“Nick filled me in about your little midnight B and E stunt. It was a stupid risk.”
“We didn’t break and enter because Nicholas had a key. We just entered.”
I went on to explain that I’d made a chart of the Reddings’ phone calls from the lists that Nicholas had found taped to the underside of her desk.
“Here’s why I called you,” I said. “Part One: I’d like to share with John what I’ve put together because I think it would help him, but I don’t know how to do that without destroying the police officer who stole the phone lists for Gretchen. Part Two: I want to know if John and Keller have found out anything that would eliminate Nicholas, Celeste, Tanis, Prince Freddie, Roxanne Redding, or Galen Light from suspicion of the Redding murder.”
“Part Two is easy to answer. No, they haven’t come up with anyone outside their viable suspect list. No jealous husbands, nobody to whom it would be dangerous to owe money, no women scorned.”
That was a surprise. “I don’t believe he was Mr. Clean.”
“Oh, no—he’d been a naughty boy. Redding sowed his ‘wild oats’ pretty liberally until about six months ago, but there’s no indication his wife knew about it. I have to give O’Hara and Weaver credit—they did a thorough job of questioning people who worked for the Reddings, their neighbors, and their business associates. Nobody saw or heard signs of marital discord. Everybody thought the Reddings were a happy couple. Several volunteered that they envied them, and thought the harmony was because Roxanne and Alec worked together. Of course, nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors.”
I told Olivia about Redding’s calls to the erectile dysfunction doctor.
“That could be why Redding-the-player quit playing; he was benched, so to speak.” Her tone was wry.
“Do they suspect Nicholas of killing Gretchen Tully?”
“Good news there. Nick was at the paper during the hours when Gretchen could have been killed. A dozen people saw him, worked with him. No way he could have slipped out, even if he had a motive to murder her, and nobody at the Chronicle thinks he did. But the not-good news is that Detective Keller is trying to get the two murders unlinked and treated as separate cases.”
“That’s ridiculous. How could he imagine they’re not connected?”
“I don’t know how his mind works, but he’s a glory hound who wants to clear the Tully case and knows he can’t pin it on Nick. He’s been grilling her boyfriend’s partner, Officer Willis, all day, trying to get him to say that Willis and Downey weren’t together for their whole shift.”
“Do you know if he succeeded?”
“I was still at Butler when he finally let Willis go. From the expression on their two faces, I could tell Keller struck out.” Olivia chuckled. “That Willis is one tough cookie. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up chief someday, and if I were Keller, I’d damn well pray he doesn’t. Keller could find himself back in uniform, in one of those areas where white cops aren’t popular. Look, we’re wasting time. Re your Part One: Let me think about how to approach O’Hara regarding an informal deal for an information exchange. I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Olivia.”
She disconnected, and I continued cruising for one particular white Camry.
Another hour later, on a residential street called Mid-vale, south of Wilshire Boulevard, I found the car I’d been searching for. The right plate number and mismatched taillights. I’d almost missed it because it was parked under a tree that had shed leaves and purple berries all over it.
I steered the Jeep into the space between the back of the Toyota and the beginning of someone’s driveway and was about to get out when I remembered that I still had the latex burglar gloves. I glanced around to be sure no one was watching me. All clear. Slipping the gloves on, I approached the Camry and peered in through the driver’s side window.
Gretchen didn’t keep a “neat house” in her car. The front seat had several slips of paper, an empty McDonald’s box, a bottle of water, a Thomas Guide for Los Angeles, and an accordion-style map of Southern California that had been folded into a square.
I expected that the car would be locked, but I tried the door handle anyway.
The door opened.
A set of car keys lay on the floor below the driver’s seat, beside the gas pedal. I left them there; I had no intention of driving it, nor of getting in because I didn’t want to disturb any evidence—fibers, possibly, or traces of blood—that SID techs were equipped to find.
