Box Office Poison le-2

by Phillipa Bornikova

  “Hey, I made it past the third time. Isn’t that the key? Should be smooth sailing from here on out.” I suggested with gallows humor.

  There was a knock. My dad looked at the door, concern pulling his brows into a sharp frown. “I ordered takeout,” I explained as I once again gathered up cash and went to answer. This time it was the pimple-faced adolescent. I handed over cash, told him to keep the change. There were delicious smells emanating from the depths of the bag.

  “Dinner?” I said, and held up the sack.

  “Why don’t I take you out, and you can save the leftovers for another night?” he suggested.

  “I like the way you think,” I said. I stowed the little white cartons in the fridge and ran into the bedroom for a jacket.

  He was holding his phone when I emerged, and I saw he was on Google. “There’s a steak place just down from here. Damn good reviews too. Supposedly their garlic bread isn’t to be missed.” he added.

  The Smokehouse was totally my dad’s kind of place. Red leather booths, wood paneling, dark carpet, and unlike the more modern concrete-and-chrome restaurants, it was very quiet. The bar was a dark mahogany horseshoe, and I kept thinking I would see Sam Spade in a trench coat with a fedora pulled low over his eyes slouched there. I told my dad what I was thinking, and he gave me a smile.

  “Except no man in that era would ever have worn a hat indoors,” he said.

  “Oh, right,” I said as the maitre d’ led us to our table. “Is it true that men stopped wearing hats because President Kennedy didn’t wear a hat at his inauguration?”

  “That’s the legend, but now they’re coming back because vampires all wear them.”

  “Well, if they’re using them as sunshades they’d be better off with a sombrero,” I said as I slid into the booth.

  My dad chuckled. “Yes, but that wouldn’t look very dignified, and they’re all about the dignity.”

  “Well, those umbrellas they all carry look pretty silly too.”

  A young waiter approached our booth, and we ordered.

  I went with a small piece of rare prime rib with a side of crab legs. Dad had his usual, a New York strip steak, medium.

  He leaned back and stretched his arms along the back of the booth. “You’re the only one in the family who eats their meat rare,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s from being fostered with a vampire,” he added with a smile.

  The garlic bread arrived and it was completely delicious, oozing butter, topped with melted parmesan cheese and paprika. Moments later the waiter returned with a rolling cart topped with a large wooden bowl and various smaller bowls filled with coddled egg, parmesan cheese, anchovies, half a lemon, cloves of garlic, lettuce, croutons and two carafes, for oil and vinegar, and a bottle of Worcestershire. The waiter made an appropriate production of preparing the Caesar salad. As I watched him rub the sides of the bowl with garlic, I said,

  “Probably not the best choice for a date.”

  “Not unless both of you ate it,” Dad said.

  Plates heaped with romaine lettuce were placed in front of us. “Speaking of dating … are you seeing anyone?” Dad asked. I shook my head. “Anyone look promising?”

  “There was a guy I liked, but things have gotten … complicated.” Given his expression I felt like I needed to say more. “He’s Álfar. You don’t … wouldn’t mind, would you?”

  “Well, I’d like grandkids. And sometimes these mixed marriages don’t work out all that well.”

  My father applied himself to his salad. Then he said, “And in some ways the Álfar are the least human of all the Powers.”

  “Really? How do you figure?”

  “Different species. With vampires and werewolves they at least began life as humans.”

  I leaned back and considered that. He had a point, but I still felt I had to defend John. “John was a changeling. His mother exchanged him for a human baby and he was raised by humans.”

  “Okay. And when am I going to meet this paragon?”

  I played with my fork, beat out a tattoo on the edge of my plate. “Well, that’s what’s complicated.” I paused, considering how to sum up all the craziness from last summer. “For a lot of really complicated reasons we had to travel in Fey, and John’s mom decided he needed to stay with her, and … well, he had to agree so she would let me go.”

  My dad’s expression was serious. “I was being facetious about paragon, but it sounds like he just might be.”

