“You have the nerve to accuse me of acting contrary to my client’s best interests?” Ezra demanded.
Though the blue in Jeff’s eyes started to blaze, his hands rose in a gesture that appeared placating. “That’s not true. What I said was—”
“Don’t you contradict me.” Ezra’s voice elevated again. “T.O.’s going to be facing an angry owners’ association, and with all your interfering questions, you’ve undoubtedly made it worse. And you have the nerve to accuse me of ruining things.”
“I asked around after this meeting was already scheduled,” Jeff insisted. “The harm was already done.”
“And did you try to fix it?” Ezra blasted. “Did you try to at least put a helpful spin on it? No. You were hired on behalf of T.O. You’re the one who acted in a way that could damage the client. And I’m going to make damned sure that you never act as an investigator for any attorney again.”
“That’s not fair!” I interjected.
“You have a conflict of interest, young lady,” Ezra shouted. “This man’s obviously your lover, so keep out of this or I’ll report you to the State Bar for a breach of ethics.”
Cringe? Heck, I recoiled.
“Let’s go inside, everyone,” I said insistently, ignoring how my voice quaked. “And instead of shouting recriminations, let’s remember we’re on the same side.”
“Yeah, remember that,” Ezra said irritably, and then his face unexpectedly lit up as he looked over my shoulder. “Brian, hello.” I turned to see an overweight, silver-haired dragon descending on us. Brian O’Barlen. I recognized him from infinite newspaper articles in which he’d played a featured role. Had he heard what was going on here?
“You remember Elaine, I’m sure,” Ezra continued. “I’d like you to meet my young associate, Kendra Ballantyne, an attorney at my new firm who’s going to assist on your property dispute.” He didn’t mention Jeff. Just as well, considering the kind of introduction he was likely to give.
O’Barlen was shorter than I’d expected for such a renowned entrepreneur. He looked like an angry undertaker in his dark suit and even darker scowl beneath fuzzy gray brows. Three smaller men, similarly attired, stood behind him, and I assessed that they were his sycophants.
“Hello, Kendra,” he growled, holding out his hand. His grip was firm but cold—though not as cold as my internal organs as I observed how Ezra and Jeff continued to eye each other.
“I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. O’Barlen,” I gushed. “Now let’s go inside and stake out where we’ll sit. This promises to be an interesting evening.”
To say the least.
AS WITH MANY schools in the L.A. Unified District, the main building of Vancino High had aged none too gracefully, with worn edges on the entry arches and damp spots darkening the otherwise attractive granite façade.
The auditorium was brightly lit and filling fast. I spied an empty set of seats at the front facing stage left. With a wave of “Forward, ho,” I led my silent entourage toward that section. I planted myself firmly between Ezra and Jeff, who still watched each other wrathfully. Elaine sat on Jeff’s other side, and O’Barlen on Ezra’s.
Almost immediately, someone rapped on the onstage microphone. The guy standing on the dais wore a lime green sweatsuit and a huge smile. “Take your seats, please. It’s time to begin …” The takedown of T.O., I finished in my head. “I’m Flint Daniels,” he went on after people had time to settle down. “President of VORPO. We’re here tonight because some interesting information just became public. Bobby, please explain.”
A man on the podium behind Daniels rose.
“Everyone, this is Bobby Lawrence.” Flint Daniels danced away from the microphone so the broker could take over.
Real estate agents often got the same bum rap as attorneys in the public eye: sleazy, money-hungry, and only marginally ethical. That was an incorrect assessment of lawyers—most of us, at least. I didn’t know Bobby Lawrence, but if I had to guess, I’d figure he lived up to boorish broker reputation. His smile revealed white teeth that sparkled in the sparse stage light. His slicked-down black hair also shone. His denim jeans and jacket were designer casual—if I had to guess, I’d say Banana Republic or Armani Exchange. He all but kissed the microphone in his effort to embrace the audience.
