“Maybe she didn’t want Alec to know she’d gone to him,” Liddy said. “When Alec did my new pictures a couple of years ago, he said something about not bothering to look at his tax returns, that Roxanne took care of all that. I remember because he said it dismissively, not as though it was a compliment to his wife’s ability. I didn’t like to hear her diminished.”
“Maybe it’s Roxanne who’s using that second cell phone, the one where the bills go to the management company,” I said.
“Are you thinking Roxanne might be keeping secrets from her husband?”
“It’s possible. Do you know anyone at Birnam Woods who could tell you which of them has a second cell?”
“I’m afraid not,” Liddy said. “That firm is so protective of its clients you practically have to show photo ID if you want to go to their office to pick up any of your own records.”
Galen Light didn’t advertise in the yellow pages, at least not as a life coach. However, while looking, I did find five companies that offered Lie Detector and Polygraph Services. I had thought those two things were the same, but I didn’t have time to ponder technical semantics.
I didn’t find Galen Light listed in the white pages, either, but I found several articles about him on the Internet. There wasn’t much about his personal life: divorced, no children, born in either Montana or Hawaii, depending upon the story. The one thing all the articles mentioned was Light’s “gift” for helping people find their “bliss.” Each article included one or two celebrity endorsements of Light.
There wasn’t much specific biographical information about Light; he claimed he “preferred to remain a blank page so as to keep the focus on my clients.”
One thing I did learn was that Light had a publicist. I thought that seemed to be at odds with his wanting attention focused on his “clients,” but the information was useful to me. I was about to phone Phil Logan to ask him to call Light’s publicist to find out how to reach the life coach, when I found an article that included a phone number for prospective clients to call. His area code was 310, which meant that he “coached lives” in one of the higher-end sections of Los Angeles.
I noted the number and reached for the phone again.
Galen Light agreed to see me at four o’clock that afternoon.
“I don’t usually make appointments on Sundays, but I’ve seen you on television, so I realize that your work must keep you very busy.”
“Yes, it does. I appreciate your being so considerate.”
“Ahhhh,” he said, his voice as warm as melting butter, “to what greater service can we use our gifts than to be of help to others?”
“That’s beautifully put,” I said. “Where is your office?”
“I work out of my home.” He gave me the address. It was in Brentwood, a few blocks from the Redding house.
I told him that I’d see him at four, and we said good-bye.
Galen Light’s home was a small Spanish hacienda with a well-kept front yard on Bundy Drive, just south of Sunset Boulevard, and not far from the house in which Marilyn Monroe died. That sad place was still on the list of “sights” pointed out to vans full of tourists.
The life coach opened his door, barefoot, wearing a royal purple velour running suit that I doubt had ever felt a drop of sweat. It was zipped up to just below his collarbone, exposing a few tendrils of dark chest hair.
“Della, you’re right on time. Welcome to Casa Light.”
“Thank you for making an appointment on such short notice.”
“On television, I’ve seen a certain touch of melancholy in your eyes. I sensed you need some guidance. In fact, if you believe in such spiritual matters, I sent vibrations inviting you to come to me.”
It took monumental self-control, but I managed not to laugh.
He stepped aside to allow me to enter the house, but it was a narrow doorway, and when I brushed past him I caught a hit of alcohol on his breath.
Light was a good-looking man, if one made the assessment by wide-set dark eyes, a broad forehead, an abundance of black hair, full lips, and prominent cheekbones. But his complexion was florid, with a few tiny red veins dotting his well-shaped nose. His name, Galen Light, didn’t match his face, which suggested a mixed heritage of Mediterranean and Slavic. It was an attractive melding of ethnicities, but if he had been a salesman, there is no way I would have bought whatever he was selling.
His living room was dim and cool, with a high beamed ceiling, handsomely furnished with deep couches and carved Spanish chairs and small tables. Spanish tiles framed the fireplace, and brightly colored woven rugs covered portions of the deep red tiles on the floor.
“This is a lovely house,” I said politely.
“I’m glad you like it. Come, let’s go into my office to talk.”
I followed him down a short hallway to a room on the left. He opened the door and ushered me inside.
His office was small, but beautifully furnished. Another deep couch, upholstered in burgundy velvet, and a pair of wing chairs in gold suede. A carved wooden coffee table rested in the center of the seating. There was no desk, but two of the four walls were covered with floor to ceiling bookcases of polished oak, filled with books in colorful jackets.
He turned on the brass lamp on the end table beside the couch and told me to have a seat.
I took one of the wing chairs.
“May I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thank you. Unless you have coffee?”
“My housekeeper just made a fresh pot. I’ll be right back.”
While he was gone, I went to the bookshelves to see what he liked to read. Novels, mostly. Nothing that seemed recent. Three volumes of poetry in one corner. Most surprising was a copy of Love Letters, edited by Lady Antonia Fraser. I was holding it when he returned, carrying a tray with a coffee cup and a cream and sugar set. Next to it was a crystal glass with a generous portion of some dark liquid. I suspected that it wasn’t Coca-Cola.
