by Matt Goldman
I said, “And of more immediate concern, I believe your life may be in danger.”
Ebben blinked hard a couple times. “Explain that, please.”
“Your grandmother informed me the medical examiner determined Juliana’s death was caused by an overdose of diet pills.”
“Yes.”
“Did she take diet pills?”
“Sometimes, although the pathology report is a little more complicated than what I told my grandmother. Juliana died of a combination of diet pills and a congenital heart defect that had gone undetected in routine physicals. They say she might have felt it in her forties or fifties, but she had no idea of the problem. The diet pills increased her blood pressure and pulse rate over a prolonged period of time, and her heart gave out.”
I nodded, but must have looked dubious.
Ebben said, “You don’t believe the autopsy results?”
“I do. A diet pill overdose probably means a caffeine overdose.”
“It does. That’s indicated in the report.”
“Did Juliana drink coffee?”
“No.”
“How about your energy drinks?”
“No. She thought they were disgusting.”
“Did she ingest any other forms of caffeine?”
Ebben shook his head. “She only took the diet pills when she couldn’t find time to exercise. So not often. Juliana was the most wonderful person I’ve ever known, but she wasn’t perfect. She had body image issues.”
“Was she anorexic?”
“Not at all. But a lot of people in her family are overweight. Juliana was determined not to let that happen to her. She ate clean. She exercised regularly except when her teaching schedule made that impossible.” He looked down. When he looked back up, he had tears in his eyes. “Hey, I got a houseful of people. I should get back downstairs.”
I said, “I understand. But think about this: unlike Juliana, you consume a great deal of caffeine. You downed a twenty-four-ounce can of it just while talking about Juliana a few minutes ago.”
“I know. I have a problem. I’m trying to kick it.” He managed a weak smile then quoted the movie Airplane! “Looks like I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.”
I smiled. “Great movie.”
“The fourteen-year-old me wouldn’t have survived without it.” His smile faded and so did Ebben Mayer.
I said, “I checked out your refrigerator. It’s full of those energy drinks.”
“Like I said—”
“I’m not judging you. I’m pointing out that if someone wanted to kill you, a caffeine overdose would most likely be attributed to the cans in your recycling bin.”
“Why would anyone want to kill me?”
“That’s the next question. The question I’m asking now is: Is it possible Juliana consumed something meant for you?”
“Like what?”
“Could’ve been anything. A glass of water, a cookie, salad dressing. A teaspoon of pure caffeine powder can send a person into cardiac arrest.”
“How do you know that?”
I said, “Did some research for a case I was working on a decade ago. As little as two of those twenty-four-ounce cans you drink have killed kids.”
“Jesus.”
“How much did Juliana weigh?”
Ebben shrugged. “I don’t know. A hundred and twenty-five pounds maybe. Oh, man. I wish we wouldn’t have cremated Juliana’s body.”
Did Ebben wish Juliana hadn’t been cremated? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know him well enough. He was well-spoken and had a self-assuredness that often belongs to those born into money—they’re entitled to money so they’re entitled to everything. But I found him low-key and unassuming and there was just something decent about the guy. I’ve met a handful of people who I put in the intrinsically good category. Like Ellegaard. They must have the same complexities and complications everyone has, but only goodness surfaces. So far, Ebben seemed to be one of those rare gems.
I said, “Cremation isn’t always a problem. Forensic scientists can test the ashes. But in this case, it may not matter because if the ashes test for caffeine, the diet pill cause of death is still possible. I’ll make some calls, but I don’t think they can isolate the source of caffeine.”
“So that’s it?” said Ebben. “Someone may have killed Juliana and gotten away with it? We don’t go to the police? We don’t say anything?”
“You can go to the police if you want. Explain to them what I’ve explained to you. But I shouldn’t. I’m a licensed private investigator in one state. Minnesota.”
Ebben nodded. I saw concern in his eyes, but somehow he grew even more gentle and kind and said, “What do you suggest for my safety?”