“Hi, y’all,” he started in a drawl that proclaimed his area of origin as the South. “Just wanted you to know what I found out today. A client of mine changed her mind about buying a house without giving a reason. Won’t name names.” But big surprise, his eyes shifted toward us and lit for a second on Elaine. “I got to thinking, talked to a friend at a title company, and dug up some info on the 16300 block of Vancino Boulevard. Turns out most commercial properties on the south side have changed hands over the past two years—and all the buyers are affiliates of T.O. Development Company.”
Angry murmurs surged through the audience. Livid stares lit on the T.O. group.
“Now, I don’t know about y’all, but I like to know what’s going on in my neighborhood. Right?”
Cries of “Yeah!” “Yes!” and “You bet!” resounded everywhere.
I noticed then that an audience member was marching up the side steps to the stage. I knew her! It was Millie Franzel, owner of Pamperville Pet Place. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but Pamperville was situated right on the subject block.
Uh-oh.
I loved Pamperville. Back when I’d had money to spend on expensive doggy paraphernalia, I’d adored dropping in to pick out special puppy playthings for an appreciative Lexie: designer collars, cookie-shaped biscuits …
I suddenly had a genuine conflict of interest, one I hadn’t known about. An internal one, at least.
Millie took the mike. She was a little older than me, slim, dark-haired, and poodle-pretty, with slightly buck teeth and a narrow, long nose. “Now I get it. I was approached a few months back by a nice man who said he wanted in the worst way to buy my building. He offered a lot of money, said he’d help me move my business anywhere I wanted. He claimed he was from the East, heard of Vancino, and wanted to open his steak house there. It seemed odd, so I just told him I’d think about it. And I did—for maybe five minutes. He kept calling, trying to change my mind. I finally said I’d call the cops if he kept it up, and I haven’t heard from him since.” She glared from the podium toward Brian O’Barlen. “Does he work for you?”
O’Barlen stayed blank-faced. Ezra pinkened as if prepared again to steam.
“No matter,” Millie said. “I’m not selling to anyone. No matter how good the offer.” Her words were met by a huge round of applause and animated cheers.
I admired her. Deep inside only, of course.
She stomped down from the podium as people stood and slapped her back.
I almost gasped in shock as Ezra rose and approached the stage. Oh, heavens. What was the irascible attorney up to? Would he blow his own client’s case?
I was amazed as he calmly addressed the spectators. “Good evening. I’m Ezra Cossner, an attorney representing T.O. Development. We want you all to know we understand your concerns. Yes, T.O. has been quietly acquiring property along Vancino Boulevard. Their intent is to build a mixed-use development to benefit everyone in the area. There will be upscale retail and residential sites, and the project will increase the area’s tax base, which will provide money to pay for school improvements and more. They’ll offer sufficient street improvements, signalization, and parking so traffic will only be minimally affected. They’ll—”
“They’ll ruin the neighborhood,” yelled an audience member.
“Why weren’t they up front about it?” shouted someone else.
The full house erupted into a fracas of shouts and accusations as a myriad of vicious VORPO people confronted Ezra.
Was he up to it? Of course. It was Ezra standing there, once more turning red. Losing his temper.
Speaking of eruptions, I almost saw a plume of smoke and a flow of lava as the man suddenly seized the
microphone and shouted, “Now, listen, all you fools. Don’t you understand how much good this will do you? Are you so stupid that you can’t—?”
I was beat up to the stage by Brian O’Barlen. Wresting the mike from Ezra, he spoke soothingly. “We’d like to meet with your representatives. Show them what we’re talking about and get your input. You’ll see it’s to your benefit, all of you, to let T.O. enhance this important Vancino block.”
He was edged aside by a man who’d sat on the stage but hadn’t spoken before. “Excellent idea, Mr. O’Barlen. I’m Michael Kleer, VORPO’s attorney.” Really? He hardly looked old enough to be out of law school, let alone representing a vocal and volatile group like VORPO. “Let’s set up a time for Flint Daniels and me to meet with you and your counsel. We’ll see what you have in mind and present it to the group. Of course, the more input you allow us in your project, the less opposition we’ll have.”
“Fine,” said O’Barlen, his teeth gritted in a forced grin.
“Fine,” repeated Ezra.
