“What’s that?” said Leah.
“I lost interest.”
“In what?”
“Art. All the pretentiousness. The bullshit. Business is the ultimate art.”
Talking fast to conceal the real reason: he’d blocked. And App had been ready to exploit it, just as he had with Lowell.
One night of deception rewarded by twenty years of comfort and status. Success the ultimate dope. Just as it was for Gwen and Tom Shea.
Uneasy alliances held together by sin and guilt.
It had taken a dream to blow them down.
Graydon-Jones was talking to Leah’s stoic face. “Don’t you see? Curt reversed the entire bloody thing in order to shaft me. All I did was furnish the ’ludes. He hit her—take a closer look at those bones, you’ll find something on her jaw—believe me, I was there. He’s the killer, not me. He’s killed other people—”
“Hold on,” said Stratton sharply.
“I’ve got to prove myself, Jeff!”
“Just hold on, Chris.” To us: “Another conference, please. And make sure there are no open mikes anywhere.”
Leah said, “I can’t promise I’ll be here when you’re finished.”
She and Milo came out, as Stratton turned his back on the mirror and directed Graydon-Jones to do the same.
“Time for the little girls’ room.”
She left. Milo chewed two wads of gum and tried to blow bubbles. I counted my fingers several dozen times.
From the other side of the glass, Stratton waved and mouthed, “Come back in.”
Milo switched on the mike and entered the room.
“Where’s Lee?” said Stratton. “Come on, this isn’t some shoplifting case.”
Milo shrugged. “Maybe she’s powdering her nose, she didn’t tell me.”
“How professional.” Stratton looked at his own watch. “We’ll give her a minute.”
“Big of him,” I said to his ear bug.
Milo smiled.
Leah returned.
I crooked a thumb toward the glass. “Stratton’s getting antsy. I’d keep working the time bit.”
She grinned at me. “I need your little voice in my ear to tell me how to do my job? No, seriously, it’s been useful. We should probably do more in-house shrinking on the big cases. Problem is you’d probably charge too much. And most of the other DA’s would feel threatened.”
Pressing freshly glossed lips together, she asked Lucy, “Still holding up?”
“Holding up fine. I just hope you crack him.”
“Like an egg,” said Leah. “Over easy.”
She fluffed her hair; then she stepped into the interrogation room.
Stratton said, “Hey, Lee, for a minute I thought you’d given it all up for a life of joyful abandon.”
“Okay, let’s finish up,” she said. “If you have something to say, Mr. Graydon-Jones, out with it. Otherwise we’ll just work with what we’ve got.”
Stratton said, “Before we go any further, I’d like some definite quid pro quo.”
“Pu-leeze.”
“You don’t care about getting the big fish, Lee?”
“This case, Jeff, they all seem pretty big.”
Graydon-Jones cursed under his breath.
“What’s that, sir?” said Leah.
Silence.
“You have a comment, Mr. Graydon-Jones, feel free to make it.” Glance at her watch.
Stratton said, “My client’s willing to offer you information that could clear up two additional homicides. Bona fide homicides, not involuntary manslaughter, which is the most you’ll get out of the Best girl, and you know it. You don’t want to hear about it, fine.” Shrug.
“We’ll hear, Jeff. What we won’t do is put a price tag on the merchandise until we’ve had a chance to examine it.”
“Believe me,” said Stratton, “this is good.”
Leah smiled. “I always believe defense attorneys.”
Milo said, “My mortgage is assumable, my Porsche is paid for, and the check’s in the mail.”
Stratton shot him a hard look.
Leah’s smile got wider and she put her hand over it. Another peek at her watch. Even though I’d suggested it, I found it an annoying mannerism.
She sighed and got up.
Stratton said, “Fine. Listen and evaluate. I’m sure you’re smart enough to see it for what it is.”
Leah said, “That’s me, Ms. Smart,” and clasped her briefcase.
She sat down.
Graydon-Jones looked at Stratton the way a baby looks at its mother just after it receives its first shot.