“That’s why I’m talking to you. If someone was trying to kill you, chances are they’ll try again. Unless their objective in killing you was somehow achieved by killing Juliana. Did anyone have a problem with you two marrying?”
Ebben shook his head. “There were no jealous exes. No one would want to stop our marriage.”
“What about family members?”
Ebben thought about that and took his time doing it. A shadow of stubble seemed to have emerged on his jaw in the time between his speech in the backyard and our chat in his home office. He rubbed a thumb across his chin and said, “No one in Juliana’s family, I’m sure. They were thrilled about our marriage. And no one in my family had even met her. Besides, no one in my family would try to kill me. And according to your theory, I was the target.”
“Yes. And still may be. I suggest you leave town for a while. Go back to Minnesota. Or go to someplace warm. But leave town. As a precaution if nothing else.”
Ebben Mayer’s eyes drifted away. He said, “I understand your theory, but I don’t believe anyone has a reason to kill me.”
“All right. That’s cool. Just thought I’d share it with you.”
Ebben seemed genuinely dumbfounded. He was tired. It showed in his eyes and in his slumped shoulders. He said, “I need to get back downstairs.” He stood. “I’ll call you if I think of someone out there who might have a grudge against me.” He pulled out the business card I’d handed him in the backyard. “Is your cell on here?”
“Yeah. By the way, what’s The Creative Collective you mentioned?”
He shut his eyes. He didn’t want to explain it. But when he opened them, he was kind. “Normally, a writer writes a script, a director makes the movie, actors act in the movie. And there are all sorts of businesspeople involved. Non-creative producers. Studio executives and distribution people, network executives if it’s television. And they all have something to say about the creative work. Sometimes it’s valuable—there are some creatively intelligent executives out there—but often it detracts from the creators’ vision and voice. Someone pulls a thread here and a thread there, and the whole fabric falls apart.
“The idea of the Creative Collective is to directly fund artists. I put no creative restraints on them other than budgetary. I think that will lead to exceptional work. We’ll make money in the process, but if we don’t, that’s okay, too. It’s about creating a body of work we can all be proud of.”
I thought about that then said, “So you’re cutting a lot of people out of the process.”
“We’re cutting a lot of fat out of the process.”
“Fat that may not be thrilled about being cut out.”
Ebben nodded. “Probably not too happy at all.” He shrugged. “But it’s to protect the work.”
Ebben walked me downstairs and to the front door. He looked at my card and said, “I’ll call you, Nils, if I think of anything. And even though my grandmother sent you, I’m glad you came and I’m happy to know you.” He smiled, then looked down again at my card. “Why does your name look familiar?”
“Nils Shapiro is a common name.”
He laughed. Then, “Oh, I know. A couple summers ago, I had an intern from the University of Minnesota. She showed me an article about you in t
he StarTribune. You solved the murder in Edina with the vacuum cleaner dust.”
“Yeah. Nothing like a clever murder to help a detective get a rep.”
Ebben said, “We tried to option your story. But if I remember right, you declined.”
“Oh, that was you? Then yes. You remember right.”
He produced his business card as if he were a magician pulling it out of thin air. “Call me if you change your mind.”
I took the card, turned to leave, then stopped. “Hey, Ebben, there was a bald guy here tonight. A tough, Eastern European type. A patch over one eye. Spent a lot of time around the food. Any idea who he is?”
Ebben shook his head. “None.”
“You may want to check into that. And hey, do you know your gardener?”
“What?”
“Do you personally know your gardener?”
“No. I’m just renting the house for six months. I say hello to whoever’s doing the yard. That’s about it.”
“Latino or white?”
“Latino.”
“There was a white guy working on your yard this afternoon. You may want to check into that, too.”
I left Ebben scratching his jaw and stepped outside. I smelled eucalyptus. Los Angeles has some good smells.
