by Cheryl Crane
“Non-Caucasian and a working man,” he put in, staring at that spot on the wall again.
“Exactly. And I’m not going to let that happen to you.”
“Nikki, I need you to let this go.” His eyes filled with tears and he glanced away, obviously embarrassed. “This isn’t about you.” His voice fell. “It’s not even about me—”
“Jorge, how can you say that? You’re talking about a murder charge. First degree murder could mean life in prison.”
He stood up. “You need to go. Officer!” he called.
The door opened.
She was afraid she was going to start to cry. She didn’t understand what was going on. Why Jorge didn’t seem to want to fight for his innocence . . . or let her fight for him.
“Take care of my mother and sister for me, will you?”
She nodded, afraid to speak. She got out of her chair and grabbed her bag. At the door, where the officer waited for her, she turned back. “Call me. Let me know when the arraignment is.”
“Let it go, Nikki. If you love me, let it go.”
When Nikki got back into her car, she did something she never did. A cry dial.
Her boyfriend, Jeremy, picked up on the first ring. “You okay, hon?” he said. He had a sexy, soothing dentist’s voice . . . which was convenient since he was a dentist.
Their relationship was complicated. She had grown up with Jeremy; he had been a child star. As a teenager, she’d been half in love with him, but never did anything about it. After high school, while she was busy sowing her wild oats, as Victoria had once said—once a girl from Idaho, always a girl from Idaho—he’d left the business, gone to college out of state, gone to dental school, and married. He and his wife had returned to Beverly Hills, had children; he’d set up a practice, catering to the stars. They had the perfect family life, until his wife died of breast cancer.
That was when things got tricky between Nikki and Jeremy. They’d had a crazy, passionate affair right after Marissa’s death. Then the guilt began to sink in and, fearing it was a rebound kind of thing, he broke it off. Then they got back together, minus the sex. They were just easing back into the sack recently, which was complicated further by his children, and by Nikki taking up residence in her mother’s house.
“I got your mom’s messages,” Jeremy said, his voice filled with just the right amount of concern. “I tried to call you. It went straight to voicemail.”
She sat in her Prius with both hands on the wheel. “I know Mother called you.”
“She’s worried about you.”
She pressed her lips together, her urge to melt into a puddle of wet tears subsiding. “I was just in the Beverly Hills jailhouse, seeing Jorge.”
“How is he?”
She was relieved that he didn’t point out that they’d had a conversation similar to this only six months ago when her best friend had been arrested for killing a man who was already dead. At least this was the first go-round for Eddie. “It’s Jorge. You know how he is. Pretty stoic.”
“Victoria said he’s refusing an attorney.”
“That’s what he says.” She closed her eyes for a few seconds. Traffic whizzed by on Rexford Drive. “This is bad, Jeremy. He got into an argument with Eddie Friday night. Eddie was having a party, got drunk, high, whatever, and hit his girlfriend—”
“Wait. I thought Eddie just got out of rehab.”
“It’s Eddie, Jeremy.”
“Right. Sorry. Go on.”
She exhaled and opened her eyes. “Jorge hears the argument next door, goes over only to discover it’s his cousin Ree that Eddie is arguing with. She’s got a split lip. So the two of them, Eddie and Jorge, are dancing around like in a boxing ring like guys do and Eddie pulls a gun on him.”
“Oh, jeez,” Jeremy muttered. Then, “No, sweetie. Finger-paints only on paper, not the chair.”
“I’m sorry,” Nikki said. “Is this a bad time?”
“It’s fine. Jerry’s playing at a friend’s. Lani’s upstairs playing with her Breyer horses and Katie and I are finger-painting at the kitchen table. Which I covered with plastic. I did not, however, cover the white chairs with plastic.”
Nikki rested her head on the window of the door for a moment and smiled. Jeremy was such a good dad. “I can talk to you later. It’s Sunday afternoon. You should spend time with your kids.”
“Nikki, we talked about this. It’s nice that you’ve been trying to give me my space, but we have to figure out how to make this work. I need to spend time with my kids. But I need some adult contact, too, beyond my patients in the chair, who are not great conversationalists,” he chuckled. Then his tone grew serious. “I need you, Nikki. And I need to be a part of your life if you’re going to be a part of mine.”