  “He’s brave and chivalrous and smart.” I swallowed, trying to force down the sudden obstruction in my throat. My father’s hand was warm as he clasped mine. “Look, can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Did you always want me to be a lawyer?” I asked.

  “I hoped one of my children would follow in Granddad’s footsteps. Did I push too hard?”

  “Charlie kind of implied that,” I said referring to my younger brother. “I never thought so.”

  “Well, I’m really the aberration, being a businessman. Law and revolution have been the hallmarks of the Ellerys from the very beginning,” Dad said.

  I knew he was referring to the illustrious founder of our family, William Ellery, who signed the Declaration of Independence, was a judge on the supreme court of Rhode Island, the first customs collector under the Constitution, and an early abolitionist. I thought about that for a moment then said, “I wonder how he’d feel about his umpty-umpth great-granddaughter working for a bunch of vampires?”

  An expression I couldn’t identify swept across my father’s face. “I think he’d understand,” he said softly.

  Our main course arrived, distracting us, and Daddy turned the conversation to Charlie, his interest in architecture, and the ongoing arguments over where he was going to go to college. By the time we’d finished our dinner I was almost asleep.

  “Can you stay awake for dessert?” Dad asked. I shook my head. “Okay. Let me take you home.”

  * * *

  The following day I returned to the office. David had wisely canceled hearings for the next two days. Anyone even remotely associated with the movie business was in a state of shock over the shootings, and a lot of them were going to be attending funerals. I asked Elaine if Mr. Pizer was available.

  “I’m sure he is for you,” she said. I wondered if the knowing smile was meant to convey something, but then decided that was just the way she smiled. She left her desk and went into the corner office, closing the door behind her. A moment later the door opened and she beckoned me inside.

  Pizer was practicing putting in the center of the big office. I just stared at him. He gave me a rueful look and cocked the putter over his shoulder like a rifle. “Okay, I’m a cliché, what can I say?”

  “I didn’t know they had night golf,” I said.

  “The courses that want to cater to a better class of player have installed lights.” He stopped. “I didn’t mean to say better class. I meant to say different class of player.”

  I had a feeling he wouldn’t have made that adjustment if he’d been talking to another vampire. I let it go. They thought they were superior because in so many ways they were. It was also clear that Pizer played human better than many others of his kind I had met. It was an odd dynamic. They wanted to do business with humans, which meant they had to play human power games or else redefine the game. Thus far they’d elected to play, mostly, on human terms.

  “So, what can I do you for?” Pizer asked, pulling me back.

  “I want to talk to Kerrinan. Do we know who’s representing him?”

  “Christine Valada at Wein, Ellison and Martin.” He pulled out his BlackBerry. “I’ll send it over to you.” I pulled out my iPhone, and he made the transfer.

  “Thanks.”

  Pizer sat down on the edge of his desk and swung a foot in a monotonous rhythm. “So, what’s up?”

  “Something’s not adding up,” I said.

  “David said you were nift
ic.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “Not sure. Sounds like one of those 1940s things, but good … I think. Ask him.”

  “I’m almost scared to. Thanks for the information. I’ll give her a call.” I paused at the door. “So the firm is okay with me asking some questions?”

  “Yes. I’ve discussed it with David.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  I went back to my broom closet office and met Merlin’s wide-eyed gaze. “Wow. You nearly got killed.”

  “Gosh, really? I hadn’t noticed.” I was immediately ashamed of myself. “Sorry, Merlin, I’m not usually a bitch. I’m running on too little sleep.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry. That was gauche.” The grin was back. “But true.”

  I settled at my desk. Rested my chin in my hands, and contemplated Christine Valada’s telephone number. My mind skipped away to Jondin. How had she gotten the guns?

  “Hey.” I looked up at Merlin’s call. “You look sort of fried. Can I help?”

  “I wish. I want to make some inquiries, but I don’t really know where to start. I’m way off my home turf out here, and I’m a lawyer, not a policeman or a PI. I mean, I know how to research case law and case files, but…” I made a hopeless and frustrated gesture.

  “If you don’t mind I’ve got a suggestion for you.”

