by JF Freedman
“What kind, and what color?” Luke asked. This was critical, because the police had an eyewitness who had sworn she’d seen Maria get into a dark SUV with a boy who looked like Steven McCoy. Steven, of course, drove a dark SUV.
“A 328 Beemer convertible. It’s silver.”
Can’t win ’em all, Luke thought philosophically. He looked over at Kate, who gave him a disappointed head-shake.
“After the two girls went their separate ways, what did you and Peter do?” he asked Jeremy.
“Went back to our apartment. We were in the middle of moving in.”
“So the two of you were together for the rest of the afternoon.”
“Most of it.”
Kate almost came out of her chair as Luke said, “Most of it? When weren’t you?”
“After we got back to the apartment, Peter drove to Robinsons to buy sheets and towels, that kind of stuff. I stayed behind to put up shelves and finish putting away my clothes.”
Luke exchanged a fraught glance with Kate. “How long was Peter gone?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Couple of hours. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“And he definitely went to Robinsons.”
“Uh huh.”
“You’re positive. Couldn’t it have been Macy’s?”
The distinction was vital. Robinsons was in the La Cumbre Mall, on upper State Street. Macy’s, the other large department store that sold those items, was downtown, in Paseo Nuevo, where they had dropped the girls off, and where Maria had been spotted later on, at the earring store. The two malls were more than five miles from each other.
“How do you know?” Luke pressed. “Because Peter told you Robinsons is where he went?”
Jeremy shook his head. “He showed me the receipts. So I could see how much I owed him for my share.”
One step forward, two steps back. First the car, now this. Luke thought for a moment. “Okay,” he told Jeremy. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Luke escorted Jeremy to the door. “Are you comfortable with the way I proposed handling this?”
“Yes,” Jeremy answered gratefully. “I really appreciate this, sir.”
“Well, let’s hope we don’t run into any snags. Any more snags,” Luke cautioned him. “You have to do your part, too.”
“I know. I will.”
“All right, then. We’ll be in touch.”
Jeremy walked through the reception area and went outside. Luke looked after him, shaking his head. He turned back to Kate. “This muddies the waters, which is good for us,” he said, half-thinking out loud. “But let’s be realistic, it doesn’t change the basic facts on the ground.”
“No,” she agreed. She gathered up her purse. “What now?”
“We need to get the lowdown on the girl who saw Maria get into an SUV like Steven’s. That, the gun, and the gate is their trifecta, so if we can blow a hole in that one, we have more credibility on the other two. If she’s a flake or can be discredited, it’ll be an uptick for us. Start checking on her. But before you do you need to go to L.A. and interview this Baumgartner kid.”
The story they had put together for Jeremy was that he hadn’t known about Maria Estrada’s disappearance and subsequent murder until recently, when he had seen an article in the News-Press about the upcoming trial, which jogged his memory and prompted him to contact Luke, because the article said that Luke Garrison was the accused man’s attorney, and he thought that was the proper way to come forward.
“I’m not worried about this moke,” Luke said. “He’s sufficiently scared that he’s under control. You’ll have to make a judgment about Baumgartner, after you talk to him.”
“What are we going to do about Sophia’s friend?” Kate asked. She was concerned for Tina, more for Sophia’s sake than Tina’s—Sophia was still guilt-tripping herself over betraying a promise. Although she appreciated her daughter’s ethics, Kate had a different take on the situation. Illegally or not, Tina was living in this country. If she wanted the benefits of being a citizen, she had to shoulder the responsibilities. Especially in a situation like this one, where a life was literally at stake.
“She’s on ice for now,” Luke answered. “If I have to use her as a witness at the trial, we’ll work it out. Alex Gordon isn’t interested in doing the Immigration Service’s laundry for them.” He stretched, cracking the vertebrae in his lower back. “When can you go to Los Angeles?”
“As soon as it’s convenient for Baumgartner to see me. Tomorrow, if I can.”
