Final Judgment

by Marcia Clark

  Ivan didn’t look persuaded. “I don’t know what you’re doing nosing around in my business. But I’ll find out. And when I do, I’m going to find you.”

  I stepped out and said to Alex, “Come on, honey. We should get on the road.”

  We left the door open as we headed for the car and moved as fast as we could without breaking into a run. I jumped into the driver’s seat, and Alex barely managed to get both legs in before I gunned the engine. I hoped to get away before Ivan could spot my car.

  But he’d moved too fast. I was just about to make the turn when I glanced at my rearview mirror and saw him run out to the street. It looked like he was staring at my license plate. “Damn!”

  Alex pulled down his visor and looked in the mirror. “Just be glad he didn’t have time to go for his gun.”

  I drove to the freeway with one eye trained on the rearview, expecting to see Ivan in an F-150—because guys like that always have one of those monster trucks—bearing down on us any second. But when I reached the freeway and still hadn’t seen him, I started to relax. He wasn’t coming. Yet. “What do you think he’ll do?”

  Alex had been gripping the armrest. Now he let go and wiggled his fingers.

  “Well, he doesn’t strike me as the type to go to the cops.”

  No argument there. “But now he’s bound to think something must be going on with Niko that made us look him up.”

  Alex nodded. “In which case, he might find out about Bryan and Tanner. And decide he has something to tell the cops.”

  Exactly my fear. “I haven’t seen any press coverage yet. Have you?”

  Alex was silent for a moment. “No. Not that I can recall. But I haven’t been looking. Want me to call Michy and find out if she’s seen anything in the news?”

  I told him to go ahead and call her.

  The call was brief. When he ended it, he said, “She hasn’t seen anything so far.”

  But it’d only been a week since we’d found Bryan’s body. The press was bound to get wind of this soon. The question was, if Ivan did hear about the murders, what would he do? There was clearly no love lost between them. Would he go so far as to give the cops damning information on Niko?

  And if he did, what would that be? Would he lie? Or worse, would he even need to? After what I’d just learned about Niko, I couldn’t say.

  A gang history. A sister who’d been killed in a drive-by. And a shot caller who’d mysteriously gone missing. Right around the time Niko took his first martial arts class in college.

  Anything was possible.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  By the time we got back to the office, it was almost six o’clock, and I knew I wouldn’t get anything done. “I’m going to drop you off and head home.”

  Alex shifted to turn toward me. “I know you feel guilty, but we both know you were going to wind up digging into Niko with all that’s been going on. And if it makes you feel any better, I would’ve done it on the sly if you hadn’t asked me to.”

  I was surprised. “Are you serious? I thought it was just my usual pathological obsession with knowing the truth about everything.”

  He frowned at me. “Are you serious? This isn’t just some rando client. This is the man you love. And seems to be the only man you’ve ever loved. If it were me, I couldn’t go five minutes without digging into every corner of his life—murder investigation or no.”

  I relaxed a little. That was good to hear. “Thanks, Alex.”

  He stared out the windshield. “Of course, that doesn’t mean we didn’t potentially screw him by having our little chat with Ivan.”

  My tone was sarcastic. “Thanks, Alex.” I pulled to the curb in front of my office building. “Get out.”

  Alex gave an indignant sniff and left. When I got home, I found a voice message from Niko on my landline saying he was sorry for the short notice, but he’d be flying out to New York tomorrow. He’d been putting off his next video shoot since Sophia had her stroke, but the media company had run out of patience. A fresh wave of guilt washed over me as I realized how relieved I was to hear that he’d be gone. But I needed time to absorb what I’d learned about him—and figure out what it meant that he’d hidden it all from me.

  I understood his need to cover up the ugly and omit the embarrassing. I had a secret—or two hundred—of my own. But he was a prime suspect in a murder case.

  And with every new revelation, I couldn’t help wondering what else he was hiding—and whether that else included Bryan’s or Tanner’s murder.

