“Your frown tells me you are not impressed by my alma mater,” he said.
“We can’t all go to Harvard.”
He gazed at the diploma. “I keep it to remind me that education is not always found in a classroom.”
“Very philosophical.”
Davie picked up a beveled frame on the credenza that held a photo of an old man wearing a Soviet-style military uniform that was weighted down with medals, gold epaulets, and a matching gold belt.
“The uniform looks World War II. He must have served with the Allied Forces,” she said.
Satine closed the door and began circling her—a cheetah stalking a gazelle. “My grandfather. Can I offer you vodka? Or are you on duty?”
She wasn’t surprised he’d pegged her as a cop. Her pantsuit was a dead giveaway. “I’m not much of a drinker.”
He took the photo from her hand and returned it to the shelf. “Pity. What do you want with me, officer—or is it detective?”
She sat in the leather chair behind his desk, but if he were threatened by her invasion of his personal space, he didn’t show it. If anything, he seemed amused.
“I’m looking for information about a Russian girl named Anya Nosova.”
“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”
She leaned back in the chair. “She probably didn’t mean anything to you, but you knew her. She’s dead and I’m hoping you can tell me how she got that way.”
Davie pulled the girl’s photo from her purse and held it up for Satine to see. He turned away from the image and picked up a shot glass from a wet bar next to the credenza.
“As I said, I don’t know the girl.”
“She was at your party at the Edison last Saturday night.”
He poured vodka to the rim of the glass. “I make good parties. People beg me to invite them.” He held up the glass to toast. “Maybe you will beg me someday too. That could be fun for both of us.”
Davie repressed the impulse to shoot him where it would hurt the most. “I’d like to have a copy of your guest list.”
“That would not be possible.”
“I just saw a young blonde girl at the bar. I’m pretty sure she’s a hooker. That’s illegal, you know.”
He shrugged. “A lifestyle choice. Who am I to judge?”
“Anya Nosova came to L.A. hoping for a modeling career. Instead, she ended up dead. Are you sure you never saw her at the bar, hustling johns?”
He brought the glass to his lips and downed the vodka. “Men who pay for sex confuse me. I’ve had hundreds of women in my bed. All of them were happy to be there.”
“Men pay for sex all the time. From what I saw tonight, some of them are here at your nightclub.”
Satine set the glass on the desk and strolled toward the door. “I have nothing against a vivid imagination, but yours is beginning to annoy me. It is time for you to go. I have work to do.”
“You won’t be happy when I come back.”
He opened the door. “That is for me to say. Spasibo. Thanks for entertaining me. Next time maybe we can spend more time together. I know a place near Palm Springs where we can have privacy.”
Palm Springs was in the Coachella Valley about 120 miles east of L.A. Murderers from Las Vegas to the Pacific Ocean and all stops in between also found privacy in the wide expanse of empty desert, especially as a dump site for dead bodies. Davie wondered if Satine’s comment was a come-on or if he had just threatened her life.
20
Davie left Perestroika and headed back to the station. It was late and she was exhausted, but she was determined to stay at her desk until she ran out of leads to follow.
She knew Ray Anthony Falcon had partied with Anya Nosova at the Edison hotel the night she disappeared. She needed to arrange an interview with the actor. Without an arrest warrant, there was nothing in the penal code to force Falcon to talk to her. It wasn’t enough to drop by his place for a chat; housekeepers and security guards were paid to keep people away from movie stars. She would have to find another path to get to him.
She searched the Internet for information and found several online pieces, including one in the Hollywood Reporter. According to the article, Falcon had been cast to star in a film about General George Armstrong Custer’s Civil War days as a cavalry commander before the so-called Indian Wars and his death at Little Bighorn. Filming was due to start in Montana the following Monday. The article claimed Custer was an aggressive commander of his Michigan infantry brigade who had fought with distinction at various battles, including Gettysburg. He was also reckless and narcissistic. From what Davie knew about Falcon, hiring him sounded like typecasting.