And with that, they left the stage—and the whole T.O. group, including me, left the auditorium.
We regrouped twenty minutes later at the Yurick offices—in what used to be the bar. Borden had left that room intact, with its large wooden bar and high-backed booths. It lent charm to the law offices and provided a larger meeting area than any individual office.
The principals spouted recriminations, Ezra in particular. His accusations encompassed everyone imaginable—especially Jeff.
“Brian, this bozo of an investigator dared to say I was the one to make your purchases public. All I did was to tell Elaine that I didn’t like the house she was zeroing in on that happened to be in the vicinity. I’ll bet the questions he asked got that Lawrence character to start poking around and make this mess.”
“You’re full of shit, Cossner,” Jeff countered angrily. “That makes no sense. I investigated because Lawrence was already poking around.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ll have your license for your ineptitude.”
Before I could step in, Ezra started another attack elsewhere. He seemed to suggest that O’Barlen himself, and his tsking toadies, had a lot to do with the night’s fiasco. “Secrecy is a great scheme at first,” he snorted, pacing the length of the unstocked bar, “but what it all boils down to is that you should have beat them to the punch by going public first.”
“So that’s why you spilled the beans?” O’Barlen countered with a sneer, standing beside the booth where he and his staff sat. “Because you decided someone you like shouldn’t buy property in that area since it might be devalued by our project? Some advocate you are.”
“I’m a damned good advocate,” shrieked Ezra. That’s where Gigi must have learned her stock scream.
The free-for-all continued for a few more minutes. I finally stood and said, “It’s late, everyone. We’re all upset about how that meeting went. Let’s go home. We’ll touch base tomorrow and set up a strategy session. Okay?”
Surprisingly, everyone agreed. And cleared out. Fast.
Jeff and I, too.
When we departed, only Elaine and Ezra were left. Oh, and Gigi, too, in Ezra’s office. She’d started squawking once the shouting exploded. Without asking Ezra, I’d allowed Jeff a brief peek to behold the mighty loud macaw.
“Are Lexie and you coming to my place tonight?” Jeff asked later, eyebrows lifting suggestively as we stood between the Escalade and Beamer in the firm parking lot.
Not a bad idea, even if it did mean I had to go home so late to retrieve my little spaniel first. Some human warmth along with the canine company sounded excellent.
Until Jeff’s phone sang out its tune: a unique sound, the theme song of Magnum P.I., a 1980s TV show now in syndication and on DVD about a guy more or less in Jeff’s profession. His company’s chief computer geek, Althea, had recently programmed it in as a joke, but Jeff liked it, so it stuck.
He responded to the tune, and I could tell by his contortions as he shifted his head and body away from me that it was Amanda. His ex-wife.
His tone was sweet and consoling to her.
And drew blood from me.
Before he could say anything else to me, I was in my Beamer, heading home. Alone.
Okay, I confess. My night was long and lugubrious. At least Lexie kept me from being too lonely.
The next morning, I awoke early and tried to keep my thoughts on just about anything but Jeff—which meant it settled on last night’s VORPO fiasco. Not good either.
Thank heavens that I had mood-settling pet-sitting rounds to focus on.
Except … just after I’d hugged Alexander and settled the pit bull back into his home, my cell phone rang. These days, I still had it programmed to play Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life,” which was an excellent tune to focus on that morning.
I recognized the number: the Yurick office. “Hello?” I said.
“Oh, Kendra, I’m so glad I reached you. This is Elaine.” She sounded way strung out—and no wonder. “I got to the office first this morning and … and …”
“And?” I prompted.
“It’s Ezra. I think he’s been shot. He’s dead.”
Chapter Five
I WASN’T SURE whether Elaine had chosen to call me as a result of my reputation of running into dead bodies, or whether I was simply on her list of Yurick firm personnel needing notification in case of emergencies.
In any event, after obtaining Elaine’s assurance that she’d already called 911, I stuck Lexie in the Beamer and headed toward the office, using surface streets. I wasn’t too far away, but it was still the A.M. rush hour in L.A. The freeways would be at a standstill, like the blocked arteries they were.
