The Trials of Nikki Hill

by Christopher Darden; Dick Lochte

  Nikki counted to ten. “Don’t I need some sort of software to bank by computer?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why don’t you check my file to see if I ever requested that software, Mrs. Hellman? Then, should you even dream of charging me so much as a plugged nickel because of some screwup in your system, it will be my happy duty to discuss this whole matter with you in front of a judge. I can assure you, I won’t be the one paying for the use of the court.”

  She slammed down the phone.

  Almost immediately, it rang.

  She grabbed the receiver. “What now?” she asked roughly.

  Momentary silence greeted her on the other end. Then Dimitra Shaw’s voice asked, “Nikki? You okay?”

  “Oh. Dimitra. Just letting off some steam. A screwup at my bank.”

  “That’s how it starts,” Dimitra said. “Bank screwup. Dead battery in the car. Phone doesn’t work. Little things.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Dyana Cooper’s people. They just don’t let up,” Dimitra said. “But that’s not life-threatening... Look, we gotta meet.”

  “You in your office?”

  “No way. I’m outta there. Can you make it to Jonah’s in about fifteen minutes?” Jonah’s was a coffee shop four blocks away from the CCB.

  “You know how busy it is around here?” Nikki asked.

  “This is important, sister. Serious shit. I’m scared and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Jonah’s, huh,” Nikki said.

  The phone rang again before she could get away.

  This time it was Detective Goodman with a question about her father.

  “My father?” she said, feeling her face flush with heat. “I don’t know anything about my father. Or his business, past or present.”

  The detective was yakking on about some murder vic named Martinez.

  “I’m late for a meeting,” she said impatiently. “Isn’t this something that can wait?”

  “I suppose it’ll have to,” Goodman told her.

  As usual, the elevator took an eternity to arrive. By the time she cleared the building, the fifteen minutes were already up.

  Nikki was nearly a block away when she saw the crowd gathering in front of Jonah’s. They were looking down at something in the gutter with grim fascination. A siren sounded in the distance, coming closer.

  Nikki started running. Then she was pushing past the street gawkers.

  The crushed body of Dimitra Shaw was draped over the curb, battered head resting in a pool of blood on the sidewalk, legs in the gutter.

  “Oh, my God.” Nikki heard the words without realizing she’d said them. She stared down at the lifeless body and her heart seemed to skip a beat in her chest. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Ambulance comin’,” an elderly man called out.

  “Too late for an ambulance,” a young girl said. “She dead.”

  “What...happened?” Nikki asked.

  “She was jayin’ ’cross the street,” the girl said, “an’ this car swerved, whomped her an’ kep’ on goin’.”

  “What kind of car?” A red wave of anger coursed through Nikki’s body, but she couldn’t pinpoint its source. Frustration. Guilt.

  The girl recognized her. “You the one on the TV? The D.A.?”

  “Tell me about the car,” Nikki demanded, grabbing the girl’s arm.

  The girl looked frightened. She jerked free and backed away. “Don’t know ’bout any car,” she said.

  The sound of the ambulance was louder now, almost filling Nikki’s head. “Don’t you lie to me . . .” But the girl was running away.

  Nikki turned to the others and shouted, “Who saw the car that did this?”

  They looked at her, dumbly.

  “Damn it. Somebody must’ve seen the car.”

  She was out of control, weeping and screaming at them. She might as well have ordered them to disperse. By the time the ambulance roared up, she was alone, kneeling in the street beside Dimitra’s body.

  A paramedic helped her to her feet. “You okay, miss?” he asked.

  She ignored the question. She was too busy watching his partner confirm the fact that Dimitra was dead. “Pricks who did this musta been really travelin’,” he said. “Knocked her right out of her shoes.”

  Nikki looked at the leather pumps lying in the street. Her heart broke when she realized they were the same brand and style as the ones she was wearing.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Goodman was at his desk, wondering why Nikki Hill had gotten so pissed off at the mention of her father, when his partner flopped down in the chair across from him.

