by Cheryl Crane
“Ina’s still on the phone?” Nikki asked, pointing at the cordless house phone in Victoria’s hand.
“Yes, she wants to talk to you. I just said that.”
“Let me have the phone, then.” Nikki put out her hand, wondering why her mother was telling her all of this if Ina could tell her.
Victoria handed over the phone, but stood there.
“Ina.” Nikki turned around and walked away. “I’m so sorry. I know you’re worried sick about Jorge.”
“Thank you. I’m just sorry your mother’s name has to be dragged into this.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Victoria interrupted. “Maybe I should be the one to go to the jail to see him.”
Nikki ignored her mother. “It’s all right, Ina. Anyone can be accused of a crime. That doesn’t mean he or she is guilty.”
“He’s a hothead. He’s always been a hothead. I told him his temper would get him in trouble one day,” Ina fretted. “He says he doesn’t want me to come to the jail, to see him like that, but I’m worried about him.”
“Ask her if he’s been arraigned yet,” Victoria instructed.
Nikki walked farther away from her mother. The dogs were now racing back and forth between the two of them. “So he was arrested last night, or this morning?”
“I don’t know,” Ina said. “Sometime last night, I think. They held him for hours. Questioned him. Then they arrested him. But I don’t know—”
“Has bail been set?” Victoria asked. “Ask her if bail’s been set.”
Nikki couldn’t hear Ina over Victoria’s talking. “He hasn’t been arraigned, right?” she said into the phone.
“Tomorrow, he thinks, but he doesn’t know.”
Nikki walked to her window and opened the heavy draperies, letting the morning sunlight in. “He’ll be arraigned tomorrow, Mother.”
Oliver began to chase Stanley and bark.
“Well, bail can’t be set,” Victoria said with great authority, “until he’s seen a judge at the arraignment. Bail is set by a judge, Nicolette.”
Ina started talking again, but between the dogs barking and Victoria shooting questions at her, Nikki was only getting every other word.
“Ina, I’m sorry, could you hang on for a second?” Nikki covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “Mother, could you do me a big favor and run them downstairs? They’re making so much noise I can’t hear Ina. I’ll be right down.”
Victoria looked disappointed, but walked out of the room with a flourish of her hand. “Come along, gentlemen. We’ve been dismissed. I suppose we’ll have to go to the kitchen for treats.”
At the sound of the word treats, the dogs took off after Victoria.
“Sorry, Ina. I’m back,” Nikki said into the phone. She gazed out the second-story window to see the pink and white azaleas Jorge had been pruning Friday afternoon when she had waved to him. She couldn’t help but think of the pruning shears she had seen in his hand. The same shears protruding from Eddie’s chest the next morning.
“Did Jorge seem to think he’d be allowed any visitors?” Nikki asked. “I’d be happy to go to the police station. He’s still at the Beverly Hills police station, being held there, right?”
“He’s still at Beverly Hills, yes,” Ina said. “I don’t know if he’s allowed to have someone. He just said he didn’t want me to come. Nikki, he says he doesn’t want a lawyer. But I have money saved.”
“I don’t think it’s about the money, Ina.” Nikki’s gaze drifted to the closed gate between their property and the Bernards’. She could see over a portion of the fence, between the hedges. There was someone on the pool deck in her bathrobe, fiddling with something on one of the tables. The area was still littered with glasses, napkins, towels, and other party remnants. “I think Jorge feels that he doesn’t need a lawyer, that no one needs to spend money to prove their innocence in America.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Ina huffed. “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous.”
Nikki smiled to herself, still looking down onto the Bernards’ pool deck. She couldn’t tell, from her vantage point, if the woman was Ginny or Melinda. Both had the same color blond hair and were approximately the same height.
“Do you think you can go talk some sense into him?” Ina asked. “He’s always listened to you, Nikki. He loves you. He’ll listen to you.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Ina. How about if I make a phone call, see if I can get in to see Jorge today, and then I call you back?” She turned away from the window. “How are you, Ina? Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I’m fine. I’m with Rosalia. I’ll be fine. Just talk to Jorge. Talk some sense into my hijo testarudo.”
Nikki smiled to herself. Ina always called Jorge that—her stubborn son. She looked out the window again. The woman poolside turned toward the Bordeaux property. It was Melinda. She was just standing there now. Nikki’s heart ached for her. She didn’t know what she could do for a mother who had lost her son, but maybe she could keep another mother from losing hers.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Nikki said. She hesitated. “You’re with Rosalia, you say? Did . . . is Hector there, too?”
“Of course he is. Her brother’s been arrested for murder,” Ina said indignantly. “I know Hector has not always done things the way we’d like, but he loves my Rosalia. Of course he’s here with her. He went to Mass with us this morning. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” Nikki said, thinking about the duffel bag that had been beside the door at Jorge’s house. Maybe it belonged to one of the children? But that seemed doubtful. It was dark and worn, with streaks of dirt or grease. It wasn’t a child’s bag. “Let me make a call and see what I can do about getting in to see Jorge today.”
