I said, “Peter. If I see those two again, or anyone like them, and especially if Heather Press ever sees them, or anyone like them, you know who’s going to go to jail?”
Meekly he said, “Mrs. Dree—”
I interrupted him and said, “That’s right, counselor. Muriel. Muriel’s going to jail.”
This time he didn’t speak. He just sat there, almost imperceptibly shaking. I wondered whether it was my eyes creating the effect or whether it was actually happening. I had a brief memory of the squirrel stuck upside down on the tree outside Muriel Dreen’s house.
I let him sit there and take it all in a moment longer. He needed to process, really process, that Muriel would go to jail. Because that’s what would end it, would keep Heather Press in the clear.
I said, “Muriel will try to pull some strings to get off the harassment and intimidation charges. But I’ll make sure her moves don’t work. You know what happens to old, rich ladies in jail, Peter? Here in L.A.? They get fucked with. A lot. Muriel won’t be sitting there watching her stock show. She’ll be watching her ass.
“Now. You didn’t believe me when I told you what happened with Heather. Are you going to believe me this time?”
Peter nodded.
“You sure?”
“John, I told her not to send—”
“Just answer the question.”
“Yes, I believe you.”
“Good.”
I stood up and left. I walked back down the hall toward reception. Right before I got there I had a thought, flipped a U, and walked back to Peter’s office.
I poked my head in. “My invoice went out today. Be on the lookout.”
He nodded.
I left, this time for real.
8
The next day at noon sharp, I was in Hancock Park at the lovely house of Jackie and Phil Fuller. Phil Fuller. Not a bad porn name. But I digress. Hancock Park is an inland neighborhood east of Beverly Hills where a lot of people in L.A. with old money live. Preppy, East Coast–y types who wear Top-Siders with no irony and who have at some point in their lives spent a significant amount of time on a Boston Whaler.
Their house was a big Tudor on a nice-sized lot. And no, the house was not too big for the lot, which made me happy. Inside, it was tastefully decorated, lots of pictures of family and friends and social gatherings, big rooms that suggested an interior designer’s touch but that also had a thrown-together confidence to them: magazines scattered on tables, worn furniture right next to newer things, matchboxes from restaurants in glass bowls.
A few of the photos had Keaton in them, haunting the room a bit.
A couple of big, older, friendly labs wandered around quietly and calmly. Occasionally I’d catch one of their placid eyes.
We were in the living room. Phil and Jackie sat together on a couch across from me. I sat on a straight-backed chair, which I’d chosen over the more comfortable one next to it. Business time.
Jackie was thin, tan, with blue eyes and expensively dyed and cut blond hair. Her hair looked almost shiny, but also soft and healthy. Like it was cared for by a pro often, maybe daily. Her most striking feature, though, was the grief that she still wore on her face. She looked exhausted, her eyes betraying hopelessness.
Phil might have felt just as much grief, but he didn’t show it. He was a big man, brown hair going gray, a sweater over his shoulders, big tortoiseshell glasses. And working a comb-over just a bit. I swear, his comb-over looked pretty good. And I thought, Shit, maybe, maybe they’ll come back in a kind of seventies-dad kind of way. You know what I’m saying? You know that dad? Out by the pool grilling burgers for the kids, nice Jack on ice in his left hand, slightly ill-fitting burgundy Lacoste shirt over his slightly out-of-shape body. Might mow the lawn later, with a fairly hefty buzz on, then head over to the country club that night for a little dinner and some more cocktails. You know that dad? You know that dad. I like that dad.
Yeah, Phil’s comb-over looked okay, but his overall appearance, for whatever reason, had a slightly contrived quality. Like he was working just a bit to pull off the Hancock Park WASP thing, whereas it came to Jackie naturally. It had probably been Phil’s idea to name the kids Keaton and Greer.
We were finishing up the how-much-I-charge conversation. This time, unlike the rattled look I got from Peter Caldwell, Jackie Fuller just said, “Fine.”