Luke did a drumroll with the tip of his pencil. “Call me after you interview him. Who knows—maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Kate nodded. “I hope so. We need it.”
Friday afternoon was the earliest Kate could schedule an appointment with Peter Baumgartner, who had agreed to meet with her only after she had said the magic words “or you can talk to the Santa Barbara sheriffs.” She inched her way along the ridiculously jammed-up southbound I-405 until she made it over the pass, getting off at Sunset Boulevard and heading east, toward the redbrick towers of UCLA. The traffic was still bumper to bumper, but at least it was moving steadily. After a mile she turned onto Stone Canyon Road and drove into the rarified environs of Bel-Air.
Most of the houses were set well back from the street, so she only caught glimpses as she drove by them, but she knew what they were like. Montecito, in Santa Barbara, was a similar community. The mere rich need not even daydream—to live here you had to have truly serious money, or else had been lucky enough to have bought in decades earlier, before the great southern California housing boom. All the homes were large and beautiful, exquisitely furnished, surrounded by great expanses of perfectly manicured lawns, most with a guest house and swimming pool. There would be a decent smattering of tennis courts, full indoor gyms, and riding rings—whatever could suit the fancy of people with tons of money.
Following the directions Peter Baumgartner had left on her answering service, Kate turned off onto one of the side streets and followed it until she came to the address she’d jotted down. She stopped outside the stone-columned entrance for a moment. The driveway was paved with Italian stone. On either side of it, the manicured lawn was lush in its greenness, as if it had been spray-painted. Low flowering hedges bordered the driveway on either side.
The entrance road was over a hundred yards long. She drove toward a traditional two-story Spanish-style house. As she approached, she saw two Filipino gardeners kneeling on the turf, fixing a sprinkler head. They didn’t look up as she passed by.
Off to one side of the main house was a three-car garage. The doors were shut. She parked near the front in a large cul-de-sac area next to two other cars, a black Mercedes CL500 coupe and an electric-blue Aston Martin DB7 GT. One of her wealthy clients in Santa Barbara owned a similar Aston Martin, a rare and exotic machine, particularly in the U.S., where hardly any were imported. It was more fun to drive than my Ferrari, he’d remarked casually, which she had no reason to doubt, having never ridden in either car. Something to aspire to. In another lifetime.
She walked up the stone steps to massive double-doors that were inlaid with intricate carvings that looked like hieroglyphics carved on a Mayan stele. She rang the doorbell, shifting in anticipation from one foot to the other. Knowing she was coming to this highfalutin’ neighborhood, she had dressed up for the occasion. She was wearing dark lightweight wool slacks, a bone-colored silk blouse, low-heel open-toed suede pumps, and a featherweight Donna Karan sports coat she’d picked up on sale at the Camarillo outlet mall. With the exception of her Jil Sander cocktail dress, this was the fanciest outfit she could throw together. Earlier in the week she’d had her hair cut, and she’d had her nails done, both manicure and pedicure. This was as girly-girl as she got.
The door was opened by a portly middle-aged Chicana wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and beach thongs. She stared quizzically at Kate through thick glasses. “Can I help you?” Her accent was east L.A., not south of the border.
“
I’m here to see Peter Baumgartner. I have an appointment.”
The woman frowned. “Peter isn’t here.”
Don’t tell me that, she thought in a burst of anger. “He has to be,” she said, forcing herself not to lose her temper in front of this woman, who wasn’t at fault. “We made this appointment days ago.”
The woman’s eyes blinked like an owl in daylight. “Wait here a minute, please.” She turned and disappeared into the house.
If you stiffed me I’m going to tear your nuts off, you little son of a bitch, Kate seethed. She had never met Peter, and already she was taking a disliking to him. He was obviously a child of privilege. Growing up in this environment, he undoubtedly thought he could break an appointment any time he felt like it, particularly with some woman private eye he had never met and didn’t want to.
She heard footsteps approaching. She braced herself for an argument.
