When the officer concluded his call, he turned his attention to my report. He was meticulous about details, so it took a while. When he was finished asking questions, he led me through a door off the lobby, into a rabbit warren of small rooms that emptied into a hallway bisected by a low wooden bench. Bolted to the bench was a long metal bar, which held sets of handcuffs attached by a length of chain. We continued through a steel door into the back parking lot. He pointed toward a double-wide trailer next to a cinder-block wall, where the homicide unit was temporarily housed, and told me Detective Green was waiting for me. Something about the way he said that was unsettling.
I headed up the portable steps of the trailer, past a Bankers box marked “Burn.” I found Moses Green alone, sitting behind a desk, wearing a crisp white shirt and a burgundy knit tie that sported a gold Brooks Brothers sheep-in-a-sling emblem. When he saw me, he stood, silently staring at the abrasion on my face. He motioned for me to take a chair across from him.
“Just so you know,” he said, “there’s no smoking allowed in here.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Good. Me, neither. I quit a couple of years ago after I started getting winded picking up the Sunday paper from my driveway.” He settled back into his chair. “So, how’s the weather out in Malibu?” His tone was polite and chatty.
“About like here, I’d guess.”
He nodded. “I bet it’s nice living at the beach.”
“It can be.”
Why the small talk? I wondered if maybe he was trying to lull me into forgetting that I was at a police station, being questioned by a homicide cop.
Green adjusted his tie and referred to some notes in a file folder that was sitting on his desk, next to his black briefcase. “Like I told you on the phone, I have some follow-up questions about the statements you made to me yesterday. I wanted to give you a chance to clarify them.”
The way he phrased his statement made it sound as though he’d caught me in a lie, and he was giving me one last chance to fess up. That irritated me, but I didn’t call him on it.
“Ask away.”
“Yesterday you said you hadn’t seen the victim’s wife in years. At the time, I got the impression the two of you had a falling-out. Now I find out you’re helping her dismantle the crime scene.”
I felt my jaw muscles tighten. “It’s not a crime scene anymore.”
“Right. I guess my question is really about your current relationship with Mrs. Brice. How would you characterize it?”
There was no easy answer to his question. The word “friend” definitely needed a modifier: former, estranged, old, false. Green’s sympathetic expression made me wonder if he understood my labeling dilemma.
“We have a shared history,” I said. “She asked for help; I said yes.”
He nodded, as if he understood. “It’s standard procedure in this type of homicide case to ask the spouse to take a polygraph. Cecelia Brice refused. Why do you suppose she isn’t willing to eliminate herself as a suspect in her husband’s death?”
The telephone on a desk across the room began to ring. It was loud and annoying. Green made no attempt to answer it. A few moments later, it went silent again.
“Maybe she thinks you’re taking the easy way out by pinning the murder on her.”
“We don’t ‘pin’ anything on anybody. We collect evidence and let the chips fall where they may.”
“And these chips—are they falling near anybody else?”
Green hesitated before answering. “No.”
He blinked a couple of times, allowing me a first-rate view of those long eyelashes. They made his eyes look soft and compassionate. I wondered if he knew the effect they had on women.
“You know,” he continued, “in a way I feel sorry for Mrs. Brice. She put up with a lot from her husband—drugs, money problems, other women. Sometimes a person can take just so much before they snap. It can happen so fast they don’t even have time to think. They just pick up the nearest thing that causes damage and start thumping away.” He paused for a moment to judge my reaction. “You say you have a history with Mrs. Brice. What would it take to push her over the edge like that?”
“We’ve been down this road before, Detective. I told you yesterday, I don’t know.”
“I was hoping you’d have done some thinking about the question since then.” He paused. “And the penalty for withholding evidence in a homicide investigation.”
The air in the trailer suddenly seemed warm and oppressive. “You asked me to come in for a follow-up interview. This feels more like an interrogation.”