I said, “I have the case file. I’ve looked it over. There are a handful of people I want to talk to. I suppose they’ll tell me what they already told the police, but I might get something out of their stories that the police didn’t. Before I do that, though, I’d like to ask you something. Everyone the police questioned had an alibi. They never named a suspect. They never had a working theory. So, I’m wondering: What do you think happened? Did you ever put together a guess?”
And then, gingerly, I added, “Why do you think your son was killed?”
Jackie nodded to tell me she understood my question, and to tell me she was going to do the talking. She was probably the one who’d conceived of the idea of having the case looked into further, of hiring a guy like me. A mom still looking after her young. I understood it. I respected it.
She said, “Keaton wasn’t perfect. He’d made some enemies over the years. Well, I don’t know if I’d call them enemies . . . He’d let some people down over the years as a result of his behavior. You probably read that in the case file.”
I nodded.
She continued. “He’d broken up with girlfriends. He’d, he’d . . .”
She stopped. She was having a tough time saying the sentence. She moved her eyes over to Phil, who gave her a supportive look. The very beginnings of tears sprouted in her eyes.
She continued, “He’d behaved poorly, very poorly, toward some people. Like I said, girlfriends, but also friends, his brother, business associates. He just didn’t act like a stand-up young man in a lot of situations over the years. But did one of those people load a gun and put a bullet in his chest? Did one of those people wait for him to leave his house one morning and murder him? I don’t think so, Mr. Darvelle. I really don’t.”
I nodded, letting her know I’d processed what she’d said. And then I said, softly, “You can call me John.”
“Okay,” she said. And now that she’d gotten through saying negative things about her dead son, she regained her stride a bit. “So that’s why we’re so confused. To answer your question, we don’t know what happened. We haven’t a clue. It’s just so random. And . . . professional. Six in the morning? Assassinated? And that’s what makes it so frustrating. I mean, can you imagine what that must be like? Can you imagine if a loved one of yours was walking out to his or her car one day and just got gunned down out of nowhere? And the police, and Phil and I, and everybody who knew him just have no idea what happened? I still don’t sleep at night, John. It’s almost like an alien came down from outer space and took our son. It’s that strange. I never thought I’d have a thought like this, but to know who killed my son, our son—and why—would be really comforting in some bizarre way.”
I understood what she meant. Must be a pretty unusual, and uncomfortable, feeling. To know that there had to be a reason her son was killed based on the way he was killed, but to have zero idea what that reason was.
I said, “Well, I’m going to start with what I have. Going to talk to Greer, the ex-girlfriend, the guy he started the bar with, others.” I reiterated, “Sometimes fresh eyes can see fresh things.”
We all stood up. I handed Jackie my card.
I said, “I know you know what’s in the file. But if there’s anything else you think might help me, please tell me. Could be something the cops dismissed. Could be something you just think is out of the ordinary, unusual, interesting, anything. Anything you think might help me.”
Jackie and Phil both nodded, and Jackie said, “And please call us anytime with questions, or for any reason, if you think we can help.”
Phil spoke for the first time a
s he stuck out his hand. “Thank you, John. Detective Ott says you’re a really good detective.”
I thought: Ott. Yeah, good, tough cop. But also, deep down, good guy.
I shook Phil Fuller’s hand and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
I walked toward the door, escorted by the two big, calm dogs.
9
I got in the Focus and called Keaton’s brother, Greer. Halfway through the second ring, a friendly voice said, “Hello.”
“Hi, Greer, my name is John Darvelle. I’m a private investigator. Your parents hired me a few minutes ago to look into the murder of your brother. Think you and I could talk?”
“Yeah, Mom told me she was going to do that. And yeah, sure, of course, let’s talk. I own a marina in Marina Del Rey. I’m here every day other than Mondays. You can come by anytime. Come by now, if you want.”
“Now sounds good to me.”
He gave me the name and the address, and I clicked off the phone and hit the gas.