Stratton said, “Give me a commitment that if the information’s good you’ll go to bat for my client.”
“Going to bat for your client’s your job, Jeff. If Mr. Graydon-Jones’s information proves useful, it will be taken very seriously. Even in this day and age, we like to clear bona fide homicides.”
“It’s more than useful,” said Stratton. “Believe me. But I think it’s important you realize the scope of what we’re talking about. Qualitatively. The information Mr. Graydon-Jones is in possession of, in addition to being revelatory, is four-plus exculpatory.”
“Of whom?”
“Mr. Graydon-Jones. What he has to tell you goes to the crux of the matter and relates to Karen Best, as well. Motivation. Two homicides that are the conceptual fruit of the Karen Best incident and point a strong finger at original guilt in Karen Best’s death. What we’re talking about is the fact that someone else, and not Mr. Graydon-Jones, undertook to further these two—”
“Denton Mellors, aka Darnel Mullins, and Felix Barnard,” said Milo, in a bored voice.
Graydon-Jones’s eyes bugged. Stratton blinked very fast.
“Yeah, we know about those, counselor,” said Milo. “Old Curt lays that on you too, Chris.”
“Oh, no,” said Graydon-Jones, holding out his hands as if scooping air. “Oh, bloody fuck, no, no, no, this is—no bloody way, bullshit! I can prove I was out of town the day Denny shot the private eye. Curt paid him thirty thousand dollars to do it. Recorded it as payment for a screenplay Denny never wrote. Thirty grand—he showed me the money.”
“Mellors showed it to you?” said Milo.
“No, no! Curt! He showed it to me and told me what it was for—said Denny was more than happy to do it, Denny was a closet thug, always had been.”
“Where did this conversation take place?” said Milo.
“At his house.”
“In Malibu?”
“No, no, his other one, Bel Air. He used to have a place on St. Cloud. Now he’s in Holmby Hills, on Baroda.”
“Was anyone else present during this conversation?”
“Of course not! He invited me for lunch. Out by the pool, his fucking terriers pissing all over. Then he pulls out an envelope and shows me the money. Has me count it. And tells me about some private eye asking around about Karen, he’d been paying him off for a year, putting him on the books to cover it and giving him odd jobs. Now the bastard has gotten greedy and wants more so he can buy a house somewhere. So now Denny is going to kill him at some motel Curt owns. He owns all sorts of things; he’s all over, like an octopus—”
“Why did he tell you this?”
“So I’d be part of it! Just as he’d made me part of Karen’s murd—death. And to frighten me—it worked, believe me. Scared the shit out of me. I caught the first plane out of the country, back to England. That’s how I can prove I wasn’t there when it happened—I have my old passport. Look at the date on the bleeding thing and compare it to the date of Barnard’s murder!”
“How long did you stay away?” said Milo.
“Two weeks.”
“Where’d you go?”
“To my mother’s, in Manchester. Curt found me, sent me a newspaper clipping. About Barnard’s murder. Then he had Denny killed a few months later.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how
do you know App was behind it?
“Because he sent me another clipping. On Denny. Clear warning. He’s a monster, bestowing favors, then yanking them away.”
“Sounds like he kept bestowing them on you,” said Milo. “Career, and all that.”
“Yes, but I never knew why, never knew if it would end. I knew I couldn’t escape him . . . so I stayed put, kept my mouth shut, did my job—earned every bleeding penny of that salary. But now I see why he really kept me around.”
“Why’s that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? As a scapegoat. If things ever came to light, he’d have someone to dump it all on.”
“Scapegoat?” said Milo. “It was you drove up there in that van with a hacksaw and plastic bags.”
Graydon-Jones froze. Then his body tilted toward Milo.
Stratton reached out to restrain him. Graydon-Jones waved him off.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “Twenty-one years I’ve lived in terror of the man. That’s why I did the things I did. I was scared.”
CHAPTER
47
Thirty hours left on the clock. We’d had dim sum at a barnlike place on Hill Street, and it hadn’t settled well. I sat alone in that same observation room. No one had cleaned the glass since Graydon-Jones’s session, and it was fogged with a distillation of sweat and fear.