By bending over the front seat I saw that the road map had been folded, with a red highlighter tracing the route to San Clemente. April Zane lived in San Clemente. It looked as though Gretchen had thought it worthwhile to visit the actress whom Alec Redding had been phoning late at night. But had she actually made the long trip south—or was that something she had planned to do?
The Thomas Guide was closed, with no little pieces of paper sticking out of it to indicate what streets she might have looked up.
From the McDonald’s bag, it was obvious that she’d had at least one meal in her car. Of the pieces of paper, one was crumpled from a pad, another looked like a gas station receipt. Those might be useful to the police, but not to me.
I saw something metallic on the floor below the passenger seat. Only a bit of it was visible from the side I was on because the leafy tree under which the car was sitting had darkened the well on the passenger side. I couldn’t get any closer without getting into the car, so I closed the driver’s door and went around to the opposite side.
The floor on the passenger side was littered with empty packages of trail mix and flattened Starbucks cups, but just under the lip of the seat was the object I’d spotted: a camera.
Leaning in, I could see the camera was a Canon with a 55-250 mm zoom lens. It looked like Gretchen had been doing surveillance, which explained the empty food and coffee containers. I had to see if that was a film camera or digital, and if there was film in it, or pictures. Glad I was wearing the latex gloves, I picked it up. It was a single lens reflex. Digital, with a slot for the SD card.
But no card.
Gretchen must have been caught photographing, and whoever killed her must have stolen the record of what she shot.
“Is this your car, ma’ am?”
Startled, I turned to see a uniformed patrolman. So intent had I been on examining Gretchen’s camera that I hadn’t heard his car pull up and double-park beside my Jeep. He had one hand on his holstered weapon.
“My car? No. It belongs to a friend,” I said.
He stared at me, his expression grim. “Put that camera back in the car where you got it, ma’am, and let me see some ID.”
“I’ve been looking for this car, and I was about to call—”
“Hey! What’s that you’re wearing on your hands?”
Now he drew his weapon and pointed it at me.
He sees the latex gloves and thinks I’m a thief. “Officer, I’m wearing these because I didn’t want to disturb any evidence.” I started to strip them off.
“Don’t do that,” he commanded. “Leave the gloves on. Just like that, put your hands on top of your head and lace your fingers together.”
41
“Please, Officer, I’m trying to tell you that I was about to call Lieutenant John O’Hara at West Bureau. This car belongs to a murder victim. He’ll want to have SID go over it.”
The patrol officer looked dubious. As well he might, I thought.
“Lieutenant O’Hara’s on my speed dial,” I said. “Just look at my phone.”
“Where is it?”
With my hands clasped on the top of my head I had to point my elbow in the direction of my Jeep. “In the cup holder. My driver’s license is in my wallet—in my handbag, on the passenger seat. Use my phone and call West Bureau and ask for Lieutenant O’Hara, or Detective Weaver. They need to know where this car is.”
He gave a quick glance back at my Jeep, but instead of going to it for my handbag, he kept his attenti
on focused on me while he activated his mobile to call the station house and asked to speak to Lieutenant O’Hara or Detective Weaver.
Keeping my tone pleasant and trying to sound helpful, I said, “My name is Della Carmichael. They know me.”
I saw recognition flicker in his eyes and hoped that was a good sign. I said, “I’m not very comfortable like this. May I put my hands down?”
“Okay,” he said, “but place them flat on the trunk of the car where I can see them.”
Someone came on the other end of his line and I heard the officer tell whoever it was my name, and that he had “apprehended” me going through a car that wasn’t mine.
A moment of silence while the officer listened. He gave them Gretchen’s license plate number, then said, “Yes, sir,” and thrust the phone toward me. “Detective Weaver wants you.”
I took the phone. “Hello, Hugh? I found Gretchen Tully’s car and was about to call its location in when your officer came along.”
“Jeez, Della!” He gave an exasperated snort. “If our mayor finds out about all the stuff you do, he may think he can fix the city’s budget by laying off more of our guys.”