  I called Niko back and got his voice mail. I wished him a safe flight and said I’d be thinking of him. Truer words were never spoken. Exhausted by my own feelings of guilt and worried about what lay in store for Niko, I poured myself a double shot of Patrón Silver on the rocks and sank down on the couch. What I needed right now was a distraction. I turned on the television and flipped through my menu. I had two new episodes of Better Call Saul. Perfect.

  At some point, I fell asleep on the couch at a weird angle and woke up with a sore neck. I rubbed it into submission as I sleepwalked to my bedroom, dropped my clothes on the floor, and fell into bed.

  I dreamed that I was in a crowded airport, searching for Niko. It went on and on as I wound my way through the body-packed terminal, but everything around me was a blur. It was one of those dreams that are all about nonstop frustration and anxiety. My subconscious was so on the nose. I was happy when I woke up and put an end to it.

  I took a shower and let the hot water beat down on my sore neck. I didn’t have to go to court or meet with clients, so I dressed casually in slacks and a sweater. I’d just finished my second supersize mug of coffee and found my pulse when Alex called.

  He sounded amped. “You about ready to go? I’ve got some investors who’re willing to talk to us.”

  That was great news. “Who?”

  Alex was in one of his hyperdrive moods. “Just come pick me up. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  He can be incredibly bossy. He was still at home, which was about ten minutes away from my place, so I told him I’d pick him up there. I finished my caffeine fix and headed out.

  The second I pulled up to his house, he walked out, iPad in hand. He got into the car and gave me an address in Bel Air—one of the priciest neighborhoods in the world. I typed it into Waze. “Is that north of Sunset?” Alex nodded. Houses in that lush, hilly area cost in the tens of millions. “Jeez. Whoever this is must’ve been one heavy-duty investor.”

  Alex read from his iPad. “He was. Gene Steier lost over one point five million to our favorite con artists, and he’s pissed as hell.”

  Which was why he was willing to talk to us. He’d probably been talking to anyone who’d listen from the moment he found out he’d lost all that money. “Does he know who we are exactly?”

  He closed his iPad. “Sort of. I told him you were a lawyer who was representing another investor.”

  And that sweetened the deal even more. The possibility of free legal help opens a lot of doors. Of course, he wouldn’t be getting any. At least, not from me. But there was no reason to tell him that. “Does he know it’s Niko?”

  He shook his head. “He didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell. Should we?”

  My involvement with Niko was no secret. I was sure that, by now, the cops had to know. “May as well. The investors will probably hear about it eventually anyway.”

  “True,” Alex said. “And I don’t see the harm in it. Niko lost a real fat stack. He’s got a legitimate reason to hire a lawyer.”

  My voice was bitter. “You mean, besides the fact that the cops have just nominated him as their favorite suspect?”

  Alex sighed. “Well, there is that.”

  We wove our way through the hills and pulled up to a sprawling beige compound surrounded by black iron gates. The style was meant to be Italian villa, but from what I could see through the gates, it looked pretty cookie-cutter. Just a large—okay, huge—version of the Mediterranean-style homes you can find al
l over the neighborhoods in upper suburbia. I rolled down my window and pushed the button on the intercom. A woman with a Hispanic accent asked who I was. I gave my name and Alex’s.

  She said, “Don’t park in front of the garage.”

  Three seconds later, the gates swung open, and I pulled into a driveway that was the size of a football field. So, avoiding the garage doors . . . not a problem. Driveways that big usually have a fountain in the middle—that’s frequently broken and filled with sludge. This one was no exception. A big, mushroom-shaped piece of concrete sat in the middle of a dry, moldy fountain. You’d think someone who bothered to put that thing front and center like that would want to keep it in good working order. But what do I know?

  As I parked the car, I scanned the main building. The front door was a massive piece of wood with an iron-barred window at peephole level. It was flanked by two huge floor-to-ceiling windows of beveled glass. Pricey by any measure.

  “What does our new best friend Gene do for a living?”

  Alex was looking at the house with a smile. “Owns a national door and window company.”