The man’s Lacoste tennis shirt was damp with sweat. He was wearing a baggy pair of shorts, and Sebago boat shoes without socks.
“Hello,” he said. He smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Warren Baumgartner, Peter’s father.”
“Kate Blanchard.” She took a card out of her wallet and handed it to him. He glanced at it and stuck it in a pocket.
“Come in,” he said. “Please.”
The ceiling in the entranceway was at least twenty feet high. Shaquille O’Neal could have lived here, she thought, as he closed the door behind her.
“You just drove down from Santa Barbara?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“That must’ve been grueling. Friday afternoons…” He stuck out his tongue. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Well…okay. Thanks.”
“What would you like? I’m going to have a Sierra Nevada. You’ll have to excuse my appearance, I just finished taking a tennis lesson,” he explained, pulling his damp shirt from his body.
“A Sierra Nevada sounds good,” she told him. She didn’t normally drink on the job, but one beer wouldn’t impair her. Particularly if the subject of her interview wasn’t here to be interviewed.
“Consuela,” he called out. “Dos Sierras, por favor.” He took Kate’s elbow. “Follow me.”
He led her through the large living room to a small den that overlooked the spacious backyard. In the distance, she could see the tennis court, and a swimming pool. The room they were in was masculine, but comfortably so. The house was decorated in a contemporary southwestern style that matched the architecture. His wife (and her decorator) has a good eye, she thought, as she perused the furnishings. Good, and expensive. Remarkable how well one could live when money didn’t matter.
The woman who had opened the front door came into the room with two frosted mugs filled with foam-topped beer on a silver serving tray. He took them off and handed one to Kate.
“Cheers,” he toasted.
They sipped the foam from their mugs. “Thanks,” Kate said. “I needed that.”
He smiled. “Me, too. Please.” He indicted two classic Hermann Miller Eames chairs in front of an antique cherry wood desk. “Have a seat.”
She sat down, crossing one leg over the other. As she took another sip of beer she checked him out. Late forties to early fifties, she guessed, in good physical shape. Full head of dark, curly hair, starting to gray at the temples. Deep brown eyes, a dazzling white smile. His complexion was wind-beaten, rugged. A handsome man, a man’s man. German going back, she guessed, with a name like Baumgartner. Or maybe Russian-Jewish. This was, after all, west Los Angeles.
“Peter didn’t call you?” he asked.
“Yes. We exchanged messages. I’m sure this is the right time.”
“I meant today. He didn’t call and explain he couldn’t be here today?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Jesus,” he sighed. “I love my son, but sometimes I want to wring his neck. He’s in San Diego,” he explained. “He’s a production assistant on one of our shows that’s shooting on location down there. They were supposed to wrap last night and he was driving up this morning, but they went over, so they won’t finish shooting until tonight. He’ll be back tomorrow morning. I really apologize,” he said. “He’s very busy, but that’s no excuse.”
Well, it is, sort of, she thought sourly. Peter Baumgartner had been thoughtless by not calling her, but as least he hadn’t deliberately bagged their meeting.
Now what? Go home and come back tomorrow? The idea of fighting Friday afternoon traffic gave her a stomachache, but staying overnight in Los Angeles by herself wasn’t an attractive option, either.
“Are you in the movie business?” she asked her host, while she was deciding which of the lesser evils to choose.
“Television.”
The name Warren Baumgartner had been a burr in the back of her brain. Now it clicked. Even a television Neanderthal like her watched E and MTV once in a blue moon. You had to if you were the mother of a teenage daughter, for self-preservation, so you wouldn’t be considered a hopeless relic. Along with Dick Wolf, Steven Bochco, Aaron Spelling, and a few others, Warren Baumgartner was one of the most successful producers in dramatic television. She didn’t know how many series he had on the air right now, but she guessed there were several.