Green didn’t respond. Once again he referred to the notes in front of him. “A night clerk at the Oakwood Market on Pacific claims the victim came into the store at about one a.m. on the morning he was killed. He bought a bottle of champagne and a six-pack of Coke. Both were still in the brown grocery bag on the kitchen counter when we arrived at the scene. Champagne. Now that sounds like a party. What do you think he was celebrating?”
“Beats me.”
“Come on, Ms. Sinclair, you’re a smart person. Take a wild guess.”
“What good does that do?”
“Think of it as brainstorming.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, fine. What kind of champagne?”
He looked surprised but referred to his notes and called off a French label, which I knew sold for about twenty-five dollars a bottle. I was somewhat familiar with the Oakwood Market, because I’d shopped for Rose’s groceries there. It was a small neighborhood place, so I assumed that that particular champagne was the priciest brand they carried.
“Evan just got out of rehab. He wasn’t doing drugs, so he probably wasn’t drinking, either. A single bottle of champagne isn’t enough for a party, so I’d say he bought the Coke for himself and the champagne for somebody else. He had an argument with his wife earlier that day. I think he regretted it and was taking the champagne home to her with an apology. What do you think of my theory?”
He frowned. “Interesting.”
“But not what you wanted to hear, right?”
He studied me for several moments without responding.
“You ever think about irony, Ms. Sinclair?”
“Sometimes. Why?”
He leaned forward in his chair. “When I was a kid, my grandma had a fancy porcelain horse on her dresser. I wanted to play with it so bad I could taste it, but my grandma, she said, ‘No, Moses. That’s not a toy. You go playin rough with that pony, you gonna break it all to pieces.’ Well, when you’re three, you don’t want to listen to ‘no’ from an old woman. One day when she was out in her garden pulling weeds, I climbed up on a chair and got that horse. On the way down, it slipped out of my hands and broke into a million pieces on her linoleum floor. I never forgot that. I not only betrayed my grandma, I also destroyed the one thing I wanted most.”
“I guess there’s a point to your story, Detective Green.”
“Yeah, I guess there is. Sometimes you think you can have it all, but you end up with nothing. Cecelia Brice took your man, because she wanted him. She betrayed a friend. Now it looks like she also destroyed the thing she wanted most. What do you think of my theory?”
“I think it needs work.”
He shook his head as if he regretted ever saying I was smart. “You’re a better friend than she deserves, Ms. Sinclair. Tell you what I think: Mrs. Brice went to her husband’s apartment that night. She found him getting ready to romance another lady. She figured enough is enough. If she can’t have him, nobody can. She grabbed a kitchen knife and got in a lucky blow right off. Or maybe the victim was so shocked to see his wife with a weapon in her hand, he didn’t put up much of a fight. There weren’t many defensive wounds. It looks like she caught him completely off guard.”
“And what evidence do you have against her? Eyewitnesses? Bloody fingerprints? Anything?”
“I can’t discuss the evidence. Let’s just say we’re putting our case together. I was hoping yo
u could help us with that.”
“I thought I was helping. I just told you a man broke into Evan’s apartment and stole items that may relate to his murder. That didn’t seem to grab your attention, so I assume you only want evidence that points to Cissy Brice.”
He no longer looked sympathetic, just irritated. “You know better than that.”
“Do I?”
Green looked tight-jawed and frustrated. “We investigate all leads, including those from well-meaning citizens like you.”
Moments later he told me he was finished asking questions. He said he’d get a copy of my report from the front desk. If he had any questions, he’d call me. For now, I was free to go.
As soon as I got to the car, I called Cissy Brice. I wanted to find out if she knew who else had keys to Evan’s apartment. I also wanted to warn her about Green’s growing suspicions. Her machine answered. Discouraged, I left a message and headed for home.
A dull gray marine layer hung over the Pacific Ocean like a dingy sheet. A Norah Jones CD played on the car stereo as I drove along the coast highway. Norah’s sultry voice acted as a balm, until I felt almost whole again. I probably drove too fast, but traffic was light and speed made me feel in control. It also got me home in half an hour instead of forty-five minutes.