  Of course. What else? As we got out and moved up the stone walkway, the mega-door opened, and a short, middle-aged woman in a maid’s uniform appeared. I didn’t think anyone made their housekeepers wear those things anymore. She gestured for us to come in and led us through a wide hallway with high ceilings that were punctuated by horizontal wood beams. Thick Persian runners covered the travertine floors. Everything I saw was tasteful enough, and certainly expensive, but there were no personal, creative touches.

  After what seemed like a very long walk, she led us into a sunken living room that was the size of a ballroom. The ceiling—that felt like it was twenty feet high—carried through on the exposed-beam motif, and the room was so large, I figured there must’ve been twenty of those beams. I saw three different furniture groupings. I could tell that either Gene or his wife had told the designer to let them take over. Because this room had zero taste. All the sofas, chairs, and coffee tables were in various tones of brown. It felt like I was swimming in a sea of mud. The only bright spot was a random blue love seat that just made me ask, why?

  The housekeeper motioned us to a brown (what else?) chenille sofa. Seconds later, a barrel-chested man with tufts of wiry red hair strode in. He was a ball of fast, nervous energy. I stood up and offered my hand. “Gene Steier? I’m Samantha Brinkman.”

  He gave me a limp shake with half his hand. “Yeah.” He looked at Alex. “You the guy I spoke to on the phone?”

  Alex nodded and held out his hand. “Alex Medrano. Nice to meet you.”

  Gene didn’t return the sentiment. He perched on the arm of the double-size chair across from us, folded his arms, and lasered in on me. His voice was loud, as though he was projecting to someone fifty feet away. “My business manager says there’s something fishy about that cryptocurrency trade. So what are you going to do about it?”

  Clearly, this was a guy who did everything at full scream and warp speed. And he’d already managed to get under my skin. So I deliberately took a beat before I spoke—as slowly and irritatingly as I could. “I’m trying to gather information to find out what happened with the trade and where the money went.”

  He looked at me like I’d just said I didn’t know how a thermos worked. “What happened with the trade? I’ll tell you what happened. Those two idiots gave our money to a crook who was smarter than they are.”

  His business manager had smelled a rat, but Gene didn’t know that the trade had never happened, that it was just a money grab. I probably could tell him now. The cops would eventually figure it out and tell the investors. But I didn’t want him to get distracted. I needed answers of my own. I nodded—slowly. “So I understand.”

  He fired another question at me. “Where’s Tanner? You got any information on him?”

  I blinked—slowly. Then shook my head. “As I’m sure you know, the police are searching for him. Did they talk to you?”

  His expression was disdainful, dismissive. “Yeah. Asked me where he might’ve gone, when I last saw him, yadda yadda. I told ’em I just did business with him. I didn’t socialize with the little punk.”

  We definitely did agree on some things. “What about Bryan? Did you know him well?”

  His tone was snide. “Well enough to know what he was.”

  An odd remark. “What do you mean?”

  Gene made a sour face. “He liked the pretty boys.”

  So on top of everything else, our buddy Gene was a homophobe. Shocking. But I wasn’t sure whether he literally meant “boys”—as in males below the age of consent—or just good-looking men. “You mean Bryan was gay?”

  Gene snorted. “Total fag. Always had a bunch of kids around. Used to fly them places, take them out to fancy dinners. Bought ’em all kinds of shit.”

  Total fag? I felt my hand curl into a fist. I so wanted to slug this guy. But I needed information. Like, what Gene—who looked to be in his fifties—meant by kid. “How young were these boys?”

  “Not one of them looked like they’d had their first shave,” he said.

  One glance at Alex told me that we both knew what this might mean. Alex asked, “Did any of their parents go after him?”

  Gene shrugged. “Not that I ever heard. But who knows? I didn’t hang out with the old fairy. Maybe someone did.” He was annoyed. “Look, unless this has something to do with getting my money back, I really don’t give a shit. He’s dead. Moving on.” Gene faced me. “So for the last time, how do you plan to get our money back?”

