“Yeah, I’ll come in and have a beer. Unless you’ve got a second hooker in there?” She pushed past Furyk and headed for the kitchen where the only light in the house was on. She remembered where the fridge was and she knew where the good beer was kept – back of the middle shelf, four imported cold ones. By the time she’d opened one up and turned to put a second on the counter, Furyk had put on a T-shirt and come into the kitchen. Decent of him.
“Thanks for calling before swinging by.”
“Yeah, ya coulda had her crawl out the bathroom window if you’d known I was coming over.” She took a long pull from the green-tinted bottle. They were done with the banter about Furyk’s sex life. “You wanna know why I drove all the way the hell over here?”
Furyk took the other bottle from the counter and twisted open the top. He matched her long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He crossed his feet and leaned against the counter, the hum of the air conditioner the only sound, the radio having long before been turned off. He waited.
“Yeah, big talker, I know. Okay, sandwich guy, Merrill Wick will be out on bail tomorrow. Two psychiatrists interviewed her today and both say she may be a whack job but she isn’t dangerous. Two million bucks puts her back in her ivory tower before dinner tomorrow. Thought you’d want to know.”
Furyk nodded, thinking about what it meant. Margolin didn’t want her locked up, he just wanted to make sure there was a psychiatric evaluation first. Prep for the defense he planned, but a risky one since the decision on bail could have gone either way. That bothered Furyk.
Prole watched him thinking about things, ignoring her. “Don’t thank me, pal, but you better tell me why this is all so interesting to you. Unless you want me pretending I don’t know you from now on.”
Furyk looked up at her and smiled. “Hey, how about a pepperoni pizza? I’ll call it in. We can stay up all night and tell each other stories.”
She snorted. Draining the bottle, she left it on the counter and brushed by Furyk, even though there was plenty of room to pass in the large kitchen.
“Cut the witty banter, tough guy. I think you don’t know shit now, but I think you’re going to find out. When you do, you tell me about it. Then you buy me pizza. And maybe I don’t get you arrested for doing PI work without a license.” She said the last part as she passed out the door, leaving it wide open and letting the dark in.
Chapter Forty-Two
By 5:00 p.m. the next day, Margolin had posted $200,000 in bail and Merrill was sitting in the passenger seat that had been cleaned of taco grease as part of a $300 car detailing that morning. The bail money came from a joint business account Margolin and Wick had maintained and which had grown to over ten figures in recent years. Merrill was wearing the same outfit she’d had on during the hearing a few days earlier, a fact the tabloid news shows had noted in their coverage of her walk down the steps of the County Jail and around the corner to where Margolin had left the car. None of the reporters found it too trite to point out the fashion faux pas. The extra fifty yards to the car gave the photographers plenty of time to catch her from every angle, including as she half-tripped on the broken cement of the sidewalk near the Mercedes. She caught herself without reaching for the attorney, who had dropped the protective arm he’d had around her waist and was reaching for the car door. Merrill stopped and took a deep breath, seeming not to notice the lights and crowd pressing in on her, microphones in her face and voices asking if she remembered killing her husband. She was alone and, despite the joy of not living in close quarters with Sally, she felt lost.
Across the street, hugging the dirty green light pole that hid her better than the greasy hair hanging in her face, Felicia chewed on a knuckle. She’d spent her last few dollars returning to LA despite the tug of freedom and anonymity that lay north. She watched the expression on the accused woman’s face and a flicker of regret passed behind her own eyes. It was quickly extinguished and she hurried off down an adjacent alley.
