My throat felt dry and constricted as I considered the possibility that Monique Ruiz was pregnant. Then I thought about her reaction to Evan’s death, Evan’s phone call to Amy Lynch about the Catholic Church and abortion, the mousy “deer in the headlights” girl at Evan’s party. Evan the poet . . . Evan the drug addict . . . Evan the womanizer. I also thought of the roses in Evan’s apartment, in Evan’s poem, and on the key chain Monique had made for him. Perhaps the flower had been some private symbol of her love for Evan. And his love for her?
I wondered who’d be most upset about Monique’s pregnancy. Her family, no doubt. Evan was a married man. But Evan must have been upset as well. He was just out of rehab and trying to mend his shattered family life. The last thing he needed was a pregnant girlfriend. Maybe he told Monique to have an abortion, and she objected. I thought back to something Eugene had said: “When your baby’s in jeopardy, you’ll do anything to save her.” He’d been talking about Mr. Geyer’s mail order catalog and maybe even about his cat, Liza, but those words could be used to describe Monique’s sentiments as well. What if she had asked her brother to intervene on her behalf? That could have transformed Gilbert Ruiz from volatile, robo-tripping troublemaker into macho avenger of his sister’s honor.
On the other hand, I couldn’t overlook another person who’d be deeply affected by Monique’s unexpected pregnancy: Cissy Brice, a woman who viewed money as a protective cloak and who had turned the family’s finances over to a money manager to protect her assets. What would she do if she were faced with losing thousands or even millions of dollars in a paternity suit? Worse yet, what if Evan planned to leave her and marry Monique Ruiz?
I felt overwhelmed by what I did and didn’t know, and wondered how much Charley Tate would charge to help me sort everything out. More than I could afford right now. I was sure of that. I’d just have to tackle the issues myself.
Muldoon was getting restless sitting on my lap. I put him on the floor, handed Tate my card, and told him to send me a bill for his time. When he rose to see me out, again I saw pain etch a deep furrow between his eyes. The guy wasn’t any spring chicken, so his discomfort could have been caused by a variety of ailments: bad back, arthritis, or something worse. That worried me. Tate wasn’t an easy person to categorize. He was cranky yet appealing. I didn’t like the thought that he might be compromised in any way.
As we made our way back through the lobby, I again marveled at the disparity in neatness between the two rooms. Tate apparently noticed my scrutiny.
“My receptionist quit,” he said with a forced chuckle. “She and I had a difference of opinion about my filing system. I’m looking for a replacement, so let me know if you run across anybody who’s looking for a shitty job with even shittier pay.”
For a moment I wondered if Eugene might be interested. Then I though, nah. They’d drive each other crazy. In the end, I told Tate I’d keep my ears open for somebody who was looking for the kind of unique opportunity he offered. If he needed help right away, I suggested he call Amy Lynch at Premier Temps. I wasn’t sure if she was still there, but she’d be great at writing messages.
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after I left Charley Tate’s office, I tried to think of where I could find evidence to prove that Monique was pregnant with Evan’s baby. Confronting her seemed futile.
I was waiting at a red light at Venice Boulevard when I remembered the medical bill that had been mixed in with the stack of junk mail Jakey had stolen from Evan’s apartment. The statement had been sent to Thomas Chatterton at the Venice address instead of to the Brices’ business manager. I thought I knew why. Evan didn’t want to let his business manager or his wife find out about Monique Ruiz’s pregnancy.
It was too early for Lola Scott to have forwarded the stolen mail, even if she’d been true to her word and done as I’d requested. It had only been a few days since the last bill arrived, so I doubted there was an overdue notice waiting in Evan’s mailbox. However, since I was only ten minutes away from the apartment, I decided to stop by and check with Rose. Maybe Monique had mentioned something to her about seeing a doctor. If so, she might remember a name.