  I wanted to tell him I had no such plan. That it didn’t matter how much money he had, I’d never lift a finger to help a cretinous pig like him. But I decided not to burn this bridge, because you never know. I stood up. “I’m working on it, Gene. But the more information I get, the better chance I’ll have to help you out. So if there’s anything else you remember about either Tanner or Bryan, just give me a call.” I handed him my card.

  “All I’m gonna say is, someone better get my money back.” He flicked my card with his finger. “And soon.”

  And with that, he got up and stomped out of the room.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  We waited until I’d driven out through the gates to talk about our meeting with the Olympic-level charmer that was Gene Steier. I started. “Too bad we didn’t get to meet the missus. Bet she’s a real gem, too.”

  Alex’s lips twitched in a semismile. “You’ll be shocked to learn that he’s divorced. There is no Mrs. Steier. But do not shed a tear. A catch like him won’t stay on the market long.”

  Sadly, I knew that was true. The biggest bastard becomes Prince Charming if his bank account is healthy enough. And Gene’s was clearly the picture of health. “Much as I’d love to put him on our suspect list, nothing about this jerk smells like a murderer—or someone who hired a killer.”

  Alex gave a reluctant nod. “I don’t see it, either. I’ll check his alibi, just to be on the safe side, but yeah. We can move on.”

  But we hadn’t come away completely empty-handed. “On a more optimistic note, if what he said about Bryan was true, we might have a whole other pool of suspects for his murder.” An angry father—a mother seemed less likely given the cause of death—who found out that Bryan had been preying on his son had a pretty decent motive to take revenge.

  Alex drummed his fingers on the armrest. “Agree. And we’re about to talk to investors who might know the boys he was hanging out with.”

  I forgot he’d lined up other investors. “Who are they?” I pulled over and took out my phone. “And where are they?”

  “Edie and Joey Franco.” Alex gave me the address of a house in Holmby Hills—a neighborhood in Westwood that was slightly less pricey than Bel Air, but not by much. I put the address in Waze and headed for Sunset Boulevard.

  Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up to another set of iron gates and spoke into another intercom. As I drove up the driveway, a white two-story h
ouse flanked by a set of imposing columns that held up a front balcony came into view. It kind of looked like the White House—only bigger. This time, the woman who opened the door was the owner, and she greeted me with a warm smile. As she ushered us into a marbled foyer, I thought she looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. I introduced Alex and myself.

  She took my outstretched hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Do people call you Sam?”

  Something about her just made me smile. “They do, and you should.”

  “Come on, guys.” She motioned for us to follow her. “They’re setting up for a shoot in the house, so we thought it’d be nicer to sit outside by the pool.”

  A shoot. I wanted to ask whether they were being interviewed for some show or had a show of their own, but it was risky. If they had their own show, she might be insulted that I didn’t know about it.

  She led us through a wall of accordion glass doors that opened out to an expensively furnished patio in a backyard that was the size of my apartment building. On the right side of the lawn was an iron sculpture of a grinning man and woman sitting on an upside-down house. Just ahead was a long teak dining table that was shaded by a large blue umbrella. A very tan, handsome man sitting at that table—who looked a lot like the iron sculpture man—waved to us. As we moved toward him, I realized why Edie looked familiar. Edie and Joey had turned a very successful house-flipping business into an even more successful cable show. Thus, the iron sculpture with the upside-down house.

  Joey came over to us, and we shook hands. His smile lit up his whole face, and it looked genuine—not the usual broad, pasted-on type you see on most TV hosts. He nodded toward the house. “Sorry to have to talk out here, but it’s crazy in there with the camera crew setting up. Can I get you something to drink?”

  I sat down next to Alex and across from the Francos. “I’m good, thanks. And please don’t apologize for meeting out here. It’s a welcome change of pace.” Not to mention, the perfect day for it. The sky was a piercing blue, and the pool sparkled under a sun that was warm but not too hot. The palm trees that lined the back of the property swayed in a gentle breeze. It was the kind of day LA is famous for—and the kind I seldom get the chance to enjoy.