I ignored his sarcasm and told him where I was. “Gretchen Tully was watching someone, Hugh. I’m sure she saw something that got her killed.”
Weaver told me to stay put, and to give the phone back to the uniformed officer.
The patrolman listened for a minute, nodded, and said, “Yes, sir.” He hooked the phone on his belt and holstered his weapon.
“You’ve got to stay here until the detectives arrive, ma’am. Please go sit in your vehicle.”
A familiar unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up in front of Gretchen’s car and parked. I saw Hugh Weaver at the wheel, but it wasn’t John in the seat beside him; it was Detective Val Keller.
The uniformed officer, Judson—I’d seen his nameplate when I passed him to get into my Jeep—stepped away from Gretchen’s car to meet the detectives.
I got out and stood on the pavement just behind Gretchen’s mismatched taillights while the three of them conferred briefly, looking over at me.
Weaver and Keller pulled on their latex investigator’s gloves and Weaver gestured for me to join them. Officer Judson went to his patrol car.
Acknowledging Keller with a nod, I spoke mostly to Weaver. “Gretchen must have been doing surveillance.”
“So that’s what it looks like to you.” Keller’s voice had a nasty edge. “What did you do to mess up whatever evidence might be in that car?”
“Nothing.” It would have been more politic to act meek and apologetic to a bully like Keller, but I couldn’t do it. I responded to his unpleasant tone with ice in my own. “The car doors were unlocked. I put on latex gloves—”
“Yeah?” Keller smirked. “What were you doing with them? You just carry a pair around?”
“My profession is cooking,” I said. “Anyone who handles food—”
Weaver interrupted. “Forget that. What did you touch?”
“Only the camera. And I put it back on the floor in front of the passenger seat, exactly where I found it. It’s digital, and the SD card is missing.”
Keller said, “What if we get a female officer out here for a full body search? We might find that card.”
“By all means, have me searched.” I stared at him defiantly. “But why wait? You have my permission to do it yourself.”
Keller knew I was daring him. He blinked first, shrugged, and turned away. Without a further word to me, he opened the driver’s side door and peered into Gretchen’s car.
Weaver said, “What made you figure the girl’s car was here?”
“I had no idea where it was. I spent the last two hours going up and down streets in a kind of grid pattern because I theorized that whoever killed Gretchen moved her car from wherever it had been. Whether it was someone at the Olympia Grand Hotel, or Roxanne or Light in Brentwood, they wouldn’t have driven it too far away from their home base because they could get back without leaving a trail by using public transportation.”
“The killer coulda had an accomplice with wheels,” Weaver pointed out.
“That’s possible, but then wouldn’t the car have been driven a long way away? Whoever drove here left the doors unlocked and the keys on the floor next to the accelerator. The killer probably hoped that the car would be stolen and you’d never find it. Or if you did, it wouldn’t be in any condition to be useful to the investigation.”
“Go home,” Weaver said, making a shooing gesture. “We’ll take it from here.”
“You’re welcome,” I said curtly.
Weaver glanced at Keller, who by now was on the passenger side of the car, examining Gretchen’s camera. Leaning toward me and keeping his voice low, Weaver said, “We had an APB out on this car, but you found it first. Thanks.”
I was three blocks from home when my cell rang. It was Liddy, and she sounded upset.
“Del, where are you?”
“In the car, just turning onto my street. What’s the matter?”
“Have you seen today’s Los Angeles Observer?”
“No.” The Observer, a racy tabloid similar to the New York Post, had begun publication in Southern California as an afternoon paper about a year ago. I subscribed to the city’s morning daily, the Chronicle, and bought the Observer once in a while when it caught my eye on a newsstand. “Why? What’s in it?”
“Go find a copy,” she insisted. “Call me as soon as you get home.”
“Liddy, I’m tired. What are you talking about?”
“You’ve got to see it.” I heard the urgency in her voice. “It’s on the front page.”