She also found several photos of Falcon on various tabloid sites: Falcon eating ice cream on the sidewalk of trendy Melrose Boulevard, baring his six-pack on the beach in Waikiki, and posing for a booking photo during his last drug arrest. All showed a man in his early forties with a deeply lined face and an air of edgy unpredictability.
People magazine featured a piece on how Falcon prepared for his roles, with sidebars about method acting and quoted passages from An Actor Prepares by Constantin Stanislavski. In another sidebar was a photo of a weatherworn and grim-looking man named Bud Stanton, who had been hired to teach Falcon to ride a horse for his current role.
Davie looked up Stanton’s website. He had a stable at the Los Angeles Equestrian Center where he boarded horses and taught riding. It was after midnight, but she called the number listed on the home page. A woman answered.
“You’re working late,” Davie said.
The woman chuckled. “Horses don’t know what time it is. They eat and poop twenty-four/seven. What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling for information.”
“About riding or boarding?”
“Uh … riding.”
“When do you want to start?”
Davie debated whether to identify herself, but decided to be the rock in the stream and let the conversation find its own path around her. “How about tomorrow?”
“No can-do. Bud’s working with a private client all day every day until next Sunday. I can refer you to another stable or you can wait till he’s available. I recommend you wait. Bud’s worth it.”
“What if I came in early, before the private client gets there?”
“The guy gets here at nine and by the time he leaves at three, Bud’s ready for a little R and R at the local watering hole. You get my drift? Have you ridden before?”
The closest Davie had ever been to horses was on the sidelines at the Rose Parade. “Not recently.”
“How about ten o’clock Monday morning?”
Falcon would likely be in Montana shooting the Custer film on Monday, but if he was Bud’s private client, as she suspected, it sounded as if he’d be polishing his riding skills until he boarded the plane.
“Let me check my schedule. I’ll get back to you.”
At seven thirty the next morning, Davie sat at her desk in the squad room calling the number Troy Gallway had given her for the orthodontist who had wired Anya’s mouth with braces. The dentist told her he had found Anya charming and somewhat fragile. Gallway had warned him she had no money, so he offered to do the work gratis. That’s why he had been annoyed when she didn’t show up for her last appointment. Now that he knew why, he felt guilty about his reaction.
Davie asked him all her standard questions: did he know any of Anya’s friends; did he know of any enemies who might want her dead; had she ever talked about any run-ins she’d had with strangers, boyfriends, or other people she knew. To all, he answered no.
She had already run his name through department databases and found no criminal history. She could do more digging into the wire bender’s background but doubted he was involved in Anya’s murder. After ending the call, she entered her interview notes into the Mur
der Book. Then she left the station in search of Ray Anthony Falcon.
Just before nine a.m., Davie drove the Jetta through the gates of the Los Angeles Equestrian Center in Burbank and parked in the dirt next to a wooden fence. A few yards away, she saw a man standing by a trailer and heard the clang of his hammer beating a horseshoe into shape. Across the road, a truck fanned water onto a dusty field. Beyond the field lay Griffith Park’s four thousand plus acres of urban wilderness. To Davie, the scene was bucolic and alien.
She walked through a loggia adjacent to the barn, inhaling the aroma of hay and horseshit. A Latino mucking a stall pointed her toward Stanton’s stable.
As she stepped onto the road, she felt the thunder of hooves pounding the dirt. She spun toward the vibration and saw a horse galloping toward her. It was so large it seemed to block the low-slung winter sun. The rider wore a helmet and polished knee-high boots.
Davie squinted through her dark glasses until the man’s face came into focus. It was Ray Anthony Falcon. Her pulse drummed in her ears as the horse came closer, forcing her to jump back to avoid getting trampled. Falcon reined the horse to a stop so close to her she felt froth from its mouth spatter her cheek.