Arteries reminded me of blood, which reminded me of Ezra. As if I’d forgotten him.
Stopped at a light, I reached over to stroke my sweet Lexie, who stood on the passenger seat sniffing out the window. I hadn’t wanted to leave her alone at home all day after so much time in Odin’s company, so she’d accompanied me on pet-sitting rounds.
Besides, I’d been curious how my good-natured, normally quiet Cavalier would react to the screeching macaw.
Only now, I wasn’t sure how anyone would react to anything today. Not with Ezra lying dead in the office, and the whole place subject to a police investigation.
Poor Ezra. Not that I was best buddies with the guy, but he’d occasionally grown on me during our short acquaintance. He obviously cared for Gigi. And he had a sense of humor way down deep inside that even sometimes emerged.
We finally reached the office, and I pulled into an empty parking space. There weren’t many—not with all the emergency vehicles around.
I lowered a couple of Beamer windows enough for Lexie to stick out her inquisitive nose, and I exited the car.
Unsurprisingly, Mignon stood outside the open building door. The usually effervescent receptionist appeared pale and unperky. “Oh, Kendra, did you hear?”
I nodded, though it was hard to hear anything. Gigi screeched from somewhere inside. Plus, unfamiliar voices raised a ruckus, not the rule for the generally sedate law office. And several secretaries stood around, sighing and speaking loudly about being kept in the dark on this bright January day.
A somber-looking lady in a gray pantsuit approached, holding a clipboard. “May I have your name?” she asked.
“Kendra Ballantyne. I’m an attorney with this firm. And you are … ?”
“Detective Schwinglan.” She proffered L.A.P.D. ID.
Not Ned Noralles. He was the detective who’d investigated the other murder cases I’d been involved with.
But then, this was Encino. The others had been closer to the North Hollywood Police Station. I wasn’t sure which station would have jurisdiction here, but not that one.
“Do you know yet what happened?” I asked.
The detective, who was half a foot taller than me, lifted one edge of her slim lips in a droll grin. “That’s what I need to ask you.” She edged m
e several feet away from Mignon by a movement of her shoulder and a follow-me stride. When we were separated from the others, she said, “Tell me what you know.”
I told her how I’d received a call from Elaine Aames, and that I knew Ezra had been hurt. “Is he alive?” I asked.
“Sorry, no.” She shook her head, barely moving a strand of the hair pulled to the back of her head and fastened with a clip.
“Well, what about Elaine? Is she here? Is she okay?”
“I believe she’s still being questioned. And as I said, I’m the one who needs to ask the questions.”
But before she did, I heard a familiar, raised voice call me by name. “Ms. Ballantyne. This is becoming a habit.”
I winced and turned. “Not one I enter into willingly, Ned,” I said. The L.A.P.D. detective approached up the walkway.
Ned Noralles was a tall, solemn African-American, a good-looking dude with a job that I assume jaded most cops. Not only had he tried and failed to prove me guilty of a couple of murders, but he had also been the detective-in-charge when my tenant was accused of killing an acquaintance right in my leased-out house.
I’d helped to prove his theories wrong in both instances. He nevertheless remained cordial—more or less.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him. “This isn’t your jurisdiction, is it?”
“As I told you, Ms. Ballantyne,” Detective Schwinglan said, “I’m supposed to ask the questions.” She faced Ned. “Like she said, Detective. What are you doing here?”
“Let’s talk,” he said, giving a brisk sideways nod signaling her to follow him. They strolled far enough off that I couldn’t hear the conversation they held with their heads together.
Was Noralles here in an official capacity? If so, how had he managed to get involved here, out of his typical territory?
Whatever he said must have satisfied the other detective, since she nodded, then headed back inside the office building.
Ned stayed outside with me. “So, what do you know about this one?” he asked. As always, he wore a dark suit. He seemed especially skilled at staying expressionless, but right now his dark eyes overflowed with irony. I suspected he didn’t much like that I was likely to stick my own, rather ordinary nose in one of his cases again.
Fine-Feathered Death Page 4