  “Why would I mind? Your last suggestion turned out really well.”

  “What was that?”

  “The Oakwood.”

  “Oh, yeah, well, glad it worked out.” He sucked in a quick breath. “I’ve got a twin brother.”

  He stared at me expectantly. I just blinked at him. “Okay,” I said slowly.

  “We were the Blue Fairy ice-cream kids.” I was starting to wonder if I needed to move slowly for the door, then run like hell and call for security and men in white coats. “Commercials?” Merlin prodded. “We’d sit in wading pools and bathtubs and eat ice cream and end up with it all over our faces.”

  A vague memory from childhood surfaced. Of naked cherubic children with red-gold curls and ice cream smeared all over their chubby cheeks while I watched cartoons on Saturday morning. “Oh God, you were those kids?”

  “Yep. But then we hit five and we weren’t so cute any longer.” He looked pensive for a brief moment. “It’s tough to be told you’re all washed up at five.”

  “That’s … terrible.” I remembered him mentioning his parents’ divorce, and I wondered if the loss of the career had something to do with it, but for once I kept my mouth shut.

  He shrugged. “Hey, our parents made a boat load of money, invested it well, and didn’t rob us, so we ended up all right. I went to Harvard, and Maslin went to Columbia, so don’t cry for us, Argentina.”

  I had to admit I was getting really tired of people in LA talking in pop-culture quotes. I released my irritation and asked, “Does Maslin work at the LA Times?”

  “No, he’s a freelancer. Travels to shitholes in the third world and covers bush wars. Goes undercover in corporations to reveal dangerous working conditions and dangerous products. Exposes corrupt politicians. Then he sells his articles to magazines and major papers. Since he doesn’t give a crap about access and doesn’t think it’s the job of a journalist to be a stenographer, he wins Pulitzers. Don’t expect to ever see him at a cocktail party in D.C. He’s in town right now, taking a break after his last trip to the latest shithole. I’m sure he’d love to help you.”

  I sat with the idea for a few minutes and started to like it more and more. “Since David gave his blessing to my making inquiries, I’ll bet we can squeeze some bucks out of the firm to pay him,” I offered.

  “I’m sure he won’t say no.”

  “So, how do we arrange this?”

  “How about we all have dinner tonight?”

  “Let’s make it tomorrow. I’m going to try and see Kerrinan today.”

  “You got it.”

  Merlin turned away to call his brother, and I put in a call to Christine Valada.

  11

  The rendezvous took place in the lobby of the main police station. At first Christine Valada had been suspicious to the point of hostile, but finally I convinced her that I wasn’t working for the DA and frankly thought something really strange was going on. She agreed to meet me at two thiry and take me in to see Kerrinan.

  I hadn’t thought to ask what she looked like, or describe myself, or look her up on Facebook and see if she had posted a photo. As I drove I thought, how hard can it be? Two female lawyers. Turned out to be really hard. The lobby was filled with women in chic suits carrying slim briefcases, with faces set in serious frowns. (I once again felt inferior, with my bulky rolling bag, but how the hell did you carry anything with you in those tiny leather folders?) Statistics stated that women were a majority in the nation’s law firms. Here was the empirical evidence.

  I was staring in consternation at the flood of women when someone touched my arm and a voice said, “Linnet Ellery, right?”

  I turned and found myself facing a woman a few inches taller than me and probably twenty years older. She had thick, dark brown hair touched lightly with silver. It flowed over her shoulders in a tumble of crisp curls and made her creamy golden skin all the more striking. Deep brown eyes studied me critically.

  “Yes. Ms. Valada?”

  “Chris, please.”

  “Call me Linnet. Sorry, I forgot to tell you what I looked like or ask for a description. How did you—”

  “You’ve been in the papers a lot, and while the photo from last night was fuzzy, the one with Jeffery Montolbano wasn’t.”

  “Shall we go up?” She shifted a large and bulky purse briefcase higher onto her shoulder, and I pulled up the handle on my rolling bag. For an instant we glanced at each other’s giant bags, shared a quick smile, but said nothing. Chris continued. “We’ll be interviewing him in his cell, and it won’t be easy,”

  “And why is that?” I asked. I followed Valada as she headed toward an elevator.

