Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Saffron walk to a table. He was too far away to hear the conversation between her and the boyfriend, but he’d been close enough to watch her old man trade spit with the stud—probing and setting boundaries, he guessed. He’d be pissed if some old man lectured him about how to handle his woman, but the stud took it pretty well. He didn’t understand the old man’s problem. Saffron was no virgin. She knew what to do. If she didn’t, maybe somebody needed to school her.
He watched Saffron and the boyfriend huddle at the table with their foreheads almost touching. Their body language didn’t indicate she’d done the nasty with him yet—no touching under the table or running her tongue across her lips. He considered himself an expert in human nature, so he knew sex was definitely part of the boyfriend’s agenda—hers, too. The stud didn’t take his eyes off her the whole time they were talking. When she said something funny the grin lingered way past the joke. Saffron’s eyes were practically twinkling and she seemed to smile for no reason at all. At one point their hands almost touched. She pulled back. She was anxious. That was a tell. She’d been dumped before. She wanted him but was scared. Too bad they might not make it to the bedroom. After watching a while, he finished his drink and left. It had been fun, but the last thing he needed was for either of them to notice him.
He was now sitting in his rental outside the Bel Air compound where she lived, smoking a cigarette, listening to a CD of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, and on his phone watching Gizmo lick his balls on the kennel’s kitty-cam.
He couldn’t stay parked in this location much longer. This was Bel Air and some tightassed one-percenter was sure to call private security. He had on the white doctor coat he kept in his duffle bag in case a rent-a-cop knocked on his window. He’d claim he was phoning patients before heading to the hospital. That usually worked.
He grabbed an Oreo from the bag on the seat next to him and broke it in half, scrapping the frosting off with his teeth. She should have been home by now. Maybe she and the stud had moved the party to his place. If so, that created an opportunity. He’d seen her carrying a file. It might be paperwork about his client. Now was as good a time as any to find out if she kept any records in the house. It would only take ten minutes at most—in and out. He slipped his lock picks into his pants pocket next to the St. Christopher medal. He didn’t wear the medal around his neck when he worked in case it reflected light or made noise.
The Bel Air estate where the detective lived was secluded and surrounded by trees, but he’d already scoped out the entire property and knew exactly where to go. He climbed the wall and made his way behind the main residence to the guesthouse she rented. There was no back door. Once she was inside, she was trapped. Based on what he’d observed about her routine, he’d already developed some ideas about how to exploit her vulnerabilities.
Reaching the front door, he pulled out the picks. His skills were rusty but he got inside with little effort. He returned the picks to his pocket and went inside. The furniture and artwork weren’t hers—too elegant and formal. He guessed she’d be more comfortable with the smooth, clean lines of contemporary design. The walls were painted girly pink and lavender. He was sure Saffron hadn’t chosen that color palette, nor had she purchased the Dom Perignon in the refrigerator. He wondered if the property owner fancied himself a Svengali, exposing Saffron to all his finery in hopes of making her into something other than a middle-class woman living in a rich man’s vision of the world.
The place was one bedroom, one bath, with a small kitchen and a loft. He made fast work of checking out the living room but didn’t find any files. In her bedroom, he picked up an old T-shirt from her unmade bed, pressed it to his nose, and inhaled. His body stirred when he smelled her essence. Something pleasant but not perfume. Lavender soap?
He was about to go upstairs when he heard dogs barking. Not some wimpy-assed Chihuahua, either. These were big dogs. He’d had a bad experience with a Malinois in Niger. Big dogs still freaked him out. He didn’t want to kill an animal unless he was attacked. Better to get out while he still could. He made it outside and ran for the wall.
Once he got back to the car, he licked remnants of frosting off the cookie and popped half into his mouth, letting it melt against his hot tongue. The street was quiet except for a car or two speeding down the hill. He put the other half of the Oreo into his mouth and ground it between his teeth. Then he lowered the window and lit another cigarette as the chocolate aftertaste lingered on his tongue.
He felt the nicotine take hold. He wasn’t supposed to smoke in the vehicle. They’d even removed the lighter. Good thing he always carried a cheap Bic in his pocket. Let somebody else worry about the smell.
His contact still hadn’t made a decision about what to do next. His instructions remained the same—watch and wait—and that made him feel edgy. If his mission wasn’t defined soon, he might act on his own—just to keep his skills sharp. A moment later, he saw her car pull up to the gate.
14
The following morning Davie could barely roll out of bed. Her back was stiff and her shoulder ached. A sense of foreboding washed over her when she flipped on the news and saw that the wildfire near Santa Paula was now threatening Ojai, one of her favorite places to visit. It was the go-to destination for wine tasters, spa habitués, and people seeking spiritual enlightenment, not to mention booklovers cruising the aisles of Bart’s Books. The California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection had moved in fire crews and heavy equipment to stop the rampage, but homes had been lost and nearly thirty horses had perished when fire consumed a barn where they were boarded.
There was no time to mourn. She had to get ready for work. The cottage had no bathtub and a hot shower didn’t sound therapeutic. Her only other option was a swim in Alex Camden’s pool. Alex hated swimming in cold water, so summer or winter he kept the temperature at an even eighty degrees. Davie put on her swimming suit and flip-flops and wrapped a towel around her shoulders as she headed down the flagstone path with cell phone in hand.