“Thank you, my hija. I knew I could count on you. I can always count on you and your mother.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
Nikki made a phone call to Marshall, then talked to his partner, Rob, an L.A. police detective who worked in the gangs division. She wasn’t really looking for any favors, just some guidance as to how to navigate the system and get in to see Jorge today. Preferably without alerting the press. Long-haired and tattooed, Rob looked like a motorcycle gang member off a movie set, but he was the sweetest, kindest guy. He called her back in half an hour. An hour later, Nikki was at the Beverly Hills Police Department.
Chapter 8
“Going to be a high profile case,” the police officer escorting Nikki down the narrow hall said. He was tall for an Asian. Six foot. Big.
“You think so?” she asked, not really wanting to chat with the cop.
“Oh, yeah. I bet it’s already got the DA’s office all hot and bothered.” He glanced over a brawny shoulder, eyeing her. “I know you?”
She gave him the smile. “I don’t think so.”
“I think I do.” He waggled a finger. “You on TV? One of those reality shows, Dancing with the Stars or something?”
“No. Sorry.”
He looked at her again. “One of those singing shows, maybe? It’s your hair. Nice color. Red. I have this thing for red hair. My wife watches all those reality shows: American Idol, Dancing with the Stars, all that Housewives of Wherever crap. I hate them, but she’s always trying to get me to watch them with her. You know, after the kids go to bed.”
Was there something written on her forehead that said Tell me your personal business because I’m dying to hear it?
“I know I know you,” he muttered.
Nikki was beginning to feel as if the hall was a mile long.
He looked over his shoulder again. “In some movie?”
She forced the next smile. “Nope.”
He took another step, then spun around, snapping a thumb and finger. “Some Hollywood news show. Last week. You were at some children’s cancer benefit or something. On the red carpet. My wife watches those shows, too. Your mother’s one of those famous old broads from the movies. Kim Novak?
Jane Russell?”
He obviously wasn’t going to move until she answered. “Victoria Bordeaux.”
“That’s right!” He snapped his finger and thumb again. “That’s how I know you. Victoria Bordeaux’s oldest child. Some fancy real estate agent. Nicole Harper, right?”
“Nicolette,” she corrected. “Nikki.”
“Man, my wife is going to be so excited when I tell her I saw you. I mean, I see celebrities all the time. Locked up a few.” He chuckled as he started down the hall again. “But she loves Victoria Bordeaux. She watches all those old movies, you know, on Sunday afternoons on TV.”
“I’ll pass that on to my mother. Thank you.”
“This isn’t the way we usually do things, this kind of special treatment. We’ve got rules about visitation. I hate high profile cases.” He stopped at a closed door. “But the boss says this is the way we do it, so this is the way we do it.”
She stopped and waited.
“This is how it goes. You go inside. I stay here in the hall.” He pointed to her bag. “You don’t have any contraband in there, right? You know, drugs, weapons . . . a lock pick?” He laughed at his joke.
This time all he got was a tight smile. “Someone checked my bag at security, but you’re welcome to look again.” She slung her vintage Prada bag off her shoulder.
“That’s all right.” He held up both hands. “But just so you know, even you being a celebrity and all, he’ll still get searched before he’s returned to his cell.” The cop shrugged. “Just so you know.”
Nikki looked through the window in the door and saw Jorge. She glanced at the cop. “Can I go in?”
“Oh . . . sure. Yeah.” He opened the door for her. “Like, no more than ten minutes, okay? We’re shorthanded today. Co-worker’s wife’s having a baby. Third.”
Nikki walked in and closed the door behind her. “Jorge,” she said.
He was seated at the small table in the cubicle-size room that had to be used for some sort of interrogations: gray walls, gray carpet. He was still wearing his own clothes from the day before. It hadn’t occurred to her to bring him clean clothes. She’d just assumed he’d be in some sort of prison jumpsuit.
“You shouldn’t have come, Nikki.”
She walked around the table to give him a hug. He came half out of his chair, hugging her back.
There was a tap on the door window. “No physical contact, please. Have a seat, Ms. Harper.”
Nikki gave Jorge another quick squeeze and went back around the table. She dropped her bag over the back of the chair and sat down across from him. “Your mother said you didn’t want to see her. She’s pretty worried about you.”
He shook his head. He didn’t look like he’d slept, but his hair was combed, his clothes amazingly presentable, considering. “Not in jail. No mother should have to see her child in jail,” he insisted. He looked away, then back at her. “She okay?”
“You know your mother. She’s a pretty strong woman.”
“Rosalia?”
“I haven’t seen her since yesterday, but your mother says she’s okay. Your mother was at your house this morning.”
“Hector there, too?”
She nodded, thinking that was a slightly odd question. But maybe not. Hector made routine trips back to Mexico to see friends and family. According to Ina, sometimes Rosalia knew about the trips ahead of time, sometimes she didn’t. Jorge had never said so, but Nikki suspected that was one of the reasons he had never suggested Hector and Rosalia try to get their own place. It was important to Jorge that he be there for his sister and his niece and nephew.
Nikki and Jorge were both quiet for a minute.
She folded her hands and sat back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. “So they arrested you, officially?”
He nodded, not meeting her gaze.
“Based on?”