Falcon’s eyes were wide with panic. “Holy shit! You okay?”
The actor looked a lot like the photos she’d seen of Custer with his curly golden-blond hair. Davie assumed a makeup artist would paste a mustache and goatee on Falcon’s face before filming started.
“Mr. Falcon, I’m Detective Richards, LAPD. I’d like to talk to you about Anya Nosova.”
Falcon patted the horse’s neck to calm its nerves or maybe his. “What about her?”
“Ms. Nosova was murdered.”
“Too bad, but I barely knew the chick.”
“Barely is good enough. I need your help.”
Falcon’s gaze swept the landscape, possibly looking for a getaway route. “Call my lawyer. He’ll set something up.”
“I have a witness who saw you coming out of Andre Lucien’s apartment on the night Anya disappeared. I know you were with her at the Edison hotel later that night.”
“I wasn’t at Andre’s place to buy drugs, so don’t try to pin that on me, and I sure as hell didn’t kill anybody.”
“I’m just trying to get your side of the story. If you don’t want to talk here, I can hook you up in front of your horsy friends and haul your ass back to the station.”
He smiled as if he considered her statement merely pleasant foreplay. “My lawyer will have me out before you finish your silly little report.”
“Maybe, but I’m guessing your lawyer warned you against associating with known drug dealers like Lucien. I know a hard-core deputy DA who believes that once a junkie, always a junkie. He might think you were desperate for a fix last Saturday night, so after the party at the Edison you took Anya back to her apartment hoping to score drugs. She declined your request, and you killed her because nobody says no to Ray Anthony Falcon.”
He clapped his hands slowly. “Brava. I like my women sassy.”
“I’m not one of your women.”
He leaned toward her, resting his forearm on the saddle horn. His smirk said not yet anyway.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Blow this off. Just so you know, there’s no celebrity rehab for murder.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you, but here’s the deal. I start shooting in Montana next Monday. The trainer says my riding sucks, so if you want to talk, you’ll ride.”
“Do I look like Annie Oakley?”
“More like Howdy Dowdy. Is that red hair even real?”
She wanted to tell him to cut the personal insults or his date with Crazy Horse might be the best part of his day, but starting a pissing contest with a movie star would just delay the investigation, especially since he seemed willing to cooperate.
“Where’s your trainer?” she said.
“Good old Bud is babysitting a sick horse. He told me to take a short ride to warm up. If the horse and I survive, he’ll meet us in the arena in thirty minutes.”
Falcon motioned to a groom from Stanton’s stable and told him to saddle another horse. A few minutes later, the man led a spotted pony with a long red tail to a box with three steps and thrust the reins toward Davie.
“His name’s Outlaw,” the groom said. “He’s an Appaloosa. Some Appys can be a pain in the ass. Just do what I tell you and don’t irritate him.”
Davie listened as the groom demonstrated some clicks and whistles that would make the horse trot and gallop. None of the information inspired her confidence. All she wanted to know was the click for stop.
Falcon had the reins gripped in his right hand, so Davie copied his form. Her stomach pitched as she mounted the steps and swung her leg over the saddle. Outlaw’s hair prickled her palm as she patted the Appy’s neck. She hoped the gesture assured the horse but it did nothing to calm her nerves. Without prodding, Outlaw followed Falcon’s horse toward a trail on the far side of the arena, gaining ground until the two horses were side by side. For the next few minutes, all she heard was the distant hum of traffic on Interstate 5 and the rhythmic clopping of the horses’ hooves.
“How did you meet Anya Nosova?” she said.
“Her boyfriend is a purveyor of high-end pharmaceuticals. I used to be one of his best customers. Let me repeat, used to be.”
As suspected, Lucien had lied about not knowing Falcon. “What was your relationship with Anya?”
“There was no relationship. I’d seen her a few times at the apartment. That’s all.”