Chapter Forty-Three
Walking up to the front door, Furyk summoned the image from years earlier of the Wick household. It had been dark, shadows thrown by the large oak and dogwood trees that weren’t found in neighborhoods just a mile or two away. He’d made that walk up the stone path or cement porch of a thousand homes to answer a domestic disturbance call. Every cop knew it was as dangerous as pulling a car over for having a broken tail light – an innocuous circumstance that was filled with the foreboding of the unknown. It was that kind of innocent moment, walking up behind a late model sedan with a well-dressed middle-aged man behind the wheel or a front door opening to reveal a mildly annoyed father that could suddenly explode into gunfire and a cop with a bullet lodged in his vest if he was lucky and the crease of his neck if he weren’t. Despite the neighborhood, Furyk and his partner had approached cautiously. But there was no overt danger there that night, just the sense that something dark resided beyond the well-lit foyer. Now, in the full light of late morning, he was no more comfortable.
Before he could knock on the door, it opened and a beefy guy with short-cropped hair and the blue-blazer-khaki-slacks uniform of a private security guard filled the frame. He was probably pretty effective with nosy journalists and cloying neighbors, but Furyk unconsciously assessed him as having plenty of gym-muscles and not a lot of street experience. He’d go down like a Jenga tower following a sharp jab to the nose or hard kidney punch. Furyk didn’t have any plans for a fight but knowing the terrain gave him an advantage should he ever need it.
“Here to see Mrs. Wick. She taking visitors?”
The rent-a-tough didn’t come with a sense of humor. He wasn’t too thick to recognize that Furyk wasn’t a reporter, might be a cop, but definitely not a threat. Two out of three right.
“Piss off.” He started to close the door. Furyk put a foot out, his loafer stopping the movement of the door before it had gotten enough momentum to bruise his foot through the soft leather.
“Your job is to keep the assholes out. And to let the good guys in. Tell Mrs. Wick Bill Furyk is here to see her.”
Looking down from the three inches he had over Furyk, the 25-year-old former frat boy debated a hard shove in the chest to rid the welcome mat of this pest. Furyk could see the slow internal discussion unfolding. To the kid’s credit, he pulled out a walkie-talkie.
“Guy says he wants to see Ms. Wick. Says his name is Furyk.” As though that might be a ruse. He waited a few seconds and Furyk could hear the conversation on the other end of the transmitter because the second guard had left the mic on. He heard a brief whispered conversation and he pictured Merrill Wick ensconced in a dressing gown, lying on a large bed in a darkened room, hiding from the world and softly crying.
The second guard must have put the walkie-talkie to his mouth because the next words came across startlingly loud.
“Bring him in to the kitchen.”
Furyk didn’t need an escort, remembering the layout of the house. He was surprised that he’d be talking to her in the kitchen. That’s where Wick had been found.
His surprise was greater when he walked into the airy, sunny kitchen and saw Merrill standing at the sink. She had on white linen shorts and a powder blue blouse, untucked. White, unsullied sneakers without socks made her slim ankles look strong and lean. The rest of the legs weren’t bad either and Furyk caught himself noticing the shorts fit nicely around the waist and backside. He took it all in at a glance and made eye contact. Merrill’s face lit up when she saw him.
“Detective Furyk, I don’t know why, but I’m not surprised to see you.” She held a large glass of iced tea and was pouring lemonade from a carton into it. An Arnold Palmer. Very Brentwood. “Can I get you a drink?”
Furyk still had the powdery taste of the two pills he’d chewed after a bad night and worse morning, the pain in his lower back and hip a constant reminder of his departure from police life. A drink sounded pretty good.
“Sure, if you don’t mind.” She didn’t and
made him a mixture of iced tea and lemonade. They didn’t speak while she mixed. Furyk noted the second guard, the other end of the walkie-talkie, still standing in the kitchen doorway. He could have been the twin of the guy at the door, only twenty years later. A paunch that couldn’t be contained by the blue blazer spilled over what was probably a brown belt, had it been visible. Merrill saw Furyk’s gaze and she smiled at the man.
“Mr. Simmons, thank you so much. Detective Furyk…I mean, Mr. Furyk, and I will be fine here in the kitchen. He isn’t going to try to get the inside story for the tabloids.” Simmons didn’t seem happy but returned to the living room, the kitchen door swinging three or four times behind him before coming to a close.