8
I jumped in a Lyft and headed out to meet Jameson White and his friend who coached at UCLA. I called Gabriella from the car. It was our first night apart since our engagement, and I missed her. I felt grateful for the longing and told her so. She said she preferred her men evasive and withholding. I filled her in on my evening. She told me I’d done my job and to get my ass back to Minnesota. I appreciated her directness.
The car dropped me at a place in Beverly Hills called Honor Bar. It was a long, narrow wooden room with a bar on the left and high-top tables on the right. The clientele looked upscale but not obnoxiously so. The two giant men were not hard to spot. Jameson sat across a high-top from a six-and-a-half-foot-tall guy with dark, neatly combed hair and a baby face. Jameson introduced him as August Willingham the Third.
I shook the giant’s hand and said, “Do you go by Gus?”
He said, “I do not. You can call me August or you can call me Three. But I do not appreciate Gus. Or Auggie.”
“Glad I asked.”
Jameson said, “We ordered you a cucumber martini, fried chicken sandwich, and French fries. I don’t want to hear a complaint out of you, Shap, because even though Beverly Hills has lots of big-name fancy-ass restaurants, this joint is its finest.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“That’s right, you’re not. Now I got to hit the head. If the fries come, keep your mitts off mine and eat your own.”
“I think he’s talking to you, August.”
“Yeah, he’s talking to me. But I make no promises.”
Jameson got up off his stool and said, “You touch ’em, you buy ’em,” and headed toward the back of the bar.
I said, “How’s he doing?”
August Willingham the Third shook his head. “Jameson’s broken. I’ve never seen him like this. Even when we lost the Rose Bowl, he found something positive to say with his big smile and big laugh. Now he’s either discontent or angry or mute. My old buddy hasn’t made an appearance yet.”
“Has he talked to you about the shooting?”
“Barely. I’ve tried to get him to open up, but it’s not coming. And Jameson White is not a man who holds things in. At least he wasn’t. I roomed with him for four years. I know more about the man than any person should.”
“I know almost nothing about him other than he played college ball here and professionally in Montreal and that he ended up following a woman to Minneapolis and it didn’t work out.”
“Yeah. Joline. Wonderful woman.”
“What happened?”
“Brain tumor.”
“Oh, man.”
“It was sad. But Jameson powered through somehow.”
“What about family?”
A waiter in his thirties with a pencil mustache brought our sandwiches and drinks. He set them on the table with a toothpaste commercial smile and told us to enjoy.
August said, “Jameson lost both parents in his twenties. He had one brother. He was killed in Afghanistan. Jameson powered through all that, too. But the school shooting, him trying to help save those kids, there’s no powering through that. I’m concerned.”
“Maybe spending time with you on a football field in the warm sunshine will help.”
“Maybe. But there’s no shortcuts on this one. Sorry if I sound like a know-it-all. I have a PhD in psychology. Took thirteen years of off-seasons, but I got it. Thirteen years in the Jets locker room with the name Dr. Freud written on my locker. I took a lot of shit for getting that degree, but it’ll help make me one hell of a coach.”
“Can I call you Dr. Freud?”
“You may not.” August smiled.
Jameson appeared, sat on his stool, and said, “Let’s eat, boys.” He took a bite of his sandwich and shut his eyes. His face displayed a moment of peace. He swallowed then said, “That means stop talking about me. I’m just going through some shit.” August and I shared a quick glance. “I saw that. Seriously. Don’t worry about me. Just treated a couple dozen kids Swiss-cheesed by semi-automatic gunfire. Watched ’em die while I was holding their hands because their parents couldn’t get there in time.”
August and I both bit into our sandwiches. Jameson was talking. Finally. I don’t know what triggered it. Maybe it was the combination of his oldest and newest friends sitting at the same table. Or the atmosphere. Or the cucumber martinis, which were sweet, spiced with sliced jalapeño, and potent. We focused on our food, which was as good as Jameson had claimed, and waited for the big man to pick it back up.