Greer’s marina, conveniently named Greer’s Marina, was just off Admiralty Way in Marina Del Rey. Not too far from my house in Mar Vista. Ten minutes, maybe, without traffic. Marina Del Rey is one of the more distinctive areas in Los Angeles. That being said, it has absolutely none of the qualities that people think of when they think of L.A. There’s no Hollywood scene. And there’s no beach scene. There is a section on the beach, but it’s not a beach that people really go to, it’s not the beach you picture when you picture a sunny Los Angeles beach. It doesn’t have a funky, hipster feel like its more famous neighbor, Venice, either. But it is, without question, its own thing. Like Gary Delmore, it knows what it is.
What Marina Del Rey does have is an enormous man-made harbor that’s home to twenty-some-odd marinas. For powerboats and sailboats and yachts and, of course, for boat people. You know? Boat people. People who love boats and talk about boats and often live on boats. Who have at least some amount of alcohol in them at all times, and usually some type of skin cancer on them as well.
Marina Del Rey also has numerous chain restaurants, seventies-style apartment complexes, moderately used tennis courts, often used hot tubs, and, of course, lots and lots of on-the-prowl, wild-eyed cougars.
So, yes, I like it a lot.
As I made my way through Marina Del Rey, I passed a Cheesecake Factory, a Chart House, an Applebee’s, and an Outback. Every parking lot was filled. Filled.
I got to Greer’s Marina, threw the Focus in a spot, then spotted a sort of main building that had an entrance on the side of the parking lot and, it looked like, another entrance leading out to the docks.
I entered from the parking-lot side. Instead of diving into the water, then climbing up onto one of the docks and entering from the marina side. Made more sense to me.
There was a pretty brunette girl, looked to be college age, standing behind a tall counter with a cash register on it.
“Hi there,” I said. “I’m here to talk to Greer. Name’s John Darvelle.”
Before she could say anything, a door opened to my right and her left. A short, fairly built guy with curly black hair, brown freckles spread across his nose, and friendly, slightly wounded brown eyes said, “Hey, John. Come on in.”
“John.” Not “Mr. Darvelle.” Telling Jackie Fuller to call me John must have cosmically clicked me back on track. Or maybe Greer was just a casual guy. One of the two.
We walked into his office and took our seats. Me in front of his desk, him behind it. I looked around. White walls with photos of the marina on them, two windows that provided views of the actual marina, and a nice teak desk, to complete the boat theme, covered in lots of papers.
I looked at Greer. He was wearing a sport shirt with his marina’s logo on it, which made sense. He was also wearing a puka-shell necklace, which was troubling. The man was in his early thirties.
“So. What do you want to know?” he asked.
He said it in a way that suggested he would actually be helpful. “Anything you think might help. I have the police case file, so I’ve read your previous statements.”
Greer nodded and said, “So you know what I said before. That Keaton was my big brother, but that he was a really lazy, disrespectful guy who pretty much pissed off everyone he came in contact with eventually.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m aware that you said something to that effect before. But let me ask you this. Who was he pissing off right around the time he got shot?”
A concerned look fell over his face. “You know—”
“Yes. You were on a sailing trip in the British Virgin Islands when it happened.”
That was Greer’s alibi. On a boat. In the ocean. Out of the country. He had left the United States one week prior to the murder. Had flown to Puerto Rico, then to Tortola, and had embarked from there on a sailing trip through the British Virgin Islands and the US Virgin Islands with a college friend who had relatives in Tortola. Delta Air Lines had verified his presence on the flight from L.A. to Puerto Rico. Cape Air had verified his presence on the flight from Puerto Rico to Tortola. On the day of the actual murder, he was in the middle of the ocean east of Tortola, near Anguilla. This was confirmed by his friend, by the first mate on the boat, by the staff at the marina in Tortola they’d departed from, by the friend’s family in Tortola. Of course, all this doesn’t rule out some kind of involvement in the murder, but on the day of the killing, he himself was in fact a few thousand miles away, roasting in the sun and gliding through Caribbean waters.
Greer’s helpful expression reappeared and he said, “You know what, John? When Keat got killed, we weren’t very close. At all. We were talking on, like, birthdays and holidays. Maybe. If he remembered to call me on my birthday, and if he showed up to Christmas at my parents’ house. So I honestly don’t know who he was pissing off around the time he got killed.”