Tears stung her eyes again. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She wasn’t a crier. You didn’t survive in Victoria’s household if you were a crier.
They were both quiet for a minute.
“Okay,” Jeremy then said. “So, Eddie pulls a gun on Jorge.”
“Right, apparently in front of like fifty people. Mother, Marshall, and I are out on the terrace, we hear the gunshot, and we run next door.”
“He shot at Jorge?”
“No, not at him.”
“But he was holding a gun on him?”
“Sort of,” Nikki said. “So we break up the fight, but Jorge is still being all Latin male and he threatens Eddie, saying that if he ever hears of Eddie hitting a woman again—any woman—he’s going to kill him.”
“So he threatens him, but not directly. Yup. Right here on the page. Red, I love red.” Then back to Nikki, “Go on.”
“So we get Jorge and Hector back in our yard.”
“Wait, Hector?”
“Jorge’s brother-in-law. Lives with him. Works with him.”
“Right.”
“Okay,” Nikki goes on. “So back in Mother’s yard, I tell the guys to pack up and go home. He still had shrubs to trim, but I didn’t think it was wise for Jorge to stick around. You know Eddie’s parties, they go on all night.”
“Right.”
“So, Mother and Marshall and I all go in the house. Jorge and Hector clean up and go home. The next morning, Ina finds Eddie dead, propped up against Mother’s trash can in the alley. With the pruning shears Jorge was using the day before, stuck in his chest.”
“Oh, Nikki,” Jeremy sighed.
“Yeah.” Spotting a news van pulling up behind her on the street, Nikki started her engine. “Hang on, Jeremy. Let me switch your call over to my Bluetooth. I have to get out of here. Media invasion.”
“Paparazzi?”
“Nope. Looks like evening news. I don’t think they saw me, though. If I lose you, I’ll call you right back.”
Nikki was able to successfully switch the call and pull away from the curb and head for Santa Monica Boulevard. “Okay, I’m back. So, I tell Jorge he needs to go talk to the police, you know, be proactive. I take him to the police station and they end up arresting him.”
“You can’t blame them for that, Nikki. I mean, the evidence does point toward him. And knowing Jorge, I can imagine how cooperative he was.” Jeremy had known Jorge well as a child; there had been a time, a very short time, when Nikki, Jeremy, and Jorge had called themselves The Three Musketeers. The funny thing was, Jeremy was the only one who had read the book. Nikki and Jorge had just seen the movie.
“I understand why they arrested him.” She came to Santa Monica and signaled to make a left. “What I don’t understand is why he doesn’t want an attorney. Mother offered to pay. His mother offered to pay.” She got a green left-turn arrow and turned onto Santa Monica.
“Why does Jorge say he doesn’t want a lawyer?”
“Some nonsense about this being America, innocent until proven guilty, so on and so forth.”
“Nope. I think we’re all done here, sweetie.”
“Jeremy, we can talk tonight.”
“You think I can’t multitask?”
&
nbsp; She heard water running.
“Hands under the faucet. There you go,” he said. “So what’s Jorge’s explanation? Where were these pruning shears that someone could get to them?”
She exhaled, not even wanting to say it out loud. “He’s not sure.”
“He’s not sure?”
She heard the water turn off and Katie’s voice.
“Okay, you’re free. Go bug your sister.” Then into the phone, “What does he mean he’s not sure where they were?”
“He’s pretty sure he put them in his utility truck, but he can’t remember.”
Jeremy was quiet for a second. “This is bad, Nik.”
“I know.”
“He doesn’t want a lawyer. He doesn’t know where the pruning shears were.”
A black SUV with dark tinted windows cut in front of her. Nikki laid on the horn, afraid her little Prius was going to be absorbed by the rear bumper of the enormous vehicle. “I know,” she repeated. “Which is why I have to help.”
“Please tell me you’re not going to get involved in another murder case, Nik. First Jessica, now—”
“Jeremy, we’re talking about Jorge. Ina’s Jorge. Our Jorge.”