I knew that Liddy seldom got upset over minor things. With a growing sense of apprehension, I told her that I would, and turned the Jeep around.
The corner of Montana and Eleventh had a line of vending machines in front of a popular coffeehouse that had several small tables outside where people were allowed to have their dogs sitting with them. I nosed the Jeep into the only empty spot I saw—a passenger loading zone—and kept the motor running.
The coin-operated box containing the Los Angeles Observer sat between similar machines selling the Chronicle and USA Today. I inserted three quarters, pulled the glass door open, and took out a copy of the Observer.
I felt my mouth drop open in shock.
Below the paper’s logo, and covering most of the front page, was Alec Redding’s photograph of Celeste holding the pie. Her nude derriere was concealed by the Observer’s judicious use of a black bar, but it was clear that she wasn’t wearing anything beneath the chef’s apron.
The headline above the picture read: “Motive for Murder?”
42
“Hey, lady, you’re going to get a ticket.”
A young man in a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt, sitting with an English sheepdog by his side at one of the curbside tables, had called out the warning.
I looked up to see a Parking Enforcement person in one of those white golf cart–type vehicles approaching. My Jeep couldn’t stay in the passenger loading zone.
“Thank you,” I said, quickly folding the paper in half and shoving it under my arm. I jumped back into the Jeep. With seconds to spare, I managed to zoom into a momentary gap in the line of traffic on Montana Avenue and get away before the woman could cite me.
I drove straight home without stopping to read what went with Celeste’s picture. In red type just below her image, it said, “Sensational story on pages four and five.”
My cell phone rang as I put my key in the front door lock. Inside, I heard my landline ringing, too. I ignored both phones—voice mail would pick up the messages—rewarded Tuffy’s enthusiastic greeting with a quick pat, and headed for the kitchen to read the newspaper article. It was a good bet that the calls were about that. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, even to Liddy, until I’d read it.
In the kitchen, I opened the door to the backyard for Tuffy and told him we’d go for a walk a little l
ater. Seeming to understand, he trotted outside.
It was close to five thirty. Not dark yet, but the sun was going down. I turned on the strong kitchen light and opened the paper.
Pages four and five had a large photo of Celeste in one of the fully dressed modeling poses that Redding had taken. Also accompanying the article were pictures of Alec Redding, from some Hollywood event, a shot of his home on Bella Vista Drive—they captioned it “the murder house”—and also a photo of Nicholas, taken two years ago, when he won a Pulitzer Prize for his series of articles in the Chronicle called “The Making of a Monster,” about the history of a serial killer.
Because of the tabloid size of the Observer, and the emphasis on photographs, there wasn’t a lot of room left for text. Unfortunately, there was enough to be damaging to Nicholas. Three reporters shared the byline. They had managed to find out that “prize-winning Los Angeles Chronicle journalist Nicholas D’Martino’s long-estranged teenage daughter” had come to Los Angeles from Europe to live with him, that Nicholas was “reputed to be enraged” when he saw the “scandalous” photos of his “child” taken by “celebrity portrait artist” Alec Redding.
That term—“celebrity portrait artist”—told me that the photo and the information had surely come from Roxanne Redding. One of the tricks good photographers use to relax a subject is to get them to talk during a session. While Celeste was sitting for Redding, I imagined that she had talked about not having known her father.
The Observer article then recounted gory details of the “rage-fueled slaying” of Redding: “his handsome head in a pool of blood, with the bloodstained bludgeon” discarded nearby. It went on to say that the “young girl’s angry father, Nicholas D’Martino, was discovered at the murder scene when police arrived, but claimed to have found Redding already dead.” The reporters added, “Arriving following the discovery of the body was glamorous TV chef Della Carmichael, with whom D’Martino has been keeping company. Because Redding’s time of death eliminates Ms. Carmichael as a suspect, her presence at the murder house is not considered significant by authorities.”
Pie A La Murder Page 23