  “Alarm didn’t go off?” Goodman said.

  “Bastards tried to snatch Estella’s car,” Morales mumbled. Estella was his wife.

  “What?”

  “Repo guys. Said I was behind in the payments. Bullshit. Had to dig out my stinkin’ canceled checks. Estella screaming in my ear the whole time.”

  “Get it straightened out?”

  Morales nodded. “Yeah. After forty minutes. Computer mix-up. But no apol—”

  He was stopped by Corben shouting their names.

  The lieutenant was not in a good mood. “You gents seem to have missed a beat in the Gray case. But not to worry, the D.A.’s investigators picked up the slack.”

  Corben paused, letting them stand there, waiting. Then he asked, “Ever hear of a place in the desert called the Sanctum?”

  Morales didn’t bother to reply. Goodman said, “Some kinda spa.”

  “Very good, detective,” Corben said. “Celebrities go there when they want to get away from it all. ‘It all’ meaning their spouses, primarily. Place’s got private cabanas. The staff is paid enough they keep their lips zipped. Anybody caught within five miles with a camera gets the shit beat out of ’em.”

  Goodman sighed. This was going to be grim.

  “So, these D.A.’s men, they find out John Willins goes to the Sanctum. Not a lot, but every so often. Any idea who the lucky gal was who accompanied Mr. Willins?”

  “Madeleine Gray,” Goodman said gloomily.

  “Madeleine Gray,” Corben repeated, his face reddening. “What I want to know is why you guys, who are supposed to know what the fuck you’re doing, let two putzes from the D.A.’s office get the drop on you like this? It makes us look like ama-chures.”

  Goodman had gotten into the habit of checking out his volatile partner at moments like that, just to make sure Carlos didn’t let the snake element of his brain overwhelm his common sense. But he needn’t have worried. Morales was slouched, staring at the tile floor as if he hadn’t even heard Corben’s verbal attack.

  “Any idea how they found out about the Sanctum?” Goodman asked.

  “I just didn’t feel like asking Walden that question,” the lieutenant said. “I didn’t want the bastard to get any more smug about this than he already was.”

  “They talk to Willins?” Goodman asked.

  “That’s why the D.A. called. They’d like you two to do that. If you think you can handle it.”

  The major crimes detectives met with the district attorney’s investigators, Laboe and Green, in their cubicle on the eighteenth floor of the CCB. When Goodman remarked that the atmosphere of the D.A.’s offices seemed even more tense than usual, Laboe, a short, balding man who could have shaved twice a day but didn’t, told him that one of the deputies, Dimitra Shaw, had just been killed in a hit-and run.

  “She was hard to work with,” Laboe said, “but it’s still a lousy thing. Walden’s gone nuts. Callin’ out the guard. Word is he was dickin’ her.”

  “Maybe we better take care of our own business, huh?” Morales said.

  “Your partner asked,” Laboe said. He then explained how they’d found out about the Sanctum. Ray Wise had had them phone every upscale romantic hideaway in a hundred-mile radius of the city. Pretending to be employees of Willins, they attempted to reserve his “usual” room. The Sanctum was the f
irst to accept the reservation without question.

  The investigators then visited the Sanctum armed with the proper papers. They were able to demand a copy of the spa’s computerized booking files and to force statements from two clerks who reluctantly admitted that Willins had spent quite a few evenings there in the company of Madeleine Gray.

  Green, a stocky black man with a modified Afro, said, as they headed for the elevators, “This guy Willins is gonna freak big time when he discovers he’s been outed.”

  “I think we can assume he already knows,” Goodman said. “No way,” Laboe said. “Not with the scare we threw into those peckers at the Sanctum.”

  When the quartet of lawmen was ushered into Willins’s office at Monitor Records, they discovered another person was present—Jesse Fallon.

  “I assume you’re here to discuss Mr. Willins’s relationship to the late Ms. Madeleine Gray,” the lawyer said, handing Goodman a sheet of paper. “This should save us all a little time.”