When I arrived, I found Pookie sitting outside on a deck chair, looking uncharacteristically drab in a baggy gray sweat suit. She was flipping through an old textbook of mine entitled Financial Management: Theory and Practice. My mother’s choice of reading material may not have seemed odd to folks who didn’t know her, but it seemed more than odd to me. Before meeting Bruce, the only thing she’d ever calculated was her numerology life-path number. I should have felt good that she was expanding her horizons, but I didn’t. I felt only a sense of impending doom.
Muldoon was in his regular spot on the chaise longue, using his cashmere sweater as a pillow.
“Where’s Bruce?” I asked.
“Meeting with the trustees.” Pookie didn’t take her eyes off the book.
“You didn’t go?”
“I wasn’t invited.”
“That sucks.”
She shrugged, but I could tell that not being included bothered her. She closed the book without marking her place and turned toward me. “My God! What happened to your face?”
“I fell.”
“Tucker?” Her voice was high-pitched and filled with concern.
Muldoon detected the anxious tenor in her voice and let out a questioning whine.
“Don’t worry, I’m okay. I just need some ice.”
She followed me inside and sat on the living room couch, letting the soft pillows surround her like a cocoon. Muldoon settled in next to her because the couch was within striking distance of the refrigerator, and he sensed by the edgy tone in her voice that comfort food might be in his future.
While filling the ice pack, I told her about my run-in with the freight train and that the detective in charge of Evan’s murder investigation didn’t buy my theory that the robbery was connected to his death. She listened but didn’t say much. Her eyes were closed as if she was pretending that the ugliness of the world would disappear if she couldn’t see it. Pookie had never been the type of mother who soothed my bumps and bruises with TLC and homemade brownies, but her laissez-faire approach to mothering had made me self-sufficient, for which I was grateful.
I sank into an adjacent overstuffed chair and put the ice pack on my cheek. “Tell me all the dirt you know about Lola Scott.”
She looked at me suspiciously. “Why?”
“Just curious.”
She bit her lip and thought for a moment. “I can’t. I promised Bruce.”
“Relax, Pookie. The gossip Nazi is at a trustees’ meeting, remember?”
I had hoped that by reminding her of Bruce’s slight it might trigger some of her vintage spunk, but it didn’t.
“I wish you’d give him a chance, Tucker.”
I couldn’t fault my mother for trying to be a good person, but I would have felt better if the decision to give up gossiping had come from her, not from a guy who had the analytical instincts of a canned ham.
“I’m trying,” I said.
She was still sitting on the couch as I went outside to get Muldoon’s sweater from the deck chair. I took it and the ice pack and retreated to my bedroom. True to form, Muldoon followed the cashmere. I punched up the bed pillows, leaned back against my grandma’s wrought-iron headboard, and pressed the ice against my face. Muldoon took another nap. I thought I’d rest for a minute, too, and wait for inspiration. None came. A few moments later, I heard a heavy sigh. I glanced up and saw Pookie standing in the doorway.
“You want what I know or what I’ve heard?”
Yes! I thought. The old Pookie is back.
“Both.”
She came over and sat on the edge of the bed. “Okay. Remember that biker film I mentioned the other night? I told you my friend Sheila Mayhew did the makeup. Well, Lola Scott was the star of that picture. Sheila says Evan came to the set a few times. He and Lola would go into her trailer and have these loud arguments followed by even louder makeup sex. She said that Winnebago rocked like a ten on the Richter scale.”
That was some monumental screwing. I thought of the sheets on the bed in Evan’s apartment and wondered if they had been bought at Lola Scott’s behest. Except that didn’t make sense. Lola was a big star. If she wanted a romantic rendezvous, she’d simply book a room under a fake name at the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills.
“Okay,” I said. “They were having sex. So what?”
“No. Evan was having sex. Lola was making love.”
“How do you know it wasn’t love for Evan, too?”
“Hello? Where’s the little cynic I raised? It’s like this, sweetie. When Evan got out of rehab, he dumped Lola. The end.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Who knows?”