He saw the book in my hand and grinned. “The letters of Abelard and Héloïse are in that collection. Now there was a couple who could have used a life coach. Then he wouldn’t have been castrated and she wouldn’t have ended up in a nunnery.”
“But in spite of all that, they wrote beautiful letters,” I said.
“You’ve read them?”
“A long time ago.” I wasn’t going to tell him that I owned this same book, and had read excerpts to Nicholas one night when we were in bed.
I put Light’s copy back on the shelf.
He closed the door. “I don’t want us distracted by the god-awful clatter my housekeeper makes in the kitchen. She’s a treasure—anticipates everything I need, but she’s not exactly easy on the ears.” Handing me the coffee, he said, “Cream and sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
Light doctored my coffee and I sat back down in the wing chair. He settled on the couch opposite me, took a swallow from his drink, and set the glass down on the table. “What inspired you to call me, my dear Della?”
“Roxanne Redding.”
The smile vanished from his face. “Ahhhh, Roxanne.”
He picked up his drink and held it so that it was caught in a beam of sunlight coming through the window. After apparently studying how the illumination affected the color of the liquid, he took another swallow. When he put the glass down again, he said, “May I be frank with you, Della?”
“Of course.”
“I feel sorry for the poor woman. She’s not very stable,” he said. “That was true even before her husband’s shocking death.”
“Really? What do you mean?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything. You didn’t come here to talk about Roxanne.”
“Actually, I did. What I mean is, I heard that you were giving her advice, and I wondered what a life coach does.”
He sat up straighter; his chest seemed to swell and his wide smile displayed a set of perfect teeth. “I help people make the most out of their lives, to identify
the path that will lead them to happiness and encourage them to be brave enough to take the big risk that brings the big reward.”
“Ah,” I said, because he seemed to expect some response.
He drank more of whatever was in his glass. “Roxanne is a talented photographer. She should be at least as famous as her husband, but she lacks courage. I feel bad about that, because I liked her very much. I worked hard with her, but . . .” He shook his head in regret.
“What risk did you want her to take?”
“Let’s talk about you.” He leaned forward. “I know you have courage. I read about that situation you were in a few months ago. You defeated a killer.”
“I was lucky,” I said, dismissing the subject with a wave of my hand.
“It was more than luck, my dear. You are a remarkable woman. Tell me what you want to achieve and I will help you climb that mountain.”
I suppressed a sardonic comment. Instead, I asked, “How much do you charge?”
“There is no set fee. It depends upon how excited I am about a project. What do you want? To continue cooking on television, or would you rather run the network? Or run for political office?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. What kind of risk do you think Roxanne should take?” I asked.
“How well do you know her?”
“Casually,” I said. “But we talked quite a bit while she was taking new professional pictures for me.”
“Did she speak about me?”
“Just girl talk.” I gave him a smile I hoped would imply that we had discussed him.
He drank the last drops in his glass. “Roxanne is a lovely woman, underneath that brittle exterior. But she remains a mere acolyte of her husband. I wish she had come to me earlier—I could have made something magnificent out of her.” He got up and went around to the bookcase behind the couch. “Come,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
I put down the coffee cup—I’d barely taken a sip—and stood to follow him.
He was running his fingers along the spines of the volumes on the middle shelf, but when I was beside him, he turned toward me. “God, you’re beautiful,” he said. His voice was husky, the smell of liquor on his breath so strong I stepped back, but he grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me against him, and planted his mouth on mine.
This can’t be happening!
I clamped my lips shut, and struggled to get away from him, but his fingers were so strong they dug painfully into my upper arms as he crushed my breasts against his chest.
Coming up for air, he whispered, “You want this.”
“No! Let me go!” I screamed.
He slapped my face so hard my cheek burned and I heard ringing in my ears.
“Shut up. Or scream as loud as you want—there’s nobody here.”
He yanked me off my feet, rolled me over the back of the couch and down onto the cushions. Before I could get up or twist away, he threw his body on top of mine, grinding himself against my thighs as he ripped at my blouse.
One of my arms was pinned against the back of the sofa, but with my free hand I lunged for his eyes. He jerked his head back. My fingers missed their target, but my nails raked a path across the side of his face, leaving a little trail of blood on his cheek, and bits of his skin under my nails.
Enraged, he slapped me again, harder. His eyes blazed. Even more frightening than the power of his superior strength and the weight of his body was what I saw in his eyes: excitement. My stomach lurched with revulsion. I knew he wasn’t going to stop until he’d raped me or killed me. Or both.
While he held my wrist in an agonizing grip, he groped for the hem of my skirt and pulled it up.
Fighting for my life, with more strength than I ever guessed I had, I freed the arm he had pinned against the back of the couch. Balling my hand into a fist, I delivered a hammer-blow to his nose that smashed it flat. I heard the crack of bone. Blood gushed from his nostrils. He bellowed in pain and reared up enough for me to raise my knee and slam it into his groin. He shrieked and clutched at himself, giving me the chance to heave him off me. He tumbled sideways and crashed into the coffee table.