  “I take it you’ve never visited an Álfar in jail?”

  “No.”

  “It takes a special facility to hold one.”

  I felt really stupid. “I should have thought of that. How do you hold an Álfar when they can just walk out of our world?”

  “They’ve found a way.”

  The elevator arrived and we rode up to the jail level. The female guard at the desk searched our briefcases and treated us to a hostile stare, which took me aback. Chris leaned over the high-tech desk. I peered over her shoulder and saw that the entire back of the horseshoe-shaped desk was lined with screens displaying pictures of prisoners in their cells. One of the screens had multiple windows offering different views of the cell. Occasionally one picture would be blocked, though I couldn’t tell why.

  “Hey! Back off!” The female guard had come out of her chair, and she and Chris were almost nose to nose.

  “And you guys better back off. I’m forced to interview my client in his cell where he is under constant surveillance rather than in an interview room where I’m assured confidentiality. You better not have microphones in that cell, because if you do and if anything turns up in the DA’s evidence I’m going to sue a lot of people naked and put some others in jail. And I want the cameras turned off until I’m finished. Got that?”

  “I can’t do that. He might—” the guard began.

  “The cameras aren’t what’s keeping him there. The walls keep him there. Now turn the cameras off or I call the DA and a judge.” Valada pulled her cell phone out of her purse and brandished it like a small, blunt sword.

  ”Let me check with my boss.” She made a call and had a quick, hushed conversation. “He says okay.” She jabbed at a button and the screen went dark. “Go on through.” She buzzed us through the heavy bulletproof glass that separated the outer lobby from the jail proper.

  “What’s with her?” I said in a low voice to Chris.

  “Never done criminal law, I take it?”

  �
�A few weeks in the summer during my clinical work.”

  “Cops do not like defense attorneys. They think we put scumbags back on the streets and play gotcha with good cops. I try to explain to them I only play gotcha with bad cops. And it’s bad cops doing bad work that gets scumbags released. Defense attorneys just take advantage of their failings.”

  A guard approached us. “Come with me. He’s in the special cell at the end of the block.”

  He led us down a long hallway lined with cells. Men hung on the bars staring, hooting, and catcalling. “Hey chickie, chickie, chickie. See what I got. Big man over here.” I forced myself to meet the gazes of the men haranguing me. They were dressed in orange prison jumpsuits; several had pulled down the top to reveal either bare chests, or wife-beater T-shirts. Where skin was exposed it was almost always heavily decorated with tattoos: barbed wire, swastikas, dragons, swords, and Chinese and Japanese ideograms. The harsh scent of cigarette smoke caught in the back of my throat and tickled the nose, and the wild male odor of sweat mingled with a less than inefficient sewer system. And somewhere in the building dinner was being prepared. It smelled as if cabbage was on the menu.

  I hadn’t been in a jail since my senior year in law school when they had taken us for a tour of several prisons and given us an up-close look at the execution chamber. Intellect told me to oppose the death penalty after so many people on death row had been exonerated by DNA evidence. But there were some cases where my gut took over, and the angry, frightened, and far more emotional side screamed for blood and vengeance. My only other brush with criminal law had been a six-week course at the public defender’s office that I had mentioned to Chris. The students got the small fry cases—drunk driving, marijuana busts, bar fights that didn’t leave anybody dead or maimed. I never represented anyone I thought was innocent, but I found myself deeply involved in every case because my clients seemed so helpless and confused at being enmeshed in the American justice system.

  The one certain thing I had learned during that summer was that the likelihood of prosecution and jail time was a direct function of class and race. I never met any affluent whites at the morning arraignments where the shuffling men stank of stale booze, sweat, and vomit after a night in the drunk tank. The white guys from Temple or Crowne got escorted home, or if they did get arrested they got bailed out in a hurry because they could afford the bond. Which was why I was uncomfortable with the death penalty.