaper for me to find a different job.”

  “That won’t be necessary. You are part of the family, remember? My wife adores your column and wants to borrow a few of your ideas for our Spring Fling in Lake Arrowhead. Would it be acceptable to trade services?”

  “In what way?” asks Carmella.

  “You plan our Spring Fling. We’ll pay for any decorations and labor that you need to buy or hire, and we’ll provide any legal or detective services that you need at no charge if Paulo tries to mess with your reputation.”

  Carmella claps her hands together, obviously thrilled. “I don’t know what to say! Of course! I’ll plan your Spring Fling or any other party you have at no charge! Thank you, and please thank your wife for me. You have no idea how flattered I am that she likes my work!”

  Joseph gives Carmella a chance to catch her breath. “Now, to deal with your other problem. Do you have plans tomorrow night?”

  Carmella pauses, wary. “Not that I know of. Why?”

  Joseph picks up the phone. “Let me make a quick call.” He walks toward the other room and comes back smiling.

  “Carmella, how would you like to cover Dana Montgomery’s party Saturday night and be the only reporter granted a follow-up interview with the hostess? Due to scheduling requirements beyond her control, Dana also is hosting an engagement party for her son, Mark, and his fiancée a couple of nights later. It’s an unfortunate scheduling crunch, but you may attend the engagement party as our guest, as long as you limit your coverage to the ‘fluff stuff.’”

  No words come out of Carmella’s mouth. Just a gasp that almost sounds like “thank you,” right before she looks like she might faint.

  Ethan gets her a bottled water while she recovers herself. She says, “Dana Montgomery isn’t known for giving a lot of post-event interviews. Just pre-event publicity. I’m pretty sure that would alleviate any thoughts that my boss has about firing me.”

  Joseph smiles. “If he ever thinks that’s a good idea, just tell him that you are part of the DA’s family, and that his son personally loves suing people who threaten our family. My only requirement is that when we have our family basketball games, you’re on my team.”

  For the first time in many days, the tension finally leaves Carmella Crayton’s face. She smiles at Joseph and Ethan and says, “There was a great-looking pickup game over on San Vicente. I don’t suppose either of you want to join me?”

  Chapter 19

  As Joseph and Carmella wrap up details about the upcoming parties, Mercy Wilde’s Lamborghini pulls up to the front of The Vinery. She looks at the long line for the valet, the cases of cat food for Mack and Mabel, and at the small mountain of dry cleaning in her car. Realizing that the restaurant parking lot is full and that, even if she waits in the long line, the valet might not want to park the car loaded with clothes on a Hollywood side street, she cranks the steering wheel and drives off in search of street parking around back.

  True to Joseph’s recollection, the back of the estate is poorly lit, mostly with lights from the outdoor dining area beyond the fence and a guesthouse on the estate that is partially used for storage.

  Mercy parks near some dumpsters in the alley and exits the car to hear a young child crying and a woman screaming in fear. Mercy runs toward the sounds.

  A rough-looking man in a hoodie is swinging a knife at the woman. “Give me the purse,” he’s saying in a strange voice that sounds like sandpaper. “Just give me the purse, unless you and your kid want to be carved up tonight.”

  “I don’t have any money!” screams Helen Sands. “Do you think I’d be going through dumpsters to feed my kid if I had any money?”

  “Then just give me the purse and stop arguing!” the mugger orders her.

  “It’s got Lindsey’s inhaler and my husband’s Purple Heart in it. There’s no money. Please don’t take those. I can’t afford another inhaler and her asthma could kill her. Please, she’s only six years old…,” Helen begs the mugger.

  “Sounds like a personal problem to me, lady. And I don’t do ‘personal.’ Hand it over.”

  As he moves closer to Helen and her daughter, still brandishing his knife, he hears a woman’s voice and the clicking of stilettos from behind him.

  “I ‘do personal,’” Mercy says coolly, “and I’d say you just crossed that line, my friend.”

  The mugger turns to see the impeccably dressed Mercy, her four-carat Neil Lane diamond ring sparkling in the limited light. Vaguely addressing Helen, he says, “Never mind. A better offer just dropped by.”

  Helen and Lindsey try to run but are trapped between garbage and the mugger. Looking around frantically, Helen does the only thing she can th
ink of to do: She grabs Lindsey by the waist and lifts her up high onto a dumpster lid, out of harm’s way, then stands in front of her, guarding the girl while the mugger ignores them and inches closer to Mercy.

  Mercy stands with her arms. He seems almost electrified; his body twitches in anticipation of the riches he thinks he is about to score. Then Mercy does something surprising. Breaking his stare, she looks down at her stilettos and apologizes to them. “So sorry, Shoes. I know I said I wouldn’t wreck you tonight, but we may not have a choice.”

  “What the hell?” the mugger says, lowering his knife. “Are you crazy?”

  Mercy just stares at him, smiling, hands on her hips. Unsure what to do, the mugger lunges at her. All those years of self-defense training kick in; with the grace of a ballet dancer, she does a sidestep, trips him and uses his forward momentum to smash his head into the dumpster. The mugger drops to the ground but swipes the knife at Mercy as he falls, barely missing her right leg.

  Unexpectedly, Helen rushes at the mugger’s arm and kicks the knife away before he can swing it at Mercy again. It skitters across the pebbly ground and lands about fifteen feet away.

  Mercy nods to Helen and flashes a big smile. “Nice move,” she says, before tossing her phone to the woman and asking her to call 911. Helen snatches the phone out of the air and makes the call, then pulls Lindsey gently down from the dumpster.

  Mercy pulls some zip ties from her purse and drops the mugger as he tries to get up again. She flips him over, and in an expert maneuver, binds his wrists behind his back. But he continues to squirm and manages to spit some dirty saliva on her shoes, which are already covered in dust.