Murder Plays House

by Ayelet Waldman

  I sat down next to him and gave him the speech I gave every client about to be questioned by the authorities. Most of the people I’d represented had faced examination by the FBI or DEA, both agencies that tended to employ agents significantly more professional and educated than the average LAPD cop. I hadn’t often supervised an interview with a regular police officer, but I was confident in my ability to do so. While federal agents tend at least to simulate a respect for the strictures of the Constitution, they are also generally wilier and more skilled in the art of interrogation. The most important thing he was to remember, I told Felix, was to pause after hearing each question and before replying, both to make sure he understood the question and knew the answer, and to give me time to indicate to him not to reply if I felt that doing so would not be in his best interest.

  “Why don’t I just tell the cops I won’t talk to them?” he said.

  “You can do that. It’s up to you.”

  “Will that make them think I had something to do with Alicia’s death?”

  “It might. But then, they might think that already. It’s not what they’re suspicious of that matters. It’s what they can prove.”

  He groaned. “I had nothing to do with it, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, although of course I knew nothing of the kind.

  “I want to help them find her killer. I really do.”

  I waited.

  “I’ll talk to him,” he said, finally.

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay then, let’s go. Don’t worry, I’ll stop the questioning if I think it’s going somewhere it shouldn’t.”

  Before we were halfway down the stairs, the doorbell rang. I introduced Al to our clients, sotto voce, and together we went into the living room, where we discovered the detective peering at the photographs on the walls.

  “Mapplethorpe,” he said, smiling.

  Felix nodded.

  “He’s one of my favorites.”

  Felix and Farzad looked at each other quickly, and then back at the detective. I joined them in their appraisal, and agreed silently with what I knew was their conclusion. I looked over at Al, who was rocking back and forth on his heels, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head at the photographs. My partner is, like many aggressively masculine men, not particularly comfortable with gay people. To his credit, though, his political commitment to the libertarian cause makes him a live-and-let-live kind of guy.

  “Detective Antoine Goodenough,” the cop said, extending a large hand with tapered fingers.

  Felix’s hand disappeared into Detective Goodenough’s proffered mitt, and he very nearly smiled a greeting.

  I stepped forward and introduced myself. “I’m Juliet Applebaum, and this is Al Hockey.”

  The detective raised one, arched eyebrow.

  “I’m an attorney, and a friend of Felix and Farzad’s. I hope you don’t mind if we sit in on the conversation.”

  He paused, and looked for a moment like he was going to object. Then he smiled pleasantly. “Where were you on the job?” he asked Al.

  “Hollywood,” Al said. “Been retired nearly ten years now.”

  The detective nodded. Then he turned to me and said, “You’re the woman who found the body, correct?”

  He’d recognized my name from the report. “Yes,” I said.

  Detective Goodenough was a tall man, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. His skin was the color of cinnamon, and a glint of russet was just visible in his shorn brown hair. His lips were thin, and he wore a narrow line of moustache as if to enhance, or deflect, attention from them. His eyes were almond-shaped, lending his face a faintly Asian cast. He looked like a Tartar, I decided. A very handsome, African-American Genghis Khan.

  He reached a hand into his pocket and removed a silver card case. Unlike the one floating around in the bottom of my purse, his was untarnished, and had no lint-furred sucking candies stuck to its surface. He flipped it open with an elegant finger, removed four business cards, and handed one to each of us.

  “I’m new to your sister’s case,” he said to Felix. “I wanted to come by to tell you how very sorry I am for your loss.”

  Felix bent his head. “Thank you,” he murmured.

  “I’ve read the reports prepared by the detectives who first arrived on the scene, as well as the crime scene and forensic files.”

  “Detective Goodenough,” I interjected. “Is the case now yours?” Had the LAPD reassigned the case because they were either biased enough or savvy enough to assume that Detective Goodenough would be more adept at eliciting information from Alicia’s brother than a heterosexual officer?

  “Please, sit down,” he said, welcoming Felix and Farzad to their own living room. We followed his bidding. “This crime is a very high priority for my department. I want you to know that we’re devoting as much of our resources to it as possible. I’m now the lead detective on the case, but the entire department is working hard to find Alicia’s murderer.”

  For what felt like hours, Detective Goodenough asked question after question about Alicia’s life, her childhood, her career. Al took his usual careful notes, and I listened closely.

  “Did Alicia have any problems growing up? Was she, say, involved with drugs?” Goodenough asked.

  Felix shook his head. “No, not at all.”

  “Not at all,” Goodenough said, with a smile.

  Felix smiled back. “Well, no more than was normal. You know, she smoked pot a little. Maybe even did some cocaine. Hell . . . we . . .”

  I interrupted him quickly. “Felix,” I said.

  He turned to me. “What?”

  “I think the detective just wants to know if Alicia had any kind of a drug problem.” I stressed his sister’s name.

  He nodded, and turned back to the detective. “She didn’t have a drug problem. At all.”

  “Did she have any other problems?”

  Felix nodded. “She had an eating disorder when she was a teenager.”

  Goodenough made a note, and asked, “Any other issues?”