I turned onto Seagate Pathway and scanned the surrounding streets to make sure Gilbert Ruiz’s car wasn’t parked anywhere nearby. It wasn’t, but nonetheless, I left the Boxster out of sight in the lot down the street. With Muldoon in tow, I made my way to the lobby. I opened Evan’s mailbox and found a few pieces of junk mail, but nothing from the clinic and nothing from Lola Scott. I was disappointed but not surprised.
Rose was on the telephone with her daughter when I arrived at her door. I didn’t want to interrupt their conversation, so I told her I would come back in a few minutes. To kill some time, I walked down the hall to Evan’s unit. I still had to dispose of the bed and decided to use his phone to call the women’s shelter. I’d make them an offer they couldn’t refuse. If they took the bed, they could have the telephone as a bonus.
When I opened the door to his apartment, a strange, stale odor embraced me like an old man’s unwanted hug. I stepped inside and flipped on the lights, nearly tripping over what turned out to be a padded envelope lying by the door. My name was scrawled on the outside. When I opened it, I found the stolen mail, a key, and a note from Lola Scott telling me she’d taken the bed.
The key was no surprise. Obviously, that’s how Jakey had gotten into the apartment in the first place. It annoyed me that she’d used it without telling me, but there was nothing I could do about it now. At least the place was empty. My job was finished.
I sorted through the mail until I spotted the clinic envelope. Inside was a statement for an office visit for Monique Chatterton. On the bottom was a friendly handwritten note, asking her to call at her earliest convenience to schedule prenatal care visits.
Perhaps Evan was just being a nice guy by paying Monique’s doctor bills. From all accounts, he’d done that sort of thing before. Except that Monique had used the name Chatterton. Why would she do that if Evan weren’t the baby’s father?
Cissy must have known or at least suspected that something was going on between Evan and Monique. After all, she was the long-suffering wife who’d put up with Evan’s serial cheating throughout their entire marriage. By now she must know the signs. I had to speak with her again. This time she was going to tell me the truth. If I caught her in another lie, she was going down. I’d see to that myself.
THE CLOSER I GOT to Benedict Canyon, the more nervous I became. I couldn’t believe that a friend whom I’d once considered a sister was capable of murder. Still, the evidence against Cissy Brice was piling up just as the list of other suspects was dwindling. I’d already eliminated my most promising lead: Lola Scott. I’d have to do a lot more research if I was ever going to pump life into the idea of a conspiracy between Amy Lynch and Evan’s personal assistant, Jerome Fielding. Connecting Jerome to Evan’s murder was probably a nonstarter. Moses Green hadn’t even mentioned the guy’s name. Jerome was probably just trying to get into Amy’s good graces by helping her jump-start her screenwriting career.
Several media vans, including one from Celebrity Heat, were again congregated along the narrow street outside the Brices’ house. Evan had been dead for a week already, so the number had diminished. I guess the faithful were just marking time until the next big freeway chase.
I didn’t see Darcy Daniels. She was probably inside the van getting her lips reglossed. I considered asking Muldoon to hunt her down like a rat in a hole, but I didn’t want to generate any new tape for her evening show, nor did I want to end up in the back of Deegan’s detective car.
There was a guard minding the gate—different guy, same uniform, same procedure as before. Muldoon was wearing his goggles, so I let him hang his head out the window while I waited for the guard to call the house for permission to let us in. Unfortunately, this time there was a glitch. The powers-that-be inside the house said no. Frustrated, I asked to speak with Cissy. She wasn’t there, nor was Jerome. I had to
know when she was coming back, so after pleading, coaxing, and cajoling, the guard reluctantly called the house again.
Julia, who turned out to be Dara’s nanny, answered with an English-accented hello. When I explained who I was, she told me the police had come early that morning to search the house. Cissy had been distraught and had decided to leave town for a few days. I wondered if she was in her green Jag, with a blond wig and a sack of hundred dollar bills, heading for Tijuana. Celebrity Heat would love that.
“At least she got Dara away from all the craziness,” I said. “How come she didn’t take you, too?”
The woman hesitated. “She didn’t take either of us. Dara’s here with me.”