“Nikki.”
“I can’t just let the police, the DA, and the media railroad him because he’s a laborer and Eddie’s the son of a famous TV producer.”
“Nikki.”
“You know it’s not supposed to work this way, but Jorge’s Mexican. Eddie’s a white guy. Without a lawyer—”
“Nikki,” Jeremy said firmly. “Do you hear what you’re saying? Did you add up the facts?”
She hit her brakes hard to prevent going through a red light on Santa Monica and Rodeo. Shoppers rushed across the crosswalk. “What do you mean? Yes, I know the facts,” she said, suddenly annoyed. “That’s why I have to help Jorge. That’s why I need to figure out what happened.”
“What if he’s guilty?”
Chapter 9
“What did you say?” Nikki demanded.
“Don’t get angry with me, Nik. I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”
A horn blared behind her, followed by several more. Green light. Her bad. She hit the gas. She hated L.A. traffic. She hated L.A. drivers. Right now, she was pretty sure she hated Jeremy. “What if he did it?” she repeated.
Jeremy’s tone was somber. “What if Jorge’s guilty? What if that’s why he can’t tell you what happened to the pruning shears? What if that’s why he doesn’t want an attorney? What if he couldn’t get his temper in check and he went back later and killed Eddie? Who knows, maybe Eddie threatened him with the gun again.”
“He didn’t do it, Jeremy.”
“You know that for sure?” He went on before she could respond. “You were there? You can account for the pruning shears’ whereabouts? For every moment of Jorge’s time after the argument he had with Eddie? Right up to the time he was murdered?”
A lump rose in her throat. “Jorge wouldn’t kill anyone. Not even Eddie.”
“You and I both know what kind of temper Jorge has. You and I also know that Eddie is an ass, and that he’s been an ass to Jorge, Jorge’s entire life. Remember the time he accused Jorge of stealing his stereo when he was twelve? He had his mother call the police on the son of the Mexican who worked next door. He had the police outside your mother’s gate, wanting to question Jorge and Ina, only to find out later that Eddie had sold the stereo to get money for pot.”
“Jorge didn’t kill Eddie,” Nikki said in a small voice.
“I’m not saying he did,” Jeremy told her gently. “I’m saying you need to consider the possibility, in light of Jorge’s behavior.”
She cruised through another intersection. It was a beautiful, sunny day in Southern California, but suddenly it seemed dark. Jeremy was right. She did need to consider the possibility. She just didn’t want to. “I understand what you’re saying.”
“Aw, Nik.” He was quiet for a second. “Why don’t you come over for a sleepover? We’ll talk about it.”
“I thought we weren’t doing sleepovers. It’ll just confuse the kids.”
“I think you’re more worried about it confusing you,” he teased. “So come over after they go to bed. Or . . . come now. Why don’t you come now? I’m making some kind of cheesy noodle-bake thing for dinner. I got the recipe from a women’s magazine in my waiting room.”
She didn’t know how he did it, but she was smiling again. “The boys are at Mother’s.”
“Let Amondo take care of them. He loves those dogs as much as you do; he just won’t admit it. Or go get them and bring them over for cheesy noodle-bake, too. They can play in the backyard with the kids. You know they’ve been begging me for a dog.”
She hesitated. She felt as if she needed to go home. Maybe go home to Mother’s and sit around in sweatpants and mope. There was probably Häagen-Dazs in the freezer.
“Come on, Nik. This is part of our new relationship plan. Remember? Us doing things together. With the kids and without.”
“Mother’s asked me twice if you’re coming to movie night. It’s Thursday night this week,” she said, stalling.
Victoria Bordeaux had started her movie night back in the days when there were no media rooms in private homes in Beverly Hills. An invitation to Victoria’s movie night was highly coveted in Hollywood. Everyone who was anyone was invited, at one time or another, to Roxbury on a Thursday night. Unless dead, or seriously maimed, Nikki was expected to be there.
“She’s playing A Man for All Seasons. You know, Mother was supposed to play Alice More in the film. Then she had some sort of conflict and Wendy Hiller ended up playing the part.”