  Felix shook his head.

  I wanted to know more, however. “She was anorexic as a child, wasn’t she?” I asked.

  Felix nodded.

  “Severely?”

  He nodded again. “Enough to be hospitalized a couple of times. She made it through, though. She went to this inpatient facility back home in Florida for the whole summer before her senior year of high school. That cured her.”

  But had it? I thought of her emaciated corpse with the pang of horror complicated by pity that struck me every time that image entered my mind. “Are you sure the problem hadn’t recurred?” I asked.

  Felix shook his head. “Look, I’m a fashion designer. I can tell you—all women have an eating disorder. Alicia was no worse in the end than any one of the women who model my clothes.”

  I thought this wasn’t saying very much.

  “Was she ever dangerously thin? I mean, after that time she had to go to inpatient treatment?” I asked.

  Felix shook his head, but Farzad said, “She was always too thin. Always.”

  “Farzad!” Felix snapped.

  “You spend too much of your time with models,” Farzad said. “Alicia never ate enough, and she was always too skinny.”

  Felix shook his head and turned to the detective. “You’ll have to excuse my partner. He’s Iranian, and he’s gay. He has no idea what a normal-sized woman looks like.”

  Al shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Thank goodness none of the other three men seemed to notice.

  “That is ridiculous!” Farzad said. “Iranian women are beautiful, and stylish. And for your information they are not fat! They are very thin. Too thin, in fact, like your models. A woman should look like a woman! Not like a little boy. A woman should look like her!” He pointed to me, and all of them turned and fixed appraising gazes on my body. I could tell that Felix thought I was anything but normal-sized, and
I blushed furiously.

  “Except not so pregnant,” Farzad said.

  “My sister was thin, but not abnormally so,” Felix said.

  Detective Goodenough seemed to decide that we’d covered this topic in far more detail than necessary, and he reassumed control of the interview. He was, in the end, more thorough than I would have expected, and I was both impressed and made a bit anxious by his attention to detail. He jotted down a long list of every one of Alicia’s friends, family, members of her comedy troupe, people she came in contact with through her work as Felix’s assistant. He asked about boyfriends, and Farzad told him about Charlie Hoynes. I was glad not to have had to provide that information myself. It was surely something he needed to know, but I have a very hard time, both because of my training and because of my temperament, cooperating with the police, even when I know I should. A useless, even counterproductive holdover from my public defender days.

  When the detective asked about people with whom Alicia had had conflicts, Farzad brought up Julia Brennan.

  “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” Felix said at his boyfriend’s characterization of Alicia’s feelings toward the successful actress. “Alicia didn’t hate Julia. She was just a little jealous. Who wouldn’t be?”

  Farzad pursed his lips. “She was planning on suing the woman. And what about the letter?” he said.

  “Farzad!” Felix nearly shouted.

  “What letter?” the detective asked.

  “Julia Brennan had her lawyers send Alicia a letter.”

  “A threatening letter?” Al asked.

  Farzad glanced over at Felix. “I would say so,” the Iranian man said. “The lawyers told Alicia that if she continued to claim the character was hers, they would sue her.”

  “But the character was hers!” I said.

  “Since when does that make any difference?” Farzad replied.

  “What was Alicia’s response?” I said.

  Felix spoke. “She didn’t have time to respond. At least, I don’t think she did. She got the letter just a little while before . . . before . . .” his voice trailed away.

  Detective Goodenough turned to Farzad, “Do you think this woman, Julia, felt the same way toward Alicia as Alicia felt toward her?”

  Farzad waggled his head in his half-nod, half-shake. “I have no idea. All I know is that Alicia hated Julia Brennan. It’s hard enough to make a name for yourself in this business without someone stealing your ideas. Frankly, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Alicia had killed Julia!”

  “Farzad!” Felix said sharply. “Alicia would never have hurt anybody. She was not that kind of person, and you know that.”

  Farzad waved a hand in the air. “Whatever.”

  It was time for me to step in. Nothing they were saying was exactly against their interests, but at the same time I wasn’t eager to expose my clients bickering to the curious eye of this very intelligent police officer.

  “Detective, are there any other questions you have for Felix and Farzad?”

  He nodded, fully aware of what I was doing, and then spent a few minutes going over the two men’s alibis for the night of Alicia’s murder. He took down the names of the maid and cook who kept the Palm Springs house in running order.

  Felix sighed, and his eyes welled up with tears. “I just thought to myself, ‘I’ll have to get Alicia to call him with the phone numbers.’”

  “She took care of that kind of thing for you?” the detective asked.

  Felix nodded. “I’ve never had much of a head for details. And I’m so busy with my business. I have an assistant at work, of course, but he never had to deal with any personal stuff. I guess he’ll have to, now.”

  “What kind of personal stuff?” Goodenough said.

  “Oh, you know. She would take the clothes to the laundry. Make sure the cars got serviced. Deal with the house-cleaner and the gardener. Plan our dinner parties.”

  “Buy our toiletries,” Farzad said. “You wouldn’t believe the different unguents Felix uses. Every part of his body has its own lotion, and God only knows where Alicia would get them all. If you think I’m going to be able to do that for you, sweetheart, you’ve got another thing coming.”