I’m not a mother, but it seemed odd that Cissy would leave her child at a time like this. Dara had to be freaked out, too, losing her father, hounded by the media, and now dealing with the trauma of a police search.
It was a letdown to find out that Cissy wasn’t around. On the other hand, maybe I should try once more to pry information out of Jerome Fielding. I didn’t expect his emotional floodgates suddenly to open, but even a trickle might help solve the case.
“When will Jerome be back?” I said.
“Shortly, I suspect. He’s just out running errands.”
“Mind if I wait?”
She hesitated briefly. “I suppose that would be all right.”
I looked around to see if Darcy Daniels had emerged from her news van, but she was nowhere in sight. I handed the phone back to the guard, who listened to Julia’s instructions. Moments later he opened the gate, and I eased up the driveway. I didn’t plan to be gone long, so I told Muldoon to stay in the car. He looked unhappy about my decision and wouldn’t even let me take off his goggles. To make amends, I left the windows down so he could get some fresh air, and suggested he take a nap.
I expected Julia to be a plump woman in her sixties with sensible shoes and a Mary Poppins hat. As it turned out, she was petite and in her early twenties. She ushered me into the house with the nonchalance of somebody who still thought people were basically good at heart. Obviously, she was new in town.
The house looked intact. Either the police were extremely tidy, or somebody had straightened up after the search. Nanny Poppins told me to make myself at home and disappeared down a long hallway. A moment later I heard a door close. I was alone.
I waited restlessly on the couch for a few minutes before wandering out onto the patio. A cool breeze rattled the leaves of the potted plants around the perimeter of the pool. I glanced over at the cabana and noticed a padlock on the door, which was hanging open. Before, I’d assumed that the building housed pool equipment, but on closer inspection I didn’t hear anything that sounded like the humming of machinery. Perhaps it was a playhouse for Dara.
I set my purse on one of the round patio tables and walked over to see if she was inside. The shutters were closed, blocking my view. If Dara was in the cabana, I didn’t want to frighten her. I called her name but got no response. I pushed on the door. It slowly creaked open.
Inside, two walls were lined with built-in shelves filled with hardback books. To my right was a love seat and étagère, the shelves of which were crammed with antique toys. In the center of the room was an inlaid wood table, which held a neat stack of papers and a laptop computer.
Nothing looked out of place. Either the police hadn’t searched in here or it had been cleaned up, too. On top of the desk was a file labeled “Dara,” which contained a child’s drawing of a woman with red hair and round blimpy arms and legs—Cissy, no doubt—and several report cards from an exclusive private school in Bel Air. Obviously, this wasn’t a child’s playhouse. Since Evan used the Venice apartment as his getaway office, I assumed that this work space belonged to Cissy.
Out of curiosity, I lifted the lid of the laptop and lightly brushed my finger over a red toggle switch embedded in the keys. Moments later, a word-processing program appeared on the screen. I positioned the pointer on the menu bar and highlighted “File.” At the bottom of the pop-up menu was a list of nine recently created documents. To my surprise, I saw one labeled “Monique.” I clicked on it.
A letter appeared on the screen. It was addressed to a Beverly Hills financial management company, instructing them to disregard Mr. Brice’s prior instructions and cease paying any and all bills related to Monique Ruiz, aka Monique Chatterton. It claimed that more detailed instructions from the Brices’ attorney would follow. Cissy Brice’s name was typed at the bottom of the letter.
This letter proved that Cissy knew about Monique’s pregnancy. I wondered what else she knew. She told me she’d argued with Evan the day he died, and hinted that the fight was over her fear that he’d contract AIDS because of his drug habit and multiple sex partners. I’m sure that was a concern of hers, but there had obviously been another: Monique Ruiz.
Evan had obviously taken responsibility for Monique’s medical bills and may have offered to pay child support. If he had died before he could make good on that promise, it would help explain why Marta Cruz showed up at my door, asking if Evan was an honorable man. Maybe she’d already approached Cissy on her sister’s behalf and gotten the cold shoulder. Perhaps she knew that Cissy and I had once been friends, and hoped I’d persuade her to help Monique.