She threw the towel on a chaise lounge and slipped into the shallow end of the pool, feeling the warmth caress her body. After floating on her back for a few minutes, she tested the shoulder with a gentle sidestroke until the movement and the water began to ease the pain.
She heard a door close and looked up to see Alexander Camden walk out of the French doors and onto the patio wearing his Zegna bathrobe and carrying a mug of what Davie assumed was his favorite premium coffee, an exclusive brand he ordered from a client who knew the roaster from his days as the ambassador to Ethiopia. To Davie, Alex epitomized elegance and class. He was in his sixties, slim and of medium height. His hair was gray and he claimed he’d earned every one of them. His chiseled features reminded her of an aging version of Michelangelo’s David. He was also kind, which is what she loved most about him.
Alex walked to the deep end of the pool where Davie was treading water. “You’re up early, Davina.” He always used her given name, a privilege she granted to few people. “How’s the water temperature?”
“Warm. I’d guess around eighty.”
He chuckled at the shared joke, but his expression turned serious when he noticed the abrasion on her forehead. “What happened to you?”
She reached up and touched the wound. “I was practicing a head-butt and miscalculated.”
He tsk-tsked. “Police work is a dangerous game. Why not consider Hollywood instead? A client of mine is president of the International Stunt Association. I could call in a favor and get you in.”
Alex was joking but she could tell by the serious look on his face that he was concerned about her. Davie got out of the pool and wrapped the towel around her body. Alex beckoned her toward a blanket on a chaise lounge next to him. Vincent and Leonardo, Alex’s two golden retrievers, barreled out of the house and jumped into the pool, splashing and barking. Alex threw a ball into the water and fo
r a couple of minutes the two of them watched the dogs swim.
“If I showed you a photo of a watercolor, could you tell me who painted it and what it’s worth?”
He tilted his head. “What brought on this newfound interest in art?”
“I’m investigating an old case. It’s not a homicide, but I hope to have it reclassified. The victim donated a watercolor to a charity shortly before she died. I don’t know the name of the piece, but I have a photograph.”
Davie grabbed her cell phone and held out the picture of Sara Montaine standing next to the watercolor painting of a farmhouse with sheep in a meadow.
He enlarged the photo with his fingers to get a better look. “I’d have to verify, but it might be one of William Trost Richards’s Rhode Island scenes. He lived and painted there toward the end of his life.”
“What can you tell me about him.”
“He was an American landscape watercolorist who lived from the mid-1800s to sometime just after the turn of the last century. His style is so realistic that many of his pieces appear to be photographs. He’s displayed in a number of important museums. Who’s the owner?”
“Sara Montaine. She inherited the watercolor when her husband Charles died.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “That name sounds familiar. I may have met Charles Montaine at a party or a gallery opening. I keep notes on potential clients. I can check if you want.”
“That would be great. I’m not sure it has anything to do with the case, but it might be helpful to find out how much the painting is worth.”
“That’s an assignment for which I am eminently qualified—as long as it doesn’t require me to head-butt anyone.”
He went inside the house and returned a few minutes later with a laptop. “I found Charles Montaine on an invitation list to a show I organized at a local gallery a few years ago. He didn’t buy anything that night, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a serious collector.”
“What else did you find?”
“I looked through a few of my databases. It’s definitely a Richards. His watercolors range from a thousand dollars up to the high five digits. His oils are worth much more. It’s hard to know the value of this piece without verifying if it’s signed or even original.”
“Thanks, Alex. I’ll follow up with the stepson.”
“You’re most welcome, Davina. You know how much I enjoy being indispensable to you.”
Davie walked back to the cottage to get ready for work. Near the front door she spotted a shiny object lying near one of the metal patio chairs. It was a St. Christopher medal embossed with an emblem from each of the four branches of the military. The saint was almost worn flat but the color was uniformly silver. The medal was likely sterling. Davie guessed it might belong to one of the gardeners, but for sure somebody would be looking for it. The landscape company wouldn’t be back until the following Wednesday. She would have Alex mention the medal to the head gardener. In the meantime, she took it inside the house and left it on the eighteenth-century Chippendale dressing table by the front door.
15
Before leaving the house, Davie swallowed two more pain relievers, hoping they would keep her aches and pains at bay. Then she stopped by the station to pick up a city ride. Giordano was away from his desk and the sign-out log indicated Vaughn had driven to the Scientific Investigation Division, probably to drop off evidence to be analyzed for one of the unsolved cases Giordano had assigned him.
There were no messages from Alma Velez—no surprise—so Davie signed out and made her way toward a strip of downtrodden one-story storefronts on Venice Boulevard that were squeezed together like a life-sized Lego village. Black Jack Guns & Ammo was gone, but she hoped one of the neighboring shop owners was still there and might have information about Blasdel or Sara Montaine’s death.
The gunstore’s windows were blacked out. The place had been closed for a long time, but she could still make out a faded Black Jack logo painted on the front door. The message on the upholstery shop next door stated it had been in business since 1997. She would start there.