  Felix seemed about to rebuke the younger man, but I shot him a warning glance. Instead, he said, “Alicia did all those errands that it’s hard for a busy person to get to. You know.”

  I did know. I’d run out of deodorant over a week before, and I had no idea when I’d make it to the drug store. I was counting on it becoming apparent if things got out of control. For now I resisted the urge to sniff under my arm.

  Goodenough tapped his pen on his notebook. “Alicia was your older sister, yes?”

  Felix nodded.

  “She didn’t mind running these kinds of errands for you?”

  “No. Alicia had always taken care of me. Even when we were kids. This wasn’t any different. Anyway, she needed the money, and I needed the help.”

  I could see that the detective didn’t buy that any more than I had. He was probably a younger sibling. Perhaps the relationship between Alicia and Felix was every bit as uncomplicated as Felix claimed. Perhaps not. It was hard to imagine an older sister who wouldn’t resent buying her little brother’s toilet paper and toothpaste, or even his two-hundred dollar bottles of algae and placenta wrinkle cream. And a history of having been forced to babysit a younger sibling was, I thought, more likely to instill antipathy, rather than a willingness to continue a lifetime of selfless devotion. Still, Felix seemed entirely unaware there might be anything unusual or unbelievable about the way he characterized his relationship with his sister. Theirs had either been a very special bond indeed, or he was a singularly insensitive man.

  Detective Goodenough finally wrapped up his questions and left.

  After the door closed behind the handsome detective, Farzad whistled through his teeth. “Mmm,” he said.

  “Oh, please!” Felix replied.

  I looked over at Al, who was blushing. It was, I thought, the first time I’d seen him turn that shade of crimson.

  I interrupted Felix and Farzad’s banter to reassure myself that neither man was worried about the interview. They were more interested in discussing the relative attractiveness of their interrogator than going over his questions, so there wasn’t anything more for Al and me to do.

  We found Goodenough leaning against the hood of my car. He stood up when he saw me, shot his cuffs, and stepped forward.

  “Ms. Applebaum, Mr. Hockey,” he said mildly. “I wonder if I might have a word.”

  “Of course.”

  “Ms. Applebaum, you said that you’re an attorney?”

  “I am.”

  “How long have you known Mr. Felix?”

  “Not very long.”

  “How long?”

  “I met him after the death of his sister, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  He looked surprised.

  “Felix has retained us to assist him during the course of the investigation of his sister’s murder,” I said.

  “How do you mean? Are you acting as his defense counsel?”

  “No, of course not. He doesn’t need a defense attorney. My partner and I are merely assisting Felix and Farzad to navigate these very unfamiliar waters.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Do you have a ticket?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Al interrupted. “I do. Juliet works with me.”

  Goodenough turned to Al. “You’re a licensed private investigator?”

  Al nodded.

  “But she’s not,” the detective said.

  I was, in fact, in the process of getting licensed. The exams weren’t a problem; after all, I’d successfully taken and passed both the New York and California Bar Exams. The private investigator’s exam was nothing compared to those horrors. However, while Al was certainly qualified to supervise me, my hours weren’t exactly regular, what with taking care of Ruby and Isaac, and spending much of my first trime
ster vomiting instead of working. I was still nearly one hundred hours short of what was required for me to get licensed.

  “Our goal isn’t to get in your way, Detective Goodenough,” I said.

  The tall man smoothed the fabric of his expensive suit and picked an invisible piece of lint off the sleeve. Where did an LAPD cop get the money for those clothes? “Of course not,” he said.

  “Is your working theory of the case that it was a home invasion by a stranger? Using the lock box on the door?” I asked.

  He waggled his head in something between a nod and a shake. “That’s one possibility.”

  “Have there been other, similar, cases in the city?”

  “If you’re asking whether we’ve had a rash of Charles Manson–like murders, then the answer is no. But of course there have been other home invasions.”

  Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows.

  “Two young men in Watts were killed when rival gang members broke into their homes last week,” he said. “And a mother of three was strangled in her bed while her children slept in the next room.”

  “Domestic violence?” I asked.

  He nodded. “We’ve arrested the children’s father.”

  “But nothing like this?”

  He shook his head. “No. No other rich, single women have been stabbed to death in their bathtubs.”

  I had a feeling there was another adjective he might have substituted in that description. It took a very generous definition of the word to describe Alicia as rich, but she was most certainly white.

  “Was there evidence of sexual assault?” I asked.

  He pursed his lips and gazed at me, appraisingly. Finally he said, “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to tell you. She had had sexual intercourse within the previous twenty-four hours, but there was no evidence of assault.”

  “How did you rule out rape?”

  “No sign of bruising or tearing, and the presence of Nonoxynol 9.”

  Well that seemed pretty clear. It’s a rare rapist who is both gentle and solicitous enough to use a condom. Alicia had most likely had consensual sex a day or so before she was killed.

  “Did her body turn up any other evidence?” I asked. “Fingernail scrapings? Hairs?”