He exhaled, seeming to be concentrating on some invisible spot on the wall over her left shoulder. “He was a rich white boy. I’m a Mexican gardener.”
“I don’t think they can arrest you based solely on those facts,” she said evenly.
He ran his hand over his dark beard stubble; he’d apparently not had an opportunity to shave. “Everyone at that party heard me threaten to kill Eddie. Then the pruning shears, with my name on them, turn up in Eddie’s chest. Why do you think they arrested me, Nikki?”
“Circumstantial evidence. Which is why you need an attorney.”
“I’m not getting an attorney. I told you that. I didn’t do this. I shouldn’t need an attorney. If I do, I’ll act as my own.”
She wanted to tell him that was the dumbest idea she had ever heard, but she knew that would only make him dig his heels in even harder. She glanced over her shoulder. Through the window, she could see the officer. He was looking at his fingernails the way a man did, his palm up, his fingers curled. She looked back at Jorge. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who did kill Eddie?”
Jorge cut his dark eyes at her.
“Okay. Okay.” She folded her hands on the table. Someone had etched a perfect cube into the surface with something sharp. There were initials on one side. T.B. You wouldn’t think there would be graffiti inside a police station. “Okay,” she repeated, trying to think. “I need you to think hard. Do you know what you did with the pruning shears that night? You were pruning the azaleas in the yard—”
“How do you know I was using them to prune the azaleas?” he interrupted.
She looked at him for a second, trying to interpret his tone. Was he angry with her? “I saw you out my bedroom window. Remember?” she said slowly. “I waved to you. Those were the same pruning shears, right? The ones you’ve had for years, the ones with the green wooden handles?”
He was silent.
“So, the pruning shears? When you heard Eddie and your cousin fighting . . .” She waited for him to finish her sentence.
It took him several seconds to speak and she couldn’t help wondering why he was so reluctant to tell her anything. “When I heard Eddie and Ree, I hung the shears on the edge of the bucket I was dropping the clippings into.”
“And when we got back to Mother’s yard and I told you and Hector to go home?”
“I don’t know, Nikki!” He threw up his hands and then brought them down to hold his head as if it were about to burst.
There was a knock at the door. “Everything okay in there?”
Nikki spun in her seat. “Everything’s fine,” she called cheerfully. Victoria would be proud of her. Never let them know how you’re really feeling, her mother always warned when Nikki was growing up, fighting the perils of being a movie star’s child. Feelings are for private situations, never public. “Thank you, Officer.” She turned back to face Jorge, lowering her voice. “What did you do once Mother and Marshall and I went into the house?”
“We loaded the equipment into my utility truck and then we went home.”
“You put the pruning shears in your truck?”
“I don’t know.” Jorge placed his hands on the table again. “Yes. I think so.” He frowned. “I think I did. I don’t know.” His hands went up in the air. “I can’t remember, Nikki! I was still pretty pissed off.”
“Maybe I should talk to Hector. Maybe he knows.”
“No. No, I don’t want you talking to Hector about this.” He leaned across the table.
Nikki stared at him. “Why not?”
“I don’t want him involved.” He glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “Hector’s got a record. You know that.”
“I’m not talking about sending the police to question him, although you know very well they’re going to,” she put in. “Jorge, I’m talking about asking him if he remembers what happened the other night. I know you were upset. So you don’t remember, exactly. Maybe Hector can jog your memory.”
He looked as if he was thinking, his gaze unfocused. “I put them in the truck. In the white plastic bucket. I’m almost positive.” He looked up at her. “I’m sure
I did, Nikki.”
“So how did whoever killed Eddie get his hands on your pruning shears?”
“I don’t know.” Jorge’s voice trembled with emotion.
Nikki gave him a moment. How the hell did someone get his shears out of Jorge’s utility truck? She tried to keep her tone neutral when she spoke again. She wasn’t here to upset Jorge. She was here to help him. “Did you stop anywhere on the way home?”
He nodded. “The market. The one down the street from our house. Rosalia needed a few things.”
“Both you and Hector went in?”
He sighed. Nodded. “I got the groceries. Hector got the beer.”
“But you both went in together and out together and the truck was locked while you were inside?”
He shook his head slowly. “Honestly, I don’t know. I was pretty upset. I usually lock my truck. I’ve got a lot of tools and sprays and stuff in there, but . . . I can’t say for sure that I locked it. I think I did.”
She knew exactly what he meant. A few months ago, she’d been on the phone with a client when she parked her car to run in to get her dry cleaning. The client had been unhappy about the way his escrow account was being set up. She thought she’d locked her door. Apparently, she hadn’t. She was in the dry cleaners less than five minutes. Long enough for someone to steal a cute 1980s Marc Jacobs skirt in a bag off the front seat of her car.
The cop knocked on the door again. “A couple more minutes.”
“Thank you,” Nikki sang sweetly. She met Jorge’s gaze. “I want to help you, Jorge.”
“I don’t want your help,” he said stiffly.
She tried not to feel hurt. She knew things had changed between them over the years, that they’d drifted apart, but she still felt like he was one of her brothers. “I’m afraid you could get railroaded on these charges. Eddie being Abe’s son, you being—”