I said, “Sounds like you and Keaton had fallen out a bit. Why did that happen? Was it something specific?”
It was a question that might have offended some people. It implied that even though Greer had a really good alibi, I might still be looking into him.
It didn’t seem to bother him. “No. It wasn’t something specific, or any one thing, really. You’ll have to talk to some of the other people that I’m sure are in your case file to get those stories. His ex–business partner, Craig Helton. Who I like. Craig’s a good guy. And I don’t think he had anything to do with it. But he does have a specific reason for not liking Keaton.”
I nodded.
“For me and Keat, it was just . . . Keaton always let you down. Always. My mom, my dad, me. Everyone. He was just one of those people who don’t give a shit about anyone other than themselves. You almost couldn’t believe it. If he told you he’d be at your graduation to support you, he wouldn’t show up. If he told my parents he’d pay them back for something, he wouldn’t. If my dad had a birthday party, he’d show up and get wasted and be really rude to people. Just on and on.
“With me, specifically? No, it wasn’t one thing. It was a hundred things. He blew off my high school graduation, which, for some reason, was important to me at the time. And I know that doesn’t sound like that big a deal, and it wasn’t. But when you add it to all the other stuff . . . Like, he was rude to some of my girlfriends. He’d borrow money from me and not pay me back. It wasn’t just my parents he stiffed. He wrecked my car once and never really apologized. Just kind of said, ‘Hey, man, you have insurance.’ You know? On and on. And with people like that, if they’re your family, you love them and you keep trying. But eventually, something clicks and you just say, ‘I’m done.’ But what was tricky with Keaton was that he was a really charming guy when he wanted to be. Occasionally he’d apologize for something. He didn’t with my car, but for some other things he would. He’d say, you know, ‘I’m sorry if I offended you,’ playing dumb a bit. But still sort of apologizing. And whether or not he deserved it, I, everybody, gave him lots of chances. But like I said, one day I just said, ‘I’m done.
’ And that’s why at the time of his murder we really weren’t in touch that much.”
I thought, A charming guy with an oily, unctuous smile who lets a bunch of people down all the time. Sounds like a guy I’d like to walk up to and punch really hard in the thigh, then just walk away. And the way he apologized. I’m sorry if I offended you. I hate people who apologize that way. If. If I offended you. You’re not taking any responsibility when you say it that way. You’re not acknowledging that you fucked up. Have the courage to admit you were at fault. I’m sorry that I was an asshole. I’m sorry that I let you down. I’m sorry that I’m a shitty older brother, Greer. I’m sorry if I offended you? Yeah? Well, fuck off, because you haven’t apologized yet.
I didn’t say any of that to Greer. Instead I said, “Who else was in Keaton’s life? I know there’s Craig Helton, the guy you mentioned, the guy he started the bar with. And there’s the ex-girlfriend, Sydney. I’m going to talk to both of them. You said you and Keaton weren’t that close at the end, but do you know anyone else who was in his life? Especially at the time of the murder.”
Greer said, “Keaton knew everyone. From growing up, from college, from after college. But in his life? At that time? You know, I really don’t. I really can’t think of anyone in particular. But what I know from having known him my whole life is that, you know, he was a charming guy. He was a manipulator. And you add money to a guy like that . . . It wasn’t hard for him to keep finding new people who were willing to hang around him. Give him another chance. Put up with his shit. And it was probably one of those people who decided not to, you know—not to put up with his shit anymore.”
Not to put up with his shit anymore. Or, in other words, to kill him.
I looked at Greer. Seemed genuine to me. He had a little bit of that pathos about him that people get when they don’t have to fight for their dreams. He seemed just a little lost. He’d probably be a different guy if he’d had to earn or raise the money to buy the marina. Yeah, and I’d probably be more likely to want to have a beer with him then too, because he’d have some edge, some bite, some of that energy that comes from eating what you kill. But, I thought, at least he’s working. Probably working reasonably hard. The marina looked to me to be pretty successful. Pretty well run. Which probably wasn’t that easy to do. Most professional endeavors aren’t.
The Detective & the Chinese High-Fin Page 5