“I love A Man for All Seasons.”
“I think Mother said Will and Jada Pinkett Smith are coming.”
“Will and Jada? You’re kidding me!”
“I know, Mother’s pretty hip.” Nikki’s phone beeped. She glanced at the dash. “Speak of the devil, she’s calling in.”
“Talk to her. Tell her I’ll get a sitter and be there Thursday night. And you come over. We want Nikki to come for dinner, don’t we?” Jeremy crooned to his daughter.
“Nikki! Nikki!” Katie hollered into the phone.
“Okay. Fine. I don’t need the Häagen-Dazs anyway.”
“What did you say, hon?”
“Never mind. See you in a little while.” Nikki hit a button on the dash and successfully hung up with Jeremy, without hanging up on her mother. “Hello?”
“Nicolette?”
“This is she,” Nikki said. Her mother always had to confirm it was Nikki, even though obviously it was.
“For heaven’s sake.” Victoria sounded perturbed. “This is your mother.”
Nikki chuckled to herself. “I know, Mother.”
“How was Jorge?” Before Nikki could answer, Victoria went on. “You’ve got me on that speakerphone thing in your car, don’t you? You know how I dislike that contraption. Having what I say practically broadcast. Honestly. You can tell me everything when you get home.”
Nikki chose to ignore the broadcast comment. Did her mother think there was a megaphone on the hood of her Prius? The windows were closed, for heaven’s sake. “Actually,” she said, “I was going to Jeremy’s for dinner first.”
“Good. You should sleep over.”
Nikki didn’t say anything.
“Anyway. That wasn’t why I was calling you. Am I still on that speakerphone? I was calling to tell you I got those tickets. They’ll be delivered here, by courier, first thing in the morning. I got backstage passes, too, though why anyone would want backstage passes to see a rapper person, I don’t know.”
“What tickets are you talking about?” Nikki moved to the right lane, without bothering to signal, to prevent being mowed down by another enormous SUV. Possibly the same one that had tried to swallow her up a couple of blocks ago.
“The tickets you asked me for,” Victoria said impatiently. For the concert tomorrow night at the Staples
Center. To see Jay-D.”
Nikki didn’t like the term lying in wait. But for lack of a better phrase, that’s exactly what she found herself doing the next morning. Lying in wait for Ginny Bernard’s assistant.
Nikki had both Ollie and Stan on their leashes, an envelope with the tickets tucked into her bag, which she wore cross-body style. As she lingered outside the gates of Victoria’s house, she kept an eye on the street while she checked e-mails on her Berry.
Nikki really didn’t feel like working today, but there was no way she could cancel her appointments. First, she had her Monday Morning Meeting (her boss was into alliteration) with the other agents, then, in the afternoon, a pop-star client and her on-again-off-again boyfriend wanted to see a house in Malibu for the second walk-through. Promising. Nikki also had an appointment to have a look at a house in Holmby Hills, down the street from the Playboy Mansion, possibly going on the market. Nikki was just meeting the possible client’s two assistants today, but this was the kind of legwork that brought success, long-term. Celebrity clients liked working with Nikki because their celebrity didn’t faze her; she’d grown up in the limelight of a celebrity among celebrities. She knew how to be discreet. Besides, they knew Nikki would work her tush off to sell their houses.
Stanley kept tugging on his leash and Nikki looked up. He was sniffing a pile of something she couldn’t identify and suspected she didn’t want to. “Leave it,” she warned. Oliver immediately trotted over to join his friend and check out the forbidden fruit.
“I said leave it, guys.” She gave both leashes a tug. It was hard to juggle her phone and both dogs at the same time. But they weren’t getting walked enough, as it was, and there was no way she had time to take them out separately.
Jeremy’s sister had just started a dog sitting/walking business in the area. Nikki was beginning to think she needed to hire her a couple of days a week. Amondo was always willing to check in on the spaniels at Nikki’s house when Nikki was running late getting home in the evenings, but she didn’t like having to ask him to walk them in the middle of the day. Nikki often ran home to let them out midday, or if Rob or Marshall were home, they did it for her, but she really needed to come up with a better plan.