Inside were bolts of fabric piled haphazardly on tables and the floor, along with the skeletons of chairs and sofas in various stages of rehabilitation. A pleasant-looking man with a round face and stooped shoulders sliced through a swatch of brocade with a pair of scissors. Arman Nazarian remembered Montaine’s death.
“Terrible, just terrible.” He shuddered, shaking his head like a dog repelling water. “I was outside watering the flowers and saw her walk toward the gunstore. I remember her because she didn’t belong in this neighborhood—Pasadena maybe, but not here. She was young and beautiful, like a movie star. I tried to catch her eye, but she turned away and went into the store.”
“How long was she there before you heard the gunshot?”
He finished cutting the piece of cloth and laid down the scissors. “A few minutes. I finished watering and went back inside my store to empty the bucket. The next thing I heard was an explosion. When I realized it was a gunshot I almost had a heart attack. I dropped the bucket on the floor. I remember because the water ruined a bolt of fabric for an antique chair I was recovering. It took forever to order replacement cloth. Cost a fortune, too. Anyway, twenty minutes later, I heard the sirens.”
Blasdel’s statement on the crime report claimed he phoned 911 immediately after discovering the body. It was possible it took officers twenty minutes to arrive at the location, but that seemed improbable to Davie. The LAPD’s average response time for emergency calls was 5.7 minutes.
“Are you sure about the time?”
Nazarian returned the bolt of fabric to a shelf that was lined with dozens of others. “Positive. I was hiding under the sink. I have a clock on the opposite wall. I call it Big Ben. After the gunshot I hid under the counter. All that time, I stared at Ben, so I remember every minute—twenty of them—until I heard the sirens and the officers arrived. I’ll never forget that day. Terrible.”
“After the shooting, how long was the gunstore closed?”
“About a week, maybe. At first, the police wouldn’t let anyone inside. A few days after the yellow tape was down, I came to work one morning and found the place empty. Mr. Blasdel must have come in the middle of the night and hauled everything away.”
“Do you still have his contact information?”
He broke eye contact. “I don’t know where he is. I don’t want to know. Good riddance.”
“The store has been empty for a while, I gather. Has anybody leased it since Blasdel left?”
“At first, nobody wanted it. Mr. Blasdel never cleaned the place after that lady died. The store was a mess. Blood. Flies. The smell was awful. The owner begged me to take over the lease. At first I said no, but he kept offering me better and better deals. What could I do? I paid a service to clean up. My son helped me replace a section of the tile floor. Good as new. Now I use the space for storage.”
“What can you tell me about Jack Blasdel?”
Nazarian glanced around, checking to make sure nobody was listening. Davie found that odd since they appeared to be alone in the store. She looked up at the ceiling but saw no cameras, at least none that were visible.
“He wasn’t a good neighbor,” Nazarian said. “We only have a few parking spaces for customers. All the shopkeepers are supposed to park in the alley, but he always left his car out front. When we complained, he told us he had a bad leg. That was a lie. We could all see he walked just fine.”
“The police report said Blasdel and Ms. Montaine were the only two people in the store at the time of her death. Did you see anyone else hanging around the area?”
“I told you, I was in the back of the store when it happened. There might have been somebody running down the alley, but I can’t be sure.”
“Mr. Nazarian, either you saw somebody or you didn’t. Which is it?”
; “I told you I was hiding under the sink in the back.”
Davie persisted, asking him to describe the person he saw—man, woman, height, weight, clothing, or any distinguishing characteristics like a limp.
“It was a man. He was dressed in black.”
“Did you see his face? Could you identify him if I showed you a photo?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Why didn’t you mention this to the police?”
He avoided her gaze. “The officer told me it was a suicide. I just figured the man in the alley was homeless or somebody who’d heard gunshots and ran. I’d have run, too, but I was too scared.”
The man’s tardy recollection infuriated her. “A woman was dead and you didn’t bother to tell the police you saw a man running from the crime scene?”
He seemed taken aback by her harsh tone. “I’ve known people like Mr. Blasdel—bad people. I didn’t want to get involved in his business. I have a family to protect.”
“What do you know about Mr. Blasdel that made you think he would harm you and your family?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Nazarian pulled another bolt of fabric from the shelf and placed it on the cutting table. “I’m sorry but I have to get back to work.”
The man fleeing the scene could have been either a witness to the killing or the shooter himself. It seemed logical the killer would leave by the back door to avoid being seen. But if he’d chosen that path, presumably Jack Blasdel would have seen him, too. If that’s the way it went down, she wondered why the shooter hadn’t killed Blasdel. Unless he knew that wouldn’t be necessary because Blasdel was an accomplice.
Davie returned to the car, but before heading back to the station she reached Sara Montaine’s stepson Robert don’t-call-me-Bob Montaine on his cell to request an interview. He answered on the first ring. Davie hadn’t expected to reach him so easily, but maybe he’d been expecting a call from his talent agent. In a hushed and hurried voice Robert Montaine agreed to meet with her as long as she arrived within fifteen minutes. Normally, L.A. traffic would have made that impossible, but as it turned out, he was close by.
The Second Goodbye Page 7