According to James Brodie, the night before Evan died, he was worried about information that was going to sink somebody’s boat. I just didn’t know whether the boat was Monique’s or Cissy’s. Perhaps he planned to tell Monique he couldn’t marry her as she’d hoped, because he wasn’t single Thomas Chatterton; he was married Evan Brice. Or maybe he’d informed Cissy that he was leaving her for a new wife and baby. Maybe he’d decided to dump both of them and start a new life somewhere else.
I wondered if the police had searched the cabana, and if so, why they hadn’t taken the computer. A moment later, I opened “Finder” and discovered that the Monique file had been created only minutes earlier. I was still thinking about the ramifications of my discovery when I heard a voice coming from somewhere behind me.
“Tucker?”
I turned to see Cissy Brice standing in the doorway, wearing designer jeans and a pair of strappy high-heeled sandals. Her hair looked lank. Her blond roots had grown out a quarter inch or so, providing a stark contrast to the red dye job.
“Jeez, you scared me,” I said. “I thought you left town.”
“I did, but I came back to get Dara and take care of a couple of things. What are you doing in here?”
My excuse sounded phony, but I offered it anyway. “I wanted to let you know everything is out of Evan’s apartment. I’m ready to turn over the keys.”
“I thought you were working with mom on that.”
“I am, but—”
“Never mind. Come in the house. I’ll make a pitcher of margaritas.” Her gaze traveled to my hand, which was still resting on her laptop computer. Her eyes narrowed. “What were you looking at?”
It was time for the truth. At some point I’d have to confess what I’d learned, either now or in front of a jury if it came to that.
“When did you find out Evan was the father of Monique Ruiz’s baby?”
The color drained from her face. “What are you talking about?”
“Cut the crap, Cissy. I read your letter.”
She let out a breath of air and let her chin collapse onto her chest. When she lifted her head again, she seemed resigned.
“Okay, I knew. So what?”
“When did you find out?”
“Friday. Our business manager got a bill for the Ruiz girl’s lab work. When she saw the phony name, she called me right away. She thought Evan was doing drugs again. Playing sugar daddy was always the way it started.”
“When you saw Monique’s name on the statement, you realized it was something worse than drugs. It was a threat to your future.”
“It just blew me away. I thought things were finally good between us again, but all the while he was screwing some nineteen
-year-old house sitter. We argued off and on all weekend, but on Sunday we had a huge fight. It was a good thing Dara was on a sleepover. I said some pretty terrible things. Evan left the house. I went to dinner and had one too many martinis. When my friend drove me home, Evan wasn’t there. I figured he was with Monique. I didn’t want to stay at the house alone, so I asked her to take me to Mom’s. I think I passed out for a while.”
“But later you woke up and couldn’t stop thinking about what a shit Evan was.”
“What are you getting at, Tuckie?”
“You lied to me, Cissy. That’s what I’m getting at. You said you’d never been to the Venice apartment, but somebody saw your mom’s car parked in front of the building around the time Evan was killed. I think you drove it there.”
As she processed the information, her confused expression slowly changed to one of horror. “You think I killed Evan?” Her tone was so low and raspy, it barely sounded human. “I swear to you, it wasn’t me.”
“You were there that night.”
“Okay, I was there, but he was already dead.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“It was a mistake. I know that now. I just wasn’t thinking straight. I’ll call Detective Green. Tell him everything, whatever you say. Just please believe me, I didn’t do it. I swear.”
For a moment I didn’t know what to believe. She seemed so earnest, so fragile. Maybe she was telling the truth. The problem was, I knew Cissy well enough not to trust her.
“Look,” I said, “I’ll take your word for it. I’ll even go with you to the cops, but no more lies.”
“Sure, Tuckie. I understand. The truth. I owe you that much. You’ve been so good to me these past few days. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Just wait here. I want to look in on Dara first. Then we can go. We’ll talk in the car. I’ll tell you everything.”
Cover Your Assets Page 23