“The parents.” Jameson shook his head. “No offense to your avocation, Three, but all the psychologists on the planet couldn’t have helped those poor people. Not on that day anyway. Nothing personal. Morphine wouldn’t have helped ’em either. Otherwise, I would’ve loaded up a syringe in each hand and jumped ’em the moment they set foot in the ER.”
Our sandwiches were cut into thirds. Jameson finished two-thirds and half his fries before he spoke again. “I’m getting me another one of these chicken sandwiches. I will tell you that much.”
August flagged a waiter. “Nils?” I shook my head. August ordered two more sandwiches and two more martinis, but Jameson didn’t say another word about the shooting. August talked about how today’s offensive linemen don’t know how to run-block like they used to because the game has become so pass intensive. He blathered on as a gaggle of Beverly Hills fortysomething women crowded around the bar trying to look like twentysomethings.
Jameson said, “This bar is full of women, and I bet there ain’t more than four natural breasts in here.” He wasn’t gregarious, buoyant Jameson, but it was something.
My phone buzzed. The caller ID showed a 612 area code. Minnesota. I didn’t recognize the number, but it was after 11:00 P.M. there so it might have been important. I took the call and walked toward the back where it was more quiet.
“Nils.”
I had no idea who it was. “Yes?”
“It’s Ebben Mayer. Someone just tried to run me off the road.”
9
I asked Ebben Mayer if he was okay.
He said, “For the moment, yes.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No. I don’t want to do that.”
I asked why.
He said police reports are public records and he didn’t want the incident to find its way into the entertainment industry trades. That would be bad for business. “I hit a boulder. A tow truck is on its way. Any chance you can pick me up? I’m up on Mulholland Drive. I’ll text you my location.”
Mulholland Drive snakes across the top of the Hollywood Hills, which divide the Los Angeles basin from the San Fernando Valley. Chances are you’ve seen Mulholland Drive before, if not
in a movie or TV show, then on a car commercial as the featured car hugs hairpin turns. I learned all this from my tour guides, August and Jameson, as we drove up Coldwater Canyon out of Beverly Hills. I told them I suspected Juliana Marquez was murdered and I suspected that the caffeine she ingested was intended for Ebben Mayer.
We headed east on Mulholland, and Jameson said, “I knew that gardener was fishy! What’d I tell you? A white gardener in Hancock Park. That’s got bullshit written all over it. So, what did the police say when you told them?”
I sat in the back seat of August’s Chevy Tahoe. We made eye contact via the rearview mirror. I’d hoped Jameson would get involved in the case, not because he was a master sleuth but to give him a sense of purpose. Something to distract him from that horror-filled day in the ER.
I said, “I didn’t tell the police.”
“What?” said Jameson. “Why not?”
“Because I have nothing more than a suspicion. And I called my M.E. buddy, Dr. Meltzer, back in Minnesota. The forensics people can probably detect a caffeine overdose from cremated remains, but they can’t tell if it came from diet pills or caffeine powder or twenty-five cups of coffee.”
“So you’re just going to let somebody get away with it?! You are turning your back on justice, Nils Shapiro. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Are you kidding me? Is that a serious question?”
August caught my eyes in the rearview mirror and gave me the faintest nod.
I said, “Yeah, it’s a serious question. I don’t know any LAPD. And I’m not licensed here.”
“Don’t know any LAPD?! Not licensed! Since when does Nils Shapiro give a shit about networking and playing by the rules?! Hell, the reason I met you is because you disobeyed doctors’ orders and left the hospital the same day you had surgery. I’m talking hours after! They wanted you to stay a whole week. And St. Paul PD hated your guts for stepping on their turf. But a seventeen-year-old girl was missing so you let none of that shit get in your way. You lied to the police. You broke into buildings. You did what it took ’cause you were the real deal, Shap! The operative word there is were. What the hell are you now?”