  It was a neatly typed statement. “Madeleine Gray and I began a romantic liaison approximately a year ago that continued for nearly eight months. Approximately four months ago she informed me she wished to end the affair and I agreed to do so. We parted amicably.

  “I further testify that, to my knowledge, my wife was 100 percent unaware of this relationship at the time Ms. Gray met her unfortunate end.”

  It was signed by Willins and notarized.

  “Any idea why Maddie gave you your walking papers?” Goodman asked.

  Willins consulted his lawyer, who nodded his approval. “She was going on a quick trip to Europe. Part vacation, part business. She wanted me to fly over and meet her, but that was impossible, not only because Dyana would have heard about it, but because I have a business to run. When Maddie returned, she said she thought it would be a good idea if we stopped seeing each another. Frankly, I’d come to that same conclusion, myself.”

  “She meet somebody on the trip, you think?” Goodman asked.

  “I’m sure she did. Maddie didn’t like to be alone.”

  “It says here your wife didn’t know about you and Mad-die. That still true?”

  “I—”

  “Mr. Willins has confirmed the fact that he and the deceased were involved romantically,” Fallon said, “and that Mrs. Willins was not aware of this relationship at the time of

  the Gray murder. Beyond that, we are not prepared to venture. Thank you gentlemen for your time. I know you will do your best to respect Mr. Willins’s privacy and will keep this very personal information confidential, if at all possible.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  The problem, Nikki realized, was that she’d never liked the woman. That was why she was so deeply affected by Dimitra’s death. Strange how emotions did their number on you. Although she and Joe Walden seemed to be sharing the same symptoms—anger, frustration, guilt—they were coming at them from different angles. He was reacting to the loss of a lover, she to an unwanted sister whom she’d rejected.

  Virgil helped with her grief.

  They spent the night at his place. He even invited Bird, knowing how comforting she found the big dog. He prepared their dinner efficiently and silently while she rested on the sofa in his living room. Bird lay at her feet, so tuned to her mood that he remained quiet and passive even when Virgil joined her and put his arms around her and held her close.

  After dinner, she wandered into the bedroom and fell into the deepest sleep she could recall.

  She was still in her clothes when she awoke. Virgil’s side of the bed remained unused.

  The apartment was empty.

  She went to the front door and looked out on the sunny courtyard. Virgil, in his workout clothes, was sitting on the steps, reading the morning paper. Bird’s leash was beside him. The big dog was standing at the fishpond communing with the koi.

  It was such a lovely scene she hesitated to enter it.

  Bird took the decision out of her hands. He suddenly shifted his attention to her, gave a little “yip,” and trotted up the steps to greet her. Virgil grabbed the leash and stood. “How you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m okay. Did you sleep?”

  He nodded. “On the sofa. Didn’t want to disturb you. Bird and I did some bonding. Now we’re both hungry. How about you?”

  While he fixed scrambled eggs and bacon, she sipped her coffee and read the morning paper. A photo of Dimitra and an account of her brief life and hit-and-run death shared the front page with an assortment of stories about John Willins’s affair with the late Madeleine Gray.

  She skimmed most of the reportage, a history of the Will-ins-Cooper marriage (complete with wedding picture), a survey of his recording empire, her previous declarations of love for him. Columnists speculated on the effect Willins’s adultery would have on the trial, the marriage, and Monitor Records. A short, vague history of the “secluded and somewhat mysterious spa known as the Sanctum” was offered, as well as profiles of the two “dedicated D.A.’s men who uncovered the secret romance,” detectives Matthew Laboe and Horace Greene. The coverage seemed as complete as the judge’s ban on public discussion allowed.

  Finally, when she felt she could avoid it no longer, she took a deep breath and read what the reporters had to say about Dimitra. The police had no witnesses and no leads. Paint flecks adhering to Dimitra’s belt buckle had been identified as a standard black enamel used by most vehicle manufacturers. The article ended with the statement that “an emotional District Attorney Joseph Walden, with a catch in his voice, vowed to find the person responsible for the accident.”