His head caught the wooden edge with such force it upended the table and sent all that was on it clattering to the floor.
I looked down.
Galen Light lay on his side on the carpet. Eyes closed.
Not moving.
30
My heart pounding, breathing heavily, terrified of what had almost happened to me, and terrified to think I might have killed him, I scrambled to my feet. In spite of my fear, I was about to lean down to feel for a pulse when I heard him groan. One of his hands moved slightly.
Thank God, he’s alive.
I grabbed my purse and ran from the house, but pulled the door only partway closed and didn’t let it lock. Safely inside my Jeep, watching Light’s front door, I used my cell to dial nine-one-one.
When the dispatcher answered, I said, “We need an ambulance. A man has been injured in a fall.” I gave the woman Light’s address. “He may not be able to come to open the door, but it’s unlocked. Go in.” I disconnected, and sped away from the house.
At Sunset Boulevard, I headed east, but swerved into the next street. I stopped just inside the corner and killed the motor. Behind me, I heard the wail of a siren. Through my rear window, I saw a red paramedic’s van race along Sunset Boulevard and make a sharp turn onto Bundy Drive.
I knew that I should drive to the West Los Angeles police station and report Light’s assault on me, but I was embarrassed that I had been so stupid as to go alone to the home of a strange man. In my defense, he was a well-known media personality with much to lose if he were accused of rape. He had mentioned his housekeeper, so I assumed we were not alone. And I certainly had not given Light any indication that I had any sexual interest in him at all. Even if he’d taken something I’d said or done as an invitation, the moment he heard my emphatic “no” he should have backed off.
It took a few minutes for my heartbeat to return to near normal. Even though I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of going to Butler Avenue to file a complaint against Galen Light, I steeled myself to do it. I imagine he counted on shame or embarrassment to make any woman he forced himself on reluctant to report the assault. For my own self-respect I couldn’t remain silent, but also I felt a kinship with other women who had faced what I just went through, or worse.
It was close to five o’clock on Sunday afternoon. Butler Avenue was quiet. I saw only two pedestrians, a couple pushing a stroller. I took the rare open parking space near the police station’s red-tiled entrance. When I reached up to hold my torn blouse together, I saw that the knuckles of that hand were swollen and smeared with blood. Light’s blood, from when I’d smashed him in the nose with my fist. I’d been vaguely aware while I was driving that my hand hurt, but it was only now, when I’d calmed down, that I could assess the damage. A bruise was developing, and it was painful to flex those fingers.
I knew how lucky I was, that my wounds were only superficial. Those would heal quickly, but it would take longer before I forgot being thrown onto that couch like some raging giant’s rag doll, those terrifying moments of helplessness before I was able to fight him off and escape.
Inside the station house, I was relieved to see that the desk sergeant on duty wasn’t anyone I’d met before. This officer was bald, with a thick neck and bushy black eyebrows. He was on the phone when I came through the door and barely glanced at me until he finished his call. I must have looked even worse than I thought because those dense eyebrows twitched when he focused on me.
“Are you all right, miss?”
“Yes, but I need to report a crime. An assault.”
“Do you need medical attention?”
“No. Just someone to take my report.”
“Sure.” He picked up the receiver, punched a couple of digits, and requested a detective to “see a woman” at the front desk. Replacing the receiver, he gestured toward th
e empty bench beside the door. “Take a seat. A detective will be out soon.”
It must have been a slow day for crime in Los Angeles, because I’d been sitting for only a few seconds when a man emerged from the direction of the detectives’ squad room.
Oh, no.
It was John’s partner, Hugh Weaver.
The desk sergeant pointed to me, but he needn’t have bothered because I was the only person waiting.
When Weaver saw me and registered my disheveled condition, his usual scowl morphed into a frown of concern. “Hey, what happened?”
“A man tried to rape me—”
“We need to get you to the hospital.”
“No, Hugh. I said he tried. He didn’t succeed, but he hit me and ripped my clothes. I want to swear out a complaint.”
“Jeez. Thank God it wasn’t worse. Come on in.”
He steered me into the squad room and over to the pair of desks he shared with John. I was profoundly grateful that John’s side of their unit was empty. In fact, the squad room itself was practically deserted. Only one other detective was there, typing at a computer keyboard on the other side of the room.
Weaver hauled the nearest straight-back wooden chair over to his desk so I could sit next to him. “Can I get you something? The coffee here smells like rotten eggs today; I don’t know what the eff happened to the machine, but we got some cold sodas.”
I realized how dry my throat felt. “Yes. Anything cold.”
A minute later he was back with a small bottle of orange juice. He twisted off the top and handed it to me. “This’ll be better for you.”
“Thanks.” I took a sip and winced when the juice touched a cut on my lip. Ignoring the burning sensation, I drank half the bottle. “That helped.” I couldn’t see any place to put it down on his cluttered desk, so I set it on the floor beside the chair.
Weaver pulled an official form from a pile behind his telephone, picked up a pen, and wrote my name on one of the lines. He was all business. “Okay. Who attacked you?”
“Galen Light.” I gave him the address.
Pie A La Murder Page 17