“How did Lola take it?”
Pookie gave me her earth-to-Tucker look. “She didn’t exactly confide in me, but I imagine she took it the way any woman would have. She wanted to cut off his little winkie.”
I thought about that for a minute. “Maybe she didn’t stop with his winkie.”
Pookie’s eyes got big. “See? I knew I couldn’t trust myself. Bruce was right all along. This is exactly how gossip gets out of control.”
Pookie was probably right. Floating the notion that Lola Scott had anything to do with Evan’s death might be interesting, but it was pure speculation, and probably dangerous speculation to boot. Still, in a homicide investigation, everyone is a suspect, including the diva of daytime.
“What would happen to Lola’s career if the public found out she’d done a porno film?”
“Tucker, why are you asking all of these questions?”
I had no choice; I had to tell her about the videotape. When I did, the news didn’t seem to surprise her.
“Ordinarily, doing porn wouldn’t matter for somebody like Lola Scott,” Pookie said, “but lately she’s been trying to sell herself as a serious artist. I hear she’s taking private acting lessons from the coach du jour, plus she just hired a top-notch PR firm to put a positive spin on her career.”
“And now she’ll be hiring a new agent as well.”
Pookie shot me a warning glance.
Nobody was taking my suspicions seriously, and that irritated me. If nothing else, Lola Scott was a person of interest. Maybe Detective Green was overworked and didn’t have time to do the necessary legwork, but somebody had to do it. For Cissy’s sake, somebody had to do it now. As reluctant as I was to get more involved in her troubles, I decided to check into the Lola Scott angle, at least until Cissy could be persuaded to hire a lawyer to manage her defense. After all, I’d researched hundreds of strategic plans for all kinds of businesses; I could certainly collect a few tidbits on a high-profile actor like the venerable Dr. Luster.
“So how can I get in touch with Lola-baby?”
I said.
“Are you out of your mind? First of all, I don’t know her, and second of all, what are you going to say? ‘Hey, Lola, Pookie Kravitz thinks you killed your agent because of some porno movie you did when you were still jailbait.’ I’d never work in this town again.”
“You won’t work again in any case. You gave up acting. Remember? For Bruce.”
Her facial muscles went slack. “I can’t tell you anything more.”
“Then maybe Sheila Mayhew can. How about giving me her number?”
Pookie stood and put her arms out like a cop stopping traffic. “No more negative gossip. I’m taking Deepak Chopra and some bath salts, and I’m going to soak away any memory of this conversation.”
So much for the old Pookie.
When Muldoon heard the bathroom door close, he seemed conflicted. On one hand, he loved to lick bathwater off legs. On the other, there was cashmere and the hope of greasy food if he stayed with me. I asked him if he thought one little telephone number was too much to ask of Pookie. He cocked his head and whined, which meant he expected compensation for siding with me. My fans were few and far between these days, so I went into the kitchen and got him a turkey hot dog from the refrigerator, because I didn’t want any debt to him hanging over my head.
I should have dropped the whole Lola Scott thing right then and there, but I couldn’t. I had to find out if she had a reason to want Evan dead, not to mention if she was to blame for screwing up a perfectly good vest. Maybe I’d confront her with my knowledge of the tape and wait to see if sweat beaded on her upper lip. First I had to find her.
I considered finagling tickets to a taping of Kings Road, but I wasn’t sure if soaps used live audiences. After coming up with a series of less than brilliant alternatives, I decided my best chance of locating Lola was through Sheila Mayhew. If my mother wouldn’t give me Sheila’s telephone number, I’d have to find it another way. Luckily, that wasn’t going to be difficult.
Despite Pookie’s recent efforts to master the semiannual compounding of bond values, she wasn’t exactly on the cutting edge of high finance or high technology. No Palm handheld computers for her. She still used a leather Coach address book she bought in the early eighties, which was at this moment sitting on the kitchen counter. Feeling only slightly guilty for invading her privacy, I thumbed through it until I got to the “M’s.”
Cover Your Assets Page 9