First Ivan Reitman’s line producer, now Warren Baumgartner. Maybe she could get a plug in for Sophia, she thought with a mother’s laser-sharp focus. But no, that wouldn’t do. She was here on business. Potentially serious business.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I should have recognized who you were. Warren Baumgartner. Of course. I’ve watched your shows for years. They’re great.” Don’t ask me to name any of them, she prayed.
He smiled disarmingly. “That’s very nice of you to say. Living in Santa Barbara, you must know people in the business. It’s practically Malibu north there now. I’m thinking of getting a place for myself, on Padaro Lane. Something small, for the weekends.”
Padaro Lane was Santa Barbara’s premier oceanfront community. A small place would go for at least seven or eight million dollars. Or more, the way beach real estate was skyrocketing. This man had thrown that nugget out as casually as if he’d suggested they go to In-N-Out for burgers.
“That would be nice,” she said politely. “The beach is great. Isolated.” That’s what multimillionaires like him wanted more than anything. Privacy.
“Yes, I know. I’ve stayed with friends.” He drained his beer and put the empty mug on a coaster. “Would you mind telling me what this is about?” he asked. “This interview you’re going to have with my son.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
He gave her a perplexed look. “Why not?”
“Because it would be unprofessional.”
“Why? Is Peter is some kind of trouble?”
“Not that I know of,” she answered carefully. Technically, that was true. For now, Peter Baumgartner was someone who might be helpful to her and Luke. She would reserve judgment about his status until after she had talked to him.
“Does it have to do with a case you’re working on for a client?” he asked. “Can you tell me that much?”
“Yes, I can. It does.”
“What’s the nature of it? Is it a crime?”
“I’m sorry,” she answered apologetically. “I would like to tell you more, but that has to be for your son to decide. Please don’t jump to any conclusions,” she added. “I’m here on a fact-finding mission, nothing more.” On his unhappy look, she continued, “I understand your concern as a father, but he’s an adult, so this has to be strictly between the two of us, only. If he wants to talk to you about it, that’s up to him. But there are legal and ethical procedures I have to adhere to.”
“I guess I’ll have to wait until tomorrow, then.” He sounded put-off and a bit defensive.
“I’m afraid so.”
“But he’s not in any trouble. Personally,” he asked again.
She put her half-finished beer down next
to his. “I’m sorry, Mr. Baumgartner. I can’t say anything more about it.” She picked up her purse. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning. When you see your son, tell him I’ll be here at ten.”
She would fight the traffic and go home, then come back tomorrow. She could take Pacific Coast Highway; it would still be crowded, but at least it would be scenic. She’d wasted half a day on this bullshit. It had happened before, and would again. You have to roll with the punches.
“If that isn’t convenient,” she added pointedly, “I’d appreciate a call in advance. I don’t want to drive down here again for nothing.” She stood up. “Thanks for the beer. I can see myself out.”
He jumped to his feet. “Please. I apologize for my pushiness. This isn’t your fault.” He smiled disarmingly. “I’d like to provide accommodations for you for tonight. You don’t want to drive back to Santa Barbara and then back down here and back again. My tab, of course.”
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he said. “Please.”
For a moment, she wavered. Then she thought, why the hell not? She didn’t relish the extra round trip, and his son had stiffed her. He certainly could afford a hotel room for a night.
“Okay,” she told him. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”
He smiled again. “Good.” He glanced at his watch. A Rolex, she noted; what else? “Do you have dinner plans?” he asked, after a check of her left hand to see that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
Of course she didn’t. Her plan had been to interview Peter Baumgartner, talk to this man and Peter’s mother if it could be arranged, and go home.
“No,” she answered, “since I wasn’t expecting on staying overnight. But I don’t want to intrude on yours. I’m sure you and your wife have already made your own.” Some party, undoubtedly, with Jack Nicholson and Tom Cruise. Maybe Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins, if they were in town.
He continued to smile. “Nope, no plans. I thought I’d be having dinner with my son. And I won’t be having dinner with my wife. We’re divorced.”
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, pro forma.