Curtis App’s counsel was an older man named MacIlhenny, fat and slovenly with the eyes of a sleepy snake and a custom-tailored gray suit that looked cheap on him. He’d managed to get App out of jail clothes. Despite the white cashmere V-neck and the black Swiss cotton shirt, the producer looked weak and insubstantial. Just a few days in jail had wiped out years of Malibu tan.
Leah was inside with them, along with her boss, a grim deputy DA named Stan Bleichert.
MacIlhenny grunted, and App lifted a piece of paper and began to read.
“My name is Curtis Roger App, and I am about to offer into the record a statement prepared by myself, under no duress or coercion, under the guidance of my attorney, Landis J. MacIlhenny, Esquire, of the law firm of MacIlhenny, Bellows, Caville and Shrier. Mr. MacIlhenny is present with me for moral support during these trying times.”
He cleared his throat, flirted briefly with the camera. For a moment I thought he’d call for the makeup girl.
He said, “I am not nor have I ever been a murderer, nor do I condone the act of murder. However, I am in possession of information that came my way, by means of no criminal activity on my part, that if pursued competently could lead to the criminal prosecution of another individual and/or individuals for violation of California State Penal Code 187, first-degree murder. I am willing to offer such information in return for compassionate consideration of my current status including immediate release from prison, under reasonable bail, to my family and loved ones, and in return for reduction of present and pending charges.”
Folding the paper.
Looking up.
Bleichert addressed MacIlhenny. “Okay, it’s on the record, now let’s talk reality.”
“Sure,” said MacIlhenny. His voice was a bullfrog croak and his eyebrows tangoed when he talked. “Reality is, Mr. App is a prominent member of the business community and there’s no rational reason to confine him—”
“He’s a flight risk, Land. He was apprehended just about to board a helicopter with a connecting flight to—”
“Tsk, tsk,” said MacIlhenny, very gently. “Not apprehended. Surprised. At that point in time, Mr. App was aware of no criminal investigation of any sort. Surely, you’re not saying that absent such information he wasn’t free to travel at will, like any other United States citizen?”
“With his money, he’s a flight risk, Land.”
MacIlhenny patted his melon paunch. “So you’re saying that Mr. App’s wealth allows you to discriminate against him.”
“I’m saying he’s a flight risk, Land.” Bleichert’s face was round and grim and pinched and he had a five-o’clock shadow. His navy suit really was cheap.
“Well,” harumphed MacIlhenny, “we’ll pursue that with the appropriate authorities.”
“Be my guest.”
MacIlhenny turned to Leah. “Hello, young lady. UCLA, class of . . . around five years ago?”
“Six.”
“I lectured to your class. Admissibility of evidence. You sat right up in front—wore blue jeans.”
Leah smiled.
Bleichert said, “We’re all impressed with the Mr. Memory bit, Land. Now, is your client going to poop or get off the pot?”
MacIlhenny put one hand to his mouth in mock horror. The other shielded Leah’s eyes.
“Tsk, tsk. My client is willing to read a prepared statement.”
“No questioning?”
“Not at this time.”
“That’s not very forthcoming.”
“That’s reality.”
Bleichert looked at Leah. Nothing visible passed between them. He said, “Read at your own risk.”
“Release on bail.”
“Special holding at Lompoc.”
“That’s still prison.”
“It’s a country club.”
“No,” said MacIlhenny. “My client already belongs to a country club. He knows the difference.”
Leah said, “With everything your client’s charged with, he’s lucky to see fresh air. And why should we bargain with him when he’s already lied to us, trying to palm off Karen Best on Trafficant. We know from other sources that Trafficant had no involvement in that.”
“Tsk, tsk,” said MacIlhenny. “There are sources and there are sources.”
Through it all, App sat, looking bored. The inanimate calm of the true psychopath.
Bleichert said, “Transfer to Lompoc and that’s it.”