Once they entered the tree-lined mountain trail, Falcon’s horse broke into a trot. Outlaw followed, slamming Davie’s tailbone against the hard saddle. She calculated the pain she’d be in the next day.
Davie looked down. The ground seemed a mile away. “If you weren’t at Lucien’s to buy drugs, why did you go to his apartment last Saturday night?”
“Because I knew Anya was Russian. The producers needed more money for the Custer project. I have a financial stake in the picture, so I was invited to party with some starstruck investors. We were especially interested in hustling a Russian billionaire. I figured the guy might be more inclined to write a check if I introduced him to a fine-looking girl from the Motherland.”
Davie was relieved when Falcon reined in his horse to cross a shallow stream. Outlaw picked his way across the rocky bed and trotted back to dry land. Only then did Davie realize she’d been holding her breath.
“Why didn’t Anya ride to the hotel with you?”
“I had to run some errands. I gave her money for cab fare and told her to meet me there.”
“Did anybody at the party show unusual interest in her?”
His gaze swept over Davie’s body in one intimate pass. “Everybody’s interested in a beautiful woman.”
“Anybody show more interest than usual?”
Falcon reached out to push away a sapling that was intruding onto the narrow trail. “There was another Russian woman at the party. Late thirties. Hard looking, like a hooker past her sell-by date. I saw her grab Anya’s arm. Spit was flying.”
Davie felt a tingling sensation on her scalp that signaled she was close to a discovery. “Any idea who she was?”
“Not a clue.”
“What were they arguing about?”
“How should I know? They were talking Russian.”
Falcon checked his watch and then turned the horse back toward the stables. Without prompting, Outlaw followed. Dust clouds from the dry earth had rained a film of brown grit onto Davie’s black pants. Her mouth was dry and her knuckles white from gripping the reins. She pressed her heels into Outlaw’s flanks and the pony edged closer to Falcon’s horse.
“What time did Anya leave the party?”
“I don’t know. I looked for her later but she was gone, not that I cared. She was a du
d as a fund-raiser. She didn’t even speak to the billionaire much less coax any money out of him for the film. I figured she got bored and left. Maybe she got lucky. Who cares? She wasn’t my problem.”
“Could you identify the other Russian woman from a surveillance photograph?”
Falcon made a kissing sound as he kicked his horse’s sides. Both mounts broke into a canter. Davie grabbed the saddle horn and held on. Over the sound of eight hooves pounding the hard-packed dirt, she could just make out Falcon’s reply.
“Probably, but it might be more efficient if I just told you how to find her.”
21
Fried blonde hair and a black Brigid O’Shaughnessy pillbox hat with a veil that hung just below the first of her multiple chins—that’s how Ray Anthony Falcon described the woman in the late-model black Mercedes S550 he had followed out of the Edison hotel valet area in the early morning hours on Sunday. He recognized the driver as the woman he’d seen arguing with Anya Nosova at the New Year’s party. The car had a personalized license plate. As an actor, he was trained to memorize lines, so he remembered that it read my1lana.
Falcon told Davie he’d gone directly home after leaving the Edison. He forgot his key, so his housekeeper let him in. They had a glass of wine and finally went to bed—together—at about six a.m.
Lana could mean anything but it sounded like a woman’s name. Davie would run the plate as soon as she got back to the station, but on the way she decided to take a detour to see Spencer Hall at Hollywood Area Police Station. He would begin work at Pacific soon, and she’d prefer to get this over with before then.
Hall hadn’t returned any of her calls for months and she had no expectations he would agree to see her now, especially since he had moved back in with his wife. His love life wasn’t her problem, but given what Davie knew about the woman, his decision to reconcile seemed masochistic.
She texted him and asked to meet outside the station. She didn’t want to go into the squad room and face people who may have heard the rumors about her. The only thing worse than answering well-meaning questions about her mental health from people who cared, was ignoring the hostile stares of the people who didn’t.
Pacific Homicide Page 12