  Accident? Nikki supposed that’s what it was, though Dimitra had used the word “life-threatening.” “She was afraid.”

  “Say what?” Virgil was staring at her. So was Bird.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I was thinking out loud. Dimitra was afraid of something.”

  “You think what, she was murdered?”

  Nikki shook her head. “No. I think Joe hit it right, when I told him about her phone call. He said he knew something was bothering her. He thought maybe her health problem was worse than she let on. Her doctor claims not to know about any medical problem, although Dimitra may have gone to some specialist on her own. Joe thinks she was worrying about that when she walked out in front of a car without looking.”

  “There you go,” Virgil said. “Feel sad as you want. I feel sad myself. But she’s gone, and you just ain’t the reason.”

  That was what she wanted to believe.

  The image of Dimitra’s broken body haunted her all morning. Trying to dispel it, she threw herself completely into a strategy meeting, taking a contrarian approach to the use of the Willins-Gray tie-in.

  The potential benefit of the revelation was obvious: it gave them a go ticket on the jealousy motive. Unlike Joe and Ray and most of the team, however, Nikki remained cautious. They still would have to prove Dyana Cooper’s fore knowledge of the affair for it to have any legal significance. And Willins’s betrayal might lead jurors to feel protective toward Dyana. She reminded them that a jury had recently awarded a ditched wife a million dollars in damages from the woman who had “lured” her husband away.

  “Don’t analyze this to death,” Wise said. “Let’s just grab this cherry that’s been tossed in our laps and beat Dyana and her smart-ass lawyer into the ground with it.”

  “Love the imagery, Ray,” Nikki said. She checked her wristwatch. “Whoa, I’ve got an appointment. Have to run.”

  The D.A. nodded. “They’re burying Dimitra tomorrow morning.”

  “Yeah,” Nikki said. “I got the notice.”

  “Where you headed?” Wise asked.

  She’d scheduled a meeting at the home of Nita Morgan, the woman who’d accused Ed Goodman of blackmail. But that wasn’t any of Wise’s business. “Personal stuff, Ray. Nothing you’d want to analyze to death.”

  SIXTY

  Goodman sat at a back booth at the Saratoga, anxiously nursing a glass of iced tea. For the las
t ten minutes, he’d been checking the front door each time it opened, so he saw Nikki enter, survey the late lunchers and the loiterers, and finally spot him at the rear. As she walked toward him, he tried to read the expression on her face. Success? Failure?

  She took the seat across from him and said, “Lunch is on you, detective. We ought to be having it at Spago.”

  “It went well?”

  She opened her briefcase and removed a sheet of paper. It was a document exonerating him from all blame in the matter of blackmail. It was signed by Nita Morgan.

  He couldn’t believe it. “How the hell...?”

  “She looks like a loon, with that long jet-black hair and the evening gown. Addams Family–time. But she didn’t get that house in Beverly Hills being eccentric. She knows what she’s doing. I spotted that right away. Her vampire TV series from the sixties is being repackaged for cable and she owns a big piece of it. She’s also writing a book. She’s looking for publicity.”

  “And that’s why she came after me?”

  “Not exactly,” Nikki said. “She came after you because she got a new agent. For the past five years, she’s been paying Maddie Gray three thousand dollars a month to act as her public relations counselor. That’s a euphemism for blackmailer. Her agent convinced her that times have changed. Her sexual preference is no longer a big deal. It might even be good for her career if she comes out of the closet. They were trying to figure out how best to do it when you blundered into her life.”

  “So she invented the phone call?” Goodman asked.

  Nikki shook her head. “She swears somebody tried to shake her down using Maddie’s files.”

  “Arthur Lydon.”

  “Probably,” Nikki said. “In any case, you’re damn lucky the call was made while you were in the box with Dyana Cooper.”

  “What about her claim that she’d made a mistake about the time?”

  “She says somebody from Internal Affairs told her to change her story. But that’s unlikely.”