Merrill brought the second Arnold Palmer over to Furyk and sat on one of the stools near the large center block where the chopping and other meal preparation took place. The surface was clean and tiled. Dozens of pots and pans swung on hooks overhead. She seemed calm. Furyk’s surprise grew. He took a sip and sat on the stool next to her.
“You seem better than when I saw you the other day.”
Merrill still had on the smile she had given Simmons. Furyk knew shock when he saw it, and Merrill Wick had that look in her eyes. But there was something else, something that had replaced the fear he saw just a couple days ago in the dingy interview room in the jail.
“Mr. Furyk, I do feel better. I know I didn’t kill Carl.”
Chapter Forty-Four
The Rolling Rock soured in his mouth. Brant left the half-finished bottle on the Formica table-top as he hitched up his belt and shifted the butt of his revolver so it didn’t dig into his gut. Sliding out of the bench in the dimly lit bar, the noon sun kept at bay by heavy window shades and a heavier gloom from the half-dozen patrons, he kept an eye on the television over the corner of the short bar. The picture of Merrill Wick stumbling played again, the closed captioning rolling along the bottom but unreadable in the weak light and the Sheriff’s myopia. If she was out of jail that probably meant that quivering attorney didn’t have things so goddamned under control. Brant would have to get him somewhere quiet and talk to him in a real clear and unconfusing manner. He didn’t have time for this shit. And he damn sure wasn’t going to let some soft-bellied manicured pussy like Margolin screw up Brant’s set-up. It had taken too long and there was too much at stake. He fingered the gun again as he headed to the side exit and thought about the bank account, his retirement, and the feel of one of those little honeys running her fingers all over his back. Time to straighten Margolin out.
Chapter Forty-Five
Cheyenne Wick wouldn’t go home. The thought of seeing her mother sickened her. She hadn’t visited Merrill in jail and wasn’t about to stay under the same roof as her – and definitely not the roof where she’d killed Cheyenne’s father.
Mrs. Margolin had suggested she go see her mom, but didn’t push it. Mr. Margolin didn’t talk about it a lot, which seemed a little weird since he was defending her and with Cheyenne there in the house every night you’d think it would be a main topic of conversation. But when the three of them sat at dinner, the talk was all about what had happened in school that day, or the Lakers game that night. They even talked about the reporters who hounded Cheyenne and how she was doing with all that, but they never broached the premise for why all the commotion was happening in the first place. Perry had sat down with her in the TV room the other day, put his hand on her knee and patted it gently, smiling with that toothy grin that Cheyenne had learned already was one that men used when they were uncomfortable around a girl. He’d said he was doing his best to help her mother and things would eventually be normal again. Yeah, fat chance, she thought. And then she’d started to cry, missing her father and Perry had let her rest her head on his shoulder and get the jacket of his suit wet.
She missed her dad and she hated her mother, not knowing her hate was part of her sadness. She knew her mother had done it, she could feel it in her stomach and see it in the eyes of everyone who talked to her – reporters or friends. Even Mr. Margolin knew she had done it. Whether it was because her mom was insane or just crazy, it didn’t matter. She had taken the one thing Cheyenne cared about. Now there was no one to take her for long walks along the grassy strip running along San Vicente Blvd. all the way to the beach, or buy her whatever she asked for at the boutiques in the Beverly Center after a busy day at school. No one to make her feel like the special young woman her father always told her she was, how she was important and could have anything she wanted, and who would teach her what she needed to know to get everything she wanted. Cheyenne pictured her mother hunched over her dying father, holding the knife and just staring. She wanted to go back to that moment, to snatch the knife out of her mother’s hands and kick her hard in the gut, punch her in that mousy little face, stab her with the already bloody knife. The rage flowed up through Cheyenne’s stiffened legs and coursed through her veins, making her lightheaded and ready to explode. Sitting on her bed in the Margolin guest room, music blaring in the earpieces attached to her iPod, arms wrapped around her legs, she was startled by the fury that inhabited every cell of her body. The anger suddenly separated from the thoughts of her mother, no longer laser-like on the image of Merrill next to the body of Cheyenne’s father. Instead it seemed to take on a life of its own, floating above the scene, a cloud of rage and hurt. Then to her horror, it expanded and embraced everything in the room, the kitchen, the walls – and even her father. In her mind it was a real thing, a fog of hatred and despair. Seeing it settle on her father, take form, swaddle him, made her feel sick like she was going to throw up. She gagged, coughing loudly and violently, and the moment was broken. The music was back and the more comfortable resolve that she hated her mother settled back in.