“It’s quite a story,” said MacIlhenny. “First-rate drama.”
“Sell it to the movies,”
MacIlhenny smiled and pointed a finger at App.
App smiled and took out another paper.
After clearing his throat, he began.
“I became acquainted with the writer/artist Morris Bayard Lowell, hereafter to be referred to as “Lowell’ or “Buck,’ at a party in New York in the summer of 1969. The party I believe to have been at the Greenwich Village townhouse of Mason Upstone, editor of the Manhattan Book Review, though I can’t be sure. Lowell and I struck up a conversation, during which I told him I greatly admired his work. Subsequent to that, Lowell and I began a friendly relationship that culminated in my optioning a book of his, a collection of poems entitled Command: Shed the Light, for development as a motion picture. In addition to the advance payment for this option, I advanced him money to purchase land in Topanga Canyon to develop a personal residence and to build an artists’ and writers’ retreat he called Sanctum. I did these things because even though Lowell had experienced a long hiatus in creative output, his previous accomplishments in literature and art led me to believe he would regain his creative powers and resume his place as a major American writer.”
Sniff. He touched his nose.
“Unfortunately, this was not to happen. Command: Shed the Light received highly excoriative reviews and was a commercial failure.”
Rattling the paper.
“As part of my relationship with Lowell, I also became acquainted with various artists and writers. Among these was a British sculptor, Christopher Graydon-Jones, whom I aided in attaining employment in an insurance company in which I am a substantial shareholder, and whom I believed, at the time, to be a major talent and of excellent personal character. Likewise, a writer, Denton Mellors, whose true name I have since learned was Darnel Mullins, an African-American novelist, for whom I found employment in the business affairs office of my motion picture production company and, when he proved to lack skills in that area, as a manager of several motor inns that I own.”
Throat clearing. “I might add that I am also a substantial contributor to the United Negro College Fund.”
MacIlhenny arched an eyebrow and handed him a glass of water.
He drank and read. “Another individual I met through Lowell was a writer named Terrence Trafficant. Trafficant had spent time in prison and wrote about his experiences in a prison diary entitled From Hunger to Rage. Lowell took Trafficant in, as a protÉgÉ, helped him get paroled, and aided in getting the diary published. It became a best-seller. At Lowell’s urging, I read said book and optioned it for development into a motion picture, advancing money to Terrence Trafficant.”
Staring at the camera, as if trying to convince it of something. Sniff.
“I was to find out, subsequently, that I had been defrauded by both Mr. Lowell and Mr. Trafficant, in that Command: Shed the Light had been written not by Mr. Lowell but by Mr. Trafficant and passed off by Mr. Lowell to the artistic and literary community, and to the public at large, as an original work. I learned this in conversation with Mr. Trafficant, who showed me his original handwritten notes for the book and gave them to me for safekeeping in exchange for a sum of money. I remain in possession of said notes and am willing to offer them as evidence in the prosecution of Mr. Lowell for the murder of Mr. Trafficant, a crime I have personal knowledge of because Mr. Lowell confessed it to me, several days after the deed, when I confronted him with the evidence of his plagiarism and fraud.”
Deep breath.
“That’s all I have to say at this time.”
MacIlhenny smiled. Bleichert frowned.
Leah said, “So you want to trade Lowell for everything you’ve done.”
App folded the paper.
“All we’ve got on Lowell,” said Leah, “is your word for it.”
“And the notes,” said MacIlhenny.
“If they’re authentic. And even if they are, all they prove is fraud. On a dead victim. So big deal.”
“A murdered victim.”
“I haven’t heard any evidence of murder except Mr. App’s say-so.”
“Would a body help?”
“Depending on whose it is.”
“Tsk, tsk, young lady. Let’s not be coy.”
Bleichert said, “Whose corpus, Land?”
“Speaking theoretically? Let’s say Mr. Trafficant’s.”
“Where is it?”
MacIlhenny smiled and shook his head.
“Withholding information on a homicide case, Land?”
Self-Defense Page 38