Chapter Forty-Six
This time the threat was not subtle. Brant pushed his thick palm up against Margolin’s chest and knew there would be a bruise the next day. The lawyer stepped back sharply and was stopped by the trunk of the heavily branched tree in the wooded section of Griffith Park near Studio City where Brant had insisted they meet. It had meant another drive to the Valley and Margolin’s sense that this wasn’t going to be a friendly meeting immediately proved true. He had needed to park more than a hundred yards away, on the curvy blacktop road that wound through the park, then hiked in to the spot Brant had described. It could have been a scene from the Sopranos. The Sheriff had driven over the dirt trail meant for park rangers and pulled up within fifteen feet of where they now stood. The black-and-white cruiser would keep any nosy hikers at bay, but the small dip in the brief meadow where they faced each other afforded more privacy.
Margolin felt bark scrape the back of his neck. Uncomfortable, intimidated definitely, but not scared. The Sheriff looming in front of him, chin jutting as far forward as his belly, was as involved as he was. Margolin had handled drug dealers and killers, faced tough cops and crooked judges. He knew when someone was going to lash out, could read them like a first-grade chapter book. That’s how he’d known what was going on with Wick, his partner for almost two decades. That’s how he knew Brant needed answers and a reason to keep trusting Margolin, but that the answers had to be good or the Sheriff would cross over the line and become dangerous. Margolin ignored the raw feeling on his neck and the brambles he felt in his hair.
“You don’t want to lose control, Sheriff. Not now.” He said it calmly, not as an admonition or threat. Just as advice from counsel. Brant’s eyes flared behind the sunglasses and his cheeks reddened but he waited.
“What the fuck you got goin’ in your mind, Margolin? Why’s she out?”
Margolin picked a stray leaf from his lapel and held Brant’s look. Calm, reassuring. “I’ve laid the groundwork for an insanity plea. Being out on bail makes her more sympathetic, less a victim of a harsh prison system and more a confused, sick woman in need of help despite her heinous crime. Maybe a little less media coverage, if we can get through this quickly.” He let it sink in as Brant mulle
d it over. The belly retreated a little and Brant put his hands on his hips. It was quiet except for the rustle of branches in the warm breeze and the light hum of traffic from the hidden 134 Freeway less than a quarter mile away.
“So she did it?” It was only a half-question.
Margolin let another moment pass. This was the question he didn’t want to answer. “I don’t know. It looks like it.” The Sheriff’s momentary calm deflated.
“What in the goddamned hell do you mean you don’t know? Who else is gonna poke Wick fulla holes?” Brant was furious and spittle flew from his mouth. “It sure as hell wasn’t the guy from Compton. That sonofabitch was still in lock-up!”
Margolin was feeling a little fearful now, despite his earlier evaluation of Brant and the circumstances. “I know, I know…He got out yesterday. And Carl was supposed to be killed next Tuesday.” Margolin paused. “Do we still have to pay the Compton guy?”
It took all of Brant’s remaining self control not to go back to the cruiser and get his night stick to beat the crap out of the lawyer and leave the trunk of the tree wet with blood.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Furyk let the admission of innocence hang in the high-ceilinged kitchen. Merrill was calm, composed, and maybe just a little pleading.
A Twisted Path Page 10
